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The Obscuring of Orthodoxy (or, When Half-Truths Reign Supreme)

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A reflection by Sarah

One day eleven years ago when I was a university freshman, some Christian friends and I decided to spend a Friday evening listening to a presentation about faith and human sexuality. We pooled our money for gasoline, piled into someone’s mother’s minivan, and began the two-hour drive to the church hosting the event. All my friends had heard fantastic reviews of the speaker. One had heard his presentation before and considered it near perfection, insofar as that’s possible for a human to achieve. She built up his image as nothing short of a living saint, and though I was skeptical of the high praises I found myself intrigued and ready to hear the message with an open mind and heart.

That evening, I sat in a folding chair on the floor of the parish school’s gymnasium, friends at my side, surrounded by two-hundred other young adults and teens. The speaker implored us to listen for the gentle voice of the Holy Spirit as true, theologically orthodox teaching was proclaimed. He was quite charismatic and used simple metaphors. He explained that God’s plan for human sexuality exists because of the great love our Creator has for us, and that using sexuality as God intended brings an exquisite sense of inner freedom and peace. Enamored gazes emerged from nearly all the girls when he posited that women have a special place in God’s plan, and a woman’s womb is like a tabernacle in that it bears new life into the world. His words painted a romantic landscape of what life looks like when one both believes in and practices a traditional sexual ethic, stating that settling for anything else is like voluntarily drinking contaminated water while having access to a fresh natural spring.

Then, the topic turned to homosexuality…and when it did, the speaker’s mannerisms changed entirely. He proclaimed boldly that homosexuals are confused people who accept comfortable lies instead of the truth, are incapable of seeing their true identities in Christ, and should not be admitted to the sacraments under any circumstances short of repentance for their ungodly identities. He rattled off a litany of statistics and claims that homosexual people are more likely to be pedophiles than heterosexual people, everyone experiencing same-sex attraction was molested during childhood, people choose and can change their sexual orientations, and those in same-sex relationships are unfit parents. At that point, I tuned out completely. “If this is what a traditional sexual ethic means,” I told myself, “I want nothing to do with it. This is nothing but hatred and stereotyping.”

Roll the video of my life forward a decade, and things look quite differently than my nineteen-year-old self imagined they would. But I think back on that presentation once every few months when I see conservative religious news headlines like, “Priest Speaks the Truth in Love at School Assembly; Parents Outraged” and “Pastor Persecuted for Upholding Biblical Teaching at Youth Convention.” In each of these articles the story gets pitched as an injustice: an innocent Christian who is doing nothing more than speaking the teachings of his or her faith gets the shaft because of liberal infidels who want to change the Church. Without fail, every internet combox fills with inane rants of, “We’re living in the last days. It’s time to stand up for morals, values, and the TRUTH of Church teaching!” and oppositely, “The homophobic, misogynistic ‘Church’ is a crumbling institution, and I can’t wait to watch it topple.” Then, I research the details of the stories, I read the conversations about them, and I think back to nearly every experience I’ve had with a speaker promoting a traditional sexual ethic. Why? Because in my estimation, the same problem exists among most conservative Christian presentations on human sexuality: questionable claims, flawed statistics, citations of studies employing faulty methodologies, demonizing stereotypes, a wee bit of valuable catechesis thrown in for good measure…and all of it presented under the banner of theological orthodoxy.

Faith and sexuality speakers claiming theological orthodoxy have a tough task ahead of them. They have set out to sell an unpopular product to a market where the majority of consumers are uninterested. There’s nothing easy about explaining the traditional Christian position on human sexuality to a generation of young people who have likely had far more exposure to an “anything goes” sexual ethic. I appreciate the difficulty of this task, and as a celibate LGBT Christian I believe it is important to discuss openly the reasons that some LGBT people choose celibacy, and the Church teachings that might inspire a person to make this decision. Some speakers–perhaps the minority–do this very well. But most of the time, I’m sorely disappointed in the messages I hear at these presentations with young people as their target audiences. Most of the time, at least in my experience, they’re not simply sharing the teachings of their faith. Intentionally or not, many of them offer misleading representations of homosexuality and intertwine the stereotypes with orthodox Christian doctrine such that most attendees will likely have trouble seeing the difference.

