I’ve never been a person who intrinsically knows how I want particular important relationships to play out. I have a gut sense of what I find helpful and what sort of things tend to scare me a bit. Recently, I’ve spent some time wondering if there are any patterns to what I find helpful and scary when looking for a new spiritual director. This reflection should be read as exclusively descriptive of my own experience and not remotely prescriptive of others’ experiences.
So much of spiritual direction involves finding various kinds of balance. God is with us, and God has immeasurable power. The commandments are given to us for our benefit, and to say God’s grace is “infinite” is to rob grace of some of its depth. We are called to love our neighbors as ourselves, cherishing the specific people God has placed in our paths, all while cultivating a sense of our global place as stewards of creation. In my own limitations as a human, certain truths are harder to remember than others.
I look for spiritual directors who help restore my sense of balance. I’ve learned that I tend to focus on what I can do actively to grow spiritually, oftentimes cultivating busyness rather than sabbath refreshment. I can get hung up on trying to discern the nature of God’s commands as opposed to deepening my appreciation of God’s grace. I like problem solving and can overstate my own capabilities rather than cultivating a childlike faith. I’m grateful to develop a good sense of how I “lean” spiritually, and I’m fully aware that some people lean in the exactly opposite kinds of ways.
When it comes to looking for a spiritual director, I’ve found it helpful to seek out spiritual directors who ooze grace, joy, peace, and a sense of belonging. I honestly hope that these gifts will be contagious. For too long, I’ve experienced my place in the church as being perched precariously between needing to do all of the right things in exactly the right ways and needing to discuss my spiritual journey in exactly the right way. I’ve needed people who can help me see that it’s okay to move away from the “prim and proper” and relish in being a child of God and of the Church.
If there’s one message I’ve needed to hear delivered authentically from a spiritual director in my Christian tradition, it has been, “You are welcome here.” That, full stop, is important. You are welcome here, period. I’ve been in so many congregations where I’ve felt like a liability from the moment I set foot in the door. I’ve received so much direction about how to avoid any lustful thoughts or conduct myself in a way that safeguards the community against scandal that I’ve all but forgotten how it feels to be loved. I never expected to hear a word of complete welcome from any spiritual director within my Christian tradition; when the sentence flowed out of a pastor’s mouth 18 months ago, it left an indelible impression.
I love pastors who constantly spout various wonders of the resurrection. I have to wonder if they’ve faced their own demons and encountered a victorious Christ. I want to know where their hope comes from. It’s something to wonder if they see God’s glory everywhere they look, including when they look directly at me.
Comment Policy:Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.
Christian formation is an interesting thing. I see “becoming a Christian” as a continual process where each day, I have a new opportunity to become just a little more Christ-like. Like every person, I have a long way to go if I will fully image Christ in the world around me. I do my best to stretch myself just a little bit farther.
In order to give myself space to grow, I remind myself that I am a child. I am grateful to have been influenced by Christian traditions that encourage me to call God my “Father” in order to be able to call the Church my “Mother.” It’s meant a lot to me that I can grow in Christ under the guidance of God’s Holy Spirit and the wisdom of Christian traditions. In the rest of this post, I’d like to share a bit more about what being a child of the Church means to me.
First and foremost, being a child of the Church gives me a sense of permanence in the relationship. Just as I will always be the child of my earthly parents, I will also always be a child of God and the Church. You cannot fail at being a child. Yes, there might be seasons of estrangement, but the underlying foundation of relationship is always there. No matter where I find myself, I am a child of the Church, and I can trust that the Church wants to help me to find a way to grow no matter what.
Secondly, being a child of the Church is an invitation to grow up according to my abilities, talents, and gifts. I do not fault anyone for an instant who does not have time, ability, or resources to grow in Christ. There’s no essential maturity line that one must cross to get into heaven; even if there was such a thing, it’s not my job to draw it. That said, I’m grateful for every opportunity I have had to learn more about Christian traditions. I’ve loved reading biographies of significant people, learning how different services are structured, uncovering key moments in Christian history, etc. I’m naturally historically inquisitive. My own curiosities have compelled me to explore the Christian faith to begin with and ask a lot of questions about how various things have changed over the timespan of Christianity. I wanted to understand why people thought the Reformation was needed. This starting question inspired me to learn more about controversy in the Church more broadly and led me to my current Christian tradition. I’ve asked questions like, “Why are certain books in the Bible?” and “What does the ‘Creed’ mean anyway?” Being a child of the Church means there’s no stupid question about the ‘family’ tree.
