Fat Lesbian & the Light

I went to a comedy show last night. It was one of those shows held in the back room of a restaurant where, for no charge at all, we were invited to watch newbie comedians try out their acts. Some were funny, some weren't even close.

I was sitting with a group of women, none of whom I know particularly well. A couple could almost be called friends, and might soon be, if we share some food and drink a couple more times. As soon as the night's host got on the small corner stage, it became clear that we were the only newcomers that night. Of course, we would be the fodder for the jokes made.

During the first set, the fact that I'm a pastor came out. That became fodder for the entire evening. Every comedian, like clockwork, would mention the pastor sitting there at the front table. I braced myself, sitting with feet firmly planted on a chair and table base, open body posture; those who know me best would realize the false bravado that position represents.

I got, "I've never seen a female pastor before," a few times.

The comedian who introduced herself as Fat Lesbian, though, went for the throat. "Hey, so, you're pastor." I nodded to confirm.

"So, you think homosexuality is a sin?"

"Nope." I said calmly. And her train derailed. The incredulity was in her eyes as the audience applauded. Back on her game, she said, "Oh, a new agey pastor."

My response, "I'm doing my first lesbian wedding in May!"

I got some more applause. Then the set went on.



On Sunday, I preached about Jesus--there's a surprise. More specifically, I preached about Jesus as the Light that chases away the shadows of death. It's been said before, in many, many ways, but at the end of the day, remember: we bear the Light most fully when we are living as the people Jesus called us to be.

Even if that's at a slightly skeezy comedy show.

Just Show Up?

I'm guessing she was about my age, that faceless voice on the other end of the line. She was calling to ask about my church.

"I haven't been to church since I was a kid."

"My fiancé and I are looking."

"We want some place where gay people are welcome."

"What about my two year old?"

The conversation wasn't long--under ten minutes from beginning to end. In many ways, it was a quite standard conversation from someone interested in coming to worship.

And then, near the end, she asked the one question that surprised me: "So, well, do I just show up?"

My answer was exactly what you'd expect--"Yes!" followed by worship time and a "wear whatever makes you comfortable." In that particular case, I knew I would be out of town the following Sunday, so I sent a quick email to the person most likely to greet a newcomer on any given Sunday.

Still, her question has stayed with me because it was so surprising. In the weeks since that phone call, I've also heard a few more stories along the same line. Particularly, a friend of mine mentioned when she was in college, a church sent her goodies but never an invite. That church assumed she knew they'd like her to show up in worship some time.

I confess, anything normally termed "evangelism" makes me nervous because I automatically think about telling people something along the lines of, "Here's what's wrong with you and how to fix it." I know I'm not alone. And in my nervousness, I've forgotten that invitation matters. It really, really does. From me. From others. From the church.

Most things we do in our social lives include invitation--a party, a wedding, a game night, a pick-up game. There's a connection with someone, even if only a tenuous connection. Often, we agree to go to many of those things only after we make sure there will be a few people we know at the party or the whatever. We're used to being invited. We're also lousy at doing it when it comes to church. And we need to get better.

Because the truth is, unless we ask, there's a lot of people who will never know that church is one of those places they can just show up.

Religious?

A man at my church called me religious the other day. Actually, I think he called me very religious. It was in a conversation about my dating life, or rather, my lack of a dating life. Telling a date or potential date I'm a pastor is a great way to kill a conversation; that's just the reality and I'm mostly ok with it.

Because of my profession, though, this guy was not off target in calling me religious. I'm in worship most every Sunday. Actually, I plan worship most every Sunday, and preach, and go to other churches just for fun, and ramble on about the theological discourse of Stephen King and horror movies. I'm pretty much as tied to institutional church as anyone can be. By most anyone's definition, I'm religious.

Still, I bristled at the word religious. Actually, that's putting it pretty mildly. My first instinct was to yell at this guy, "I'm not religious!" Luckily, a more rational chunk of my brain took over and I didn't. I'm pretty sure this guy would have laughed at me a lot if my first reaction had won. Ok, I would have probably heard about that reaction for a quite a while, with him enjoying bringing it up again to laugh at me some more.

But you know what? I don't feel religious. I'm not even sure I know what I associate with that word, but I'm pretty sure it has to do lots of rules and regulations about life. I'm pretty sure that means conviction of the evil of some people or that my religion trumps other religions. And I'm not quite sure what else, but I know I don't like whatever that is. Yes, I know that doesn't necessarily make sense. I'm ok with that.

