Annie: 鈥淲hile I鈥檓 concerned about what you would think of as politics鈥攚hat would be in the political section of a newspaper鈥擨鈥檓 also thinking about the politics of being human, the politics of church, the relational dynamics between people and between groups. That鈥檚 kind of what I mean by political in the broader sense.鈥�

Annie is the host of , a podcast exploring the long and often problematic story of Christianity in the United States, grounded in the hope that by better understanding where other perspectives are coming from, we can be better conversation partners across difference and contribute to sustainable, collaborative social change.鈥� Her work is primarily concerned with two questions, she says: What do we believe it means to be human? And what do we believe is true about God? On God Help Us, Annie and her guests wrestle with how both of those questions inform our relationship to each other and our response to events in the world around us.

Annie: 鈥�God Help Us is about information, it鈥檚 about what are our commonly held beliefs in this country, how are they informed by our Christian heritage? […] I鈥檓 hoping, on a more meta level, that it鈥檚 also a way of modeling those conversations, so we can feel defensive and have all the human range of emotions while we鈥檙e disagreeing with each other and still continue to talk to each other.”

Much of Annie鈥檚 work can be connected to the category of spiritual darkness, which was the focus of her Integrative Project at 天美视频, 鈥淢aking a Home in the Dark.鈥� In our 2018 Integrative Project Symposium, Annie offered this insight into what draws her to working with spiritual darkness: 鈥淚 think that in those times when everything has been stripped away, we also lose hold of the lies we have believed about ourselves, about each other, and about God. So I鈥檓 left only with my desire and the question of what to do with it, and the question of what to do with this new reality. And I find that the only option really is to come home to myself. And in those places, I find that God is waiting for me there.鈥�

Annie: 鈥淲hen we recognize that we have put our faith in something like patriarchy, it doesn鈥檛 let us go easily. These periods of darkness, of feeling completely lost and at our wits鈥� end, both communally and individually鈥攊t forces us to give up hope in what we鈥檝e put our hope in. And that is this great gift that we can then decide we鈥檙e going to do something different now.鈥�

In an era of fragmented relationships鈥攁nd, therefore, fragmented politics鈥攚e are deeply grateful for the insightful, far-reaching conversations Annie is hosting. Here鈥檚 to listening deeply, speaking boldly, and returning again and again to our connections with each other.

Resources to Go Deeper

• You can learn more about Annie鈥檚 work, including God Help Us, at . And if you have ideas for future topics or guests on the podcast, email godhelp.podcast@gmail.com.
• As this conversation turned to purity culture, it brought to mind an article by Lauren Sawyer (MA in Theology & Culture, (鈥�14). Shauna asked Lauren to record an excerpt for this episode, and here鈥檚 the full article from Feminist Studies in Religion:
• To be fair, Annie鈥檚 reference to is more tangential than thematic. But it really is a great film!
• Shauna references an episode from NPR鈥檚 Invisibilia podcast about the relationship between uncertainty and dogmatism, and what we do when we don鈥檛 know what to do.
• Annie mentions being inspired by this article from Tyrone Beason at the Seattle Times:
• Just in time for summer, we got a bunch of book recommendations from Annie. Happy reading!
  • by Dr. Tina Schermer Sellers
  • by Frank Schaeffer
  • and by Amber Cantorna
  • by Mary Daly
  • by Miguel A. de la Torre

The post Politics, Theology, and Spiritual Darkness with Annie Mesaros appeared first on 天美视频 of Theology & Psychology.

鈥揗iroslav Volf

We believe that we are created in the image of God. This is a radical idea that, for many, may have been dulled by familiarity over the years. That belief may have also lost some of its spark when, particularly in western Christianity, it came to be applied almost exclusively to the individual. But what if it is not only our individual identities that reflect God鈥檚 image? What if that image is more fully reflected in the ways that our individual stories, bodies, and callings intersect with and impact each other? What if, like our personal stories of transformation, the particularity of our work with others reveals something deep and beautiful about who God is?

So much of our mission at 天美视频 leads us to that idea. In recent months on the blog, we鈥檝e been wrestling with how transformation draws us deeper into the call to serve God and neighbor, and how living out that call in a sustainable way requires that we never stop nurturing the process of formation. This month, we鈥檙e going to be exploring how integrating those two processes鈥攑ersonal formation and outward service鈥攊s an act of worship, one that reveals the image of God in profound and surprising ways.

