Queer Eye and the Church

There is a new season of Queer Eye on Netflix. And this show, it just gets me in the feels every single time. It's so not about the makeover, friends. It's about the compassion and love shown in every last episode. It's about these five human beings who model humility, compassion, grace, dignity, and forgiveness. It's about their ability to be fully present to someone else's story, to see past all of the externals, and to shed light on the beautiful human being that has been right there all along.

I'm watching an episode this morning about a young, African American, lesbian woman whose religious adoptive parents kicked her out of the house when she came out. It is heartbreaking. She talks about how her whole life she has been told that she is not black enough, not white enough, not straight enough, not gay enough.

Meanwhile, it's been a rough week.

In large part, it's because of a few things that have come up this week that have brought to the surface for me the deep pain that comes from being told, overtly or subtly, that you are not enough. My church experience, the predominant message that I've heard from this church family that told me that they were here for me, that baptized me and welcomed me as one of their own, was that I'm not enough. Not male enough. Not married enough. Not gifted enough. Not humble enough. Too gifted. Too female. Too single. Too outspoken.

I have tried really hard to be gracious. But the truth is, it hurts.

Until eventually I had to walk away, into what felt like the wilderness.

And, as always, it turns out that God meets us so very often in the wilderness.

I am in a very good place now. A place of welcome. A place where the encouragement is freely and frequently offered. A place where nobody is telling me that who I am is not enough.

I'm grateful.

But you don't learn to love yourself in five days, as they say on Queer Eye. And this week, the "not enough"s keep rearing up their ugly little heads.

What strikes me is how deeply painful it is to be told that you're not enough, and how many people hear that message on a daily basis, for so very many different reasons.

And how often we try to hide, to push down those parts of us that we think, that we've been told are not enough.

And how that kind of masking doesn't address the deep pain that's also hiding deep down.

And how much genuine beauty and goodness is hiding out there in this big, beautiful world as a result.

Then, I see the Fab Five do what I pray that I will learn to do better, what I pray that our faith communities can learn to do better: just listen. Their ability to be present to pain and to create space for someone to share their story--all of their story--is inspiring to me. They have an incredible capacity to be present to pain, and not to try to shush it or pamper it away too quickly.

In the process, healing happens.

Beneath all of the labels that we apply to people, beneath all of the stereotypes and fears and boundaries that we erect, is the beautiful, glorious image of God in every created person. I believe this with all of my heart.

I also know how deeply wounding it is when people tell us that who we are is not enough.

And, to my friends in the Church, can I tell you that it's extra damaging when we are the voices telling someone that who God made them is not enough? That speaking as the body of Christ has tremendous power for good, but also for harm?

May we be people who listen deeply.

May we be people who have the capacity to hold the hard as well as the beautiful, and who don't try to quiet either one too quickly.

May we learn to apologize well when we need to, and to forgive when it's appropriate.

May we create space to celebrate difference, to see the beauty in the unexpected, to open ourselves with love.

May we be kind to ourselves, and kind to others.

And may we know that, in God's eyes, we are always, always enough.

You. Are. Enough.

A Body in Pain

Disclaimer: This post is pretty raw. It's my own story, and the "you" should be read as a plural "you" not necessarily directed toward any individual or particular community of people. It's a corporate "you" not meant to point fingers, purposely left generic. 

This is my story. Or at least, part of it. But I wonder if it's not the story of other injuries present in the midst of the body of Christ, longing for meaningful journeys toward reconciliation. And I wonder whether perhaps many of those journeys might begin with simply listening to one another's pain, without defensiveness or judgment. Shared pain, which can then be healed, because ultimately all of our health depends upon it. 

I don't know how to start this post, so I'm just going to say it: I want to talk about pain.

At least, now that I have named this topic, if that's not something you're up for reading about, you can click away to something more palatable right away.

As it is so often with pain, this is raw and it has the potential to get messy. Sorry about that. Sort of.

I want to start by saying this as clearly as possible: You have hurt me. More than you can know. More than you will probably ever understand.

You have spent years, with your words and your actions, convincing me that the person that God has created me to be is not acceptable within the body of Christ. You have made it clear that I am not good enough, that I'm too female or too single or too intelligent or too opinionated or too pushy or too emotional--that bodies such as mine are sure to lead men in the congregation into sin if they stand in the pulpit and speak the words that I've so carefully prepared and prayed over. You've made it clear that I make you uncomfortable, just by my very presence among you. You've made me believe that there is something wrong with me. That I don't quite belong.

