An open letter about leaving my denomination home

*This letter was sent to family, friends, and close peers in October 2024. I have intentionally waited several months to post it publicly.

Greetings,

This is a letter to my family and friends. But it’s also an open letter. I’m okay if it gets passed far and wide.

I’ve almost started this letter dozens of times over the past few years. But I’m glad I waited until now. I’d like to think I have a better perspective of the long journey — hindsight and all that jazz. Maybe I’ve even got some levity now? But the truth is that the emotional charge of the whole thing has calmed. If I’d written this letter at any point before now it would have been unhelpful. And while doing so may have been therapeutic for me, I’m not sure it would have done any good.

You may have heard, I have left the Christian & Missionary Alliance. The church I pastor has also left. The congregation of Ancaster Village Church and Aaron Gerrard are two different things, but our story is deeply connected. I don’t want to tell the AVC story without the voices of AVCers, but in telling my own story there are no doubt overlaps, connections, and commonalities. Still, this is my story. If you have questions for the church, specifically, you’re certainly welcome to contact the Leadership Team or anyone else at AVC who walked this road.

The Leadership Team at AVC had for a few years been talking internally about issues related to LGBTQ+ inclusion and hospitality in our church. In January 2021, a decision was made to invite our church into a process of discernment, asking the question: “What will be our church’s response to LGBTQ+ inclusion?” I had always known that someday, as a church, we’d have to talk about this. It was becoming a “live” issue for us, and frankly our surrounding community and culture was implicitly demanding we be honest and transparent about what we believed and what we practiced. I knew the C&MA had policies and positions, but I also knew that those policies and positions were being debated internally. My hope was that my denomination would also engage in an open and honest conversation. And that maybe our little church might even help with that process. With all that in mind, and certainly with my own personal wrestling happening, I was nervous and excited to move into learning and discernment.

Our church does decision making using a Spirit-guided consensus model. Which means that our processes take a long time. For over a year we discussed, read, listened, prayed, wrestled, and worked towards consensus. This was a hugely rich time for me and our church. When you invite Jesus into any process of discernment, beautiful and challenging things happen. Sure, the process was about forming a consensus around the issue at hand, but it also created space for God to do all sorts of transformational work in people’s lives. 

The end result was that we crafted our Safe Place Guiding Value. Really what we did was just tweak one of our already-existing nine Guiding Values. We added one line which you can see bolded below.

Value: Those who feel marginalized, pushed aside, or unheard should feel safe at AVC. In God’s love there is justice, compassion, equity, equality, intrinsic worth, and dignity for all.  AVC is a community where all followers of Jesus — young to old, single, married, divorced, widowed, of any ethnicity, of any ability, race, sexual orientation, and gender identity — who regularly participate in the life and Guiding Values of AVC are welcomed to consider all areas of leadership and service. The ground before the Communion Table is level for all, and all are welcome there.

Practice: We do our best to meet all people with love and inclusion, wanting to hear their story, share in their journey, and learn from them. People are given space to share and join in service together as they are comfortable.

Our church, made up of people with varying convictions or uncertainties regarding the question of LGBTQ+, adopted this value with full consensus. 

When this process began in January of 2021, I had received permission from the District Superintendent at the time to proceed with our discernment. He was reluctant, but he gave his blessing. We both agreed that if AVC landed on a position that was contrary to that of the C&MA, we would have to figure out a way forward which we both knew could possibly include parting ways. We all went into this knowing separation was a possibility. And I never took that lightly, nor did many at AVC for which the C&MA was a matter of importance, related to their livelihood, or to which they had deep personal connections. For me, the C&MA has always been home. I’ve served in all sorts of denominational capacities, defended it, and believed it was the best place for me. And to you, my family and friends, I especially don’t need to explain my family connections, all of which create an emotional connection to the C&MA that is difficult to put into words. For all these reasons, even though I knew separation was a possibility (and in some people’s minds an inevitability), I truly believed we could make it work together. I never wanted to leave. I believed that what our church had accomplished through our process of discernment could provide a way forward for the broader denomination. I believed the C&MA was actually well positioned to enter into this difficult conversation. 

I was wrong.

When our Leadership Team notified the District, now under a different District Superintendent, of our newly adopted Safe Place Guiding Value, a long and difficult process began (which by the end would include its third District Superintendent). It would take pages upon pages to detail the months, complexities, decisions, and communications that transpired between me and the denomination. It was painful, hurtful, angering, sad, and in many ways stunning. For two years my family and I walked an extreme and difficult emotional road, one that included the denomination I have loved and served charging me with insubordination and putting me through an official process of discipline. And while the end of the back and forth ended in a positive negotiated separation agreement for which I am grateful, I remain disappointed and hurt by what I and our church were forced to endure. It should have been different.

