I listened as you described how organized religion failed you. I heard you when you told me about the abuse you had personally experienced at the hands of those who were supposed to shepherd you. I shed tears listening to how you left the Church, outraged over the politics that obscured the true teaching of the gospel. I listened as you detailed the many ways that places of worship have truly failed to reach the lost, feed the hungry, or care for the least of these. I could only nod my head in agreement as you listed the ways that theology, religious doctrine, and man-made dogma have served to oppress, silence, and marginalize those already at the very fringes of society. I could not disagree with you, as you echoed the sentiments of a Frederick Douglass and a James Baldwin: if American Christianity, as it is typically practiced, was "true religion," then you wanted nothing to do with it.
What could I say to combat the evidence you cite? False prosperity gospel doctrine does line the pockets of the preachers and empty the accounts of those least able to afford it. There are protesters from various churches who carry signs declaring God's hatred of different groups. The pulpits and the pews are full of those who are more interested in personal piety to the exclusion of communal edification. I could not refute your facts...but in my heart, I wanted to shout that I was not that kind of Christian; there are millions of us who are not that kind of Christian.
I wanted to tell you about the powerful saving grace I have experienced, which constantly equips me to serve others with my whole being. I wanted you to know that there are so many Christians who do not stop at the message of personal salvation, but insist on an engaged, socially-conscious, and vibrant faith. I wanted to tell you about all the men and women of integrity, who would never abuse those in their flock; men and women who would lay down their very lives for those that they serve. I wanted to tell you about the power of an institution that built the Civil Rights Movement; feeds the hungry; clothes the naked; and cares for the widowed and the orphaned. I wanted to counter each of your examples with one of my own. I wanted to articulate a different theology and doctrine, detailing those various creeds that were liberatory and affirming for the believer.
But I remained silent. I needed to listen, not to speak. I needed to hear and understand your anger. I needed to accept my own complicity for your words, both as a minister of the gospel and as a member of the Christian body. I remained silent, so that the full weight of your words could be experienced. I remained silent, resisting the urge to quickly refute your points without sitting with the impact of the truths you revealed. I remained silent knowing that if I rushed to assure you that I was not that kind of Christian, I would be minimizing the pain and anger you felt. I remained silent, so that you could be heard - realizing that part of your anger was directed to the Church's attempts to keep the discontent quiet.
I held your hand and we both cried tears, even as you accepted my embrace. My heart was so full and I almost uttered a clichéd, but heartfelt phrase: "I'll pray for you." I stopped myself right before the words fell from my mouth because I finally understood that you had had enough of Christians praying for you. And so we sat in silence, holding hands, and letting the tension and the anger exist - both for you and for me. I am thinking of you today, hoping that in daring to speak these words, you have experienced some healing. I am thinking of you today, challenged by the truth of your words. I am thinking of you today, not from a zeal to convert you, but out of a godly love to hear you. I absolutely long for you to know God as I know God, to experience the love and grace of this unconditional love. I long for you to separate out a witness of genuine faith, from those all-too-common examples of hypocrisy. But if neither of these are possible, I long for you to know that some of us care and that we listen.
© Yolanda Pierce
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Monday, November 9, 2009
Your Heaven, My Hell
I recently read an article discussing race in some of the most progressive cities in America, which included descriptions of several cities that I love to visit. The article highlights locations that embody some of the best quality of life indexes: great public education; well-funded colleges and universities; extremely low unemployment rates; comprehensive public transportation; and several venues for cultural and artistic enrichment. Some of these cities also have great weather all year long! By almost any measure, these cities are "heaven" for those who can afford it - because you will definitely pay for all these amenities.
Many of the cities named in the article have sizable Asian and Latino populations, but almost all of these "progressive" cities have minuscule African-American populations. After living in towns (previously and currently) in which there was almost no African American community, I can truly say that one person's version of heaven is another person's version of hell. Despite the many wonderful quality of life measures that indicate whether a city is progressive, it is difficult to assess the psychological and spiritual toll for those who live in places where they are a microscopic minority. A comprehensive public transportation system (wonderful though it may be) cannot offset the cost of being invisible.
