We are not alone; we live in God's world

It's been several months now that I've committed myself to a church. Of course Harmony is still my Mennonite house church, but since last October, I've been going to a Sunday morning, pastor/preacher, amen, pews, pulpit, communion church. It's time I should share about this Hobson United Methodist.

The web site <http://www.hobsonumc.org/> has some fascinating historical details: founded by an affluent white man; segregated; almost closed after the white flight from East Nashville in the 1960s; revitalized by new leadership. But what's more important for now is my experience. I'll start with these words from Garlinda, which describe Hobson on our relatively new facebook group:

Funky, cutting edge, small, casual, interracial, inter-class, gay positive congregation in Nashville, Tenn. More than half of members/regular worshipers are homeless. We're struggling with what it means to bring a broad cross-section of people together in a Southern Christian community by confronting and loving beyond racism, sexism, classism, heterosexism, experience and socio-economic circumstances.

Here's one thing I like about this church: "we're struggling." From my first conversation with Pastor Sonnye Dixon, these present participles (I had to look that up) have described Hobson. A present participle is active, so when they say they are a "reconciling" congregation (the United Methodist version of inclusive of gays and lesbians), the word implies process. No, we have not eradicated the homophobia in our pews, but gay and straight people sit together every Sunday. In the same way, no we have not overcome our classist and racist realities, but poor and not-so-poor sit together with black and white mixed in.

I did understand this struggling - not in the experiential sense anyway - until I came to the South. I think part of it was for lack of opportunity: the midwestern communities I lived in were simply more homogeneous. But also, for one reason or another, I've been challenged into seeing what is all around me with new eyes. For instance,this past Friday Sonnye, Garlinda, Jamie and I went to a lecture on Gender, Sexuality, and the HIV/AIDS crisis. Sonnye had invited us, and the event was held at one of the few black churches in the area that are progressive on issues of sexuality. It was a fantastic lecture: unmasking the power structures (sexism, heterosexism, homophobia, patriarchy, traditional Christian biblical interpretations) that have enabled the exponential spread of HIV/AIDS in African-American communities. Equally important for my own learning was the fact that Jamie and I were the only white people in the room. This new thing is part of the difference Hobson makes in my life.

Another new thing is that elusive notion, radical hospitality. It seems like it's a new theological fad in some of my circles of communication, and I myself like the concept, but could I practice that? Part of my problem is probably that I've been trying to start with the concept itself: yes I value hospitality; yes I want to welcome the homeless, poor, stranger, gay, etc.; yes I believe this is good and right. But At Hobson, there's a different starting point. There's no telling what those crazy (said affectionately) people believe or value in their heads, but when it comes to their bodies, they practice radical hospitality. They hug and hug and hug. Some of the younger men like to reach out to shake your hand and then pull you into a huge embrace. Some are so tall that my head reaches only their chest (awkward!) but they hug me anyway. Little girls with beads in their hair usually grab me around the knees once or twice during the passing of the peace. And last Sunday I even got a few kisses from matriarchs of the church. I still can't figure out which kid goes with which parent, and there are far more single mothers than traditional nuclear families, but it seems like one big family anyway for an hour and a half every Sunday.

One more thing on the hospitality theme: communion. Every Sunday we go forward to the traditional United Methodist rail; we kneel; and two people Sonnye has called out spontaneously from the congregation serve the elements: teenage girls; gay men; people who come to church only occasionally; even Jamie and myself. It doesn't matter. And EVERYONE is welcome to participate. The bulletin says you all are invited regardless of faith community or if you do not have a faith community at all. You could be the loudest, most obnoxious atheist in the city and Hobson would want you at the table. Literally. And if it was your birthday that week, we'd all sing together to you too, another part of the unique Hobson liturgy. (See Sonnye here breaking the bread, though I've never actually seen him wear a tie before!)