My faith calls me to love other people--to trek to hospitals and school plays, restaurants and messy houses. The people there need to know someone cares about them enough to show up.

My faith calls me to prayer and study because yes, those things deepen my practice of my faith and change the way I think about God and the world.

My faith has taken me to temples and mosques and synagogues and candle circles in the woods, but I keep coming back to this Christian faith, which moves me deeply.

My faith means that I proclaim the Gospel of Jesus Christ from a pulpit in a church most weeks, and hope that yes, through me those present will hear a bit of good news.

My faith means that the money I give to the church represents my third largest household expense, after housing and taxes.

My faith leads me to strange discussions, heated discussions, life-giving discussions, doubtful discussions, all sorts of discussions about spirituality and the life of faith.

My faith, my spirituality is deeply important to me. It shapes much of my life and calls me to new things. While my faith will certainly morph in the years to come, I cannot imagine a life apart from faith and spiritual practice.

But am I religious? I'm not so sure about that.

When the Impossible Becomes Reality

One of my church's mamas sent me a picture recently. She'd taken a snapshot of her daughter playing with scrap paper that morning. It just so happens that Mea had cut out a u-shaped piece of paper and draped it around her neck. She said, "Hey, Mom, I made one of those things Abigail wears around her neck!" Then she made two more, one for her mom and and one for her grandma.

Yes, she was talking about my stole. I'm probably the only person she's ever seen wear one of those. This particular kid has probably noticed that the stoles change with the season of the church year. The one I've been wearing this Advent is purple and gold; the ends have fringe. It's pretty cool in kid world. Yet, she's three going on four. The stole is just another accessory, similar to my boots that she also likes.

For her, making her own stole is part of figuring out life, learning new things, and the rich imaginative life that most children lead. It goes along with baby dolls and dress-up and play food. She has no clue that when I look at her, she reflects a reality that I long believed was impossible. When she plays pastor, she's imagining herself like me. For her, the image of pastor is a young woman--stole, cute boots and all. For her, this impossibility will always be reality; I can't stop wondering if this is reality.

Just this week, someone stopped by the church, carrying our Advent postcard with her. Every time we send something out to the broader community, we make sure to say explicitly that the LGBT community is welcome. She came to ask, "Is this really true?" I got to tell her yes. Yes, what you thought was impossible is a reality here. And I remembered, again, how strange it is when the impossible becomes reality.

That impossible turning to reality is so often a sign of God's reign coming just a bit closer. Because it has so long been impossible, the new reality comes with  incredulity and a zillion questions. It comes with suspicion. Eventually, when you realize that the impossible has actually, truly become reality, the new reality comes with deep, overwhelming joy.

Jesus knew that when he was approached by John the Baptizer's disciples, asking, "Are you the one who is to come?"

Jesus answered, "Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, the dead are raised and the poor have good news brought to them."

In other words, the impossible is now reality; God's reign is near.

"I don't want people to think I'm gay."

Several times lately I've heard people point blank say in response to some life situation they're facing, "I don't want people to think I'm gay." They usually follow it up with something like, "Not that I have a problem with gay people."

Are you kidding me?

Because, you see, it's said with the same disdain used for any classification we don't want applied to us.  In my case, it's the same reaction I have to people when I say I'm a pastor and they mention the fundamentalist megachurch down the road. I rush to say anything to make sure they don't confuse me with that, which is so different from my faith.

There are a few words often spoken with that sort of disdain, words like poor, homeless, black, just to name a few. There are all sorts of things folks say with an edge to indicate they'd never want to be confused with one of those people, and yes, gay is often on the list. That's ridiculous. Here's why.

First, if it's that big a deal for you to get hit on by someone you're not interested in (which seems to be the number one concern), grow up. I attract guys who say in the most disgusting way possible, "Hey, baby." Guess what? I don't go out with those guys. Problem solved. Of course, this is assuming the getting hit on fear scenario ever actually happens.

Second, you sound like a homophobe. This isn't a statement of religious or political conviction. It's a statement that says, "There are few things worse than being gay." So stop saying homophobic crap.

