Dear Friends,
I have come to understand over the past years that, like many of us, I am a deeply broken person. My experienced trauma and 50 years of masking my neurodiversity have led to PTSD, which affects my physical health and my day-to-day interactions with the people of God and creation. My brokenness shapes how I see God, the world, and myself.
I am neurodiverse, which brings both gifts and challenges to my life and ministry. It colours how I process the world—sometimes in ways that feel isolating, sometimes in ways that feel like grace.
But here, with you, I have found something I’ve never fully experienced in ministry before: the freedom to be my whole, authentic self. For the first time as a priest, I feel genuinely called and trusted to be the real me—with all my strengths, struggles, and scars. And that, dear friends, is one of the greatest gifts I have ever received.
Learning to Trust in My Imperfections
I am learning to trust others to do the things I cannot. For a long time, I used control as a crutch—a way to manage my anxiety and hide my brokenness. But slowly, I am discovering that my wounds, my limits, and my differences are not obstacles to ministry. They ARE my ministry. They are not separate from my vocation but central to it.
These, I now believe, are God's gifts to me. I am learning to lean into my brokenness and to trust that Christ was at the height of his glory when he hung, broken, on the cross. Resurrection only comes through journeying through brokenness and death. As Jesus said:
“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain. But if it dies, it bears much fruit.” John 12:24 CEB
I am learning that new life comes through the cracks, not in spite of them. And this parish—you—are part of that new life.
Paul’s Redemption on the Road to Damascus
The story of Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus (Acts 9:1–19) has always been a powerful reminder to me that God’s grace often breaks through in the places we least expect—especially through our failures, wounds, and blindness.
Paul, who was once Saul, believed he was serving God through violence and control, persecuting the very people who followed Christ. But on that road to Damascus, he was struck down—not as punishment, but as an invitation. In his blindness, he discovered his true sight. In his fall, he found his true call. And through his brokenness, he became one of the greatest apostles of all time.
I see myself in Paul—not because of his greatness, but because of his brokenness. I know what it is to be brought to my knees, to feel blinded by trauma and fear, to wrestle with a sense of failure and to feel like an imposter. But I also know what it is to be lifted up by grace and sent back into the world, scars and all, to love and to serve.
Paul never became “perfect” after Damascus. He remained flawed and human, wrestling with what he called his “thorn in the flesh” (2 Corinthians 12:7). Yet he came to see that very weakness as the place where God’s power was revealed:
“My grace is enough for you, because power is made perfect in weakness.” 2 Corinthians 12:9
That is my hope, too—that my wounds, my neurodiversity, and my limitations are not places where ministry fails but places where God’s grace shines through. Paul’s life reminds me that our greatest ministry often flows from the places where we ourselves have been healed.
Henri Nouwen and the Wounded Healer
Dutch Christian mystic and founder of the L'Arche Communities (look them up), Henri Nouwen, taught that ministry is not about being strong or having all the answers. It is about showing up with our wounds, because it is through those wounds that healing can flow. He wrote:
“A minister’s service will not be perceived as authentic unless it comes from a heart wounded by the suffering about which he speaks.” The Wounded Healer
Nouwen knew what it meant to live with loneliness, depression, and self-doubt. Yet he also knew that his vulnerability was the source of his greatest ministry. He ministered not from a place of perfection but from a place of presence.
I know now that if I waited until I was “whole” to minister, I would never begin. Instead, I bring my wounds with me, trusting that they are part of how God will use me to bring healing to others. Here, in this community, I am learning that it is safe to minister from my true self.
Saying “Yes” to the Call – Dag Hammarskjöld
Dag Hammarskjöld, the Swedish diplomat and Christian mystic, understood what it meant to serve in a world full of struggle. In his journal _Markings_, he wrote a simple but powerful prayer:
“For all that has been—Thanks. For all that will be—Yes.”
This is how I feel about my call to serve here at St Aidan’s. I say “thanks” for the road that brought me here, even with its losses, pains, and detours. And I say “yes” to this season of ministry—not because I have it all together, but because I believe God’s grace is enough.
Hammarskjöld reminds me that vocation is not about achieving or controlling but about responding. It is about showing up with a willing heart and trusting that God will do the rest. I say “yes” to YOU—to this community—because I believe that together, we will encounter God in the real, raw, and beautiful work of being church.
Falling Upward – Richard Rohr
In his book _Falling Upward_, Richard Rohr describes how the second half of life is often about letting go of the ego and embracing a deeper, freer life. He says:
“In the spiritual life, your losses are your teachers. They help you to let go of what you don’t need and find what you really do.”
This resonates deeply with me. I have experienced loss—loss of certainty, loss of control, loss of the person I thought I had to be. But in those losses, I am finding something far greater: the freedom to be real. And in being real, I have discovered that God’s grace runs deeper than I ever imagined.
My neurodiversity, which sometimes brings challenge, also brings creativity, empathy, and a unique way of seeing the world. My trauma, which has caused pain, also gives me a profound sense of solidarity with those who suffer. What I once thought disqualified me from truly practicing my ministry, I now see as the _shape_ of my ministry.
Thomas Merton and the Gift of Limits
Thomas Merton, the great contemplative and mystic, wrote:
“We are not meant to resolve all contradictions but to live with them and rise above them.”
Merton reminds me that being human means living with tension and imperfection. My limits—whether from trauma, neurodiversity, or simply being one person—are not failures. They are invitations to trust God and to trust you, my beloved community.
For the first time, I feel free to say: I cannot do this alone. And I don’t have to. Ministry is not about me being everything; it is about US being something together. It is about trusting that God is working through all of us, with all our gifts and all our wounds. I may not always get this right, and I may sometime revert back to hiding behind control, but I am glad to be on this journey wit you.
A Ministry of Mutuality
Henri Nouwen often spoke of ministry as a relationship of mutuality—where both pastor and people are co-healers, both giving and receiving grace. That is what I have found here with you. I do not minister to you; I minister with you. And you minister to me—in your courage, your compassion, your brutal honesty your laughter, your prayers, and your willingness to journey with me in vulnerability and hope.
You have given me the freedom to bring my whole self to this ministry—neurodiverse, wounded, and imperfect. And in doing so, you have reminded me that God does not call the flawless; God calls the faithful.
A Community of Broken and Blessed People
This is what I dream for us—a church where we do not have to pretend. A church where our cracks are not hidden but honoured. A church where the beauty is in the kintsugi—the art of repairing broken pottery with gold, where the cracks become part of the beauty.
In a world that demands perfection, let us be a community of presence. In a world that values strength, let us honour vulnerability. And in a world obsessed with winning, let us be a people who know that resurrection only comes through the cross.
For All That Has Been—Thanks. For All That Will Be—Yes.
So, my beloved parish, this is my love letter to you.
Thank you for receiving me as I am. For trusting me with your stories and allowing me to share mine. For creating a space where my wounds can be part of my ministry, and my ministry can be part of my healing.
Yes to the road ahead. Yes to the laughter and the tears, the sacred and the ordinary. Yes to being church together in a way that is real, raw, and full of grace.
This is my prayer: that we will be a community where brokenness is not a liability but a pathway to God. And that, together, we will discover what Henri Nouwen knew so well:
“Our greatest fulfillment lies in giving ourselves to others. But we can only give of ourselves if we have come to know ourselves in our brokenness.”
With love and trust
Rev Glen
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