Let me make the following clear. I am NOT a scientist. I am NOT an elected official. Therefore when it comes to our response to the COVID-19 pandemic, I have very little scientifically or politically helpful to say. I am following what the CDC recommends and what my own governor, a rational and capable man, is advising. Stay home. Wash hands often. Stop touching your face (okay I really stink at this). Cough into your elbow. Physical distancing: 6 feet please. Drink, eat, and knit. Maybe the CDC didn’t advise that, but I think it’s a good idea to explore butter’s multiple options, drink things 21 and under shouldn’t, get chicks, and finish some knitting projects or just start some new ones. But I am a minister, and I do have something to say about Easter and COVID-19. I am bereft. Bereft seems the only word strong enough to describe my grief and disappointment. This is how my COVID-19 denial went in regards to Easter: When schools closed I was hopeful things would reopen by Easter. When that seemed unlikely, I was hopeful I could still gather people outside for a sunrise service. Then a clown made ridiculous comments linking Easter and the economy. Is he aware that Jesus was a radical socialist who insisted that if you really wanted to follow him you should sell all you have (Luke 18)? I digress. Perhaps the most stunning quote, it would be “beautiful to see packed churches for the holidays.” (You can read a more thorough account of the controversy). A beautiful packed church is not my idea of Easter and I am a minister. I don’t even associate the word holiday with Easter since before I was born the word holiday, which originally denoted a holy-day, was co- opted to describe a time gathering with family and friends to eat. But Easter’s not about family, friends, candy, eggs, or bunnies. It’s also not about packed churches. Easter is about spiritual community gathered to celebrate new life. The folks who show up, honestly and vulnerably Sunday after Sunday, bearing their burdens, sharing their joys and doubts, seeking answers, offering comfort, praying for everyone and anyone, welcoming the stranger, living through the beautiful and terrible world together. Why do I care so much if I gather with this community on Easter? The answer is simple: the Resurrection. The resurrection is the final answer God offers. It is the assurance in this uncertain COVID-19 isolated world. The resurrection is hope in the face of despair, comfort in the face of cruelty, love in the face of hate, presence in the face of loneliness. Easter is not a “beautiful day.” Easter is the empty tomb, the defeat of suffering and death. For many of us who plod through this life week in and week out trying our best to live as faithful disciples we need to hear again, in community, the story of the empty tomb on Easter. That story of life after death, of love more powerful than fear, sustains us in life. And that story is the antidote to what we face now. I have been privileged, as a christian minister, to preach the resurrection for 18 years. This Easter, as I proclaim the ancient words, “He is Risen!”, I will do so from my home, looking at a screen. I know my community will respond, “He is Risen Indeed!”, but probably in an unnatural cacophony as the internet scrambles our voices. The words will carry the same meaning they have for thousands of years. Yet bereft I remain: I want to shout these words in person to the people with whom I share this christian journey. I want to feel the collective hope that rises between us as we remember again that the resurrection is the final answer. I want to serve communion, sing together (in one place), hold hands, hug friends, snuggle babies, watch children play, comfort and be comforted with a pat on the back. I want community, real community in a real place, but I won’t get that this Easter. We will all be online instead. Perhaps this Easter is the Easter in which we most need God’s final promise: Jesus is Risen Indeed.
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“Am I my brother’s keeper?” It’s an age-old question. Cain was the first to ask. He killed his brother Abel in a jealous rage (Genesis 4). God asks Cain what has happened to Abel and Cain responds, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” God knows that Cain has murdered his brother. It’s not complicated detective work. There are only four people living on earth at this point: Cain and Abel and their parents, Adam and Eve. The particulars of the story are less significant. Even as a kid I knew the story of the first human family was implausible: if Adam and Eve were the first people and they had two sons, where did Abel and Cain’s wives come from? I digress. What the story tells us about human nature is what matters most. This is why the story has lasted throughout time. It tells us that from the beginning, violence and jealousy have been a part of our human story. It tells us that selfishness has been as well. Perhaps these two go hand in hand. How else could Cain have killed his brother and then respond to God in such a callous way, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?” Recently I have been overwhelmed by the callousness of humanity. If I am to be honest, I also witness on a daily basis the generosity and goodness of humanity. That said, I have been shocked by the unbridled nationalism that has flooded our country’s