Space at the Table

On June 19, I read this apology to the gay community from Alan Chambers, the founder of Exodus International. He acknowledged that the reparative therapy Exodus has championed is potentially harmful, and doesn’t work. He admitted that even his own same-sex attractions have not disappeared. Shortly after, the “ex-gay” ministry announced they were closing their doors.

And then yesterday, along with most Americans, I heard the news that the Supreme Court had struck down DOMA, the Defense of Marriage Act. They also dismissed the Proposition 8 case, which means gay couples can begin marrying again in the state of California.

I know this is a divisive issue. For some people, Christians especially, it is confusing and bewildering, emotions run high and many of us are just trying to figure out what in the world Jesus would do. I can’t answer that with any definitive certainty, and I won’t claim that I can.  I do know that we have said some terrible things in the name of God. I know that people have been hurt and ostracized and too many teenagers have put guns in their mouths, jumped off of bridges and swallowed handfuls of pills because they were rejected and pushed out, because they tried to change and found that they could not, because shame hounded them and we piled it on. I know that there is an entire group of people that have been made to feel as if they are second-class citizens, like they do not deserve the same protections under our laws because of their sexuality and who they choose to love.

I don’t know the answers. But I do know that I celebrate today. I celebrate with my gay brothers and sisters. You are a person. You matter. And your sexuality does not define you, should not determine whether or not you can visit your spouse in the hospital, parent or adopt a child, file joint tax returns, or receive federal benefits. I celebrate with you. I know that you are not gay because of your childhood, because of absent fathers or overbearing mothers, because it was too perfect or because it was terrible and scarring. I won’t tell you to close your eyes and pray to Jesus to make you straight. I know it doesn’t work that way. So many people have been hurt, deeply wounded. I’m sorry.

There is space at the table for you. Please, come, sit down, let’s raise our glasses. The Kingdom of heaven is near.

I know that I will get many things wrong in my life. I already have. I try to temper my strong opinions with good sense, to work them out in some kind of community, but even still, I will be wrong. I will make mistakes, errors of judgment, and I pray that I have the grace to apologize when it happens. But this, reaching out my hands, acknowledging that we are equals, that we love out of hearts formed by the same magnificent God, I can see no wrong in it.

So yes, there is space at the table for you. God does not “hate the gays”, he certainly does not hate you. Please, come, sit down, let’s raise our glasses. The Kingdom of heaven is near.

I’ve thought about this so much. It’s kept me up at night, poring over my Bible, reading and reading. I’ve written about it at length, so many pages, ruminating, turning it over. To be perfectly honest, I don’t know why I have felt so invested.  I don’t know why I cried when I heard the news yesterday morning, or why this feels like a downright personal struggle. I’m not gay. I don’t have a lot of gay friends. Maybe it’s because you’re on the fringe, because my heart is on the margins, and you have been marginalized. Maybe it’s because I feel like I need to apologize for my own misconceptions and judgments and the ways I’ve been misinformed and afraid and thoughtless.

Whatever it may be, I’m glad you’re here, I’m glad you can get married now, that this important civil liberty has been extended in your direction. I don’t think the fact that you’re gay is destroying the moral fabric of America, or any fabric really. We don’t begin and end with our sexuality. We are more than who we are attracted to. You are a whole person, a beautiful person, God-breathed and sustained by grace. He loves you. He wants to know you.

I know that some of you are faithful Christians who love Jesus with your whole heart, who along with the rest of us, are working out your salvation with fear and trembling. Yet you feel excluded, judged. I know some of you don’t believe at all, don’t want to believe, and maybe that’s our fault. Whatever the case, I will say it again, because it’s true—there is space at this table for you. We will make room. I will make room. He has made room. Please, sit down, breathe deep, you are loved.

In Which I Remember

I did something strange on Saturday. I've been wanting to do it all year, as a revisiting, stepping back over a past threshold.

I went back to the place where I was married five years ago. Diana was asleep in the car, so I couldn't wander too far, but I sat on a low stone wall and looked out over the small lake where we said our vows.

I didn't cry. It wasn't a great release or a terribly cathartic experience. It was quiet and sad and my hands shook a little. I closed my eyes and the memories rose like fog, shadow and ghost. That day five years ago became a part of me; it was a turning point, a great threshold, it is a memory that persists like longing.

It's good that I went back. I will probably go once more, this time alone, because there is so much I need to release. I am better, so much better, than I was a year ago, but I know that the healing is not finished (are we ever finished?), that there is still work to be done.  Part of that work is in the reliving, the task of going backwards, acknowledging the past, breathing it in and finally, breathing it out, releasing it.

My divorce, this painful chapter of my life, is begging for some ritual attention. I've thought about it a lot this past year, the fact that there is no formal ceremony, no commemoration, to mark the end of a marriage, the loss of love. It's a fraught desire, because no, I don't want a large gathering of people and a sermon and a funeral. But surely, there is something that can be done, a closure, an acknowledgment of grief, that something, although not a person, has died.