How does your calling reflect something of who God is? How might your service draw you deeper into worship? As , what is your altar in the world?

These are big questions, and they are intimately connected to story. That means that, when we let our transformation inform our calling as an act of worship, our work in the world might look as unique as our own story. Service looks different for everyone, which means that your calling might be a bit unconventional鈥攁nd this is a good thing.

Here鈥檚 to unconventional callings, continued transformation, and service as worship. And here鈥檚 to the image of God that is continually being revealed in and between and through each of us as we serve God and neighbor.

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If you鈥檝e ever worked in ministry or a helping profession鈥攐r any work that requires your full self鈥攜ou know this matters: the rate of burnout is too high, and the cost too steep, to not take seriously the need for resilience. We launched Resilient Leaders Project to help leaders and communities respond to that deep need in the midst of a changing church and fragmented culture.

Kate: 鈥淩esilient Leaders Project is about trying to come alongside leaders in their context to help them construct lives that support their good work, instead of feeling like their lives are at the cost of their work.鈥�

In reflecting on what drew them into this work, Kate and Laura Wade share about their histories with the Church and how they came to believe it could be a space that would welcome them fully and unequivocally, in all of their brokenness and trauma. Because it turns out that it鈥檚 impossible to talk meaningfully about resilience without also talking about trauma.

Kate: 鈥淭here鈥檚 a depth of experience that you must learn to narrate in your own life if you鈥檙e going to integrate the really hard pieces of your life. It鈥檚 not simply bouncing back to the shape that you were before something hard happened, it鈥檚 saying 鈥楬ow did this really difficult situation, this suffering that I went through, actually form me to be in some way more human, more compassionate, and therefore more divine?鈥欌��

鈥淭here鈥檚 a depth of experience that you must learn to narrate in your own life if you鈥檙e going to integrate the really hard pieces of your life.鈥�

Laura Wade: 鈥淩esilience, to me, is finding healing and freedom and voice in the midst of those harmful places, and being able to meet the Spirit and meet God there to be different, to be more of who we are created to be. That鈥檚 the linking of resilience and trauma. I don鈥檛 think you can have resilience without some level of trauma.鈥�

Shauna: 鈥淎nd maybe you can鈥檛 be a human and not have trauma.鈥�

As we gather to reflect together on the trauma of Christ鈥攖he violence, betrayal, death, and resurrection鈥攊n the Church we might also find space to reflect on our own trauma, to lean into a community of others who can help us find language and meaning for that which is beyond words. This is a beautiful hope, that reflecting on the wounds of Christ in community might help us heal from our own wounds, but it is also a risky, vulnerable hope鈥攐ne from which it is all too easy for many leaders to shy away. The rigorous demands and unspoken expectations of leadership often mean that leaders鈥攅specially in church, ministry, and nonprofit settings鈥攁re left feeling as if they cannot disclose experiences of trauma or uncertainty, and like there is not room for them to receive care.

Kate: 鈥淲ounded healer is language that we usually use, but we gloss over the wounded part, which means that we often have healed wounders in those roles.鈥�

鈥淲ounded healer is language that we usually use, but we gloss over the wounded part, which means that we often have healed wounders in those roles.鈥�

Toward the end of the conversation, Kate and Laura Wade share about their experience in the first full year of RLP, inviting leaders into intentional connection, thoughtful reflection, and new practices that create room for their full selves鈥攊ncluding their trauma, doubt, and brokenness鈥攖o be present in their work and relationship. This integrative work is a central part of building resilience, and it is a gift to journey with leaders as they step into that.

Kate: 鈥淢y hope for the Church is that God鈥檚 not done. And it might not look like the church that it looked like in our parents鈥� or grandparents鈥� ages, it might not be focused on Sunday morning worship, but I think God鈥檚 not done in gathering people in a certain type of way. I want to be part of making that happen, and I want to be part of helping resource the creative and courageous people who are stepping into this unknown territory.鈥�

Resources to Go Deeper

• You can learn more about the Resilient Leaders Project鈥攊ncluding our newsletter, upcoming events, and the application process for our next cohort鈥攁t theseattleschool.edu/rlp.
• Kate shares a poem by an anonymous survivor of rape, which reads in its entirety: 鈥淚 can鈥檛 forget what happened, but no one else remembers.鈥� When she was a student at 天美视频, Kate wrote this moving reflection about the installation and about church as a community that remembers and holds.
• Laura Wade recommends a book about integrating the feminine and masculine parts that live in each of us. The book is by Tami Lynn Kent.
• One of the practices Laura Wade mentions that she has returned to because of this work is running. You can read her reflection about how running helps her return to spiritual health in this blog.
• For more on resilience, you can watch Nikkita Oliver鈥檚 stunning talk from our 2018 Humanity Through Community gathering, and you can listen to Nikkita鈥檚 conversation with Shauna Gauthier from an earlier podcast episode.

