By David DeLauro
Amos 4:1
"Hear this word, you fat cows on Mount Samaria,
you women who oppress the poor and crush the needy
and say to your husbands, "Bring us some drinks!" "
What a ride this week has been: from temperature swings of 50 degrees, finding out America tortures, to the PCUSA once again voting against inclusion. It all seems so tumultuous but then again that's what Spring is all about. We are changing seasons. We are moving from the cold introversion and self-reflection of winter to the warmth of rebirth and community. As I was laying in the sun basking in this new found change in the weather, I came to realize something about my theology that was missing. For all of this new Spring life to appear, something needs to be destroyed first. God is a god of destruction. At first this sounded blasphemous to my uber-liberal-god-is-all-love ears but the more I meditated on it and upon the prophet Amos, which I had been reading this week, I came to find peace and a sense of joy in God breaking things we hold to be unchanging facts. God destroyed death in the resurrection of Christ. God overturned life and walked with us. God destroyed the power of sin.
I know I've often overlooked the parts of the biblical witness that proclaim God's wrath and destruction. I've often looked at it as being a patriarchal throwback to when it was good to be an abusive father to a wayward son. If I peel back the patriarchy, though, I find that the message behind the culture is quite on par with the Good News we proclaim in Christ's life. God is working to bring humanity to its full dignity. God is working to tear down all walls that separate us from being a community of love. God is freeing us from the husk of our seed so we may sprout and bask in the joy of all creation.
While this change is occurring, though, it can be quite a frightful thing. At least for me, it's hard to accept new things that will upset the flow of life I have created around myself. The suffering that comes from this destruction is not found in the in-breaking of God's love and mercy but rather from our inability to let go of an inhuman past--with its patterns of power in which we have found comfort--and embrace the humanity found in God's new way of love. Now, I'm not saying that God sends lightning bolts, tornadoes, or even earthquakes as retribution or as a way of punishing us into "getting on the right track." Rather, I'm saying that God's destruction is found in the freeing of our hearts to love each other as fully as Christ loves us.
I have seen this new way of love especially growing this past year as the PC(USA) voted and began anew conversations of full inclusion for ordination. Though the measure to remove restrictive language against glbt folk has since failed, I still see God beginning the process of destroying the PC(USA) with God's love. More and more people have formed communities to embrace the dignity of human beings and in so doing they share in God's destruction by showing each other love. Those that are fighting to keep the church mired in legalistic and restrictive language are 100% correct about the results of changing whether or not the church accepts persons of various sexual orientations: it will destroy the church and it will be God's doing. God will destroy the part of the church that preaches marginalization and oppression of glbt folk and transform it into a church that listens to glbt folk preach to us about God's life giving grace and love. God will destroy the industrialized notion of family and open the church to form new ways of family in community that uplift the whole of humanity. So, with my whole heart I have been and will continue to pray that the church is destroyed and transformed into a vibrant witness to God's limitless mercy and love.
Praise God for my destruction and the new life that I have been given because of it!
27 April 2009
23 April 2009
“Peace” Seriously?!?
John 20:19-23
By Elder Jeremiah
On the first Sunday after Easter, the lectionary Gospel reading provides us with an account of the first visitation of Jesus to his disciples, that rag-tag, eclectic and sometimes crazy as loons assortment of fishermen, tax collector, and God only knows what else. His first words to them are “Peace be with you.” “Shalom aleichem!”
Petty and vindictive as I can be from time to time, I would have expected an indictment of character, followed by a litany of charges. But all encompassing and loving that Jesus is, he speaks those reassuring, healing words “Shalom aleichem.”
Of all the words in the Hebrew lexicon, to say shalom; that word so rich in meaning which has no direct equivalent in the English language. Yes, it means: hello, welcome and peace. But also happiness, health, well being, wholeness, safety, prosperity. As poignant as in his earthly ministry, Jesus goes right to the heart of the matter and addresses their needs.
What anguish the disciples must have suffered. What torture they must have been experiencing at the hands of guilt, shame and remorse. To have abandoned one whom they had held so dear. To witness their preconceived notions crumble in the face of reality. To have their delusions of grandeur stripped away. To feel less than by their actions; for succumbing to the survival instinct, when they were just being human.
And now, they huddled behind closed doors and barred windows, in the dark, hiding from the Roman occupying forces, from the religious authorities and from their own personal demons. Anyone who has ever hidden, literally or metaphorically, from life, from the past, from responsibilities or from future potential, knows the state of pitiful and incomprehensible isolation. So acute isolation can be that even in a crowded room, or, as in this Gospel story, in a room with companions that have traveled together the past three years, one can feel completely and utterly alone, defective and empty. That is why these words, these restorative words, these grace filled words, spoken when; as my friend Stuart likes to say; they “least expected it, most desperately needed it, and were no more deserving of it than that man on the moon,” had the power in them, through the one who spoke them, to act as an elixir to their ailment and anguish of spirit.