The going back to the place we said our vows was a part of that. It's why I will go back again.

How do you mark the beginnings and endings of the lifetimes that unfold within your life? How would you describe the different selves you've been across the years? Have you gone through or are you anticipating a change that could benefit from some ritual attention? How might you set aside a time, alone or with friends, in order to remember and to mark the passage; to name who you have been and who are becoming?

            -Jan L. Richardson, from In the Sanctuary of Women

When I read that passage last week, it validated much of what I have written in my own journals about this time period, about the expectations that have been disappointed in my life. There is tremendous value in remembering. Ritual validates our experiences, their importance in shaping our personhood, our past, present and future selves.

Part of my ritual will be dispelling the memories, acknowledging them. I just read A Severe Mercy, and for those of you that have read it, perhaps you too are reminded of Sheldon's "Illumination of the Past", his process of remembrance, dispelling memory, after his wife Davy dies. He goes through all of their old journals, travels back through the years, immerses himself in it. Will it look the same for me? I don't know. I do know that whatever it looks like, it will be essential for my wholeness, my peace, will hopefully prevent me from becoming a hardened, skeptical cynic. I fear I am well on my way.

So what I've kept rolled up tight, I'm feeling ready to let it all unfurl, to go there with Him. And you know, I'm thankful for all of it, for the story I carry, for what you carry, for the tremendous beauty of our ordinary lives. To live is a gift. To look at another human face, individual and distinct, so completely separate from me yet the result of the same great imagination, it is a miracle of the highest order, isn't it?

We each carry something. Every one of us, we are storytellers. I want to tell my own story well. I want to live this one life I'm given well, in whatever season, in darkness or in light. It's worth it, and I don't want to die a cynic.

Non-Writing Writer?

                  

All I'm doing is deleting. I had grand plans this month, to blog twice a week at minimum, three times a week and I'd be really awesome. I failed at that, obviously. I have close to ten half-written ramblings typed into my computer, even more in my notebook. I just deleted most of them; I'm tempted to rip a few pages out of my notebook, flush them, shred them, something.

I don't know what it is, but I seem incapable of producing anything worthwhile these days. I was full of ideas at the beginning of the month, really, just brimful. But when it comes time to actually sit down and get it out, translate what is in my head into actual language, all I get is a pile of shitty, unreadable first drafts. I hate first drafts. I barely have time to write, let alone to edit.

I feel like a non-writing writer. Is that even possible?

I guess I'll start over. I'm no good at keeping track of the small details that make up a life, to-do lists and all that jazz. I misplace things regularly and in some ways, am about as far from a Type A personality as you can get. But I do really, really care about this little writing space of mine, about the ideas and the stories and the opinions I am carrying. This matters to me, and I want to do it well.

I don't know that this post has a real point, except to say that I'm still out here, working on moving from non-writing writer to always-writing writer, even if it means a pile of first drafts for the trash pile. It's all progress, right?

So hey, if you know me and feel up to it, make sure I'm writing. Ask me about it. Be really mean about it if you want to. You won't hurt my feelings. There's nothing like a bit of pressure to get the mind whirring, the hands moving.

And here's to starting over, to making new plans. I'll get this figured out one of these days, hopefully very soon.

Blessed are the Peacemakers

  
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.  

Matthew 5:9

Extending my hands and blessing the peacemakers today, those who sow peace in ravaged places, dark places, where the violence and the discord run deep, color the earth red.

They are there, in the tumult, where disorder rules, our egos stark and infernal; mine touches yours and it glitters and sparks and this may start a fire, a maelstrom to blot out the dawn. Their hands are in the fray, in the fissures where kindness slips and falls headlong, where pride is easy and love is hard.

To sow peace is to sow righteousness. To love peace is to love holiness. And I kneel low in this tabernacle heart of mine, this jar of clay reliquary of the holy, and I pray for peace in the world, for the wars that tear apart nations, for the blood spilled in the name of ego, of territory. It's lofty of me, isn't it?

But the root of bitterness is small, and it fans outward, climbs high like ivy, clings and adheres. We must shear it, begin at the beginning, with ourselves, myself.

I am doing the work of peace today, this week, hopefully for all of my life. I am severing the bitter roots, and it's hard work, it's humbling work, and most days I don't feel up to the task. But I long for peace on this earth, in my own relationships. And to you peacemakers who aren't afraid of the dark—your own or that of this whole, wide world—can I just bless you, child of God? Because what you do matters. The work of reconciling, uniting, crossing divides, holding out your hands to disparate peoples, warring families, working even on the breaches in your own life.

And it really does begin here, with my own ravaged, dark places, where my violence and the discord run deep, color my very own earth red, this soil of the soul. And He himself is our peace, my peace, he tears down the dividing walls, triumphs over contention, frees us up to extend mercy. I want the world to know, I want it to ring loud, a truth to free the oppressed because the oppressor himself is set free.

And so I will be a peacemaker. I am a peacemaker. And I begin today.