Lastly, being a child of the Church means I can ask the Church tricky questions about my own life. I am so grateful that asking a lot of these questions has caused me to hear an answer of “We’re praying for you” from the Church. There’s not one “right” answer for questions like “Where should I go to college?” and “Help! I really need a job! How will I get one?” I’ve also been really grateful to receive guidance from the Church as a parent when I’ve had a gut level idea that something’s the right thing do to but it’s been hard to put it into action. I remember trying to get started loving people living in poverty. I wanted to do something that would put me into authentic contact with people, but I wasn’t sure where to begin. I got started by driving for Meals on Wheels in the lowest income neighborhoods of the city I was living in at that time and took it on as a kind of spiritual obedience. Even though this example might seem glaringly obvious as an option to some of our readers, it reminds me of being a child of the Church. A couple of hours a week is a small offering and certainly many non-religious people take on this form of community service, but God and the Church inspired me to do something I could do at that specific moment in my life to help me grow up just a little bit more.
I know plenty of LGBT people who feel estranged from the Church: I can point to many places in my own past where I have felt estranged. I’m deeply saddened when various churches disavow their LGBT children. In my estimation, the Church needs to do a better job at offering unconditional parental love to LGBT people. I’m grateful that I have experienced enough of that love in my current Christian tradition where I can feel safe and secure in asking questions, both about my Christian tradition itself and the places I feel a particular need for spiritual direction. I do hope to grow towards Christian maturity while always remembering I am, first and foremost, a child.
Comment Policy:Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.
We’ve been talking a good bit here about how celibacy is a mature adult vocation. One needs to enter into celibacy rather than waiting for it to appear like magic. I’d go so far as to say that it helps when there’s a decided choice — a distinct, discrete moment of decision — to become a celibate. However, this past weekend I realized that particular frame is a bit too easy. It’s too neat, it’s too packaged, and it’s honestly a bit sterile. I’ve found my own celibate vocation by stumbling in the darkness, taking on a metric ton of risks along the way, and hoping that someday soon the broader Christian church would wise up in how it supports lay people discern celibate ways of life.
My journey towards celibacy is strange. I began it in the context of a romantic relationship. Neither one of us had a strong framework for what it meant to be celibate. We spent our time trying to draw good boundaries that were simultaneously appropriate for a dating relationship and effective at helping us avoid encountering undue sexual temptation. As I have reflected upon elsewhere, the practice of drawing boundaries to separate “right” from “wrong” wound up pulling the two of us apart. After that particular relationship ended, I started being more intentional about exploring a celibate vocation.
I’ve always had a bit of monastic envy. I remember being a little kid vaguely enthralled by the nuns who worked at the local Catholic school. Who were these teachers? And how did they managed to be so noticed in the community that people from other schools knew their names? Why did they seem so exotic? After my relationship had ended, I remember feeling the whole gamut of emotions as my spiritual directors encouraged me to start visiting monasteries. Every interaction I’ve had with monastics since has been truly inspiring. There’s something about the simple “monk food” that provides sustenance in a monastery that transcends the basic nutritional offerings of the plate. However, no matter how many communities I visited, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t likely to spend my life living in a monastery.
At one point approximately four years ago, I found myself thinking about vocation alone in my apartment. I was absolutely confident that I wanted to live a celibate way of life, equally convinced that I had no clue what exactly living a celibate life entailed, and reasonably sure my local church family wasn’t going to be a good place to help me learn about growing into a celibate vocation. I did the only thing I knew: I told God about my intentions and sought help from the Holy Spirit.