So it's this elusive blend of formal and informal, spontaneity and ritual, order and chaos. After the passing of the peace (which can take a good five or ten minutes), the pianist calls us back to order by playing (yes, every week) "Leaning on the everlasting arms." I almost have the words memorized by now... what a fellowship, what a joy divine, leaning on the everlasting arms...

Then, one of my favorite parts of the ritual is when we recite our covenants. The first one is common to broader Christian communities:

We are not alone, we live in God's world.

We believe in God: who has created and is creating, who has come in Jesus, the Word made flesh, to reconcile and make new, who works in us and others by the Spirit.

We trust in God.

We are called to be the Church: to celebrate God's presence, to live with respect in Creation, to love and serve others, to seek justice and resist evil, to proclaim Jesus, crucified and risen, our judge and our hope.

In life, in death, in life beyond death, God is with us.

We are not alone.

Thanks be to God.

I usually choke up at the "in life, in death, in life beyond death" part, which is even more perfect when (because there's not really a worship leader) everyone says the phrase at a different time. What a joy divine to think about life beyond death, sure in heaven, but this poetic turn of phrase might mean a thousand different things. Then we say Hobson's own covenant, which I hope to adapt and use someday.

We are all on the journey of discipleship, all seeking to be faithful followers of Jesus Christ. We are all learners and all teachers. We all have gifts to share, and so we work to listen to and learn from each other, treating each other with respect and dignity. We are a community of grace and forgiveness, glad for our diversity and differences. Disagreements will come, but we are willing to remain a part of the community and a part of the conversation, so we will not walk out or close our hearts or minds.

Surely when you say this over and over again week after week, you begin to believe and practice it. Disagreements will come, but we won't threaten to withdraw. Differences are here, but that's a good thing. One of those differences for me is the call and response. Imagine when Sonnye gets to preaching people shouting through that old sanctuary things like, "Well..." "Come on" "Teach preacher" "Yessuh!" I picture my Mennonite ancestors leaning over and saying, "Why are they yelling in church?" Mostly I sit quietly and smile as I rejoice in how my welcome presence at Hobson is the intersection of incredibly diverse communities, communities which are reconciling over and over again.

Jamie and myself with Charles, who used to live in Ottawa, KS

A Season of Waiting

On our way to Florida for Thanksgiving two and a half weeks ago, Jamie and I made two important stops. On a whim we pulled into Birmingham, and decided to go find the Civil Rights Institute. Across the street there in the middle of the city is Kelly Ingram Park (historically West Park), an important location for civil rights rallies during the 1960s. It was the cite of notorious conflict (1963) between police and protestors in which brutalities were unleashed upon even the children in what was the nation's most segregated city. The Saturday morning we arrived, the park was populated with homeless men (and a few women) as well as formerly homeless Andrew who greeted us as we admired the statues. He told us about the history of the park and explained some of the monuments, like the one for those children that said, "I ain't afraid of your jail," and the barred prison window, which if you look up says, "Segregation is a sin." The monuments are a witness to a time we will not be able to forget if we have the eyes to see.

I never really knew about racism until I lived in the South. But there it was, all over the history of a place, just as in Nashville, just as at Vanderbilt Divinity School, and there it was sitting there freezing on those benches. None of the homeless people that day in Birmingham were white.

It seems important to think about this during advent. Our liturgical season of expectant waiting provides sacred time to remember those things we are still waiting for. Simeon and Anna of Luke chapter two are not the only ones who have been waiting for the long expected Jesus, born to set his people free.

Our other stop on the way to the Sunshine State was in Columbus, Georgia. For the last decade or so in November, a protest has been held at the gates of Fort Benning. Begun by a Catholic priest, this event is a solemn remembrance of all those who have been killed by graduates of the U.S. run "School of the Americas" (SOA) now called the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation. This operation has trained thousands of Latin American military personnel who have killed untold numbers of people.

One of the better known stories is the assassination of Archbishop Oscar Romero in El Salvador. Romero had spoken out against the victimization of the poor during the country's civil war and called the church to free itself from alliance with government brutalities. In March, 1980, he was assassinated while serving communion, and his blood spilled out onto the alter. Two of the three officials responsible for his death were graduates of the SOA.

