MY FRIEND is training to be a vicar in the Church of England, and she recalls being told by a senior male colleague at a training day that women are “in their prime” when they are in their late thirties. This meant that my friend, who is intelligent, hard-working, wise, and kind, and, like the majority of women in churches, over the age of 40, would be well past this sell by-date by the time she was ordained and running her own church.
That this was said at all raises a few issues, but that it was said by a man who himself was in his fifties is staggering. First, it was delivered with the confidence of its being axiomatic: in other words, he expected the listeners, a mixed cohort of trainee ministers, to agree with him.
Second, and perhaps more alarmingly, it hints at what the attitude is among some men in the Church: if this is what is said publicly, imagine what’s being said privately amid likeminded friends.
Last, writing this has reminded me that I need to pray for God to smite this man, forthwith.
This little anecdote is no surprise to mid-life women, who, as soon we hit 40, start to feel the contempt that the world has for us — a casual disdain that creeps over into attitudes within the Church. This might come as a disappointing surprise to younger women, who already experience misogyny and sexism, to hear that these do not disappear when you get older. You are not instantly regarded as a respected elder of the faith, with wisdom to impart and experiences to share.
No, ageism gets added to the mix as well, because, when you reach your forties, you become classified as not young any more, which usually means that, in ways you can’t quite put your finger on, your value has diminished.
The Church is obsessed with courting and sustaining the attention of youth, because the young are seen as the only viable way for the Church to grow and achieve new life; so, you’ll barely even register as being significant to the statistics if you’re over 40. I’ve lost count of the number of times someone in the Church has referred to the over-40s with a snidey pejorative edge added to it — a tone that immediately makes me reimagine myself as being as torpid and decrepit as Charlie Bucket’s grandmas. A bit mouldy and irrelevant. Nothing useful to contribute. Faintly embarrassing. Taking up space in the middle of everything with my giant iron bedstead.
The disconnect is confusing. Inside, I’m still young and vital, a main character who is integral to the storyline, but some sections of the Church make me feel as if I ought to be taking to my room and donning a frilly mob-cap, like Mrs Bennet, screaming shrilly about my nerves, while everyone downstairs rolls their eyes and argues about who has to bring me my tea.
THE most profound lesson of my mid-life journey so far has been acknowledging that sorrow shares a border with joy, and it’s this truth that characterises my faith. I think I always knew this, but it was one of the facets of my God-given nature that was suppressed under the pressure always to appear nice.
As a girl, I learned that not to smile when told to was not polite. My refusal to play this game has mostly been met with opposition. The world values women who grin and bear it far more than it does those who refuse to pretend. To quote one of our lesser-known saints, St Dolly of Parton: “Laughter through tears is my favourite emotion.”
This is the true story of the Church: joy blended with sorrow. One doesn’t work without the other. The Church so often dishonours this truth by refusing to acknowledge that sadness is part of the fabric of our faith. “Come in!”, Joy loudly proclaims. “Nothing but positivity to see here.” When, in reality, Sadness has been locked in a cupboard in the vestry and isn’t allowed to join in with the worship. (Anger is shut in there, too, and is absolutely steaming about it.)
It’s jarring if you’re experiencing the full force of menopausal upheaval, with all its attendant miseries, when it collides with the brick wall of toxic positivity. We can end up asking ourselves: is our pain even welcome? Is our discomfort allowed? Is menopause welcome in the Church at all? A Church that’s unable to stand up and honestly claim and name those things that have sinfully been labelled distasteful is not a place that feels nourishing for the faith of mid-life women.
Christians are often fearful of sharing a faith that isn’t shiny and attractive to look at, because we’re concerned people won’t come along with us if we’re honest about what’s hidden behind the curtain. We’ve forgotten that so many of the people whom we want to welcome into our churches don’t just need a place to experience joy: they need somewhere to share their sadness freely. We don’t always need to make a joyful noise; sometimes, the most honest thing the Church can do is howl with sorrow and welcome the mournful to howl along with us.
The liturgical year (another way of describing the church calendar) gives us plenty of space to acknowledge the sorrow along with the joy. The rhythm built into it of fast and feast, lament and celebration, waiting and doing, song and silence — all of it is designed to facilitate the coming together of the human story with the story of God. Too much of one element puts the whole thing out of balance.
It can’t always be summertime. We can’t always lie fallow. One must merge into the other. Rising and falling. Death and resurrection. The summer of youth, shifting slowly like a setting sun into the autumn of midlife. The hard graft to bring in the harvest, followed by the abundant sweetness of the fruit. Maybe by the time middle age comes around, you’re finally ripe, but, for the harvest gifts to be brought in, the sharp bite of the sickle needs to come in first.
YOUR menopause experience will probably contain sorrow, but I pray you will also experience joy. Sometimes, you may have to seek it out in unexpected places, but then, there it will be, like a speck of glitter briefly dazzling your eye. Tiny and fleeting, but all the more precious because of it. It probably won’t look how you expect it to look, this God-Joy, this life extraordinarily.
Like the cup of Christ and the man who held it to his lips, it will be humble and hardly worth the noticing to anyone who hasn’t the time to pause and look. Amanda Held Opelt wrote in Holy Unhappiness: “In a culture that says, ‘more is more’, the great protest of the Christian is to say, ‘enough is enough’.”
If sorrow and joy share a border, together they make a place called contentment, and I can’t say Amen enough to that. Let me tell you the best part of my day. My husband walks into our bedroom every morning and places a mug of coffee on my bedside table. The smell of the coffee heralds his arrival as it escapes the kitchen and permeates the house, whispering up the stairs.
He comes in with this fragrant offering, wearing his plush dressing gown, his silver-black hair mussed and his eyes bruised from sleep, and he gives me a smile that’s so sweet it pinches my heart. Every day this happens, without fail. Every day he gets up first. Every day the kettle goes on. I hear it whistling and then moments later smell the roasted beans soaking in the boiled water. Every day he loves me, without exception. It is the best part of my day.
This is what Jesus meant by life abundant, I’m sure. And if that wasn’t what he meant by abundant life, then I don’t want it, because that moment right there, that’s perfection. Enough is more than enough.
Lose your life and find it.
Lose your way but find other paths to follow.
Lose your mind but find yourself trusting in your senses.
Lose your youth but find wisdom.
Lose your concentration but find new ways of knowing.
Lose your fertility but find that creating new life is still possible in so many other ways.
Lose your beauty but find you have value more profound and wonderful than that which is skin-deep.
Lose your status in the eyes of the world but find a greater purpose through the lens of God.
Lose yourself utterly but find what once was gone. Renewed.
Remade. Reforged. Finally free. Thank you Jesus.
Jayne Manfredi is an Anglican deacon, writer and teacher, and a presenter of Thought for the Day on BBC Radio4. This is an edited extract from her book Waking the Women: Faith, menopause, and the meaning of midlife, published on 24 October by Canterbury Press at £12.99 (Church Times Bookshop £11.69); 978-1-78622-575-7.