I received some helpful counsel from one abbess when I inquired about exploring a celibate vocation. She told me something to the effect of, “Whatever you see the nuns doing, do your best to live it out in your immediate context. Put into practice whatever bits of the monastic life as you can.” (I promise, she was much more eloquent than I’m remembering.) I did my best to adopt a pattern of prayer while also trying to connect meaningfully to the people around me. Getting to know monastics showed me that we’re not supposed to live our lives completely detached from other people.
In my stumbling towards celibacy, I refused to prohibit myself from exploring the full array of human relationships. I consider it slightly odd that I’ve been in more romantic/dating relationships after I had told God I wanted help in finding a celibate vocation. Sometimes I think I turned over some strange possibilities. I can think of at least two relationships where I knew that if they went anywhere, then those relationships would be very much directed towards marriage. On one hand, I trusted God to show me whether a marriage relationship would be aligned with my personal vocational pathway. On the other hand, I hoped that God would guide and direct me out of certain relationships I wasn’t supposed to be in at all. I definitely learned a lot about myself, grace, vocation, and other people because I allowed myself to be open to being wrong about my own vocational pathway.
Yet I find myself absolutely grateful I stumbled along towards celibacy. I rejoice that God impressed the need to share life with other people as this need compelled me to consider how I could be in meaningful relationships. I had opportunities to practice (again and again) how a celibate vocation might look and feel if it was not defined legalistically. And, I still find myself hoping and praying that in sharing my story, the Church might see a greater need to help lay celibates find their way.
Comment Policy:Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.
As we’ve shared in many places, we regard both marriage and celibacy as mature vocations. I have made arguments that I think the Church should consider offering pre-celibacy counseling in order to help people discern a sustainable celibate way of life. My own journey into celibacy has been challenging. I’ve mostly found my own way, and I still regard myself as building the plane while I’m flying it.
Maturing towards celibacy has required me to take many deep looks into myself. Moving through many Christian traditions along the way, I’ve been confronted by different questions that demanded answers. I’ve also learned that some traditions asked better questions than others.
How can I align my mind, heart, soul, and body? Along the way, I’ve learned that God in a wondrous act of mercy has given us incredible tools to discern our vocation. My mind, heart, soul, and body seem to have a system of checks and balances that I could employ to test the claims made by various well-meaning Christians. When Christians suggested that my being LGBT could only be the result of demonic possession, I could search my heart and soul to know that I had earnestly committed my life to Christ and his care. As I began to study the meaning of 1 Corinthians 6 in light of Jesus’s teachings in the Sermon on the Mount, my mind told me that even if I were to come to regard myself as a cisgender, heterosexual person, I would still find myself liable for losing the Kingdom of Heaven because of other kinds of sins. My mind saw that it was incredibly difficult for anyone to obliterate all traces of greed, slander, and envy. My journey towards celibacy has involved finding my own story that unites my experience of mind, heart, soul, and body with Christ.
Where do I experience abundant life in the Kingdom of God? This question has been one of the most paradoxical for me. I first started with trying to listen to my Christian tradition tell me where I could most strongly encounter the Kingdom of God: go on missions trips, learn how to pray for other people, commit myself to regular patterns of Scripture study, share my faith with other people, etc. However, despite my best efforts, much of this counsel seemed ill-fitting. As an introverted engineer, I felt like I was constantly being forced to choose between different parts of myself. Journeying towards celibacy challenged me to find abundant life that acknowledged as many aspects of my personality as possible.
How can I find the “Yes” within the celibate vocation? Admittedly, I considered this question hard. Many of the congregations I was involved in saw celibacy as simply abstaining from sex. The people around me also exploring celibate vocations were compelled by an effort to avoid sexual immorality. I had a true watershed moment when a friend provided me with a a chapter of Poverty, Celibacy, and Obedience: A Radical Way of Life. Diarmuid O’Murchu makes a powerful argument that the vow of celibacy must be viewed as a vow for relatedness. O’Murchu’s observation helped me shift my thinking from “avoid sin” to “embrace people.”
