Bipolar Faith by Monica A. Coleman

Author:Monica A. Coleman [Monica A. Coleman]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-5064-0860-6
Publisher: Fortress Press

12

Silence

Nashville, Tennessee: Five Months after the Rape

In all my research and steps to healing, I was not prepared for what happened to my faith. I was a minister who wasn’t talking to God. I didn’t have anything to say. Church made that experience bearable. If I couldn’t get to God myself, I could at least surround myself with those who found faith for themselves. What else would I have done on a Sunday?

Leaving Payne Chapel was a technicality. My degree program at Vanderbilt required a structured internship in a church. Payne Chapel was not one of the qualifying congregations. Scanning the list, I chose a church with a black female pastor. Until that point, I was trying to be something I hadn’t seen. I looked forward to working with a black female pastor.

I met with the pastor of Payne Chapel one last time. We had an appointment, so he was expecting me. He leaned back in the padded leather office chair on his side of the desk. I slid into the chair on the other side. There were diplomas, plaques, and awards on the walls behind him. Recognition of service to the community, college degrees. A small television sat atop the file cabinet behind my head. He was watching the baseball game when I went in.

“Just wanted you to know what’s going on with me.” I sat upright. I wore the black-and-white suit uniform of clergy-in-training. I spoke clearly. I must have looked like I had it all together.

“Do I know him?”

“You’ve met him.” Peter had come to church with me on visits before we broke up.

“Well, I’ve heard of things like this happening to other members in the church.” The pastor paused and looked at the baseball game playing above my head. He turned back to me. “But no one’s ever told me themselves.”

I don’t know what he said after that. He might have asked me if I was okay. He might have asked me about counseling. He might have asked me about Peter. I couldn’t hear another word. I tracked his eyes moving from me to the baseball game behind me, and I knew I had to get out of the room. I made up some excuse. “I have another appointment.” “Yes, I’m fine.” “It’s been a good year worshipping here.” “God bless you too.”

When the church door clanked behind me, I knew I’d never open it again.

I tried again. Sitting in the office of another black male pastor, I just knew I’d made a better choice. I visited the church before. There were female ministers in the pulpit. His preaching indicated that he knew something about people in pain. In a more spacious office, we were separated by the oak tabletop of his desk. He leaned forward, deeply interested in what I had to say, in why I asked for his time.

I began again.

“A couple of months ago . . .”

As I finished my story, he leaned forward and, using a gentle tone, began to ask questions. I only remember the first one.

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