And, more often than not, I've absorbed all of those things--the things you've said, the things that you've left unsaid, the glances, the careful theological statements designed to depersonalize the deeply personal. I've sat there, I've taken it, and I've tried to stuff it somewhere deep within, promising myself that I'd try harder to be something acceptable in your sight, so that I might belong in this body--because as painful as it is, it's more painful to imagine not belonging to the body at all. So, I stayed.

Then the time finally came when the pain was too great, and it was time to find a way to leave. To take my pain with me, and go, and hope that somewhere on the other side of the wilderness would be a place of welcome and belonging and community again--that God would see me faithfully through the wilderness journey, that God is present in the wilderness too, as Sarah Bessey has so beautifully put it.

And, thanks be to God, the wilderness was a sacred space of encounter with God in ways I would never have imagined, of belonging and healing and hope. And, on the other side, there was community and welcome and belonging that has been more than I ever believed that I could hope for.

But the pain that I've taken within myself all these many years still lingers.

And sometimes we cross paths again, because although most of the time now we dwell among different tribes, we're not so far apart as we might like to think.

And sometimes, I find myself in situations where you stand behind the pulpit, or hold out the bread and the cup, or speak a prayer of blessing.

And I let you do that, because I subscribe to the age-old wisdom: "Don't create a scene."

But as I do so, I take another bite of pain, swallow, and place it somewhere deep within me along with the rest. 

My body, bearing the cost, so that you won't feel the discomfort of a scene.

Is it right of me, I wonder, to hold all this pain within--not making the sort of scene that would make you own your part in all of this?

Because we are, after all, part of one Body, and if one part of the Body hurts, all is impacted, isn't it?

So, am I honouring you as part of the one Body by hiding the pain from your sight?

And can we ever truly be part of the one Body when the hand is oblivious to the ache in the knee? 

You might think the wound is gone, but it's not. I've just shielded you from its presence, because it's the right thing to do. Or so I've thought.

Is there a way to let the pain into the light, to make it known, so that real healing might take place? Is there a way to do that which will not merely result in more pain? 

Is there an alternative to this being a cross that I bear quietly, by myself, so as not to make anyone else unduly uncomfortable?

I hesitate to even voice it, but let me say--If I am to be healed, it cannot be my work alone. We are part of one Body, and just as the pain isn't really mine but ours, so the healing cannot be my work alone. I suspect it is also ours.

What does that mean? What does it mean to share the pain that I've made my own? What does it mean to shift the dynamics of power and privilege in meaningful ways? Will the cure be worse that the disease?

These are the things I wonder, as the pain surfaces once again. 

Soon it will recede. It usually does. At least for a while, it will lie dormant, until the next time it surfaces again.

Until, maybe one day, we can find that healing together.

Making Peace with the Pruning Shears

I am the Real Vine and my Father is the Farmer. He cuts off every branch

of me that doesn't bear grapes. And every branch that is grape-bearing 

he prunes back so it will bear even more.          

I have a beef with this particular passage of Scripture from the beginning verses of John 15, taken here from Eugene Peterson's paraphrase, The Message.

It leads me to imagine God as a flint-eyed gardener gleefully sharpening his cold steel pruning shears. Not exactly an image that gives me the warm fuzzies.

What ever happened to 'the Lord is my shepherd'? And why is it so hard to reconcile the image of the One who leads me beside still waters and restores my soul with the same God who is just waiting to prune the struggling bits off the vine? 

I'm sure this is harsh, but boy I don't like this metaphor for God. In my experience, being cut hurts, whether it's a slip of the knife while making supper, or the harsh reality of job cuts, or not making the cut for the team. 

Couldn't we all just put those scissors down and talk about this for a while? Or, I hear that playing music for plants and talking nicely to them can do absolute wonders... Maybe we could try that!

I. Don't. Want. To. Be. Pruned.

I've seen firsthand the effects of hands that were too eager to lay the axe to a program or ministry that they felt wasn't producing enough fruit, when perhaps there was still plenty of life left in it after all. And it didn't feel good at all.

But, on the other hand, I have been really struggling to manage my time and juggle priorities lately. I am desperately thirsty for more time for prayer, for reflection, for meaningful conversations with other people--all good and necessary and healthy components of pastoral ministry, and of life more broadly. And the only way that is going to happen is if something else can be trimmed--if the places that are taking up too much energy without producing good fruit can either be pruned or grafted onto another vine where they will be able to thrive.