But did you notice? Even before these words were spoken, Jesus was there. There was no puff of smoke, no thunderous crash of sound, no blinding flash of light; he just appeared without saying a word. Stepping into that empty space, filling that space between the disciples, between each other, just as his words would fill that space between them and themselves. Unnoticed. Overlooked. For how long? Seconds? A minute, minutes, even possibly an hour or two?
And isn’t that also the case with us? Just as the disciples were unawares that Jesus was present, do we not do the same? When grace fills that space between here and there, this and that, us and ourselves, ourselves and others, and the fit is so perfect that it seems it has always been, how easy it is to overlook, gloss over, even minimize the miracle occurring in front of our very eyes. I have found on my faith journey that writing a gratitude list, taking time from the busyness of life for gentle self examination and reflection, and obtaining observations and constructive criticism from trusted friends has been invaluable at identifying those grace filled moments when a Power greater than myself filled the gap between . . . . How has the Divine brought shalom in your faith journey? How can you share that experience, strength and hope with someone else?
By Elder Jeremiah
On the first Sunday after Easter, the lectionary Gospel reading provides us with an account of the first visitation of Jesus to his disciples, that rag-tag, eclectic and sometimes crazy as loons assortment of fishermen, tax collector, and God only knows what else. His first words to them are “Peace be with you.” “Shalom aleichem!”
Petty and vindictive as I can be from time to time, I would have expected an indictment of character, followed by a litany of charges. But all encompassing and loving that Jesus is, he speaks those reassuring, healing words “Shalom aleichem.”
Of all the words in the Hebrew lexicon, to say shalom; that word so rich in meaning which has no direct equivalent in the English language. Yes, it means: hello, welcome and peace. But also happiness, health, well being, wholeness, safety, prosperity. As poignant as in his earthly ministry, Jesus goes right to the heart of the matter and addresses their needs.
What anguish the disciples must have suffered. What torture they must have been experiencing at the hands of guilt, shame and remorse. To have abandoned one whom they had held so dear. To witness their preconceived notions crumble in the face of reality. To have their delusions of grandeur stripped away. To feel less than by their actions; for succumbing to the survival instinct, when they were just being human.
And now, they huddled behind closed doors and barred windows, in the dark, hiding from the Roman occupying forces, from the religious authorities and from their own personal demons. Anyone who has ever hidden, literally or metaphorically, from life, from the past, from responsibilities or from future potential, knows the state of pitiful and incomprehensible isolation. So acute isolation can be that even in a crowded room, or, as in this Gospel story, in a room with companions that have traveled together the past three years, one can feel completely and utterly alone, defective and empty. That is why these words, these restorative words, these grace filled words, spoken when; as my friend Stuart likes to say; they “least expected it, most desperately needed it, and were no more deserving of it than that man on the moon,” had the power in them, through the one who spoke them, to act as an elixir to their ailment and anguish of spirit.
But did you notice? Even before these words were spoken, Jesus was there. There was no puff of smoke, no thunderous crash of sound, no blinding flash of light; he just appeared without saying a word. Stepping into that empty space, filling that space between the disciples, between each other, just as his words would fill that space between them and themselves. Unnoticed. Overlooked. For how long? Seconds? A minute, minutes, even possibly an hour or two?
And isn’t that also the case with us? Just as the disciples were unawares that Jesus was present, do we not do the same? When grace fills that space between here and there, this and that, us and ourselves, ourselves and others, and the fit is so perfect that it seems it has always been, how easy it is to overlook, gloss over, even minimize the miracle occurring in front of our very eyes. I have found on my faith journey that writing a gratitude list, taking time from the busyness of life for gentle self examination and reflection, and obtaining observations and constructive criticism from trusted friends has been invaluable at identifying those grace filled moments when a Power greater than myself filled the gap between . . . . How has the Divine brought shalom in your faith journey? How can you share that experience, strength and hope with someone else?
13 April 2009
Easter in a broken world
By Katy Moore, Inquirer, and Senior at Union Theological Seminary in New York
It is Easter, and my heart is heavy. Unfortunately, this is becoming a pattern.