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This month on the Intersections blog, we are exploring the art of nurturing our identity and formation in a way that allows us to continue growing in wisdom, empathy, and clarity of calling. It is a challenge to open ourselves to the care and sustenance needed to sustain deep, meaningful service in the places of deep need all around us. And in order to open ourselves to care, we must also be able to identify the places of our identities that are still impacted and influenced by our histories of harm and internalized messages of shame.

In that vital, difficult work, we were deeply inspired by the research and insights offered by Gabes Torres, MA in Counseling Psychology student, MA in Theology & Culture alumna, and Program Assistant for The Allender Center, as she presented her Integrative Project in 2018. Gabes鈥檚 project, 鈥�Ang Mga Sugatang Kamay na Naghain sa Lamesa (The Scarred Hands that Set the Table)鈥擳he Violation of Hospitality: Consequences from Centuries of Colonization in the Philippines,鈥� wrestles with the painful scars that grow out of colonialism.

For this project, Gabes interviewed a Filipino woman who works in hospitality industries in the United States. Gabes describes the woman鈥檚 impulse toward subservience鈥攁 fear of saying no, challenging authority, or naming experiences of harm鈥攖hat is common among Filipino workers. Gabes argues that that subservience is a reflection of the manipulation and corrupt power dynamics at the heart of colonialism and imperialism.

鈥淭he irony here is in the fact that these events are taking place within the context of hospitality industries, and these reports violate the very meaning of hospitality,鈥� says Gabes. 鈥淏ecause the true practice of hospitality exists in the mutuality of responsibility and roles between host and guest, where there is a shared power, there is an equal value, acceptance, protection, service, and respect towards one another.鈥�

鈥淭he true practice of hospitality exists in the mutuality of responsibility and roles between host and guest.鈥�

To unpack the ongoing effects of colonization in Filipino culture, tradition, and even sense of self, Gabes says it is important to take a look at history and follow the narrative threads that are still very much at play today. But Gabes advises caution in doing so, since most of the dominant historical narratives propagate the belief that explorers and colonizers helped advance a 鈥減rimitive鈥� culture, rather than exposing the violence and irreversible harm brought by colonization. To meaningfully reflect on where we are today, we must be willing to tell the full, honest stories of where we have been.

鈥淣ot only do the artifacts of Spanish colonization and American imperialism spread out in language, in architecture, in our very names, but also in the ideas of the Filipinos, their ideas about themselves, and others, and their relationship to others,鈥� says Gabes. 鈥淚t is also very disturbing to realize that we do not need to be in North America to see the impact and pervasiveness of American exceptionalism and white supremacy.鈥�

Gabes argues that the end result of colonialism is an erasure of the self. Colonized people are taught to welcome and accommodate others at the expense of welcoming themselves as they are, and in the process the self is compromised and rejected. In response to this reality, Gabes ends her presentation with a letter that she wrote to her ancestors鈥攁 stunning, insightful work of art, and a profound assertion and celebration of self in the face of systemic harm.

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That鈥檚 what we鈥檙e diving into on the blog this month: how to open ourselves to the nurture and care that is required to sustain our calling as fully embodied people committed to the movement of hope and healing. It might be worth pausing on that last sentence. What comes to mind when you hear the word nurture? Somewhere along the way, many of us have internalized an assumption that the need to be nurtured is something to be outgrown, something no longer experienced by people who are competent, mature, and capable of effecting change in the world.

We believe, though, that the deep need for nurture is a central part of the human experience, and it is essential to the art of growing in wisdom, empathy, and clarity of calling. As we lead, care for others, and respond to the needs around us, the reservoirs we draw from will run dry if we are not open to receiving care from God, ourselves, and each other鈥攗ltimately leaving us burned out in our work and cynical about the possibility of meaningful change.

