I just had to say something, didn’t I?* A pastor responds to outside missionaries

IMG_1423.JPGI saw the placards as we rolled past Mills Lawn on Elm Street. Turning onto Short from Walnut, I saw the bearers. Two women, at least in their 60s, bedecked in the long dresses and long hair that often accompany Holiness movement communities. I sighed as we turned right on Xenia and looked for a parking space. “I think this is something to which a town pastor must respond,” I said, getting out of the car.

Mimi and I have a ritual: Monday mornings at the Sunrise. We love the people who work the shift. It is generally a very townie time to be downtown. We each invariably order the same thing. They know us so well, they once started our order while we were still waiting for a table to come open. By the time we sat down, the food was coming up.

I was hoping to gather my thoughts over breakfast when Mimi pointed out that they were on a wait. No biggy, I thought. As we walked past a group of four tourists and into the restaurant, they followed immediately. A woman asked if she could sneak past, even though she had already put their name in. I said, “The host will come around in a second. We’re not cutting.” She and another lady then moved into space right next to people eating; just, milling about and assuming that this very successful restaurant is staffed by people who don’t know that there is a small waiting area and people go outside. They’re still talking about how they don’t want to lose their spot. I said to Miriam, “I don’t like the vibe in town today. Let’s go to Tom’s. ”

We stepped out and walked toward the Little Art. I look again at the women and they were speaking to people passing by. Dammit, I thought. I told Miriam she could go ahead, and I crossed the street.

**

“Hello,” I say.

“Hello,” one woman returns, eyeballing me in a way with which I am most familiar. My beard, locs, tattoos, muscles; the ever-present Monday Jesus Christ Superstar t-shirt; they all add up to danger. She takes a step back.

“I’m pastor of the church right there. I just want to let you know that Jesus is very well represented here. We’ve had committed, Christ-infused people with long, deep ties to this community for nearly two hundred years. We don’t need outsiders coming in to deliver a message regarding Jesus, especially this way. We have at least half-a-dozen pastors toiling in the vineyard of Yellow Springs right now. Jesus is doing just fine.”

“Then why did God ask us to come here?” she retorts.

“I don’t even know how to respond to that, ma’am. Because your claim that God sent you here seems in direct contradiction about what I know to be true. I grew up here. I have committed the whole of my life to Jesus Christ. I have been a pastor in this village for five years, and I know the fruits that God has born from the countless seeds sown by Christ-loving people.”

“I’ve never heard of one Christian asking another Christian to leave,” she says.

“Ma’am, I’m not asking you to leave. What I am saying is that if you were really concerned about the souls of people here, why did you not contact those of us who toil in the vineyard? Why not come and talk to us? This is not doing anything to help those of us who love Jesus and who will still be here after you leave.”

“Okay, you’ve had your say.”

“Yup, God bless.”

All I hear is laughter as I walk away.

**

In a way, my approach was confrontational. I imagine that there will be those who feel that I should have gone in with a carrot rather than a stick. Establish mutual love for Christ, ask questions, be more invitational; I get it. Because I have done it in the past and it goes nowhere. I’ve spent two decades studying and living Christianity. I’ve lived in this part of Ohio for the overwhelming majority of my life. I know their techniques, their theology, their assumptions. They are treating this town as a mission field.

Missionaries only go where they feel that Christ is not represented or to places they believe are openly hostile to God. That must always be kept at the forefront. The earnestness of these Christians cannot be denied; they sincerely believe that Satan takes root in communities unless there are soldiers in God’s army actively fighting against him. They will not recognize as authentically Christian any Jesus-believer who does not share their Manichean worldview, replete with racism, homophobia, xenophobia, and nationalism wrapped up in a millennialist-based eschatology that would make the Qurman community say, “Whoa, lighten up y’all.”

Was it comfortable saying these things to my elders? No. I didn’t relish it. I didn’t enjoy it. I wasn’t angry. But I couldn’t just roll me eyes and walk on. I just had to say something.

**

Paul writes in Ephesians 4:4-5, “There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to the one hope of your calling, one Lord, one faith, one baptism…” It is important to remember that Paul was writing while in prison, awaiting trial before Nero that most certainly would result in a death sentence. In this epistle, which was not addressed to the people of Ephesus as it is an encyclical and meant for all members of the Body of Christ, Paul uses seventy unique Greek words that are not found in any of his other authentic epistles.

