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I lead a small spiritual formation group on Friday nights, a small gathering we are calling Zoe. We were doing a meditative reading last week from Luke 4:14-30, which reads:
14 Jesus returned to Galilee in the power of the Spirit, and news about him spread through the whole countryside. 15 He was teaching in their synagogues, and everyone praised him.
16 He went to Nazareth, where he had been brought up, and on the Sabbath day he went into the synagogue, as was his custom. He stood up to read, 17 and the scroll of the prophet Isaiah was handed to him. Unrolling it, he found the place where it is written:
18 “The Spirit of the Lord is on me,
because he has anointed me
to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners
and recovery of sight for the blind,
to set the oppressed free,
19 to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”
20 Then he rolled up the scroll, gave it back to the attendant and sat down. The eyes of everyone in the synagogue were fastened on him. 21 He began by saying to them, “Today this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.”
22 All spoke well of him and were amazed at the gracious words that came from his lips. “Isn’t this Joseph’s son?” they asked.
23 Jesus said to them, “Surely you will quote this proverb to me: ‘Physician, heal yourself!’ And you will tell me, ‘Do here in your hometown what we have heard that you did in Capernaum.’ “
24 “Truly I tell you,” he continued, “prophets are not accepted in their hometowns. 25 I assure you that there were many widows in Israel in Elijah’s time, when the sky was shut for three and a half years and there was a severe famine throughout the land. 26 Yet Elijah was not sent to any of them, but to a widow in Zarephath in the region of Sidon. 27 And there were many in Israel with leprosy [b] in the time of Elisha the prophet, yet not one of them was cleansed—only Naaman the Syrian.”
28 All the people in the synagogue were furious when they heard this. 29 They got up, drove him out of the town, and took him to the brow of the hill on which the town was built, in order to throw him off the cliff. 30 But he walked right through the crowd and went on his way.
One of the questions in our meditation asked us, “Select the phrase that you hear most clearly or that seems to claim you. Spend a few minutes pondering its meaning for you. Why did it draw your attention?”
We had been distinguishing between informational reading of scripture and formational reading. Informational reading seeks to gather knowledge pertaining to the context of the passage, the culture, the background to help us understand the relevance it had for the people then and its relevance for us now, today. Formational reading seeks to know where God is speaking to us personally through the passage, not as a spectator of the event described, but as a participant. What is God calling me to do? What is God asking me to repent of? Where is God drawinf me closer to God through this reading?
The informational context of this passage is rich with meaning: there is the spiritual level, which Jesus says that in him we who are “prisoners” are “free,” those who are spiritually “blind” will “have sight,” etc. Not to mention, the political dimensions in regard to the year of the Lord’s favor – a reference to the year of Jubilee, where all debts are forgiven and slaves/indentured servants are released. The layers in Jesus’ proclamation of fulfillment are incredible.
During the formational meditative time, the phrase that jumped out at me was “proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” Understanding it in its context is immensely helpful, but the thought the struck me was this: How often do we hear certain pastors and church leaders continually claim that God’s judgement is on the United States because of this-or-that? We seem to be continually under impending wrath and condemnation, don’t we? Doesn’t this make you feel tired?
Taken into consideration, the United States isn’t a bad place to live compared to many other places in the world. It isn’t perfect, and yes, there are many things that all of us wish would be done differently in our political policies and social agendas. But by and large, we don’t have it bad.
Then the question came to me, instead of continually telling people that our country is evil and that God is just minutes away from hurling fire and brimstone down at us, what would it look like instead to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor on our nation, in our communities? Instead of telling people all the time, you’re awful and God is going to judge you? what would it look like to tell our country: God is here, God wants to love and bless you, God wants you to open your heart to receive his blessing, God wants to turn our government and corruption upside down and spilling out the stuff of God’s Kingdom, God’s Counterculture? God wants to free us from our national debt and wants us to free others from their national debts! God wants to raise up the poor and wants us to be generous with our resources! Even more, God wants to free us from the inner things that hold us captive, that block us from living the kind of abundant life that he dreams we can have!
