I Have a Religious Objection to Cellphones

One day, after lunch at the Calabash in Grahamstown, South Africa, we held a door open for another couple. As we did, they asked us where we were from. That chance question led to a 45-minute conversation about crime in South Africa, the current government, their children’s struggles with boarding school, their current lifestyle (he has left the 80-hour weeks behind to work part-time and live here), etc. Who knows? Maybe they needed to express a lot of that, and the conversation did them good. In any event, we learned even more about the extraordinary place that South Africa is.

If we had been on cellphones when we opened that door, we would have missed all that—and the door would have closed in their faces.

Multiply that by several hundred, and you might understand my eccentric objection. Through the habitual use of cellphones, we’re suddenly living our lives somewhere else, all the time. What’s more, it’s even difficult to pay full attention to the person on the other end of the line.

Paying attention to the here, and the now, that God has given us is a priority in many spiritual traditions. When we pay attention, we give our entire selves to the matter at hand. We might be surprised by what unfolds before us. Most important, we tune our heart to pay attention to God, wherever he might choose to encounter us. What better way to cultivate a friendship with God than to be prepared—at every moment—to hear his voice?

Accept What Is

It was my first day at Mariya uMama weThemba monastery in South Africa. I had gone there, as I posted earlier, to “live with people from another country and lend a hand where asked.”

To that point, no one had asked.

My wife was using her library science skills to help catalog the monks’ library. But there seemed to be no task for me. And all those feelings of uselessness came to the surface. “What will happen if I’m not ‘productive’ today? Why can’t they find me something to do? Why is doing so important anyway?”

Perhaps it isn’t.

As it turned out, that was part of the wisdom that the day held for me. It was enough to try to recover from a growing respiratory infection, to do what I could to rest and recuperate, perhaps even to write things whose value I could never comprehend.

It was, in truth, the same old lesson that I had heard a thousand times already. And I must hear it again and again and again, because I clearly haven’t learned it yet. It is such a simple lesson: accept what is.

Accept what is.

What Vocation Looks Like, or Why Am I Writing This Blog?

Way back when, in the very first post, I half-kiddingly wrote that “God told me to start a blog.”

Did he really?

I have many, many doubts about this call to write. Somehow my musings don’t seem useful (but in what sense of the word?). Sometimes I seem to be casting about for topics. Sometimes I’m not sure whether I’m “supposed” to write when I don’t “feel” the movement of the Spirit.

And yet…

Whenever I sit down to write an entry, I feel a verve running through me—an aliveness, if you will. A sense that this is precisely the right thing to do at precisely this stage of my life. I do not know where this is headed. I do not know whether a book will come out of it, or an avocation in spiritual writing, or nothing at all. I seem to have been left with nothing but the writing itself.

Perhaps this is what vocation looks like. You find out a little at a time. You feel your way in the dark. You remain faithful to what you’ve been asked to do, with no concern for results.

And who said “did he really?” in the first place? Was it not the serpent?

Why Silence?

My monastery has a practice called The Great Silence. From 9:00 at night till after Eucharist the next morning, no one speaks (except when necessary).

Why?

Perhaps most obviously, silence creates a home for the spiritual life. By silencing the sounds of the everyday—both our penchant for talk and the constant noise of our culture—it allows the voice of God to come through. As we settle into silence, we quite naturally listen more attentively, tilling the soil into which God sows his word.

When silence is practiced, it usually comes with a certain “sign language” that helps monastery visitors pass the butter at the breakfast table. I’ve wondered, though, what would happen if we didn’t use any means to communicate. We might miss out on the butter—and learn to enjoy our meal without it. We might not be able to communicate something important—only to find out it’s not that important after all.

We might, in short, accept what is in front of us as gift, no more, no less. It is only one short step from there to gratitude, which opens our heart in just the way God needs in order to do his work.

