Praying for Ferguson

Last night, I went to a vigil for Ferguson. I went as a faith leader rather than a person of faith, stole in hand, ready to wear. I prepared my 2 minute statement in advance, even though I felt very weird talking about racism given my very white skin. Yes, I preached about the events in Ferguson in church, including why it's so important we say, "Black lives matter." For some reason, though, this felt stranger.

I ended up not sharing my carefully prepared words. Others had things to say that I wanted and needed to hear. I don't regret remaining silent. But I still need to confess what I chose not to publicly confess last night. So here's the statement I didn't share last night:

I am 30 years old. You need to know that for what I’m about to say to really sink in. I was born in 1984; I have always lived in a world with CD players, air bags in cars, and a channel devoted only to weather.

I am 30 years old, but when I misbehaved as a child, my grandfather said to me, “If you don’t act better, I’m gonna go get me a little nigger girl instead.” I was an adult and he was dead by the time the meaning of those words sank in. My grandfather was born in 1917; he never lived in a country with legal slavery. But more than a hundred years after slavery was supposedly gone, buying a person with dark skin was a joking matter. He never thought twice about using the racial slur.

And I don’t know where to go after that. Because I know there’s a part of my words that are purely a confession—I was taught hate by one of the people I love most. I was taught to be racist as a byproduct of the culture I grew up in, even as Black History month and Martin Luther King Day were part of my education.  

All I have is confession: I confess that racism is beyond me, beyond Michael Brown, beyond Eric Garner, and beyond Shawn Brown—the little boy I used to babysit, the first young man I saw lectured about the penalties he would face if he screwed up while being black. In my tradition, it is Advent, a season of repentance as we await the Christ child. We read the words of the prophet Isaiah during this time, so I offer his words about when God’s reign finally comes, “They shall beat their swords into ploughshares and their spears into pruning hooks…neither shall they learn war any more.” I confess, I pray to God may it one day be so.

A Specific Sort of Christian: A Response to That Pastor

A pastor in my neck of the woods has made headlines this week for a sermon in which he said that the solution to AIDS was to kill all gay people. The epidemic would be solved by Christmas that way. I won't link to the news stories or to his church's website. The media attention has already amplified his feeble voice too much. Google if you must. Chances are, you've heard this sort of thing before. You might even have run away from church because of it.

My first instinct is to play the whole "Not that kind of Christian game." And I'm not that kind of Christian. But as much as I prefer saying what I'm not to what I am, especially when it comes to churchy things, here's a quick shot at saying what kind of Christian I am--or at least hope to be--, and what sort of Christian I believe we are called to be.

We should be engaged in the world. Intellectual curiosity, study of all sorts, people of all sorts, places of all sorts should be part of our lives. Ignorance is a far greater sin in many churches than we often admit.  Ask questions. Keep asking until you get an answer. Seek out balanced sources; this applies to news and theology. Insulation and isolation are both dangerous and manipulative. Need some Jesus proof? Why do you think he talked with the (Samaritan) woman at the well? Or went to Zacchaeus' house for dinner? Or told the parable of the good Samaritan? Why do you think the apostles traveled to all the different places preaching the Gospel? Why do you think the Ethiopian man with whom Phillip spoke was such a big deal? Christians are called to be engaged in our world. Coincidentally, that also means don't get to be afraid.

Our mission should be productive and turn us outward. In other words, what we do as church should make us worry less about ourselves and our own lives. We should be able to name something or show something we've done that makes a difference in the world right now. Jesus fed hungry people and healed sick people. When he forgave the sins of the paralyzed man, other people became angry because they questioned his authority. So Jesus forgave the man's sins and healed him. Yes, there are many intangible things that come with church, but you better believe we are called to do the tangible ones as well.

God's voice matters more than ours. This one gets a little tricky. Churches and pastors are absolutely called to speak on God's behalf. But God moves and acts beyond us, not limited to us. I firmly believe that we study the Bible and share in church to learn the characteristics of God so that when God speaks to us, we will know it's God and listen. If we can't confess God's authority beyond our own, then we're doing something wrong. God speaks and moves in ways that are unsettling and maddening and life-giving. At least once in your life of faith, you should have a moment when you realize you've been getting something all wrong and realize following God means doing it differently. That's the story of pretty much anyone in the Bible who decided to follow Jesus. The biggest mistake we've made is thinking that's a one time thing. It happens over and over again, usually inconveniencing us in major ways. God's funny like that.