How can I find strength to continue when celibacy seems incredibly difficult? I began my journey into my celibate vocation standing alone in my apartment. It seemed fitting that I was alone: I had spent years seeking spiritual direction to discern a celibate vocation, and I didn’t feel like anyone had any valuable counsel for me. As I was reflecting on how many of my friends had already entered their marriages, I decided I could enter into my celibacy. I thought since they had enough life experiences to commit to the marital vocation, I had lived enough life to commit to the celibate vocation. I told God, “I have no idea what I’m doing, but I trust that You’ll help me.” I started talking to other people living celibate vocations, asking them to help me learn to pray. Learning to pray was of first importance to me because I felt like only God cared if I managed to find a life-giving form of celibacy. Later, I asked celibate people what their lives looked like on a daily basis. I found my own pattern to celibacy as I emulated aspects of their lives that seemed to mesh well with my circumstances. It seemed that I derived more strength from my vocation as I found a rhythm for my own celibacy.
Throughout all of my explorations of celibacy, I continue to fall back on the same question, “Do I trust God to guide my way?” I’ve been amazed as I’ve asked questions, given myself permission to make mistakes, and acknowledged that I certainly don’t have the answers even as I know my own vocation is tucked behind the image of God located at the core of my being.
Comment Policy:Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.
As many people know, I’ve been aggressively job hunting for several months. I have lost count of the number of applications I’ve filled out, cover letters I’ve written, phone interviews I’ve fielded, and on-site interviews I’ve attended. Every time I enter a new environment, I’m constantly interrogating how gender is enacted. Failure to read gender appropriately might cause a disaster for me as a person who is rather easily identified as a part of the LGBT community. The majority of states do not have any legislation to protect LGBT people from workplace discrimination. (But, it should be noted that actually proving one has been discriminated against in one’s workplace regarding perceived LGBT status is incredibly difficult.)
Recently, I posted an article on my personal Facebook account where the author asked people to “please stop calling people you don’t know ‘ladies.’” I’ve posted similar articles in the past on my Facebook page, and these articles about gender tend to generate some of the more vocal conversations. On one side, I’ve heard people make an argument that boils down to “Gender doesn’t matter. Simply treat people with respect.” On the other side, I’ve heard people make an argument that boils down to “That’s spoken with a real degree of male/cisgender privilege.”
Because of these conversations, I wanted to take a step back and think about where I’ve seen gender most strongly enacted.
Gender is an essential part of our language of respect. When you call a random help desk for technical support, the person on the other end of the line greets you with the pleasantries of using a gendered title or with “Sir” or “Ma’am” as deemed appropriate. Being gendered is not the purpose of the call. Most of the time, I’m so relieved to be speaking to a human that I just want to get the call over with as quickly as possible. The gendered aspects of the call go smoothest when secondary sex characteristics match what is on record. I have a decent number of transgender friends in various states of medical transition who have had to fight any number of uphill battles because their vocal tones didn’t sound appropriate for their first names or their legal gender markers.
I think one of the reasons why people react so strongly when they are corrected about their use of gendered language is that correcting gender is akin to correcting manners. Kids as young as 3 already practice automatically gendering people they meet. Gender is supposed to be easy.
When you tell someone he or she is getting gender wrong, I wonder if that person feels like he or she has failed kindergarten. Every time people feel like their first guess of my gender is wrong, I can’t help but notice how profoundly embarrassed they are. Here they are, simply trying to be polite, and they feel like they’ve insulted me in the first sentence they’ve uttered. Going from being polite to uttering an insult by making the “wrong” choice of a 2- or 3-letter word…the idea that this is possible is in itself confusing. It’s no wonder the question, “How is gender used?” can elicit such strong responses.
Gender can reinforce valuable social hierarchies. Some of the most gendered environments I’ve been in are the military and educational institutions. There’s a reason why the military wants lower-ranked people to sound off “Yes SIR!” and “No MA’AM!” It seems you get a gender when you’re important enough to pay attention to. I’ve been in many a drill environment where people have been dropped for push-ups because they have misgendered their interrogating superior. After all, “attention to detail” is a core skill being taught to newcomers. Less cynically, it seems that gender is used in educational environments as a way to teach children about respecting their elders. The adults have a last name; the kids have a first name.