We hope you will join us in this conversation as we hear from alumni, students, faculty, and staff about how their particular identities and stories shape their work in the world, and how they receive nurture and care along the way. May we remain curious about whatever resistance might emerge, about those places in us that might feel shame about our need for nurture, and may we continue learning to open ourselves鈥攊ndividually and collectively鈥攖o the care that fuels our formation and sparks creative, courageous work in the world.

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During Lent we follow Jesus into the wilderness, where we wrestle with our common humanity and the arc of death and resurrection. It鈥檚 a season of repentance, traditionally signified by the familiar ashes and dust. Here, Daniel Tidwell (Master of Divinity, 鈥�10), Alumni Programs Coordinator, guides us into Holy Week with a reflection about the formational arc that holds together both death and resurrection. Daniel invites us to wonder how the mingling of ashes and glitter might call each of us to a new form of repentance, one that affirms the humanity in ourselves and in each other, calling us to the violence-defying love of the Spirit of God.

There is a formational arc to the season of Lent鈥攁 time of preparing for Holy Week where we play out the days of Jesus鈥� last meal with the disciples, his betrayal, trial, violent death, and then, hovering over death, the unthinkable鈥攔esurrection and the extraordinary/ordinary of life that follows.

Traditionally, new followers of Jesus are baptized at Easter. We recall creation narratives of passing through chaotic waters and the Spirit moving us with Jesus through death and into resurrection. We initiate this journey by reminding one another that 鈥測ou were made from dust, and to dust you will return.鈥� And so, it鈥檚 in the birth waters of Baptism at Easter that we are brought into a new life that has passed through death, and yet, lives.

We start with ashes sprinkled over the head or smudged in the shape of a cross, calling us to remember our common humanity; our of-the-earth dustiness鈥攁 notion linguistically rooted in our English words for humility, humanity, and humus, and held together in Hebrew with the name of Adam and the word for earth. In short, we mark our heads with dust and ash to ground us in the fact that we are mortal creatures of this shared earth鈥攊t鈥檚 an acknowledgement that death is part of all of our stories.

Two years ago, Reverend Elizabeth Edman started a movement to begin Lent by imparting ashes mixed with glitter on the heads of LGBTQ Christians. This was born out of grappling with the reality that for many LGBTQ people in our society, the reminder of our mortality and the presence of death is already as ever-present to us as the daily experiences of discrimination and violence that mark our lives. Family rejection; discrimination in housing, jobs, and healthcare; school bullying; sex trafficking; youth homelessness; and outright physical violence are daily realities. These traumas often occur in the name of God, adding another soul-wounding dimension to the violence.

The glitter-ash symbol is tied to a slightly older tradition that emerged in the last decade on the streets of San Francisco, where Episcopal clergy impart ashes alongside a charity group of drag queens known as The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. Several years back, the two groups came together鈥攃lergy offering ashes and the Sisters offering glitter. LGBTQ Christians, alongside those of other faiths who have been harmed by religion, line up to receive ashes, glitter, or both. It鈥檚 an invitation for all who show up to receive recognition of their beloved humanity that shines despite violence and death.

While glitter isn鈥檛 a universal symbol for LGBTQ people, it does have a history鈥攃onnected with drag performers鈥� spirit of defiance and determination to show up vibrantly鈥攖o thrive鈥攊n a world that seeks to trample LGBTQ people through traumas, collective and personal. For many of us Christians who are LGBTQ, our bodies have long been marked for death by our own churches and families. And instead of following the arc through death to resurrection, we find ourselves stuck repeating only one part of the Jesus story.

Through the mingling of ash and oil on my own forehead, I am called to remember my shared humanity with every person on earth. The addition of glitter invites me to honor the particularity of my own experience of learning to thrive in a world where many fellow followers of Jesus have been the very agents of harm that have visited death on my own story. To be marked by both ash and glitter helps me hold together in my body that I am a part of this oh-so-human body of Christ. Human cruelty and fragility, and the need for resurrection, exist in me personally and in us collectively. Our repentance is tied up together, but how it gets played out may look different for each of us.

鈥淭o be marked by both ash and glitter helps me hold together in my body that I am a part of this oh-so-human body of Christ.鈥�

For fellow Christians who have done violence to your LGBTQ siblings, I wonder about your repentance and where you hear the spirit calling you to our shared humanity. Could it be that you, like Peter, need to be reminded to 鈥渃all no thing unclean that I have made holy鈥�? And for all of us who follow Jesus, I believe that the call to repentance is a call to turn away from death-dealing and toward life鈥攚hether we鈥檝e been involved in directing violence to ourselves or to others. Repentance is always a turn of love; a turn toward each other in response to the Spirit of God.

