(Not So) Straight from the Seminary

I’ve spent the last hour sitting in Joe Van Gogh, a great coffee shop on campus, refilling on coffee every thirty minutes or so in an effort to stay awake.  I’m supposed to be staying awake writing a paper—I have four BIG papers due within the next two weeks. Yet instead, I’m browsing facebook.
I went on quickly, to put up a link on my status for the fantastically beautiful Keith Olbermann video, but my eye was caught by yet another status update of excitement about the passing of Proposition 8. It read: “ Jessica is we are not taking away their “rights” they already have them this is about the institution of traditional marriage!” The girl who wrote it was a friend of mine in college, my R.A.’s roommate my freshman year. Read the rest of this entry »

These are polarizing times. We as a gay, lesbian, and bisexual community have been dealt a painful blow and we are looking for someone to blame. Even as we are gathering together nightly in overwhelming displays of solidarity and unity, we are also pointing fingers every which way. Cries go out: blame a particular ethnic minority; blame a particular church; blame the organizers of the no on 8 campaign. But the sad truth is, over 5 millions individuals went to the polls last week and cast a vote to revoke our rights. While it is certainly arguable that they should have never had the opportunity to do that in the first place, that is what happened, and that is what they did. And while they might have come with various racial and religious affiliations, they also came as individuals. Individuals who, in all likelihood, all know at least one of us in some capacity, whether they are aware of it or not. And so, while it is tempting to paint a portrait of what should happen next with broad, sweeping strokes (i.e: challenge the tax-exempt status of the Morman church, change the views of specific racial minorities, etc), I see it more as pointillism.  Each of the two million or so estimated GLBT people here in California exist in small, overlapping social circles where we have the opportunity to bring to light our humanity, our love, and our quest for equality. We must each engage in the difficult work of having conversations. Yes, we will eventually wage more political campaigns, and I am sure there will be countless more demonstrations, but in the meantime, we are left with conversations. Conversations with our friends, our families, our coworkers; with people in stores and people on the streets. Conversations about who we are (i.e: people in loving, committed relationships), who we aren’t (i.e: a threat to kindergartens, a threat to churches), and who we hope to become (i.e: people who have regained the opportunity to legally marry). I am no idealist; I know this won’t change everyone’s mind. How could I think that when even my best friend of 7 years told me two weeks ago that she still wasn’t sure how she would vote on Prop 8? But I cannot help believing that it will change some minds…built some bridges…put a few dots of color on a painting whose final image we are not yet even able to envision.

We as a community seem to be alternating between devastation and numbness. Words fail me. How do you describe what it is like to have your state vote against your marriage…. against your entire community’s beautiful, beautiful marriages? For some reason, the sadness there is so deep it seems as though words would not even do it justice.

And so, instead, I would like to write about our marching. Because, while they seem to have imagined that taking away our right to marry would just make us shut up and disappear, it has done quite the opposite. Last night, an estimated 5,000-10,000 of us gathered in Los Angeles to show the world that we are still here. We took to the streets to look in the faces of the people who voted to take away our marriage rights, and were surprised to find those people largely missing. Whoever they were, they certainly weren’t around last night. Instead, by and large, the thousands of citizens we encountered greeted us with high fives and friendly honks. Even the police blocked traffic to allow us to pass peacefully through they streets of West Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and Hollywood. Perhaps they suspected that our tentative hopefulness could easily turn to rage. That our chants of solidarity and determination were preferable to any other way we might have expressed our wide array of emotions surrounding the news of our deep loss. Whatever their reasoning, I am grateful. It was surprisingly healing to be able to stand up in front of my state and say… We will not be silenced. We will not disappear. We will not give up. And we will not even allow you to crush our spirits. You may spit on us, you may take away something we consider to be core to our humanity, and you may cover our community in tears, but still, like dust, like air, like love itself…we rise.

And so, I am left with an unquenchable desire to continue taking to the streets and marching. I’d march this state from border to border if I thought it might make a difference, carrying on the chants we shouted throughout Los Angeles last night: “What do we want? EQUALITY! When do we want it? NOW!!” Who’s with me?