That's who and what I believe we are called to be as Christians. It's not everything, but it's a good start. For me, it's a litmus test. And finally, just for the record, the Church should be involved in the fight against AIDS--through things like providing healthcare, supporting research, helping educate people about transmission, distributing condoms, and refusing to be afraid of people with HIV and AIDS. That's a start at least.

Learning Abundance

Is chaos the right word for the last few weeks in my own corner of the world? Maybe.

On the first Sunday of this month, I shared the results of our fall stewardship campaign with the congregation. We lit 105 candles, one for each thousand dollars pledged. Seventeen of those candles were gold instead of white, representing $17,000 in new or increased pledges. For some churches, those numbers would mean hand-wringing and moaning about budget cuts. For my church, these numbers represent a newfound abundance of life and Spirit among us. There were gasps and applause at a number so high.

We'd been challenged to raise $5,000 in new funds, with the promise of a matching gift of $5,000 if we did so. No one thought we'd get to $17,000.

That day, I also shared news of a generous gift from a person in the community who simply believes in our ministry.

Between that gift and the match gift, it was one of the largest offerings ever given at my church.

Some time later, despite everything being done as it should have been, that offering was stolen.

As a result, there have been many emails and phone calls with all sorts of people: parishioners, police, insurance agents, insurance adjusters. I have a whole list of things I learned from this process that I would have been quite happy to never have known.

The people whose checks were part of that offering all diligently canceled their checks. They were gracious about it. They were even more gracious when they re-wrote those checks.

Maybe I shouldn't be so surprised about that last part. Maybe I shouldn't be quite so surprised that, across the board, a new check was issued to the church, replacing what had been lost. But I was incredibly, wonderfully surprised by both the reactions and the giving of the gifts, again.

I was surprised because, sometimes, more often than I'd like, stories of fear and scarcity win. It's taken me a while to write this partly because I've spent the last days trying to wrap my head around what happened. And what happened is that my church believed the Gospel.

They believed they have more than enough and can give some away.
They believed what they have isn't really theirs to begin with.
They believed that fear doesn't win.
They believed that one thing going wrong doesn't throw everything off course.

It's the story of Jesus feeding the 5,000 (or the 4,000). It's the story of a widow bringing an offering that she couldn't afford. It's every single time--and there are many--when angels and Jesus said, "Do not be afraid." It's the woman caught in adultery to whom Jesus simply said, "Go, and sin no more."

I shouldn't actually be surprised that we've learned abundance instead of scarcity and fear, but I was. As it turns out, we've been transformed by the Gospel after all. For that, thanks be to God.

When It's Always Safe

A few years ago now, I was out with friends on a Friday night. One of them, I had known for several years and love dearly. The other was her girlfriend. They also happen to be an interracial couple. By that point in my life, I didn't even think twice about their relationship. It worked for them so it worked for me; I was glad to have a friend from a previous life there in that unfamiliar midwestern city. As we walked along the city streets that night, a man veered off course and leaned far out of his car to yell at us. He drove away quickly. I hadn't been able to understand what he said. In all my naiveté, I looked at them said, "What was that all about?"

They knew. It was about them. That wasn't the first time they had been yelled at in that way. Interracial and same-sex couple were both problematic in different places.

A few years later, I've finally found a man with whom I've been on more than three dates. It's still new. It's still weird at times. We're still figuring out each other. (Seriously, he doesn't like watermelon or  cheesecake. Who doesn't like watermelon or cheesecake? These things are the nectar of the gods!) But it's always safe. I've been weirdly conscious of that lately for all sorts of reasons, at least in part because of stories like that night years ago. Actually, people are nice to us for no reason than the fact we're on a date.

We get smiles and jokes from waiters when we have a three hour dinner on a slow evening. Those same waiters assume we're on one check. No one looks at us strangely when we're walking down a street together. In fact, cultural norms say that I'm safer when walking down a dark street with him than I would be by myself or with another woman. PDA is totally acceptable, even though we're not PDA people so that's mostly irrelevant. Everywhere, anywhere we go, it's safe for us to be together.

We're safe because we're heterosexual, cisgendered people. We're safe because we're both Anglo at a "Please give me some sunscreen" level. We're safe because we embody what is "normal." We're what this society has always privileged. There's something decidedly eerie about that fact. Maybe unsettling is a more accurate word.

Now, a few days after same-sex marriage has been legal in the state where I live and work, that privilege is even more unsettling. Ministers willing to perform same-sex weddings the day the ruling came were asked to be in pairs for safety. I was not among those performing weddings because of a funeral, but I have heard of the tears, and the joy, and the incredulity. I started this particular post weeks ago, unsure of how to end it.