What would happen?
So, why the heck not just go ahead and apply now? I mentioned waiting until 2009 to go to seminary, but why wait, really? I had a tentative trip planned this summer that I really wanted to do which fell through. I was even planning my seminary entrance around this trip. But, since it fell through, nothing is holding me back. I even work with someone at Starbucks who (get this) knows Koine Greek. Yeah, required in seminary, like, lots of it even before entrance into seminary! The guy at work has offered to tutor me for next to nothing, just because he loves it and wants the experience and practice doing it. (Hey there, is that You, God?)
And to be safe, I’m applying to a Masters in Education program at one of the universities here in Alaska.
Whichever offers me the best financial aid package wins.
I have an older sister, D., who has a lot of hurts and wounds, some of which (sadly) have their origins within our family. Well, who doesn’t, right? For whatever reason, though, D. seems to be just a skoche more fragile than most. Every time someone makes a chink in her armor, she reinforces it ten times stronger, walking a very thin line between composure and eruption.
There was more family drama again and I somehow got dragged into the middle of it. Usually, D. and I get along pretty well as long as we stay away from certain topics (which are unfortunately D.’s favorites to discuss), such as Israel and end-times theories and how all Muslims are terrorists at heart. We also don’t discuss what it means to be and gay and Christian, which is actually the heart of the most recent eruption of Mount Saint D. this morning.
Of course, there is much more to this, but my name got dragged into the conversation because I apparently had been spreading rumors about her pastor and tarnishing his name. In usual fashion, when she explodes no one else has a chance to defend him/herself. She is right. Period. So I listened until I could stand no more, repeatedly saying over the torrent of her yelling, “Let me finish what I was saying, please… let me finish what I was saying, please… let me finish what I was saying, please…”
The story goes like this: D. belongs to a very conservative, fundamentalist-type, non-denominational/Pentecostal church. She had been begging me to attend at least one Sunday with her for quite some time. All of us had been raised Pentecostal, so I knew what to expect (not the worst, honest) because I had actually visited there many years before with our mom, before D. had even begun to attend church there. It was all right, but there is some of the theology I knew I wouldn’t agree with, and something inside me just coils up like a snake when I hear pastors weep and talk about “JEE-zus-AH.” I like emotive expressions of worship, and I have even been known to raise my hands in worship, just that the overall fundy conservative Pentecostal thing doesn’t overly jive with me.
Nonetheless, because I love my sister, I finally conceded to attend one Sunday with her. It was sometime late last Spring in ‘07. I met her and my niece at church; D. was so excited to have me there, her eyes lit up and she excitedly pointed me out to the people near her, “That’s my brother!” Things started off in typical Pentecostal fashion: singing praise choruses, hands were raised, the music eventually became extemporaneous and people began to speak in tongues and give words of prophecy.
Then the pastor got up and spoke a bit about his prison ministry. Hispanic and a fluent speaker of Spanish, he told of his conversation with one Hispanic inmate and his need for Jesus. The Hispanic inmate replied, “Well, I’m a Catholic and I believe in God.” The pastor replied, “well, believing in God isn’t enough, you need to have a personal relationship with God through Christ, you need to be saved.” He went on to say that all Catholics needed to receive Jesus Christ, implying that by virtue of them being Catholic that none of them had Christ. That was the first strike.
It seems like there was a “strike two” that made me uncomfortable, but I don’t remember what it is now. “Strike three” came when a young man who was probably around my age or even a couple of years younger (later identified to me as the youth pastor) stood up and began speaking about gay marriage, how it was wrong, and how Alaska had instituted domestic partner benefits for its state employees and “by the grace of God, we reversed that decision in the voting booth!” He urged the members of this church to go and vote again in order to keep it from being reinstituted (later it was reinstituted, thankfully).