A conversation has been happening on the God’s Politics blog that Sojurners does on the issue of New Monasticism and Diversity. The conversation has been interesting, and super important, but I find it at least a little disheartening.

You can check out that conversation here.

It’s a bit weird in how it’s set up, but its basically an archive of all the blog posts, with the beginning blog that incited the conversation at the bottom of the page.

And here is the comment I wrote on the most recent blog, Beilers’ “Will Christians Lead or Follow on Questions of Diversity?”. It pretty much sums up why I find the conversation, though valuable, disheartening:

“I just recently picked up on this conversation, I often find myself too busy to keep up with blogs, but I’m glad I’ve stumbled upon this conversation, so much so that I’d even like to put in my two cents.

First of all, I’m thrilled that this conversation is being had! Too often, I think, we assume that the new monastics, in their radicalness, are ahead of the game in issues of diversity–and many times that may be so… but not necessarily, and this conversation seems to point out the complexities of this issue of diversity—what defines reconciliation, who defines it, how do minority communities feel, etc…..

One wrench I would like to throw into this conversation is the expanse of which we define diversity. I have been disheartened (but not at all surprised) that the scope of our notions of diversity have centered on racial and ethnic issues. Now, to be fair, the thread IS called New Monasticism and race, and I think that race is a VASTLY important issue, especially in light of what the NM movement is trying to do.

Yet I think this post Belier, and others who’ve posted, have rightly asked what diversity means and how far it reaches–what about economic diversity, about more nuanced ethnic diversity (it goes beyond black and white!)–what about women as leaders within the new monastic community. One of the bloggers drew our attention that most of the people in the limelight in the NM conversation are white males. This is problematic–not only because of the white part, but the male part as well……

But, I’m frustrated with Beiler, and with ALL the other posts and comments on this whole long thread. Not ONCE is sexual orientation mentioned. If we are going to speak of diversity, isn’t it fair to speak of all the ways in which diversity is manifested? To leave out a major category of diversity is to reproduce a hegemony.

Now, I know the whole gay question is one a lot of people aren’t comfortable with…. its something people believe is wrong, or that they’re unsure and uncomfortable about. Fair enough.

But, like it or not, there are gay and lesbian (and bi, and transgendered, etc…) Christians who care about the same things many new monastics do and who feel entirely abandoned by the NM movement. I’m one of them.

I’m not asking that everyone agree (though that would be nice, or that people stop struggling with this significant theological issue—but know that its more than an issue, and that there are some of us who are now struggling in a different way (not with integrating our sexuality and our faith, but with dealing with the Christian community that ignores or rejects us), and getting very exhausted by continually being left out of the conversation. Many of us were so excited when the New Monastic movement started—FINALLY, we thought, there is going to be a movement that cares about the radical things we care about–about social justice, about reconciliation, about Christian community. And, in many of ways, we were right. But, we didn’t expect that we weren’t going to be invited to the table.

I found the title of this blog post very illuminating–Will Christians Lead or Follow on Questions of Diversity? Sure, we’ve finally gotten around to talking about racial reconciliation—something many thoughtful people have been doing for a long time. But, the struggle for LGBT equality (or even voice) has been happening for a long time, yet gets nearly ignored in these conversations–in this case, completely ignored.

I worry that the answer to Beiler’s question is that we are following. I hope that this is not the case, and that, regardless of our personal beliefs, we can let ALL of those who have been ignored and marginalized into the conversation.”

Still I Rise

by May Angelou

You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I’ll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? ‘Cause I walk like I’ve got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I’ll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries. Does my haughtiness offend you? Don’t you take it awful hard ‘Cause I laugh like I’ve got gold mines Diggin’ in my own back yard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I’ll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I’ve got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history’s shame I rise Up from a past that’s rooted in pain I rise I’m a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise.

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

So, after the advice of some friends, I wrote my pastor, letting him know what I felt. He just wrote back. Here is the email conversation. It gave me some hope.