A Meditation for Thanksgiving (One Day Late)

This morning’s email included an eloquent Thanksgiving meditation from Rabbi Michael Lerner, editor of Tikkun magazine. (I can’t find it on the Tikkun website; if you’d like a copy, email me.) He encouraged his readers to respond with their own meditations. Having just returned from South Africa—and seen the brutal poverty that still plagues so many of its people—I found the following response recurring in my thoughts during Thanksgiving Day.

To the One Who provides all things:

“Thank you for this food” is such a throwaway phrase. Yet here, now, on this Thanksgiving, I see the why behind it. I have met people who struggle to put even a daily meal on their tables, let alone “three squares.” I have seen the places where hunger haunts those who have so long felt the haunt of oppression. The memory of them makes the feast before me an embarrassment. Yet this feast is Your gift to me, just as their memory is Your gift to me. I bless you for both: the abundance You share with me and those I love, the common humanity that binds me with the hungry ones. May my remembrance of each—and my gratitude for both—never cease.

The Newspaper Lectionary for Oct 28

This isn’t exactly an approved spiritual discipline, but lately I’ve been reading the Saturday religion articles in my local newspaper as lectionary readings. As you’d expect with a lectionary, each Saturday brings three main articles, and the topics are only loosely connected—or not at all. The point is to read them prayerfully and see what bubbles to the surface.

Here’s what came out of today’s “readings”:

• A column about the more difficult side of the Bible, particularly familial conflicts and God’s action therein: Abraham, Sarah and Hagar, Jacob and Esau, etc. The writer, Phyllis Trible of Wake Forest University Divinity School, notes, “As disturbing as they are, these stories disclose life in all its configurations. They give voice to struggle, hurt and fear. They permit railings at God. They also show ‘more excellent ways,’ through contrast and juxtaposition, and offer an authentic narrative by which to measure life.”
• An article about a Kenyan pastor building an orphanage for children who have lost parents to AIDS. His quote: “Christianity isn’t just about going to church; it’s about living as Jesus did and demonstrating his good deeds through yourself. I’m getting up there in years and want to give my energy to people all over the world, before it runs out.”
• A brief report of an online survey in which 97 percent of respondents say they speak to God—and more than 90 percent say God speaks to them.
  

Disconnected? Sure, somewhat. But there is a thread here. The God we worship is utterly mysterious and sometimes disturbing. His actions in the world often baffle us, as when he is present—or absent?—amid terrible conflict. Moreover, following this God requires a complete conversion of our lives: a giving over of ourselves to the service of others.

And yet—and yet—nearly everyone continues to seek connection with this God.

I suspect there are two reasons. One harks back to St. Peter’s timeless phrase: “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.” Indeed, there is no one else who encompasses the world and every creature therein.

Somehow, that encompassing brings profound comfort to the soul. And perhaps it is because we sense, more deeply than anything else, that this presence loves us, deeply, completely. Which is the other reason why we never seem to give up on union with God: because we know, without knowing, that the world is all about God, and God is love.

No Blog for Six Weeks?

In blog years, it’s been an age. Six weeks between entries. Clearly, I’ve been irresponsible.

Or have I? To be sure, blogging has become an important spiritual discipline for me. Maybe, though, there are times when the lack of blogging is just as important—or more so. Maybe that time is better spent listening to the silence. And maybe that’s true for readers as well as for bloggers.

I do have an entry or two to post, and I will do so soon. In the meantime, I hope you have enjoyed the silence. Next time I go silent for a while, consider it an invitation to do the same.

The Mono Diaries

About a month ago, I was diagnosed with mononucleosis. If you’ve ever had it, you know the exhaustion that pervades your days. Some days it’s hard to do anything but work and sleep. Daily naps are highly recommended. Not exactly the productivity that our culture requires—or even the active ministry that the church holds out as an example of godly living.

Therein lies the problem.

When I can’t bring myself to engage in extracurricular activities—when it’s even hard to keep my mind on prayer—I tend to feel vulnerable, useless, even slothful. The temptation is to fight it: to try exercising or forgo the naps or just do. And yet the only treatment (it’s a virus, so there is no cure) is to rest. Frequently.

