Fred Rogers, known around the world as everyone's favorite neighbor, "Mr. Rogers," was an ordained Presbyterian minister (Pittsburgh). Fred did not like what he saw on the early days of television and thought this great invention could be used to "broadcast grace." His then-local children's show was his ordained ministry. What may be not as well known was his deeply inclusive love.
He is universally remembered for the kind and tender way in which he talked to his child (and adult) viewers. One of his signature lines was a message of radical inclusion: "You make every day special just by being you!" He really meant it. There are stories of Rev. Rogers being asked to condemn someone who was gay but instead he looked the intended target straight in the eye and warmly assured them, "God loves you just the way you are." One of his over 200 songs he wrote was titled, "I Like You As You Are."
Another typical story relates an evening when he was to be the honored dinner guest at a wealthy home and upon learning that his limousine driver, Billy, would be sitting in the car waiting for him through dinner, invited the driver to eat with them, much to the bewilderment of Fred's hostess. On the way home from the evening, he sat in the front seat talking to the driver and learning about his family. When told they were passing the driver's house, Fred asked if they could stop and say hello. They stayed late visiting and Fred entertained the whole family (and many of their neighbors) with piano playing. A few years later Fred learned that Billy was dying of AIDS. He was on vacation with his family at the time but tracked Billy down to talk to him and offer him words of comfort.
The world was one neighborhood in Fred's vision and everyone belonged -- just the way they are. And in the Neighborhood of Make Believe, during an episode about missing one's parents and having bad dreams, shy Daniel Tiger tells Lady Aberlin that he wonders about things. He "sings his wonders" for her and she sings her reply of "what I believe."
[Daniel Tiger]
Who made the rainbow and the sky?
Who made the bird and let it fly?
Who made the hour?
Who made the day?
Who had the power to make the flower?
And who made the rain and made the snow?
Made us, and made us want to know?
[Lady Aberlin]
God made the rainbow, the bird, and the summer sun.
God made the mountains, the stars each and every one.
God made the sea and she made the land.
God made the mighty and God made the very small
God made the world made the people;
He made it all.
To which we might add, Amen.
19 September 2008
08 September 2008
Prayers of the People
By Rev. Chris Shelton
Presbyterian Welcome
Worship & Response to GA
September 8, 2008 at Rutger's Presbyterian Church
Let us pray…
Way-making, Life-breathing, Song-singing God –
Into the chaos of this world,
You called forth a chorus of Light
and all the harmony of Creation.
In your Love, there is always something to sing about.
Hear us, as we shout our songs for justice.
Embolden us, as we lift our songs of the struggle.
Enfold us, as we cry out our songs of sorrow.
Embrace us, as we improvise our songs of love.
Sing with us, as we dance our songs of joy.
God of Grace and God of Glory, on thy people pour thy power.
Hear your people as we pray:
Since Love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can we keep from singing?
This road didn’t start here, we are but pilgrims on a journey.
We thank you for those who have gone before us:
serving in silence or shouting from the rooftops
bold preachers and gentle guides
wrestlers with identity, and wrestlers with you
students of your Story
celebrants of your glory
We thank you for leading us here, and we know you lead us still.
God of our Life, Through all the Circling Years, We trust in Thee.
Hear your people as we pray:
Since Love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can we keep from singing?
Though walls enclose us, we are not alone.
Your body, your Church, is boundless.
Forgive us for the boundaries we try to build:
walls of racism,
dividing lines of sexism,
false distinctions of class and character,
fears and hates of homophobia,
idols of ideology.
Heal us where we are fractured.
Mend our broken places until we are made one in you.
In Christ, there is no east or west, in Christ no south or north,
but one great fellowship of love throughout the whole wide earth.
Hear your people as we pray:
Since Love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can we keep from singing?
Grant us ears to hear to voices long silenced, or long ignored.
Grant us hearts able to listen to those who would not listen to us…
compassionate listening:
hearing the heartache under the voice of anger
hearing the neighbor within the voice of the adversary
hearing your voice in the Spirit-filled silence.
And, grant us voices to speak.
Grant us words of compassion and courage,
grant us peace-filled words to still the storms,
grant us the fire of your prophets,
or the music of your poets,
or the whisper of your still small voice.
We’ve a story to tell to the nations…
Hear your people as we pray:
Since Love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can we keep from singing?
Hear our open hearts, Gracious One,
and know our prayers, our groans, our hopes, our fears…
send your Spirit to pray with in us
where words aren’t enough…
(Silence)
Into the chaos of this world,
You called forth a chorus of Light
and all the harmony of Creation.
In your Love, there is always something to sing about.
Sing with us, sing through us…
(singing)
My life flows on in endless song; above earth’s lamentation,
I catch the sweet, though far-off hymn that hails a new creation.
No storm can shake my inmost calm while to that Rock I’m clinging.
Since Love is Lord of heaven and earth, how can I keep from singing?
Amen.
02 September 2008
What We Long For
by Rev. Barbara E. Davis
preached Sunday, June 29, 2008
First Presbyterian Church of New York City
Matthew 10:40-42; Exodus 17:1-7
When I was pregnant with my daughter Hannah, I learned quickly about the importance of drinking water during pregancy. As first trimesters go, mine was manageable; I was exhausted and I was a pickier eater than I had ever been, but I was happy with vegetarian sushi most nights – although I can’t speak for my partner, who for some reason wearied of it after a few nights in a row. I learned to snack throughout the day, eating multiple smaller meals. I had given up coffee before I started trying to get pregnant, so I drank tea in the morning and then water throughout the day. I thought I was doing pretty well managing all of these new routines until I passed out one Friday afternoon at Grand Central Station.
Karen and I were going to Conneticut for a conference that started that evening and lasted through Saturday. We were meeting at Grand Central, and I had arrived first. Standing there, somehow, things just didn’t seem quite right. Thankfully, I kneeled down and the next thing I remember there was a paramedic beside me along with a ring of police and heavily-armed National Guard officers. I was trying to explain to the paramedic that I was fine, just pregnant, when my cell phone rang – it was Karen asking where I was. I mumbled something about passing out and being surrounded by the National Guard, and I’ll never forget her response – “oh, I see you” as if it had been our plan to meet at that spot all along. After a short ambulance ride and two bags of fluids in the emergency room at St. Vincent’s, we were on our way home, having learned a great deal about limitations and the importance of hydration.
I don’t know if bags of saline count as cups of cold water, but they should. The passage from Matthew that we heard today models an expression of hospitality that overflows. It begins with a description of hospitality that equates it to a chain reaction: “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me,” Jesus says, “and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.” Hospitality is like a line of dominoes, the challenge is to remember that we always want to get to that last one, the domino that embodies the divine presence of God.
Being hospitable to God is crucial, and yet it has presented generations with the problem of having a personified God whose face we are not able to see, we never know when God is among us. Jesus’ guidance on this problem was consistent and challenging: treat everyone as if they were the presence of the divine. He witnesses to this practice by eating with tax collectors, healing lepers, not shunning the woman with the flow of blood. He welcomes all those who might expect to not be greeted with much hospitality, and then reminds the people he is talking with that their tradition actually calls them to do the same.
Quenching thirst is a common metaphor in the Bible describing our spiritual thirst. “Cups of cold water” are one of the distinct metaphors for offering hospitality. Our congregation and Presbytery know about extending this kind of hospitality; we take pride in the fact that we sponsor the Evelyn Davidson Water Table in front of our building on this day every year. As the marchers in the Heritage of Pride march come down Fifth Avenue, whether they are prophets or righteous persons, they are in need of cups of cold water. It is a satisfying way to spend the afternoon, and frankly the interactions with all the people are reward enough on this day, but we should not think that having literally lived out giving cups of cold water means that our mission is accomplished.