Ephesians operates as a diptych, with two panels (Eph. 1-3; 4-6) facing one another. In the first part, Paul writes about what must happen inside each person: we must hold ourselves up against the example of Christ and see that we are found wanting. Understanding that we need God in order to transform, we replace ourselves with Christ. We begin to live in Christ. Paul does not say how this must happen; he understands that each experience will be different, but if it results in you pulling up a chair at the table of Christ and saying, “I’m all in,” then that is the faith Paul is talking about.

In the second half, Paul connects this idea of Christ unifying each of us to your true selves with how the Body of Christ must function. This is something most often misunderstood by missionaries such as those who are currently downtown. When Paul writes about “one faith,” he is not arguing for a uniformity of belief. This is not a credal proposition. How could he have made such a claim? Paul was referred to as an apostle by his followers, but such as a term that was only applied to those who knew Jesus. Paul did not. Paul had an experience of the risen Christ, which no one could substantiate except Paul himself. The whole of his life was meant to evidence that even those who never knew the historical Jesus can be filled with the Spirit and can be used by God for the glory of the gospel.

From the beginning, our faith tradition has been about the transforming power of God through Jesus Christ. The kerygma, the oral proclamations, spread in numerous languages, meeting people where they were; the gospel as we have received it is by definition an experiential one. Sadly, history has shown that Christians are far, far too concerned about how a person ended up at God’s table rather than the fact that God brings us all as equals.

In Paul’s vision for Godly community, we must have respect for the myriad ways in which God can reconcile humans to God’s self. God points to a shared baptism. Again, this was not just a credal formula. It was a public testimony, even in the face of danger, about inward grace. It was not a call that everyone should be baptized in the same way or for exactly the same reasons. Rather, Paul’s call to a shared faith and baptism was meant to be a radical invitation into God’s diverse, Spirit-infused community.

**

I have to imagine that I am now, or will soon be, a story these ladies share. Based on their derisive laughter as I departed, I’m sure I will be seen as a demon, a fallen soul, a deceiver, a fill-in-the-blank. Just like with an encyclical: the community name in the greeting is left blank so that the reader/teller of the epistle can insert the name of the one being addressed. Rather, in my situation, I’ll be a mirror for all their fears and assumptions. In that way, what I did is a certain failure. My words will only strengthen their resolve and might, in the end, increase the frequency of their visits.

But I just had to say something, didn’t I?

*The title should be read in the voice of Dr. Venkman with the sarcasm tone set on 11. I’m not conducting a poll.

**This was updated to correct tense issues.

Choosing the Wrong Son of Daddy: On Adults Threating Kids, Holy Week 2018

There were no childhoods in the ancient world. At least, not in the way we picture them in the post-Industrial Revolution West. Childhood was to be survived. If you look closely at ancient Western art—at least, art through the Medieval period—children often are depicted with the features and bodies of miniature adults (homunculi).

uglybabyandmother.jpgMadonna and Child from 1304

There’s a bit of a chicken and the egg debate regarding whether art imitates life or life imitates art. Some claim that early Christian artistic renderings of children as adults stem from the theological notion that Jesus Christ is unchanging. In other words, when Jesus was born he looked like a grown ass man. Like, the original Simon Birch. Therefore, when shown as a pup Jesus looks like an angry longshoreman with a Napoleon complex and bruises from his last comeuppance. The argument goes, Christian art—or, more properly, art from Christian cultures—portrayed all children in a like manner. This could very well be the case.

More likely, though, was the notion that children were adults waiting to happen. They were to be loved, for sure, but they were to be trained, molded, prepared, and prayed over.  In the main, if you made it to the age of ten, chances were good that you could live to adulthood, which, depending on the culture and your gender, began anywhere from the early- to late-teen years.

This ish is rough

I would not want to be a young person today. Not with Snapchat, YouTube, Twitter, and all the other platforms I’m too old and uphip to know about; but I have been working with Millennials for over a decade. And I’m not quite sure how this whole generation thing is breaking down, but I’m pretty certain Generation Z will soon be on their way into my classroom. I’ve been marching with them, listening to them, teaching them, learning from them, and just being a fellow human being with them.

Most of the young people I’ve heard from, either directly or on television, want help from adults. (Seriously, how weird is it fellow Xers that we’re the adults in the room? Last I checked, I was in line for Tool tickets and somebody was going on a beer run.) This past weekend, though, millions of youth grabbed microphones, held signs, peacefully protested, and made it clear that they are tuned in and they are not dropping out. It is absolutely inspirational and I am so grateful for their energy and excitement because, to be honest, I’ve kinda chubby and I’ve got a lot of health problems, so my days of marching are probably over.

