We Are All Living with AIDS

A great uncle of mine passed away a couple of weeks ago. He and his wife were always vaguely part of my life, in and out at various times. They sent cards at graduations but didn't show up at birthday parties. They were family, but more distant family. Because he was around all my life, I didn't think much about his disability. I don't know that I would have ever asked what was wrong with him. My mother just mentioned in passing one day, "Haven't you ever noticed he almost touches the ground every time he takes a step?"

I knew what she meant. He had a strange gait, dipping down significantly with each step. Yes, his hand could have easily brushed the ground had he tried. He'd had polio as a child; this was the lasting effect. I never got any more details.

That great uncle was born in 1920, though, so it shouldn't really be a surprise that he would have polio. It wasn't eradicated in the US until 1979 and is still a threat in other countries. Still, for all intents and purposes, in 1984 I was born into a world without polio. In another country, that wouldn't have been true. However, it was true for my world, my childhood, my schools. No one worried that a sneeze or unwashed hand would transmit a disease that could leave a limb nearly useless. Actually, the interwebs was required to even find out how polio is transmitted.

By contrast, I have always lived in a world with AIDS. Somehow, even in conservative rural Kentucky, AIDS was covered in my elementary school education. Everyone knew how it was transmitted. Of course, no one talked much about what the "sexually" part of sexually transmitted meant. Still, the mystery was limited to origin, not transmission. Blood and sex, that much we knew.

Treatments were more in development than wonderfully effective. It was always there, though, that knowledge of AIDS and HIV as the virus that causes AIDS. People talked about it directly in TV shows and roundabout ways in country songs. Strangely, given everything I know now, I never thought of AIDS as affecting a particular group of people. (That could say an entirely different thing about my education.) I only learned that AIDS had once been known as GRID (gay-related immune deficiency) from an episode of Grey's Anatomy.

Still, on World AIDS Day, I'm always reminded that this is the disease that has come with caution and worry in my lifetime. I am glad to know, firsthand, that diseases that once came with caution and worry no longer do--at least not for me, in my part of the world. Other scary things are gone from every place: smallpox, for example, eradicated in 1977.

I remember the stories of paralyzed men let down through roofs to Jesus. I remember lepers and blind men, outcasts of all sorts, crying out from the sides of roads. I remember a friend who died with AIDS. I remember others diagnosed with HIV and AIDS. But most of all, I remember hope: what was is no longer; what is does not have to be this way. Because that is the story of the leper, the blind man, the paralyzed man, and so many others.

Let us hope more fully.

No Secrets

"Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known. Therefore whatever you have said in the dark will be heard in the light, and what you have whispered behind closed doors will be proclaimed from the housetops." Jesus, Matthew 12:2-3

An article in my college's newspaper is causing quite a stir in my newsfeed. Many of my friends are pleasantly surprised that an article recognizing the fact that LGBTQ alumni exist was published in the school newspaper. For me, there is an underlying reality all of us at the college knew: we have gay and lesbian friends here, and we're not quite sure what to do with that reality.

For many reasons I won't go into now, we weren't certain where the line was between loving our neighbor and holding people accountable for their sin. The presence of sin, in my experience, wasn't called into question then. "Love the sinner, hate the sin," was fairly common, of course.

I wept as I read the article. The alumni interviewed arrived at Milligan after I had left. I didn't know them, though I knew other LGBTQ students who have gradually come out as the years go by. The tears weren't just for them, or their fear and love of that place intermingled. It was for so many who kept secrets because they feared what would happen if they didn't.

My freshman year, near the end of the year, a young woman showed up to a dorm event wearing maternity clothes. She was a senior, beautiful, blonde, and pregnant. No one had known. She talked later about how nervous she'd been. What might happen? She and the child's father married later, I think. I don't remember her name or much else about her. However, I do remember my classmate who disappeared for a semester. I'm ever more certain she had a baby and that was how it was handled--a 1950s style go-stay-with-your-aunt, never talk about it sort of way. Premarital sex, of course, was against the rules, both the school's and the faith in which it was founded.