At various chastity and sexuality talks I’ve attended since my teen years, I’ve heard it stated as fact that people gay people choose to be gay, no one is born gay, and homosexuality is a psychological disorder. In reality, there are no conclusive scientific answers about the origin of a person’s sexual orientation, but several studies suggest that both genetic and non-genetic biological factors play a role. And according to the American Psychological Association homosexuality is not a psychological disorder, and most people have no (or little) choice regarding their own sexual orientations.

I’ve also heard speakers pronounce as fact that childhood sexual abuse is an automatic ticket to same-sex attraction as a teen or adult, and that gay men pose a danger to children because of their sexually deviant tendencies. In reality, there is little difference between the numbers of gay/lesbian and straight people who have survived sexual trauma, and gay men are no more likely than straight men to abuse children.

Many a Christian sexuality presentation I’ve attended has posited that we know as fact how terribly underdeveloped, unhappy, and abnormal children turn out when raised by same-sex parents. In reality, no study employing proper methodology has ever come to this conclusion. One reputable longitudinal study has indicated that children raised by same-sex parents thrive at even higher levels than children raised by opposite-sex parents.

Frequently I have heard speakers express as fact that gay men and lesbians have significantly shorter lifespans than heterosexual people. In reality, the study that reached this conclusion was conducted using flawed methodology.

And most harmfully, nearly every Christian sexuality speaker I’ve encountered has preached as fact that gay men and lesbians can change their sexual orientations by undergoing therapy, attending support groups, and praying. In reality, every reputable psychology and mental health organization in the United States has rejected and spoken out against reparative therapy. People who have endured abuses because of reparative therapy have experienced depression and anxiety as a result. Some have attempted or successfully completed suicide.

Why are all these half-truths and outright falsehoods being presented alongside a traditional sexual ethic as though they are not only factually verifiable, but also an integral part of Christian teaching? Why are we okay knowing that there are young people who leave human sexuality talks with, “The Church is against being gay, and being gay is bad for you and others” as their main takeaways? As I’ve raised these questions since making my own commitment to celibacy, I’ve been met with three types of responses.

First, there’s what I call the “purity at any price” response. This response usually comes from parents, pastors, and youth ministers who are absolutely committed to ensuring that their children and teens practice a traditional sexual ethic. These folks want what they perceive as best for the young people in their lives, and are willing to do anything to give them the tools for making good decisions aligned with Christian teaching. The “purity at any price” response goes something like, “There’s nothing wrong with the information in these speeches because it keeps my kid from making big mistakes. She won’t try something if she’s terrified of the potential consequences. As far as I’m concerned, tell her anything that will prevent her from having a child out of wedlock or turning out a lesbian.”

Second, there’s the “not unorthodox” response. I’ve heard this one most often from priests, pastors, and other purveyors of “what the Church/a particular denomination really teaches.” It comes from people who are ready to defend the Church against all false teachings, who are especially concerned with conveying correct information so long as it’s about theology. The “not unorthodox” response asserts that the primary responsibility of Christian sexuality speakers is to assure that doctrine is presented accurately, and no claim contradicts any orthodox teaching. Responders of this type have said to me, “The presenter taught correctly that the Church cannot accept homosexual acts. The other claims and statistics they used are from actual studies, and they only added to the main point. What’s the problem?”

The third is the “caricature” response, an ad hominem where the person who hears my question retorts that I’ve not given a fair assessment of the situation. This response typically involves multiple jabs at my credibility and sounds something like, “You’ve imagined a version of what’s going on here that suits your own liberal, lesbian agenda. What you describe is nothing like what young people are being taught about Christian morality. Clearly, you have an axe to grind. I’ll bet you don’t practice a traditional sexual ethic yourself.”