Last year, Easter ’08, I was deeply immersed in a Christology seminar with Dr. James Cone, looking at the history of thought about Jesus through the lens of “the cross and the lynching tree,” Cone’s forthcoming book. It was a brilliant class, and it was a whole semester of Lent. I could not feel Easter resurrection while I wrote papers about spousal abuse condoned by pastors, looked at souvenir photographs of bodies hanging from trees, or contemplated the meaning of the cross in my own life. Last year I had a hard time with Easter in the face of all the violence that still happens in our world.
Today, my soul aches because I am alone: about a month ago my partner started a new job in Pennsylvania, and I am still in New York for 6 more weeks. I spent my Easter saying goodbye and driving away, back to a city that does not feel like home anymore. How do I celebrate resurrection when my own life feels so broken?
I am thinking, instead, of Good Friday. Of all the people who had waited and watched for a Messiah, a savior – an anointed king who would come with guns blazing and free them from Rome and from oppression – and instead, got more death. How let down they must have felt! “We thought he came to save us, but we were wrong. He’s dead too, like all the others.”
And even after Easter, people still died. People died because of tyranny, people died fighting one another, people died for talking about Jesus. The Kingdom (or kin-dom) of God that Jesus spoke of did not magically happen on the first Easter, and it still hasn’t happened in the way that we want and need God’s reality to be our reality.
In the midst of so much that is still wrong with the world, how do we proclaim life? What does Easter mean when it is celebrated in churches torn apart over the worth of their members?
I pause and watch my cursor blink, waiting expectantly, as I grasp for an answer.
Then as now, Easter does not proclaim that God has already “won,” that the kin-dom is already a reality on earth. We know, with flesh and blood and with heart and soul, that this world of injustice and violence and oppression is not God’s way. Jesus’ work, which must be our work also, is not yet finished.
What Easter does promise is that this is not the end. Jesus did die, and more will still die, but their work and their spirits do not end there. As we carry on their message, they live in our hope for a better reality. The way of the world right now may be injustice and death, but it will not be that way forever.
God’s realm is coming, and we can catch glimpses of it in our lives together. After Easter, we know that this time of struggle will end in justice.
At Easter, our sometimes rocky and twisting paths may not be made any easier. But each year, we are reminded to look up into the distance and see that there is something shining and beautiful ahead.
It is Easter, and my heart is heavy. Unfortunately, this is becoming a pattern.
Last year, Easter ’08, I was deeply immersed in a Christology seminar with Dr. James Cone, looking at the history of thought about Jesus through the lens of “the cross and the lynching tree,” Cone’s forthcoming book. It was a brilliant class, and it was a whole semester of Lent. I could not feel Easter resurrection while I wrote papers about spousal abuse condoned by pastors, looked at souvenir photographs of bodies hanging from trees, or contemplated the meaning of the cross in my own life. Last year I had a hard time with Easter in the face of all the violence that still happens in our world.
Today, my soul aches because I am alone: about a month ago my partner started a new job in Pennsylvania, and I am still in New York for 6 more weeks. I spent my Easter saying goodbye and driving away, back to a city that does not feel like home anymore. How do I celebrate resurrection when my own life feels so broken?
I am thinking, instead, of Good Friday. Of all the people who had waited and watched for a Messiah, a savior – an anointed king who would come with guns blazing and free them from Rome and from oppression – and instead, got more death. How let down they must have felt! “We thought he came to save us, but we were wrong. He’s dead too, like all the others.”
And even after Easter, people still died. People died because of tyranny, people died fighting one another, people died for talking about Jesus. The Kingdom (or kin-dom) of God that Jesus spoke of did not magically happen on the first Easter, and it still hasn’t happened in the way that we want and need God’s reality to be our reality.
In the midst of so much that is still wrong with the world, how do we proclaim life? What does Easter mean when it is celebrated in churches torn apart over the worth of their members?
I pause and watch my cursor blink, waiting expectantly, as I grasp for an answer.
Then as now, Easter does not proclaim that God has already “won,” that the kin-dom is already a reality on earth. We know, with flesh and blood and with heart and soul, that this world of injustice and violence and oppression is not God’s way. Jesus’ work, which must be our work also, is not yet finished.
What Easter does promise is that this is not the end. Jesus did die, and more will still die, but their work and their spirits do not end there. As we carry on their message, they live in our hope for a better reality. The way of the world right now may be injustice and death, but it will not be that way forever.
God’s realm is coming, and we can catch glimpses of it in our lives together. After Easter, we know that this time of struggle will end in justice.
At Easter, our sometimes rocky and twisting paths may not be made any easier. But each year, we are reminded to look up into the distance and see that there is something shining and beautiful ahead.