My email:

Hey Tim,
I have been meaning to write you since Tuesday, but its been a busy week.
I just wanted to talk to you a little bit about text group on Tuesday. More specifically, I wanted to talk about what you said when we started talking about Richard Hays’ commentary on Corinthians. You may not even remember what you said, but, after I groaned, you said something along the lines of “he’s not a moron, he’s just wrong on that one issue.” Now, I’m with you–I agree that he’s not a moron (obviously), and thank you for conceding that he was wrong on this issue… but, I still felt pretty hurt by what you said. I’ve been thinking about it the last few days, and I wanted to at least let you know what I felt so that I stop letting it stew inside me. That one issue is more than just an issue to me–as much as I don’t want it to be, its a really big part of my life. When something prevents my friends from getting married, when it causes people to leave the church cause they don’t feel welcome, when it causes others to dismiss those people as ‘unfaithful’, when it gets me kicked out of graduate school (with Richard Hays’ chapter in Moral Vision being one of the main theological sources that the Wheaton provost looked to), I can’t help but see it as more than just one issue.
I’m sure that I’m sounding (and probably being) too sensitive. But, I had to tell you, perhaps cause I felt a bit silenced, and I guess I feel silenced at church quite a bit.
I’m not sure what I expect, or even hope for, out of this email. I just wanted to be honest. I hope this email finds you well, and that I don’t sound like a jerk, or like I’m bashing on E-Way, because that’s really not what I intended….
Peace,
Brandy

And here is his response:

Brandy,

Thanks so much for writing.  I really appreciate when folks are honest about their pain, especially with me.  My humor certainly gets me in trouble on occasion.  I had intended my Hays comment as banter — my way of saying, “I know you well enough to know how you would react when Dan mentioned his name.”  But I certainly understand how that could be an unintended yet painful barb
- overly reducing your opinion
- being cavalier about an issue that has defined your pain but has barely affected my life

I’m very sorry about that and will certainly try to be more sensitive in the future.

I would like to talk to you about your feeling silenced at EW.  How do you experience this — from what directions?  This is certainly not what we hope for.  I have thinking a bit about your comment a couple weeks ago in regards to hospitality.  You were having trouble identifying the source of the feeling that morning.  I would love to explore this more with you.

I hope that you know that your presence and friendship is one of the special parts of Emmaus Way for me.

Tim

This morning, like every Tuesday morning at 7 a.m., I went to text group. Text group is a small group of us at church who get together with the pastor to discuss the upcoming weeks sermon. The idea is to have the sermon be guided by diverse dialogue, as opposed to just one person’s opinion. It’s a smart idea, and I enjoy going, despite the fact that I’m really not that helpful, and find that I do not really say much at all, let alone much that’s productive and constructive.
This morning, we are at text group, talking about 1 Corinthians 15. Tim (the pastor) is trying to get a sense of how this concept of body-vs-spirit that Paul’s talking about (which we all seemed to agree was not the same type of dualism as its used today, but rather, Paul ‘speaking the language’ of the Hellenistic, Neo-Platonic Gentiles that he is trying to share the Gospel message with), can be understood and explained in our context, by people who aren’t Biblical scholars. He’s probing us for commentaries on this topic.
Dan, one of my favorite people at the church (I have favorites, not gonna lie there… not to mention, I don’t think anyone from church reads this blog, and those that I might suspect would, would probably also fall under the favorites category….) tells me, in jest, to close my ears, as he is going to say something I don’t like. He proceeds to recommend Richard Hays’ commentary on 1 Corinthians to Tim. I groan, like I always do when Hay’s comes up in a conversation on Biblical scholarship.

At this point, Tim quickly responds “Sheesh, Brandy, he’s not a moron, he just is wrong on this one issue,” and we move on, continuing to try to interpret and understand the text in front of us.

Fair enough. I get it. I know Richard Hays is a brilliant scholar.  And perhaps I’m not being charitable enough, or just too damn sensitive.