The very existence of these responses makes me angry. Providing questionable claims and flawed statistics about homosexuality in order to keep young people away from the “gay lifestyle” is dishonest and totally inexcusable. Finding and using the fullest, most correct account of facts possible–not just those that align with your thesis–is a basic skill that high school and college students learn when writing research papers. Why aren’t we holding these speakers accountable for the information they are presenting as true? And to the person who offers the “caricature” response, I realize there is nothing I can do or say on my own behalf to change your assumptions about me or my motives. I challenge you to attend a talk on human sexuality from a Christian perspective that’s aimed at teenagers and young college students. Stay afterward and chat with a handful of attendees under the age of 24. See how many of them can tell you what it means to believe in a traditional sexual ethic and what they learned from the speaker about LGBT persons. Ask them why they (or other people they know) embrace a traditional Christian position on same-sex sexual activity.

When some of these kids eventually see through the smoke and mirrors and know they are being told half-truths and outright lies, many will feel betrayed. If my own personal experience is any indication, some will take years to realize that practicing a traditional sexual ethic does not require believing that the LGBT community is a bunch of mentally ill criminals who have chosen to defy the Word of God. Some may be so wounded that they will never be able to consider the possibility that orthodoxy ≠ hatred. Conservative Christianity on the whole has failed to teach a traditional sexual ethic without slandering LGBT people in the process, and has failed to acknowledge us as humans with inherent dignity, created in the image and likeness of God. And that, brothers and sisters, is absolutely shameful. Anyone who orders prime rib at the best restaurant in town would be appalled to see it served on a platter with greasy McDonald’s french fries. If we truly believe that the Church is the best place to receive sound formation, why aren’t we raising hell when we see sacred doctrine being served up with a side of falsehood and fear-mongering? It’s time to hold Christian speakers accountable for peddling half-truths about biology, anthropology, sociology, and psychology. It’s time to bring an end to the obscuring of orthodoxy.

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On Feeling Betrayed

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A reflection by Sarah

Everyone experiences betrayal at one time or another. It’s something we have to accept as part of the fallen world in which we exist. Sometimes people betray others intentionally; at other times, people inadvertently and carelessly betray one another. But regardless of the betrayer’s intentions, it can be very difficult to recover from the resulting harm.

Like most people, I’ve experienced betrayal in relationships. Heart-wrenching is the only term I know to describe how I felt upon learning that one of my exes had been having affairs with men and women behind my back in two different parts of the country. This feeling magnified when she decided to betray me still further by assassinating my character to our mutual friends during and after our breakup. Everyone has these kinds of stories. Nearly all adults can provide at least one tale of a relationship gone sour. But in addition to experiencing betrayal at the hands of specific friends, loved ones, and acquaintances, we can also feel betrayed by groups of people. While it’s possible to distance oneself from individuals, it’s not always possible to seek distance from certain groups, especially when you are part of those groups no matter how challenging it may be to engage with others on the inside. As a celibate, LGBT, Christian who is one-half of a celibate, LGBT couple, I find myself in a perpetual struggle with feeling betrayed by both conservative Christianity and the LGBT community. Quite often I get the impression that on the whole, neither group is willing to acknowledge my existence.

It’s probably not surprising to hear that as an LGBT person, I have felt marginalized in the Church, both in my current Christian tradition and in my former Christian tradition. I’ve been a Christian my entire life, and with the exception of some time I spent exploring more progressive Christian thought in college and early in graduate school, I have always been part of a conservative tradition of one kind or another. Over time as I’ve journeyed within traditional Christianity, I have developed a deep and abiding peace where I feel content, fulfilled, and (in the most positive sense) challenged by the Church’s wisdom. However, I cannot shake the feeling that there is nothing I can do to reconcile my faith and sexuality adequately in the eyes of conservative Christianity. There will always be someone who tells me, “Don’t do it this way. Do it that way.” There will always be a person who finds fault with my language, my process, and my way of life.

At one point in my former Christian tradition, I shared with a close friend that I was a lesbian thinking she would be supportive, and might even be willing to walk with me as I was navigating the tough questions of sexual ethics. Her immediate response was, “Don’t say that too quickly. People can always change.” For many dedicated straight Christians, it seems that an LGBT person’s embracing a celibate vocation will never be good enough. No matter what that person does, it seems that there will always be others ready to shake  fingers and pronounce, “There’s no such thing as a gay Christian.” If a person displays any willingness to use language of the LGBT community, then he or she is immediately suspect as a rabble rouser out to upend the Church.