So I find myself caught in the middle, gazing fearfully at God and his steel shears, wondering if I can trust that they will be wielded for my good and not to harm me--like a good surgeon can wield a scalpel for healing instead of harm--while at the same time starving for permission to take my own set of shears to my responsibilities in a way that I'm convinced will lead to better health not only for me, but in the long run also for everyone around me. (If only cleaning the bathroom or taking out the garbage could be the first thing cut from the list!)

It reminds me of the lengthy conversation I had with the oral surgeon at the consultation appointment prior to having my wisdom teeth removed. Having just enough medical knowledge to be dangerous, I engaged her in a detailed discussion about the pros and cons of anesthesia, leading ultimately to a discussion about anxiety medication as an option should I feel that would be helpful. (In my own defence, I just really like to have all the information before making a decision...)

Even as I sat in the chair and the oral surgeon talked aloud to herself about the correct dose of the anesthetic, I was nervous about the sedation process and its possible risks. And counting out loud backward from ten when I didn't feel tired in the least seemed like a foolish process--until one minute I was counting and the next I was wide awake in the recovery room, with no recollection whatsoever of how I got from one room to the next, or of what happened in the interim.

Which is to say--maybe I'm overthinking this. Maybe there is a time for pruning, just as there is a time for gentle shepherding.

And maybe I, of all people, need to have more empathy for those who resist changes to the familiar patterns of doing things, even if I suspect that it's for the greater health in the long run.

Maybe I should know that it's hard to trust the One who wields the shears.

Until you take a closer look at the gardener, see those familiar eyes looking at you with such love, and realize that it's the Teacher, and he knows your name, as Mary Magdalene also found out so very long ago (John 20:15-16).

A Confession and a Plea

I have a confession that I need to get off my chest, dear readers.

I listen to the local Christian radio station in the car, because I like contemporary Christian music.

By now, more than likely, either you're wondering what the big deal is, or you're gasping in shock.

Whichever reaction my confession provokes in you, I hope you'll do me the honour of hearing me out, because I need to get this off my chest today. Because the thing is, I was watching a video this afternoon and a familiar contemporary worship song came on, and I actually teared up. Which tells me that this is actually, really bothering me. (And also tells me that January is cold and dark, and it has been a long week, and I'm about at my max. But I'm working on that part too...)

Because I grew up in a pretty traditional church that used an organ accompanying hymns as our primary music of worship, I actually didn't know that other forms of worship music were 'a thing' until I moved away from home to go to university.

There, at university, I encountered first the kinds of praise and worship choruses that were common in settings like summer camps. Soon thereafter, a friend introduced me to her CD collection which included a variety of so-called Christian music.

I'd never been much of a music listener before that, but pretty soon as I dove deep into exploring what it meant to be a Christian and as I came to the decision that following Jesus was the road I wanted to take, these songs became the soundtrack to my emerging faith.

By the time I was baptized and settled into a church in the city, the so-called "worship wars" were already behind the congregation and a mixture of hymns and contemporary songs were the music of worship.

So it's these songs that carry the echoes of the story of the journey that my faith has taken me on over the last twenty years. They carry the stories of the hard times, and remind me of moments when God spoke in significant ways. They hold memories of the community that nurtured me into faith, that first affirmed my gifts for ministry, and that shaped me to be the person that I am today.

Now, my community are "hymnal people."

I think that's great. There's a beauty and a richness and a depth to that type of congregational singing, and it's obviously deeply meaningful to the people I pastor. I'm learning to appreciate the songs in our hymnals, and wondering which of them will hold special meaning for me a decade or so down the road.

But it hurts me, if I'm honest, the way in which I hear people talk about other types of worship music. And, let me be clear, I've heard that go in both directions. It's not kind, and if we realized that we were talking about people we would never, ever speak about another group of people in such a public and demeaning way. It hurts me because it's been a hard week and it's the familiar voices and melodies that have been part of my community for many years already that I gravitate toward, that have the ability to recall to me God's faithfulness in the past in a way that gives me hope for the future, and I don't want to pile feeling guilty about that onto the heap.

It breaks my heart, because I wonder who else we are othering when we so casually speak about someone else's musical preferences in this way. And I wonder why we can't just accept that God is big enough to be present in so, so many different forms of worship. In every tongue. Every culture. Every nation.