09 April 2009
Can’t not
Jenny Howard
Like many of us, I have lots of inspirational signs taped to the wall in front of my desk. The briefest one is just two words: “Can’t not.” I’ll come back to that sign in a minute.
First, I’ll introduce myself. I’m a first-year M.Div. student at Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, and an Inquirer for Ministry of Word and Sacrament under the care of the Presbytery of Detroit. And I’m transsexual.
When I talk about being transsexual, I sometimes get the response, “I admire your courage!” But of course, it’s not about courage. Courage means making hard choices. For me, coming out to myself in midlife as transsexual was the only option left. I spent a lot of time in the library looking for another answer to what was going on inside me, any other answer. Finally, it was just a matter of accepting transsexuality as something that’s true whether I want it to be or not.
When I talk about changing my vocation from computers to ministry, I sometimes get the response, “What made you want to go to seminary and be a minister?” This, too, was a matter of accepting, not choosing. I can remember my “prayers of discernment” last year sounding more like a 17-year-old sassing her parents: “Hey, God! What the hell are You thinking? I can’t be a minister! As You perfectly well know, I’m transsexual! Don’t be ridiculous!” God, not surprisingly, did not give my opinion more weight than God’s own opinion. And, like the teenager’s parents, God can be way more patient than I can. In the end, I found that I could see God’s point. And besides, I didn’t have a better plan for my life. Or any other plan, really. So, I accepted the only possibility. Well, I did apply to more than one seminary, to give myself the illusion of choice, but God made sure I ended up at Louisville.
And so, with all that wonderful acceptance on my part, my life got onto the path it was meant to, and it’s been a smooth ride ever since.
Not.
Technically, legalistically, I don’t have the same concerns that gays or lesbians do in pursuing Presbyterian ordination. The “gotcha” rule in the Book of Order –G6.01016b – just says that ministers have to be faithful in marriage to a person of the opposite sex, or be chaste and single. I’m chaste and single, and likely to remain so. (I’m not saying that’s what I want, but that’s a topic for another day.) So there should be no problem, right?
But if that’s true, then why did my transsexual friend get kicked out of the process – excuse me, I mean “released from care” – by her presbytery just after she informed them that she was transitioning? Why am I the first transsexual student ever to attend Louisville Seminary? Or the first transsexual, as far as I know, to be admitted to any Presbyterian seminary? (I know one person who transitioned partway through her time at Columbia.) Why did Union-PSCE, certainly no more selective than Louisville, reject my application after much delay, and without explanation? Why is the Field Ed Office here at Louisville telling me that there are only two churches – the More Light ones – where I can get an intern placement next fall, out of a dozen or more Presbyterian churches in this Presbyterian-rich town?
So why, then, do I want to keep trying? Why do I want to be a transsexual Inquirer, and eventually, a transsexual Minister of Word and Sacrament? The trick, of course, is in that word “want”. It’s not about what I want. I didn’t ask to be transsexual; I tried to find any other answer. I didn’t ask to be called by God to the ministry; again, I tried to find any other answer. The reason I keep trying is because this is the only option left. I am transsexual; I am called; and all I can do is accept both.
That, then, is the explanation of the sign in front of my desk: I’m doing this because I can’t not do it.
To all of you reading this who know that there is a call on your life, I wish you the blessings of Christ’s grace and peace.
Like many of us, I have lots of inspirational signs taped to the wall in front of my desk. The briefest one is just two words: “Can’t not.” I’ll come back to that sign in a minute.
First, I’ll introduce myself. I’m a first-year M.Div. student at Louisville Presbyterian Theological Seminary, and an Inquirer for Ministry of Word and Sacrament under the care of the Presbytery of Detroit. And I’m transsexual.
When I talk about being transsexual, I sometimes get the response, “I admire your courage!” But of course, it’s not about courage. Courage means making hard choices. For me, coming out to myself in midlife as transsexual was the only option left. I spent a lot of time in the library looking for another answer to what was going on inside me, any other answer. Finally, it was just a matter of accepting transsexuality as something that’s true whether I want it to be or not.
When I talk about changing my vocation from computers to ministry, I sometimes get the response, “What made you want to go to seminary and be a minister?” This, too, was a matter of accepting, not choosing. I can remember my “prayers of discernment” last year sounding more like a 17-year-old sassing her parents: “Hey, God! What the hell are You thinking? I can’t be a minister! As You perfectly well know, I’m transsexual! Don’t be ridiculous!” God, not surprisingly, did not give my opinion more weight than God’s own opinion. And, like the teenager’s parents, God can be way more patient than I can. In the end, I found that I could see God’s point. And besides, I didn’t have a better plan for my life. Or any other plan, really. So, I accepted the only possibility. Well, I did apply to more than one seminary, to give myself the illusion of choice, but God made sure I ended up at Louisville.