I don’t agree with everything they are calling for, especially as it comes to proposals to amend privacy rights for those with mental illnesses. I might write more on this later, but I don’t want to criticize these activists right now. I want to lift them up, but I also want to be one of the voices crying out at the adults who are berating them, especially those focusing on Emma Gonzalez.*

To be clear, I am NOT comparing Emma Gonzalez to my Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. But the irrational hatred that is being levied at this young woman seems akin to that visited upon Jesus. Reading the inhumane things adults write about Emma has caused my skin to crawl, they refer to her as an “it.” She’s too brown to be “American,” she wears a Cuban flag patch, so she’s a “commie,” she’s a “lesbian,” she’s a crisis actor, she’s ISIS, she’s apparently everything they fear is “taking over” America. They RAGE behind their keyboards, on their phones, liking one another’s posting, working each other up into a lather, until, almost invariably, someone will post an undisguised threat. She thinks she’s bulletproof. She’s gone fully automatic r****d.

It’s happening on local FB pages and Twitter feeds. And while I try to ignore it, I know that I cannot, so I click on the pages and profiles of the people doing it and, almost invariably, they claim to be Christians. Again and again. White, angry Christians.

Do you even Bible, bro? 

Most of us who go to church on Good Friday are already the churchgoing type. The Christmas and Easter types generally aren’t thinking, “Hey, I know! Let’s go to worship on Friday night to partake in the darkest service of the year!” But if you’re reading this, I am going to assume that you’re interested and, if nothing else, maybe you’ll have something to help you when you yell answers at the Jeopardy! box.

In the Gospel of Mark, it is reported that every year Pilate releases a criminal for Passover as a sign of good will. Never mind that there is no record of this tradition anywhere outside of the gospels (and we have lots of records from this time) and we know that Pilate had no love for the Jews. So, this most likely did not happen historically. That’s fine, the meaning is not in the literal meaning of the text.

The year that Jesus is arrested, there’s this guy named Barabbas. That’s a pretty nifty moniker, especially if you know Aramaic. Bar means “son of,” abba means “daddy.” It is often translated as “father,” but most linguists say abba is meant to be a term of endearment used by little children for their daddies.

But do you see it yet? Do you?

The crowd is given the choice of one Son of the Father, Jesus, who will be murdered and in-so-doing, release the crowd (and humanity) from sin and death. Or, they may choose another son of the father, who is accused of murder but is freed from rightful punishment by the bloodthirsty crowd. So blind has their hatred made them, so certain are they that Jesus cannot be from God, that he cannot speak the truth about the death and destruction wrought by the people, that he cannot bear witness to the changes that must come, that they are willing to overlook murder just to see the one they hate bleed and suffer. He can’t be a real agent of God. He has no right to say the things he does. Who the hell does he think he is?!?!?! We’ve got to shut his fucking mouth for him, don’t we?! 

The Church has a clear-cut choice to make this Holy Week. Do we have our eyes fixed on Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace? Do we allow the Advocate to animate us, to propel us to stand with the oppressed and the victimized? When children who don’t want to be shot going to school are debased and dehumanized by scores of people claiming to follow Christ, something is wrong. And it’s not the people being criticized. It’s we in the Church who just shake our heads and say, “well, I’m not that kind of Christian.”

This Easter, let’s resurrect our sense of purpose and mission. Not to convert people, but to serve people. Not to build the Church, but to restore the Church to something resembling the principles of Jesus Christ. Because, to be honest, I’m in the need of some resurrection right now, surrounded as I am by people clamoring for Barabbas to be saved.

*I’m not going to post any screen captures. I’ll leave it at this and move on.

Roadtripping with Bipolar

ubcutsTomorrow I leave for Winston–Salem, NC for the final mid–semester intensive before I defend my dissertation in August, God willing and if the creek don’t rise. For the first time, we are gathering with other cohorts for a church conference co-sponsored by United Theological Seminary and Union Baptist Church, pastored by Bishop Dr. Sir Walter Mack, who is a longtime mentor at the seminary. In theory, I really want to go.

But there’s also reality. I’m on two new medications, something about which I wrote two days ago, which brings me up to a grand total of ten. Two meds have to be taken with food, one has to be taken an hour before food, seven have the side effect of dizziness, four can cause edema, five can cause drowsiness, and I’m a bit uncertain how these two new ones are going to interact with everything else as it has only been a few days since I started taking them.

I also have problems with large crowds, which sucks because I grew up following Bob Dylan. I’ve seen him live thirty-two times, and it isn’t more because I had to stop a decade ago. I have a pretty kick-ass live show list, but those days are gone. Add to my growing agoraphobia, severe tinnitus, hyperacusis, declining hearing, and tactile issues, events with lots of noise and people are an energy-draining nightmare for me, especially if Miriam is not with me to be an assuring and reassuring buffer.

