The reverend who’s redefining what church leaders look like

A violent incident drew me to Christianity.

I grew up with cerebral palsy, which meant I didn’t really walk, unaided, until I was nine. And back then, I certainly didn’t have the equipment that’s available now.

My dad was quite abusive. He had a problem with alcohol and a problem with domestic violence. He passed away in 1999, but the mark he left was indelible.

I think, on some level, I really embarrassed him or he didn’t know how to deal with my situation. I aggravated him when I fell over. I aggravated him for simply existing.

The incident happened when I was about five or six years old. I remember being in pain and needing help, so I crawled into my parents’ bedroom.

My dad must have got mad that I dared to do that, and he just picked me up and threw me back into my room. Luckily, I landed on my bed.

Later on, the pain came back. I needed painkillers or a hot water bottle, but it felt risky to return to my parents’ bedroom, so I just laid on my bed.

A memory of my Catholic nana came to mind. She used to tell me, “I always pray that you will walk and that you will be happy”.

And so, in that moment, I prayed: “Jesus, take the pain away”.

I felt a warmth all over my body. The pain went away, and the room went really bright yellow. The next thing I remember was being woken up by my mum in the morning for school. 

That incident made me understand that there is a real God, and He listens.

When life gives you signs

Another violent incident compelled me — through a series of twists — to pursue religious ministry.

At the time, I was a manager at Anglicare, working as a social welfare worker. One day, coming home from work, I was driving down a steep hill.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a white car. They had a give way sign, so I didn’t think much of it.

Seconds later, their vehicle drove through the intersection.

I remember my car hitting them, and their car spinning around and slamming into a tree.

The young man in the car across from me had blood coming out of his eyes, ears and nose. He turned blue, and his head just slumped on the steering wheel.

I saw two men come from nowhere. They were wearing black suits, and I thought, “For goodness sakes, the Jehovah’s Witnesses don’t come to car accidents, do they?”

I remembered saying to the figures, “Go to that car!” Because I knew the people in the other vehicle were in trouble.

One of them knelt down, and said, “Joedy, you’re a Christian. How about you pray with me?” The second figure went to the other car.

To this day, I really do think they were angels.

The call that changed everything

I spent a year and a bit in and out of hospital.

Amazingly, the only thing I broke was my ankle, but it broke me as a person as well.

The physical injury put my whole gait out of whack.

Prior to the accident, despite my cerebral palsy, I used to be able to do all the things my friends could do — just a bit more crookedly.

But since that car accident, I now use sticks and a wheelchair. As I age, it’s getting worse.

That crash had a profound impact, not just physically.

About a year after returning to work, I felt a calling to study theology.

It hadn’t really occurred to me before, but all of a sudden, I had this 24/7 nagging sensation.

I said to God, “I’m single. I’ve just built a house to suit my needs. If you want me to study theology, you need to provide the resource.”

The next day, I got a phone call from a solicitor regarding my car accident. I was offered an out-of-court settlement.

It was smaller than most, because I had a pre-existing disability, but it was enough to pay off my house and to pay for my university fees.

‘She has nothing to offer us’

After receiving my Master of Divinity, I got a job in an Anglican church working with children and families. I’d help with communion preparation, youth group, children’s groups, all the things, really.

They needed me to be confirmed Anglican — before that I was Church of Christ — so I went through the process. It made me realise I wanted to be a minister.

That wasn’t an easy path, but in the end, I got ordained and received my first placement in Melbourne’s west.

Most of the congregants were absolutely amazing, but some of them didn’t like my clumsiness.  

I remember on my first day, I was called into the office. There was a phone call taking place on loudspeaker. I was the topic of conversation.

When I heard this, tears started running down my face. “That’s what they really think of you,” I realised. 

I made it my mission to get to know that retired priest.

He became quite sick, as he had cancer, so I visited him every week, and took him communion. He probably hadn’t seen many disabled people before meeting me, so we had something to teach each other.

When he was dying, I went to visit him in hospital, and he put his hand on my head, and said, “What God has chosen, let no one put asunder”. In his own words, he was saying, “You are called”.

Even though we’d started out on the wrong foot, I was so thankful to God for him and for his teaching.