And so, with all that wonderful acceptance on my part, my life got onto the path it was meant to, and it’s been a smooth ride ever since.
Not.
Technically, legalistically, I don’t have the same concerns that gays or lesbians do in pursuing Presbyterian ordination. The “gotcha” rule in the Book of Order –G6.01016b – just says that ministers have to be faithful in marriage to a person of the opposite sex, or be chaste and single. I’m chaste and single, and likely to remain so. (I’m not saying that’s what I want, but that’s a topic for another day.) So there should be no problem, right?
But if that’s true, then why did my transsexual friend get kicked out of the process – excuse me, I mean “released from care” – by her presbytery just after she informed them that she was transitioning? Why am I the first transsexual student ever to attend Louisville Seminary? Or the first transsexual, as far as I know, to be admitted to any Presbyterian seminary? (I know one person who transitioned partway through her time at Columbia.) Why did Union-PSCE, certainly no more selective than Louisville, reject my application after much delay, and without explanation? Why is the Field Ed Office here at Louisville telling me that there are only two churches – the More Light ones – where I can get an intern placement next fall, out of a dozen or more Presbyterian churches in this Presbyterian-rich town?
So why, then, do I want to keep trying? Why do I want to be a transsexual Inquirer, and eventually, a transsexual Minister of Word and Sacrament? The trick, of course, is in that word “want”. It’s not about what I want. I didn’t ask to be transsexual; I tried to find any other answer. I didn’t ask to be called by God to the ministry; again, I tried to find any other answer. The reason I keep trying is because this is the only option left. I am transsexual; I am called; and all I can do is accept both.
That, then, is the explanation of the sign in front of my desk: I’m doing this because I can’t not do it.
To all of you reading this who know that there is a call on your life, I wish you the blessings of Christ’s grace and peace.
30 March 2009
A TAMFS Prayer for the Presbyterian Church
(Offered by Derrick McQueen)
Dearest love my God, I had a dream about you the other day. You had prepared a banquet feast
in the middle of one of your warm and inviting fields.
Your smile shined the sun's beam upon my face
and I could not help but close my eyes
as your warmth washed over me. Looking over the horizon
there were people cresting the hill
holding hands and laughing,
embracing and inviting.
They had all come to sit at the welcome table.
As we stood behind our chairs at the table
You smiled and a tear of joy rested in the corner of Your eye.
We worshipped You because of your love for us.
We sang, we danced, we heard your word
Proclaimed from each and every heart.
What a wonderful gift you give us with life, father God.
What a powerful command to love and be well
you instill in us, mother God.
As we spoke of our joys and concerns
we turned to comfort and console one another;
it was a wonderful kind of peace.
And then there was Jesus, arms outstretched.
He said,
"I'm so glad you all could make it.
I'm so glad you all are home."
As I opened my eyes I noticed the tears had soaked my pillow.
And as my mind-place settled itself
outside of the dream world,
my voice exclaimed, "My church!"
Wonderful God we thank you for the promise
of what your church can be.
We see the open table
where the gifts of Christ are to be shared with one another.
We are grateful that we live in such a time as this
when the home of Jesus Christ is alive
and the Spirit really does open the door
for all to enter in.
We pray this and everyday that You will reveal to us, oh God,
the ways in which we can make the church of Your dreams,
the dream of our reality:
One church family of believers who love you and each other
in every healthy way.
A family where gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered, straight--
where all of Your children sing together in harmony,
"We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord
And we pray that all unity will one day be restored.
And they'll know we are Christians by our love,
yes by our love. They will know we are Christians by our love."
It is with this love that we come to you
with a request upon our lips:
We ask you for courage, strength, dignity
and that the blessed assurance of your call
will allow all of your LBGTQII candidates
to continue to want to share Our God-given ministry
with the church.
Help us to stand strong as we journey along the path
of Inquirer to Candidate,
from Candidate to Certified,
and from Certified to Called.
We know that in your Wisdom, Sophia, all is possible.
So we ask You to prepare Your children for service
in the surety that our time has come.
And while we are readied, prepare your church.
Allow the votes as they proceed from Presbytery to Presbytery
to speak your truth.
Let all see that the tide of conversation has changed
and so the time has come. We are ready to serve, let it be your will. We ask all of this because you love us.
We ask you for a whole church
because we know that you heal brokenness.
We ask you all of this because we love you and our neighbors--
even those that would knock us down--
as you have commanded.
We love them because we love the fullness of creation
in which you have formed each and every one of us.
