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

“I have watched voices on every side of spectrum abandon dialogue and return to the place they feel most safe.”

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—to ask that regardless of where we find ourselves, we extend witness to the pain of the communities personally impacted in recent weeks.

I’m tired. I’m sad. I’ve carried unspoken weight for my whole life, stayed awake into many sleepless nights, prayed even when I didn’t know what to say. I’ve wrestled with scripture, my community, and my own heart. I’ve 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’ve 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 ÌìĂÀÊÓÆ” 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 ÌìĂÀÊÓÆ”. You can read more on the Intersections landing page.

The post The Urgent Humanity of Dialogue appeared first on ÌìĂÀÊÓÆ” of Theology & Psychology.

To continue the conversation, you can also read Elliot Huemann’s vital plea that the stories and pain of LGBTQ+ Christians be heard honestly, Jennifer Fernandez’s thought-provoking reflection on the dangers of conflating the Church and Christianity, and Kate Davis’s 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’ve 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—universalizing 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—beyond and within our borders—who 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.

“Even through our wounds, can we see those who have also been wounded?”

The vote in late February was relatively close—. 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’s present and historic relationship with the other countries represented.

To be clear—there 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 ÌìĂÀÊÓÆ”, 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—listening 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 “progressives” in America are more advanced and are waiting for the rest of the world to catch up—or 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—particularly churches in Africa—is too “primitive” 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’t 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’t know how we do that as a global Church without falling into old patterns or reenacting old wounds—or 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’re 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 ÌìĂÀÊÓÆ”. You can read more on the Intersections landing page.

The post A Call to Discourse appeared first on ÌìĂÀÊÓÆ” of Theology & Psychology.

To continue this conversation, we’re also sharing Elliot Huemann’s vulnerable plea that the pain of LGBTQ+ Christians be heard honestly, Jennifer Fernandez’s thoughtful exploration of the dangers of conflating the Church and Christianity, and Dr. Derek McNeil’s reflection about global complexity and the pitfalls of ethnocentric theology.

What a hopeful time for the Church in America.

It doesn’t look like it, at first glance (or perhaps even first dozen glances), but in the midst of grief, I feel the greater undertow towards hope. My tears are both lament and cleansing baptism.

The headlines in my newsfeed are focused on the fracturing, fighting, and forsaking taking place in the United Methodist Church. The rejection and righteousness felt by both sides. Grief is expressed, prayers offered, services held.

It’s the grief that strikes me, more so than the split. Many of the prayers and laments offered are from Christians who aren’t in the Methodist tradition. I’m also not Methodist, and have been processing the news each day with friends and colleagues who identify across a number of sexualities and come from various traditions, including some who don’t currently identify as Christian at all. From the depth of pain and grief expressed, you’d never know that we aren’t all Methodist.

Because despite centuries of denominational splits and rewritten polities and institutional barriers, we are all still the singular body of Christ.

“Despite centuries of denominational splits and rewritten polities and institutional barriers, we are all still the singular body of Christ.”

In the crucifixion, Christ’s body was wounded, but the bones remained intact. There are no breaks in the body of Christ. No fractures. No amputations.

Which isn’t to say there aren’t wounds. His wrists, his feet, the cut on his side, the crown of thorns—wounds abound. The wounds are not superficial; they go deep, and the nails go all the way through. Thomas is able to insert his fingers into the side of the resurrected Christ. The body of Christ is deeply wounded, but remains intact.

Which is why this week has hurt so much. We are still the body of Christ, and we feel the nail pierce our flesh, no matter the distance of denomination, tradition, theology, ideology. It turns out that the God who holds us together is bigger than polity, that words can deeply wound—even unto death—but cannot break us.

And this is what strikes me as hopeful in this season: the recognition of pain. Our collective feeling of our hurt—no matter tradition or sexuality—means that we’re in touch with our common humanity. The shared lament offers us an opportunity to draw closer to one another across perceived differences—even as it feels like our two hands are arm-wrestling each other.

Because I direct a program designed to cultivate pastoral resilience, the question keeps coming to me: What does resilience look like in the midst of this? It looks like grief. Like tears and lament. It looks like fully entering into grief, and the ability to do so because we know God is with us into suffering, through death, and on the other side. It looks like entering into pain with the expectation that the experience will form us.

