"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means." ~ Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride
I've come across a lot of anti-woman sentiment lately. Some of the more conservative members of my denomination have a Facebook group that I occasionally look at when I'm in the mood to get good and mad; this week some of them took a (startlingly brief) break from blasting the evil homosexual agenda to share some of the grief with the evil feminist agenda. Then I met a random guy at my hangout of choice who, out of nowhere, with no idea that I am a minister, announced that he was against women in church leadership. He made a valiant attempt to out-Bible me, which is always fun. And then there have been a slew of articles like this interview of Mark Driscoll, in which he reveals himself to be arrogant, pushy, and fairly unconcerned with facts, and this article from The Council on Biblical Manhood and Womanhood, in which femininity and females are characterized as all manner of negative things, including imbeciles. Different but equal, eh?
So, I was a complementarian once. At least, I tried to be, back in the day when the only people I knew who seemed to take Christian faith seriously were the tribe of campus fundamentalists. I tried very hard for two years. Really. I had had one of those wacky, dramatic conversion experiences, and I thought their path was the one I needed to follow, too. They told me a lot of things about what the Bible said. They told me it said that I should stop hanging out with my gay friends unless I was evangelizing them. They told me it said that people who didn't have a personal relationship with Jesus were going to hell. And they told me it said that women were supposed to be submissive to men, that husbands were supposed to rule their households, that women were not allowed to teach men or hold any position in the church that might be considered higher than a man.
Then they taught me to read the Bible, intensely, closely, carefully. They taught me to use the tools available to me to explore the language and context. They encouraged me to study it alone and in community with others, to honor the text and hold it close. They might have come to regret all that rather quickly.
I loved the Bible, and I kept reading, and reading, and reading it. I found it somewhat puzzling that there were so many women doing important things in it, being used by God, proclaiming the Gospel, supporting the people of God, even doing things that might be considered teaching and having authority. A woman a year or two older than me offered to do a study with me on godly womanhood, and I happily accepted. We read from Proverbs 31, the passage about the wife of noble character, a verse a week, poring over what these words, the Word, might mean for us. Who was this godly woman? As it turns out, she wasn't such a great advertisement for the submissive, stay-at-home wife and mother who was the ideal for most of our campus fellowship - this woman who runs her own business, conducts her own affairs, who gives instruction, who is a partner in whom her husband can have full confidence.
They taught me to treat the words of the Bible, the Word, with great care and attention. And so I noticed the profound truths, the beauty of the language and the narratives, the compelling teachings, and I grew closer to the text. As I did so, I also started to notice the inconsistencies in the stories, the multiple but slightly different accounts of the same events, the alarming and troubling passages, the teachings that seemed universal and those that appeared to be directed to a specific community. My view of what it meant for the Bible to be the Word of God shifted.
These fervent and dedicated people taught me to identify and develop my spiritual gifts, insisting that every Christian had them. They might have come to regret that, too. No spiritual gifts inventory ever told me that I had gifts in "womanly" areas like prayer, mercy, and service. Maybe I was meant to teach in a women's ministry, they told me, or maybe children. Maybe missions, although it would be better if I could find a husband to lead the ministry. Beyond that, they weren't sure what to do with me. So I was left to fight it out with God over these gifts in teaching, prophecy, and leadership that distanced me from the community I had become part of.
A lot of time has passed between then and now, and a lot of other formative things have happened, but that was the beginning of me becoming the minister I am now. I'm thankful to that group of people for starting that process, for helping me love the Bible and take it seriously. But if I could go back, there are some things I'd like to say to them. They are the things I want to say when I hear Mark Driscoll, or read the more vitriolic comments of my complementarian brothers, or meet people who define masculinity, femininity, manhood, and womanhood very narrowly and attribute limited roles and characteristics to those terms.
I would like to tell them that I am who I am, do what I do, and believe what I believe, not despite what the Bible says, but because of it. Not because I decided that I didn't like it and could therefore ignore it, but because I love it and take it as a whole, and use the overarching themes and consistent threads within it to interpret the individual verses.
I would like to tell them: you keep using that word, Bible. I do not think it means what you think it means. The Bible exists to teach us about God, guide us in how we live in the world, and give us hope in God's future. It is not a science textbook, an etiquette manual, corporate bylaws, or a weapon with which to beat other people into submission.