Because we love ourselves as you have made us,
we give the purest honor to you Oh God our blessed Creator. I dreamed of you the other day... In your precious Holy names we pray now and forever. Amen.
Dearest love my God, I had a dream about you the other day. You had prepared a banquet feast
in the middle of one of your warm and inviting fields.
Your smile shined the sun's beam upon my face
and I could not help but close my eyes
as your warmth washed over me. Looking over the horizon
there were people cresting the hill
holding hands and laughing,
embracing and inviting.
They had all come to sit at the welcome table.
As we stood behind our chairs at the table
You smiled and a tear of joy rested in the corner of Your eye.
We worshipped You because of your love for us.
We sang, we danced, we heard your word
Proclaimed from each and every heart.
What a wonderful gift you give us with life, father God.
What a powerful command to love and be well
you instill in us, mother God.
As we spoke of our joys and concerns
we turned to comfort and console one another;
it was a wonderful kind of peace.
And then there was Jesus, arms outstretched.
He said,
"I'm so glad you all could make it.
I'm so glad you all are home."
As I opened my eyes I noticed the tears had soaked my pillow.
And as my mind-place settled itself
outside of the dream world,
my voice exclaimed, "My church!"
Wonderful God we thank you for the promise
of what your church can be.
We see the open table
where the gifts of Christ are to be shared with one another.
We are grateful that we live in such a time as this
when the home of Jesus Christ is alive
and the Spirit really does open the door
for all to enter in.
We pray this and everyday that You will reveal to us, oh God,
the ways in which we can make the church of Your dreams,
the dream of our reality:
One church family of believers who love you and each other
in every healthy way.
A family where gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgendered, straight--
where all of Your children sing together in harmony,
"We are one in the Spirit, we are one in the Lord
And we pray that all unity will one day be restored.
And they'll know we are Christians by our love,
yes by our love. They will know we are Christians by our love."
It is with this love that we come to you
with a request upon our lips:
We ask you for courage, strength, dignity
and that the blessed assurance of your call
will allow all of your LBGTQII candidates
to continue to want to share Our God-given ministry
with the church.
Help us to stand strong as we journey along the path
of Inquirer to Candidate,
from Candidate to Certified,
and from Certified to Called.
We know that in your Wisdom, Sophia, all is possible.
So we ask You to prepare Your children for service
in the surety that our time has come.
And while we are readied, prepare your church.
Allow the votes as they proceed from Presbytery to Presbytery
to speak your truth.
Let all see that the tide of conversation has changed
and so the time has come. We are ready to serve, let it be your will. We ask all of this because you love us.
We ask you for a whole church
because we know that you heal brokenness.
We ask you all of this because we love you and our neighbors--
even those that would knock us down--
as you have commanded.
We love them because we love the fullness of creation
in which you have formed each and every one of us.
Because we love ourselves as you have made us,
we give the purest honor to you Oh God our blessed Creator. I dreamed of you the other day... In your precious Holy names we pray now and forever. Amen.
26 March 2009
Wasn't it Joseph who interpreted dreams...?
Rev. Chris Shelton
Presbyterian Welcome Board President
A warning, gentle reader, the following blog post was written at 3:29am. It was written upon waking from a dream in which the writer, gentle reader, was literally flying back and forth between rooms of a waterfront party facility of some sort – his Texan family enjoying barbecue in one room, while protesters for marriage equality staged a fundraiser-slash-dance party-slash-dog show in the other. (My money was on the Welsh Corgi.) Nathan Lane was in the next room, waiting for a crowd to gather for a stand-up comedy routine, waiting. Ah. (Admonitio est nisus. Lego in pace. – The warning has ended, you may read on in peace.)
Across the hall from my office is a conference room. It has a TV in it. I had never known that the TV actually worked until today. Someone from the church was working down the hall, and their child went into the conference room. All of the sudden I hear a theme song blasting its way across the hall. “Da da da dee dee, dee dee, dee dee, dee doo, da da da dee dee, dee dee dee doo…”
The mother went in to quiet the noise, scolding the child gently as the volume went down. She poked her head in my office afterward, to apologize.
“All’s well,” I responded. “But tell me, what was that theme song – I haven’t heard it in a while.”
“Oh,” she laughed, “Quantum Leap. Quantum Leap is just getting started.”
Indeed. Complete with a catchy theme song that could be our own.
There is a quantum leap underway in the Presbyterian Church (USA), and this is not the time to turn the volume down, no matter what some may say.