A friend came to me one day. She was a year younger, worried about a mutual friend. That friend was angry and struggling, which included drinking too much. Drinking alcohol, except for communion, was against the rules for students whether they were on or off campus. The Dean of Students was rumored to have spies around the bars just in case you dared to drink. Asking for help for someone who needed it was complicated by the need to not get a struggling person in even more trouble. Looking back, I wonder about the difficulties I caused for the person I spoke with in an effort to get that young woman the help and support she needed.

For the record, I just kept my bottle of whiskey well hidden in clothes under my bed my senior year, after I realized I was done with all the rules I'd willingly agreed to at not quite 18 years old. In retrospect, I chose to be oblivious to a lot that happened on campus. Because I opted to follow the rules, I assumed most people did. I realize I was wrong. In some cases, following the rules had to be torture.

Now, I shudder at the thought of a faith that demands keeping secrets. I know the response I learned as a child and young adult, "Don't do anything you'd have to keep secret." It doesn't hold water.

Life happens. Decisions of all sorts are made. Things don't pan out like you thought they would. I could go through a long, long list of possible derailments that happen to people. Mostly, I shudder at the thought of a faith that demands keeping secrets.

Jesus spoke the words I quoted at the beginning in response to the Pharisees, in response to religious people who wanted to make sure they were appropriately pious at all times. These leaders, too, had a faith that demanded secrets, that some things not be talked about, that some things were simply not acceptable.

And Jesus condemned them for that sort of faith.

Let us have faith that will hold secrets we would have not dared to speak aloud. Let us have churches whose faithful know the worst and cry out, "Welcome." Let us trust in a God who knows all the things we cannot say, yet loves us with an everlasting, unshakeable love.

Prostitutes & Virgins

Rahab was a prostitute. She had sex with people in exchange for money, goods, or other services. The Bible isn't clear on what the preferred form of payment for prostitutes was. It is clear on the fact that Rahab was important. She helped spies escape from Jericho, and so was saved during the invasion of Jericho, along with her household. If stereotypes about brothels and houses of ill repute are true, then she might have managed to save a few more prostitutes in the process. You can read most of her story in Joshua, if you like. She is remembered as a helpful prostitute more than anything else.

Yet, in Matthew she's listed as an ancestor of Jesus, in Hebrews as one of the faithful role models, and  in James as one who was saved by her works. It would seem that prostitutes, in all their impurity, have a place in the reign of God, maybe even a place of honor.

I need that reminder this week. Some time last week, news of a young bride presenting her father with a certificate of her virginity started making the rounds. I've been in the world of purity pledges and True Love Waits. I've been in the world of "Jesus doesn't care what I do with my penis." I don't think either is a healthy approach to sexuality. However, the full discussion on a healthy approach to sexuality is for another day.

Instead, let me say this: there's a biblical precedent for abstinence until marriage. I'll easily concede that. But let's be clear that precedent is geared toward women. Without apology, these women were property. They didn't come with certificates of authenticity, but they might as well have. "Proof of virginity" comes up a few times. Her virginity, after all, made it easy to know her husband was the father of her children. Dad wouldn't have to worry about someone else inheriting his property. Property of all sorts seems to have been a big concern. Most of the rules about virgins and marriage are tied directly to that world. The awesome seminary phrase I like to pull out to discuss this is "patrilineal endogamy." The short version: men owned property and transferred that property to other men. End of story.

Our daughters, our sisters, our wives, our best friends Women deserve a better story. A story that isn't about their relationship to men. A story that doesn't reduce them to their sexuality. Yep, unabashedly this is a healthy dose of feminism through a Christian lens, in part because Christians suck at telling women they do matter. I'm pretty sure no institution has so firmly held on to traditional gender roles as the Church.

In another few weeks, churches will be telling stories of a virgin giving birth to the savior of the world. Some of them, like my church, will be nervous talking about a virgin birth because science. Others will be worried someone might actually use the word "pregnant" in worship. Most all of them will be a little nervous in talking about conception and childbirth and other things often relegated to private realms, or at least to the realm of women.

We will once again be reminded of the fact that our tradition says our savior was born of a virgin. We will once again see images of a young woman, pure and chaste. Let us not forget, though, that Matthew's gospel, the author who was most adamant that Mary was a virgin, is also the one who tells us of the prostitute in Jesus' lineage. Somehow, the person who worried far more about Joseph than Mary, telling us Joseph would just divorce her quietly, can hold the tension of a prostitute and a virgin    together. More than that, he proclaims it as Gospel.