My dad has modelled good, pastoral, and thoughtful process his entire ministry life. He has lived by a mantra of “good process is how you demonstrate to people they are loved and respected.” The last two years have brought that home to me in all sorts of new ways. I have learned a lot and I pray I am better equipped to offer others the sort of good, pastoral, and thoughtful processes that I was not provided with.

In May 2024, at my request, the long and painful disciplinary charges and process brought against me by the denomination were put on hold to allow for a moderated negotiation. AVC negotiated with the district and I negotiated with the district, and the end result was an agreement that would see me and AVC leave the C&MA. The disciplinary process was no longer needed and subsequently dismissed.

The agreed statement reads:

Given AVC’s Safe Space Guiding Value and the current positions held by the Alliance Canada, in particular the Statement on Human Sexuality: A policy of the Christian & Missionary Alliance and the Practical Application of the Statement on Human Sexuality for Ministry and Leadership: A policy of the Christian & Missionary Alliance in Canada, AVC is no longer in alignment with the Alliance Canada. The Alliance Canada asked that AVC amend its Safe Space value to be compliant with the current positions. Despite AVC’s desire to remain in the denomination, rather than amend its value AVC will amicably withdraw from the Alliance Canada.

The nuts and bolts of separation were all graciously figured out. The district even agreed to give us a financial gift as a blessing. I wish what happened at the negotiation in May could have happened two years earlier without all the stuff in between, but regardless, I am thankful and even surprised by what was, I believe, a miraculous and redemptive ending.

Throughout this process as you, my family and friends, have watched from a distance, I know you’ve had questions. What do I believe about LGBTQ+ inclusion and hospitality in the church… in Christianity? And to that question I can confidently say that I’d rather discuss it over coffee. Because the truth is, my views are complex and laced with all sorts of nuances, experiences, and epiphanies along the way. I’m also more convinced than ever that so many of our practices as it relates to caring for people must be centred in the theology and context of the local church. That’s not to say I’m a fan of cults or that I no longer want to be a part of a larger body like a denomination — I do! — but the moment our positions and practices are separated from living breathing people living real lives in real time with all of their real complexities, they land off the mark. And to that end, it may be complex, but it’s also become quite simple for me: if not here, then where? Where do people best find Jesus? The local church. Despite all its blemishes, mistakes, abuses, and ignorance, it is the flesh of Christ. My theology of the church, what it does week to week, the centrality of the table of bread and cup, the place of Scripture, and the presence of Holy Spirit with us, is such that all should find a place in it to belong, serve, and become as they learn to walk with Jesus.

I highly doubt ol’ AB Simpson (founder of the C&MA) would agree with our church’s Safe Space value. But the thing is, I’m a student and product of Simpson. No matter where I go, I’ll always be an Alliance-shaped guy. When I think of sitting at John’s Pizzeria several years ago, just off of Times Square in New York City, Simpson’s first Alliance gig at the former Gospel Tabernacle, I’m inspired to be a part of shaping a church for those people who aren’t normally accepted by the church. To Simpson it was the immigrants and dock workers. For us, it’s the LGBTQ+ community. If not here, then where? Simpson had to leave to follow what he felt he was being led to do. And I find myself doing the same. 

I’m not sure what the future will be for the Alliance in Canada. But I pray she doesn’t forget her roots, doesn’t let fear of difficult topics stop necessary discernment, discussions, and debate, and doesn’t forget to continue to take the whole gospel to the whole person. 

AVC will find a new denomination home in the days ahead. Discussions have already begun, and I’m sure that word will spread once we do land somewhere.

If you have any questions or just want to send a note, please send them. I’m happy to chat as time allows.

A special thank-you to all of you who have been praying for me, my family, and AVC during this time. I am so grateful for your care.

Grace & peace,

-Aaron

PS You can read all of AVC’s Guiding Values here and visit our website here.

A settler’s reflections on the (Ancaster) land.

A picture of the community’s anger after the Brandon House (1867)
in Ancaster was demolished.

Recently I watched the video of 26 year-old Indigenous man, Seth Cardinal Dodginghorse, eloquently interrupt the ribbon cutting ceremony of the new southwest perimeter highway in Calgary. The highway is built on Tsuut’ina First Nation land, part of Treaty 7 (1877). The saga of that highway’s development has been ongoing for years — almost 70. It is not an unfamiliar story in Canada. It goes like this: City needs land, land belongs to First Nations, a tumultuous and controversial process and deal is completed, city gets land. In this case it was to build a highway. In other cases companies need land for pipelines. And as we know well from our own backyard in Six Nations of the Grand River and the town of Caledonia, it is for housing developments.