Furthermore, many people with the conservative Church have no appreciation for how their words might affect LGBT Christians. I’ve experienced instance after instance of people getting away with incredibly hurtful and damaging comments, even when I have tried to express, “What you just said about gay people being child molesters is untrue and unnecessary.” As I have sought redress for comments people within the Church have made to me and others, more often than not the ball has been thrown back in my court because according to the majority of priests I’ve known, I must have done something morally questionable that invited the hostile remark. I must have said something that gave people legitimate cause to wonder about my willingness to live a holy life.

Within many conservative church settings, I’ve interacted with people who have fought tooth and nail to block any sort of legal recognition for LGBT people. These people have positioned themselves as “defending marriage” without realizing that much of what they are advocating has nothing to do with the definition of marriage. I have heard Christians argue that LGBT people should not have access to housing or should not be able to find jobs. In recent years, some of the more egregious examples have gone out of fashion and, as far as society is concerned, are now relegated to the “only true bigots believe that” category of ideas. However, I’ve noticed that the same folks I knew ten years ago who were willing to wage war over the possibility that LGBT couples might be able to have legally recognized relationships of any kind are the same folks who are now touting the possibility of civil partnerships as an alternative to gay marriage. From where I’ve sat on the sidelines of much of the marriage equality battle, I can’t help but observe that on some level, reactions from conservative Christian churches have given significant steam to the marriage equality movement. Perhaps the most profound way I feel betrayed by conservative Christianity is that, by all appearances, it has devoted so much energy to painting me into a legal corner with as few options as possible for meeting significant needs.

But as much as I’ve experienced a sense of betrayal within the Church, I have experienced just as much alienation and disappointment within the LGBT community. For starters, many LGBT people have no place for those who are intentionally celibate. Celibacy is cast as an oddity at best and a sign of sexual dysfunction or self-hatred at worst. I’ve experienced consistent pressure from the LGBT community (both the secular and liberal Christian factions) to be sexually active. This pressure significantly delayed my readiness to embrace my own vocation, even though I felt called to celibacy comparatively early in life. Other LGBT folks I’ve known from different contexts in my young adulthood have been quick to tell me that my experience of life is not possible, and I shouldn’t talk about my relationship with Lindsey in terms of celibacy because others have been forced into celibacy against their will. People have gone as far as bluntly commanding me to shut up because, despite our total renouncement of ex-gay ideology, Lindsey’s and my story reminds them too much of past trauma associated with celibacy. By that same logic, would it be appropriate to suggest that non-celibate couples shouldn’t get to talk about their relationships out of respect for those who have been traumatized by sexual activity…or even by marriage?

Outside of the explicitly Christian subset, I have always sensed the presence of a strong animosity towards organized religion within the LGBT community. For a community that sees itself as accepting of just about every kind of diversity, I’ve found that very few LGBT circles include space for people who practice Christianity, particularly of a traditional variety. Very soon after I moved to a new city for graduate school, I realized that a local gay bar was the only place I could go to find other people who shared some of my experiences. Since I lived only a couple of blocks away, I went regularly and tried to get involved in various lesbian social groups. However, as soon as the other women learned I was a graduate student in theology, a significant majority would stare at me–to borrow Jean Shepherd’s line from A Christmas Story–“as though I had lobsters crawling out of my ears.” I became accustomed to receiving questions like, “How can you study something that is so oppressive?” and, “Why did you sign up for that graduate program? Vestiges of internalized homophobia?” There was joking among some of my lesbian friends that I would become a nun, enter into an illicit lesbian relationship with another nun from the convent, and eventually ride off with her like Thelma and Louise, throwing caution to the wind.

