I voted today.

If you had asked me two weeks ago who I was going to vote for, I would have told you I didn’t know for sure but that I was leaning towards Tom Steyer.[i]  But, today, as I stood at the ballot box, it felt necessary to me to vote for Elizabeth Warren.  The reason is this: because over the past two weeks, I hit the glass ceiling.  Hard.  And when I stood there looking at Warren’s name (which, by alphabetical accident, happened to be right beneath Tom Steyer’s), I knew in the depth of my soul that here was a sister in the fight and I must do what I could to support her, even if all I could do was give her my vote.

Although I can’t share the details of my recent first-hand experience of sexism, I will say that it seems clear to me – and to others aware of the situation (in case anyone should think I’m just bitter) – that my personal and professional merits were passed over and undervalued because of my gender. 

This was my first time encountering the evils of systemic, institutional and personal discrimination.  Despite being an ordained woman for over ten years, I had never before (knowingly) hit the glass ceiling.  And let me tell you.  It’s not made of glass.  I mean, it was invisible to me until I came up against it, but it’s definitely made of reinforced steel and concrete.  And I don’t even think it’s a ceiling.  A ceiling implies that you’re moving upwards and I don’t think I was.  First, because, in all honesty, I don’t think I can move upwards from being Rector of Thankful Memorial Episcopal Church.  I don’t think there’s anything out there that could possibly be more fulfilling vocationally than the role I am privileged to inhabit right now. 

And secondly, because if you’re moving upwards you can’t really be going all that fast, because you’re still fighting against gravity.  And I didn’t feel that way. All the feedback I was getting made me believe I wasn’t fighting against anything at all.  And the people involved were folks I trusted to make un-biased decisions.  And I 100% was not expecting to hit the wall of patriarchy.  And so I was speeding along at a million miles an hour when I hit it.  And Lord, Lord, Lord… it knocked me out.  It broke my bones. 

Rather luckily, over the past few days, I started and finished reading Just Mercy, Bryan Stevenson’s compelling account of racism in the criminal justice system.  (I was able to finish the book so quickly because I have been seething with so much fury for the past weeks that it has disrupted my sleep and I’ve been able to get a lot of reading done.  Two unexpected bonuses of anger: lots of time to read, and weight-loss, because fury really does live in your gut and causes significant nausea!)  It was a timely read for me, both because it made me realize that my confrontation with discrimination makes me so much more empathic towards others who experience these things – I seriously get their fury and frustration now! – and because the experiences of Stevenson and his clients in the book went far to help me put my own experience in perspective (I was cut out of an opportunity and treated like crap, which sucks, but systems of discrimination can and have effected far far worse things on others).  To see how others have channeled their frustrations and anger into productive work for justice has been helpful.  I hope, one day, to get there myself. 

Right now, though, I am mostly just angry.  Really really angry.  Angry enough that I know all the synonyms: livid, furious, incensed, enraged, irate.  Really f***ing mad. 

And I lie awake at night wondering, what does one do with such anger?  Where does one put it?  How is it carried?  And what hope is there that these systems will ever really change? 

Women in the Church (and the world, obviously, but let me narrow things here so I don’t go off the rails) have been fighting for so long now, so very long.  Yesterday, I called a mentor, an Episcopal priest who has been ordained much longer than I have.  We spoke for an hour.  At one point, she told me, “What surprises me is that I talk to clergywomen in the next generation, women like you who are significantly younger than me, and they seem to think that we don’t have to fight anymore.  They really don’t expect to come up against it.  But we do and we will, all the time.  We have still got to fight and fight hard.  Because nothing has changed.  Nothing has really changed.” 

And now, I know she’s right. The scales have fallen from my eyes and I can see the reality before me.  And it is depressing.  And it is infuriating.  Nothing has changed!  Where can there be hope when there can be no change?

And then there’s this: a few days ago, I heard an interview on NPR with Kristen Rouse, a U.S. Army Veteran who served three tours of duty in Afghanistan.  The interview was about Rouse’s thoughts on the peace-talks between the U.S. and the Taliban but at one point, the interviewer asked Rouse how she grieves for those of her Afghan colleagues and friends who have been killed in the bloody conflict.  And, as she tried to answer the question, Rouse ended up saying something like this: “Despite it all, the Afghans continue to choose hope.  And I choose hope with them.”  (Once again: it’s worth noting that thinking about the lives of those caught up in the conflict in Afghanistan does put my own little struggles in perspective.)

I think there comes a point where we must either descend into the hell of fury, frustration and depression that outside systems and actors would force upon us or we must choose hope.  This Lent, my discipline is to figure out how to do the latter.  My prayer for myself is to learn how to choose hope.

Because, ultimately, I am where I belong.  My beloved congregation still and always loves and supports me (and has never shown bias towards me, excepting that one time when I first met Harry Coleman, may he rest in peace, and he looked at me and said, “Well you are a pretty thing!”)  My friends and family, my communities see and value me and all the talented women like me.  The Church, too, flawed as it is, contains within it sisters and brothers who are fighting this battle right alongside me.  We are in this together and we stand in the right. 

And, in the end, I absolutely refuse to let the sinfulness of the systems and the biased machinations of a very few force me out of my belonging.  I won’t allow the thorn of sexism to poison all the rest of the abundant goodness of God’s grace.  I won’t give it that power over me and I reject its attempts to silence me, silence us.  For that, truly, would be the very worst injustice. 

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[i] I feel like I need to defend my original choice here: Tom Steyer, bless him, is such an underdog (and I have a soft spot for underdogs) and he strikes me as such a decent human being – a sense that was recently supported by a fellow priest who happens to have him in her congregation.  What I still like about Steyer is that he seems to just put his head down and do his work as he sees fit.  He’s not loud or attention-seeking; he just is who he says he is and does what he says he’s doing and I find that refreshing.  Plus, I’m technically an independent and a moderate (fiscally conservative, socially liberal – which is actually an impossible political stance), so Tom Steyer was looking pretty good…