Chapter 13: Seminary, Sorting Hats and a Place to Belong
“It’s a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
I sat in the chair of the office of the dean of the Baptist Seminary I was enrolling in. I wasn’t attending a Baptist church anymore (I started calling myself a recovering Baptist) but every student at Seminary needed to be enrolled in one of the four denominational schools which made up the Seminary as a consortium.
It was like Hogwarts. And the Sorting Hat needed to find the right fit for me. By the way, I always thought I was a Gryffindor but turns out, Slytherin blood seemed to run through my veins. (And Seminary was surprisingly a LOT like Hogwarts…mysterious spirits and spiritual talk, rituals for communion and prayer, dodgy professors…)
The guys in charge were actually very decent men. The Dean, Registrar and Director of Development were all men I grew up with attending denominational events, AGMs, conferences, camps. One was actually my Pastor for the first 25 years of my life. The Dean was genuinely supportive and sympathetic to me. He knew whispers of what I went through at my former church and he also knew me to be smart, capable and ambitious. He said to me, “You will be a great addition to this seminary, but you do know the opportunities for theologically trained women in churches is an uphill climb.”
Welcome to Seminary Brenda-Lee.
I knew going ahead with theological studies was going to be a deep dive into uncharted waters. I also believed that since my Creator clearly called me into this, it would be up to Them to either part the waters or throw me a life preserver.
Recalling his statement, I remember thinking at the time, “Wow, I am so grateful that they let me in”. What I wish my actual thinking was, “Dear white, male-centric, conservative Christians, you are lucky to have me after all the crap you put me through”. I can see now that the stronghold of patriarchy and the years of spiritual abuse damaged my thinking and sense of self-worth profoundly.
The denomination I left and was now enrolled back into was not particulalry large. I had friends, former colleagues and pastors in almost every one of their churches throughout the province. 40 years in one place can grow deep roots. I knew a lot of people. And a lot of people knew me. Or some version of me.
So while I left the church that broke me, I found myself back in the arena with many of the same players.
What had I gotten myself into?
And it wasn’t like we were now on different teams. It seemed that I had become the player who refused to suit up for them, trying to renegotiate the terms of our relationship, only they would not release me from my contract nor let me be a free agent. {Yay me for using a sports metaphor}
During my first few semesters, I was literally and figuratively looking over my shoulder…wondering who I might run into that might re-traumatize me. I wanted to share the truth of my past church experiences in authenticity and sincerity in order to show up authentically myself and even, perhaps, as a catalyst for change in the church I still loved. Instead, I guarded my words, I filtered my writing assignments and held back what I truly wanted to share for fear of reprisal.
I would find out who was leading chapel before I would decide to stay. I would not commit to any social events until I looked around the room or on the poster to see who was present.
I remember entering my first class trembling, physically shaking and wanting to throw up. My bravado masked my barely keeping it together. But I was determined to not let those who meant to hold me back get the better of me. And so I kept showing up. Week after week, semester after semester.
And maybe I didn’t fit in, (I didn’t) but I knew I belonged (I did.).
REMEMBER THE SORTING HAT FROM HARRY POTTER?
It was placed on the heads of students as they began their first year of school and sorted each student into one of four “houses” that would be their home away from home during their time at Hogwarts. The Sorting Hat was wise, thoughtful and intuitive. It could sense the heart of the student, thus sending them to the house that would best suit their personality and their potential. I wonder…if we had sorting hats at Seminary where would I end up? Would there be a category for “doesn’t quite fit in anywhere?”
Course by course, book by book, my soul began to heal. As I read perspectives from different authors and researched ideas and ideologies, as I studied and wrote (and wrote and wrote) I was once again being broken apart…but in altogether different ways.
The lies I believed about a women’s worth as somehow secondary to men was being re-formed. And the opening up of the my understanding as to the destrucive role and systemic practices of patriarchy not as prescriptive or God-ordained but rather the curse of disobedient humankind helped me to begin to re-imagine the opposite, equality and mutuaility.
My fragmented beliefs of a divided God, the Old Testament dictator v. the gentle New Testament saviour were being rewoven back together and what started to emerge for me was a reimagined mystery of divinity and humanity in the I AM who always was, always is and always will be.
My survey courses helped me contextualize the familiar biblical narratives within the larger unfolding story of God’s love for humanity and I began to peel away years of misapplications. My Greek courses were by far the most challenging as I was learning not only a new language but being immersed into the richness of the language, exploring new meanings of words and examining the biblical texts in utterly shifting ways.
I focused in on apologetics for several of my elective courses and I unexpectedly found myself welcomed into the challenging conversations we inevitably engaged in. Dr. C cultivated curiosity in our classes and I began to find my voice. I am so grateful for the example he set in intelligent discourse that held tension and disagreement with grace. For many of my fellow classmates, apologetics was a battle ground for debate and persuasion. For me, it was an invitation to deepen my practice of conscious listening, to suspend judgment in order to more fully understand, and to engage those who disagreed with me with mutuality for common ground rather than employ tactics to compel.
But perhaps one of the most shifting experiences in my Seminary journey was my summer course on the Theology of Suffering. This week long intensive became a healing balm to my weary soul that had for years tried to make sense of all I had gone through at the hands of people who claimed to love and follow Jesus. I found myself at my lecture hall table during most lectures wiping away the hot tears spilling down my cheeks and finally feeling free enough not to care what those around me thought.
The visiting professor created a sacred space for the ancients texts speak truth and compassion to our human experiences of pain, grief and sorrow. In one particular lecture, he too was getting emotional and his tender confidence allowed me to exhale and accept the Spirit’s thick presence wash over me whispering in my ear, “let it all out, I’ve got you now.”