Finding my way back into ministry

My relationship with the Anglican Church soured a few years after my ordination. Ultimately, I was told there wasn’t a place for me.

I left my posting and got a job as a case manager dealing with the fallout of the Black Saturday bushfires. I went on to work in family dispute resolution and later, disability advocacy. I thought religious ministry was behind me.

One day, I went to see my financial advisor, who happened to be a member of the Uniting Church.

He asked me why I’d stopped preaching, and told me about his community, and how they were between ministers.

I helped with the preaching there. It was a beautiful congregation in which to heal. But almost inevitably, I felt the call to ordained ministry, again. But I also felt scared.

I had to attend a candidate’s conference, sit before members of the church and explain why I’d make a good minister. I wasn’t sure if they’d accept me.

I was pretty mobile at the time, but throughout the day I became stressed and ended up needing my wheelchair. There were trust games where you had to jump in the middle of a circle. I just felt like an idiot all over again.

I brought my sister, Vickie, for moral support, and when it was time for my final interview, I wanted her in the room with me.

I remember saying that I had nothing to offer, but myself. I hoped they’d see that as enough.

Vickie started crying and next thing I knew, she was addressing the room.

“Hello everyone,” she said. “I’m a big, fat lesbian, and if this person can teach me all about Jesus, she can teach anyone all about Jesus and His love. She’s told me all about it, and I believe her, and other people believe her, too.”

People started crying, and then it finished up with some questions. But I rolled out thinking that I’d made a fool of myself.

Two weeks later, I found out I’d been accepted as a candidate for the Uniting Church.

The limits of inclusivity

But that’s not the end of the story.

I was ordained by the Uniting Church in 2018, then became a minister in regional Victoria.

My congregation owned a 1970s, four-bedroom house with narrow corridors. It wasn’t appropriate for the “chick with sticks” or the “rev in a wheelie” — especially the bathroom.

They found a private rental to suit my needs, but it still needed small alterations: a ramp and extra rails in the toilet. Somehow, those alterations took nearly 12 months to complete.

I lived there for nearly two years before the owner decided to sell. I wanted to stay in the area, but instead I was called, or transferred, to another congregation, about an hour away.

Let’s just say, I didn’t have a great experience. After a few weeks, I went on sick leave, and I’ve been a “minister awaiting placement” ever since. 

I feel like the Church could have done more to help me.

I manage to get by. I run a counselling business and do some pastoral care at a nursing home. 

I’m still a reverend and I continue to preach for a congregation when they need me. 

The Uniting Church has a real ethos of being inclusive. They’re accepting of gay priests and female ministers. There’s a leader who is trans, and there are many ministers who have all sorts of theological views.

In 2018, the Church affirmed its commitment to being “accessible to all people“, and to ensuring people with a disability are “treated justly”.

But I think I’m in the wrong minority group. They can be inclusive of anybody that they don’t have to spend money on.

I’ve fallen through the entrance of the church, knocked things over, dropped Eucharist wine all over a vicar’s clothes, and stuttered my way through too many sermons.

And yet, in that, there is authenticity.

It’s uncomfortable when somebody who is more awkward than you wants to lead and serve you. It’s confronting, and it doesn’t look polished.

But wasn’t that exactly how Jesus intended? He wasn’t of the nobility. He wasn’t credentialed.

He was probably dark-skinned and hung out with wharfies, fishermen and sex workers.

I often say to people, “If God can choose me, and if God can do great stuff in my life, he can do great stuff in your life”. 

When people think that the Church is superior — or irrelevant — to the rest of the world, they need to hear that.

This article was commissioned as part of the ABC’s coverage and recognition of International Day of People with Disability.

When contacted by the ABC, the Uniting Church Synod of Victoria and Tasmania Moderator Rev David Fotheringham said the Uniting Church takes the issue of disability inclusion very seriously, and recognises the difficulties and challenges relating to Rev Joedy Meers’s situation.

Rev Fotheringham said the Church has contributed in the provision of suitable housing for ministers with particular needs in the past, and will continue to do so when appropriate placements are made.

He said the Church recognises the importance of a ‘good match’ between congregations and ministers. However, ministers were not guaranteed placements within the Uniting Church, as the availability of placements and the geographic restrictions of ministers did not always lead to matches.