I remember the first time I met a Lutheran. It was while volunteering at Habitat during my gap year of voluntary service. I was assigned to work with him that day and we drove around in the blue, barely-running work truck talking theology and stopping to load cabinets. I asked him, at some point during that day, what Lutherans believed. He replied, "grace." The church he was from, a rural mid-western congregation, was the church that, in typical small town fashion, everyone attended. He had a nickname for it (though I don't remember what it was) and described it as a town where everyone did what they wanted during the week and went to church on Sunday-- believing and allowing God's grace to forgive them for their sins. My social-activist Anabaptist origins quickly dismissed his theology and, until recently, erased it from my memory. I've been taking a class this semester on the origins of Anabaptism. Origins which are predominately Catholic and Protestant. Although there are clear distinctions between the Protestant and Anabaptist reform movements (and historical contexts that account for why Anabaptist traditionally root for the oppressed) both came out of Catholicism. Both came out of a religious understanding that God forgives us for our sins. As Mennonites, we do not like to talk about sins and we carefully word conversations on forgiveness. We talk about forgiving one another, forgiving our enemies, asking for forgiveness when we have wronged a neighbor. But we don't talk enough (or sometimes at all) about God's grace. I am guilty of this. I love to talk about how the Bible is a political book that paves the way for a revolutionary way of living that cares for the oppressed and connects to the land. I do not love to talk about sin. I do not love (or like or often even do) admit that I sometimes knowingly and intentionally do things that hurt myself and others. I recognize that mistakes are part of being human (my counselor likes to call them 'life experiences' and not 'failures') and most days I am pretty good about feeling that they are okay and I can move beyond them and God understands. But in fear of falling into a theology that focuses solely on the personal and allows me to close my eyes to injustice, I do not allow myself to frame that hope in God's understanding as grace. Yet I wonder, could this contribute to injustice? I've been in conversations recently about the acceptance of LGBTQ people in the church. I feel strongly about this issue. If I go into ministry I will have no problem co-pastoring with someone who identifies as LGBTQ and, if it came down to it, I would lose my credentials if it meant a gay or lesbian couple could be married in the faith community in which they belong. In fact, opening my life to serve alongside, sing alongside, question alongside, and break-bread alongside a diverse group of people (for how sad would the church be if it were all the same?) is what gets me excited about majoring in Biblical and Theological Studies. What I've discovered, however, in these conversations, is that people who do not support marriage licensing or ministry credentials for LGBTQ people in the church (or even membership) often do so out of the concern that God wants them to be agents of God's work. This work being to make sure (well, I'm not totally certain but answers range from forced celibacy to "driving the gay right out of them" through invasive and spiritually abusive conversion techniques) and that in failing to do so, they remain accountable to God. Now, personally, I think that if you're afraid of being held accountable to God and/or you want to be an agent of God's work you should first only buy local, sustainably sourced food; make your clothes out of homegrown hemp; and live within biking distance of your legislator so you can visit during every session to push for healthcare, a livable minimum wage, and no more tax breaks for the wealthy. However, realistically speaking, none of us live that way. I have grapes in my fridge from Chile and an avocado from Mexico. I'm wearing a dress from Old Navy I bought at a thrift-store in Kansas. I don't think I have called a senator in the past two weeks. Within a decade my goal is to produce and/or locally source 90% of my food. I am fine if I never buy a new article of clothing unless it is ethically and sustainably sourced and produced and it is underwear or gear. The next election I plan on helping with grassroots campaigning. As I work towards and continually fail at the life I am called to live, I take comfort and the courage to press on knowing there is truth behind that Lutheran's answer of 'grace.' There is solid Biblical evidence on both sides of the LGBTQ debate. How solid it actually is, of course, rests on the interpreter's understanding of God and the rest of the canon. And I can argue until I am blue in the face (I've tried it, though it may have been the Winnipeg cold) and not been able to out scripture my way past someone who looks to the Bible to justify their discomfort with LGBTQ people. In contrast, someone who believes "one man and one woman" could pummel me with scripture all day and I would still turn to the Bible looking for evidence of a loving, merciful, creator God. When we have these discussions, we must have them trusting in grace. Knowing that each side is 'right' and each side is 'wrong.' Asking that God be with us as we discern and cry and mourn that those who believe differently than us (whatever we believe) could be so terribly mislead. But the church cannot stop with doctrinal questions that will take years (or, as I once heard "a whole lot of funerals") to sort out. So I ask that, when encountering LGBTQ people in and outside of the church, we remember grace. We remember that we worship a God who forgives 'just because.' We remember that grace is only part of the equation and works are important too (and that there are a whole lot of tangible works we can be doing before angering one another over unanswerable debates). Most importantly, we remember that the grace we are given is a grace we are called to extend. Meanwhile, while as a church we are "figuring it out" let us gracefully and graciously open our hearts and our congregations to the experiences, convictions, and community our LGBTQ sisters and brothers bring. Perhaps, in doing so, answers will appear. -Lizzie
