Shine a Light; Not Fight

 [Image 1. A brass Paraffin/Oil lamp is centred in the image against a darkened teal background, with a flame burning at the centre. The title says Shine a light; Not fight, matching the post title]

Today, I meet with my DDO (A Diocesan Director of Ordinands) and ADDO (Assistant Diocesan Director of Ordinands).

In my previous ordination process post I ended with a question. What do I do next, fight or accept? I wasn't sure. I am now.

This week I met with the Revd Canon Dr Tim Goode. I needed someone who understands disability, vocation, and the Church. Someone who has lived the things I have and can personally empathise, not offer misaligned sympathy. I admire his work, his book, and everything he has done for disability theology and inclusion. I even referenced him several times at College. He started and shaped the Church’s Disability Advisory Group, served nationally on disability inclusion, advised dioceses, and pushed Church Inclusion, being one of the few voices changing disability-inclusion from the inside.

I reached out and he kindly offered to meet. He listened, nodded, smiled, shared frustration, sighed at familiar parts, and named things I knew and hadn’t yet put into words.

He explained my situation perfectly. I already understood many aspects, some I had not, but it all mattered. I was heard. He understood. He discussed inherited institutional harm, how it shapes complicit and implicit actions and reactions, and how disabled people feel like they’re the problem when it’s the structure. That's a post in itself.

He made it clear that Today's meeting is not safe. Not because they are bad people. They aren’t. They are kind and pastoral. The danger is the system, their roles, conformity, the power imbalance, and the unspoken ableism not recognised. It risks becoming a meeting with predetermined outcomes, framed as supportive "flourishing," while pushing institutional directives.

Soft‑power spaces and language are additionally troublesome. Meetings held in friendly rooms, like my Church, wrapped in pastoral language, like “flourishing,” can feel gentle while still masking pressure and steering a fixed outcome. All making today unsafe.

He told me I needed an ally. Someone not swayed by institutional language, who makes sure I’m heard and slows the pace. He suggested someone with disability knowledge, theology, and lived experience. There isn’t a trustworthy local disability advocate. That's usually me. Instead, I chose someone steady, not swayed by Anglicanism, not easily intimidated, and will keep things fair. I’ll handle the disability side. Together we’ll cover what is needed.

He also said something I didn’t expect or realise. He told me to request Archbishop Sarah. Not to escalate or complain, but because she’s my diocesan lead. Most dioceses have a diocesan bishop. Canterbury doesn’t. The Archbishop is the Ordinary here. That changes everything. When he heard this, he smiled knowingly. Although I have a bishop, she’s the Bishop in, not of, Canterbury. It means I am not going above anyone’s head, but seeking the person who actually holds authoritative pastoral responsibility for me. Her background means she understands disability, carers, chronic health, and institutional bias, and could potentially see my situation with clarity and compassion.

His last advice will be the hardest. Shine the light; Not fight. Fighting is my instinct. Disabled people often fight by themselves in an able-bodied world, but there's acceptable and unacceptable complicity. Acceptable is something done for our wellbeing, like doctors. Unacceptable is when decisions are made and actions undertaken about and to us without us. A difficult space to navigate, but I need to learn how. The Church, like most places, reacts to fight with defensiveness. Sympathy instead of empathy. Equality without equity. When pushed, they push back, retreating into process. It gets nowhere. His 30 years of experience has shown him that. On reflection, he’s right, I’ve experienced it. No one likes being shown up, told off, or put in their place.

I may have inadvertently done this last time. I highlighted barriers, the Bishop dismissed them, so I showed examples. She made assumptions, I challenged them, and she pushed back, so I showed Tim’s articles. He smiled at that. He also helped reframe her defensiveness. I may have triggered institutional bias that she has faced. She understands intersectional injustice around race and gender, but disability sits outside her lived experience. That mismatch can create a defensive reaction that isn’t personal, but still lands heavily. She may not have even realised she was triggered and needs a pastoral approach. The power of pastoral empathy.

Shining a light, therefore, is different. Slower, calmer, harder. It's naming truth without weaponising it. It invites people on a journey rather than dragging them along or triggering them. It lets God work in the mess instead of forcing the outcome. It trusts that the bush can burn without burning me. A contradiction I need to practice and live.

He also reframed “fighting the Church” because the Church isn’t one giant institution, but a living ecosystem. A patchwork of self‑running parts. There is no single system to push against. This made sense to why fighting exhausts me, alongside past actions. Shining a light works better.

So now I have an ally for the meeting, advice from someone I deeply respect, a clearer understanding of the system, a non-confrontational route to the Archbishop, and a way of approaching this without escalation and a fight to be heard.

I am currently paused, but learning to shine a light, not fight.

That’s the step I couldn’t see. Let’s hope today allows me to do so.