You keep using that word, feminine. I do not think it means what you think it means. Femininity is not by nature soft, feeble, compassionate, cowardly, imbecilic, nurturing, polite, or inferior. A woman might exhibit any of these characteristics (with the exception of inferiority) and many more - and so might a man. Masculinity is not tough, courageous, unemotional, intelligent, protective, rough-mannered, or superior. A man might be these things, and so might a woman. And if you define God as masculine because, as Driscoll claims, God protects and disciplines (like a father) in addition to nurturing (like a mother), well, I'm guessing you don't know any mothers very well.
You keep using that word, equal. I do not think it means what you think it means. If one group of people is limited to a particular set of roles while another group has access to all roles, they are not equal. If one group is subordinate to another group, they are not equal. If the abilities and assumed characteristics of one group are considered to be less valuable and versatile than those of the other group, they are not equal.
You keep using that word, Gospel. I do not think it means what you think it means. "Believe exactly what I believe and adhere to my ideas about who you should be because it's the only way God will love you and not throw you into hell" is not good news.
Most of all, you keep using that Word. I do not think it means what you think it means. The Word is not a rigid text that prescribes our every move. It is not a set of verses that can be plucked from the whole at will without consideration of context. It is not a document that explains everything clearly for all people in all times and all places apart from the counsel of the Church and the inspiration of the Spirit. The Word is the living, breathing, moving embodiment of God that has been there since the beginning of all things.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Proving Myself Right
A while ago I wrote this post about the inevitability of running into parishioners when I am at my grossest, sloppiest, and most exhausted. Yesterday, after returning from a week of travel at 7:30am, collapsing into bed, waking up and realizing I had no food in the house, I decided that just this once it would be okay to go to the grocery store looking like an unwashed degenerate, because no one I know even goes to that particular grocery store. Yeah...not okay. I'm not sure whether I was relieved or embarrassed that the child of the person I ran into did not even recognize me in that state.
Into the New
Well, I've come out the other side of my annual Christmas depression. It's an odd thing, which I've realized gets both a little worse and a little more manageable every year. Which is to say that I feel the pain and isolation more profoundly each year, but also become better at expecting it, planning for it, and living in it when it comes.
During that time, work is the thing I feel increasingly peaceful about. I have been in this church long enough that I know how it's going to go, as much as you know how things are ever going to go. This year one of the youth fainted during the first Christmas Eve service. In the second one, the candles were lit three songs too early. Everything was still okay. So it goes.
Everything else during Christmas is pretty much crappy. But it's become a predictable crappiness. I will feel lonely. I will start to wonder if I should be more intentional about seeking out a partner. I will remember the year's failed attempts on that front and feel hopeless, hurt, and angry. I will decide to resign myself to being alone, and feel both desolate and powerful at the prospect. I do not have to accept consequence; I can decide. Then I will remember that my self-definition as single is probably the greatest contributor to the Christmas loneliness, and become annoyed at it, and wonder what to do about it, and feel stuck because when I try to change that self-definition, I end up surrounded by emotional black holes and grass-is-greener types who are already attached to someone else. I will miss my family, even while realizing that I don't particularly enjoy them at holidays, and that I'm so busy and exhausted with work that they wouldn't enjoy me, either. I will feel self-pity at the scarcity of gifts I receive, and guilt for my selfishness and materialism - because the joy of a Calvinist Christmas is at least a small dose of self-flagellation. Which is fine, as I don't really do guilt the rest of the year.
Anyway, I emerged from The Annual Funk just in time for a friend's wedding, thankfully, which involved a lot of hanging out with my favorite snarky, boozy clergy women, and feeling the messy happiness of seeing one of our formerly single-girl flock get paired up. Then I did my standard New Year's thing: got all fancied up, went to see some friends' band play at a big masquerade ball thing, remembered that my life is actually pretty fabulous, and greeted 2012 with sparkly hats, noisemakers, champagne, friends, and joy.
A new year is inevitably a time of evaluating life, remembering the things that have gone well and not so well, contemplating the things that need change, and planning for the future. I've been somewhat resistant in the last few years to planning for my future in any specific way, but it's beginning to feel like time for that sort of thinking. It's time for me to apply for that D.Min program that I've been bouncing around for a couple of years, so I started that process today. It's also time for me to let go of some things I've kept on the table as options. It's time to say to my seminary self that academic study is not currently enough of a priority for me to consider a Ph.D or a faculty position as likely possibilities in the foreseeable future (although notice how I'm not ruling it out absolutely...). That was the dream of someone who was in denial about being a minister, and I'm not that person anymore. It's time for me to realize that I am probably not ever going to be (or want to be) neutral enough for denominational staff. All that means that I need to do some serious planning and preparation in moving toward being a senior minister someday, which also involves some personal life caution that isn't exactly a hallmark of my existence. Time to grow up, or something.