It seems a context like this is particularly in need of our long expected Jesus.

That Sunday we honored the cloud of witnesses:

Today we are privileged to stand in the traditions of Gandhi, Aung San Sui Kyi, Dorothy Day, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. and all those who have gone before us in the way of justice. We can name only some victims here, but they call to memory the other hundreds of thousands who have suffered and died. May our witness honor them all. SOA violence and the racist system of domination it represents are a continuation of the "trail of tears" that ravaged the indigenous people of this country. We hold up the ongoing struggle of our Native American sisters and brothers who first lived ont his land. We cry...

It was a liturgy, each paragraph spoken in unison by the 20,000 people gathered that cold, crispe morning. Each paragraph was met with a musical response, and we sang together, "No mas, no more, we must stop the dirty wars / Companeros, companeras, we cry out, NO MAS! NO MORE!"

Then we spoke together: In Argentina, when SOA graduate Leopoldo Galtieri headed the military, 30,000 people were killed or disappeared. And in Chile, 10 of the officers indicted with Pinochet for crimes against humanity were trained at the SOA. We cry... NO MAS! NO MORE!

Then we spoke together: In Colombia, the largest customer of the SOA, 2,000,000 people have been killed or displaced by massacres and assassinations carried out under the direction of SOA graduates. Gen. Montoya, the head of the Colombian military, has a history - dating back 30 years - of collaborating with the paramilitaries in killing innocent peasants, massacring villages. He was also a student, and later, in 1993, a teacher, at the SOA. The killing in Colombian continues. We cry... NO MAS! NO MORE!

And so on.

The liturgy was followed by a commissioning of the funeral procession led by an entourage dressed in black with their faces painted white. We began slowly to march behind them, circling around to the gates of Fort Benning. From the stage, a leader would sing the name, age, and city of someone who had been killed; a drum would beat; and then we would raise the white crosses we were holding and sing, "Presente!" Each cross had written upon it the name of someone who had been murdered.

Imagine some singing out the name, "Oscar Romero," and then 20,000 people as one singing in response, "Presente!" Present. Oscar Romero is here, and we carry him with us. We will not forget. We will not allow you to forget those who are still present here.

Those at the head of the procession lay down by the gates, spattered in red blood, a graphic representation of unspeakable yet unforgotten death.

We placed our cross (given to us by a woman who carried two) into the fence. The fence was so full that there was hardly room to squeeze it in.

Can you imagine? Millions of people killed, and for what? It seems absurd, and we cannot do anything about it.

Perhaps that is just why advent comes at the perfect moment this year. It's easier during advent to turn from that painful, helpless refrain: "I can't do anything about it," toward words that to me mean more with each passing year, with each expansion of ambiguity, with each new awareness of pain-racism-economic injustice.

Come, thou long expected Jesus, born to set they people free. Here is a different kind of hope: from our fears and sins release us, let us find our rest in thee. Here is the advent promise, that a unto us a savior will be born: Israel's strength and consolation, hope of all the earth thou art. Not only Israel's, our strength and consolation: dear desire of every nation, joy of every longing heart.

We don't have to change the world. What we have to do is witness, and remember.

Sermons, Saviors, and Stupid

I recognize how historic the election was last night. I celebrate Barack Obama's victory, not because my hope is in his political vision but because of the hope he represents. And while my celebration is jubilant, it is also measured for two reasons.

First, our hope as followers of Christ does not and cannot come in or through the kind of democratic political process that limits us to two choices. Nor can it come in solutions that leave us doing ethics for everyone and that glorify the christologically arbitrary boundaries of the nation-state. I heard a sermon Sunday that's about to pass the Thursday test. The Reverend Sonnye Dixon taught about greatness and turned upside-down this image we've been bombarded with lately that greatness is something achieved by and attributed to winners. Greatness in terms of political, social, or athletic capital in this country is an altogether different thing than the greatness Jesus teaches us about, to love God, love ourselves, and love our neighbors. We may say this and even profess to believe it, but do we really understand?