For weeks.

Which creates an interesting spiritual effect. It strips away all the layers of my being—all the things from which I can derive my value—and leaves me with just me, and God. No holy feelings or inspired insights, just a naked soul looking at God, and God looking at the soul.

Maybe it’s the most basic connection we can have with the Divine. And maybe it’s the most dynamic too. In any event, it requires a sea change of thought—a repentance, if you will. “Be still and know that I am God” (Ps 46:10). At times like this, you realize how utterly countercultural “being still” is—and how rich a spiritual treasure. Perhaps it is then, in a way unlike any other, that God pours himself into the soul.

The FEAR of the Lord?

What does it mean to fear God?

Many commentators tell us to read fear as reverence, but I think that’s too simple. At several times in my life, I have come face to face with situations where fear was exactly the right word.

One jumps immediately to mind. After a season where I endured intense family illness and other trials, a beloved church leader—someone whom I admired immensely—dropped dead in the prime of life. He had contributed so much to the life of the church, and by all appearances he had so much more to give. Yet there we were at his funeral, all of us in shock, and I couldn’t help but wonder, “Who is this God, anyway?”

In short, I felt fear. What would this God do next? How many more blows could I accept from his hand?

And yet, somehow, fear is not the end of the story. If it were, we would have to spend our days in neurotic appeasement of God—or simply run away from spirituality altogether. Instead, I cannot shake the thought—the reality—that God’s obvious and extravagant love ultimately trumps that fear. St. John said it himself: “Perfect love casts out fear” and, at his core, “God is love.”

This fear/love dynamic must be what the disciples experienced after Jesus’ strange discourse on “I am the bread of life.” It was so hard to hear that many followers turned away. Yet when Jesus asked his closest friends, “Will you too go away?” they answered with a semi-exasperated, semi-tender, “Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life.”

Yes, this fear of God is a good thing: it is a sharp reminder of who we are and who God is. But maybe I experience that fear because I am not (by any means) perfect in love. Maybe, then, the fear of God is simply a guide on our path to perfect love, much as the law was our guide to the cross. And when we perfectly rest in the love of God—maybe only after death—fear fades away.

Radical Acceptance: How Far Can We Go?

The church should be a safe place for all people—a place where they feel embraced for who they are.

That sounds like a wonderful vision for the church. It is also one loaded statement, thanks to the little word all. Consider:

• A few years ago, a local teenage girl was implicated as an accomplice in one of our region’s most brutal murders. The press coverage was nonstop, and she became a bête noire. Some months later, she showed up at the church we then attended. The church leadership politely asked her not to return. Should they have?
• A couple in the same church went through a bitter divorce, and his inappropriate conduct played a major role. Both left the church; after a year or two, he suddenly reappeared in the back pew, obviously a broken man. Should we have welcomed him back?
• If Osama bin Laden showed up in your church next Sunday, clearly wanting to be there, would you welcome him? Should you welcome him?

I suspect the answers are no, yes, and yes, respectively. But there is nothing easy about these situations.

The Bible, on this issue, seems at odds with itself. Leviticus seems to exclude some people solely on the basis of certain disabilities. Jesus clearly shared the company of prostitutes and riffraff. God is love, to be sure, yet in many passages he appears to demand a response from us before extending his mercy.

I wonder whether C. S. Lewis’s The Last Battle holds a glimpse of the answer. (I’m working from memory, so bear with me here.) As Aslan the lion (symbolizing God) leads his followers into heaven, the direction is “farther up and further in.” Some of those followers, beset by doubts and grumblings, enter heaven but stop—permanently—right inside the door, going no farther. Only those who are willing to follow Aslan end up going “farther up and further in.”

And maybe that is the message to “all” people. Come. You are welcome here—always. You will experience God’s love here—always. And this God invites you on a journey that will consume your life in joy…that will mold you into your best self. To embark on this journey, you will need to respond. The specific response is up to God. So respond when you’re ready. Until then, welcome.