So, with these goals and the usual assortment of semi-resolutions - exercise more, get healthier in general, stop being a sucker for dimples - I enter 2012. What an interesting year this promises to be!
During that time, work is the thing I feel increasingly peaceful about. I have been in this church long enough that I know how it's going to go, as much as you know how things are ever going to go. This year one of the youth fainted during the first Christmas Eve service. In the second one, the candles were lit three songs too early. Everything was still okay. So it goes.
Everything else during Christmas is pretty much crappy. But it's become a predictable crappiness. I will feel lonely. I will start to wonder if I should be more intentional about seeking out a partner. I will remember the year's failed attempts on that front and feel hopeless, hurt, and angry. I will decide to resign myself to being alone, and feel both desolate and powerful at the prospect. I do not have to accept consequence; I can decide. Then I will remember that my self-definition as single is probably the greatest contributor to the Christmas loneliness, and become annoyed at it, and wonder what to do about it, and feel stuck because when I try to change that self-definition, I end up surrounded by emotional black holes and grass-is-greener types who are already attached to someone else. I will miss my family, even while realizing that I don't particularly enjoy them at holidays, and that I'm so busy and exhausted with work that they wouldn't enjoy me, either. I will feel self-pity at the scarcity of gifts I receive, and guilt for my selfishness and materialism - because the joy of a Calvinist Christmas is at least a small dose of self-flagellation. Which is fine, as I don't really do guilt the rest of the year.
Anyway, I emerged from The Annual Funk just in time for a friend's wedding, thankfully, which involved a lot of hanging out with my favorite snarky, boozy clergy women, and feeling the messy happiness of seeing one of our formerly single-girl flock get paired up. Then I did my standard New Year's thing: got all fancied up, went to see some friends' band play at a big masquerade ball thing, remembered that my life is actually pretty fabulous, and greeted 2012 with sparkly hats, noisemakers, champagne, friends, and joy.
A new year is inevitably a time of evaluating life, remembering the things that have gone well and not so well, contemplating the things that need change, and planning for the future. I've been somewhat resistant in the last few years to planning for my future in any specific way, but it's beginning to feel like time for that sort of thinking. It's time for me to apply for that D.Min program that I've been bouncing around for a couple of years, so I started that process today. It's also time for me to let go of some things I've kept on the table as options. It's time to say to my seminary self that academic study is not currently enough of a priority for me to consider a Ph.D or a faculty position as likely possibilities in the foreseeable future (although notice how I'm not ruling it out absolutely...). That was the dream of someone who was in denial about being a minister, and I'm not that person anymore. It's time for me to realize that I am probably not ever going to be (or want to be) neutral enough for denominational staff. All that means that I need to do some serious planning and preparation in moving toward being a senior minister someday, which also involves some personal life caution that isn't exactly a hallmark of my existence. Time to grow up, or something.
So, with these goals and the usual assortment of semi-resolutions - exercise more, get healthier in general, stop being a sucker for dimples - I enter 2012. What an interesting year this promises to be!
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Tradition, Tradition!
People are always talking about traditions at Christmas time. I had dinner tonight with a family whose tradition is fondue on Christmas Eve. They asked me if I had any family traditions for Christmas.
We always had pickled herring on Christmas.
Pickled herring is pretty much the only seafood product that I don't like. At all. I will eat almost anything that comes out of water. I cannot stand pickled herring. Seriously, pickled fish?
We had a lot of transition in my family, and thus, not much tradition. It equipped me well for ministry, which is change, change, change. Not so much for the congregation (if you want to keep your job), but for the minister. We move. We adapt to the traditions of our congregations. If we don't, we cause trouble. I've actually come to appreciate tradition, although I don't really get it. The stabilizing force in a community is tradition. The things we share, over and over. I'm very good with change, but not so good with continuity. It's taken me eight years to realize that most people's faith journeys are built around the things they do every season, every year, every week. I don't have that. I have change, and pickled herring.