And for all of its distrust of organized religion, the LGBT community has surprising bandwidth as it relates to organized politics. There seems to be an assumption that all of us want to be activists and are waiting for every opportunity to flex the community’s political muscle. Last year, Lindsey and I experienced what we perceived as betrayal by someone who was either part of the LGBT community or a strong ally. I had posted on my personal Facebook account about our being treated in a way that I regarded as discriminatory, and one of my Facebook friends decided to forward my name and email address to various media outlets without my consent. I began to receive contacts. As Lindsey and I discussed how to handle the situation, we made some decisions that might not have been the best for protecting our privacy, but we tried to be fair to us and to the party that had caused the discrimination in the first place. We received all sorts of criticism from members of the LGBT community about how we chose to treat the party that had wronged us. Several people asserted that we “owed it to the LGBT community” to broadcast the story in as many ways as possible. While we did get great support from many of our close friends, strangers from within the LGBT community cared more about leveraging our story for political purposes than about how the incident had impacted our lives. And of course, there was no interest in how our faith informed our choices as we navigated the situation.

Let’s not forget the marriage equality issue either. A few years ago, I encountered significant diversity amongst LGBT people concerning views on marriage. Some friends thought the fight for marriage equality was stupid because they viewed marriage as a patriarchal institution that could not be redeemed. Others had different reasons for being critical of the marriage equality movement, but those thoughts were usually heard and validated (unless they were religious). However, today–at least in my circles–things look very different. Any criticism of the marriage equality movement, even if it comes from a place of believing that some LGBT people should be able to marry, gets met with hostility.

Sometimes it’s absolutely exhausting to be deeply connected to two worlds where I’m constantly hearing messages about how and who I ought to be. As I’ve gotten closer to 30, I’ve become comfortable asserting, “I am who I am. What you see is what you get. And if you don’t like it, tough.” I’m not going to change who I am just to appease the sensibilities of a conservative Christian who thinks I’m the scourge of society or an LGBT person who says I’m not a real lesbian. But a tough exterior doesn’t change the fact I’ve felt so deeply betrayed by both communities, and I show a marked hesitation each time I interact with either. It has been made abundantly clear to me that both conservative Christianity and the LGBT community would rather assert that people like me do not exist.  The LGBT community would welcome me with open arms, until someone learns that I am celibate and I become the target of ridicule and pointed criticism. As for the conservative Christian community, my sense of betrayal stems from being excluded from the people of God. And when I consider how these different betrayals have manifested in my own life, I’m not surprised that many LGBT Christians have made choices to distance themselves from the Church, the LGBT community, or both.

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.

In Which the Woman at the Well Appears in My Dreams (or, When Armchair Spiritual Direction Fails)

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A reflection by Sarah

photini3

She encountered Christ personally during his ministry. The Gospel of John tells us about his meeting her at the well. During this encounter, Christ gently called her out for sexual sin: living with a man who was not her husband, and having five husbands before. She experienced an immediate conversion upon speaking with Christ and went back to her village to tell everyone about this particular trip to the well.

My patroness, St. Photini, is a familiar figure across all Christian traditions, though most know her simply as the woman at the well. When I was in the process of converting to my current Christian tradition, I felt her pulling me like a magnet. She appeared to me in my dreams, and clearly as I can now see Lindsey on the other side of the living room, I saw St. Photini sitting at the well with her jar waiting for Christ, or perhaps waiting for me. She was beckoning me to draw near. When I made the decision that she would be my saint, I felt as though I was answering an unexpected phone call from a not-so-close-yet-still-friend sort of person from my high school days. She hadn’t even made the short list of saints I’d been considering. As I shared all this with friends and acquaintances who were part of my soon-to-be-new Christian tradition, few were surprised that I had chosen St. Photini. However, I think many would be surprised to learn what did motivate and what did not motivate me to take her as my saint.

At the time I had transitioned from exploring this faith tradition into beginning the formal conversion process, people were full of suggestions as to which saint I should choose as my next patroness. Because keeping my patroness from my previous tradition was not an option, I was at a loss for whom to select. I felt strongly connected to St. Catherine of Alexandria, St. Mary Magdalene, and St. Monica, but I didn’t get an especially strong impression that I should choose one in particular. I listened intently as other people offered their thoughts, hoping that in a moment of epiphany I would realize something profound about myself, or about one of these great women of faith. That moment never came, but after about the fourth person I talked to I began to notice a troubling repetition. Everyone seemed stuck on St. Mary of Egypt, who hadn’t even crossed my mind because little in her story seemed relatable to my experience of life. And those who actually asked me which saints I had been considering would stop me mid-list at St. Mary Magdalene, proclaiming triumphantly, “That’s the one for you, Sarah!”

