Rise Up

As I consider my final Red Tent essay, I remember the distinct feeling of writing my first piece. It came flowing out of my heart in a hospital room, and it “had to be” shared. In the midst of my processing and growth, the tent has felt like a protected space that holds my historic journey of discovery and healing. I am so grateful for it. Several times over the past several years, I have considered writing the story I am about to share. I guess it is time to do just that. May this piece be in honor to my own voice and to the many contributors who have courageously shared their thoughts on the page for the blessing of us all.

May I never forget the evening my voice came out in full force. It had been shut down at a very young age as a result of the rage and envy of others, and it was coming out gradually after years of therapeutic care. Finally, it let loose in the company of several powerful men. It was messy and angry,  curious and full of invitation, and it still makes me feel proud.

We had been a part of a church that I had helped to plant and grow by using my gifts of leadership, discernment, and hospitality. But this evening, an unnamed gripe had grown and came blurting out. I wasn’t gifted in administration, didn’t feel at home in children’s ministry, and the prayer team wasn’t a natural fit. Those were the places where women seemed to serve in this church. I had other abilities inside of me, waiting to be fostered. For over ten years I had figuratively raised my hand to numerous male leaders to help teach, lead, or develop programs. My offerings were rarely developed or championed.

I enjoyed gathering women and helping them through transitions, but my other skills felt unneeded. Why did they seem overlooked? Was there something inferior about me? I was confused.  

My heart’s cry came out after an informational meeting regarding church expansion. The recovery of my voice and my increased awareness of my grief around feeling passed up in the church was under the surface. With that, I made my way down the middle aisle and to the back of the sanctuary.

I approached a group of men for a casual visit. One was a campus pastor, well regarded for his care of others and his boundless energy. He began to tell me about the men he was developing in a program for those who were considering full-time ministry. He enthusiastically shared how he guided them through books that engaged numerous facets of leadership, including self care, counseling, and preaching. I had heard about the fascinating curriculum when my husband had been invited to participate a few years prior. I remembered the painful feeling of being left out. I could only dream of having a place among this group. But I didn’t fit.

As this pastor continued to share, my anger and grief rose to the surface. Something burned inside of me as I pondered, “Why wasn’t I invited?” I recalled being in different settings, doing my best to advocate and promote myself, longing to be given more opportunity. 

Tears started stinging in my eyes, and I couldn’t hold my tongue any longer. “What about the women?” I asked. 

The campus pastor was taken aback, as if he couldn’t understand my question. In the process, he missed my tears, and then he gave excuses for why the women of the churched lacked options. I felt deflated.

In days and years following this incident, I continued to wrestle and wonder. Why were the women left out? Why wasn’t there a staff person devoted to women and their unique needs and aspirations? And what about me? Why wasn’t my growth as much of a priority as the men in this pastor’s group? Did I require too much? Was my gifting a bad fit? Was I a threat? 

I still grieve as I see with increasing clarity the system to which I willingly subjected myself. Though that particular church would say, on the surface, that they valued the giftedness of women, I now see that a “one up” system was in place in that men were always at least “one up” on the women of that church. I acquiesced to that system; it felt risky to rise up. 

I am in a different place now, and I celebrate that reality. I have learned to see the things that are painful, name them on behalf of myself and others, and invite curiosity about those dominant power structures that fail to promote women. That evening I stood in front of those leaders and named my desire for myself and numerous other women. And that was just the beginning.

We deserve a place at the table. We deserve to belong. 

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Maryhelen Martens has been gathering and connecting with others since she was a young girl growing up in rural Wisconsin. She is a lover of whimsy and play, beauty and depth, all of which she experiences in her relationships. While her emotions and voice were shut down for decades, she is finding them again and using them in healing groups, story coaching, and writing. She’s always been drawn to water and sunsets and more recently to the desert and sunrises. She’s curious about that. Mother to three authentic adults, Maryhelen lives with her steadfast husband Keith on the shore of Lake Michigan.