The last verse of this passage from Matthew begins “and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones…” When Jesus puts it like that, it sounds as if giving cups of cold water is the least that we are called to do. If you have nothing else, “even a cup of cold water” will do. In fact, water would be the least one would offer in Jesus’ time by way of hospitality. A visitor who was fully welcomed might anticipate a meal, their feet washed, and even lodging in exchange for news from where they had been traveling. A cup of cold water would be a simple gesture in comparison to the fuller limits of hospitality.
Another issue is brewing in these verses from Matthew and it is the issue of “reward.” This idea strikes a discordant note; given that a cup of cold water would be the least that could be offered, shouldn’t it just be offered without expectation of reward? The very idea of hospitality offered with expectation flies in the face of a whole body of Reformation theology, from Luther to the present, who try to break the connection between works and rewards. It’s a relationship too prone to corruption. Commentators understand this passage from Matthew in different ways, but one explanation that may be helpful to us today is that these verses are actually the conclusion of a larger teaching in which Jesus is explaining that the time of final judgment will be a time when all secrets will be revealed, especially one’s faith allegiance.1 Christianity’s early roots are connected with secrecy, mostly because of fear of persecution and rejection. The reward of sharing cups of water is about revealing one’s faith and breaking the cycle of living in fearful secrecy.
If offering cups of cold water in Jesus’ time were to reduce secrecy and fear, how many more thousands of years and millions of cups will this project take? Too many people still live in the grips of fear and secrecy. There are many kinds of secrets that our culture encourages people to keep. A relative who committed suicide, a loved one’s battle with mental illness, a friend’s disability, a struggle with alcoholism, a child’s gender identity or sexual orientation. In the gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender community secrecy and fear are still real and present issues, and the church of tradition stands as guilty as the culture it competes against in perpetuating homophobia. But there are places, like this congregation, where the welcome is wide and the work has begun. These places are like Massah or Meribah, where Moses got water from the rock, and the question was asked “Is the Lord among us or not?”
Testing the Lord is not always viewed favorably in the bible, and even in the Exodus story, the reader’s ear is tuned more to relate to Moses and to hear the Israelites as a bunch of complainers. The Storyteller’s Companion to the Bible outlines two patterns of the murmuring stories from the people’s journey in the wilderness. One is this pattern: a complaint by the people, followed by punishment from God, followed by intercessions, ending with reprieve. The second is the pattern followed in section we heard from Exodus 17 this morning: there is a need, a complaint is expressed, intercessions are made, a miracle occurs.2
This passage is challenging to our usual hearing, because when we stop and think about it, the people being in need of water is not such an unusual or demanding request. This pattern is not one where water had been provided in some way that was not the people’s liking or where the people were provided water and asked not to hoard it, as happened with the manna. The problem is simple: “They camped at Rephidim, but there was no water for the people to drink.” It is Moses who seems irritated with the people’s need for water; Moses who accuses them of quarreling, Moses who suggests they are testing the Lord. Once Moses puts their request to the Lord, the response is simple and miraculous.
The elders are to go ahead with Moses until they find the Lord standing by a rock at Horeb (really this is what the text says), and Moses is to take the staff he used to strike the Nile River and strike the rock on which the Lord is standing, and water will come from it. Moses does what the Lord commanded with the elders, and the people are provided with water. It is almost as simple as the pattern outlined earlier: need, complaint, intercession, miracle.
Imagine applying this method to other problems in our life: gas prices, mortgage payments, health issues, daycare – it could all be as easy as finding that rock where God is standing and having a good staff, and good aim. The problem however is not just that we don’t come face to face with God on a rock very often, the problem is that like the Israelites we fall victim to being halfway to the promised land with one foot still in Egypt. That problem is highlighted right in the middle of this Exodus passage in verse three, which says: “But the people thirsted there for water; and the people complained against Moses and said, ‘Why did you bring us out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and livestock with thirst?’” The problem is not that the people want water, the problem is that the people are looking to the past for the solution to being thirsty in the present, instead of believing that the thirst quenching water can be provided right then, right there. Egypt quickly becomes the good old days, and the promise of that day is lost in the way things used to be. The Israelites are halfway people in this passage and being halfway people lends itself to secrecy and fear finding footholds too easily in our lives.
Fear and secrecy worry me the most as my partner and I try to navigate our way through the maze of parenthood. We have many of the same fears that any parent has, is our child safe? Is our child learning how to treat others with respect? Are we responding adequately to her independent spirit? Is she eating enough vegetables and getting enough sleep? I never tire of watching her sleep, and my thoughts in that time are full of how much better my life is with her in it. But my partner and I have unique fears as lesbian moms, which center on how to respond to homophobia in front of our daughter so that she inherits strength from her parents and not shame or fear. Parenthood dismantles a layer of secrecy in a relationship; there is no longer room to pass for something other than who we are. To Hannah, we are her Mommy and Mutti – the name she calls Karen from her German heritage. Other people we encounter occasionally have trouble figuring it out.
The most difficult time so far was when we took Hannah to the emergency room near our home in Brooklyn with a very high fever. When we were moved into the intake area, the person filling out the paperwork asked us, “Which one of you is the mother?” Our unison reply, “We both are,” was met with another question, a clone of the first, apparently in more remedial form for us: “Which one of you is the real mother?” This question is an expression of being halfway people. We live in a world that expects children to have a mother and father, despite myriad of family structures lived out everyday. We live in a world that reinforces halfway thinking, and makes it difficult to live beyond that perspective. We all have one foot in that restrictive structure as we try to lunge forward past the halfway point. Being halfway people is not a place where we can flourish. What we long for is, whatever our circumstances, to never be asked a question like “Who is the real mother?” again. What we long for is for something to get us past that halfway point.
The fear that the world will never change keeps us from trying to change the world. God is leading us to the water in the rock, but it is up to us to decide if that water merely reminds us of Egypt or inspires us to something new. The problem is that in order to get past halfway, where we can no longer feel so committed to mistakes of our past, we must decide what tools are going to help us build our future. This decision is a decision about survival. This decision is a decision about healthy survival. The essayist Audre Lorde reminds us of this important point about the tools for survival: “Survival is learning how to stand alone, unpopular and sometimes reviled, and how to make common cause with those others identified as outside the structures in order to define and seek a world in which we can all flourish. It is learning how to take our differences and make them strengths. For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at this own game, but they will never bring about genuine change.”3
The call to begin a chain reaction of hospitality and the call to find and strike the rock at Massah are calls to bring about genuine change. These calls recognize the human condition without condemning the humans in those conditions. They call us to quit being halfway people and move into a place where we all can thrive. The cups and the staff are before us. They lead us to a way of imagining how we can all flourish, how our differences can make us stronger. Reach for them, they are just over there, just a bit beyond halfway.
----------------------------
1- Boring, M. Eugene. “Matthew” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. VIII. (Abingdon Press: Nashville, 1995), p. 263.
2- Williams, Michael E., editor. The Storyteller’s Companion to the Bible: Exodus – Joshua, vol. II. (Abingdon Press: Nashville, 1992), p. 73.