And here we are in Holy Week, at the end of this journey of Lent, where Jesus walks us into a place where we do not want to go鈥攁 place where those of us who love Jesus most dearly, and confess Jesus most devoutly, are confronted by the mirror of our own betrayal; our own breaking point, where we walk away from a God who gives and takes鈥攖oo much鈥攊n the face of human violence. Here Jesus, fully God and fully human, steps in to occupy the space of all types of victimhood, suffering violence鈥攑hysical, sexual, emotional, and spiritual; enduring cutoff, abandonment, condemnation, shame, and assault; facing abuse both systemic and personal. Jesus does not do this because God demands it, or because God cannot stand to face our violence. It is as God that Jesus faces this violence to break its hold on all of us.

On Saturday we鈥檒l face the day on the Christian calendar that is the most perplexing of all. In many ways, it is an un-day; an undoing of who we, as disciples, wanted Jesus to be. On Friday, Jesus walks, bodily, into the way of human violence. And, on Sunday, Jesus offers transforming wounds to welcome us into a new kind of life. But between these days, on Holy Saturday, we wait in the stark undoing of not knowing where or how the Spirit of God will show up. We see that Jesus took on our violence, and we are confronted with the devastation of death. This is not a place we want to linger.

This year, Holy Saturday also marks the 20th anniversary of the mass shooting at Columbine High School in Littleton, Colorado. Like every trauma, this particular violence echoes in our collective stories, and it throbs a particular ache within the bodies of those who survived it. All trauma, from violence large or small, leaves a wake. It is the lingering, chaotic water that follows death. And while we can name the impact of particular waves, the pervasive presence of violence has always troubled the waters of the human story. Love in response to violence has always been a defiantly vulnerable act.

鈥淭he pervasive presence of violence has always troubled the waters of the human story. Love in response to violence has always been a defiantly vulnerable act.鈥�

This is where the Spirit hovers鈥攂etween the death of God at the hands of our human violence, and the resurrection of God that raises not only Jesus, but all of us from the grasp of death. Here, in the ashes and void, there is a shimmer across the face of the water. There is a glimmering ache toward life within the wound of death. It is a Queer transition, demanding that the body that has suffered violence will, through love, come forth with a both scarred and holy persistence. Resurrected life is vibrantly defiant鈥攏ot as though death had not happened, but because it has undergone death and been transformed by love. This is why grief is core to repentance. Grief is the opening of love through which life moves forward out of death.

I try to imagine some reconciliation within the body of Christ over the violence done to LGBTQ people. I try to imagine some repentance in a society committed to keeping guns over protecting human life. I try to imagine repair of racist violence enacted through social structures, and unquestioned bias. And I am exhausted by the ever-presence of death. We need a Jesus who steps into this violence that leads to death. And we need a Spirit who breathes with us, into this chaos that has always been, and offers a lifeline of grief that pulls us through the waters and into hope.

As we walk through Holy Week, may we listen to the Spirit who hovers over us, re-membering who we are as humans, marked by violence, yet joined by a God who is fully with us. This God faces us amidst violence, enters death, and moves with us into life beyond鈥攍ife marked by death, yet survived by love. May we consider our own participation on all sides of violence and feel the Breath of God hovering in places of death and spinning grief into an opening for love.

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The MA in Counseling Psychology with a Concentration in Trauma & Abuse, to be launched in Fall 2019, offers a unique specialization in Trauma-Informed Narrative Therapy, a modality that has been developed over decades of experience by Dr. Dan Allender and The Allender Center. Informed by research into neuroscience, shame, somatic psychotherapy, bodywork, and robust theology, Trauma-Informed Narrative Therapy is a therapeutic approach integrating in-depth story engagement and an awareness of trauma science through the lens of a dynamic Christian faith.

鈥淥ur mission is to train people to be competent in the study of text, soul, and culture to serve God and neighbor through transforming relationships. It鈥檚 not about studying as an end in itself; that call to service is at the heart of everything we do,鈥� says Dr. Derek McNeil, Acting President. 鈥淎s students develop more clarity about the specific realm of service they are called to, their education should become more focused as well. So this concentration will offer very particular training that hones the work students are already engaging through the Counseling Psychology program.鈥�

鈥淎s students develop more clarity about the specific realm of service they are called to, their education should become more focused as well.鈥�

This new concentration, the first of several being developed within our graduate degree programs, is emerging at a crucial time in our culture. We are surrounded every day by evidence of trauma and abuse鈥攊ncluding the heartbreaking revelations of widespread, systemic abuse in institutions; the rising tide of individual stories brought to light through the #MeToo movement; and the myriad ways that more subtle effects of trauma and abuse play out all around us. More than ever, our world is faced with an urgent need for well-trained practitioners who are equipped to address the complex realities of trauma as they help individuals and communities pursue healing.