Here’s the magic part. You know what happens when they respond to God—or even want to respond to God? God responds to them. That opens up the soul to a greater response, and God responds to that. It’s a wonderful spiral that takes the soul “farther up and further in.” All the church has to do is provide a safe place for that to happen...and a light but guiding hand along the way.

On the Wrong End of Exclusion

A visit with an old college friend turned tense—and I had a small, fleeting glimpse into what it’s like to be excluded for who you are.

I had worried about this visit from the start. Quite simply, she did not approve of certain areas of our life (my wife’s and mine) and would prefer that we never talk about them—especially to people she’s trying to impress. This became an issue on Saturday night, when we dined with a good friend of hers. This good friend has a bevy of animals, as do we, so I started to talk about them. Meanwhile, College Friend tried desperately to stop me from mentioning our guinea pigs, who are a delight to my wife and me and a balm to our souls.

They are a part of who I am. She rejects that part. I feel anger for her rejection, shame that maybe our lives aren’t good enough, loathing for our small crappy house and these “rats” in our basement.

Is this what it’s like to be rejected for being you?

Look, I’m a straight white male with a good career, so I don’t get this very often. But it made me think about people who experience it a lot, on a far more substantial level: people routinely slighted for their color, their gender, their sexual orientation, their stand on abortion, you name it.

The prevailing culture is good enough at this. Why should the church follow suit? Shouldn’t the church be a safe place for all people—a place where they feel embraced for who they are?

I know how basic, and perhaps naïve, this sounds. But the next part isn’t so basic: how do we practice radical acceptance? It’s a thorny issue, and we’ll look at it in the next post.

Mindfulness and Guinea Pigs

How can a baby guinea pig teach you about Benedictine values, like mindfulness, obedience, and balance?

I love raising guinea pigs because they provide excellent training for life. Just by living, they deepen our acceptance of sex, death, and miracles. Just by needing to be fed—every single day—they force us out of ourselves every single day. They give and receive love freely.

And yes, they teach Benedictine values. One of our sows recently had a litter that I suspect was premature. After three days, the babies stopped gaining weight, and it became clear that they needed a nutritional boost. So we started hand-feeding them with kitten milk replacer through a syringe, twice a day.

That’s trickier than it sounds. It is very easy to squirt the fluid in too fast—and send it into their respiratory instead of their digestive system. At that age, such a mistake is usually fatal. To avoid this, you feed leisurely, let them lead, and focus exclusively on what you’re doing.

In other words, you feed mindfully. You obey by letting another of God’s creatures lead you—and express the will of God for you in that moment. You feed leisurely and thereby appreciate life’s balance. It doesn’t get more Benedictine than that.

The Silent, Tectonic Movement of God

Sometimes I’m awestruck by the silent, yet tectonic, way God moves in the soul.

Here’s one very small example. While extremely fruitful, the dialogue with my friend Bill, which I’ve mentioned in my last few blog entries, left me exhausted and tense. It was a familiar feeling: the recent wrangling in the Episcopal Church—and my internalizing of it over the course of the summer—had generated the same feelings. At the same time, the dearth of my writing efforts resulted in a vague malaise, as though I desperately needed exercise and hadn’t done any lately.

Not that I really knew any of this at the beginning of the week. At best, I had a vague apprehension of some of it.

And yet, without even noticing it at first, I lingered long over Morning Prayer each day this week. The Office has taken me about half again as long as it usually does. And I don’t think my neurosis about “getting it right” was the cause. Looking back, I think God was drawing me into a deeper experience of prayer, of him, to refresh my soul and get me back to writing.

Apparently it worked. Last night my ill-at-ease feeling came to a head, and I realized I needed to write. This is my third blog entry for the morning. Clearly, I needed this—but I needed the deeper prayer first, to reconnect me to the source. And the source himself led me there.

How Close IS God?