3-Lorde, Audre. “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House” in Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches. (The Crossing Press: Freedom, CA, 1984), p. 112.
preached Sunday, June 29, 2008
First Presbyterian Church of New York City
Matthew 10:40-42; Exodus 17:1-7
When I was pregnant with my daughter Hannah, I learned quickly about the importance of drinking water during pregancy. As first trimesters go, mine was manageable; I was exhausted and I was a pickier eater than I had ever been, but I was happy with vegetarian sushi most nights – although I can’t speak for my partner, who for some reason wearied of it after a few nights in a row. I learned to snack throughout the day, eating multiple smaller meals. I had given up coffee before I started trying to get pregnant, so I drank tea in the morning and then water throughout the day. I thought I was doing pretty well managing all of these new routines until I passed out one Friday afternoon at Grand Central Station.
Karen and I were going to Conneticut for a conference that started that evening and lasted through Saturday. We were meeting at Grand Central, and I had arrived first. Standing there, somehow, things just didn’t seem quite right. Thankfully, I kneeled down and the next thing I remember there was a paramedic beside me along with a ring of police and heavily-armed National Guard officers. I was trying to explain to the paramedic that I was fine, just pregnant, when my cell phone rang – it was Karen asking where I was. I mumbled something about passing out and being surrounded by the National Guard, and I’ll never forget her response – “oh, I see you” as if it had been our plan to meet at that spot all along. After a short ambulance ride and two bags of fluids in the emergency room at St. Vincent’s, we were on our way home, having learned a great deal about limitations and the importance of hydration.
I don’t know if bags of saline count as cups of cold water, but they should. The passage from Matthew that we heard today models an expression of hospitality that overflows. It begins with a description of hospitality that equates it to a chain reaction: “Whoever welcomes you welcomes me,” Jesus says, “and whoever welcomes me welcomes the one who sent me.” Hospitality is like a line of dominoes, the challenge is to remember that we always want to get to that last one, the domino that embodies the divine presence of God.
Being hospitable to God is crucial, and yet it has presented generations with the problem of having a personified God whose face we are not able to see, we never know when God is among us. Jesus’ guidance on this problem was consistent and challenging: treat everyone as if they were the presence of the divine. He witnesses to this practice by eating with tax collectors, healing lepers, not shunning the woman with the flow of blood. He welcomes all those who might expect to not be greeted with much hospitality, and then reminds the people he is talking with that their tradition actually calls them to do the same.
Quenching thirst is a common metaphor in the Bible describing our spiritual thirst. “Cups of cold water” are one of the distinct metaphors for offering hospitality. Our congregation and Presbytery know about extending this kind of hospitality; we take pride in the fact that we sponsor the Evelyn Davidson Water Table in front of our building on this day every year. As the marchers in the Heritage of Pride march come down Fifth Avenue, whether they are prophets or righteous persons, they are in need of cups of cold water. It is a satisfying way to spend the afternoon, and frankly the interactions with all the people are reward enough on this day, but we should not think that having literally lived out giving cups of cold water means that our mission is accomplished.
The last verse of this passage from Matthew begins “and whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones…” When Jesus puts it like that, it sounds as if giving cups of cold water is the least that we are called to do. If you have nothing else, “even a cup of cold water” will do. In fact, water would be the least one would offer in Jesus’ time by way of hospitality. A visitor who was fully welcomed might anticipate a meal, their feet washed, and even lodging in exchange for news from where they had been traveling. A cup of cold water would be a simple gesture in comparison to the fuller limits of hospitality.
Another issue is brewing in these verses from Matthew and it is the issue of “reward.” This idea strikes a discordant note; given that a cup of cold water would be the least that could be offered, shouldn’t it just be offered without expectation of reward? The very idea of hospitality offered with expectation flies in the face of a whole body of Reformation theology, from Luther to the present, who try to break the connection between works and rewards. It’s a relationship too prone to corruption. Commentators understand this passage from Matthew in different ways, but one explanation that may be helpful to us today is that these verses are actually the conclusion of a larger teaching in which Jesus is explaining that the time of final judgment will be a time when all secrets will be revealed, especially one’s faith allegiance.1 Christianity’s early roots are connected with secrecy, mostly because of fear of persecution and rejection. The reward of sharing cups of water is about revealing one’s faith and breaking the cycle of living in fearful secrecy.
If offering cups of cold water in Jesus’ time were to reduce secrecy and fear, how many more thousands of years and millions of cups will this project take? Too many people still live in the grips of fear and secrecy. There are many kinds of secrets that our culture encourages people to keep. A relative who committed suicide, a loved one’s battle with mental illness, a friend’s disability, a struggle with alcoholism, a child’s gender identity or sexual orientation. In the gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender community secrecy and fear are still real and present issues, and the church of tradition stands as guilty as the culture it competes against in perpetuating homophobia. But there are places, like this congregation, where the welcome is wide and the work has begun. These places are like Massah or Meribah, where Moses got water from the rock, and the question was asked “Is the Lord among us or not?”
Testing the Lord is not always viewed favorably in the bible, and even in the Exodus story, the reader’s ear is tuned more to relate to Moses and to hear the Israelites as a bunch of complainers. The Storyteller’s Companion to the Bible outlines two patterns of the murmuring stories from the people’s journey in the wilderness. One is this pattern: a complaint by the people, followed by punishment from God, followed by intercessions, ending with reprieve. The second is the pattern followed in section we heard from Exodus 17 this morning: there is a need, a complaint is expressed, intercessions are made, a miracle occurs.2
This passage is challenging to our usual hearing, because when we stop and think about it, the people being in need of water is not such an unusual or demanding request. This pattern is not one where water had been provided in some way that was not the people’s liking or where the people were provided water and asked not to hoard it, as happened with the manna. The problem is simple: “They camped at Rephidim, but there was no water for the people to drink.” It is Moses who seems irritated with the people’s need for water; Moses who accuses them of quarreling, Moses who suggests they are testing the Lord. Once Moses puts their request to the Lord, the response is simple and miraculous.
The elders are to go ahead with Moses until they find the Lord standing by a rock at Horeb (really this is what the text says), and Moses is to take the staff he used to strike the Nile River and strike the rock on which the Lord is standing, and water will come from it. Moses does what the Lord commanded with the elders, and the people are provided with water. It is almost as simple as the pattern outlined earlier: need, complaint, intercession, miracle.
Imagine applying this method to other problems in our life: gas prices, mortgage payments, health issues, daycare – it could all be as easy as finding that rock where God is standing and having a good staff, and good aim. The problem however is not just that we don’t come face to face with God on a rock very often, the problem is that like the Israelites we fall victim to being halfway to the promised land with one foot still in Egypt. That problem is highlighted right in the middle of this Exodus passage in verse three, which says: “But the people thirsted there for water; and the people complained against Moses and said, ‘Why did you bring us out of Egypt, to kill us and our children and livestock with thirst?’” The problem is not that the people want water, the problem is that the people are looking to the past for the solution to being thirsty in the present, instead of believing that the thirst quenching water can be provided right then, right there. Egypt quickly becomes the good old days, and the promise of that day is lost in the way things used to be. The Israelites are halfway people in this passage and being halfway people lends itself to secrecy and fear finding footholds too easily in our lives.