Second, though the presidential election may be historic for our country, there were other ballot measures that were not. In California, Proposition 8 is on the verge of being declared official. It's not by much, but that doesn't matter because winning and losing doesn't recognize middle ground, at least not when it comes to official public policy. On this one, let's not talk about Jesus, because to talk about Jesus would be a whole different conversation that I've written about elsewhere. To talk about Jesus would be to call the church to account, especially - especially the "peace church" for the violence it has committed against people who are queer. Here instead let's talk about something more American, like freedom maybe.

They say, "All men are created equal." The founding fathers didn't mean women here and they didn't mean black folk either when they wrote this, but today we do and that's the beauty of a concept like freedom. It means different things in different historical moments. Today we mean all people are created equal and deserve equal rights, at least as they can be legislated. Except we don't mean everyone. We mean everyone except gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, intersex, and queer identifying people. These people are often unprotected by nondiscrimination policies; they are ostracized by their faith communities; they are rejected by their families; and they are denied the 1000-plus federal rights that accompany civil marriage. Some of us are created equal. Others of us... not so much.

Now on most days I'll respect those who believe differently and try to hear where they are speaking from. Most days I'd rather have dialogue than debate. But not today. Today I am angry. Today I think those who voted for Proposition 8 in California and Amendment 2 in Florida and Arizona's Proposition 102 and all the other marriage amendments that have passed across the country including in Tennessee (2006) and Kansas (2005), are oppressive, bigoted, unloving, and just plain stupid.

Notice the rhetoric that marks the so-called "pro-family" crusade from articles in media outlets today:

• "People believe in the institution of marriage," Frank Schubert, co-manager of the Yes on 8 campaign (California) said. "It's one institution that crosses ethnic divides, that crosses partisan divides. ... People have stood up because they care about marriage and they care a great deal."
• Jeff Flint: Early in the campaign "I think the voters were thinking, 'Well, if it makes them happy, why shouldn't we let gay couples get married.' And I think we made them realize that there are broader implications to society and particularly the children when you make that fundamental change that's at the core of how society is organized, which is marriage," he said.
• "This has been a moral battle," said Ellen Smedley, 34, a member of the Mormon Church and a mother of five who worked on the campaign. "We aren't trying to change anything that homosexual couples believe or want -- it doesn't change anything that they're allowed to do already. It's defining marriage. . . . Marriage is a man and a woman establishing a family unit."
• The Proposition 8 campaign also seized on the issue of education, arguing in a series of advertisements and mailers that children would be subjected to a pro-gay curriculum if the measure was not approved."Mom, guess what I learned in school today?" a little girl said in one spot. "I learned how a prince married a prince."As the girl's mother made a horrified face, a voice-over said: "Think it can't happen? It's already happened. . . . Teaching about gay marriage will happen unless we pass Proposition 8."
  

Regarding marriage, I will unapologetically question any claims that marriage as we understand it today is a building block for any society or is an institution that transcends its own continual reinvention. Ask your great grandparents. Read the Bible. Read a history book. The introduction to Stephanie Coontz's Marriage, A History would be an excellent start. As for a moral battle, what about that whole freedom thing? Isn't oppression immoral? Haven't we learned by now that separate but equal is never equal? And my goodness, how fear has polluted the discourse! It reminds me of people calling Barack Obama a Muslim. I don't give a damn if our president is Muslim or our children learn about all kinds of families. This is America.

Before I switch gears, look at this picture. This is the celebration of supporters of Proposition 8 as the returns came in. These people are celebrating the fact that marriage will be a heterosexuals-only institution. It's disgusting.

But the sobering reality is that it's not about this campaign in California or the similar amendments that have been passed in God knows how many states. All this anger I have is not something that can be subdued by policy initiatives, and you red faced men are not the masters of my fate. Salvation doesn't come through a campaign after all.