How do you assess quality of life when you have to travel an hour away to find a stylist who knows something about your hair type or a dermatologist who knows something about your skin tone? How do you measure the cost of your child being the only African American in his classroom every year? What does it mean to not have access to a worshiping community that reflects your spiritual needs? What toll does it take on an individual, or an entire family, to not have any neighbors that look like them? How do you gauge the lack of social and cultural events that reflect your history and heritage? How do you conduct daily life when the even limited presence of your racial group is a sociological issue to be studied? It was the great intellectual W.E.B Du Bois who posed this key question: "how does it feel to be a problem?" This is the case for many African Americans living in communities in which they are isolated, alienated, and made to feel like outsiders.
The same exact location may be a wonderful haven for two, affluent, white, heterosexual parents with kids, but hellish for a working-class, single, Asian, lesbian with kids. What is "family friendly" often depends on what type of family you have and what values you want to instill and practice in that family. Context always matters, as does the widely differing needs of different people and people groups. When people ask me how I enjoy living in my current town, they are often shocked to hear that living here is incredibly difficult for me. They are quick to articulate all that they feel is wonderful about this location; how great is is for their families; and how happy they are to live and work here. I've learned not to give a long response to this inquiry. I've learned that people don't want to hear about the racist incidents. I've learned that people don't want to be reminded of the class divide or the race divide. I've learned that people don't truly care or don't really notice the lack of black people in the midst. So when asked whether I am enjoying where I am, I simply respond: "your heaven may be my hell."
© Yolanda Pierce
Many of the cities named in the article have sizable Asian and Latino populations, but almost all of these "progressive" cities have minuscule African-American populations. After living in towns (previously and currently) in which there was almost no African American community, I can truly say that one person's version of heaven is another person's version of hell. Despite the many wonderful quality of life measures that indicate whether a city is progressive, it is difficult to assess the psychological and spiritual toll for those who live in places where they are a microscopic minority. A comprehensive public transportation system (wonderful though it may be) cannot offset the cost of being invisible.
How do you assess quality of life when you have to travel an hour away to find a stylist who knows something about your hair type or a dermatologist who knows something about your skin tone? How do you measure the cost of your child being the only African American in his classroom every year? What does it mean to not have access to a worshiping community that reflects your spiritual needs? What toll does it take on an individual, or an entire family, to not have any neighbors that look like them? How do you gauge the lack of social and cultural events that reflect your history and heritage? How do you conduct daily life when the even limited presence of your racial group is a sociological issue to be studied? It was the great intellectual W.E.B Du Bois who posed this key question: "how does it feel to be a problem?" This is the case for many African Americans living in communities in which they are isolated, alienated, and made to feel like outsiders.
The same exact location may be a wonderful haven for two, affluent, white, heterosexual parents with kids, but hellish for a working-class, single, Asian, lesbian with kids. What is "family friendly" often depends on what type of family you have and what values you want to instill and practice in that family. Context always matters, as does the widely differing needs of different people and people groups. When people ask me how I enjoy living in my current town, they are often shocked to hear that living here is incredibly difficult for me. They are quick to articulate all that they feel is wonderful about this location; how great is is for their families; and how happy they are to live and work here. I've learned not to give a long response to this inquiry. I've learned that people don't want to hear about the racist incidents. I've learned that people don't want to be reminded of the class divide or the race divide. I've learned that people don't truly care or don't really notice the lack of black people in the midst. So when asked whether I am enjoying where I am, I simply respond: "your heaven may be my hell."
© Yolanda Pierce
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Simple Gifts
I've enjoyed playing an educational game I bought for my daughter. As a lover of puzzles and problem solving, I was drawn to the various brain teasers and math quizzes. While sitting on the couch and trying out one of the new levels on her game, I found myself stumped. I was given multiple choice answers to a visual problem, and yet I got every single one of the questions wrong. My daughter, surprised at my failure, took the game from me, did the same brain teaser, and got every single question correct. When she saw my look of surprise, she handed the game back to me and said: "you're thinking too hard. It really is simple." Out of the mouths of babes...