Fear and secrecy worry me the most as my partner and I try to navigate our way through the maze of parenthood. We have many of the same fears that any parent has, is our child safe? Is our child learning how to treat others with respect? Are we responding adequately to her independent spirit? Is she eating enough vegetables and getting enough sleep? I never tire of watching her sleep, and my thoughts in that time are full of how much better my life is with her in it. But my partner and I have unique fears as lesbian moms, which center on how to respond to homophobia in front of our daughter so that she inherits strength from her parents and not shame or fear. Parenthood dismantles a layer of secrecy in a relationship; there is no longer room to pass for something other than who we are. To Hannah, we are her Mommy and Mutti – the name she calls Karen from her German heritage. Other people we encounter occasionally have trouble figuring it out.
The most difficult time so far was when we took Hannah to the emergency room near our home in Brooklyn with a very high fever. When we were moved into the intake area, the person filling out the paperwork asked us, “Which one of you is the mother?” Our unison reply, “We both are,” was met with another question, a clone of the first, apparently in more remedial form for us: “Which one of you is the real mother?” This question is an expression of being halfway people. We live in a world that expects children to have a mother and father, despite myriad of family structures lived out everyday. We live in a world that reinforces halfway thinking, and makes it difficult to live beyond that perspective. We all have one foot in that restrictive structure as we try to lunge forward past the halfway point. Being halfway people is not a place where we can flourish. What we long for is, whatever our circumstances, to never be asked a question like “Who is the real mother?” again. What we long for is for something to get us past that halfway point.
The fear that the world will never change keeps us from trying to change the world. God is leading us to the water in the rock, but it is up to us to decide if that water merely reminds us of Egypt or inspires us to something new. The problem is that in order to get past halfway, where we can no longer feel so committed to mistakes of our past, we must decide what tools are going to help us build our future. This decision is a decision about survival. This decision is a decision about healthy survival. The essayist Audre Lorde reminds us of this important point about the tools for survival: “Survival is learning how to stand alone, unpopular and sometimes reviled, and how to make common cause with those others identified as outside the structures in order to define and seek a world in which we can all flourish. It is learning how to take our differences and make them strengths. For the master’s tools will never dismantle the master’s house. They may allow us temporarily to beat him at this own game, but they will never bring about genuine change.”3
The call to begin a chain reaction of hospitality and the call to find and strike the rock at Massah are calls to bring about genuine change. These calls recognize the human condition without condemning the humans in those conditions. They call us to quit being halfway people and move into a place where we all can thrive. The cups and the staff are before us. They lead us to a way of imagining how we can all flourish, how our differences can make us stronger. Reach for them, they are just over there, just a bit beyond halfway.
----------------------------
1- Boring, M. Eugene. “Matthew” in The New Interpreter’s Bible, vol. VIII. (Abingdon Press: Nashville, 1995), p. 263.
2- Williams, Michael E., editor. The Storyteller’s Companion to the Bible: Exodus – Joshua, vol. II. (Abingdon Press: Nashville, 1992), p. 73.
3-Lorde, Audre. “The Master’s Tools Will Never Dismantle the Master’s House” in Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches. (The Crossing Press: Freedom, CA, 1984), p. 112.
25 August 2008
Family of God
by Rev. Mieke Vandersall
Preached at Olivet Presbyterian Church, Staten Island
August 24, 2008
This past weekend my Godson and his mother, my best friend, were visiting the Big City. Crosby is almost five years old and has entered the stage where all kissing is yucky. Kissing on TV, his Godmother trying to kiss his forehead before he goes to bed. Just. Yucky. He has entered the stage where he won’t eat vegetables and only certain kinds of fruits. And things need to be organized a particular way or else he makes his upsetness known.
However, despite his five year old superiority, he does love holding his mom’s hand and my hand and walking down the street or at the Coney Island boardwalk. You see, he has figured out that we are family and family means you hold hands, just so you can feel connected to each other. Family means that you have energy that flows through you built on memories and hopes and dreams only sometimes spoken, but always felt when you hold hands, feeling the sea breeze.
My favorite five year old is trying hard to figure out what it means to be family. He wants to know how we are all connected with each other, who has what role in his life, and how comfortable and trusting can he be with someone who is a part of his family or, not a part of his family.
This past weekend he got upset with his mother when she called me her best friend. “Mom,” he exclaimed, “Aunt Mieke is not your friend - she is family!” He would ask questions like this, at the dinner table with his mother, my roommate, and myself: “Mommy, is that man,” meaning my roommate, “a part of our family?” And then, since not long ago when he asked if his mommy would ever marry his daddy and he received the response: “Mommy and daddy tried that and it didn’t work out,” he asked his mommy if she would marry me. All we could say was, “Sorry sweetie, that won’t work out either. But we are both your family and we love you very much.” He is trying to characterize that which he can’t see, he is trying to put definitions on to his relationships so that he knows how he is supposed to interact with people, so he knows who to trust and who should take care of him.
Isn’t it true that throughout our lives we are constantly sizing up how we are to interact with others, based on our relationship to them, or their relationship with people we know? We do this not only with people in our lives, but also in the church. This is part of what can be so hard and also such a growing time when congregations like yours are in an interim period. We have all learned ways of relating over the years with a particular person as our Pastor, and when this person leaves it upsets the roles we have always found ourselves in, it upsets even how we think we may know God. We have to learn again and anew who we are and how God speaks to us and who we say we are and who others say we are.
I think of what it is like when we gather together for rituals that mark change in our lives. All of our anxiety around familial relationships, around who and how we are defined comes to the surface. In my experience officiating at weddings I have noticed that the single-most stressful and contentious time of the entire process is most often the rehearsal. We gather around the day or the week before. We say a word of prayer and the couple thanks everyone for coming. There are always a million little questions. How do we know when to begin walking? Is the man or the woman on the left? Does the couple face each other or the congregation? But the big questions come out around the order of the procession. Before the rehearsal I have discussed the order with the couple. And every single time someone’s feelings are hurt, there is always at least a private fit that is thrown. Does the stepmother process? If so, does she go before or after the mother? What about the sister-in-law? Since the brother is a groomsmen, then she is left with no one to walk her down the aisle. These mini and sometimes not so mini-fits and questions revolve around the issue: who is a part of this family and who isn’t? What does flesh and blood mean? How are we supposed to interact? Who are we supposed to trust?
I notice that the most vulnerable in the family system, the ones that aren’t sure exactly where they fit, the ones that ask where they are in relationship to others, who ask the most: “is this really my family? Am I wanted in this family? Who do you say that I am?” provide the places of the greatest contention, hurt feelings, confusion, since what we do when we gather together for rituals as important and binding as things likes weddings articulate the essence of this question: “who am I in relation to these others, in flesh and in blood, how am I named, who do you say that I am?”
There are those times biblically when our roles and definitions are claimed and explored. Most of the time God is defining our relationship with God or each other. In creation God blesses all that is made. The rivers are named. God sees all of creation, of you and me as good. When the first human found a partner, the relationship was named between the two: “this at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh.” In Genesis, as Abram’s relationship with God changes, so does his name. Chapter 17 verse 5 reads: “No longer shall your name be Abram, but your name shall be Abraham; for I have made you the ancestor of a multitude of nations.” His wife Sarai becomes Sarah as she finds herself no longer barren.
Names are often given very intentionally, as they name an experience or a relationship that has been established through a new birth. Sarah and Abraham’s son is named Isaac, which means “he laughed.” Remember that Sarai laughed first when she thought she was pregnant, for no way this could be the reality for a woman as old as she. Abram’s mistress, an Egyptian slave girl, whose name was Hagar, was the first person in the Scriptures to name God. She gave birth to Abram’s first child, Ishmael, which means “God hears.” God hears her cry in the wilderness, and she uses the word: “El-roi” which means “the God who sees” and the well, where God visited her “beer la hai-roi “ the well of the Living One who sees me.