My family is 1,500 miles away, and this is the tradition they have gotten used to: I won't be there. They will work out their plans with my brother and sister who are married and now have other traditions to be part of, and they will all know that I am not part of those negotiations. If I'm good, as I finally was this year, I'll manage to send boxes of gifts that contain the hope that my nieces and nephews will remember who I am, that I can somehow be a part of their lives even though they see me once or twice a year. I don't think it's working.
I don't want to move back there, and I can't - I've made a name for myself as a troublemaker, a liberal. I've made myself an east-coaster through and through. Where I grew up, I would be abrupt, aloof, rude. I'm the outsider, now. And I've started to put down roots where I am. When one of my kids fainted in the Christmas Eve service tonight, I thought, "This will be the thing I remind her of when she's a senior and moving on." I'm having a hard time imagining leaving, and that is the hardest thing of all, seeing myself as someone who might stay. I have a life here in a way that I haven't before, anywhere, and that in itself is scary, because what do I do when I have to leave? And even scarier, what do I do if I stay?
One of the many things that is hard about it is realizing that I might never be at another Christmas gathering where there is pickled herring, where it is the people who have known me my whole life, where they will put out crazy fish products because we're Scandinavian but know that I won't have anything to do with it. I haven't been there for twelve years. Chances are, I'll never be there again. I am, through and through, a minister. Even if I could be away for Christmas, I wouldn't. I've spent the last three years with a friend's family; this year I wasn't invited. It reminded me that I am still a guest. That's not my family. If I flew home tomorrow I could still show up, unannounced, for my own family's pickled herring day. Here, in the life that I could very well have for the rest of my life, I will have to be invited. There is always that chance that I may have nowhere to go.
It's Christmas, and more than any other day of the year, I don't know who I am or where I belong. Home is my apartment, my dog, my roommate, the life I've created for myself. But I come home on Christmas Eve and I wonder, why is there no pickled herring here? Or something else I come back to on a holiday, something I can call my own, something I don't have to be invited to? Where is the thing that will hold me together? What is my tradition?
We always had pickled herring on Christmas.
Pickled herring is pretty much the only seafood product that I don't like. At all. I will eat almost anything that comes out of water. I cannot stand pickled herring. Seriously, pickled fish?
We had a lot of transition in my family, and thus, not much tradition. It equipped me well for ministry, which is change, change, change. Not so much for the congregation (if you want to keep your job), but for the minister. We move. We adapt to the traditions of our congregations. If we don't, we cause trouble. I've actually come to appreciate tradition, although I don't really get it. The stabilizing force in a community is tradition. The things we share, over and over. I'm very good with change, but not so good with continuity. It's taken me eight years to realize that most people's faith journeys are built around the things they do every season, every year, every week. I don't have that. I have change, and pickled herring.
My family is 1,500 miles away, and this is the tradition they have gotten used to: I won't be there. They will work out their plans with my brother and sister who are married and now have other traditions to be part of, and they will all know that I am not part of those negotiations. If I'm good, as I finally was this year, I'll manage to send boxes of gifts that contain the hope that my nieces and nephews will remember who I am, that I can somehow be a part of their lives even though they see me once or twice a year. I don't think it's working.
I don't want to move back there, and I can't - I've made a name for myself as a troublemaker, a liberal. I've made myself an east-coaster through and through. Where I grew up, I would be abrupt, aloof, rude. I'm the outsider, now. And I've started to put down roots where I am. When one of my kids fainted in the Christmas Eve service tonight, I thought, "This will be the thing I remind her of when she's a senior and moving on." I'm having a hard time imagining leaving, and that is the hardest thing of all, seeing myself as someone who might stay. I have a life here in a way that I haven't before, anywhere, and that in itself is scary, because what do I do when I have to leave? And even scarier, what do I do if I stay?
One of the many things that is hard about it is realizing that I might never be at another Christmas gathering where there is pickled herring, where it is the people who have known me my whole life, where they will put out crazy fish products because we're Scandinavian but know that I won't have anything to do with it. I haven't been there for twelve years. Chances are, I'll never be there again. I am, through and through, a minister. Even if I could be away for Christmas, I wouldn't. I've spent the last three years with a friend's family; this year I wasn't invited. It reminded me that I am still a guest. That's not my family. If I flew home tomorrow I could still show up, unannounced, for my own family's pickled herring day. Here, in the life that I could very well have for the rest of my life, I will have to be invited. There is always that chance that I may have nowhere to go.
