Disposing of the defrocked

In an effort to show charity and understanding, many churches continue to employ ministers after a divorce. But what about their wives? Here is one woman's story and plea.

By Peggy Boyle, which is a psedonymn.

Statistics have become an accepted way of looking at things in our society. Statistics indicate that divorce is increasing among the clergy. Conduct that used to be considered unacceptable, and a sufficient reason for a man to be defrocked, seems to have become acceptable in some churches.

Soon I will be one of those discarded older ministers' wives. Statistics tell me that at my age I am unemployable. My standard of living will go down 43 percent, while my husband's will go up 48 percent during the first year after divorce.

Today we older discarded, or, to be more truthful, dumped, wives have to leave our churches, our friends, and even give up our homes. As Roy Oswald said in a study: "The spouse is treated by the congregation as though she had leprosy."

Vows of commitment that we took during our wedding ceremony are no longer important. Even the vows of ordination no longer mean a moral commitment. Development of self seems to be the only important criterion today.

My husband took his ordination vows 33 years ago. We were married for 35 years. When we said our wedding vows, 1 did promise and covenant before God and witnesses a vow of commitment until death do us part.

We were married at the seminary where we had met. I had graduated with a master's degree in education. Two years later my husband graduated and received his B.D. degree. Later that summer when he was ordained, he took his vows and put on his robe. I sat nearby. As the visible robe was put on him, I received the invisible robe of a clergy wife. The charge to the congregation included the re minder that they were not getting "two for the price of one," and people smiled.

During our first pastorate, the manse next door to the church was used for a Sunday school class, often with me serving as the teacher. The extra turkey or roast beef was cooked in the manse ovens so I could watch it.

After our first five children were born, I developed an incurable lung disease. The doctor said we should move. We moved three years later to what was supposed to be a better climate, but it didn't help.

During those years I wore the invisible gown. Ministers' wives stayed home. We took care of our children, as well as baby sitting for members. We answered the phone, listened to pleas for money, and wore hand-me-down clothes.

My husband was busy meeting the needs of the congregation and the community, with camps, conferences, study hours, and many other things. He made time for all his responsibilities except being a father and husband. I didn't like staying home all the time but looked forward to vacation each year when we ex changed manses with other clergy couples. Most of all, I looked forward to spending time with my husband and not being made to feel guilty for wanting some of his precious time. In those days promises were kept and commitments were the most important ways of serving God.

We moved and moved again. Then after our sixth child was born, we moved to the best climate. Even though my emphysema had been developing so fast that the doctors didn't hold out much hope that I would live longer than two years, prayers were answered, and in the new climate the disease stopped progressing. For a few years I even went without medication and was able to teach. I thought I was helping out.

I worked for the church after our children were grown and was paid a small stipend, but I was criticized because "the pastor's wife shouldn't work for money." I wore an invisible robe. When the pulmonary problems started up again, I could still do part-time work for the church by using the telephone at home.

The "when the children are grown" excuse for why I had to stay home now changed to "but why are you interested in going to the annual meeting?" The "I wish you could be here" became "It's my study leave--where is the money supposed to come from to pay for you to go too?" and "You haven't kept up." After I was dumped, I was in the hospital for five weeks. No one from my husband's employing organization ever called. Of the more than 70 active ministers I knew, only two bothered to call me.

At the time of the divorce I will no longer be able to receive medical help from the pension board. They have sent letters to my lawyer. I won't qualify for help. The church I have served and loved no longer recognizes me. I am just another statistic.

One disposed, defrocked wife of 30 years was given $150 and told to get out of the manse. She lived a seven-hour drive from any large city.

Another wife summed up the defroc ing by saying she felt like she was all alone in a clearing. She could hear voices in the bushes, but no one came out to speak to her.

My husband is still in his pulpit. I am sure my friends of 18 years in the congregation would say that they didn't want to take sides. Out of more than 325 members, only about 15 people have sent me a card, phoned, or even know that I am still around. My husband still has his church, his Social Security, his medical care, his pension, and his title of "Reverend."

The disposing and defrocking will continue, but why are the innocent disposed and defrocked?

The many 40- and 50-year-old men leaving their wives have forced upon them the life of nuns. No more sex, no chance of feeling a hug, or a shoulder to lean upon; no one to share with. It has been suggested that we train clergy to work with divorced clergy. I would like to say, Why don't we train clergy to be committed, to be Christian, to accept that vows made before God and witnesses are sacred?

I am in a clearing. I hear the noises all around me in the churches, but no one has come out to talk to me. I have not only been defrocked; I have been dispossessed. I grew up in a loving, caring, inclusive church. I have now found my church to be unloving, uncaring, and exclusive. I have no Social Security, no job, no home, no pension, no medical care, no title, and no church. I am only a statistic.


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By Peggy Boyle, which is a psedonymn.

November 1987

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