Now I know: we're closer to the reign of God than we were a few days ago. Of that I am certain. Still, I long for the day when safety isn't a privilege for people who just happen to be walking down a street.

A Drive Along the Border

I've lived in Arizona well over a year, but it took a trip to San Diego to actually see the United States-Mexico border. When I looked at the route my phone told me to take, I knew I'd drive along the border for a few miles. I was excited to at least look into Mexico, especially since I've been cautioned not to drive into Mexico and my expired passport means I won't even be walking into Mexico.

And I did, indeed, get to at least look into Mexico. The memories of those few miles of road make me wince. You see, when I started looking for the border fence I've heard so much about, I wasn't quite sure what I was looking for. So there was this not too intimidating fence that I drove by and wondered, "Is that it?" I should have known that if you have to ask, no that's not it. For when I saw the looming border fence, there was no doubt that was it. It rose dark on the horizon. In a different landscape, it would look quite large. Open desert tends to dwarf things and throw off perception, especially for people like me who have mostly lived in other places. Still, the border fence rose out of the ground, twisting and turning, snaking its way across the desert.

Rationally, I knew that the landscape on either side of the fence would look mostly the same. Still, I found myself a bit surprised that the dunes to the left and to the right of the road looked the same, as did the distant mountains on either side. In between, there was only this winding, snaking fence--more shadow than anything as the road moved me farther from it. Without it, there's no way I could have drawn a line in the sand between the U.S. and Mexico.

On the way to San Diego, it seemed I followed the fence for miles and miles. On the way back, it seemed so short a distance. I can't say which perception is truer. By the time I was driving near the border fence headed back to Phoenix, I'd come to recognize the white and green vehicles of border patrol. Some were sedans, some vans, some SUVs, some trucks, but all with the same distinct markings. I didn't worry about my speed so much around those vehicles, which were far more numerous than any regular law enforcement vehicle.

I learned to recognize those vehicles when I went through a border patrol checkpoint. It was clearly designed to be mobile, or at least moveable, which I imagine happens with some regularity. All the traffic on that stretch of I-8 was funneled into a single point by concrete barriers normally used for construction. A construction site style trailer sat to one side. Border patrol vehicles were everywhere. I sat there, behind maybe half a dozen vehicles in line. Six cameras were pointed at me before I reached the officers. One of the officers had a dog. Another officer held a flashlight. I think there were more officers standing there, but those are the two I remember. I rolled down my window because that seemed the most logical thing to do. The officer barely glanced at me before he said, "Thank you, ma'am." As I drove away, I wondered if it was the color of my skin that meant I was waved away so freely. My old pickup truck has caused suspicion at other times since moving to Arizona, but that suspicion always wanes quickly. I'd bet a great deal of money that happens because my skin is light.

And still I wince at the entire experience. My stomach feels a little strange when I think about the fence and the checkpoint. I can't put my finger on why those things happen. I know I'm bothered by such visible symbols of a fear of people other than us. I know I'm bothered by the Christian failure to welcome the immigrant. I know the feeling of military presence--even if that's not what it should be or is called--is unnerving to me. For once, my mostly dormant patriotism rises from its sleep, certain that we've somehow traded freedom for an illusion of security. I know that I'd rather any government spend money on schools than guns.

The best summary of what I know: we're getting it wrong. Our resources--money, time, energy--are being spent in ways that don't fix our problems. We're getting it wrong. There has to be a better way to live together than what we're doing now.

Church Gifts

On my vacation a few days ago (really, only a few days?), I had the chance to worship at the church where I was ordained. Because of my weird, weird churchy past, it's the last place I can actually show up at and be more at home than at not. Ordination boundaries mean I check with the current pastor before showing up for worship, of course. Still, it's home in some way, which the churches of my childhood aren't.

But that's not really the point. I had lots of angst in the weeks before, wondering if it was really ok to show up. No one wants to read all the angst-y arguments that went through my head. Finally, I decided that yes, it is truly ok to return to the church where I was ordained because if for no other reason than the fact that I was ordained there, I am forever a part of them and them of me. So I went, with the kernel of one of the angst-y head argument resolutions that I was good for them.

And I was. Songs and laughter and Bible stories and tears and Spirit-breated unbelievable times together good for them. Really, it was spectacular. Yes, there were rough times and God knows I juggled church and seminary with varying levels of competency. But at the end of the day, I was good for them. That's absolutely true. I'm pretty sure they'd mostly agree with me, too. I was good for them.