Maybe, just maybe, we can also learn to tell the stories of prostitutes and virgins side-by-side. Maybe we can even remember the stories we've inherited name both as beloved children of God. Maybe we can live a faith that has room for both Rahab and Mary.

God is Not Done Yet

God is not done yet. That's my one line confession of faith. It's not the one I made at baptism or that admitted me into membership in any church, but it's what I come back to time after time. I'm just going to go ahead and say that up front.

And I need to say that up front because about every six months, I go to one meeting in particular that makes me give up on Church. That meeting, it's pretty much a guarantee. Actually, a lot of meetings with the larger denomination pretty well convince me that I should just give up. I'll pay some money to a career counseling firm, turn my résumé into something that makes sense in the business world, have plenty of money and weekends free. 

I don't think I'm alone in the reasons for why, exactly, I think I should give up on Church. There are remarkably few people like me at most of those meetings. I'm younger, which I can deal with mostly, except when I realize how radically different our worldviews are. What I care about is decidedly from those around me; it's partly generational, partly worldview, and partly just me. I don't see "it's church" as a reason to feign interest, or to accept mediocrity. Let's not even talk about gender and issues there.

Since that's a lot of me talk that maybe doesn't make a great deal of sense, here's a conversation from a recent version of that meeting that I often use to convey why, exactly, these sorts of meetings make me give up on Church:

Very nicely dressed, sweet elderly lady: "You're the new pastor at Chalice?"

Me: "Well, I've been there well over two years, so I'm not really new any more." 

Ignore the look from the sweet elderly lady.

Very nicely dressed, sweet elderly lady: "We haven't been there since the building was dedicated."

I nod nicely in response. 

Very nicely dressed, sweet elderly lady: "I wonder something. When we were there, they were talking about moving the chairs to face the opposite direction. Did they ever do that?"

Me: "I haven't moved the chairs since I've been there, but I don't know what they did before."

Very nicely dressed, sweet elderly lady: "Well, I thought you might have seen pictures."

Me: "No." Because there are about seven hundred things more important to the history of the church than how chairs are or are not arranged. You know, things that are relevant to ministry and the future of the church.

I hope that adequately conveys the reason I now go home from these meetings to watch Netflix accompanied by chocolate and wine. 

Ok. Rum or tequila, actually. It's how I avoid actually sending in my résumé. 

I know, most certainly, that I'm not alone in my occasional desire to give up on Church. I know many people who have and who are. I know your reasons may be very different from mine. 

But, at the end of the day, I remember that deep confession: God is not done yet. 

When I see the kids who don't have adults to take care of them, people barely scraping by, illness, loneliness, church people worried about the arrangement of chairs--everything that makes anyone wonder, "Where is God?" then I confess: God is not done yet. 

I need that reminder from the Church because I'm pretty sure I'd forget if I were left to my own devices. God is not done yet is not my confession alone; it's a confession born from the faith handed down to me by many faithful before me. It's written in every story of healing, in every letter to a church, in every prophet's words: God is not done yet. All the things that break my heart break God's heart, too.

And so I hope, I pray, I confess: God is not done yet.

The Anniversary of a Death

A year ago today I walked into a hospital room. I didn't know when I got in my car that day that I would receive news that death was near. I found out after I donned a gown and gloves, according to protocol for that unit, and walked down the hall. His family was gathered. The machines would be turned off; I would have been called soon. And so we settled into that hospital room. We prayed, we sang, and then we waited. We waited for several difficult, beautiful hours. I was not there for many, but not all, the hours of waiting. 

The pain of those moments is real, but I'm often amazed at how fully sacred texts speak promises that cannot be forgotten in those moments, "But we do not grieve...as others who have no hope" (1 Thessalonians 1:13). I've been present at deaths several times. It remains amazing to watch people of deep faith walk into death without fear. There is grief, to be sure, but it is not a hopeless grief. Christians are, after all, a resurrection people. 

I'm one of the people who is less certain about what comes after death. I'm not banking on eternity or bodies rising from the ground. My confession about death is this: whatever comes after, God is there. On a good day, I believe that we are only more fully in the presence of God. But I am always aware that my grief is a hopeful one. 