Our Concentration in Trauma & Abuse will feature teaching informed by a broad range of theories and approaches, as well as experiential training in individual and group story work. Courses will be offered in a laboratory-style learning environment, combining theoretical learning with practical application. Clinical formation will be facilitated by 天美视频鈥檚 practitioner/scholar faculty, in tandem with immersive learning with The Allender Center. Through the integration of these methodologies, students will develop trauma-informed strategies for work in a variety of mental health settings and will be equipped to provide grounded, insightful, and attuned presence to traumatized clients.

鈥淭his concentration is for those willing to listen and attune to the pain and harm they have experienced in their own life. We can only take someone else as far as we have gone ourselves,鈥� says Abby Wong-Heffter, LMHC, Affiliate Faculty and Allender Center Teaching Staff. 鈥淔rom that foundation, we train wounded healers to help others understand and heal from the complex impacts of trauma and abuse by listening to the stories their body remembers and longs to tell the truth about.鈥�

The Concentration in Trauma & Abuse is designed to be completed concurrently with the MA in Counseling Psychology, and is composed of 70 credits: four concentration-specific credits, four required MACP electives, and two intensive offerings from The Allender Center. More information about the curriculum, application process, and goals for this new offering are available here.

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https://vimeo.com/305151148

If you鈥檝e ever met Bob, you know that he is a man of apparent contradictions. He speaks with a calm gentleness, meaning you might miss the pointed fierceness of his indictments of oppressive powers. One moment he鈥檚 decrying the injustice of nationalistic capitalism, and the next he鈥檚 leading a charismatic prayer for healing.

But the more you get to know him, you realize these aren鈥檛 contradictions for Bob. His political and social convictions are intimately connected to and informed by his vibrant faith in a God who is near and active in human affairs, especially in places of injustice and marginalization. It wasn鈥檛 always this way, though. In the post-9/11 atmosphere of fear and distrust of outsiders, Bob often felt like his faith had nothing to offer those who most needed good news. He was intrigued by Christians who spoke of miracles and prayed for healing, but he knew that those more charismatic circles were so often connected with harmful conservative and nationalist politics. The chasm between Christianity and social justice felt devastatingly vast.

鈥淭he evangelical and charismatic churches would be promoting the Reagan and Bush administrations鈥� policies, always dismissing everything we had to say,鈥� says Bob. 鈥淲e鈥檇 speak in churches and people would just oppose us. So we were getting more and more frustrated and feeling quite antagonistic toward the United States.鈥�

Bob鈥檚 journey of working to reconcile that divide is chronicled in this documentary from the , a short film series 鈥渆xploring the crossroads of God鈥檚 presence in our lives and justice on the earth.鈥� The film offers an overview of Bob鈥檚 story, documenting the progression of his faith, his encounters with both liberation theology and the charismatic movement, and his work in Washington and around the world.

鈥淭he places of deepest brokenness and marginalization everywhere in the world require a united body of Christ.鈥�

This is a beautiful, compelling film, and it reminds us that a meaningful pilgrimage is not just about leaving home embark on something new; there is, eventually, a return to service. For Bob and Gracie Ekblad, that meant returning to the United States to work within the Church instead of outside it, helping to foster reconciliation in places that had been divided for too long.

鈥淚n our ministry, God is doing a work where word鈥攔eading Scriptures for good news at the margins鈥攕pirit鈥攖he gifts of the Holy Spirit, moving in the power of the Holy Spirit鈥攁nd street鈥攋ustice, advocacy, peacemaking, confronting the powers, standing with the downtrodden鈥攖hose three pieces we feel called to champion together, in a united way,鈥� says Bob. 鈥淲e see that the places of deepest brokenness and marginalization everywhere in the world require a united body of Christ. So we feel called to a ministry of reconciliation, and there鈥檚 a need for repentance on lots of fronts. We needed to repent of all of our judgements, harsh judgements against evangelicals and charismatics. And churches that endorse the status quo need to repent of that and be about Jesus and the kingdom of God. Without that happening, we鈥檙e going to see increasing division and ineffective ministry, because the body of Christ isn鈥檛 going to be trusted around the world.鈥�

Our thanks to filmmaker Fred Sprinkle and the Wind Vane Project for helping tell Bob鈥檚 story, and for offering a compelling picture of a vibrant, active faith that does not shy away from the darkest injustices in our world. You can learn more about their project , and more about Bob and Gracie Ekblad and their work .