As of this writing, 23 presbyteries have “flipped” their votes in favor of ordaining the full spectrum of persons who are called by God into service as Deacons, Elders, or Ministers of the Word and Sacrament. This is good news. Using the language of the newly proposed Ammendment B, these votes join 33 other repeat-defenders in affirming Jesus Christ as “the Head of the Church.” Sadly, 81 presbyteries have failed to join in this affirmation.
The New-B may fall short of the 87 votes it needs this year. But don’t let that lead you to think its time to turn the volume down…there’s a new theme that’s playing loud and clear. There are those who haven’t heard the song yet…and well, they’ll be tapping their toes here someday.
In Presbyterian Welcome, we’re cranking up the volume and learning how to leap again.
The Board recently spent time in retreat together – listening as God calls us to keep on educating, to keep on worshipping, to keep on sharing our stories of struggle and our stories of new life in Christ. With so many vote flips, with such a positive shift in per-person voting as well… with the old Authoritative Interpretations finally set aside, and a new one in place that cracks open the door… with a fresh hope stirring in our hearts even though the road ahead is still a long one… and with an urgency born of this hope, we are simply not going to listen we they tell us to turn down the volume.
“Da da da dee dee, dee dee, dee dee, dee doo, da da da dee dee, dee dee dee doo…”
I’d almost forgotten that song.
Care to dance?
(Or have some barbecue? Or pet the Welsh Corgi? Either way, it’s a dream and a party. Yes, gentle reader, there’s still some waiting to do. But waiting is easier with a good song to sing.)
God loves a good quantum leap now and again.
(Blogito est nisus. Tripudio en pace. The blog entry has ended. Dance in peace.)
Presbyterian Welcome Board President
A warning, gentle reader, the following blog post was written at 3:29am. It was written upon waking from a dream in which the writer, gentle reader, was literally flying back and forth between rooms of a waterfront party facility of some sort – his Texan family enjoying barbecue in one room, while protesters for marriage equality staged a fundraiser-slash-dance party-slash-dog show in the other. (My money was on the Welsh Corgi.) Nathan Lane was in the next room, waiting for a crowd to gather for a stand-up comedy routine, waiting. Ah. (Admonitio est nisus. Lego in pace. – The warning has ended, you may read on in peace.)
Across the hall from my office is a conference room. It has a TV in it. I had never known that the TV actually worked until today. Someone from the church was working down the hall, and their child went into the conference room. All of the sudden I hear a theme song blasting its way across the hall. “Da da da dee dee, dee dee, dee dee, dee doo, da da da dee dee, dee dee dee doo…”
The mother went in to quiet the noise, scolding the child gently as the volume went down. She poked her head in my office afterward, to apologize.
“All’s well,” I responded. “But tell me, what was that theme song – I haven’t heard it in a while.”
“Oh,” she laughed, “Quantum Leap. Quantum Leap is just getting started.”
Indeed. Complete with a catchy theme song that could be our own.
There is a quantum leap underway in the Presbyterian Church (USA), and this is not the time to turn the volume down, no matter what some may say.
As of this writing, 23 presbyteries have “flipped” their votes in favor of ordaining the full spectrum of persons who are called by God into service as Deacons, Elders, or Ministers of the Word and Sacrament. This is good news. Using the language of the newly proposed Ammendment B, these votes join 33 other repeat-defenders in affirming Jesus Christ as “the Head of the Church.” Sadly, 81 presbyteries have failed to join in this affirmation.
The New-B may fall short of the 87 votes it needs this year. But don’t let that lead you to think its time to turn the volume down…there’s a new theme that’s playing loud and clear. There are those who haven’t heard the song yet…and well, they’ll be tapping their toes here someday.
In Presbyterian Welcome, we’re cranking up the volume and learning how to leap again.
The Board recently spent time in retreat together – listening as God calls us to keep on educating, to keep on worshipping, to keep on sharing our stories of struggle and our stories of new life in Christ. With so many vote flips, with such a positive shift in per-person voting as well… with the old Authoritative Interpretations finally set aside, and a new one in place that cracks open the door… with a fresh hope stirring in our hearts even though the road ahead is still a long one… and with an urgency born of this hope, we are simply not going to listen we they tell us to turn down the volume.
“Da da da dee dee, dee dee, dee dee, dee doo, da da da dee dee, dee dee dee doo…”
I’d almost forgotten that song.
Care to dance?
(Or have some barbecue? Or pet the Welsh Corgi? Either way, it’s a dream and a party. Yes, gentle reader, there’s still some waiting to do. But waiting is easier with a good song to sing.)
God loves a good quantum leap now and again.
(Blogito est nisus. Tripudio en pace. The blog entry has ended. Dance in peace.)