The disciples didn’t get to fast forward from the crucifixion to the resurrection. They had to grieve through Holy Saturday, with the certainty that the man they had thought would save Israel was dead. I trust that God’s timing wasn’t off, that it was necessary for the disciples to go through this day of grief before the resurrection occurred. I believe God was inviting them to something formative on that day through their grief.

We don’t get to fast forward to resurrection or reconciliation either. But we can enter into grief with the trust that it’s formative, perhaps even necessary. And we can grieve with the memory that reconciliation and resurrection have come before: that Jacob and Esau embraced, that Joseph kissed all his brothers and wept over them, that salvation came even from a Samaritan. Sometimes years pass before reconciliation occurs, necessary time in which God does the formative work to make reconciliation possible.

May this season be an opportunity for us to identify as citizens of Heaven more primarily than members of any denomination or ideology. May we enter into the wounds of the body of Christ, recognize our shared pain, and proclaim together: “My Lord and My God.”

Rev. Steve Wolff is a pastor of a UMC congregation in Nehalem Bay, OR, and a participant in Resilient Leaders Project. I reached out to ask him how he’s doing in the midst of his congregation’s decision-making process. Steve has held different stances on LGBTQIA questions during his 35 years in the denomination, initially in the traditionalist group before moving into the open and inclusive one. I value Rev Wolff’s perspective because he’s a kind, connective soul who speaks with both strength and mercy, and I am grateful for these words he shared about his experience:

Since I serve to a progressive congregation in a progressive Jurisdiction, I have felt all along like I was pretty secure in what I felt and where I belonged. That said, I have been surprised at how much this vote has affected me. I have been part of this denomination for some 35 years, and have moved from initially being in the traditionalist group into the open and inclusive camp. It has been journey of discovery, but now I feel like I have moved from the United Methodist Church to the Untied Methodist Church and that we are adrift.

All this is preamble—here is what I have been thinking about today. A dear friend of mine brought up the good Samaritan, wondering what should this general conference have done in light of that parable? That got me to thinking of a teaching from my old Seminary professor, Bill Mallard. What Bill pointed out to us was that Jews and Samaritans hated each other. Most of us know that, but somehow when we read the parable, we forget. So, in a parable told by a Jewish man, to a Jewish audience who would be identifying with the assumed Jewish protagonist, the one who comes to save is a member of their most hated group. At least part of what Jesus was teaching is that loving our neighbor is not just about us saving the hated person or class—it is accepting that the hated person is saving us. As I look at General Conference 2019, I see that the presenting problem is Human Sexuality, but much of it is about power: who will have the power to determine who is in and who is out, and both conservative and progressive voices are jockeying for this authority. How different would this look if we were to let the most abused and reviled groups save us? Now that would be an inspiring generosity. I can’t explain how, at least right now, but that idea of salvation by the least of these keeps me going.

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 ÌìĂÀÊÓÆ”. You can read more on the Intersections landing page.

The post Wounded But Not Broken appeared first on ÌìĂÀÊÓÆ” of Theology & Psychology.

Here, Jennifer Fernandez, Assistant Instructor, argues that particular churches or denominations should not be equated with the whole of Christianity. Whatever your response when you are harmed by or disagree with an institution—whether you stay to grieve and work and effect change, or leave in search of a home elsewhere—the way of Jesus and the call to live as people of justice and relationality remain the same.

Let’s stop conflating church for Christianity.

There’s a Twitter post I read recently that reads, “It is not helpful to tell LGBTQ United Methodists they need to find ‘another church.’ Home is home. The UMC belongs to them as much as it belongs to straight Methodists.” My immediate thought was, “‘Home is home’? What does that mean?”

Sometimes “home,” for some people, is a place where you are hurt, abused, told you don’t matter, and that your very existence is an abomination. If a child grows up in such a home, we immediately want to do something to change that child’s circumstances. We want to provide comfort, care, grace, and love. We demand justice. So why do we allow Christ’s “home” to do the same thing?