I used to really like road trips by myself. I’m an introvert who likes complete control over the radio. Of course, we all have the same prep: do we bring food, or eat on the road? Since starting a keto diet, I am decidedly a “bring food” person. Today I finally have to face the wreck that is my car. I still have stuff in there from Julius Caesar, and by “stuff” I mean LaCroix cans and unwashed costume pieces. I am much less anxious driving in a clean car.

Since becoming sick, road trips are exhausting endeavors filled with contingency plans. What if I get too dizzy or fatigued and can’t make the drive in one day? I’ve already scouted hotels along the way and will get up early to make the opening worship. What if I have a bipolar episode, need help, but am unable to communicate? Miriam can track my phone and we’ll check in every hour until I get there. If I don’t respond within half an hour, she’ll know my location and can call for help.

I hope this week is a positive experience, but truth be told I am just hoping to get through it and back home safely. I don’t have children, So I don’t have to negotiate those challenges. I can only imagine the stress and exhaustion. I write as a chronically ill person finishing a doctorate. As a result of my own experiences, I think I am now more sensitive and aware of what I don’t know about others. Sometimes, showing up is the greatest thing a person can give. The energy I will expend just to show up dressed and with a smile on my face is enough to warrant another eight hours of sleep.

At this point, I don’t know what my level of participation and engagement will be; I hope high. Regardless, as I continue to discern God’s presence in life’s challenges, I am increasingly aware of how important it is to be kind to someone who is late, or who arrives a bit disheveled, or who may fall asleep during an event. Too often we assume laziness, poor organizational skills, or incompetence. We so often err on the side of cruelty.

My thyroid and medications are conspiring to tip me over 300 lbs. I’m constantly cold. I hear multiple high-pitched tones all the timealong with two other manifestations of tinnitus, from moment-to-moment I ward off panic attacks, I’m frightened to speak on the phone. I need a ridiculously powerful sleeping pill to sleep, yet I am deeply exhausted most of my waking hours. This is on good days. I push through all of this because life is beautiful. My being there is a sign that I care, that I’m engaged, just like everyone else.

I also call off. I lose focus. It can take me days to make a phone call because my anxiety is so high. I can be so exhausted it is perhaps unpleasant to speak with me because I look sick and/or disinterested. I forget things, misremember details, and can become confused and overwhelmed in certain situations. For all the positives you get with me, there is a growing list of negatives. I’m discovering that’s how it is with chronic illness, the greatest of which, for me, is Bee-Dee.

There are people who go through so much more than what I describe. So. Much. More. But that’s kind of the point. Our culture is cruel. We don’t have to be.

Sick, Broke, and Exhausted: My “daily sob story”

Sick, Broke, and Exhausted: My “daily sob story”

I was recently told by someone whom I considered a good friend that I have a “daily sob story.” As we parted company, he said he won’t miss it and used a colorful term to paint me as one who cries hysterically at the smallest thing. I wish I could say that I was able to brush it aside as I do many other bombs that are lobbed at me with some regularity, but I haven’t. It hit my soft underbelly. Like many people living with chronic illness, diagnoses don’t stop with the “big one.” Systemic issues reveal themselves, sometimes through drug interactions, sometimes through the stabilization of primary symptoms that allow secondary ones to manifest more clearly. Sometimes a fresh hell is asymptomatic and is simply an unpleasant surprise.

Let me start out by saying that there are millions of people who have more complicated diagnoses, who do not have access to the same quality care, who do not have supportive family, friends, and colleagues, or the ability to advocate on their own behalf. Frankly, it is sad that we’ve turned illness into a competition in which we have to qualify or defend our own realities lest we seem like we’re complainers looking for attention. That was essentially the accusation levied at me, one made a few months ago that still hurts enough that I am writing about it now, less than twenty-four hours after a new diagnosis.

For those who may not know, here’s my deal. I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder three years ago. I had been self-medicating with alcohol for years, which I continued to drink through the first year of my diagnosis. The initial mood stabilizer I was on, Geodon, caused me to have a nervous breakdown and I contracted viral conjunctivitis, a rare side effect, which did not do much to improve my mental state. I had to resign from a job that helped me pay for insurance. During this time, I gained 20lbs. I then switched to Lithium, which has been great at stabilizing my mood, but in three years I have gained 50lbs. I’m on three other medications to help manage my bipolar depression and General Anxiety Disorder.

