The problem with churches is that they are filled with people...

“Why don’t more people come to church?  Why don’t more people keep coming to church?” One of the most commonly voiced mysteries of church council and evangelism meetings is finally clear to me. I know the answer--because churches are supposed to be communities and becoming fully involved and immersed in a community is really fricking HARD!  At times, it is one of the more difficult things in my life, and I am a girl who likes a challenge.  I am a middle school special education teacher, for one, so every day is a special kind of challenge.  I love training difficult horses.  I love lifting the heaviest weights I can manage until my muscles shake.  Hard--I like it!  But, being a part of a community built on the kingdom of God, that is really fricking difficult.

Communities disappoint us.  Communities are built by people, flawed people, people who, even with the best intentions, drop the ball, make mistakes, and get angry.   A church relationship is like most other relationships, it starts with a happy, honeymoon period of wine and roses and Eucharist bread.  Everything is great and I go to church with a song in my heart, looking forward to the most peaceful and thoughtful hour of my day.  But, after a time, things get real.  

After a time, people disagree and argue and hurt each other’s feelings.  People disappoint.  People disagree.  Conflict inevitably arises whenever more than one person embarks on a project. The problem with church conflict is that it’s entirely optional.  When faced with a difficult conversation at work, sometimes I think, “Man!  I don’t need this crap!”  Well, when faced with a similarly difficult conversation at church, I may think, “Man!  I don’t need this crap!”  And, then I realize--it’s true.  I am not paid to be here.  I am not related to this person.  I am not married to this person.  I am not bound to this community by my work, my property, or my family.  I can just walk away and never, ever come back.

Two weeks ago on Sunday, I wanted to run out of church during the announcements.  I sat there, listening to updates on vestry decisions and I longed to escape. I had a visceral moment of fear and frustration, brought on by entirely mundane church business.  Something deep in my belly tightened and I heard these words in my head, “You don’t have to be here.  You can just walk out now and never turn back.  You don’t really need church.”   There is really nothing holding me to St. Ignatius, other than the relationship I’ve built with God through the community there, other than the community that has walked with me on my journey.  The thing that holds me is exactly the thing that pushes me away--the messy relationships with other people of Christ.

The problem with churches is that they are filled with people.  The problem with people is that we are filled with fear.  We miss the point again and again.  We let our fear lead us.  We try desperately to make a change, but the new thing looks just like the thing we tried to change.  We are flawed, broken people struggling up together.  It is tempting to abandon the whole thing, to destroy it.  After all, that is what people do, right?  We build something, a home, a career, a church, a family, a faith.  We build it and we are proud of it.  Then, it loses its luster and we leave it to build something new.  Or we can’t change it the right way, so we destroy it.  Then, we start over again.  The only thing that saves this cycle of production and destruction is relationship.  

That Sunday sitting in the sanctuary, I didn’t walk out of my church.  I was tethered to the pew by my children, but more than that, I was tethered to the community by the love of the people:  people who, like me, come back every Sunday, even when it’s inconvenient, difficult, and frustrating, people who, like me, strive to love each other.  If we cannot practice love with fellow followers of Christ, if we cannot serve with followers of the servant king, if we cannot sacrifice with followers of a kingdom built on sacrifice, what hope is there for the world?

Loving through growth, frustration, and conflict isn’t easy.  Sometimes we are prophetic, loud, and angry sometimes.  Sometimes we scream at those we love and sometimes we threaten to kick down the tower.  After the dust settles, we have to come together.  We have to hear the word.  We have to make confession.  We have to give the sign of peace and break sacred bread together.  

The only place where we can save ourselves from the sin of producing and destroying is in church. The only place where we can hold the paradox of survival and sacrifice is a church.  It is painful.  It makes me angry.  I can’t escape it, because I am part of it.  I can’t escape it.  The only thing I can do is weather the storms, love through the anger, and pray that we will all come out the other side together.  If we Christians cannot love through conflict within our church, we cannot do it anywhere.

The Crumbling of my Straight, White, Ivory Tower

Disclaimer to the reader:  If you don’t understand why liberals are crying over the election, then you can just skip this blog post.  It is not meant for you.  Move on and spend your time more usefully.

Today, one of my friends messaged me to make sure I was OK.  One of my gay friends, whose new marriage soon may be no longer legal and whose child’s health insurance soon may be no longer available,  asked ME if I was OK after the 2016 election.  Ironic--because I really have nothing much to lose by this election.  My job and my husband’s jobs are reasonably secure, we live within our middle-class means, we have good health insurance, and our children have access to good public education.  Our lives are especially fortunate, as straight, educated, middle-class white people living in America.  A new President of the United States won’t really make our lives more difficult.  We are the lucky ones.  And, my gay friend asked me if I was OK.

My husband says I am being melodramatic over this election.  He’s probably right.  My Republican friends assure me that they voted based on the issues of limited government and personal freedom, that the family and friends I’ve known all my life are still the upstanding, moral, respectable people that I’ve always known.  They are right, too.  I know that a vote for a particular candidate does not mean sanctification of that person’s every action and word.  Certainly, I wouldn’t want to be held accountable for every action of the person for whom I voted.  I know that there are checks and balances in this country that limit the power of the presidency.  I know all of that.  And I am still crying.