In Diana Butler Bass explains, “In the decades before the Civil War, three of the nation’s largest Protestant denominations—Baptists, Presbyterians, and Methodists—split over slavery, biblical interpretation, and abolition. [
] As the churches divided over slavery then, so they are dividing over sexuality and gender now. Many of the biblical arguments and hermeneutic approaches once used to support slavery are now employed to reject the humanity, gifts, and dignity of women and LGBTQ persons. If you read 19th century sermons or tracts from Southern Presbyterians, for example, you only need to swap out a few words and you have a blog about how the Bible doesn’t allow women to preach or gay and lesbian couples to marry.”

Too often we conflate all Christian churches and denominations for Christianity, when really they’re a bit of a Venn diagram. Sometimes they’re the same, sometimes they’re not. Our jobs as consumers of church is to know the difference. Christianity always demands that we call out injustice—sometimes church does this. Christianity always tells us to set a place at the table for everyone—sometimes church does this. Christianity urges us to live into right relationality that is reflective here and now of the kin-dom of God—sometimes church does this. When church and Christianity don’t line up, we the people get to say “do better.” Sometimes, demanding that church do better means staying and not leaving your ground, it means writing letters, it means protesting, it means finding new platforms and new coalitions, and sometimes it means leaving. It means saying, “I will not let you hurt me in the name of God. I will not let you abuse me. I will not sacrifice my deep and true knowing of God in the name of a denomination that mistreats me.”

Butler Bass reminds us that denominations are not the same as theology, and I agree. When we begin to idolize a structure like a denomination, when we begin to turn a blind eye to the suffering that those denominations are causing, we are sacrificing Christianity. That said, it’s painful work to acknowledge that “home” isn’t safe. It’s painful work to acknowledge that we have been harmed in that “home.” And it’s painful work to acknowledge that we have let others be harmed there and done nothing. Our denominational affiliations often comfort and give us a sense of belonging. They’re our Hogwarts house, where we feel seen and where we feel that we’re among others who experience and see the world the same way we do. Our denominations often give us a sense of tradition, a sense of rootedness. But sometimes, that’s not the case—or rather that’s not the case for everyone in that home. Home sometimes means a place where you have both sacred, beautiful memories and shattering, impossible realities. Home sometimes means a place where you once felt completely loved and accepted, and then when you came out/transitioned/wanted to get married/got divorced/wanted to be ordained, you were no longer loved and accepted. Home sometimes means a place where you have to hide who you are because if you don’t hide, you will be hurt, you will be told you are not God’s child. However, God’s home should never be this type of home. And if it means that people need to leave “home,” sometimes that’s the very best thing they can do to save their lives and their faith.

“When we begin to idolize a structure like a denomination, when we begin to turn a blind eye to the suffering that those denominations are causing, we are sacrificing Christianity.”

That said, we need to acknowledge the black and white, dualistic thinking we’re enculturated into in this country and drag it out of the shadows—leaving a denomination or church that hurts is not the same as leaving Christianity, and knowing the difference requires a lot of slowing down on our part. It means doing the work necessary to know that Christianity is greater, deeper, and more expansive than any one denomination or church. It means learning to decipher as good consumers which places feed us and all those around us, and which say to some “you can eat at this table,” while it turns others who are hungry away. Knowing the difference is important to both our collective thriving and the thriving of Christianity itself.

In this time of deep pain where denominations fail to see the fullness of those in their midst, we should be reminded that home need not be the kind of place that hurts us. As Bishop Karen Olivedo, the first open lesbian bishop elected¹ to the UMC, states, “Once you have seen and experienced how beautiful the Body of Christ is when all are included you can’t accept the rejection of some of the members of the Body.”

We can find new places to call home, created family that sees the fullness of the divinity within us. We can hold the complexity of trauma and know that there are homes where we will be embraced, cared for, and celebrated. And we can be prophetic in our stance against systems which forget that faith opens one’s heart to the enormity of creation. However we choose to find home that feels safe, that feeds our faith, may we know that Christianity is more than church, and that we are Divinely loved.

¹Look her up. She’s got an interesting story to tell.

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 ÌìĂÀÊÓÆ”. You can read more on the Intersections landing page.

The post When Home Is Not Safe appeared first on ÌìĂÀÊÓÆ” of Theology & Psychology.