My exhaustion level for the past few years has been pretty much beyond description. I’ve battled insomnia most of my life; natural and over-the-counter remedies do not work for me, and because of my weight I snore like all three stooges. I had two sleep studies late last year (just in time for the charges to be applied to the 2017 deductible, charges we’ll be paying off through 2020) that revealed I stop breathing 133x/hour. Diagnosis: severe sleep apnea. The CPAP machine is amazing and I use it religiously, but my exhaustion still remains. I take a sleeping pill with a dosage that made the nurse at my doctor’s office say, “Wow.”

Since I was a child, I have had problems with my ears. I was told that I would most likely lose my hearing around the age of 60; granted, this was in the early 80s and we have amazing treatments and hearing aids now. With that said, I have severe tinnitus, hyperacuity, and I need to have tubes put in every year (my hearing is declining rapidly, but the tubes should restore about 25%). There’s other stuff: I have become hypertensive. I have edema problems. Psoriasis. I just received a new diagnosis (see below). I am currently on ten medications.

Here’s the deal: I know that there are a lot of people who deal with many of these conditions individually or in combination. Some may deal with them all. I don’t believe I am special and I’m not asking for pity. I just want to make that clear, although I doubt it will stop the jackasses from making jackass comments.

When someone has the courage to speak up and say, “I’ve got some shit wrong with me and I’m not doing so well today,” I think the decent thing to do is not to belittle that person for being sick. Granted, my primary illness is a mental one. I see a therapist every week and I spend a lot of time trying to work through my paranoia and defensiveness, but it is fucking devastating to be ridiculed for sharing one’s struggles.

Chances are, there is someone in your life who is sick, broke, and tired. The energy it takes me to call the insurance company to appeal a decision is legion, and I ain’t got many. From the moment I wake up, I am thinking about how to time my meds, my meals, my water intake, how to manage if certain symptoms arise, feeling guilt and shame that I am unable to do the things I promised I could do because, well, because I’m sick, broke, and tired.

This week I began two new meds. The first is a new mood stabilizer that is weight negative that we hope will be able to replace Lithium, but that transition will be slow. The second is for my new diagnosis, a hypoactive thyroid. This could be the root problem of the weight gain, exhaustion, joint pain. Anybody who is on multiple medications knows that it is a bit of a roulette. This comes at a particularly bad time, as next week I am driving down to Winston-Salem for the mid-semester intensive for my doctoral program. I am terrified that I will not be able to make the drive in one go—I once had to stop overnight in Columbus on a trip to Cleveland—or that I will have dizziness, fatigue, confusion, etc. while I am there. Yet, if I miss the event, I have to repeat the semester, which simply is not an option.

I write this in hopes that at least one person will stop and think before they say something nasty to a person who deals with chronic illness. Stress is a killer. Feeling guilt and shame for simply stating facts about your life is bullshit. If nothing else, if I can’t reach the jackasses doing their jackassery, perhaps I can reach others who want to ven but feel they can’t: own your truth, you’re not alone, and I’m here whenever you want to kvetch.

After the Sermon: The Jesus You Find

 

I love to listen to stories told by couples or friends who have been with each other for a long time. Generally, it goes one of two ways: the story is seamless, they riff off one another, pause for laugh lines, and bring to life their shared experiences. Or, they interrupt one another. Bicker. Challenge the facts. Both approaches, in their own way, have merit.

We have the latter today. Mark and John are the original Bickersons. Mark reports the calling of Simon and Andrew, James and John, the first four men to respond immediately to Jesus’ call to be fishers of human beings.

Last week, we considered John’s accounting of Nathanael’s call. Nathanael, who appears only in the Gospel of John, tells us a lot about John’s Jesus. He’s the things we have come to expect, having read Mark, Matthew, and Luke, called the Synoptic gospels—all of which were written before John—Messiah, Son of God, Son of Man, King of the Jews. But to John’s Nathanael, Jesus is the fulfiller of all prophecy.

According to John’s reckoning, Jesus attends the wedding at Cana, and records his first and most universally celebrated miracle, turning water into wine. But then, he goes to the Temple, an event that the Synoptics all record as happening at the end of Jesus’ ministry. John puts it in the beginning.

John also makes some other significant changes. “The Passover of the Jews was near, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem,” he reports. Seems straightforward enough. The Greek word ἀναβαίνω (“to go up”) was used in reference to religious pilgrims. But Jesus does not behave like one on a pilgrimage. Not because of the actions that he takes in the Temple, but rather for the actions he does not.