Dodginghorse remarked, “Today is not a good day.” He spoke of how his ancestor’s home was now pavement. He remembered the trails, trees, and the paths he used to know by memory — all gone. Concluding his speech in a moving gesture of mourning, agony, and respect for the land on which he stood and remembered, he cut his long dark braids off, leaving them lying on the freshly paved road. “We lived here, we grew up here, we touched this land.”

As I listened to Dodginghorse remember the land on which his mother, grandmother, and great-grandmothers were raised and led their families, only to see it paved over in the name of “progress,” my mind went to Wendell Berry’s quintessential 1968 essay entitled, A Native Hill. Berry lives, writes, and farms in Kentucky, still opting to use horses in his fields instead of tractors. Much of his writing is deeply rooted in the land: soil, trees, rocks, and streams.

In the essay Berry reflects on the seemingly unexplainable connection humans have to their home, their land. “Why should I love one place so much more than any other? What could be the meaning or use of such love?” But he notes great tensions as he reflects on his ownership and love of his land. 

I am forever being crept up on and newly startled by the realization that my people established themselves here by killing or driving out the original possessors, by the awareness that people were once bought and sold here by my people, by the sense of the violence they have done to their own kind and to each other and to the earth, by the evidence of their persistent failure to serve either the place or their own community in it. I am forced, against all my hopes and inclinations, to regard the history of my people here as the progress of doom of what I value most in the world: the life and health of the earth, the peacefulness of human communities and households. And so here, in the place I love more than any other and where I have chosen among all other places to live my life, I am more painfully divided within myself than I could be in any other place.

As I read the essay I picture Berry standing at the edge of his field, gazing over what was once untouched and in an almost mystical way, pure. His reflections continue.

The difference between a path and a road is not only the obvious one. A path is little more than a habit that comes with knowledge of a place. It is a sort of ritual familiarity. As a form, it is a form of contact with a known landscape. It is not destructive. It is the perfect adaptation, through experience and familiarity, of movement to place; it obeys the natural contours; such obstacles as it meets it goes around. A road, on the other hand, even the most primitive road, embodies a resistance against the landscape. Its reason is not simply the necessity for movement, but haste. Its wish is to avoid contact with the landscape; it seeks so fas as possible to go over the country, rather than through it; its aspiration, as we see clearly in the example of our modern freeways, is to be a bridge; its tendency is to translate place into space in order to traverse it with the least effort. It is destructive, seeking to remove or destroy all obstacles in its way.

The tension of his love for the land and his recognition of what once was reads like a haunting love story, of sorts. “The thought of what was here once and is gone forever will not leave me as long as I live. It is as though I walk knee-deep in its absence.”

All of which takes me back to Dodginghorse’s words.

I remember the day I saw all the trees knocked down. These were the trees I played in, that my Tsuut’ina grandmothers played in. I knew all the trails and all the animal trails…Have you ever felt upset in your local community when one of the trees was knocked down near your house? Have you ever felt upset when one of the houses was knocked down? Now imagine your home and your history being knocked down in the name of progress…This is something that effects my family, and I need you to know that.

As I said earlier, this story of land negotiations, treaty rights, deals, and controversies is not new. It is a broken, shameful, complicated, and oft-repeated part of our colonial-settler history in this country. Again, it rages right now only a few miles from my home in Ancaster. But my intention in this writing is not to discuss who is right and who is wrong in these particular disputes, but rather as a way of reminding myself and hopefully challenging all of us to reflect and learn about these important issues. Whether settler or Indigenous, we are all treaty people.

Much space has been taken recently in the Ancaster News calling to attention the need to preserve and protect Ancaster’s history. I applaud this endeavour and those working tirelessly in support. The church which I lead contributed financially to the restoration of the Hermitage; I believe these things matter — that history and our stories matter. I, too, was upset when the Brandon House, built in 1867, was demolished. I am the chair of Ancaster Heritage Days, for crying out loud. I want to see Ancaster’s history preserved. But I cannot help but connect this issue to those similarly raised by our Indigenous neighbours. When history is erased, whether haphazardly or in the name of progress, we hurt. We get angry. We feel loss. It does not matter if you are a settler or Indigenous, we all carry with us a connection to the land, our history, and our stories. Yet for me and my fellow settlers, we too often forget that our history is not the first history here. And that our development, even back in 1867, was made on someone else’s land. Treaty 3 (1792) land, to be exact. The agreement in that treaty, which stands still today, was that the king’s subjects would have free unhindered travel and be able to make roads through this territory. And in knowing that I cannot help but hear the words of Berry and Dodginghourse. I do not think it is a stretch to say that we have built considerably more than just roads. And so it is that Indigenous peoples on these lands have lived through generations of watching trees cut down and land developed, and each time I know a little bit of their history is erased — the connection to the their land severed.