The funeral sermon for that man was punctuated with the line from scripture, "Well done, good and faithful servant." It's from Matthew 25, a vision of the final judgment, when Jesus names all the things that those who follow him do. For a retired chaplain and pastor, it was well-suited. I imagine, though, it would have been well-suited even if he'd chosen a different vocation. 

His stoles, a sign of the office of clergy, now hang on my wall and occasionally around my neck; his wife gave them to me a few weeks after his death. They are a deep reminder of the great cloud of witnesses that holds me now (Hebrews 12:1). I am certain that cloud of witnesses only grows larger with the passage of time. 

On this difficult, but beautiful, anniversary I cannot forget one of the great gifts of the Christian faith: we do not grieve as those who have no hope. We trust in and occasionally live in the the thin places, where God could break in and fully take over at any moment. We are never too far from the holy, for God calls us to be partners in what God is doing in this world. By virtue of our name, Church, we are called out to a holy purpose. The Christ who has called us and bound us together remains with us; the Spirit breathes new life into us with each passing day. We do not grieve as those who have no hope for we are resurrection people, trusting that life can and will overpower death at any moment. 

Today, I am so grateful for this cloud of witnesses.

Lost Cards and a Hot Dog

"We're usually the Pharisees." It's a terrible reminder when reading through the Gospels, but one that must be uttered often. "We're usually the Pharisees." In my mostly Anglo, mostly middle-class, I'd-guess-half-of-us-have-post-graduate-degrees-congregation, yeah, we're usually the Pharisees. We're the teachers, the people with at least some power. We're not usually the ones asking for help. We're not usually the people caught in vulnerability; money (or credit) usually fixes our vulnerability.

I think a solid, even if small, dose of vulnerability would do us all some good. I got one yesterday, in fact. I woke up feeling like death on a Triscuit. Not sick, not anything tangibly wrong, just overall bad. I eventually dragged myself out of bed, showered, and decided to grab food on the way to work. Yes, there was food in my house, but ordering food alone seemed like too much of a challenge. My desire for not breakfast food coupled with time of day meant that I stopped at QuikTrip. (I enjoy gas station food far more than anyone should.) I ordered my sandwich, filled up my drink, then went to pay. Standing at the counter, owing all of $4 and some change, I realized my wallet was empty except for my driver's license. 

Empty. No cash. No cards. Nothing. Now, this should have really surprised me. I have a phone case that's also a wallet and it needs to be thrown away. I've dropped cards out of it a few times lately. But really, why bother with something like that until it's absolutely necessary? I was hopefully they had merely fallen out in my car, so I left my drink with the cashier and went out to check. No cards. Because I was in my death on a Triscuit haze and because nothing like this had never happened to me, I still went back in the QuikTrip to explain to the cashier that my cards had not been in my car after all. He just kinda stared at me as I told him I'd have to go home and look for them. I'm not sure what else I expected him to do. This was not one of the best moments of my life. 

A woman standing in line--a line which was now long by QuikTrip standards--said, "Oh, you need to pay for your snack? I'll buy your drink." So I thanked her, grabbed my drink, and headed back home in search of the cards. When I pulled into my parking space, I suddenly knew the exact moment the cards had fallen out. It was the night before, when I'd been talking on the phone. Sure enough, there they were, between my bed and nightstand. 

I did not return to QuikTrip for my sandwich. 

I don't think any of this would have been so bad if not for another story from that same QuikTrip. It happened not long after I moved to the area. I don't know what I'd stopped for that day, but there was a young woman ahead of me in line. She had a hot dog that she was trying to pay for with her SNAP card. I'd never thought of using a SNAP card at a gas station; just like a grocery store, hot food couldn't be purchased with the card. The cashier turned her away.

I was annoyed by the exchange and the delay in line. I was even more annoyed with her when the cashier called to her as she tried to sneak out the door, "I'll need you to pay for that hot dog." Yes, she'd tried to steal it, instead. Paying for it never entered my mind. For the record, it was all of $1.50. 

I've thought of that woman and that attempted hot dog theft many times when I've walked into that gas station, which is one of two that I frequent. I've thought of the friend waiting in the car. I've thought of her black plastic glasses, dirty blonde hair, and don't remember much else. But I didn't consider her vulnerability that day until the last couple of days, even though her vulnerability meant she had only SNAP benefits to pay with. 