I heard another sermon just this morning in fact. The preacher talked about grass like in Isaiah 40:6-8. Though it flourishes during the summer, conquering yards and gardens, when fall comes it begins to wither and eventually dies. What seems vibrant and victorious in one moment in history, be it Jim Crow or heterosexual marriage amendments, will die. "We pick ourselves up and trudge on," Kate Kendell, executive director of the National Center for Lesbian Rights, said. "There has been enormous movement in favor of full equality in eight short years. That is the direction this is heading, and if it's not today or it's not tomorrow, it will be soon."

Now look at this picture. Here are Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon with San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom in the background. This is the first same-sex marriage in California after such marriages became legal in June 2008. At the time of their ceremony these lesbian activists and groundbreakers had been together fifty-five years.

There are other pictures to look at. Back in June the NY Times had an excellent piece on the whys and why nots of gay marriage. Believe it or not, not all queer people want to be married. Some find the institution to be heteronormative, sexist, and oppressive all by itself even without discriminatory legislation.

There are a few more things to share. An editorial in the NY Times early last month was written after Connecticut courts decided that civil unions did not provide the same thing marriage did and thus legalized marriage for same-sex couples: "Separate is not Equal."

And in 2004 for a brief stint, San Francisco legalized same-sex marriage. Over 4000 marriage licenses were issued in defiance of state law as the city/county appealed to the Equal Protection Clause. Those marriages were later invalidated by the courts and then gay marriage became legal again last spring also in the courts. I don't know the ins and outs of that process, but there is a song you should listen to. It's by Vienna Teng, and it's called "City Hall." In case you don't make it to the link, here are some words:

me and my baby on a february holiday

'cause we got the news

yeah, we got the news

500 miles and we're gonna make it all the way

we've got nothing to lose

we've got nothing to lose

it's been 10 years waiting

but it's better late than the never

we've been told before

we can't wait one minute more

oh, me and my baby driving down

to a hilly seaside town in the rainfall

oh, me and my baby stand in line

you've never seen a sight so fine

as the love that's gonna shine

at city hall

...

outside, they're handing out

donuts and pizza pies

for the folks in pairs in the folding chairs

my baby's lookin' so damned pretty

with those anxious eyes

rain-speckled hair

and my ring to wear

10 years waiting for this moment of fate

when we say the words and sign our names

if they take it away again someday

this beautiful thing won't change

I cry every time: "Ten years waiting for a moment of fate to hear the words and sign our names, and if they take it away again someday, this beautiful thing won't change..." I'm not sure how many people who voted yes yesterday or these last years have thought about what it's like to not be able to get married; or to wonder if you'll be frowned at because the neighbors know she's your partner too, not just your best friend; or to jump through hoops to combine financial assets; or to find an anniversary card without people on it because the local drugstore doesn't carry any that have a lesbian couple. What if it was you? What then?

We know what it's like, and we know again and again and again. Today we know in an acute way, because they took it away again, whether we live in California or not. I guess the good thing is that our kind of salvation is not theirs to take. A ballot measure will not change this beautiful thing. Beauty will bubble up again. This is not over.

The Apple Nut Bread Legacy

Last week the presidential debate was in Nashville, and it was big news. I planned to spend a relaxing evening at home participating in the political machinery of our country by fulfilling my civic duty as an engaged viewer of the historic event. All was going as planned when about halfway into the debate I suddenly got bored. Really it felt like two patronizing politicians attacking one another, skirting the questions, and spouting words that may or may not be relevant to the actual situation of your average American, a.k.a. Joe Sixpack. I simply lost interest and needed to turn toward other activities to pass the evening. At times like these, I find extraordinary pleasure in baking.

I turned to the Klaassen Family Cookbook, compiled last year by a cousin of mine. I also have on my shelf a cookbook from the Zerger family, my immediate family, and two church families of mine. There's nothing quite like knowing the person who passed on a recipe. It's as if in the act of cooking or baking, you become connected to that person.