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It has been a dark winter. I've spent the last 3-4 months existing in quiet agony. My shoulders stooped in a perpetual schlump bearing the unbearable weight of the world: coping with the theft of human rights and clean air; knowing that I can expend every last ounce of my love for creation and it's inhabitants and it will never be enough. Reeling from the slow and arduous process of untangling myself from a romantic relationship: learning that 'making right' sometimes mean letting go; finding my own place in a community I shy from claiming my own. All the while as the wind whips by and my running shoes ache for the predawn routine of flying--uninhibited by ice, snow, or ten minutes of layering up-- across pavement, pounding out problems and prayers. Mostly I am crushed by religion. By my own intellect broadened daily by textbooks, research, and lectures that laps up a deeper, more articulate understanding of religious convictions I have always leaned towards--only to turn and meet a world of underdeveloped and often harmful religiousity. I saw a knick-knack (do people still call decor that?) that boldly exclaimed "Ya'll Need Jesus" the other day. I studied it for a moment, contemplating where it stood theologically. On one hand, of course "ya'll need Jesus." Imagine a world where we lived like Jesus. Where we unquestioningly fed the hungry, clothed the naked, peacefully protested human created systems that serve only the powerful, broke bread with strangers, placed our love for one another over material security, and had mothers who elbowed us to turn water into wine! However, "ya'll need Jesus" also aligns a little too closely with Christian colonialism to be taken seriously and reduces Jesus to some miraculous Parmesan cheese-like substance that makes everything it touches taste better. Here's the problem: Christianity doesn't work that way. Our world is that of a deeply broken humanity made up of deeply broken humans. There are some problems- mental illnesses, religious conflicts, famine- that you can't just sprinkle a little Jesus on and hope it gets better. This is not to say that healthy religious communities (if there are such things) do not or cannot provide essential support nor to claim that God doesn't work within that brokenness (read the Old Testament (OT)- working with brokenness is kind of what God does). Rather this is to say that telling someone who is broken and hurting that they 'need Jesus' or should 'try praying/give it up to God' shows a rudimentary and immature understanding of God and the Bible. The OT is the story of a broken people who become healed by God only to re-break. Yes, often this brokenness is the result of human actions (if you think of individual sin I would encourage looking up the book of Amos) but there are stories (Job) that recognize sometimes bad things just happen. Terrible things: flooring, soul-crushing, unexplained and undeserved bad things happen. Things that people spend years sorting through and working out- sometimes to be met in the midst of recovery with more bad things. Problems that won't disperse with prayer alone. To tell someone or a community that is hurting that they should try and pray it out is problematic. First, it assumes that they are in a spiritual place where they can pray. There have been points in my life (days and months) where the closest I came to prayer was lobbing expletives at God. Am I ashamed for this? No. The loving, merciful, forgiving God the Bible and my mother lead me to believe in understands. Second, it indicates that their faith is not strong enough. The last thing people who are struggling (especially if their struggling involves faith) need to hear is that they aren't trying hard enough or aren't good enough. Third, it downplays the importance of therapy, community, and restructuring of corrupt social systems. All of which, depending on the problem, can play a significant role in healing. Finally, and this is perhaps the most important reason, it assumes brokenness is not a part of being a child of God. The Israelite people were a broken people. Jesus ate dinner with broken people. These broken people were God's people. You can be medicated for depression-- and still go to church for forty years, direct choir, immerse yourself in theology, and become a pastor. You can battle anxiety--and still sit atop a mountain awash with the warmth of God. You can numb yourself with the contents of a shot glass--and, in a chapel ringing with voices raised in 606, remember among God's people you are home. Brokenness and experiencing God aren't mutually exclusive. Prayer can do amazing things but it cannot be the only answer. Even at the end of this seemingly eternal winter- God brings hope in new signs of spring. |
Elizabeth SchragAdventurer. Biblical and Theological Studies major. Borderline Vegan. Rebel with a cause. Archives
March 2017
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