But this ‘one issue’ is one that effects my life every fucking day, whether I want it to or not. This ‘one issue’ is what  makes people believe that I am not a faithful Christian. This ‘one issue’ has prevented people in love from getting married, and has prevented people called to the ministry from being ordained. This ‘one issue’ has gotten people kicked out of seminaries (often with Hays’ Biblical interpretation of ‘this one issue’ as their theological guide), and has caused others to take their own lives. This is not just ‘one issue’ that sits on the sidelines and has little consequences on the Christian faith—this is people’s lives, this is my life.

Like I said, perhaps I’m being too sensitive. I’m almost sure that I am, and I know Tim did not mean it maliciously. But, Tim can push this aside as one issue among many, one place where people disagree on Biblical interpretation in an understandable way, one issue that becomes an abstraction that means little. I can’t. Because this ‘one issue’ is not all that I am (not even close), but, because of the theological reflections of people like Hays, becomes for people the sign of my faithfulness to God, or rather, my unfaithfulness. And that makes it a whole lot fucking more than “just one issue.”

He thinks

The reason it is so hard

So damn hard

For gays and lesbians to come out

Is not because of society’s failure to accept us,

But rather,

because of our own consciences

“bearing witness that it is wrong.”

And it’s a little ambiguous whether “it” means

Us, or our relationships

But no matter, I can understand what he’s getting at.

I can even understand, at least as little bit

Why somebody might presume to know

What is weighing on somebody else’s conscience.

But what I cannot even begin to understand

is why he might think

That my conscience would be all tangled up

In guilt over who I love

Love.

When we are surrounded by so much hatred.

And yes, I would be a fool to claim my conscience is clear,

When the world around me is falling all to pieces,

And half the time I am only standing by watching, wide eyed,

Paralyzed with fear.

And so yes, he is right.

My conscience is heavy.

Heavy with guilt over the fact that gay and lesbian youth

Make up a third of teen suicides

And nearly half of those who are homeless.

And out of those 500,000 gay and lesbian youths living on the streets

In our nation alone,

At least 50,000 of them are right here in Los Angeles.

And knowing their pain,

Having felt it myself,

Still, I don’t take the time to fill out the application

To go down and volunteer to actually do something about it.

And yes,

My conscience is consumed with guilt

Over the sins of my country.

Over the wake of dead bodies we have left in Iraq.

Will continue to leave in Iraq.

And yes,

My conscience is consumed with guilt

Over the fact that I have only recently begun to consider the humanity

Of those young men and women

Who probably did head out to Iraq

thinking they were soldiers fighting for freedom

And not for destruction.

And yes, my conscience is heavy

With the weight of the long list of other genocides

That have taken place in my own lifetime,

And about which I have done nothing.

Nothing, other than watch movies that document the devastation

long after the time to act has already passed.

And yes, I am deeply troubled

By the fact that my own city has one of the nation’s widest divides

Between rich and poor,

And still my own anger over this fact

Has yet to move me to action.

And just yesterday,

I saw a homeless man pushing a shopping cart

Full of recycling

That he had to dig from our dumpster

Because my own neighbors and I forget to recycle

While the planet is literally melting around us.

Forget, even, to leave our recyclables

At the side of the dumpster

So this man doesn’t have to climb into our garbage

In order to find a few pennies worth of cans,

When he doesn’t even have a place to rinse off the shit

Once he climbs out.

And I saw him yesterday, and I meant to say thank you.

Thank you and I’m sorry.

I’m so fucking sorry.

But I didn’t say anything other than hello.

Because I was embarrassed.

And so, all of these things,

And all of the other countless ways I have failed to love

As I was so clearly, so concisely

instructed to love,

are part of a long list of things

that weight heavily on my conscience today.

And the list includes all the pain my country has inflicted

On a world struggling to take its dying breaths.

And all the wars, murders, and injustices;

all the rapes of women, children and countries

that I have condoned, and even encouraged

with my silence.

And it includes all the privilege that is afforded me

By my birthplace and my skintone,

And all the excess and waste and hatred

That weaves its way into the fabric of our daily lives

So tightly that we don’t even have to turn our heads away,

Because we don’t even see it anymore

But no,

The consensual, mutual, beautiful

love

that I share

With the woman who shares my home,

My bed,

And my life,

Is not anywhere on that list.