I left the Anglican Church June 2002. I was burnt-out, and sick and tired of the obsession over gay marriage that was tying everyone up in knots. I had by that time come to accept gay marriage but felt alienated by the conflict and what to this day I see as stubborn idiocy coming from all sides of the equation. I spent some time in a Baptist Church, a fundamentalist Presbyterian Church, followed by a gay church then a brief stint again at St. James. I couldn't stay there. The wounds felt too raw as did it seem inevitable that I would never get any support there. I returned to the gay church, had a falling out with the pastor, then in September 2007, returned to the Anglican Church, this time St. Paul's.
St. Paul's seemed at first welcoming. There were a number of people recovering from drug and alcohol addictions and everyone seemed to be very loving and warm while passing the peace. It was like a huge love in. It only took me a little time to discern that the love-in did not extend beyond the final blessing. Downstairs during coffee it was very difficult to get people to visit and chat unless they weren't with their friends. I decided to counter this trend and for some time made an effort to introduce myself to others and welcome newcomers.
During my first three months, on four occasions I was pestered about contributing money to the church. Even when I explained that I was on a low income and ought to be exempt from this obligation they wouldn't leave me alone. I left for a few weeks, I was so upset about being harrassed for money that I didn't have to give.
I also clashed with some of the gay parishioners but only because I made the "mistake" of telling a very established member that I thought it was inappropriate of him to crow so loudly about hot gorgeous guys during the coffee hour. Word got around and I was persona non grata. Likewise when the same parishioner was doing the prayers of the people and began to eloquently praise the Canadian military while leading prayer. I am a pacifist and I walked out of the service mentioning to the sidespersons that I didn't think that was appropriate. Word got around and even more were snubbing me.
The rector was good enough to take a pastoral interest in me. Once I persuaded him that it wouldn't be wise to play psychiatrist with me we got along very well. We met for dinner every six weeks or so in a Thai restaurant on Davie Street. He was supportive. He didn't always agree with me. When he heard some of the problems I had getting on with some of the star parishioners he at first tried to take their side. When I managed to persuade him that he was behaving just like a mother when told that her child is ugly he actually did come around more to the possibility that some of his darlings could also be absolute douchebags.
I slowly found my way around St. Paul's. I even made a couple of friends. But it was very slow-going and there were still those who clearly had it in for me or simply chose to ignore me. I suppose I could have simply ignored it, but the wounds from chronic rejection are still raw and when church attendance began to trigger me and affect my professional performance where I work I began to make myself scarce. I would still eventually return and try again, and keep trying and try some more, all the time ignoring Einstein's theory of insanity (doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result)
The rector resigned and there was a kind of grace period under a sympathetic priest in charge. Eventually a new rector was hired. Pastoral care was not one of her strengths and she was not interested in helping me deal with some of the new problems that were erupting between me and other parishioners. Popular people began to particularly avoid me. I was not part of their cool clique. With absolutely no help or support available to help me resolve any of these conflicts I finally accepted defeat and in 2014 I moved on.
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