By the way, the song that made me tear up? Chris Tomlin, Enough. "All of you is more than enough for me." I need to believe this is true today. And every day. But especially in this season where everything is new, and around each corner is a new challenge, and sometimes I doubt my ability to be the kind of pastor that deep in my heart I want to be.

So, please. I'm not asking you to like it too. Just understand where I'm coming from, and honour the many ways in which God's Spirit generously shows up for his beloved ones, even when they're unfamiliar.

Prayer of the Church

It has come as a bit of a surprise to me that one of the things that I have heard appreciation for most often since beginning in my new role is the prayers I share in worship. At Bethel, it is the role of the pastoral team to lead the weekly prayer of the church on Sundays. So, for something a little different, I thought that I would share today's prayer.

Giver of every good gift, in this season of gift-giving and gift-receiving, where every store we pass seems to want to tell us what we need or ought to need, today we remember the gifts that we receive from your hand that money cannot possibly buy: the beauty of winter sun sparkling on the surface of the snow, the breathtaking view of hoarfrost covering the branches on a winter morning, the northern lights that dance in the night sky—the beauty of Your creation, reflecting its creator. We give thanks for the miracle of the incarnation—for the light that pierces the great darkness, for the reminder that Your love has never given up on Your children, for the miracle of a helpless baby whose birth would change the course of history.

Even as we remember that there is a day coming when there will be no more gloom, nonetheless we live with awareness that the light has not yet vanquished all that which resides in the darkness. We listen to the news, we hear the stories of friends and neighbours, and we become still and recognize the hurts that we carry within ourselves—and we know that all is not as you intended.

And so today we bring to you our prayers. We bring prayers for healing for those who journey with failing health, who are undergoing treatments and therapy, who are patiently or not-so-patiently waiting for test results. We pray also for those who wrestle with depression and anxiety and other kinds of mental and emotional pain, especially in this season when the short hours of daylight and the long hours of darkness can be a struggle for so many. We pray for those we know who are enduring the pain of broken relationships, and who are facing this holiday season with fresh memories of loved ones who have died in the past year. God, you know these and other kinds of hurts that we and those we love carry. And we pray for healing, for comfort, and for glimpses of light that chase back the darkness, if only for a moment or two.

We pray for the places in our world that are hurting. For those recovering after the tsunami in Indonesia this past week, and for all those working to provide aid and relief there, we pray. We pray for the upcoming elections in Congo and Bangladesh, for a peaceful and just process. For all those in various places around the world who find themselves fleeing the only homes they’ve known out of fear for their own safety, we pray for provision for their immediate needs, and that they might find a place of welcome and safety soon. We long for a world where these kinds of conflict will cease and your peace will reign at last. We pray for politicians and others in positions of great power, for wisdom and kindness to prevail as they do the work they have been empowered for. 

God, we long for the day when your light will drown out the darkness once and for all. In the meantime, we pray that you would give us a vision of the kind of world you desire, and empower us to work towards greater peace for all people beginning right where we are.

And we offer you these gifts this morning, remembering that all that we are and all that we have is, in the end, a gift from you. May we steward them wisely, being generous as you are generous. 

Amen.

Eighteen.

Eighteen years ago tomorrow, I was sitting in a prayer room at Urbana 2000 when I first sensed God

nudging me toward a vocation of leadership in the church.

It was only about a year after I had been baptized, at the time, and I thought that I surely couldn't be hearing God's voice clearly, but even so I can still remember eighteen years later the desk I was sitting at in that little prayer room when I heard God speak so distinctly to my questions that it might as well have been aloud. Even though I had many doubts about whether I'd heard what I thought I'd heard, even though it seemed too preposterous to write what I thought God had said in the journal I was keeping, nonetheless I remember the moment to this day. Even though I had never heard a prayer answered quite so clearly before.

I know it was eighteen years ago, because Urbana 18 is happening right now in St Louis, and I've been seeing periodic updates on my social media feeds, and remembering with lots of emotion my own experiences as a university student attending Urbana.

And this year, more than any other Urbana year, the floods of emotion and memory have caught me off guard.

Maybe it's because, for the first time, I actually feel like I can wholeheartedly affirm that God's call to me, in that quiet little prayer room so long ago, was actually real.

Because, eighteen years later, I'm finally in a place where my gifts have been wholeheartedly welcomed, where I don't have to face a constant fight to defend my role and reconcile it with my gender or my marital status, where I don't feel that constant, painful background dissonance with the larger denomination's stance on women in ministry leadership. Where I feel like my skin finally fits.