Her innocent words made me reflect on how often we complicate the simple things in life - and how often we fail to appreciate the simple gifts that make life worth living. Sometimes being a homeowner is so complicated, that I fail to appreciate the way that mid-afternoon light warms my kitchen. Being a parent is so complicated at times, that I forget to be grateful for the crayon pictures that adorn my walls and truly make my house, a home. Being a professor can be so complicated, that there are moments when I lose sight of the calling that drew me to this vocation.
The theology and religious history I teach is seriously complex. It is work to which I have devoted years of study, so the material I teach and the academic articles I write are complicated works of scholarship. My lectures are intricately crafted, as I consider the theoretical constructs of my discipline, the cultural and social location of those communities I study, and the overarching connections and disjunctions between this various material. But while the theology I teach is complicated, it is good to be reminded that true faith is itself a simple gift.
Generations of theologians cannot articulate what I know, without a shadow of a doubt, in the deepest recesses of my heart: God loves me with an everlasting love. Nothing could be more simple or more freeing than the confidence I have in this love. And God's love allows me to love myself fiercely, and to demonstrate this love to all those around me. It is a faith so simple that even a child understands its central message: love begets love. At times, the complications of life, work, ministry, and the juggling act threaten to engulf me. Sometimes I am overwhelmed with how hard life seems or how lonely life can be. But the simplicity of these few words restore my soul: I am loved. It is a simple gift, but it is an eternal gift.
© Yolanda Pierce
Her innocent words made me reflect on how often we complicate the simple things in life - and how often we fail to appreciate the simple gifts that make life worth living. Sometimes being a homeowner is so complicated, that I fail to appreciate the way that mid-afternoon light warms my kitchen. Being a parent is so complicated at times, that I forget to be grateful for the crayon pictures that adorn my walls and truly make my house, a home. Being a professor can be so complicated, that there are moments when I lose sight of the calling that drew me to this vocation.
The theology and religious history I teach is seriously complex. It is work to which I have devoted years of study, so the material I teach and the academic articles I write are complicated works of scholarship. My lectures are intricately crafted, as I consider the theoretical constructs of my discipline, the cultural and social location of those communities I study, and the overarching connections and disjunctions between this various material. But while the theology I teach is complicated, it is good to be reminded that true faith is itself a simple gift.
Generations of theologians cannot articulate what I know, without a shadow of a doubt, in the deepest recesses of my heart: God loves me with an everlasting love. Nothing could be more simple or more freeing than the confidence I have in this love. And God's love allows me to love myself fiercely, and to demonstrate this love to all those around me. It is a faith so simple that even a child understands its central message: love begets love. At times, the complications of life, work, ministry, and the juggling act threaten to engulf me. Sometimes I am overwhelmed with how hard life seems or how lonely life can be. But the simplicity of these few words restore my soul: I am loved. It is a simple gift, but it is an eternal gift.
© Yolanda Pierce
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
A Morning Song
A student recently shared the news that she was loving her clinical internship experience, with the exception of the early hours. She needed to wake up by 7:30am, in order to arrive on time for her 8:30am start time. I think she could tell by the look on my face that I was highly surprised. By 7:30am, I have showered, dressed, done morning devotions, made breakfast, packed lunches, sent a child off to school, and arrived at work. By 7:30am, I am through my first cup of morning caffeine, my first round of emails, and my first reading of the New York Times. I am a member of that species of humans known as "morning people." Generally up between 5am and 5:30am, I was amused to know that my student thought of a 7:30am wake up time as early.
I am a little embarrassed to admit that I am a morning person, only because it means that I don't know anything about life after 10pm. Somehow, I feel like less of an adult because I can't watch a television show that comes on at 10pm; I have to catch up with Stephen Colbert online the following morning. A friend invited me to a concert that started at 8pm and was scheduled to end between 10pm and 11pm. I had to take an afternoon nap so that I would be able to make it all the way through the event; morning people go to bed notoriously early. I have no doubt that there are children in elementary school who are up past my bedtime. Morning people are beginning to wind down for the day, while the night owls are just getting geared up to go out. Growing up in New York City, it was the never the nightlife of the "City that never sleeps" that interested me. New York is a haven for morning people, those of us ready to greet the day at 5am and in need of fresh bagels.