As we work to remember and safeguard the history of Ancaster, let us not forget that we should owe the same commitment to our Indigenous hosts. Let us commit to learning about our treaties, land claims, and the tensions which exist today. And let us build bridges with our Indigenous neighbours, working towards reconciliation and justice. Their story is deeply connected to ours. And we all share this land.

Rev. Aaron D. Gerrard

Settler & Pastor, Ancaster Village Church

Reflecting on our little church

This Christmas my wife, three kids, and I travelled to Southern Manitoba. In fact, all of my family travelled to my sister’s home in Morden. My parents, siblings, and all the kids. Sixteen of us in all. While the “City” of Morden may boast many things, tropical weather over Christmas is not one of them. There were a couple of days that registered at -40c with the windchill. Over the radio on New Year’s Eve came the words, “Happy New Year! Don’t leave your house if you don’t have to; you may freeze to death.” You might think the voice was joking. I did not.

The extreme temperatures had one benefit, however. They kept us all close together in the house. I love my family and we have a good time together. It’s a bit chaotic at times with kids running everywhere and me acting like I’m 13 again, but there are lots of laughs, games, and priceless times with great conversation around great food. We value these times together, especially because they don’t happen too often as we’re spread out around the country.

My family is not perfect. We bump heads now and again (Lord knows I’ve caused my fair share of tears). But they’re my favourite people. I’m proud of them. We can get deep and we can also get the giggles over the stupidest things. We support each other as best we can, and without a doubt we know we can lean on each other.

Yesterday, now back home and back in my office, I came across a quote from the late Eugene Peterson, a pastor hero of mine. I’ve seen it many times before and you may have seen it, too. Several years ago, at the age of 81, Peterson was asked what advice he would give to young Christians looking to grow in their faith. He responded:

“Go to the nearest smallest church and commit yourself to being there for six months. If it doesn’t work out, find somewhere else. But don’t look for programs, don’t look for entertainment, and don’t look for a great preacher. A Christian congregation is not a glamorous place, not a romantic place… the smallest church; the closest church; and commit to staying there 6 months.”

Peterson lived his advice. He was a part of a small community church, despite his worldwide fame. He would often speak of the beauty and opportunities found within such an “insignificant” and imperfect place.

Almost a decade ago my wife, kids, and I moved from the West Coast to Hamilton. We landed in a beautiful little area of the city called Locke Street which was within biking distance of McMaster Divinity College, the reason for our big move. Very intentionally we wanted to invest and participate in a church that was local, small, and different. Having grown up and worked in evangelical churches of decent size, my wife and I were looking for something a bit different. That’s when we stumbled into St John’s Anglican Church: “The Rock on Locke.” While our time living in the area and attending St John’s was only two semesters long (8 months), that experience forever shaped our understanding of church and my ministry.

At “The Rock” we found a small church of kids, adults, and seniors who immediately welcomed us. Inside that beautiful old building was a family of people who genuinely cared for each other and worshipped Jesus together. While they deeply cared about their neighbourhood and were always thinking about ways to demonstrate service and love to the community, people were not flooding through their doors asking to be baptized. The sound system made funny noises. Polished, entertainment, and performance were not words I would use to describe the gatherings. It was not a perfect church. It was not a “full-serve” kind of place. And while my family didn’t experience any drama during our short time there, I think it’s safe to assume that doesn’t mean it didn’t or hasn’t existed. But what it was, was beautiful. The priest, David, was a warm, intelligent, thoughtful, soft-spoken man who was influencing the church to become those same characteristics simply by being himself. He was a gift.

We went on Sundays. We went to the potlucks. We helped where we could. We had a great time at the winter retreat watching everyone perform in the talent show. My one year-old daughter was baby Jesus in the Epiphany pageant. It was family. And I am so grateful for how that church cared for my family, let us serve, and shaped us.

For whatever reason, seeing that Peterson quote took my mind to our experience at St John’s and my experience over Christmas. The unifying image being a small and intimate family. And that makes me smile. Here I am now, seven years into starting a new church and honoured to be its pastor. And as I think about Peterson’s quote, Christmas with fifteen other family members in the house, and my experience at St John’s all those years ago, I realize how blessed I am to be a part of a church that reminds me of all those things.

My church is not glamourous. We’re small. We’re chaotic. We’re not polished. We’re “insignificant” by a lot of metrics some might use. But I love us. I always look forward to us. In our diversity, relationships, conversations, eating together, laughing together, crying together, working through tensions together, we’re experiencing the church in all her beauty. I count everyday I get to serve this church as a gift.

So cheers to all the little churches out there. You are extremely significant.

And cheers to families that get the giggles together. And all the younger sisters that put up with older brothers.  😉