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This post is part of our conversation about the Church鈥檚 relationship to sexuality and sexual orientation. You can also read Kate Davis鈥檚 hope-filled reminder that the body of Christ, though wounded, is not yet broken; Jennifer Fernandez鈥檚 essay about the dangers of conflating Church with Christianity; and Dr. Derek McNeil鈥檚 reflection about global complexity and the pitfalls of ethnocentric theology.

Scrolling through my Facebook feed in the wake of the UMC special session felt like a 21st century experience of attending a public mourning. As a gay Christian man, with many friends who identify both as followers of Christ and members of the LGBTQ+ community, my feed echoed voices of lament. These voices represented numerous denominations, experiences, and political views, but shared a felt sense of a very familiar pain.

One post stood out to me in particular. In an incredibly honest, understated way it mentioned how unnerving it is to have one of the most personal parts of your life turned into a motion to be voted on by people who don鈥檛 know you at all. Something about the straightforwardness of this statement struck me.

In the days since, I have watched voices on every side of the spectrum abandon dialogue and return to the place they feel most safe. For some this is a highly politicized place with high stone walls, and for others it is a place of abstract theology and equally high walls. I understand this response, and I want to leave people the space they need to find safety in the way that makes sense for them.

鈥淚 have watched voices on every side of spectrum abandon dialogue and return to the place they feel most safe.鈥�

For me though, with three years of a graduate education built on the belief in a God who chooses to be present in my story and with me in my pain, I feel a need to simply remain鈥攖o ask that regardless of where we find ourselves, we extend witness to the pain of the communities personally impacted in recent weeks.

I鈥檓 tired. I鈥檓 sad. I鈥檝e carried unspoken weight for my whole life, stayed awake into many sleepless nights, prayed even when I didn鈥檛 know what to say. I鈥檝e wrestled with scripture, my community, and my own heart. I鈥檝e felt the intense tension caused in pitting my emotional and psychological health against the question of what I needed to do to be loved by God. At every turn, I鈥檝e felt the shift in the conversation, the point at which the person looking in my face is no longer seeing me, no longer hearing my story, but instead has lifted away to the far less human place of debating ideas.

We all have a story. We all have pain and trauma, and we know the loss of Holy Saturday. In this way we are more similar than we are different. As you think about the LGBTQ+ people in your life, please start from this place with them. Please create space for their stories and their pain, even as I pray that space has been created for you here at 天美视频 and The Allender Center. For the moment, please come be with me. Listen to me. Bring your pain, and hold me in mine. If the Body of Christ means anything, it must mean that I need you now, and that you will continue to need me.

In the hope of fostering faithful dialogue that understands narrative, wrestles with intersections, resists reactivity, and fosters radical hospitality, we seek to feature work from a wide range of backgrounds and perspectives. Therefore the opinions expressed on the Intersections blog are those of the authors and do not purport to reflect an official statement regarding the views or opinions of 天美视频. You can read more on the Intersections landing page.

The post The Urgent Humanity of Dialogue appeared first on 天美视频 of Theology & Psychology.

To continue the conversation, you can also read Elliot Huemann鈥檚 vital plea that the stories and pain of LGBTQ+ Christians be heard honestly, Jennifer Fernandez鈥檚 thought-provoking reflection on the dangers of conflating the Church and Christianity, and Kate Davis鈥檚 hope-filled reminder that even when the body of Christ is wounded, it is not broken and it is not without hope.

In the wake of the UMC vote on Human Sexuality, I鈥檝e become increasingly concerned that we are losing the capacity to see relationally and to hear each other beyond social categories. I have noticed a familiar tendency, in what started as an international vote concerning a global denomination is turned into a particularly American discussion鈥攗niversalizing themes and inflections that are firmly located in our national political, religious, and social discourse. This shortchanges our understanding of the complexity of our human discourse and limits our ability to listen deeply.

