I come from a fairly conservative Seventh-day Adventist upbringing. My parents took on 2.5 acres in the foothills of the Cascade Mountains in Washington State–building everything from the foundation of our double-wide trailer to all our outbuildings, planting a huge garden and orchard. This was all in the name of sustainability, but also in isolationism: we needed to be away from the “evil” cities and able to survive the “End Times.” Mom homeschooled my younger sister and me, and handled all things domestic: cooking, cleaning, beautification, preserving, planning, buying, decorating, etc.) Dad went to work Monday through Friday and handled the yard work. Our local church maintained fairly traditional gender roles: women never wore pants to church, and certainly weren’t elders or pastors.
Something in the back of my mind was always a bit uncomfortable with the gender roles I’d been immersed in–but I assumed that it was something I needed to adjust in myself, rather than any deep-rooted issues in my community. That was, until I took a Women’s Studies course my junior year of high school, at the local community college. It’s hard to explain how many epiphanies I had in that class, surrounded by women of different ages and life experiences, learning about the systems that oppressed women throughout history, and about how women fought back against those systems, occasionally aided by men who knew that disallowing agency for women was unconscionable.
I learned that the discomfort that had been setting in wasn’t because of an inherent problem with me. It was a deep-rooted, soul-level pushback against a complex order of things that didn’t value an entire group of humans as highly as it did others, much less treat them with equality or equity. And let’s be honest–if we’re bigoted about one group of people, the bigotry probably extends to other groups too.
That Women’s Studies class was the beginning of my anger. I began to recognize that we don’t have to accept things that feel wrong to us. We can push back. That’s not okay. Enough. No more. We don’t have to keep swallowing that nonsense, no matter how frequently systems pour it out for us and tell us to drink it in the name of peace.
I went on to attend an Adventist university, majoring in Religious Studies and English Literature. While I value many of the professors I learned from and friendships I made, the memories that often stick out are upsetting. The dorms on campus had a different set of rules for the men and women, founded in sexist assumptions. Our New Testament professor stated on the first day of class that he didn’t think women should be in his class–instead, they should be learning how to be wives and mothers. Our World Religions professor likened all Muslims to terrorists, and informed us that we’d be demon-possessed if we went to see the Dalai Lama speak. There was a strong anti-LGBTQ+ bias being touted by multiple spiritual leaders. By the time I left, I was exhausted and angry from what I understood Adventism to be. All I could think was that’s not okay. That’s not right. I can’t do this anymore.
After college, I taught in the private Christian system, primarily for Adventist schools. Despite loving the subject matter and the young people I taught, I was exhausted by the unofficial-yet-required work load of 80+ hours a week, which meant my salaried pay equated to roughly three dollars less than minimum wage per hour. Despite decidedly conservative political statements made both directly and indirectly at my schools, I was cautioned that good teachers were never political (read: good teachers were not liberal). Attempts I made to create a safe space for my kiddos who identified outside of the school’s expectations were criticized. Nevertheless, I kept at it, spending nearly 10 years of my life in survival mode. I kept going, even during a pandemic, because I cared. Many of us still work in that same system– continuing on “for the kingdom” or “for the kids.” Instead of taking measures to fix a system that is harming both educators and students, we deem it an individual struggle–something that someone can or cannot handle, something we either supposedly care enough to do, or are judged for stepping away from.
Christian culture sometimes nefariously teaches us to be “long-suffering,” that we must graciously accept poor treatment from others and, in return, only put out more–love them more, serve them more. That was certainly how “turning the other cheek” was described to me as a kiddo–we must give and give, even when others only take. I became adept at accepting the status quo–even when I was mentally and physically weary from permitting people to treat me however they saw fit, in both my professional and personal relationships. I knew this was wrong, but felt guilty for naming it, knowing that speaking out meant being labeled as uncooperative and difficult, not a “team player.”
One of the things that I have come to appreciate the most about my husband, Vladimir, is his willingness to call something out as toxic or problematic. He has helped create a safe space for me to unravel decades of suppressing my feelings in attempts to keep the peace. He has made it okay to be angry, okay to stand up for myself. He was a comfort to me when I was fired suddenly in 2018 for participating in a protest against gun violence in schools. He has seen me through countless tears, waited up for me dozens of nights, listened to loads of stories about well-meaning administrators touting toxic ideas. Vlad has been willing to call sexist, racist, classist, ableist, fatphobic, neurotypical-biased, xenophobic, transphobic and homophobic actions and policies at my workplaces what they are: harmful. Anti-Christian. Wrong.
Vlad does not identify as particularly religious. He questions things in the Bible that have never occurred to me to rethink. But he shows up to church with me because he knows that my community and the values that La Sierra University Church stands for are important to me. (Honestly, if it weren’t for discovering our church whilst studying for my Masters degree at La Sierra University, I’d long ago have hung up my Adventist identity.) Things like advocating for women, the LGBTQ+ community, the immigrants, the oppressed, black and brown folk, matter a great deal to him, and I am proud to bring him into contact with an Adventist community that cherishes those same values.
Saying that’s not okay has been a lifelong lesson for me. I’m still learning how to set up healthy boundaries in my personal and professional life. I’m certainly not an expert, and I don’t pretend to have all of the answers. But I have learned that it’s okay to be angry and to speak out, because until we recognize and name what is wrong, we’re not going to be able to work to create something better. Otherwise we’re going to continue to lose people who recognize that institutions that perpetuate or allow any group of humans to be treated as less deserving of love, acceptance, and community are antithetical to our calling as followers of Christ. Anger is the natural (and Creator-intended) reaction to systems that devalue, silence, hurt, or exploit other living beings. It’s okay to not be okay with those things.
Marjorie (Jorie) Ellenwood is an educator, wife, cat mom, and foodie who is learning to sit with all of her emotions.