Third, and most important, get some new priorities. Make sure people don't think you hate your neighbor. Make sure people don't think you're stingy. Make sure people don't think you're a snob. Jesus said a lot about those things. Ok, he said a lot about the inverse of those things--love your neighbor, be generous, and Jesus hung out with people on the margins of society. They're pretty awesome priorities, actually. They might actually change your life.

Some Thanksgiving Thoughts

Holidays are weird. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one who thinks that, though I may be one of the few who says it out loud. They make us all a little crazy. They often end up being high pressure events. They tend to make things that are already stressful that much more stressful.

Thanksgiving happens to be the holiday that I usually spend with other people. The last Thanksgiving at my parents' house was in 2006. Since then, I've eaten with friends' families and just friends. One year, I was told to smile and nod when I was introduced to the "roommate" of a forty-something man since a good Southern family wasn't ready to talk about the gay member of their family. One year, I ate with mostly international students who had a heated debate about the proper title of Princess Diana and yeah, I'm just going to call her that. I'm pretty sure that's not the correct title.

One year, I arrived at Thanksgiving dinner to find the hosts were vegetarian, so we were having meatless meatballs for dinner. Another year, the host family had agreed even holidays would be low carb. For the record, I believe Thanksgiving should involve white mashed potatoes and a nut topped sweet potato soufflé; thanks to the family in denial about the gay uncle for introducing the wonderful delight that is sweet potato soufflé.

Last year, I bravely cooked for guests. And it was pretty darn good, if I do say so myself.

But I haven't spent Thanksgiving Day with anyone who would be defined as family in several years, and won't again this year.

These Thanksgivings have been just fine, too. Blessed. Enjoyed. I'm even pretty grateful for the absence of football from these Thanksgivings.

I'm also grateful that there have always been people whose company I enjoy to share that meal with. It made the weird-to-me menus not matter so much. It also points to a re-definition of family.

Some people don't have any biological or adopted family, at least not in the traditional sense. Some have jerks for family. Some have been kicked out by their families. The list could go on.

So celebrate this year with whomever says, "You're welcome here." Family comes in as many different packages as Thanksgiving dinner does.






PS: And if you don't have anyone saying, "You're welcome here," find a church. We're often a bit screwy and a bit weird, but any church worth its salt will say, "You're welcome here." Seriously.

With My Ornament Cup in Hand

If you haven't heard, there are six fewer shopping days between Thanksgiving and Christmas this year compared with last year. That's the excuse being given for the fact that I've already heard Christmas music playing in stores for a few days even as I type this. The same excuse for the fact that I'm drinking from a cup printed with ornaments and snowflakes. (PS: snowflakes looked kind of ridiculous in Atlanta; they're absurd in Phoenix.) You know what, Christmas comes early for pastors, too. I've already put together a basic Christmas Eve service, already asked folks about time of that service, already publicized Advent activities.

In a lot of ways, I'm not too concerned about the early breaking in of a season that's mostly about warm and fuzzy feelings and attitudes. The consumerism that comes with the season is a symptom of a widespread culture of consumerism, not the only time we see the disease.

Except this year, some stores will be open all Thanksgiving day, and all Thanksgiving night, closing some time late on Black Friday. They're hoping to draw in the folks who would like to enjoy some shopping during their time off, of course. But they're doing it at the expense of their employees--employees who now won't be able to eat dinner with their families or enjoy time home with their kids who are on school break or even travel a short distance to be with friends or family.

We can talk about evil corporations all we want, but the truth is no entity concerned with profit would pay employees to stand in an empty store on a day when they've normally been closed. The stores are opening on Thanksgiving because they're pretty sure they'll have plenty of people come through the doors somewhere around their time with friends and family. Shopping while someone else cooks? Great. Shopping after dinner? Great. Leaving those who care about football to watch it and going shopping? That sounds like an awesome plan!

So stay home. You who have heard Jesus' words, "Love your neighbor as yourself," stay home. You who know that Jesus calls us to love the poor, give the retail employees making minimum wage a day off, too. You who remember that even God rested on the seventh day, help someone else enjoy a Sabbath.

Watch football. Take a walk to get rid of some of Thanksgiving dinner. Go ahead and tackle some of those leftovers the same night if you like. Play an endless game of Monopoly. Just sit around in a turkey and mashed potato induced stupor. Do something or nothing, but don't go shopping.

Don't go shopping. The love of Christ compels you to do something, anything else.