Exile

A blessing for when you've been cut off completely

Jesus says, “Blessed are you when people insult you, persecute you, and falsely say all kinds of evil against you because of me.” — Matthew 5:11–12

I was twenty-one. Old enough to make a life-altering decision. Young enough to do it without a fully formed sense of consequence.

I emailed a district office in Central Florida asking if there were any ministry positions available. Two pastors responded. One hired me. The salary was $24,000 a year. It felt like enough to survive.

I didn’t know that small yes would place me under the authority of a single district leader for most of my adult life. Or that, on the eve of his retirement, he would choose to expel me. Not for anything theological. Not for anything logical.

It was administrative. Which is to say, it was everything.

One of his leaders had launched us prematurely—though we had never intended to start a church. It was framed as the Holy Spirit doing something new. The budget was $5,000, an amount we never receieved because we were never able to organize as Nazarene. If there were a rock and a hard place, this was it.

The district wouldn’t fund us unless the local church did.
The local church wouldn’t fund us without the district.
The global church was aware. The global church declined to intervene.

We were left with an amount that felt less like provision and more like optics.

It was embarrassing. Not because I felt ungrateful.Because I knew the numbers. I had spent years sitting in district meetings, in board rooms, looking at budgets that told a different story about what was possible.

This wasn’t a feeling.
It was math.

They wanted a church plant without a building, without a timeline, without a budget and with a required 10% contribution to a denomination that had invested nothing in its beginning.

I didn’t know how to say yes to that. I was, at the time, a globally appointed leader.

I gave my time and abilities beyond what was required of me. I sacrificed time with my young children to be on flights to remote places. I advocated for the Church and it’s mission. I showed up. I supported Nazarene churches wherever I went.

I loved the church. I still do. Which made what came next harder to name.

My global role was dissolved.
My pay ended. My connection to the institution that had raised me.
Then, I was told it was likely inevitable that I’d be removed completely.

I wrote emails.
Local. District. Global.

I asked for reconsideration.
For creativity.
For a way to remain faithful inside a system I had already given my life to.

I received no response. Months later, I received a letter. I was expelled. I was asked to return my ordination documents.

We were told our church would not last eight months.
We were told I was trying to circumvent the system.
What they didn’t understand was that I had stayed because of the system.
I believed it could still be good.

Now, it’s been about ten years.
The church that was accidentally on purpose planted is still here. The prophecy was wrong about one thing. I could survive despite being Nazarene.

Now I know what it feels like to be called blessed in the middle of loss. Not the kind of blessing that looks like favor. The kind that looks like being cut off by the people who cared for you and raised you.

I am ordained differently today. I pastor a small church that loves people without requiring them to qualify for it. I don’t remember Jesus requiring that either.

I get to be a part of a small community that doesn’t expect my children to carry the burden of every decision and become the next leaders.

I am finding joy knowing I can be a leader of integrity. I don’t have to hide the human parts of me or be silent when it’s time to love others unconditionally. I don’t have to fear losing my pension or my power.

I think about the church we left behind. The name Nazarene isn’t on the building anymore. But the structure is still there. The people don’t always know what they’re part of. But the pastors do. They also know what it would cost to say certain things out loud.

No one wants to risk their pension. I understand that. I also understand what it costs to keep it.

I’ve had time to heal.
To ask better questions.
To stop trying to be let back in.

And if you’re wondering why I’m saying any of this now—it’s not bitterness. It’s clarity. It’s what happens when you realize that exile was never the worst thing that could happen to you.

It’s the blessing of excommunication.

*If you’ve been cut off for a reason that brings you great grief.
Know this. You are not on this journey without friends.
You might even see us laughing and finding comedy in the dark that we visited.
The value of your life isn’t in the hands of humans who try to define you but in the eyes of God who created you and will never leave you alone to suffer.