In the New Testament, the second testament relational definitions are also present. Throughout the Bible in its entirety we read lists of family connections. Matthew begins with “an account of the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham. Abraham was the father of Isaac, and Isaac the father of Jacob, and Jacob the father of Judah and”…on and on. It is important to tell from where we come and therefore to where we are headed.
And in Jesus’ baptism, a voice from heaven declared: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” The relationship between Jesus and his Heavenly Parent is established at this point: God’s beloved. And we remember in our baptism that the relationship of choosing, of claiming, of being named by God is made known to ourselves and those who promise to support us in our journey of faith. In essence, God claims us as God’s own beloved, in life and in death, with whom God is well pleased. God names us in our baptism and claims that relationship of our Creator whose love never runs out.
The question of who we are, of who Jesus is, in relationship to his disciples, in relationship to the Roman Empire, in relationship to humanity for the rest of time comes to a head in our lesson this morning. Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Humanity is?” Is it a trick question? Is he waiting to see if they really get it yet, not only his role in their lives but his role in the redemption of the entire world, from that day forward, his role in giving us a new way to live, a way of liberation and justice that comes from a place of God’s love, love that is not boastful or selfish, as we are told in Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians?
So, who do we say Jesus is? The disciples tried to take a stab at it, they told him all the names that he had been called. Some say, John the Baptist, others Elijah, others Jeremiah, others one of the prophets. Jesus isn’t one whose identity, whose relationship with humanity can be easily put in a box, even from the beginning times of his days walking on the earth. But this isn’t really the question he was asking, the question of who do others say that he is. He wanted to know, you know, who the disciples said that he is.
Simon Peter, the one who would betray Jesus and would also be the Rock on which the Church stood, he answered correctly: “You are the Messiah! The Son of the living God!” And despite Jesus’ knowing of Peter’s impending behaviors, in spite of knowing how much Peter would hurt him, would betray him – not once, not twice but three times – Jesus claims his own relationship with Peter, God’s relationship with Peter, and calls him Blessed. Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah!”
And then the pronouncement that comes to my Godson and to you and to me, that “flesh and blood” are not what determines the relationship between them, between us. It is not by flesh and blood that Simon Peter understands that Jesus is the Messiah, but instead our Creator is our connecting tissue, the arms that interlock while walking down the boardwalk, the hands that grasp in busy streets. It is Jesus who is our Messiah, the one who claims us, who identifies the Simon Peter in each of us and calls us still Blessed. It is Jesus who is our Messiah and is therefore our connecting blood across lines of difference which we have learned for too long we cannot cross.
Jesus is clear in his declaration of relationship with Peter, that Peter is Beloved. Peter is clear in his defining of Jesus, as Messiah, Son of the living God. In his times this was not an easy declaration, this slapped the face of the Roman Empire within which they lived and breathed, which tried to keep relationships across differences of class and political viewpoint separate and distinct.
And so regardless of our anxiety today about who we are in our own families of flesh and blood. Regardless of who others say that we are, how accurate or inaccurate those definitions may be. Regardless of the relationships where we feel most insecure and confused. Regardless of how comfortable we feel in this congregation in the in-between time that you experience. Regardless of the roles we are most uncomfortable in filling in our own lives. Regardless of it all, we can live in the assurance that Jesus gives to Peter, that we hear at our own Baptisms, that we are Blessed, we are God’s Beloved. We are given the freedom of connecting across lines of difference, difference that may seem insurmountable but with Jesus our Messiah, can be overcome.
Amen.
Preached at Olivet Presbyterian Church, Staten Island
August 24, 2008
This past weekend my Godson and his mother, my best friend, were visiting the Big City. Crosby is almost five years old and has entered the stage where all kissing is yucky. Kissing on TV, his Godmother trying to kiss his forehead before he goes to bed. Just. Yucky. He has entered the stage where he won’t eat vegetables and only certain kinds of fruits. And things need to be organized a particular way or else he makes his upsetness known.
However, despite his five year old superiority, he does love holding his mom’s hand and my hand and walking down the street or at the Coney Island boardwalk. You see, he has figured out that we are family and family means you hold hands, just so you can feel connected to each other. Family means that you have energy that flows through you built on memories and hopes and dreams only sometimes spoken, but always felt when you hold hands, feeling the sea breeze.
My favorite five year old is trying hard to figure out what it means to be family. He wants to know how we are all connected with each other, who has what role in his life, and how comfortable and trusting can he be with someone who is a part of his family or, not a part of his family.
This past weekend he got upset with his mother when she called me her best friend. “Mom,” he exclaimed, “Aunt Mieke is not your friend - she is family!” He would ask questions like this, at the dinner table with his mother, my roommate, and myself: “Mommy, is that man,” meaning my roommate, “a part of our family?” And then, since not long ago when he asked if his mommy would ever marry his daddy and he received the response: “Mommy and daddy tried that and it didn’t work out,” he asked his mommy if she would marry me. All we could say was, “Sorry sweetie, that won’t work out either. But we are both your family and we love you very much.” He is trying to characterize that which he can’t see, he is trying to put definitions on to his relationships so that he knows how he is supposed to interact with people, so he knows who to trust and who should take care of him.
Isn’t it true that throughout our lives we are constantly sizing up how we are to interact with others, based on our relationship to them, or their relationship with people we know? We do this not only with people in our lives, but also in the church. This is part of what can be so hard and also such a growing time when congregations like yours are in an interim period. We have all learned ways of relating over the years with a particular person as our Pastor, and when this person leaves it upsets the roles we have always found ourselves in, it upsets even how we think we may know God. We have to learn again and anew who we are and how God speaks to us and who we say we are and who others say we are.
I think of what it is like when we gather together for rituals that mark change in our lives. All of our anxiety around familial relationships, around who and how we are defined comes to the surface. In my experience officiating at weddings I have noticed that the single-most stressful and contentious time of the entire process is most often the rehearsal. We gather around the day or the week before. We say a word of prayer and the couple thanks everyone for coming. There are always a million little questions. How do we know when to begin walking? Is the man or the woman on the left? Does the couple face each other or the congregation? But the big questions come out around the order of the procession. Before the rehearsal I have discussed the order with the couple. And every single time someone’s feelings are hurt, there is always at least a private fit that is thrown. Does the stepmother process? If so, does she go before or after the mother? What about the sister-in-law? Since the brother is a groomsmen, then she is left with no one to walk her down the aisle. These mini and sometimes not so mini-fits and questions revolve around the issue: who is a part of this family and who isn’t? What does flesh and blood mean? How are we supposed to interact? Who are we supposed to trust?
I notice that the most vulnerable in the family system, the ones that aren’t sure exactly where they fit, the ones that ask where they are in relationship to others, who ask the most: “is this really my family? Am I wanted in this family? Who do you say that I am?” provide the places of the greatest contention, hurt feelings, confusion, since what we do when we gather together for rituals as important and binding as things likes weddings articulate the essence of this question: “who am I in relation to these others, in flesh and in blood, how am I named, who do you say that I am?”
There are those times biblically when our roles and definitions are claimed and explored. Most of the time God is defining our relationship with God or each other. In creation God blesses all that is made. The rivers are named. God sees all of creation, of you and me as good. When the first human found a partner, the relationship was named between the two: “this at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh.” In Genesis, as Abram’s relationship with God changes, so does his name. Chapter 17 verse 5 reads: “No longer shall your name be Abram, but your name shall be Abraham; for I have made you the ancestor of a multitude of nations.” His wife Sarai becomes Sarah as she finds herself no longer barren.