Several weeks ago, I was blessed with one of those sudden, striking insights that leaves you wondering about its source. I’m also wondering exactly what it says about the presence of God.

It came during one of my long-distance drives, which I often use to engage in centering prayer. Rather, I try to engage: my focus on God quickly wanders to my work, our animals, the farms I’ve driving past—anything but God. At some point, I usually snap out of it, chide myself, and refocus on God…only to have the whole thing happen again. If you’ve ever tried centering prayer, you know the drill.

During one of the “chide sessions” on this particular drive, the thought suddenly hit me: “Why are you worried about your focus? It’s all God. It all leads back to God.”

Yow.

Well…yeah. We do believe that the Holy Spirit is always with us, that God permeates heaven and earth. Matthew Fox, commenting on the sermons of Meister Eckhardt, calls it panentheism: the idea that God is in everything. (Contrast that with pantheism, in which God is everything.) If panentheism is true, anything that crosses our mind in prayer is permeated with God’s presence; every “distraction” has the potential to lead us back to God, if we let it.

Certainly, there’s value in clearing distractions and being present to God more intentionally. But perhaps panentheism takes the pressure off us as we seek God in centering prayer. And who knows? Maybe these “distractions” can unveil a view of God we might never have found any other way.

Dialogue in the Real World

I mentioned that I’ve been corresponding with an old, cherished friend from my days in Massachusetts. As it turns out, we hold conflicting views on some very basic matters of faith—he, for instance, believes the Bible is literally true, word for word; I see the matter differently. But we have always managed to maintain our “bonds of affection” while discussing things energetically, often vehemently.

Could we do it again? And if we could, would it mean anything for the church?

Over the last couple of weeks, we’ve e-mailed back and forth on the whole inerrancy issue and some associated hot buttons, like gay ordination. To be honest with you, it was rough. It was so easy to let the emotions take over, so tempting to fire back a heated response. Some of Bill’s words stung; others were just hard to read because they reflected a perspective so at odds with my own.

And yet…

I learned some things I didn’t know. When Bill reads the Bible, he takes into account things like cultural context, use of literary devices, etc.—just like me. Maybe he’s different from most “inerrantists,” but I didn’t think they did that sort of thinking. Maybe I was wrong; maybe I need to explore their perspective further.

More important, Bill never lost sight of the fact that we were both seeking truth, both worshiping the same God. The guy hangs out with a lot of people who don’t share his worldview—and they maintain “bonds of affection.” So did we: we closed this part of our discussion by agreeing that love gives us the freedom to disagree while holding us together. Next week we’ll move on to another topic.

Hear me correctly. We’re not some wonderful paragons of virtue. But, by the grace of God, we did manage to have a dialogue, learn some things, grow some more, and come out friends. If a couple of everyday schleps like us can do that, is there still hope for the church?

The Beauty of the Errant Bible

In the last few weeks, an old and very dear friend got in touch with me after 20-some years apart. At one point in our lives, we pondered the mysteries of God together, and through the magic of email he has picked up the discussion once again. His last email described his belief in biblical inerrancy, and in my reply, I had the opportunity to spin out a thought that I’ve long treasured but never articulated. Here it is:

It's funny, because I've had a very different experience with the whole idea of inerrancy. Somewhere along the line (couldn't really pinpoint when), I started letting go of the idea of word-for-word, everything-literal inerrancy, and for me it opened up a depth of the Bible that I never knew. All of a sudden, God could speak in metaphor, in poetry, in stories that didn't have to be factually true but still delivered a message that was truer than any fact (if such a thing is possible). I could start exploring who wrote this letter or that book, who they were writing to, and just what they were trying to say that maybe I missed the first time round. In some strange way the words became more alive to me. At this point, I couldn't say whether most of the Bible is factually true, but then it doesn't matter to me--because it's true nonetheless.

Here's a rather innocuous example: the Magnificat. Did Mary really utter those exact words? From one standpoint, it's kind of doubtful: illiterate peasant women just don't tend to go around saying stuff like that. But...whether she did or didn't, those words do reveal something wonderful about the character of Mary herself--and say absolutely amazing things about God: the God who turns things upside down, the God the prophets knew.