I love the early morning, when the day is full of opportunities. I love the quiet of the sun as it rises; I love the graceful departure of the moon and stars. In the summer, I enjoy sitting on the back porch and watching the dog walkers. In the winter, I love being the first one to make footprints on the freshly fallen snow. At 5am, everything still feels possible. On a crisp fall morning at 5am, mistakes are forgiven and new mercies are available. At 5am, I can sense God's presence and unconditional love for me.
I am sure night owls have a similar feeling for those late hours. And I think that we are hard-wired as either larks or owls; I was exhausted for all four years of college, when much of the activity took place late at night and I tried to manage life as a night owl. The pace of graduate school and academic life suits me well. You work 60 hours a week, but you get to choose which 60 hours!
I woke up on a Saturday morning, at my usual time. And despite knowing that I could close my eyes and get one or two additional hours of sleep, I got up and went outside. The air smelled so clean and the neighborhood was so quiet that I could pretend, for a moment, that there was no one else around. In that stillness and solitude, I felt completely alone, but not lonely. I felt like the infinitesimal speck that I am in the universe. But I also stood amazed that the Architect of this vast universe loved me so. My heart sang a morning song, grateful to be alone and yet in God's presence.
I am a little embarrassed to admit that I am a morning person, only because it means that I don't know anything about life after 10pm. Somehow, I feel like less of an adult because I can't watch a television show that comes on at 10pm; I have to catch up with Stephen Colbert online the following morning. A friend invited me to a concert that started at 8pm and was scheduled to end between 10pm and 11pm. I had to take an afternoon nap so that I would be able to make it all the way through the event; morning people go to bed notoriously early. I have no doubt that there are children in elementary school who are up past my bedtime. Morning people are beginning to wind down for the day, while the night owls are just getting geared up to go out. Growing up in New York City, it was the never the nightlife of the "City that never sleeps" that interested me. New York is a haven for morning people, those of us ready to greet the day at 5am and in need of fresh bagels.
I love the early morning, when the day is full of opportunities. I love the quiet of the sun as it rises; I love the graceful departure of the moon and stars. In the summer, I enjoy sitting on the back porch and watching the dog walkers. In the winter, I love being the first one to make footprints on the freshly fallen snow. At 5am, everything still feels possible. On a crisp fall morning at 5am, mistakes are forgiven and new mercies are available. At 5am, I can sense God's presence and unconditional love for me.
I am sure night owls have a similar feeling for those late hours. And I think that we are hard-wired as either larks or owls; I was exhausted for all four years of college, when much of the activity took place late at night and I tried to manage life as a night owl. The pace of graduate school and academic life suits me well. You work 60 hours a week, but you get to choose which 60 hours!
I woke up on a Saturday morning, at my usual time. And despite knowing that I could close my eyes and get one or two additional hours of sleep, I got up and went outside. The air smelled so clean and the neighborhood was so quiet that I could pretend, for a moment, that there was no one else around. In that stillness and solitude, I felt completely alone, but not lonely. I felt like the infinitesimal speck that I am in the universe. But I also stood amazed that the Architect of this vast universe loved me so. My heart sang a morning song, grateful to be alone and yet in God's presence.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Spiritual Gifts
I believe in spiritual gifts. I believe that each and every person is uniquely gifted to serve God and to serve others. It has been my privilege to have wonderfully gifted teachers who helped me to explore a particular topic and modeled for me the value of a lifetime of learning. I can so easily contrast these men and women with those who, while they knew the material in their fields, did not have the gift of teaching it to others.
I have a wonderful friend who uniquely demonstrates the gift of hospitality. Those who meet her immediately feel welcomed in her presence; she has never met a stranger. I know individuals who are gifted as leaders; others who are incredible workers in the vineyard. There are those who exercise charismatic gifts, others who have administrative gifts. I am teaching at an institution founded with the very purpose of preparing those who have been called to the office of pastor or priest. It is an office that requires many spiritual gifts, from wisdom and discernment to compassion and exhortation. There is no one model of skills, gifts, and personality traits that make a successful pastor; but it is a role that requires certainty in God's calling on your life. You must "know that you know" because there is no singular handbook for guidance.
