Paused but not Silenced

On February 24th, I had a meeting with the bishop that I had been praying over since my Carousel Conversations. I went in hopeful; I came out unsettled. Three weeks later, I’m still uncertain, but needed that time to pray, reflect, discern, and understand the difference between calling and institution. At least to voice things clearly and calmly. 

The meeting was strange. The bishop asked about my mental health and then my faith journey but each time cut me off. She flicked through my Carousel results but didn’t comment, like they meant nothing. She then mentioned the C4 faculty issue that requires 3 years of marriage for individuals married, divorced, and remarried. The atmosphere shifted.

In her words, the ordination pathway is “paused" for me. We needed to follow the rules closely as the new Archbishop won’t consider early admission. The bishop also wanted me away from my church and put on a placement. Her reasoning is complicated. The length… confusing.

I tried explaining my concern: delaying the process risks creating a barrier later because of my degenerative disability. The longer the delay, the greater degeneration. By the time they assess my disability—or, as they put it, “infirmity”—against my capacity to undertake ministry (Canon C4.3), the degenerative weakness allows them to reject me. 

It took three attempts before “degeneration” left her lips. Instead, I was “impatient” and wanted “ordination now.” Even then, it didn’t lead to a conversation about what degeneration means in practice. No care. No questions. The decision had been made before the meeting. It was procedural. Nothing more. 

Suddenly, my mental health was an emerging mental health issue that needs validating, despite undertaking rediagnosis for ASD and being stable for over adecade. My marriage was untested, unreliable,  and vulnerable. It wasn’t discussed — so how can they know? My concerns about barriers were “assumptions.” When I referenced the Church’s own report that discusses the barriers facing disabled candidates and clergy, it became clear it was unread and unknown. I had to find it on the Church website for her. How can decisions for disabled people be considered without disability‑informed oversight? I asked that very question, especially as the diocese didn't have a disability officer — an action now corrected with a "sudden" appointment. I should be happy, but did my meeting, emails, and comments impact this decision? Does this allow barriers through their new appointee complicitly approving actions? 

The meeting became heated. I hate that. I really do. By the end, she told me to "trust God more." The implication that I don’t, hurt. Anyone with a disability like mine has nothing but trust. Not knowing that speaks volumes. 

I felt unseen — as a person, candidate, theologian, someone discerning a fifteen-year ordination calling, and a disabled Christian complicitly navigating life in an ableist-built world.

I spoke to my ADDO (Assistant Diocesan Director of Ordinands). On his advice, I prayed, reflected, and discerned for three days before emailing my concerns. I wasn’t challenging the decision; I asked for clarity, fairness, a disability‑informed process, and opportunities. The reply the next day didn't respond to that email. My email meant nothing. This new email, detached from my points, stated that I wouldn't be moving forward until 2027 — at the earliest, if I understood the bishop clearly. No engagement. No acknowledgement. Just a reset. An email ready for the moment mine arrived. A decision was made. My voice unseen, silenced, and ignored.

That hurt. It reinforced the years of “acceptable” and "justifiable" spiritual abuse and neglect in that system. It reminded me of the lived Church ableism and the ongoing interpersonal and the structural ablesim that many disabled Christians, like me, have experienced. The institution, rightly or wrongly, must be followed correctly. 

I waited and prayed before asking for a meeting to discuss the emailed concerns. I couldn’t ignore the things I felt I had to say. I needed clarity, especially where communication became muddled. That is now scheduled for 13th April.

So why write now?

This is part of my journey. Silence makes the last three weeks feel like they didn’t happen and reinforces the institutionally-imposed silence. I’ve always written openly about disability, faith, and the places where the world rubs painfully together. Writing is how I process and this needed to be said.

This post is not an attack, protest, or 95 thesis nailed to the cathedral door. I’m speaking about my experience, echoing the Fearfully and Wonderfully Made report. It reminds me to be a peacemaker, speaking truth into injustice, no matter what, and an advocate, speaking up for those who no longer speak up for themselves.

I don’t know what happens next. Should I fight this? Make sure the right conversations happen? Do I just let this happen? Will they deem me unacceptable when they question my health later? What safeguards will they put in to prevent issues and barriers? Why is every system I face not built for disabled bodies? 

I do know this: my calling hasn’t changed. I'm still committed to it, God, my faith, the church, and the path that has shaped my life. The issues I face are human, not divine. However, I am also committed to naming the emotional and spiritual cost of navigating a system that doesn’t always know what to do with disabled bodies, complex stories, or candidates who don’t fit the standard template. My life has always been a fight. It’s just whether this is another one.