I know what's missing here, in this retelling, and it probably seems like the next logical place to go.
"So you say you had an affair-- with who? When? What exactly happened?"
The thing is, there's a way of telling this story that feels right to me, and a way that feels retraumatizing. It feels ok to say what I genuinely need to say. It feels false and unnecessary to say what others might want to hear.
The gorgeous, beautiful, outstanding thing of it is, I don't owe this story to any of you. It matters not one whit in the grand scheme of the universe either, but I think it matters to God (and yes, eventually I'll get to unpacking matters of faith. I'm still a Christian, but it's an extremely different thing for me now). This story matters to me, too, which is why I'm honoring my own pace and comfort in the sharing.
There is one matter I feel strongly led to address, though, and that is that this was spiritual abuse.
It so completely and absolutely was.
That has taken me years, though--YEARS-- to accept.
The simple fact of the matter is that priests take a sacred oath to care for the health and well-being of parishioners' souls. This work used to be called the "cure of souls"-- cura animarum, in Latin-- but now we call it pastoral care. The promise comes in a few different ways during the Episcopal service of ordination, but in its simplest language, the Bishop asks: "Will you do your best to pattern your life in accordance with the teachings of Christ?" The priest-to-be answers, "I will."
Another way to think of this is like the Hippocratic oath. The priest pledges, essentially, to "do no harm."
Much like doctors, priests are authority figures. The church is a hierarchy. And when I was in the process of discerning a call, and I was recognized to have one by the Bishop and the Diocesan Commission on Ministry, there was a word for my role: postulant. "One who asks." This is a no-power position, by design, and the postulant is examined over and over by members of the church, by doctors, and by psychiatrists, just to be admitted into candidacy and allowed to attend seminary.
But even without the Latin meaning of complex church vocabulary-- the kind of in-house rituals that mean everything to those within the church but seem confusing and arcane to those outside of it-- when I met with this priest and began my discernment journey, I wasn't seeking to set off a bomb in my life. I was looking for guidance, and answers to questions. I was looking for a mentor, and for advice.
And unfortunately, I'd been primed by my upbringing and previous life experiences to completely blow past massive red flags one after another after another.
Here are the details I need to share in this moment about what happened. These were the red flags, and just some of the ways I have come to understand the abuse present in the situation:
-- He complemented me on my appearance, over and over.
--He befriended my children and mailed them gifts.
--He gave me concert tickets.
--He invited me to join an "exclusive" theological Facebook group.
--He listened to me share the difficult details of my life that I knew I would be quizzed about by the Bishop and the Commission on Ministry, and then returned my confidences with stories of his own wounds and difficulties. (This may have been the biggest red flag. YOUR PRIEST CANNOT BE YOUR FRIEND-- not in the same way others can, and especially not if they seek pastoral care from you.)
--He texted me jokes, memes, and asked me personal questions both unrelated to church business and off the clock.
--He invited my family to his house not as parishioners, but as friends, and an insane amount of church gossip ensued, so that we felt like "insiders."
--He refused to allow me space when I left the theological group, deactivated my Facebook account, and tried to separate myself from him.
These are not things a priest should ever, ever do. They are also things priests do every single day, because priests are human, and run the gamut like all humans do from "great at the job" to "worst priest ever." Wouldn't it have been amazing if I could have recognized this at the time? Wouldn't it have been amazing if I could have stepped away, untangled myself, been in a stronger and more healthy place and better able to shield myself from feeling chosen and special and befriended? I wasn't though, and here's the thing-- I shouldn't have had to be.
I know this now, and it gives me some small measure of comfort. As Maya Angelou once told Oprah, "When you know better, you do better." I know better now, but the view from here is battle-scarred and rebuilt and through the rubble of the kind of life I thought I was moving towards. I'm grateful-- so grateful-- for the things I've been able to rebuild, my marriage first and foremost among them. But I will never not be deeply sad that I couldn't have avoided this, somehow. It's a chapter in my life I wish had never been written.
Image credit: "Pope St Gregory the Great" by Lawrence OP is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd-nc/2.0/jp/?ref=openverse.
Image description: A multi-colored stained glass window image of Pope St. Gregory the Great is surrounded by a black background. Within the blocks of reds, greens, blues, purples, and other colors, a quote from St. Gregory reads "The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit and a contrite heart." This stained glass hangs in Grace Cathedral (Episcopal) in San Francisco. St. Gregory is known for his extensive writings on pastoral care.
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