So I greeted the news of the Roman Catholic Church's decision to create a personal Ordinariate for the Anglican Church, with a heavy heart. I have nothing against either church being in full communion with each other, but I oppose the move to, once again, silence those women who feel called to the vocation of pastor; only male Anglican priests (married or single) will be allowed to remain priests. The Roman Catholic Church is inviting those Anglicans who specifically oppose the ordination of women and members of the LGBT community, to "return to the fold."
This has weighed on me very heavily this week, for a wide number of reasons; my theology affirms a priesthood of all believers, allowing women to serve in any and every office of their churches. My politics laments the continuing sexism and male privilege that pervades everyday life, both sacred and secular. I am fighting my own battles against the institutional sexism of our academic institutions. But ultimately, it is my belief in spiritual gifts that refutes those attempts to keep women "in their place" within the church.
As a seminary professor, I have seen those who are most incredibly gifted in pastoral leadership come from all walks of life; the people who may be most effective in ministry are not necessarily those men and women that "look" the way we assume pastors should look. And because God is no respector of persons, the future pastors and priests I am helping to educate come from every racial and ethnic group; they are members of every socio-economic class; and they all have vastly different educational and career backgrounds. They are men and they are women. They are gay and they are straight. They come from devoutly religious backgrounds and they come from atheist families. They come, believing that they have been called to serve God. And trusting in that call, they respond with their whole beings. Are we to truly believe that categorically, every single woman called to ministry is unqualified to serve, simply because of the presence of ovaries instead of testes?
It is my firm belief that it takes a multiplicity of identities, categories, and social locations in order to effectively minister to all people. I love enthusiastic worship; others love a more solemn liturgy. Both are pleasing in God's sight as we are called to assemble together as believers, but we are not limited to fellowship in a narrow manner. A female pastor brings her own unique set of skills and gifts to her pastoral vocation, factors which include her identity as a woman, but is not limited to it. There are some incredible women with the calling on their lives to be pastors and priests. Those denominations and churches who deny women their calling are all the poorer because of it. If we have trouble with women, who are made in the image and likeness of God, even delivering a sermon on Sunday morning, I hate to think of how truly narrow our view of God must be.
I have a wonderful friend who uniquely demonstrates the gift of hospitality. Those who meet her immediately feel welcomed in her presence; she has never met a stranger. I know individuals who are gifted as leaders; others who are incredible workers in the vineyard. There are those who exercise charismatic gifts, others who have administrative gifts. I am teaching at an institution founded with the very purpose of preparing those who have been called to the office of pastor or priest. It is an office that requires many spiritual gifts, from wisdom and discernment to compassion and exhortation. There is no one model of skills, gifts, and personality traits that make a successful pastor; but it is a role that requires certainty in God's calling on your life. You must "know that you know" because there is no singular handbook for guidance.
So I greeted the news of the Roman Catholic Church's decision to create a personal Ordinariate for the Anglican Church, with a heavy heart. I have nothing against either church being in full communion with each other, but I oppose the move to, once again, silence those women who feel called to the vocation of pastor; only male Anglican priests (married or single) will be allowed to remain priests. The Roman Catholic Church is inviting those Anglicans who specifically oppose the ordination of women and members of the LGBT community, to "return to the fold."
This has weighed on me very heavily this week, for a wide number of reasons; my theology affirms a priesthood of all believers, allowing women to serve in any and every office of their churches. My politics laments the continuing sexism and male privilege that pervades everyday life, both sacred and secular. I am fighting my own battles against the institutional sexism of our academic institutions. But ultimately, it is my belief in spiritual gifts that refutes those attempts to keep women "in their place" within the church.
As a seminary professor, I have seen those who are most incredibly gifted in pastoral leadership come from all walks of life; the people who may be most effective in ministry are not necessarily those men and women that "look" the way we assume pastors should look. And because God is no respector of persons, the future pastors and priests I am helping to educate come from every racial and ethnic group; they are members of every socio-economic class; and they all have vastly different educational and career backgrounds. They are men and they are women. They are gay and they are straight. They come from devoutly religious backgrounds and they come from atheist families. They come, believing that they have been called to serve God. And trusting in that call, they respond with their whole beings. Are we to truly believe that categorically, every single woman called to ministry is unqualified to serve, simply because of the presence of ovaries instead of testes?