Names are often given very intentionally, as they name an experience or a relationship that has been established through a new birth. Sarah and Abraham’s son is named Isaac, which means “he laughed.” Remember that Sarai laughed first when she thought she was pregnant, for no way this could be the reality for a woman as old as she. Abram’s mistress, an Egyptian slave girl, whose name was Hagar, was the first person in the Scriptures to name God. She gave birth to Abram’s first child, Ishmael, which means “God hears.” God hears her cry in the wilderness, and she uses the word: “El-roi” which means “the God who sees” and the well, where God visited her “beer la hai-roi “ the well of the Living One who sees me.
In the New Testament, the second testament relational definitions are also present. Throughout the Bible in its entirety we read lists of family connections. Matthew begins with “an account of the genealogy of Jesus the Messiah, the son of David, the son of Abraham. Abraham was the father of Isaac, and Isaac the father of Jacob, and Jacob the father of Judah and”…on and on. It is important to tell from where we come and therefore to where we are headed.
And in Jesus’ baptism, a voice from heaven declared: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.” The relationship between Jesus and his Heavenly Parent is established at this point: God’s beloved. And we remember in our baptism that the relationship of choosing, of claiming, of being named by God is made known to ourselves and those who promise to support us in our journey of faith. In essence, God claims us as God’s own beloved, in life and in death, with whom God is well pleased. God names us in our baptism and claims that relationship of our Creator whose love never runs out.
The question of who we are, of who Jesus is, in relationship to his disciples, in relationship to the Roman Empire, in relationship to humanity for the rest of time comes to a head in our lesson this morning. Jesus asks his disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Humanity is?” Is it a trick question? Is he waiting to see if they really get it yet, not only his role in their lives but his role in the redemption of the entire world, from that day forward, his role in giving us a new way to live, a way of liberation and justice that comes from a place of God’s love, love that is not boastful or selfish, as we are told in Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians?
So, who do we say Jesus is? The disciples tried to take a stab at it, they told him all the names that he had been called. Some say, John the Baptist, others Elijah, others Jeremiah, others one of the prophets. Jesus isn’t one whose identity, whose relationship with humanity can be easily put in a box, even from the beginning times of his days walking on the earth. But this isn’t really the question he was asking, the question of who do others say that he is. He wanted to know, you know, who the disciples said that he is.
Simon Peter, the one who would betray Jesus and would also be the Rock on which the Church stood, he answered correctly: “You are the Messiah! The Son of the living God!” And despite Jesus’ knowing of Peter’s impending behaviors, in spite of knowing how much Peter would hurt him, would betray him – not once, not twice but three times – Jesus claims his own relationship with Peter, God’s relationship with Peter, and calls him Blessed. Blessed are you, Simon son of Jonah!”
And then the pronouncement that comes to my Godson and to you and to me, that “flesh and blood” are not what determines the relationship between them, between us. It is not by flesh and blood that Simon Peter understands that Jesus is the Messiah, but instead our Creator is our connecting tissue, the arms that interlock while walking down the boardwalk, the hands that grasp in busy streets. It is Jesus who is our Messiah, the one who claims us, who identifies the Simon Peter in each of us and calls us still Blessed. It is Jesus who is our Messiah and is therefore our connecting blood across lines of difference which we have learned for too long we cannot cross.
Jesus is clear in his declaration of relationship with Peter, that Peter is Beloved. Peter is clear in his defining of Jesus, as Messiah, Son of the living God. In his times this was not an easy declaration, this slapped the face of the Roman Empire within which they lived and breathed, which tried to keep relationships across differences of class and political viewpoint separate and distinct.
And so regardless of our anxiety today about who we are in our own families of flesh and blood. Regardless of who others say that we are, how accurate or inaccurate those definitions may be. Regardless of the relationships where we feel most insecure and confused. Regardless of how comfortable we feel in this congregation in the in-between time that you experience. Regardless of the roles we are most uncomfortable in filling in our own lives. Regardless of it all, we can live in the assurance that Jesus gives to Peter, that we hear at our own Baptisms, that we are Blessed, we are God’s Beloved. We are given the freedom of connecting across lines of difference, difference that may seem insurmountable but with Jesus our Messiah, can be overcome.
Amen.
20 August 2008
In Plain Language
Matthew 10:1-15
by Jenny Howard
Then Jesus summoned his disciples and sent them on a mission – a mission to heal, and to clean out the spirits of filth and decay.
And the names of the disciples were these: (your name here, and yours, and mine, ... and many others too numerous to mention).
Jesus instructed them, “There’s no need to go to the ends of the earth; the lost ones who need your help are right in your back yard. Tell them, God’s great love embraces everyone, and it is here, now – it’s all around us. Carry this love to the sick at heart; it will heal them. Use it to bring back to life those whose souls have died. Reach out and touch the dirty, the untouchables with it; it will cleanse them. Indeed, it even has the power to cast out demons.
"You received this love without payment; give without payment. You won’t need money or special equipment for this mission. When you’re doing my work, I’ll make sure you have what you need.
"Find someone who should hear this message of love, and stay with them until it’s time to find another one. Go in peace wherever you go, and share this peace with others. If someone refuses to share this peace and love with you, walk away – don’t take even the dust of their house with you. Their closed heart will have consequences, but that’s not your mission. Just take your peace with you, and keep telling people about God’s wildly inclusive love."
The above paraphrase is reprinted here with permission of the author. It originally appeared on the Cassandra Today blog.
by Jenny Howard
Then Jesus summoned his disciples and sent them on a mission – a mission to heal, and to clean out the spirits of filth and decay.
And the names of the disciples were these: (your name here, and yours, and mine, ... and many others too numerous to mention).
Jesus instructed them, “There’s no need to go to the ends of the earth; the lost ones who need your help are right in your back yard. Tell them, God’s great love embraces everyone, and it is here, now – it’s all around us. Carry this love to the sick at heart; it will heal them. Use it to bring back to life those whose souls have died. Reach out and touch the dirty, the untouchables with it; it will cleanse them. Indeed, it even has the power to cast out demons.
"You received this love without payment; give without payment. You won’t need money or special equipment for this mission. When you’re doing my work, I’ll make sure you have what you need.
"Find someone who should hear this message of love, and stay with them until it’s time to find another one. Go in peace wherever you go, and share this peace with others. If someone refuses to share this peace and love with you, walk away – don’t take even the dust of their house with you. Their closed heart will have consequences, but that’s not your mission. Just take your peace with you, and keep telling people about God’s wildly inclusive love."
The above paraphrase is reprinted here with permission of the author. It originally appeared on the Cassandra Today blog.
14 August 2008
Joseph the Dreamer
By Rev. Susan Kenna
19th Sunday of Ordinary Time
Genesis 37:1-4,12-28; Psalm 105:1-6,16-22,45b; Romans 10:5-15; Matthew 14:22-33
Please pray. Feed us God, feed us on your word, so that we might be people of hope, especially when the world around us slaps us around and seems to get the upper hand. We thank you for your faithfulness as we live our lives in service to you. Amen.
What I write here is not a well polished sermon, it doesn’t even come close! What I write here are really words to myself. I’ve taken the biblical texts for the 19th Sunday of Ordinary Time and mused over them for a time. I am thrilled because I found a little gem from each text. Compared to what I do on a daily basis, this musing was a time of play. I share a little bit of me here…the little girl and the grown up adult. …so, come on, play with me!