collective psyche. This nationalism seems too often coupled with violence (think Charlottesville) and jealousy (think “They’re taking our jobs!”). How could a country that erected the Statue of Liberty, whose plaque reads, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” turn away desperate families seeking asylum at our southern borders? Our nation is asking once again the age old question, “Are we our brothers’ and sisters’ keepers?” The answer for some is clearly, “No.” This NO is evident as we build walls, expand detainee camps, and deport people who came to America so young that they don’t know anyone in their country of origin. This NO is evident when we respond angrily on social media, “They would be welcomed if they came legally like the rest of us!” This NO is evident as we scoff at the desperation of young families who have walked for months seeking safety, and as we ignore children locked behind barbed wire, separated from their parents. I can just imagine everything that raced through Cain’s head before he responded to God: Don’t blame me. Not my problem. Not my responsibility. Abel thought he was better. He deserved what he got. Anyhow his death isn’t my fault-- you’re to blame. You favored him. Cain’s explanation rings as hollow as the nationalists’ declaration that the only way to keep our country safe is by keeping everyone different out. Not my problem. Not my responsibility. Let someone else deal. Me first. America first. End of story. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain asked. The answer to Cain’s question from a Christian perspective is simple: YES. You are your brother’s keeper. You are your neighbor’s keeper. You are your annoying co-worker’s keeper. You are even your mother-in-law’s keeper. You are your community’s keeper. You are the keeper of the dehydrated child, clinging to her parents as they seek safety in a new land. You are the keeper of the many separated families locked in detention centers. Yes, you are your brother and sister’s keeper. Before Cain murders his brother, God tells Cain he has a choice. He can, if he chooses, master his sin (Genesis 4:7). We still possess this choice. We can choose denial and ask the maddening question, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Or we can choose to live utterly interconnectedly, seeing ourselves as deeply related to all within our human story. We can choose to respond in a way that includes all and even at times places others before ourselves. We can welcome asylum seekers across our border and offer them safety and shelter and even love. We can say yes, come not only into my backyard, but come into my home as well. We can build longer tables instead of taller walls. We can say, “Yes, we are each other’s keepers.” If you truly love Disney and cherish the time you have spent there with your loved ones, please do not read this blog. Really. I can’t come up with anything bad to say about someone who spent quality time with people they love at an amusement park. I’m glad you enjoyed it so much. Cherish your memories. Many people I love and respect think Disney is the best family vacation possible. If you went to Disney, however, and wondered why you didn’t enjoy it, please feel free to read my blog. One more time just to be clear: I AM NOT CRITICIZING ANYONE who enjoys Disney! Good for you. I didn’t. And that’s okay. We do not need to be the same. Instead, I am critiquing our culture, which is very different from than individuals. I can’t stand matching bedroom furniture sets. I’ve never liked things that seem too perfect. I would rather have flawed than perfect anyday. And fake? Forget it. Fake makes me cringe. Disney is fake. And when I say fake, I mean it is epic fake. I anticipated glossy, happy fake, but not disgusting-make-me-want-to-flee fake. Disney is so fake that I wondered if they vacuum up your farts as you walk through. Disney is so fake that the dancing-singing-parades are filled with wigged actors who don’t sing, but obviously mouth the words. It’s not like they even tried to convince you they were singing. I wondered if after each parade their faces hurt from all that forced smiling. Disney is so fake, they've created their very own fake American town that represents white small town Americana. We just returned from Orlando. We’d never taken our kids before and it felt like an American parental obligation we had to fulfill. Not to mention, we are Harry Potter addicted. We went to visit Harry Potter Land at Universal Studio and drink butterbeer. It was thrilling to be physically inside our imaginations as we turned the bend into Diagon Alley and rode on the Hogwarts Express. The following day we headed to Disney for our nine year old. And she loved it, mostly. She couldn’t believe people did it every year, but she delighted as we sat in a half seashell to be taken under the sea and sing along with the little mermaid. I was pleased to spend time with my nine year old, grateful to be out of the routine. Unfortunately, I could not shut off my brain, as much as I tried. I expected expensive commercialism. I didn’t expect to be repulsed by the collective embrace of fake. There were crowds of multiple families wearing a t-shirt that read Best Day Ever. Something about this statement cut me like a knife. I wondered if this was their best day, waiting in lines and buying overpriced everything. How much of life