It's Christmas, and more than any other day of the year, I don't know who I am or where I belong. Home is my apartment, my dog, my roommate, the life I've created for myself. But I come home on Christmas Eve and I wonder, why is there no pickled herring here? Or something else I come back to on a holiday, something I can call my own, something I don't have to be invited to? Where is the thing that will hold me together? What is my tradition?
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Annual Celebration of Exhaustion and Inadequacy
Sometimes I wonder why we continually subject ourselves to modes of celebration that seem specially engineered to make us feel bad. Christmas is the prime example of this.
We spend hours/days/weeks shopping for the perfect gifts, so that we can worry about whether they're good enough (probably), whether they capture exactly what we're trying to express (no, it's just an object, you might have to actually say what you feel), whether we've spent equally on everyone so that no one feels bad (yes, but someone will still feel bad), whether it will arrive on time (probably not, as the postal service seems surprised every year by the amount of stuff that people want shipped), and whether we will ever be able to pay off our credit card bills (no, that's the whole point of credit card companies).
We create "traditions," which I have come to know alternately as "excuses to get mad when people don't do what I want." So instead of being happy about the celebrations we do get to have, we get to be angry because so-and-so has to work instead of coming to the family dinner, or Rev. Changeverything has picked the wrong carols for the Christmas Eve service, or the new sister-in-law is making roast beef! When everyone knows you're supposed to have ham!
Or, if we are me, "we" get to be a little depressed because somewhere, many miles away, there are family traditions happening without us, and all around us there are other people's happy gatherings happening, and every five minutes we are reminded of the fabulous gift someone else is getting, while we know that what we will be getting is a pound of Caribou coffee (which we love and look forward to for months, don't get us wrong) and some sort of decorative item from the parents, and that's about it. (Okay, I'll stop speaking in the royal we now.) And it's not really about the gift-getting. The fact is that no matter how much I hate all those diamond commercials, because diamonds are socially irresponsible and absurdly expensive and have no actual bearing on the quality of love between two people, they still remind me that there is no one in the world who loves me enough to even consider such a gift. That I will come home after working a bazillion hours on Christmas Eve to just my dog, and spend Christmas Day semi-awkwardly attending someone else's family festivities. For about a month, several times a day, I get the supreme joy of remembering that, despite the fact that I do have a lot of friends and a pretty active social life, there just aren't that many people who care all that much about me.
And if the self-pity gets to be too much, I remember the clergy who have spouses/kids/closer families and how their holiday is so often spent juggling church and family gatherings, feeling guilty about sacrificing family time for work or vice versa, and not really getting that reprieve that I get when all the services are done and I can just sleep and not worry about being "on" for anyone else. And the other people in the world who don't just feel a sense of aloneness, as I do, but genuinely are without family, friends, or a faith community (all of which I have and am grateful for, when I can get over myself).
Its all just a lot of pressure for a holiday that got its start in a stable.
I wish I could be a like more Jesusy about the whole thing, a little less self-absorbed, a lot less sad. I'll get there around Christmas Eve. And there's something very Advent about feeling the darker side of the holidays, something very "in sin and error pining" about experiencing some sense of loss and lacking before the celebration of hope and joy. At least that is what I'm telling myself.
We spend hours/days/weeks shopping for the perfect gifts, so that we can worry about whether they're good enough (probably), whether they capture exactly what we're trying to express (no, it's just an object, you might have to actually say what you feel), whether we've spent equally on everyone so that no one feels bad (yes, but someone will still feel bad), whether it will arrive on time (probably not, as the postal service seems surprised every year by the amount of stuff that people want shipped), and whether we will ever be able to pay off our credit card bills (no, that's the whole point of credit card companies).
We create "traditions," which I have come to know alternately as "excuses to get mad when people don't do what I want." So instead of being happy about the celebrations we do get to have, we get to be angry because so-and-so has to work instead of coming to the family dinner, or Rev. Changeverything has picked the wrong carols for the Christmas Eve service, or the new sister-in-law is making roast beef! When everyone knows you're supposed to have ham!