The thing is, though, they were good for me. Maybe it's because I have a vocation tied to the church that I first consider how I contributed to that place. Maybe. In general, I think people who look for church are looking for a way to contribute to church. We want a place that realizes our presence matters so it's easy to forget that often, so often, church is good for us. Church has something to offer us. Church has something to invite us into. But that church was so good for me.

When I think of this church, I think of what they put up with from me. Yeah, I was pretty good at my job, but not all the time. There were certainly some cringeworthy children's sermons and a couple horrid times leading worship. Some of their children will probably mention at least one or two Ms. Abby inflicted things in therapy one day if they haven't already. (Yeah, I accidentally spit on a germaphobic kid. Long story, but oops.)  Sometimes things fell apart when I decided to wing something I should have winged. Yeah, they put up with a lot from.

And when I think of this church, I remember that they trusted me. Really, really trusted me. Even the most protective parents, in the long run, trusted me to take their kids places overnight and listen to their kids when their kids weren't talking to them. They trusted me to have difficult conversations with their kids. They trusted me with keys and money and codes and all sorts of things. Even then, that seemed crazy. It was a holy trust, though, and one I'm pretty sure I lived into well.

When I think of this church, I know that they loved me. Maybe past tense is even wrong. They loved me in my overly nerdy, quirky self. Yes, I mostly taught kids, and the parents and kids learned together that I'm a Bible nerd and they (mostly) learned to love it, too. Someone left the Easter chocolate I really like on my desk each year. They adjusted to the ebb and flow of seminary work. Really, why on earth did the Christmas play and finals week always coincide? When I run across things that were gifts at my ordination, the names etched in book covers and on cards evoke far more than someone spending some money on me. They loved me.

Yes, I was good for the church, but they were so very good for me. They gave me space for many things, which included naming my call to ministry for sure, but much more than that. So very much more than that.

And for churches, whose numbers in the pews and in the budget are dwindling, that's easy to forget. For churches who will never be the megachurch whose shadow they live in, it's hard to believe. But it's true. Churches, never forget that. You are good for those people who walk in your doors. You are good for the people who choose to remain with you, even if you can't figure out why on earth they're staying. Church, you have something to offer. I promise. In fact, Church, you'll probably never know how very good you are for so many people. Trust that. Remember that. Take pride in that. Because yes, church, you are good for your people, even if you don't always know it.

Today, I am so thankful for how very, very good that church in the suburbs of Atlanta was for me.

"Thy Kingdom Come:" September 11

I, like most of my friends, know where I was thirteen years ago today. On this day, we remember those who died. We remember our fear. We pray something like that never happens again. In all those things, though, there is a deeper ache within me, a feeling that something is terribly wrong with how things look thirteen years later.

You see, in the fall of 2001, I was starting my senior year of high school. That day was the birthday of one of my classmates with whom I sat watching the news unfold. I think we were in a Sociology class together that day. The guy from Jostens came to yearbook class that day, so no watching the news during that class. I missed the breaking news because I was in choir and the teacher had her television unplugged. Most of all, I remember that interminable hope of 17 and 18 year olds. We weren't sure we would conquer the world. Most of us didn't even want to save it. We were, though, about to graduate high school and start something...new. We were filled with anticipation even if we couldn't have said that at the time. Something Else was coming.

Those next years brought a great deal of change for most of us. In those thirteen years, I graduated from high school, college, and a master's degree. I was ordained. I lived five different states. I had seven different part time jobs and two different full-time jobs. Maybe more jobs than that, depending on how you like to count. I could count that passage of time in a few different ways if I so chose.

Some members of my class ended up enlisting in the military because of September 11. Honestly, I lost touch and don't know what happened to them. I imagine some are counted among the wounded and the casualties.

That day, though, I remember waiting to hear the U.S. President speak, waiting to hear what would happen as a result of the attacks. At barely seventeen, I didn't have a strong opinion, which is and was a rare thing, even at seventeen. Now, I know I wish I had heard something different, something that, somehow, echoed the notion, "Peace."

I'm now strangely conscious of the fact that the bombings and bloodshed and occupation of countries as a result of the 9/11 attacks have shaped my entire adult world. I have few words about what to do with this reality. I have few ideas about what could actually, truly make things better. So I let the words of Jesus echo around me, "Thy kingdom come." Bold, terrifying, assuring prayer that those words are, that somehow God's reign could rush in and take hold, I hope, "Thy kingdom come."

I hope it, because thirteen years ago, I never would have imagined the fear of that day would still feature so prominently in our lives. "Thy kingdom come."

He shall judge between the nations,
     and shall arbitrate for many peoples;
they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
     and their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
     neither shall they learn war any more.  
                                                           (Isaiah 2:4)