To raise this point is not to intellectually diminish the real rejection and pain felt across the UMC denomination. The voices in this discourse matter, and I pray that we continue listening to the stories and honor the tears of those who have felt harmed and isolated by this vote, who have experienced the last few weeks as the deepening of an old wound. And may we also remember that there are voices鈥攂eyond and within our borders鈥攚ho do not easily fall into the familiar categories and talking points of our national discourse. This, it seems to me, is the complexity of the global conversation; even through our wounds, can we see those who have also been wounded? A relational hermeneutic invites us to cross ethnic, economic, gendered, and political boundaries to consider the contextual concerns of those outside the boundaries of our discourse.

鈥淓ven through our wounds, can we see those who have also been wounded?鈥�

The vote in late February was relatively close鈥�. Forty-three percent of those voting were international delegates, primarily from African nations, a majority of whom joined a coalition of conservative American delegates in voting for the Traditional Plan. This was very much a vote of global representatives, and the conversation around it is, in some ways, a microcosm of America鈥檚 present and historic relationship with the other countries represented.

To be clear鈥攖here are no easy, tidy takeaways from this vote, from the centuries-old dynamics that led up to it, or from the reactions and conversations in the wake of it. But perhaps that is, in itself, a meaningful reminder: in our discussions, responses, sermons, and even in our grief, may we allow room for the complexity and nuance that is asked of us to live as the global body of Christ.

My hope for 天美视频, and for the Church in America, is that we follow Jesus by continuing to wade into that complexity without resorting to caricatures or escaping to easy, familiar answers. May we be a place that struggles, a place that is willing to speak truth to systems of power that have caused harm鈥攍istening to and amplifying the voices of those who have been harmed, while also asking hard questions of ourselves and each other about the structures that undergird those systems.

As we continue unraveling this thread, it becomes clear to me that our engagement of the discourse following this vote cannot be separated from our ongoing engagement of cultural supremacy, and the intersections of whiteness, patriarchy, and colonialism. Because sometimes white supremacy is expressed through the violent racism of pointed robes and burning crosses, and sometimes it looks more like the implicit assumption that 鈥減rogressives鈥� in America are more advanced and are waiting for the rest of the world to catch up鈥攐r the more traditionalist assumption that the only civil or functional civilizations are of European descent. No matter how it is expressed, an assumption of supremacy disrupts our capacity to see relationally.

No matter how it is expressed, an assumption of supremacy disrupts our capacity to see relationally.

This means we must resist a posture that suggests the international Church鈥攑articularly churches in Africa鈥攊s too 鈥減rimitive鈥� in its social evolution, still behind the progress of the Church in the United States. And we must question the narrative that says delegates from African nations only voted a certain way because they ascribe to the theology exported to them by colonialist missionary practices. While it is true that the conflation of colonialism and mission is a crucial part of our shared history, that argument all too easily denies agency to other nations, denies that their own contexts, traditions, social mores, and histories also inform how they speak in these global conversations.

If you haven鈥檛 noticed yet, there are more questions implied in this essay than there are answers. That might not be a satisfying conclusion, but I do not believe we can arrive at meaningful answers without first sitting in the painful tension of these questions, in all of their history and nuance and complexity. And I don鈥檛 know how we do that as a global Church without falling into old patterns or reenacting old wounds鈥攐r if we can do that, in our present context. But I do know that a relational hermeneutic means there are certain things we cannot work on from a distance, and I know that we can turn toward each other now at a local, relational level. That is my prayer: that we would turn toward relationship in times of unrest and division, when it can be tempting to veer toward isolation over connection, or toward resistance without community.

And so I say again: May we be a place that struggles. May we listen to the cries of our LGBTQ siblings whose pain feels raw and urgent after this vote and the conversations in its wake. May we listen to the Church beyond our borders when they say that the Jesus they believe in looks different than what we鈥檙e asking of them. May we listen to each other, to the questions and stories that are too often silenced. And may we listen, all of us, to the voice of the Spirit that continues to call us together as the local, global body of Christ.

In the hope of fostering faithful dialogue that understands narrative, wrestles with intersections, resists reactivity, and fosters radical hospitality, we seek to feature work from a wide range of backgrounds and perspectives. Therefore the opinions expressed on the Intersections blog are those of the authors and do not purport to reflect an official statement regarding the views or opinions of 天美视频. You can read more on the Intersections landing page.

The post A Call to Discourse appeared first on 天美视频 of Theology & Psychology.