I listened to this and began to shake with anger and sadness. I couldn’t believe I was hearing this being said in church, that this guy (who probably did not know any gay people himself) could so casually encourage people to vote on something that directly fucks with people’s quality of life (sorry, for my more delicate-minded readers, that is the only word I can use to adequately describe the situtation). I quietly gathered my things and walked out of the church and held it together until I was safely outside, my eyes welling up with tears.
It took me a good long week to finally gain the composure to explain to D. why I had walked out. I explained what I had heard and how I understood it, how hurtful it was to me. I told her again that I loved her, but the experience was “toxic” and to please not ask me to attend church with her again. She was greatly surprised to hear everything I told her and encouraged me to speak with her pastor about those things. I refused on a couple of grounds: 1) I will not change his mind, 2) he is not my pastor with which to bring these issues up anyway. I felt it best to not have a discussion with him and to just let it go. I write about this experience in the previous blog I had kept and I also shared my feelings with my parents and with my other sister, K., which turned out to be a big mistake.
K. told their dad (they are my half-sisters) and I guess some other people in the community about my experience, which I had no knowledge of. In her retelling it apparently made the pastor and the youth pastor sound like they were horrible people, which was not my intention at all. D. threw this in my face, telling me I was starting terrible rumors and that I was compromised, needed to step up to the plate, and make an apology to her pastor and youth pastor. D. has taken to having a witness with her to every phone conversation she has with family members anymore, so as calmly as I could (above D.’s impassioned rage) explained that I had not badmouthed anyone, I only told K. what I heard and how it had upset me. That isn’t the same thing as badmouthing. I told D. I did not think for a second that either one of these men were mean-spirited intentionally. I know that they believe they are doing good in the world and for the most part I’m sure they do do good. However, even with good motioves, the things they had said were hurtful and I would not go to church there again. It wasn’t personal against them, it was personal to me and my own well-being. D. would have none of that and I finally just said, “Okay, I love you, and I’m hanging up now.”
D. continued her tirade with our mom on the other line and tried to busy myself as best I could, shaking and once again having those feelings of being scorched like a bug underneath a magnifying glass. Unfortunately, more and more I feel like this around D. even though she says nothing to me directly to cause me to feel like this. It’s just knowing how she thinks, and what she thinks of me (even though she says she loves me) that makes me extremely edgy and anxious.
I wish I knew where the boundary was between self-preservation (keep her at a distance) and unconditional love (love her anyway as she is with no expecations) and how to manage the two. Is taking care of myself “selfish” and “un-Christ-like” by not wanting to associate with her because she drives me crazy? Is it uncompassionate? Or do I just have to suck it up and love her because of Christ? Can I love her from a distance, really, when she already has so many deeply seated hurts and scars? I wish I knew the answer to this question.
Pastor Lisa mentioned in her blog a while back that we as Christians are called to be agents of reconciliation. She told a story about being home for Christmas once. Someone had asked her to play a song for them on her guitar to demonstrate what she had learned. So, while Lisa strummed and quietly sang “Silent Night,” bickering and arguing erupted between some of the members of her family. She quietly wept and continued to play, asking herself, “How can I possibly be a reconciler in the world if I can’t even bring peace to my own family?” I ask myself that very often and take comfort in knowing that, despite our best attempts to help, we cannot personally own another’s conflict or bitterness. We can only do our best to show Christ’s love and demonstrate his peace to those around us. We can lead the horse to water, sometimes, but cannot force the horse to drink, as the old saying goes. I can only pray that my sister will let go of her righteous indignation against me, against others in my family, and against anyone who thinks differently than she does so that she can learn to be even just a little happy.
PHEW! The holidays came and went and left me standing a little bewildered in the wake of its rapid advancement and retreat. I have to say I feel a little vulnerable, naked, and incredibly thankful and small… Looking back over the past year, the Lord has taken me through some landscapes geographical, emotional, and spiritual, that I never dreamed I would tread and perhaps feared to in some ways.