People From Another Country

This past weekend, while visiting my wife’s relatives, I picked up an article from the religion section of the local newspaper. The writer describes a young friend who is going to Mexico on a mission trip. What really grabbed me was her description of mission: “They are not vacationing but, rather, seeking to live with people from another country and lend a hand where asked.”

Initially this struck me because my wife and I are planning such a trip. We will stay in a South African monastery while she, an archivist, catalogs their library and helps establish their archives. Rather than have any specific goal, however, I relish the thought of simply “living with people from another country and lending a hand where asked.” When that happens, the other people set the agenda; we share, not our opinions or our ideologies or our cultural biases, but simply ourselves.

Whenever I read that one sentence from the article, I kept wanting to read it as “lend a hand where needed.” But that’s not as helpful. Needs are open to interpretation; I can decide what you need and try to provide it—and that won’t help. But when it’s “where asked,” I have to wait for you.

But does one really have to travel to be present to others like this? In a way, we are all “people from another country” to one another—people with vastly different perspectives, ideas, and values. So if each time we encounter someone, what would happen if we simply lived with them, remained present with them, and listened? Perhaps nothing would happen. Or perhaps we would be available just when they need us.

Hidden Lessons from General Convention

I’m profoundly disappointed. So, it seems, is just about everyone else. And maybe that’s the single best thing to come out of the Episcopal Church’s General Convention.

After days of discussion, the convention passed Resolution B033, which calls for restraint in consecrating bishops “whose manner of life presents a challenge to the wider church.” That “wider church,” in the form of the Windsor Report, had called for an outright moratorium on the consecration of gay and lesbian bishops.

“Liberals,” like me, are disappointed that it’s a step back from full inclusion of gays and lesbians in the church. “Conservatives” complain that it leaves too much room for the church to go forward in ordaining gays and lesbians.

Do I detect the aroma of the will of God in here?

Might it be a stroke of divine brilliance to allow passage of a resolution that ticks everyone off? Might God be using that disappointment and anger to give us a jolt, force us out of our own heads, and consider new ways to be the worldwide church?

Maybe it’s just me. This morning, mulling over my own disappointment, I realized that I’ve become too attached to the results of this Convention. It’s taken over too much of my thought life, as though the entirety of human history depended on its outcome. And though I have prayed for God’s wisdom to prevail, I ended up surprised when that wisdom turned out so much different from anything I had thought.

Maybe what I’m saying, bottom line, is that I didn’t quite let God be God enough.

Please don’t get me wrong. The issues considered at General Convention are very important. They touch on things at the heart of our faith: issues of justice, of mercy, of just how you interpret Scripture, of how we can disagree and still be the church.

That last part is important, because technically, as of right now, we’re still all related to one another, church-wise. And because of that, we have to keep talking—and listening—to those we so deeply disagree with. It’s such hard work. It hurts like hell sometimes. But I really think that dialogue, and prayer, will be the only things that see us through.

Gays and the Episcopal Church

Since this week’s Episcopal General Convention is deliberating the issues that have roiled its “parent” body, the Anglican Communion, I figured it was high time to read the Windsor Report. This report looks at the recent controversy over gay union and consecration—specifically, what it’s done to the worldwide church’s unity-in-diversity—and recommends a course of action for healing. I found it a mature, nuanced, thoughtful document, and maybe it provides a basis for all of us, pro- and anti-gay consecration, to go forward together.

What really grabbed my attention, however, was Paragraph 135 of the report:

We particularly request a contribution from the Episcopal Church (USA) which explains, from within the sources of authority that we as Anglicans have received in scripture, the apostolic tradition and reasoned reflection, how a person living in a same gender union may be considered eligible to lead the flock of Christ.