Or, if we are me, "we" get to be a little depressed because somewhere, many miles away, there are family traditions happening without us, and all around us there are other people's happy gatherings happening, and every five minutes we are reminded of the fabulous gift someone else is getting, while we know that what we will be getting is a pound of Caribou coffee (which we love and look forward to for months, don't get us wrong) and some sort of decorative item from the parents, and that's about it. (Okay, I'll stop speaking in the royal we now.) And it's not really about the gift-getting. The fact is that no matter how much I hate all those diamond commercials, because diamonds are socially irresponsible and absurdly expensive and have no actual bearing on the quality of love between two people, they still remind me that there is no one in the world who loves me enough to even consider such a gift. That I will come home after working a bazillion hours on Christmas Eve to just my dog, and spend Christmas Day semi-awkwardly attending someone else's family festivities. For about a month, several times a day, I get the supreme joy of remembering that, despite the fact that I do have a lot of friends and a pretty active social life, there just aren't that many people who care all that much about me.
And if the self-pity gets to be too much, I remember the clergy who have spouses/kids/closer families and how their holiday is so often spent juggling church and family gatherings, feeling guilty about sacrificing family time for work or vice versa, and not really getting that reprieve that I get when all the services are done and I can just sleep and not worry about being "on" for anyone else. And the other people in the world who don't just feel a sense of aloneness, as I do, but genuinely are without family, friends, or a faith community (all of which I have and am grateful for, when I can get over myself).
Its all just a lot of pressure for a holiday that got its start in a stable.
I wish I could be a like more Jesusy about the whole thing, a little less self-absorbed, a lot less sad. I'll get there around Christmas Eve. And there's something very Advent about feeling the darker side of the holidays, something very "in sin and error pining" about experiencing some sense of loss and lacking before the celebration of hope and joy. At least that is what I'm telling myself.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Advent Schmadvent
Like a lot of clergy I know, I'm quite attached to Advent - as in, observing Advent before we celebrate Christmas. Like a lot of churches I know, my congregation is not so much into Advent. They want to sing Christmas carols in, like, July or something. I've been fighting the good fight on this one for quite some time, through a college chaplaincy and three congregations, and I've gotta say, I'm about ready to throw up my hands and just let them sing "Jingle Bells" every Sunday from November on. I'm tired. It's exhausting trying to convince people that delayed gratification is a good thing, that a time of contemplative waiting is in order before we pull out all the bells and whistles, that we really are still a people in waiting for God, that the assumed happiness of the holidays is difficult for many people, that sometimes we need a little quiet in the midst of all the cultural pressure to be jolly.
I don't want to explain these things anymore. I don't want to spend Advent fighting over every little thing. And it seems that in order to do that, I may just have to step back and say, "Fine, rush right into presents and parties and jumping for joy, and forget all about the reason it all happened in the first place."
Yes, I am feeling cynical and annoyed today, why do you ask? I have something more constructive brewing in my mind about Christmas traditions, but it'll have to wait until I can stop rolling my eyes.
I don't want to explain these things anymore. I don't want to spend Advent fighting over every little thing. And it seems that in order to do that, I may just have to step back and say, "Fine, rush right into presents and parties and jumping for joy, and forget all about the reason it all happened in the first place."
Yes, I am feeling cynical and annoyed today, why do you ask? I have something more constructive brewing in my mind about Christmas traditions, but it'll have to wait until I can stop rolling my eyes.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
War on Christmas
So apparently there is a War On Christmas happening. Have you heard? The poor, beleaguered Christians are being subjected to such violent acts as - drumroll, please - having store clerks wish them "Happy Holidays." Children in school may be forced to endure generalized seasonal festivities instead of being taught about the birth of Jesus by public school teachers who may or may not know or believe anything about that event. How very appalling.
'Tis the season to be cranky and demanding, it seems. I can't turn around or log onto Facebook without someone complaining about "taking the Christ out of Christmas." Since I'm a minister, a professional Christian if you will, I wonder to myself, "Is this something I should be upset about?"
So, I go to the Rite-Aid, where the woman at the register cheerfully wishes me happy holidays, and this feels to me like a pleasantry, not an attack on my faith. At the same Rite-Aid, I can buy a button that says, "Jesus is the Reason for the Season," a nativity scene, and ornaments with angels, Jesus, and Mary on them. "Joy to the World" and "O Come, All Ye Faithful" are piped over the speakers. If I were a celebrator of Hanukkah or Kwanzaa, I'd be out of luck in the music and product departments. My visit to the store doesn't make me feel persecuted for my faith; if anything, it makes me feel unnecessarily privileged.