16 March 2009
Love all the “whosoevers.”
Anonymous
Lectionary: 4th Sunday in Lent
Three times today I have been the object of judgment by a male stranger. Each time had something to do with my perceived sexuality. Two proclaimed longing but then there was the one in Park Slope. After brunch a female friend and I were walking down Eighth Avenue when we noticed the street was a congested parking lot of traffic due to the annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade. As we walked along a man with the windows rolled down in his car screamed at the traffic and the drivers to go. We both chuckled to ourselves and kept walking. In the next breath the driver began shouting at us and hurled a particularly hateful, sexual slur. My face fell and we walked along for another block in silence, parted awkwardly, and separated ways. We checked in with each other later in the evening and found we were both a little shaken, afraid, and angry.
Condemnation will do that to yah, I guess.
Judgment is painful.
The Good News is that judgment in John 3 is nothing like what I experienced today. John clearly states in verse 17 that Christ did not come to condemn. John is not talking about a god who wags a finger in our general direction nor a savior who hurls hatred and self doubt out the window. No, the Gospel writer speaks of love and grace that ushers us into the light of wholeness with audacious, courageous acceptance and joy. God’s grace sustains and scoots us along the path and helps us to judge and discern what is light and life giving and what is not.
Condemnation is life in the darkness. We who trust in Christ do not need to stay in the dark. Grace sustains our path. Spirit illumines our way. Christ comes to us as a gift of grace, shining love and light into our darkest places.
John 3:16 reminds us that we are claimed because we, queer and straight alike, are part of the “whosoever” that God loves. “Whosoever” includes any and every one of us who dares trust that there is something to this Jesus story. The “whosoever” in 3:16 includes me and you, and, yes, the guy in the car. “Whosoever” includes all of who we are: our sexuality, our sexual orientation, and our beloved sexual partner.
How often do we listen to the road-rage voice and turn anger inward instead of remembering that we, too, are included in the “whosoever?” It is easy to do which is why we need to show ourselves and each other an extra amount of grace this Lent. As we look towards Calvary, let us be earnest in our Lenten disciplines to judge and discern the light and dark parts of our lives. Let us also be clear that when we name our darkness and our sins we are not nailing our most sacred and beloved parts of ourselves up on a tree of condemnation. Trust the light. Look to the light of the world. Love all the “whosoevers.”
Lectionary: 4th Sunday in Lent
Three times today I have been the object of judgment by a male stranger. Each time had something to do with my perceived sexuality. Two proclaimed longing but then there was the one in Park Slope. After brunch a female friend and I were walking down Eighth Avenue when we noticed the street was a congested parking lot of traffic due to the annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade. As we walked along a man with the windows rolled down in his car screamed at the traffic and the drivers to go. We both chuckled to ourselves and kept walking. In the next breath the driver began shouting at us and hurled a particularly hateful, sexual slur. My face fell and we walked along for another block in silence, parted awkwardly, and separated ways. We checked in with each other later in the evening and found we were both a little shaken, afraid, and angry.
Condemnation will do that to yah, I guess.
Judgment is painful.
The Good News is that judgment in John 3 is nothing like what I experienced today. John clearly states in verse 17 that Christ did not come to condemn. John is not talking about a god who wags a finger in our general direction nor a savior who hurls hatred and self doubt out the window. No, the Gospel writer speaks of love and grace that ushers us into the light of wholeness with audacious, courageous acceptance and joy. God’s grace sustains and scoots us along the path and helps us to judge and discern what is light and life giving and what is not.
Condemnation is life in the darkness. We who trust in Christ do not need to stay in the dark. Grace sustains our path. Spirit illumines our way. Christ comes to us as a gift of grace, shining love and light into our darkest places.
John 3:16 reminds us that we are claimed because we, queer and straight alike, are part of the “whosoever” that God loves. “Whosoever” includes any and every one of us who dares trust that there is something to this Jesus story. The “whosoever” in 3:16 includes me and you, and, yes, the guy in the car. “Whosoever” includes all of who we are: our sexuality, our sexual orientation, and our beloved sexual partner.
How often do we listen to the road-rage voice and turn anger inward instead of remembering that we, too, are included in the “whosoever?” It is easy to do which is why we need to show ourselves and each other an extra amount of grace this Lent. As we look towards Calvary, let us be earnest in our Lenten disciplines to judge and discern the light and dark parts of our lives. Let us also be clear that when we name our darkness and our sins we are not nailing our most sacred and beloved parts of ourselves up on a tree of condemnation. Trust the light. Look to the light of the world. Love all the “whosoevers.”
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)