It is my firm belief that it takes a multiplicity of identities, categories, and social locations in order to effectively minister to all people. I love enthusiastic worship; others love a more solemn liturgy. Both are pleasing in God's sight as we are called to assemble together as believers, but we are not limited to fellowship in a narrow manner. A female pastor brings her own unique set of skills and gifts to her pastoral vocation, factors which include her identity as a woman, but is not limited to it. There are some incredible women with the calling on their lives to be pastors and priests. Those denominations and churches who deny women their calling are all the poorer because of it. If we have trouble with women, who are made in the image and likeness of God, even delivering a sermon on Sunday morning, I hate to think of how truly narrow our view of God must be.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Between Time
A preacher who is truly interested in being a vessel to be used by God, discovers that the sermon she writes is usually a word more for the speaker, than for the listener. Such was the case for me, when I found myself offering a message on "The Between Time." I have been contemplating the difficulty I have in living in the "between time;" that difficult time period between when I petition God and when I hear God's response.
That "between time" can be a season of days, months, or even years. That "between time" can be the silence that greets us each day, even though we are doing all we can to hear God's voice. That "between time" is waiting on a biopsy result; that "between time" is waiting for direction and purpose; that "between time" is waiting for your soul's deepest desires to manifest. That "between time" is the wilderness and the barrenness of not knowing where to go, what to do, or how to proceed. That "between time" is waiting...and waiting, yet again.
In an era of "microwave" expectations, in which we anticipate an instantaneous response to our texts, emails, and voice messages, waiting is a lost skill and impatience is an acceptable response to daily living. We honk our horns if the car in front of us hesitates for even a second after the light has turned green. We curse the microwave that doesn't reheat our leftovers quickly enough. We grumble when the elderly passenger in the seat before us cannot quickly stow away his luggage and let us pass. So waiting on God is an even greater challenge for us, because we have no immediate source on which to vent our frustrations. So we either wait in a state of anguish, or we rush to act outside of God's will.
I am thinking more and more about waiting as a spiritual discipline. In waiting on God, I learn to trust that there is a good and perfect will for my life. In waiting on God, I admit my human helplessness, and I begin to trust more in God's strength, knowing that those who wait on God will renew their strength. In waiting on God, I learn the secret to being content: giving thanks for the process of waiting, and not just being focused on the results of my petition.
But this "between time" is a tough place to be; it is a place of vulnerability and uncertainty. It is a place where we must confront some of our deepest fears: that God has forgotten about us or that we are unworthy in God's sight. In my sermon on this "between time," I offered a reminder that God loves us and cares about even the smallest details of our lives. And that while the response to our requests may still be far off, we can be assured of God's love, mercy, and grace towards us - most especially in that "between time." Psalm 27:14 says it best: "Wait on God, be of good courage, and God will strengthen your heart. Wait, I say, on God."
That "between time" can be a season of days, months, or even years. That "between time" can be the silence that greets us each day, even though we are doing all we can to hear God's voice. That "between time" is waiting on a biopsy result; that "between time" is waiting for direction and purpose; that "between time" is waiting for your soul's deepest desires to manifest. That "between time" is the wilderness and the barrenness of not knowing where to go, what to do, or how to proceed. That "between time" is waiting...and waiting, yet again.
In an era of "microwave" expectations, in which we anticipate an instantaneous response to our texts, emails, and voice messages, waiting is a lost skill and impatience is an acceptable response to daily living. We honk our horns if the car in front of us hesitates for even a second after the light has turned green. We curse the microwave that doesn't reheat our leftovers quickly enough. We grumble when the elderly passenger in the seat before us cannot quickly stow away his luggage and let us pass. So waiting on God is an even greater challenge for us, because we have no immediate source on which to vent our frustrations. So we either wait in a state of anguish, or we rush to act outside of God's will.
I am thinking more and more about waiting as a spiritual discipline. In waiting on God, I learn to trust that there is a good and perfect will for my life. In waiting on God, I admit my human helplessness, and I begin to trust more in God's strength, knowing that those who wait on God will renew their strength. In waiting on God, I learn the secret to being content: giving thanks for the process of waiting, and not just being focused on the results of my petition.