A year and a half ago, I was living my Seattle urban “dream,” working as a community-based sign language interpreter which took me into such diverse settings as corporate meetings, medical appointments and surgeries, rock concerts, political rallies, and even a Mariners event with my face on the stadium big screen! This kind of frantic pace was having its wear and tear on both me and my car, but I was determined to stick with it. I also had a community of faith that nurtured my faith to a new level: a discerning to a call toward pastoral ministry.
In the midst of my very timid sticking-my-big-toe-into-the-water exploration of this discovery, my work offered me the chance to work in the remote southwest Alaskan tundra village of Bethel with the local school district there as a contract employee. Merely a year before, had they asked me to go, I would have said NO WAY. No way in hell am I going back to Alaska, my home state. And yet, I found I had this nagging little cat following me around, not letting me go until I said yes. And, to my own surprise (and everyone else’s), I said yes.
Before I knew it, I found myself on the tundra, in a place very different from the reality I had been living before. I went from a metropolitan area teeming with several million people and beautiful natural surroundings to a dusty flat town of 6,000 that looked more like a reservation (or a barrio) than what most would picture an Alaskan town to look like. For the first time, I lived someplace where I was a minority. Yup’ik was spoken as frequently as English, sounding harsh and glottal to my ears, as foreign as the landscape as I found myself in. I traded in my city slicker for a Carhartt jacket, my Doc Maartens for Wolverine hiking boots. And I settled into the work of living in a community just as intentional as the one I left behind. I learned to go without luxury items such as Thai food and fresh produce: milk cost almost $10.00 per gallon. And as the arctic regions began to slowly plunge into the long, dark night of winter, my soul carved out an enclave to find respite as I continued to seek, to search God’s will, and to trust.
Bethel was the best thing I ever did.
Although I was originally to return to my urban “dream” life in Seattle a year ago this month, I realized that that dream had died. I knew I could not return to the way and pace of life I had been living, as much as I loved the city, my friends, and my community of faith which kept me in its embrace even from a distance. Behind the house from which I rented a room was one of the community graveyards. From the upstairs window, I would often look out over the ghostly whitewashed Russian Orthodox crosses and out over even the more deathly foreboding flatness of the tundra and its dying, setting sun and think, part of me is being laid to rest there. But what would be brought to life in its place?
My answer was to go home. In just the right timing, my contract for the next semester wasn’t worth renewing and a job opened up with my home school district. (Can anyone say “wait for it… wait for it…”? lol) A year later, here I am. Living at home with parents, working two jobs (I added “part-time espresso rock star” to my resume last summer), and finding an affirmative go-ahead to seminary, in spite of the fact that I am gay and in spite of all the controversy in my denomination (and others) concerning “those like me.” Part of me wishes the candidacy committee had said no, that I would have an easy way out of some of the particular burdens associated with pastoral ministry. But even had they said no, and even if for some reason seminary doesn’t happen despite the committe’s affirmation, I know that pastoral ministry will follow me around, like that little annoying cat that said “go to Bethel,” and every day, every moment is training grounds for me.
Part of me desperately misses my faith family in Seattle, and while I’m not letting them go as they are not letting me go, the Lord is gently urging me to create a new family here for the time I am here, with my family of origin and with my local family of faith. I feel myself clinging to this past very tightly and with white knuckles, little tears stinging my eyes as I miss and long for the familiar rhythms of sacred, mundane, and even profane that I had there. I don’t know if I can have that again, and probably not like I had before. But the Lord is here. I see him in the face of the 8-year-old Ukrainian deaf child I work with, whose eyes light up as she tells me stories of things that she had seen four and five years ago, things she couldn’t tell anyone before because she didn’t have the language to express it. I see the Lord in my customers in the Starbucks drive-thru, who know my name and ask how my day is going. I see the Lord in the boys of my confirmation class, several of whom suffer with emotional disturbance issues and the pain of domestic strife. I see the Lord in my whacky fundamentalist Pentecostal reclusive sister who eats too much garlic, who despite her quirks teaches me again and again about the grace of simplicity and hospitality.
And I am so grateful, so very grateful, for all of it.