For just a moment, I'm glad I wasn't the Pharisee in the story. Now that I've found my cards, I think I'd also be kinder to that lady with the hot dog. 

That Day I (Kinda) Became a Troll

Each Sunday, the class I teach reads together the scripture for the sermon for the following week. This practice is an excellent way to begin my sermon preparation. I also thoroughly enjoy when someone calls bullshit. 

You read that right. It happens with some regularity--especially when offering a traditional interpretation of scripture or some portion of the Bible we're not crazy about. Yeah, we can openly admit that we'd like to ignore some of the Bible. And we can call bullshit. It's one of my favorite things about ministry in this place, actually. 

To be fair, when I needed to call bullshit in a sermon, I used the more worship appropriate "horse feathers," but I still did it. Actually, I think the ability to engage and question scripture is one of the most profound callings of Christian faith. So the other day, I found myself sorta, kinda becoming one of those trolls that so regularly cause me to roll my eyes.  In this case, a college friend (haven't seen each other since graduation, but his picture from a hike with our group from our capstone course is in my office) had posted on Facebook that Kim Davis' ridiculousness is the beginning of even worse Christian persecution.

Friends, I do not regularly engage in Facebook debates. They rarely go anywhere productive. They turn vitriolic incredibly quickly because these discussions happen outside the confines of any sort of community. Yet, someone needed to call bullshit. So I did--knowing that I did it with people who would likely be offended if I actually said (or typed), "Bullshit." 

The conversation went exactly as I thought it would, including a typically terrible debate on same-sex marriage. Have I mentioned how annoying I find it when people ask me if I've read a particular Bible verse? For the sake of Moses, Peter, and sweet 8 pound baby Jesus--YES! I've read the entire Christian Bible on multiple occasions. I've read the apocrypha. I've read large chunks of the stuff that didn't make it into the canon. I can tell you the difference between the Christian and Jewish orderings of scripture. If you really love me, please buy me an English translation of the Ethiopian Orthodox Bible because I don't have an extra $300 lying around right now and it's the largest of any Christian canon; I'd love to own a copy. But yes, I've thoroughly read this book I'm prone to geeking out about. Any way, back to that day I behaved kinda troll-like. 

Sometimes, those sorts of conversations are worth it. Most of the time, they would be better in person. But here are a few things I truly believe, going in and coming out of that usually avoided conversation:

• We should be talking to people who are more conservative and more liberal than we are, especially if they share our faith. We might find we use the same words to talk about different things. My troll-y self knew we had different sets of beliefs about what we mean when using the word "Bible" for example. We do a great disservice to ourselves, though, if we can't figure out how to at least talk to each other--even if we walk away pretty sure the other person needs some divine intervention. 
• Community matters. This goes hand in hand with the first one. We should be in and maintain relationship with people different from us. It might be people we once sat alongside in class. It might be the neighbor whose music drives us nuts. But we need those bonds of community to help us continue conversations. 
• Conversations should continue. The least troll-y thing I did was say something to someone I would be glad to see in real life. If something is one way, then it's not conversation. The conversation matters. We can listen to ourselves talk all we want on any given day. It doesn't actually do much good. 
• Speaking up matters. Side conversations came from the primary conversation. They were good conversations, too. They were needed conversations, too. On social media, in coffee shops in grocery store lines--you never know who's listening. You never know who might need to hear what you're saying. You never know when, exactly, the Spirit might create something amazing.
• Speaking up matters differently if you're you're privileged. I've been told I'm going to hell for a variety of reasons, but never because of my sexual orientation or gender identity. I'm a little farther right on the Kinsey scale than some, but decidedly a cisgendered, heterosexual female. I also can keep my temper in check when others can't. That means I'm highly unlikely to end up in tears or feeling absolutely terrible when someone gets nasty in a fight about same-sex marriage. I care about the subject deeply, but it's not a conversation about the validity or sinfulness of my relationship. I owe it to my friends for whom those things are not true to speak up when they can't--and to move aside when they're ready to speak. 

So there's my confession from the day I kinda became a troll; sometimes, you just have to call bullshit.