But this "between time" is a tough place to be; it is a place of vulnerability and uncertainty. It is a place where we must confront some of our deepest fears: that God has forgotten about us or that we are unworthy in God's sight. In my sermon on this "between time," I offered a reminder that God loves us and cares about even the smallest details of our lives. And that while the response to our requests may still be far off, we can be assured of God's love, mercy, and grace towards us - most especially in that "between time." Psalm 27:14 says it best: "Wait on God, be of good courage, and God will strengthen your heart. Wait, I say, on God."
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Sidelines
As a Christian, I am not called to spend my life on the sidelines. I am called to "enter into the fray" of life with my whole being. The pursuit of mercy, justice, and love is work that requires you to roll up your sleeves; they are not passive attributes rained down on us by some unseen and unknowable force. Instead, mercy, justice, and love are goals to pursue...and sometimes these goals become battles that we must fight.
I became a "Straight Ally" to the cause of LGBT equality and civil rights because of the example of two foster parents that I met many years ago. As a white, gay couple, living in a state that would not permit them to marry nor to adopt children, they had devoted their lives to caring for the "least of these" in our foster care systems. The vast majority of the children in their care were African American; some were HIV positive; most all came from circumstances in which they had not experienced unconditional love. I watched my friends provide this love - to the children they fostered and to each other. This model of love convicted my spirit of its homophobia and led me to the path of becoming a foster parent.
But when I am honest, my initial version of being a "Straight Ally" was quite passive. I was one of those people who had "gay friends," in much the same way that I functioned as the "black friend" for those who claimed my allegiance, but knew nothing of my struggle. I have always been deeply committed to anti-racism and anti-sexism work through my academic writing and teaching, and through my preaching. But my "Straight Ally" work was just my knowledge that I, as an individual, supported the cause for full equality for the LGBT community. It was a great beginning, but it was not enough.
In my heart, I knew that I feared that a more active participation would cause some people to think that I was gay. And that was the moment that I realized the depths of discrimination against the queer community: I was afraid to even be considered gay. How much more painful was it for those whose very core of identity was constantly challenged and constantly demonized?
So these days, I work to "enter into the fray" of this cause, knowing that injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. I've lost my fear of people's perception of my sexual orientation. I am trying to help create a climate on this campus where all feel welcomed and affirmed. I am conscious in my writing and my preaching, particularly in the Black church context, to create space to discuss a topic that is still taboo in many communities. Some churches have not invited me back, but I know I have planted a seed. My efforts are small, but they have moved from the sidelines, to the center of my ministry. Thanks be to God.
I became a "Straight Ally" to the cause of LGBT equality and civil rights because of the example of two foster parents that I met many years ago. As a white, gay couple, living in a state that would not permit them to marry nor to adopt children, they had devoted their lives to caring for the "least of these" in our foster care systems. The vast majority of the children in their care were African American; some were HIV positive; most all came from circumstances in which they had not experienced unconditional love. I watched my friends provide this love - to the children they fostered and to each other. This model of love convicted my spirit of its homophobia and led me to the path of becoming a foster parent.
But when I am honest, my initial version of being a "Straight Ally" was quite passive. I was one of those people who had "gay friends," in much the same way that I functioned as the "black friend" for those who claimed my allegiance, but knew nothing of my struggle. I have always been deeply committed to anti-racism and anti-sexism work through my academic writing and teaching, and through my preaching. But my "Straight Ally" work was just my knowledge that I, as an individual, supported the cause for full equality for the LGBT community. It was a great beginning, but it was not enough.
In my heart, I knew that I feared that a more active participation would cause some people to think that I was gay. And that was the moment that I realized the depths of discrimination against the queer community: I was afraid to even be considered gay. How much more painful was it for those whose very core of identity was constantly challenged and constantly demonized?
So these days, I work to "enter into the fray" of this cause, knowing that injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. I've lost my fear of people's perception of my sexual orientation. I am trying to help create a climate on this campus where all feel welcomed and affirmed. I am conscious in my writing and my preaching, particularly in the Black church context, to create space to discuss a topic that is still taboo in many communities. Some churches have not invited me back, but I know I have planted a seed. My efforts are small, but they have moved from the sidelines, to the center of my ministry. Thanks be to God.
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