The kids in my youth group have holiday parties instead of Christmas parties at school, it's true. They also have their major school breaks structured around their religious holidays, so they never have to worry about how to manipulate their schedules to allow for both school and religious observances. And they learn about their faith from their parents and the church people who have taken baptismal vows to them, people who know and care about Christian faith, not from teachers whose training and jobs are to instruct kids in academic subject matter. In return, I don't have to teach them about math, for which everyone is grateful.
This country that is supposedly waging a war on Christmas is also a country where a presidential campaign is peppered with discussion of whether a Mormon is Christian enough to be electable. The last election involved accusations that Obama was a secret Muslim. We've had some Unitarian, deist, and non-affiliated presidents, but it's been quite some time (80 years or so, if my brief Google search is correct). Now the assumption is that only a Christian would be electable as president, even though the we have no law regulating the religious beliefs of any elected official.
All of this is to say, we're not exactly being persecuted. Despite separation of church and state, despite declining church attendance, Christianity is still the cultural norm.
Which leads me to the thing that really bugs me about all this "war on Christmas" business. Christians complaining about being persecuted. Not because they're being imprisoned or killed for their beliefs, but because a store dares to ask its employees to be sensitive to the fact that not everyone passing through their lines will be Christian. Because the government protects kids from having religion - any religion - forced upon them in what is supposed to be an environment where all kids are welcome. Methinks the definition of persecution may be a bit skewed here. And really, you're going to whine about corporations and government agencies persecuting you because of your Christian faith? Have you ever read the gospels? Remember that Jesus guy? It seems to me that we shouldn't be surprised not to have everyone go merrily along with our beliefs, since we follow someone who was killed for his. Just a thought.
'Tis the season to be cranky and demanding, it seems. I can't turn around or log onto Facebook without someone complaining about "taking the Christ out of Christmas." Since I'm a minister, a professional Christian if you will, I wonder to myself, "Is this something I should be upset about?"
So, I go to the Rite-Aid, where the woman at the register cheerfully wishes me happy holidays, and this feels to me like a pleasantry, not an attack on my faith. At the same Rite-Aid, I can buy a button that says, "Jesus is the Reason for the Season," a nativity scene, and ornaments with angels, Jesus, and Mary on them. "Joy to the World" and "O Come, All Ye Faithful" are piped over the speakers. If I were a celebrator of Hanukkah or Kwanzaa, I'd be out of luck in the music and product departments. My visit to the store doesn't make me feel persecuted for my faith; if anything, it makes me feel unnecessarily privileged.
The kids in my youth group have holiday parties instead of Christmas parties at school, it's true. They also have their major school breaks structured around their religious holidays, so they never have to worry about how to manipulate their schedules to allow for both school and religious observances. And they learn about their faith from their parents and the church people who have taken baptismal vows to them, people who know and care about Christian faith, not from teachers whose training and jobs are to instruct kids in academic subject matter. In return, I don't have to teach them about math, for which everyone is grateful.
This country that is supposedly waging a war on Christmas is also a country where a presidential campaign is peppered with discussion of whether a Mormon is Christian enough to be electable. The last election involved accusations that Obama was a secret Muslim. We've had some Unitarian, deist, and non-affiliated presidents, but it's been quite some time (80 years or so, if my brief Google search is correct). Now the assumption is that only a Christian would be electable as president, even though the we have no law regulating the religious beliefs of any elected official.
All of this is to say, we're not exactly being persecuted. Despite separation of church and state, despite declining church attendance, Christianity is still the cultural norm.
Which leads me to the thing that really bugs me about all this "war on Christmas" business. Christians complaining about being persecuted. Not because they're being imprisoned or killed for their beliefs, but because a store dares to ask its employees to be sensitive to the fact that not everyone passing through their lines will be Christian. Because the government protects kids from having religion - any religion - forced upon them in what is supposed to be an environment where all kids are welcome. Methinks the definition of persecution may be a bit skewed here. And really, you're going to whine about corporations and government agencies persecuting you because of your Christian faith? Have you ever read the gospels? Remember that Jesus guy? It seems to me that we shouldn't be surprised not to have everyone go merrily along with our beliefs, since we follow someone who was killed for his. Just a thought.
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