I have many images in my mind when I think of Joseph and his life’s story in Genesis. Some of the images are from my childhood years when I first heard this story. I picture his coat that is colorful, long sleeved and embellished with ribbons and fringe; a prized part of a wardrobe. I see Joseph the dreamer, the young man whose head is in the clouds and who shares his dreams with others, others who would just as well have him keep his dreams to himself.
But now, along with those innocent childhood images, I see violence, hate, and deceit in Joseph’s story. As glbt persons, it is easy to identify with Joseph; we live on the margins, scorned by all but a few of our sisters and brothers. The good news is that we don’t have to remain marginalized. We can dream. With the gifts God gives each of us, we will continue our work for peace and justice, and in doing so, be blessings to our world, even to those who scorn us.
Consider the gospel and epistle passages for this week too. Paul writes about hearing and believing. There are those who will not believe unless they hear and they will not hear unless some one tells them. We are the ones to speak out and tell those who need to hear. We reiterate what scripture says, that our Lord “is rich enough” (The Jerusalem Bible’s translation) and makes “no distinction.” God cares less about our differences. We all are God’s. God’s love is wide and God’s people are a rainbow.
My youthful thoughts of Peter walking on the stormy water focused on the negative, on his sinking down because of his lack of faith. Now, as one who has experienced stormy times in my life and lived through them, I notice that as Peter focuses on Jesus, he walks on the water too, his sandals don’t get wet. No doubt storms lay ahead of us as in our past. The best we can do is to ride out the storms and go through them as we focus and cling to the divine that is present within us and around us.
Imagine something with me. Imagine all of us on a boat, dripping wet as our colorful, long sleeved, embellished robes cling to our bodies as we ride the waves in the wind and rain, all holding hands with Jesus, laughing and singing because our dreams of inclusiveness and justice have all come true. Imagine!
Reverend Susan
19th Sunday of Ordinary Time
Genesis 37:1-4,12-28; Psalm 105:1-6,16-22,45b; Romans 10:5-15; Matthew 14:22-33
Please pray. Feed us God, feed us on your word, so that we might be people of hope, especially when the world around us slaps us around and seems to get the upper hand. We thank you for your faithfulness as we live our lives in service to you. Amen.
What I write here is not a well polished sermon, it doesn’t even come close! What I write here are really words to myself. I’ve taken the biblical texts for the 19th Sunday of Ordinary Time and mused over them for a time. I am thrilled because I found a little gem from each text. Compared to what I do on a daily basis, this musing was a time of play. I share a little bit of me here…the little girl and the grown up adult. …so, come on, play with me!
I have many images in my mind when I think of Joseph and his life’s story in Genesis. Some of the images are from my childhood years when I first heard this story. I picture his coat that is colorful, long sleeved and embellished with ribbons and fringe; a prized part of a wardrobe. I see Joseph the dreamer, the young man whose head is in the clouds and who shares his dreams with others, others who would just as well have him keep his dreams to himself.
But now, along with those innocent childhood images, I see violence, hate, and deceit in Joseph’s story. As glbt persons, it is easy to identify with Joseph; we live on the margins, scorned by all but a few of our sisters and brothers. The good news is that we don’t have to remain marginalized. We can dream. With the gifts God gives each of us, we will continue our work for peace and justice, and in doing so, be blessings to our world, even to those who scorn us.
Consider the gospel and epistle passages for this week too. Paul writes about hearing and believing. There are those who will not believe unless they hear and they will not hear unless some one tells them. We are the ones to speak out and tell those who need to hear. We reiterate what scripture says, that our Lord “is rich enough” (The Jerusalem Bible’s translation) and makes “no distinction.” God cares less about our differences. We all are God’s. God’s love is wide and God’s people are a rainbow.
My youthful thoughts of Peter walking on the stormy water focused on the negative, on his sinking down because of his lack of faith. Now, as one who has experienced stormy times in my life and lived through them, I notice that as Peter focuses on Jesus, he walks on the water too, his sandals don’t get wet. No doubt storms lay ahead of us as in our past. The best we can do is to ride out the storms and go through them as we focus and cling to the divine that is present within us and around us.
Imagine something with me. Imagine all of us on a boat, dripping wet as our colorful, long sleeved, embellished robes cling to our bodies as we ride the waves in the wind and rain, all holding hands with Jesus, laughing and singing because our dreams of inclusiveness and justice have all come true. Imagine!
Reverend Susan
04 August 2008
At the Water Table
Reflection on Pride March 2008
Rev. Bob Brashear
West-Park Presbyterian Church, NYC
I come to the Pride March from one step beyond...as an ally, friend. I come to the First Presbyterian Church at 5th and 12th in the Village because of the water table there where we give cups of cold water to hot marchers. Because the table is named for Evelyn Davidson, the wife of Bob Davidson, former pastor of the church I now serve.
Bob led our church to be the first More Light Church...the first church of any mainline denomination to openly welcome lgbt folks at every level of leadership thirty years ago. One of his greater moments was when he ran for Moderator of the Presbyterian Church, its highest elected position. A doctor of the law, make that a Presbyterian elder, seeking to test him, rose to ask a question. “Rev. Davidson,” he said, “there is a rumor that one of your daughters is a lesbian, what do you say to that?” And Bob immediately replied, “Oh no, that’s not a rumor...that’s a fact. And her mother and I are proud of her and completely support her...and all of her brothers and sisters.” Davidson won the election proving what so many candidates have failed to realize...that to the average commissioner, openness, directness and honesty are more important than agreement. We’d rather know where you are and disagree than to have someone in there who will bend which ever way the wind blows. Those who seek to please everyone can never lead anyone.
Evelyn believed that the church was responsible for much of the hostility directed at lgbt folk. That the church had caused much hurt and pain. And that gay people needed to see a different face of the church. So she came up with the idea of the water table, to give a “cup of cold water”..in “Jesus’ name” to give welcome and refreshment to all who would pass by.
I see Charlie Mitchell at the table, once a volunteer Parish Associate at West-Park. Well past retirement age, but still filling cup after cup of cold water. I see Jon Walton, pastor of First Church, in his clerical black complete with collar and a red baseball hat with the Presbyterian seal on it wading purposefully into the crowd to pass out the water. I’m more reserved, stand a little further back, looking into faces to see who might be thirsty, then stepping forward. With each word of thanks that follows a cup, a moment of connection.
There are three young men standing in front of the table. One in a pelt of some kind, (where’s PETA?), one in a loin cloth and one with only a strategically placed cluster of green leaves. What they represented, I don’t know, but many marchers stepped out of line to pose for photos with them.
I remember the first year I did this, my whole family with me. My younger boys were, well, unprepared for some of the more overtly sexual displays of the day. Later that night, we sat on the floor with our friends Judy and Diane and their daughter Elana, a schoolmate of my son Nate. Finally one of them worked up enough courage to say, “But I don’t understand why...” and proceeded to describe what had upset him. Judy looked him straight in the eye aid, “ Well, there are some things about gay men I don’t understand either.”
The only way I can begin to understand it, from one step away, is that if society has forced on you an identity that focuses on only one aspect of your life, your affectional orientation, your sexuality, then the most subversive act in response is to take that, pump up the volume and put it right in their faces. Like sixties long hair or rap music, a performance art of protest.
I enjoy the more mainline contingents...the PFLAG group of courageous parents and friends who loved their children and opened the way to safe space for so many others, the SAGE group fighting for health and wholeness for Senior citizen gays in a young person’s world. And then the Lavender Light float with soul shaking gospel music flowing forth in a mighty stream.