What is wrong with me?  I am that classic whining liberal, crying in my Cabernet after my candidate lost.  But, it doesn’t just feel like we lost the game.  It doesn’t just feel like a peaceful transfer of power, the kind on which our country was founded.  It feels like my illusions about the nature of my country have been shattered.  It feels like the voters chose other issues over MY issues.  The voters chose issues of economy over equality, of rights for guns over rights for gay people, of pro-life over pro-choice for life.  My side lost, but that isn’t all.  It feels like the voters sanctioned racist comments, sexist comments, hateful comments, and I’m shocked. I am shocked that by the hatred and vitriol I see towards people who aren’t straight and white.  My gay friends aren’t surprised; they have lived this most of their life.

The straight, white, ivory tower in which I’ve lived my life has crumbled, and so have my assumptions.  I’ve been lucky; I have the peculiar privilege of a white liberal.  I can speak passionately about social justice, I can teach diverse children, I can write blog posts and share memes about equality and social justice, but nothing actually touches me.  If things get too heated, it’s easy enough to retreat into civility.  I am quite skilled at appearing armless and noncompetitive; I know how to make nice.  I don’t actually have to live through the conflict--that’s what privilege does for me.  But that privilege feels different now.

 I can no longer assume that justice will be done if I don’t speak up.  I’ve spent too many years making nice and hoping that things will be work out if we can all just get along.   I can no longer assume that my LGBTQ friends, my minority friends, or my poor friends will be cared for by society without my action.   I’ve spent too much of my time assuming that other people agree that society should strive for equality for all people.  I can no longer assume that most of society is working for equality and justice.  I can no longer passively move through life, protected by my own privilege, education, and peacefulness.

 I can no longer passively look to the government to save us.  Maybe that is my lesson, the lesson that my Republican friends mean when they tell me that WE are the ones to make change, that we cannot rely on a President, a Congress, or any government to build our country.  Maybe my lesson is to take off the blinders and see, truly see, the need in my community and my country, and to meet that need where I find it.   Maybe my lesson is to stand up for what I believe in, even in the midst of conflict.  I expect I will find allies from across the political spectrum, from the right and from the left.  I expect that my friends will join me, and I expect that it will NOT be easy.  The time has come to wipe away the tears and get to work.

I can only pray... (thoughts on Election Day)

This election has me terrified, deep down.   There is a knot of anxiety deep in my chest that will not loosen tomorrow, even if my candidate proves victorious.  The other day, I read an article in Time magazine about a family of Syrian refugees that relocated to Iowa.  One particular point struck me dumb.  The family had been middle-class in Syria, attending choir concerts and planning family vacations.  Within months, civil war destroyed their peaceful, humdrum existence, and they were displaced people, struggling to find a safe home.  A common story, I know.  Reading those words, days before the end of the most divisive and hateful presidential campaign in my lifetime, gave me pause.  I had a waking daydream, of the fabric of our country torn apart by hate, by people who refuse to accept a peaceful transition of power, by people driven to desperation by the loss of their privilege and power.  I had a waking daydream of civil war, the kind that certain militia groups threaten if their candidate doesn’t win.  Drinking my Sunday morning coffee in my middle-class house in my middle-class town, it almost seemed possible.  And I was terrified.

My friends who happen to be married to people of the same gender, are terrified by more than just a waking daydream.  They are terrified by threats to rent their very families, so newly formed under the law, to invalidate their newly validated unions, and nullify their spousal benefits.  I am afraid that the health-care act that helped my family find affordable coverage for their child will disappear.  I am afraid that our country will no longer work towards justice for all--all skin colors, all genders, all sexual orientations.  I am afraid that hatred and racism will win. It breaks my heart that the biggest comfort I can find is to think, “It will be OK; the President doesn’t really have that much power, anyway.”

I cast my vote for the candidate who reflects my politics.  I’m proud to vote for the first woman President.  I won’t apologize for supporting her, or make excuses for her.  She is my choice.  Many of my friends and family disagree with me and I don’t begrudge them their vote.  We all have our reasons and we all make our choice.  As I say often, just because I have a strong opinion about something doesn’t mean I have to win.  I say it often, but I’m not usually this scared by the thought of losing.  

My friend, Bill, reassures me on Facebook that all will be OK.  Bill, the consummate fiscal conservative, is my go-to guy for silver linings.  I joke that he is the most optimistic Republican I’ve ever met.  Bill tells me that, no matter who wins, he or she will be our President, that it will only be four years, and that we will work together to continue to build a country with freedom and justice for all.   I can only pray that he is right.

I can only pray that we can all find common ground again, that we all honor the government that allows for disagreement and free speech, that we work together to build up what has been broken in the last months.  I can only pray…

Almighty God, to whom we must account for all our powers and privileges: guide the people of the United States in the election of officials and representatives, that, by faithful administration and wise laws, the rights of all may be protected and our nation be enabled to fulfill your purposes; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Âmen