Throughout John’s gospel there are references to the “Passover of the Jews,” and central Jewish festivals like the feast of Tabernacles and the feast of Dedication do not concern Jesus and his disciples religiously. Jesus does not participate. There is no last supper in John’s gospel. In other words, John presents Jesus and the disciples as Christians for whom Jewish festivals are meaningless.

So, Jesus comes to the Temple, not as a pilgrim who then discovers his father’s house defiled but rather as one who is objecting to Jewish worship itself. According to an expert on the gospel of John, “Jesus could not have waited until the end of his ministry to effect his protest in word and deed against this kind of worship.”[1]

Here is where, were our two friends Mark and John to be sitting on the couch telling the story of Christ, the bickering would start. Jesus was Jewish, Mark would say. His mother was Jewish. His brothers and sister? Jewish, Jewish, Jewish. They were Jews who did Jewish things because in case you forgot: Jewish.

The bickering would continue after John says, “The Jews then said, ‘This temple has been under construction for forty–six years, and will you raise it up in three days?’ But he was speaking of the temple of his body.” Uhh, Mark would interject, are you trying to say that Jesus was 46 years old? He was thirty, thirty–three at the most, so check your sources!

We would most likely witness full­–on arguing after John concludes, “But Jesus on his part would not entrust himself to them, because he knew all people and needed no one to testify about anyone; for he himself knew what was in everyone.” We can imagine Mark shooting back, Jesus told people to be quiet about his identity because there were people trying to kill him. He was a human being with human emotions. He lost his temper. He got irritated with people. He had to because that is the nature of human love. But Jesus spent time with people, getting to know them, encouraging them to be their best selves. That was kind of his whole bag.

The Gospel of Mark was written first and, crudely stated, presents Jesus as a man-god. The Gospel of John was written last and presents Jesus as a God-man. They sit on opposite ends of the couch, our two friends, and see Jesus much differently. That tension (or diversity, depending on your perspective) lives in our faith tradition because it is part of life. We can love someone with whom we disagree, even vehemently.

We each of us see things differently. Sometimes these differences are picayune. Sometimes they are prominent. Sometimes we sit on the couch right next to each other, holding hands, and sometimes we are each jammed up against opposite arms, staring daggers and grinding teeth. It can be difficult when we feel that someone else’s perspective is so alien, so hostile to our own, that we don’t even want to be in the same room.

There is merit to a Jesus who is more human. This Jesus is not only relatable, but also seems necessary if we are to imitatio christi, imitate Christ in our own lives. On the other hand, a Jesus who is perfect, who is the exemplification of divinity on Earth is powerful and represents the love of God in transcendent, transformative ways. There are lots of Jesi in–between. There is a Jesus that meets us in every situation, whether we find ourselves sitting right next to him or plastered to the aforementioned couch arm.  Amen.

**

When I purposefully chose the Revised Common Lectionary and the Narrative Lectionary gospel portions for this Sunday’s worship, I didn’t know why I was doing so. There was just a nagging feeling in my gut. Because the information has to be sent to the paper on Monday by noon, I sometimes look back from the vantage point of Saturday and ask myself what I was thinking with a sermon title choice, or a decision to deviate from the lectionary we have been following.

This weekend has been difficult for me personally because of a recent piece that appeared in the local paper. I will pass over it without comment except to say that I understand being a public figure, I will be subject to criticism, fair or unfair. I’m a loudmouth who can have a poison pen. I know that backlash comes with the territory.  What was published is an attack piece, plain and simple.  Therefore, it is beneath my dignity to respond in print or to give a point–by–point refutation.

As someone who writes about following Christ and holding myself accountable for my actions, though, I try to reflect upon criticisms, even the ones that I feel are off–base. I think it is too my detriment if I do not, especially as someone who wishes to be a positive influence in the community.

My Christ was unrecognizable to the author of the…I don’t even know what to call it. Article is wrong, essay is too generous, and letter isn’t quite it either. But to the author, either I espouse a Jesus they’ve never seen or the implication is that I’m a hate–monger. I think it is important to get to the heart of this because it is an important issue to me. I try to be consistent and transparent in my life, perhaps too publicly but that is what I choose. And I try to emulate Christ in a way that is an ongoing mea culpa for the Church as a whole.

It is my responsibility to follow the Christ I see and feel, but always to remain humble and attentive to the experiences of others. It is important that when I use harsh words to denounce structures and systems that stand in opposition to the Gospel, those words be spoken with a genuine love that is rooted in understanding that each person bears the Imago Dei, the image of God. I believe I have been consistent in doing just that, and when I do not I have always recognized it, apologized, and worked to do better.

