“And that is why we don’t allow women to teach men.” The man in the white polo shirt says this as if it’s a matter of fact. There’s nothing to see here, folks.

I set my sandwich down in its small cardboard box, optimism draining from my limbs. I had thought this time would be different. All the reasons I left the church the first time around come flooding back to me.

“It’s going to be a long hour,” I think. I’m at one of those “membership info sessions,” where a church explains its foundational beliefs and expectations so that you, the interested individual, can consider joining… or not.

The church is in a rural Texas town near the border of Oklahoma. We’ve been visiting for several months and have enjoyed the sermons and programming. 

Our daughters are making friends in Sunday school and asking when they get to go back to church. All in all, it’s been good. But suddenly, the theology doesn’t feel so life-giving.

The man in the white polo shirt continues to talk and my questions rise to the surface, beating the inside of my chest: “But why can’t women teach? What do you mean they’re equal, but have different roles? Wouldn’t that mean they’re not equal?”

I have always been full of questions like these. But growing up in a conservative Southern Baptist Church trained me well and eventually, I learned that my questions were better left inside, at least publicly.

I brought my concerns to one of the associate pastors over coffee the following week. I vulnerably share my feelings about the church saying, but not showing, that women are equal to men. 

I say this concerns me, especially since I have two young daughters.

He gaslights me.

“What do you mean? What makes you feel like women aren’t equal here?”

“Well…saying they’re not equal?” I talk about the membership class and how the leader explained that women aren’t allowed to be elders or pastors. He explains complementarianism without using the word, trying to rope me into a false sense of security.

Sadly, experiences like these are common in our rural American churches. Of the hundreds of churches in my area, only two outwardly espouse progressive theology. Only one is affirming of LGBTQIA+ individuals.

I decided to take matters into my own hands.

On a whim, I apply to nearby theology schools, praying that it will become painfully apparent if God wants me there. Within weeks, I get a full scholarship and I head to seminary.

Three years and many classes later, I know the man in the white polo shirt is not a bad man, but he is misinformed.

Though he cites verses from Titus and Timothy to make his point, he also demonstrates a far too literal reading of his English Bible. I am lucky to know this because I have had enough training to spot it a mile away.

However, everyday congregants are not always so fortunate. They come to church trusting their leaders to know what they’re talking about. They come looking for hope and trust that what they receive will be healing. 

But how can theology be healthy if it gives life to some but not to all?

I ask my friends who grew up in the church and now have young families of their own if they ever consider returning. Many of them want to but can’t seem to find a place to belong fully as themselves. 

Either the teachings seem stuck in the past, the dynamics feel fake, or they experience something like I did, where they are straightforwardly told their proper place in ministry. These young families want to belong in faith communities but seem to be asking, “Is there somewhere where the Spirit is still alive in the country?”

Rural churches need good theology, too. Our urban centers may have progressive churches, but many families raise their children in more spread-out spaces, seeking reconnection to the land and slower living. Where can they go?

In seminary, I get to ask all these challenging, bothersome questions in an environment that supports my wonderings. I propose theories and ponder aloud in the hope that God, my classmates and I will unearth some truths together over time.

It is high time our rural churches also became safe places for these discussions. Our congregations are hungry for dialogue. Actually, I think they’re ravenous for it.

Too often, the complexity and nuances of our sacred texts are condensed into what leadership “thinks” lay people will understand. But the truth is that the people sitting in the crowds have desperate doubts and tough questions. They need more.

Instead of repressing our uncertainties with seemingly black-and-white doctrine and dogma, can we welcome a more generous atmosphere of examination and exploration? How can we unclench our fists of “truth” and open our hearts to let more conversation (and healing) in?

Perhaps this process may help us see questions not as doubting faith but as formative for it. Maybe if we allow ourselves to question and truly wrestle with our beliefs openly, we will recognize one another as companions on a quest for meaning.

May we learn to ask hard questions together, creating a healthier, more well-formed body of Christ.