OK, I’m Episcopalian. I believe in the validity of Gene Robinson’s ordination. And I’m just nervy enough to think my perspective counts. So here goes:

1. So much of this comes down to how you read the Bible. Many believers read it literally and ahistorically: that is, every word (by and large) is not only true, but also meant to apply to all believers at all times. These are good people, and their faith is genuine. But once you dig deeper into this approach, you run into trouble—and the controversy over homosexuality is an ideal example.
2. In the entire Bible, there are perhaps five to seven isolated passages (or individual verses) that touch on homosexuality. Two of them—the creation story and the Sodom/Gomorrah story—can support a wide range of interpretations, not just a condemnation of homosexuality. The two condemnations in the Jewish law are clear enough; however, if we take the Jewish law literally, as applying to us, we also need to exclude people with disabilities from worship and stop wearing polyester blends. St. Paul condemns homosexuality twice, and I’ll admit that his passages give me a bit more trouble. But it’s interesting to note that he mentions the issue almost in passing.
3. On the other side of the scales, the Bible as a whole repeatedly speaks to the value of mercy. “I desire mercy, not sacrifice.” “Love one another as I have loved you.” For all God’s Old Testament punishments, ultimately his orientation is one of love, restoration, healing. And even those punishments tell us something here: God directs so much more of his anger and grief to injustice, ill treatment of the poor, and worship of other gods than to sex in general, let alone homosexuality.
4. What does this emphasis mean? To be sure, we as believers cannot tolerate certain behaviors, but right now we’re focusing on the wrong ones. Far better to speak prophetically to, say, the rising gap between rich and poor, the world’s all too frequent genocides, the abuse of children, and our obsession with celebrity and consumer culture. On the mercy side, we ought to be trying to see just how big a tent we can make our faith. Why not err on the side of acceptance, rather than exclusion?
5. Now let’s turn to reasoned reflection. The evils that I’ve just described have something in common: they clearly serve to dehumanize those made in God’s image. A reverence for materialism, for instance, completely neglects the rich spirituality inside all of us; as that spirituality withers, our capacity for mercy and cooperation evaporates. Child abuse and the others are obvious in their maltreatment of human beings. Now let me pose this question: how does a loving, committed, monogamous relationship between two people of the same gender inflict dehumanization? Based on the gay couples I’ve known, I just don’t see it; if anything, they elevate the humanity of each other and those around them.
6. To show mercy, display commitment, and elevate the humanity of those around you: aren’t those precisely the type of qualities we want in any clergy person, especially a bishop? Don’t they qualify such a person, regardless of sexual orientation, to lead the flock of Christ?
   

Let me make it clear: I am exactly one person, with exactly one voice. So there’s every chance I’m all wet in some part of this or another. But this is intended, not to be the final word by any means, but to contribute one small strand to the dialogue that will fashion our response to the Windsor Report. May it help to bring healing to our brothers and sisters worldwide.

Loving Those We Have Seen

It’s funny how you can hear the same Scripture passage for years, and then one day it reveals a completely different insight. The readings from a few Sundays ago included this snippet from 1 John:

“If we do not love others whom we have seen, how can we claim to love God whom we have not seen?”

When I heard the verse read out loud, it suddenly struck me as backwards—and I realized that I’ve come to consider loving God as the easier of the two. God is gentle, loving, perfect: someone, in short, who’s easy to love. Taken from another angle, God is invisible, so it’s easy to make of him and his will what I want. That makes for a smoother relationship.

But it’s not love.

Maybe that’s why other people are the real proving ground of love. They’re right in our face, with all their warts and imperfections and annoying habits and offensive opinions. It takes a deliberate choice, made over and over, minute by minute, to put oneself aside and love these people.

And maybe that is easier. Because with human beings, at least we’re dealing with a semi-known quantity. So if we can learn to love them in that self-denying way, maybe it’s the first step to doing the same with the utterly ineffable God: the God whose actions in the world are infinitely more bewildering and, sometimes, disheartening. To put oneself aside for that kind of God takes practice—exactly the practice we get with one another.