Just yesterday, at our community meal, I made four new friends who are exploring spirituality in vibrant and exciting ways. While none of them are Christian, their words helped me draw closer to God. In our conversation, we learned from one another and planted seeds of compassion within the fertile soils of our hearts. I still smile just thinking about the powerful energy we experienced together.

I write this addendum because it is important to me that people who read my work know that I am not someone who acts differently than he professes. People are important to me. Especially those whom Jesus tells us to prioritize. I will not help create spaces and call them safe, only to invite in and tolerate people whose ideology is based on destroying others. I’ve said it before and will again, if that makes me intolerant, so be it.

The Christianity I follow is not based on confrontation, but it is also uncompromising. Homophobia, xenophobia, misogyny, racism, transphobia: there are all grave sins that have put millions of victims in their graves. For those who wish to have transformation and healing, I offer to be on that journey. For those who want to justify prejudice, there is no relationship for us to share except that of mutual sinners who’ll have to answer to God.

I thank you for your time. Be well, do good works, and love one another. I’ll try to do the same.

[1] Ernst Haenchen, Robert Walter Funk, and Ulrich Busse, John: A Commentary on the Gospel of John, Hermeneia—a Critical and Historical Commentary on the Bible (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1984), 182.

Oh, no! Not another Aziz Ansari piece! (Or, What’s so difficult about consent?)

consent .jpgWhether or not Grace’s complaints against Aziz Ansari meet the legal or moral definitions of assault is being discussed widely, with lots of good think– pieces exploring the nuances.  This is not one of those.

I write as a forty-one-year-old married man who has been a serial monogamist since I was a kid. I never had a one–night–stand (although I made out with a ton of people). But I had situations with girlfriends and longtime partners in which communication was poor. Or too much alcohol was involved. Or I was being selfish, or pushy. There were two times in which I did not heed the first no. I heeded the second, but the damage was still done. I wasn’t as safe as I once was; I had excuses, we always do, and it wasn’t intentional. But it took me looking beyond my own sexual desire to understand that I felt entitled to someone else’s body and that isn’t a good look for anyone.

I share this because I am reading so many men becoming defensive, responding something like, “OMG, we can’t do anything now without being accused of assault.” That’s ridiculous. It doesn’t mean that at all. What it does mean, though, is that we need to get serious about talking consent. We need to talk about it with one another, fellas. It needs to become part of what we think about when we think about having sex with another person. Sex is not masturbation with a meat puppet. It is an intimate act with another autonomous person who has agency.

I hear some men of my generation encouraging the generation of men behind us to “protect themselves from these women who just want to destroy men.” Consent talk, therefore, is just about guys protecting themselves from false accusations. It is not about the potential damage we can do to women. The Ansari story, in particular, seems to be Exhibit A in the menagerie of ridiculousness, according to the interwebz and twitting machine. She had bad sex and is now ruining Ansari’s life. See, though, any positive that might come from discussing the nuances of this situation is sullied because the mindset is that of adversaries. Men need to protect themselves from women.

To be sure, women have to engage in a totally different calculus, so I am not speaking to that. But this notion that there are millions of women looking to accuse of assault every man with whom they sleep is preposterous. It minimizes the real dangers of hook-up culture. I am not a sexual prude or puritan in the slightest, but frankly, if you’re a man who thinks that consent is only to protect yourself, you might want to reconsider your choice of sexual partner. Consent conversations are about trust and limits; they are about taking a few minutes before getting extremely intimate and asking, “So, what’re you thinking we should do?”

Consent is sexy. Safe words are hot. Asking questions, giving feedback, making suggestions, checking–in: all of these make for much, much better sex. Not always. Consent is not a guarantee that you have good sex. But it does help guarantee that you are at least getting the bad sex you signed up for.

I hope that enough men, especially Gen Xers, will talk to their sons and nephews, to their cousins and godsons about consent. And, of course, it is not just for heterosexual sex! The seismic shift, though, has to occur with the upcoming generations of boys understanding how to properly respond to clues both verbal and non–verbal. I hope that is something on which we can all agree.

