I Quit Being a Pastor
I spent my twenties training to be a pastor, while slowly losing my religion
He called me and said, “We’re holding your ordination.”
That was the same call that made me leave church.
I answered a call to preach in my very early twenties. “The call” is a compelling internal reach to respond to God to ministry, usually in a church, or a Christian affiliated organization as a chaplain or teacher. I answered the call in college, after finding no other place for me in the world. I found comfort in church. Whereas I was a shy child, church gave me opportunities for leadership, participation and a sense of belonging in a community.
I attended seminary, then spent five years completing a strenuous ordination process as an Elder in the African Methodist Episcopal Church in Raleigh, North Carolina.
I attended seminary because I wanted to serve women, and women attended church. We found great comfort in God’s presence, when many women are confined to marriage and motherhood, the church presumably offers an identity outside of that.
There are several requirements to become an Elder in the African Methodist Episcopal Church. One is to join a church community and fully participate in Sunday morning worship services. For me, that meant attending two morning services, 8 am and 11 am, and reading Scripture, reciting a prayer or litany and occasionally, preaching.
The second and important requirement is to attend a set of monthly in-church training classes called the Board of Examiners on theology, preaching, and church administration, which I attended.
The last, was to obtain a Masters of Divinity degree, which I had.
Other more subtle requirements include appearance. One must dress conservatively, which did not suit me. Dress code was a black skirt suit for women (no pants, and always in nylons) and conservative looking hair. My hair couldn’t be conservative because I wore locs, which, especially back then, was notoriously radical.
I went to church Sunday, clad in a black suit that barely fit, heels I hated walking in, and with proud natural hair. (I realized later, that it was skirts in general that were ill for my curvy body; my hips are more suited for dresses). I reviewed Scripture before service, in case it was my turn to read, and I really didn’t want to mess up. I travelled every month from Raleigh to Durham for the Board of Examiners. I wrote papers, sat for hours on end listening, learning, reaching for this paper called ordination.
I had to swallow mean comments about my natural hair. I sat through truly sexist sermons and fought the urge to roll my eyes. And, I was not successful because several parishioners pulled me aside and said, “girl you need to fix your face up there”.
I struggled with the presence of God, and God’s existence in my life. Sometimes, God seemed implausible to me. And not because of the suffering that happened to all of us, I long accepted suffering as intrinsic to human life. It was the response of the sufferers. The inactivity of people, depending on God to alleviate our suffering, while we still endured. I was sick of praying while I was still lonely, sick of appealing to God for justice while men continued to do personal and institutional harm, and sick of attending church who did not accept me as who I was.
I had graduated from seminary four years prior to the anticipated ordination, wanting to attend church and eventually seek leadership, so I can serve my community in a way that is inclusive, and living in the tenets of Jesus Christ. I would respect others, allow people to come to church as their full selves without judgement. To be more specific, I was a feminist pastor intent on being more inclusive towards women, femmes and nobinary people in our community. I believed people should be able to dress how they want, speak their minds, and have someone to contribute to God’s kingdom.
It was this ideology that stalled my ordination.
One Mother’s Day, I was responsible for the prayer. I changed the perceived gender of God, by saying at the beginning, “Mother God”. I was criticized for it. Afterwards, people called me radical, which was not radical, because according to tradition, God is not human, therefore, has no gender. Therefore, if we can call God Father, we can call God Mother.
It happened a second time.
As one of my final assignments before my ordination was pulled, I submitted a paper walking through a passage of 1 Corinthians about who would be the head of the home, and the church. It was a feminist look at theology, highlighting that God’s presence was so much more expansive than men’s patriarchal leadership and women were supposed to follow the rules, with no objection. It was rejected, because they wanted something simple. Perhaps on how “happy” God is supposed to make us feel.
I got the call declining my ordination. That was the same call that made me leave the church altogether.
My confines of Sunday morning, especially in a space that wasn’t welcoming to my ideology, or my body, was not the place for me.
A year after my escape, I was beckoned to the church to have a frank conversation with my mentor about my absence. I decided it was time to face him, although I knew my heart was not in it. I decided to comply. Out of duty. Out of years spent in the church. Out of the call.
The unequivocal pull to church, to service, to Godly living, is something that will live with you, and, as I was warned when I left, will haunt you for the rest of your life. It’s called “running from the call”, and eventually, it will catch up to you and you will be pulled back to preaching, teaching, and living a devout life.
Even after the conversation, the compelling call was forever gone, especially after my experience with church. I left church seven years ago, and I haven’t felt even an inkling of an urge to return.
Now, I am fully agnostic, questioning not the existence of God, but the weight we put on God’s power. It wasn’t God that drove me from the church, it was the patriarchy. It reinforced for me, all I learned in seminary, that people place their ideologies onto God, making God a blank slate and open for interpretation. Which, by the way, is what all theologies do, but interpreting a God that limits my creative thinking, my expression, and my free thinking is not the God I want to serve.
I don’t regret my decision to leave, the only thing I regret, is not leaving sooner.
