Who Are the Voiceless Now?

Marilyn Kennel

Twenty years ago I was approaching middle age and I had issues with the Mennonite church—that is, the church as I had known and experienced it. Inner turmoil and ambivalence swirled around my self-identity, my gifts and interests, and the role of women in church leadership.

From earliest childhood, as I heard my grandpa joyfully speak of teaching Bible school and holding prophecy conferences, I had dreamed of working in the church. As years went by, I continued to feel an irresistible pull to some form of ministry, but the image was always fuzzy. The specifics of my calling and how I might be useful to the church never came into focus.

My unfulfilled dream was like a low-grade fever, an ever-present ache. I learned to live with it, but it was never far from my mind. Emotional pain was stirred when I read of other women’s successes.

Embarrassing tears would well up at unexpected times, provoked, perhaps, by an innocent question about my education or my career.
I had been taught to respect and obey the voices of authority in my church as the voice of God. Personal calls to service were discerned and confirmed by the church. My parents modeled these qualities, submitting to the church without question. As a young adult I listened for affirmation and encouragement that would give me a sense of direction. When it was not forthcoming, I felt helpless, alienated, and confused.

Nevertheless, I gave my heart to the church and related institutions, making every effort to be available, accepting each new responsibility as an opportunity to serve while exploring my gifts and paving the way for other women with similar interests. During these years I often felt caught up in a dance of hope and frustration that swayed forward one step and backward two.

I was devastated when, in a conference-level (denominational regional cluster of congregations) committee meeting, a bishop flatly remarked that pastors in his district of the conference believed that for a woman to be in leadership was a “perversion of her sexuality, just as homosexuality is a perversion.” I was chairing the meeting. He was talking about me! Such experiences deepened my wounds and heightened my sense of futility for a future in the church.

The opportunity to pursue a degree in religious and Anabaptist studies at a local college offered new perspective on my religious experience. Immersion in the timeline of Anabaptist history perked my interest in the theology of suffering—the notion that those who follow Jesus will suffer.

Historians analyzing the early Mennonite experience in North America note the loss of suffering as an organizing principle and trace the emerging characteristic of humility. A subsequent rise in evangelical fervor favored strong and vocal male leadership. Humility, therefore, began to lose relevance. Then with twentieth century activism, an identity of service began to become more dominant.

Though committed to both humility and service, I also felt an unexplained resonance with suffering. Why would I, a woman of relative privilege, have a sense of suffering? Following this thread of thought led to broader questions.

Who are the people who suffer today? They are those who have no voice, those who are powerless. And who, in the church, is without voice and powerless? In that answer, I found my connection to suffering. It is present in the lives of those who seek a role in the church but differ from those who interpret faith and practice. For much of my life, my gender had limited my options and placed me among those without voice.

In my formative years, my interests were not necessarily church related, but they helped cement my perception of a woman’s place in tenacious ways. I loved playing softball with my brother and his friends, but only boys could participate in organized sports. I enjoyed music and wanted to play an instrument in the band, but the band wore uniforms and we girls were forbidden to wear men’s clothing. My earliest memories are of being denied what I wanted to do, always with words that rang like an accusation, “You’re not allowed. You are a girl. You can’t do that. You’re a girl.”

Continuing my studies, I was surprised to learn that suffering and power occur in cycles—that those who are powerless and persecuted often gain acceptance and status only to unleash righteous anger upon others in the name of God and orthodox belief. The pattern is documented in the Mennonite story.

The first Christian believers developed from a ragged, egalitarian beginning to become the powerful and hierarchical Roman Catholic Church, claiming sole authority to interpret Scripture and dispense salvation. The powerless became the powerful, and persons who challenged them faced severe consequences. Well-known reformer Martin Luther risked martyrdom in his breach with the Catholic Church and then gained control of his own state church only to become a persecutor of his dissenters.

Fascinated by what I found, I continued to explore. I read that Anabaptists of the Reformation were persons of the Bible and their encounter with Scripture transformed their lives. They were interested in the word, intent, and spirit of Christ. The New Testament became their authority in matters of faith and practice.

Their refusal to submit to church authority in areas of dispute brought vehement retaliation. They were accused of heresy and called by disparaging names. They had not intended to separate from the church, but hostility and intolerance forced them to go. Their presence was too great a challenge to the system. The description of these experiences seemed remarkably familiar and current.

I followed the story into more recent times. Fleeing persecution in Europe, our forefathers and foremothers established communities in the Western hemisphere, eventually developing their own systems of orthodoxy and discipline. With a passion for right beliefs and right practice and with the intention of protecting the church from sin and worldly influence, leaders centralized authority, codified practice, and reshaped the church in ways that allowed little room for anyone with a differing interpretation.

Numerous schisms ensued. Residual models of authority and traditional interpretations masking as biblical absolutes continued to pain and alienate sincere seekers open to new paradigms of faithfulness.

Identifying these repeating patterns was a significant epiphany for me. I saw women’s struggle—my struggle—as another knobby thread woven into the tattered tapestry of church history. The perspective was empowering, sobering, and life-changing.

When I recognized that others had dared to challenge church authority in many forms, a window of possibility opened for me. A sense of personal power came in knowing that my voice and experience is valid, that I do not have to be a victim to those who would claim authority over me, that I am responsible to live in a manner congruent with my unfolding understanding of spiritual truth and practice, that I have options and can choose my own path.

I was transformed and freed to work for change, to spend years as an advocate for other women seeking to use their gifts, to say “Enough!” to those who would prescribe my behavior and proscribe my voice. I found a community of believers that is open to my questions, encourages my journey, and is not threatened by diversity.

I was sobered by the ongoing use and misuse of power among us, yet I remained wary of some of the methods proposed to bring change. I did not want to participate in a march to liberation that would merely replace one face of domination with another. I did not want to compromise my vision of Jesus, the compassionate one who came to break the cycle of oppression, who freed us from the bondage of power-seeking and revenge. I did not want to be complicit in the misuse of power no matter the intent!

Twenty years later, I continue to observe and ponder. Because we have been a people of humility and service, do we find it difficult to acknowledge the presence of power in our religious institutions? When did right doctrine become more important than how we treat one another? When, as followers of Jesus, did we begin to compromise in the use of coercive power? When will we measure the justice of our community by how we treat the powerless?

Who are the people now disenfranchised, without voice, denied access to meaningful roles in our churches? Who are those longing for affirmation and blessing, eager to contribute their energy and their gifts for the benefit of the community of faith? Who are those experiencing persecution at the hands of the powerful? Does my epiphany offer hope to those caught in the current cycle of suffering? Who will stand and shout “Enough!”?

—Marilyn Kennel, Mount Joy, Pennsylvania, is grateful to worship with the welcoming folks at Community Mennonite Church of Lancaster.