 

To the Imams Khan: I Have Sacrificed Nothing

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Like a vast majority of Americans who are not terrible people and have a soul, I watched the appearance of Khizr Khan and Ghazala Khan, the parents of fallen U.S. Army Captain Humayun Kkhan, a patriotic young man who lost his life owed to the reckless policies of the Bush Administration, with tears in my eyes. Anyone who questions if the American dream is still alive need only look at these dignified, proud people who understand what true political oppression feels like. Looks like. They know what it means to go to another country and seize opportunities, such as Mr. Khan has done as an attorney. As their son did as a soldier deploying and redeploying as called upon by his country. And the image of Mrs. Khan, standing silently but proudly, wearing a hijab, providing strength for her husband as we imagine she has done for family all her life, is now seared into the American consciousness. Watching them, I felt proud to be an American. I don’t say stuff like that a lot. False patriotism is ugly. I have sacrificed nothing for my country. I am not a veteran. I have taught at private institutions. My community service and work is not a sacrifice. It is a great joy. A privilege. My religious freedom is not as the result of anything I have done; it has been given to me. While I am a lifelong, dedicated pacifist I have friends who are Marines and soldiers in the Army; sailors and Air Force. Veterans and active duty. One of my dear friends’ father is a retired Air Force Colonel. Another friend lost her brother in Afghanistan. I live a stone’s throw away from the second largest AFB in the country, and there are armories to the south and east. I know lots of people who have sacrificed by serving in the Peace Corp or Teach for America.

I have sacrificed nothing.

The splenetic, infantile responses of the Orange Baboon are a perfect illustration of what is going on in this country right now. Really, if we are honest, it has been going on for hundreds of years. Rich men who never serve a day of their life in the military continually decide to send our volunteer forces into impossible situations with suspects motives to seeks amoral outcomes. See also: History. Drumpf, who is woefully unaware of geopolitics, including dangerously inaccurate statements about Crimea and Ukraine, claims that he has made sacrifices by working hard, creating jobs, and building “great” buildings. One is reminded of his statement that his love for the differently-abled community can be seen in his spending millions of dollars to

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comply with the Americans with Disabilities Act.

Sacrifices abound.

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We cannot ask for a better situation to demonstrate the macrocosm through the microcosm. Here we have an immigrant family who are fiercely proud of their adopted country; who raised a son with a sense of devotion and service that I have never even approached; who laid bare their own pain and suffering out of concern for their fellow citizens, to offer as an example an American who never would have existed had The Donald been in power when the Khans left Pakistan; who passionately used as their defense for having such fundamental questions about Drumpf’s qualifications, knowledge of the fucking Constitution of the United States. And as John Oliver has said, it seems the first time that noble document has been used as a middle finger.

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I felt proud because I see, in a small way, that we are inching closer and closer to fulfilling the maxim that all persons are created equal. A Muslim couple who still speak with accents, proudly and courageously challenging the odiousness that is passing for GOP policy positions. And, of course, the response is no longer a surprise. The asshat with “one of the great temperaments” reacted like a foul-mouthed parrot that has learned how to tweet. And, seriously. What the hell is with that sentence construction? One of the great temperaments? I must have missed the day in school in which Ms. Davis, the legendary history teacher from my high school alma mater, went over the Great Temperaments. As I am a man who likes to know things, I spent the morning doing deep research on the Great Temperaments (one cannot recommend enough the seminal work of Monsieur Derriere-Chapeau) and I found rare footage of Trump’s noble forbears:

I have written before (and before and before) about the darkness and irresponsible vision of the country the GOP nominee is presenting. But I am asking people to look very closely at what is happening: Drumpf wants to be president, but he can’t even fulfill the most basic tasks. He will send armed forces into areas of the world he knows nothing about, and will be unable to comfort the families when our heroes return in boxes. The man is a walking id, as I’ve said before. He is a blight on humanity.

But I’m about solutions. Positivity. Rejecting Trump does not happen just at the ballot box, it comes with the actions we engage in each day. Because this is what we are facing:

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This was left on a female friend of color’s FB post. I reported it and alerted my friend, who is out of the country. But this is what Drumpf is stirring up. We can be reactionary and go into word battles with them–which, actually, can be fun, so go ahead an inundate them with tweets and posts–but we can also engage in action. And that’s what this post is ultimately about. I feel like Mr. and Mrs. Khan have been our Imams. They have presented to us a challenge.

Pastor friends, Christian friends, friends who teach Sunday School. Join me. Join me as I continue to teach the children of First Presbyterian Church of Yellow Springs the Five Pillars of Islam. I connect each pillar to Christianity, highlighting similarities and differences, but they are learning about Islam. We are then going to a local mosque, and in return we will invite members to come to the church. My hope is that we can become sister communities, coming together every year to share. To support. To love one another. I’m asking you to do the same, or to do something to connect the congregation you serve or attend to a local Muslim community. It is time to make sure that as many microcosms as possible shift. That this be the end of a major politician being able to stoke fear and xenophobia.

The Khans are doing their part. Are you doing yours?