The recipe I found for that fateful evening was my grandma's Apple Nut Bread. She had made this note: "This is a favorite when we do Kipcor (Kansas Institute for Peace and Conflict Resolution) for their morning break." She and another lady from my childhood church used to cater meals. In fact one lawyer once told her that the only reason he comes to those events is that he knows Donna's cooking. It becomes in those kinds of moments (the finding a cookbook, the catering, the lawyer moments) that my Kansas family comes into my house.

I made the recipe vegan for Jamie (I'm getting better with the egg replacer) and ate a healthy portion of batter as is my baking custom. On a whim I made muffins instead of bread, which turned out to be easier to share with a couple friends at school. And I tell you what, those were the best muffins I've ever made. The healthy amount of sugar and flour surely made them Mennonite; the carrots and applesause made them healthy and hard working; the egg replacer made them part of my present reality; the cinnamon and nutmeg made them home in that transcendent "home is where you find yourself" way. These muffins embodied my family from every which way. The greatest thing is not that though. The greatest thing also is not that I'm an exceptional baker. I'm not yet. (Give me another 45 years...) But in fact, all the credit for these muffins goes to my Grandma Donna. It is her legacy that lives on here in me.

APPLE NUT BREAD
DONNA KLAASSEN

1/2 cup packed shredded carrots
1 cup canned applesauce
1/2 cup oil
1 tsp vanilla
2 eggs, beated (egg replacer works just fine)
3/4 cup sugar
2 cups flour
1 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmet
1/2 cup chopped walnuts (I left these out. My kitchen isn't so well stocked.)

Combine carrots, applesauce, oil, vanilla, eggs and sugar. Add remaining ingredients. Mix only until ingredients are blended. Do not over mix. Pour in greased and floured loaf pan. (These also make great muffins!) Sprinkle with 5 tbsp sugar and 1/2 tsp cinnamon. Bake 1 hour (or until tests done) in 325 degree oven.

Sock!

Here proudly displayed is my sock. Actually it's Jamie's sock as I made it for her using some of her favorite colors. That's right - I made this sock with my own two hands (and four needles, yarn, and a bit of elastic).

For about the last two months I've had such an urge to do things. I think it's carry over from my summer of living outside my little brain. After such adventures and experiences, it's hard to go back down to the library's basement and be excited about this nuanced idea or that subtle intellectual argument. But I digress. The point is that in mid-August, I took up knitting again for the third time. My mom brought me my bag of stuff, and after I'd finished off the twenty-third dish cloth of my knitting career I decided I needed to expand my abilities. I wanted something do-able that wouldn't take too long, but I wanted something that used more than just a stockinette stitch and some yarning over. (Forgive me oh you knitters if I butcher the lingo.)

You would be surprised at how difficult it is to find the right supplies. The store which shall not be named did not have double pointed needles and Michael's only had some of what I needed. I had to splurge at a yarn shop where I realized that knitting is by no means a cheap hobby. If I would have bought the yarn that the pattern really called for, I'd be out a pretty penny.

But my mom keeps reminding me that knitting really isn't about saving money. Lo and behold, she's right. It's as if having something to do with my hands, being busy in this way, slows down my mind paradoxically enough. It's soothing and productive. It stops that nagging guilt that whispers, "You should be doing something." Ha! I respond - I am doing something.

Now I should also say that this is major improvement from the six inch blanket I knitted for my Barbies when I was in grade school. It doesn't even have any holes (though I think I butchered the Kitchener stitch I was supposed to use to tie off the toe)! Now I'll admit, the heel is a little bit funny looking. I have a slight idea of how to alter the pattern next time, but the bigger problem right now is that I'm not sure if I want to knit the other sock. I must press on.

In the meantime, does anyone have any suggestions for my next (inexpensive) project? Not too hard but not too easy - perhaps mittens? As a side note, here's my latest brainstorm to attain cheap yarn: Goodwill has half off everything on first Saturdays. I could buy sweaters and unravel them...