After hearing the names of these two saints repeated one after the other for weeks, I finally asked someone, “Why do you think so many people are advising that I take either St. Mary of Egypt or St. Mary Magdalene as my patroness?”

Seemingly puzzled by my lack of insight, he replied, “Because they’re both women who repented of serious sin.”

Having spent years reading and learning about the lives of the saints, I pressed further, “That’s true for many holy men and women the Church recognizes. What’s so special about St. Mary of Egypt and St. Mary Magdalene in that regard?”

He took a moment to stare at his shoes. Then, in a muted tone he spoke, “They repented and overcame their passions. They asked God to rid them of lustful desires…something like what you’re doing with celibacy.”

I walked away from this interaction without saying much more. Many people in Christian traditions feel qualified to offer armchair spiritual direction to others who identify as LGBT, and this advice tends to focus on helping LGBT people overcome sexual temptation. Most of these folks genuinely mean well and may even think they are complimenting a celibate LGBT person by comparing him or her to saints who once struggled with lust. Others might think they are performing a work of mercy by offering unsolicited warnings to LGBT Christians about inappropriate sexual behavior. But intentions notwithstanding, frequently these bits of guidance do more to induce feelings of shame than to help in any real way. In my experience, they give Christians and non-Christians alike a reason to believe that, “Don’t have sex!” is the only bit of wisdom and “love” the Church is willing to offer LGBT people.

Of all things I wish straight people within my Christian tradition knew about LGBT people, the fact that we aren’t just loose cannons full of insatiable sexual desire tops the list. Some weeks at my own parish when I hear bombastic claims at coffee hour about how gay people are “sexually perverting and destroying everything that’s good about America,” I ache for the opportunity to share that one’s sexual orientation is not an indicator of political views, level of sexual activity, or morality in general. I want to help people understand that for LGBT Christians, identifying with one or more of those letters does not necessarily have anything to do with what’s happening between the bedsheets—rather, it involves how one relates to others, to the world, and even to God.

I question the appropriateness of assuming that an LGBT person struggles primarily—or at all—with sexual temptation. To be sure, living up to the examples set by any of the saints is an extraordinary challenge, and having a deep sense of connectedness with these holy men and women is a great privilege. But this doesn’t change the fact that I find it painful (not to mention unhelpful) to receive counsel again and again that the best role model for taming with my own passions is a woman who was once so licentious that she wouldn’t even accept payment for prostitution.

Eventually when I did decide upon St. Photini as my patroness, the well-meaning folks who had been giving me feedback reacted positively. I think it’s likely that many who affirmed my selection felt comfortable knowing that I had chosen a saint who had repented of sexual sin. In the weeks leading up to my reception, I heard a lot of, “Ah, yes, St. Photini…the woman at the well who lived with a man she had not married, and had married five men before him.” What I didn’t hear much about was the incredible life she lived as an evangelist—the very reason I had begun to feel drawn to her after she had appeared in my dreams. My straight brothers and sisters did not have much to say about how she was baptized “the enlightened one” by the apostles, converted seven members of her family, and led all of them in spreading the good news of Christ. No one mentioned that she preached and led many others to know Christ, spat in Emperor Nero’s face when he asked her to renounce her faith, and died a martyr after being thrown down a well.

Everyone seemed glad for my awareness of St. Photini’s life pre-conversion and experience of repentance, but to this day, only two other people in my Christian tradition have ever asked me, “Why did you choose her?” I’m still learning the full answer to that question—I believe that in many cases, the saints call out to us rather than the other way around. But I hope the next time somebody inquires, it will open the door for a long, meaningful conversation about something other than lustful desires.

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.

Some thoughts on choosing a spiritual director

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A reflection by Lindsey

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.

On Being a Child of the Church

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A reflection by Lindsey

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.

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