The Wound

During my time in ministry, working through ordination I was aware of a pain but couldn’t find the source. I wasn’t aware that I was working so hard to adjust my movements so as to avoid irritating it. Each time I felt a prick, a poke, a scrape I’d look…

what did I bump into? was that sharp edge? 

Clueless, I’d slap on another bandage, adjust my blinders and turn my nose back to the grindstone. 

Even before ministry, there had already been a few band-aids there...but the layers piled up so much more quickly the deeper I moved into spaces I didn’t know weren’t made for me. Eventually, the layers of bandages became so thick and bulky I was finding it hard to move. Before I could remove the bandages, I had to figure out what was causing the injuries...the invisible thorns, splinters and burrs.

After looking through a magnifying glass and began to see what was there, and where they were coming from.  Removing myself from that particular space, standing still for a moment, I began taking layer upon layer of bandages off…assimilation, people-pleasing, taking up less space, tempering my words, checking my tone, staying in the box, trying to fit into a mold that just wasn’t made for me... 

Underneath it all, was a wound. A wound I didn’t know was there. A wound that was the result of paper cuts….thousands of splinters, a lifetime accumulation of scratches I never actually saw happen.

All acquired from walking through the field of white supremacy and patriarchy. 

The field is unavoidable. But, I’m learning to walk a little more slowly, to be more aware of what I bump up against. I’m learning to expect splinters from unexpected sources. Most of all, I’m learning to replace the bandages with salve - the salve of honesty and lament, authenticity and grace, confidence and humility

I know this mission towards healing, reconciliation and justice is the call on my heart...but this work is hard.  This work is painful. This work means relying on God because you don’t know how long your friends will last standing beside you. Relying on God because you don’t know when you’ve finally worn out your welcome; when your shiny token newness has worn off and your prophetic voice is no longer novel…

It is hard because you are purposefully exposing yourself to pain. You try to absorb the history to find the patterns, so that you can speak with confidence and clarity things that should be obvious... 

That the words hurt, that the oppression is heavy. But so many of my white siblings treat it like I’m chasing them with a worm at the end of a stick.

There’s a layer of comfort to knowing the wound is shared…

Relief in knowing that I belong somewhere because of my shared experiences. But at the same time with each shared story of offense, with every body that’s been abused, with every breath that’s been stolen, with every thought that’s been manipulated,  with each tear shed, the wound deepens

With every interaction with a “brother or sister” in Christ that shows themselves to be more invested in their comfort than my safety, that is more practiced in niceness than in actual kindness, - it is like edges of that wound getting caught and pulled, picked at, the scab being torn. 

It is easy to become reticent towards building relationships: When you’ve learned that you can’t necessarily take your church mates at face value.  When you learn that the label “Christian” means little in describing a person’s character. When your pain is too inconvenient for your white co-laborers and “friends”.

I wish you could hear what people of color don’t feel safe enough to tell you. 

I wish you would listen to what they have already said.  

I wish you would hear what is said over and over and over again.  

I wish you could hear the conversations of people of color deliberating how much longer they can stay, deliberating if they should even be there in the first place, deliberating whether it is even safe enough to enter, trying to decode what a church really means when they say they “value diversity”; debating whether change is worth the investment or if we’re better off doing our own thing, weighing how much assimilation is too much and when it crosses the line into erasure. Each deliberation and hesitation whispers again and again…

you’re hurting me, you’re hurting me, you’re hurting me, you’re hurting my friend, you’re hurting my brother, you’re hurting my sister, you’re hurting my father, you’re hurting my mother, you’re hurting my child

you’re hurting, my child...you’re hurting yourself.

This supremacy doesn’t just hurt those that it’s marginalized.  It hurts everyone. It hurts everything.  It dims your light. It diminishes the witness of the Church. It weakens the Body. It wounds.

You can find my recorded reading of this piece HERE