I’m most of all glad that I’ve got here in time for the Latin groups. First the Peruvians in a cascading explosion of feathers and gold and color in profusion, ancient native costumes and gilded bodies. A procession fine enough for even the great Inca, Atahualpa himself. I wondered if maybe gay folk may have had a special role in that culture.
Then the Argentines, cosmopolitan and Euro. There’s a late model black Cadillac convertible and there on the rear, the very living image of Eva Peron. Voluptuous, graceful, black flowing gown, blonde hair pulled back, striking her iconic poses, playing to the crowd. It could have been Eva herself.
And then the Brazilians in a flowing samba stream. Some in soccer regalia from their national team, many more in full out carnival costume, the samba line behind keeping the rhythm rolling. Who were men, who were women. Who could tell? Who could care?
I think about what it means to fully embody a culture that is essential to who you are and at the same time know that the same culture may well want to keep you out. I remember the Latin women I’ve married over the years, often one Pentecostal, one Catholic. Drawn to West-Park by its dual Latino and More Light reputation. Feeling alienated from the church that shaped them, a culture that fills them and rejects them and even a community that often seems dominated by white professional class people. And how sad I have felt that despite the welcome my church gives that sooner or later I would have to say that our denomination is no more inclusive than theirs.
Thunder booms. A storm is coming soon. I know that my friends from Presbyterian Welcome are still down the line. That my Elder Jim is on the street or on the float. Along with too many others to name. That over the years, some of my members have come to safely test out a new identification, others to show solidarity and support and others just to celebrate being. And that this year, even as the rain begins to pour down, there is even more to celebrate. Our General Assembly has just once again voted to send to its Presbyteries for ratification the deletion of any constitutional language that would bar lgbt folk from full participation in ordained leadership. Maybe the thirds time’s a charm.
As for me, I’m proud to follow in the line of a courageous cloud of witnesses that stretches back 30 years. Saturday, at the Mets-Yankees subway series, a storm broke out, then a bright rainbow appeared over the rising new ball park beyond the outfield wall.. My son Dan turned to me and said, “Just the right weekend for a rainbow, huh dad?” Maybe this year...make that, may this be the year....
Rev. Bob Brashear
West-Park Presbyterian Church, NYC
I come to the Pride March from one step beyond...as an ally, friend. I come to the First Presbyterian Church at 5th and 12th in the Village because of the water table there where we give cups of cold water to hot marchers. Because the table is named for Evelyn Davidson, the wife of Bob Davidson, former pastor of the church I now serve.
Bob led our church to be the first More Light Church...the first church of any mainline denomination to openly welcome lgbt folks at every level of leadership thirty years ago. One of his greater moments was when he ran for Moderator of the Presbyterian Church, its highest elected position. A doctor of the law, make that a Presbyterian elder, seeking to test him, rose to ask a question. “Rev. Davidson,” he said, “there is a rumor that one of your daughters is a lesbian, what do you say to that?” And Bob immediately replied, “Oh no, that’s not a rumor...that’s a fact. And her mother and I are proud of her and completely support her...and all of her brothers and sisters.” Davidson won the election proving what so many candidates have failed to realize...that to the average commissioner, openness, directness and honesty are more important than agreement. We’d rather know where you are and disagree than to have someone in there who will bend which ever way the wind blows. Those who seek to please everyone can never lead anyone.
Evelyn believed that the church was responsible for much of the hostility directed at lgbt folk. That the church had caused much hurt and pain. And that gay people needed to see a different face of the church. So she came up with the idea of the water table, to give a “cup of cold water”..in “Jesus’ name” to give welcome and refreshment to all who would pass by.
I see Charlie Mitchell at the table, once a volunteer Parish Associate at West-Park. Well past retirement age, but still filling cup after cup of cold water. I see Jon Walton, pastor of First Church, in his clerical black complete with collar and a red baseball hat with the Presbyterian seal on it wading purposefully into the crowd to pass out the water. I’m more reserved, stand a little further back, looking into faces to see who might be thirsty, then stepping forward. With each word of thanks that follows a cup, a moment of connection.
There are three young men standing in front of the table. One in a pelt of some kind, (where’s PETA?), one in a loin cloth and one with only a strategically placed cluster of green leaves. What they represented, I don’t know, but many marchers stepped out of line to pose for photos with them.
I remember the first year I did this, my whole family with me. My younger boys were, well, unprepared for some of the more overtly sexual displays of the day. Later that night, we sat on the floor with our friends Judy and Diane and their daughter Elana, a schoolmate of my son Nate. Finally one of them worked up enough courage to say, “But I don’t understand why...” and proceeded to describe what had upset him. Judy looked him straight in the eye aid, “ Well, there are some things about gay men I don’t understand either.”
The only way I can begin to understand it, from one step away, is that if society has forced on you an identity that focuses on only one aspect of your life, your affectional orientation, your sexuality, then the most subversive act in response is to take that, pump up the volume and put it right in their faces. Like sixties long hair or rap music, a performance art of protest.
I enjoy the more mainline contingents...the PFLAG group of courageous parents and friends who loved their children and opened the way to safe space for so many others, the SAGE group fighting for health and wholeness for Senior citizen gays in a young person’s world. And then the Lavender Light float with soul shaking gospel music flowing forth in a mighty stream.
I’m most of all glad that I’ve got here in time for the Latin groups. First the Peruvians in a cascading explosion of feathers and gold and color in profusion, ancient native costumes and gilded bodies. A procession fine enough for even the great Inca, Atahualpa himself. I wondered if maybe gay folk may have had a special role in that culture.
Then the Argentines, cosmopolitan and Euro. There’s a late model black Cadillac convertible and there on the rear, the very living image of Eva Peron. Voluptuous, graceful, black flowing gown, blonde hair pulled back, striking her iconic poses, playing to the crowd. It could have been Eva herself.
And then the Brazilians in a flowing samba stream. Some in soccer regalia from their national team, many more in full out carnival costume, the samba line behind keeping the rhythm rolling. Who were men, who were women. Who could tell? Who could care?
I think about what it means to fully embody a culture that is essential to who you are and at the same time know that the same culture may well want to keep you out. I remember the Latin women I’ve married over the years, often one Pentecostal, one Catholic. Drawn to West-Park by its dual Latino and More Light reputation. Feeling alienated from the church that shaped them, a culture that fills them and rejects them and even a community that often seems dominated by white professional class people. And how sad I have felt that despite the welcome my church gives that sooner or later I would have to say that our denomination is no more inclusive than theirs.
Thunder booms. A storm is coming soon. I know that my friends from Presbyterian Welcome are still down the line. That my Elder Jim is on the street or on the float. Along with too many others to name. That over the years, some of my members have come to safely test out a new identification, others to show solidarity and support and others just to celebrate being. And that this year, even as the rain begins to pour down, there is even more to celebrate. Our General Assembly has just once again voted to send to its Presbyteries for ratification the deletion of any constitutional language that would bar lgbt folk from full participation in ordained leadership. Maybe the thirds time’s a charm.
As for me, I’m proud to follow in the line of a courageous cloud of witnesses that stretches back 30 years. Saturday, at the Mets-Yankees subway series, a storm broke out, then a bright rainbow appeared over the rising new ball park beyond the outfield wall.. My son Dan turned to me and said, “Just the right weekend for a rainbow, huh dad?” Maybe this year...make that, may this be the year....
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