Eighteen years.

The length of time that it takes to go from newborn baby to adult.

For eighteen years, I have wondered, on some level, if this would ever happen, or if I had misheard God that day in that prayer room. For eighteen years, I have wrestled with a sense of call to pastoral ministry.

And now, eighteen years later, after many challenges and much heartache and many doubt-filled wonderings, I can see how the seed that God planted deep within my heart that day has been fulfilled.

Eighteen years of hard wandering, taking paths that often seemed to lead in the exact opposite direction to that I thought I should be taking. Eighteen years of questioning, wondering, aching, dreaming. Seasons when it seemed that God had turned God's face away. Seasons when I seriously considered choosing a sensible career path and moving on.

Eighteen years that, I'm convinced, have left me more sure of who I am and who God has created me to be than I ever would have been if the path had been easier. I'm beginning to see the gift in the discomfort that prevented me from becoming complacent, from going along with the crowd because it was the easier path.

So, tonight I give thanks for eighteen years, but also for the profound realization that God has kept God's word, even when there were so many times that I questioned it, and almost turned my back on it.

But most of all, I give thanks for the new thing that's being born.

Because in a couple of days, at the end of this month, I will quietly celebrate a new anniversary. Six months. December 31 will mark six months. Six months since I started serving as associate pastor, six months of learning and growing and coming to love this congregation who has embraced me and welcomed me and invited me to lean into my calling to pastoral ministry.

So, here's to God's faithfulness, and to new adventures yet to come on the journey ahead!

Broken Keys and New Year's Resolutions

Unbeknownst to me, my key broke off in the lock late on Christmas evening as I arrived home to my apartment after spending the evening with my family.

I'm not sure what happened, because I got into the building safely and was none the wiser that anything was out of the ordinary until, just after lunch today, I went out to take the garbage out on my way out to what I thought was to be an afternoon and evening of a couple of Boxing Day errands followed by time with my family.

My plans were halted abruptly when, having duly deposited the refuse in the bin, I realized that on my keychain I had only half a key to the building. And no mittens.

I was unsuccessful in buzzing a couple of my neighbours to try to get back into the building, but thankfully before frostbite set in some kindly souls happened along and let me in again.

However, the lack of a means to ensure safe entry into the building has held me hostage, in a manner of speaking, for the rest of the day. The family engagements were canceled, the errands placed on hold. Being Boxing Day, the apartment offices are, of course, closed--and this hardly constitutes an emergency that cannot wait until tomorrow morning.

And so, here I sit, safe and snug inside my home. And here I shall stay, however much I would like to be doing other things.

Can a broken key be a gift from God, I wonder?

You see, December has been a marathon. A happy but exhausting marathon. It has consisted of planning Christmas concerts and banquets, attending even more Christmas events, preaching, and planning leading Christmas Day worship, on top of all the regular duties of pastoral care and presence. Of course, all of these have been firsts, too--which happily means that next year I'll know more and be better equipped to manage all the things.

All of it is good work, work that feeds my soul and makes me grateful for the gift of the call this congregation has entrusted to me.

It is also exhausting, and has meant many long days and few opportunities for my introverted self to recharge away from the hustle and bustle, to seek out the stillness where I can sense the Spirit's presence most clearly, to set down the needs of others long enough to wonder about my own.

Enter today, and a morning spent blissfully drinking tea and staring into the lights on the Christmas tree, tidying up and attending to laundry and setting things right in my home once again, where the chaos of the month has been taking its toll.

And then, the broken key, and the cancellation of any further plans, which has meant I could enjoy a favourite show, do a little baking (because, of course, none of that got done before Christmas), and make supper--a balanced meal to enjoy in the comfort of home. And tonight I will curl up with a good book--a gift from new friends at church, which I am dearly looking forward to diving into, which I can tell already itches where it scratches right now, which will call me back to the first love of the One who does the calling in the first place.

As 2019 draws nearer, I'm determined that I will do better at finding the balance that I need to sustain pastoral ministry in the long run. I don't know what the answer looks like, except that learning to exercise the little word 'no' with grace and gentle firmness is going to have to play a role. I know that I need to learn what it is to play again, to know what gives ME joy, to create space for prayer and silence and long walks and all of the other things that give me life and root me in the glorious gift of spending time loitering with my Creator.

And I hope that it won't involve too many more broken keys before I learn to take seriously the health and well-being of my own soul.