Gender can imply to women that they are included in a particular conversation. The Declaration of Independence begins with “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” A student of history knows that the writers of the Declaration focused on the rights of land-holding, white males. Many feminist movements have included an effort to adopt more inclusive language in many areas of life that clearly reflects the presence of both men and women. Shifting language from “man” to “human” can do something psychologically where people clue in that we’re not just talking about the male gender. Clarifying that a community development program wants to support “male and female farmers” can correct an assumption that “All farmers are male” in a proactive fashion. I’m of the opinion we’ve gotten so much better at adding gender where it’s important that we have developed this odd tendency to insert gender where it shouldn’t matter.
I’ve been cultivating the practice of waiting to hear a person use pronouns before adopting a set of them myself. Admittedly, I started this habit because I lived in England and heard a person call his spouse “partner.” Being an American, I’m so used to “partner” being a covert way for a person to come out as LGB that I had to do a double-take when his next sentence uttered was about his pregnant wife. When my gut reaction was to try and puzzle out how this guy had both a partner and a wife, I knew I had to check my assumptions. Learning to listen for the pronouns (and practicing framing sentences where I don’t quite know the right pronouns yet) has saved me tons of embarrassment.
How might these three observations interact in the request, “Please stop calling people you don’t know ‘ladies'”? I think the standards of politeness have shifted towards indicating that we see humans as gendered beings. I’ve observed more than one situation where a group of women harangued a person for addressing the group as guys: the women asked, “Do you see any guys in this group?” in a way that deeply shamed the person who had unwittingly failed the gendered aspects of politeness. However, I also think that the request is fundamentally raising awareness that our standards of politeness ought to be inclusive of transgender, genderqueer, and gender non-conforming individuals. The word ladies is a profoundly gendered word. Ladies suggests not only that a person is female, but also that she has developed a particular kind of decorum appropriate for the upper class. It’s often conveyed either as a compliment (a girl is so grown up that she’s become a real lady) or as a disciplinary measure (adults working with a group of girls running amok yelling “LADIES!” to get their attention). But it’s often hard to read the true subtext.
It can be okay, and even linguistically survivable, to hold off on gendering someone you’ve just met. One potential default greeting for a business could sound like, “Hello! We’re so glad you’ve chosen to visit us today. How can I help you?” Many groups of 3 or more have an organic way of using pronouns to refer to other members in the group. I’ve had a lot of fun talking about people in a way that does not automatically assign gender. One of my personal favorites is, “I’m so excited that two of my friends recently had a baby. Both parents and the child are doing well, but they’re still adjusting to life together.” With some people, I’ve observed palpable discomfort when they figure out I haven’t given them any clues as to whether the child is a boy or a girl. These people frequently follow up with “Is it a boy or a girl?” as an immediate question. With other people, I can tell they are perfectly comfortable speaking of a human as a human first rather than as a gendered being.
As I’ve been interviewing, I have been incredibly guarded about how I disclose my relationship with Sarah. I keep my antenna sky high as to whether I should be discreet (using words like family) or if I can actively test the waters by using the word partner. I can’t help but feel extremely relieved when someone has noticed I haven’t assigned a gender to my partner. Some people ask questions right away to get an appropriate pronoun. Other people follow my lead of sticking with the word partner. Either strategy indicates to me that there’s enough cultural competence around LGBT issues that I’m more likely to be safer in that workplace. To be sure, people are actively gendering me, but I like to think the more culturally competent have at least consulted the gender marker I’ve put on the application. And I look forward to the day when one does not need to disclose one’s gender at the beginning of the job hunting process.
Comment Policy:Please remember that we, and all others commenting on this blog, are people. Practice kindness. Practice generosity. Practice asking questions. Practice showing love. Practice being human. If your comment is rude, it will be deleted. If you are constantly negative, argumentative, or bullish, you will not be able to comment anymore. We are the sole moderators of the combox.