were they missing? Some of my best days have been unplanned, unexpected, and filled with flaws. In fact, some of my best days have been so flawed that it gave me the needed perspective to embrace the abundant grace in my life. One of my best days was spent in my childhood friend’s hospital room after she was diagnosed with leukemia. I snuggled in bed with her and later cropped her hair short in readiness for chemo. I anointed her shorn head with holy water from a sacred spring in Ireland as we sobbed. Perfect? No. Fake? Absolutely not! Filled with meaning beyond words as my dear friend bared her soul to me, crying her fear, and listening again to words of comfort from the Psalms? Yes. I learned about courage, miracles, and lasting childhood friendship that day. It was one of the best and hardest days of my life. I wonder if the day Mary gave birth to Jesus was the best day ever. From a distant view, the day God decided to come and live among us so that we would know love, sounds like the best day ever. But Mary was a homeless teenager, forced to give birth far from her mother and the women of her village. She had no place for her newborn child so she laid him in a dirty manger (a feeding trough). In fact, my guess is that the living conditions in which Mary found herself laboring and then later nursing her newborn baby were anything but perfect and definitely not hygenic. She labored among animals and their excrement. Did you really read that? Jesus was born, slept, and nursed right in the middle of animal shit. Does Not Sound Perfect To Me. My guess is that some of you will be offended reading Jesus and shit in the same sentence. Sorry. But that is the truth. That is real. That is not fake. God’s lungs filled for the very first time with pungent air. Jesus’ arrival into the world was difficult. It was messy. It was dirty. It was anything but perfect. It was also real. That same day shepherds arrived in the dirty space to glimpse the baby whose birth was proclaimed by angels. Angels who sang with their own voices music so beautiful that the heavens burst forth. They did not wear wigs or lip sync. The shepherds ran to see Jesus; they did not have time to wash weeks of filth from their faces and hands. Nothing about that scene in Bethlehem was perfect. Nothing was clean or orderly or even planned. Instead, God entered our world in the midst of the very real beauty and chaos of life: animal smells, filthy faces, an exhausted mother, angels’ voices, rummaged bands of cloth, and a repurposed manger. In a world of fake news, I still crave the truth. In a world of Best Day Ever t-shirts and fake magical kingdoms, I still crave genuine. Even if that genuine is a scary diagnosis, pending chemo, dirty barns, or chaotic gatherings of shepherds and angels. Genuine lasts more than a day. It lasts a lifetime, and it transforms a life. I remember the first time I heard John 3: 16. I was 12. I was at Methodist Church camp and a counselor explained to me it was THE scripture: For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life. I remember the emotional and intellectual reaction I immediately had, God didn’t need to do that, as my well meaning camp counselor explained that Jesus died on a cross so that I could go to heaven. I remember wondering why God would need to kill someone else on my behalf. I wanted desperately to have a deeper relationship with God, because I truly loved God. John 3:16 was supposed to make everything clear to me, it was supposed to throw me fully into God’s arms, it was supposed to mark me as one of God’s saved. Instead the detailed explanation my camp counselor offered of dripping blood, crushed bones, and collapsing lungs repelled me. It has been a long and winding journey since that summer afternoon in a musty chapel at Finley Lake. I am proud of my 12-year-old self for knowing God didn’t need any blood to love me. And I am deeply indebted to the many theologians, biblical historians, and others who along the journey offered me an antidote for John 3:16. Let me attempt to lay out the theology behind John 3:16*. Simply, it’s about atonement. And just what is that? According to some, it is the reconciliation of God and humans brought about by the life and death of Jesus. It implies that Jesus’ sole purpose was to save humanity. This is why Jesus is referred to by some as a savior. Those who tag John 3:16 on bridges and overpasses have been specifically taught substitutionary atonement or sacrificial atonement. And how is that different from the above definition of atonement? It asserts that Jesus died on the cross as a substitute for sinful humanity. He was punished for our sins, in our place. Are you ready for this? Because it’s sick! This dominant theological view implies that God was hungry for revenge, because humanity had failed God over and over again. God could only forgive humanity—make things right between us and God—through a punishment so severe it ended in a gory, blood soaked death on an instrument of torture, the cross. Does this turn your stomach like mine? This violent view asserts that God and humanity could never be in relationship with one another unless God got blood, plain and simple. I flatly reject John 3:16. I vehemently oppose this concept of God. It is not true that God could only love me if Jesus died a brutal death. I believe John 3:16 glorifies violence and casts God as a child abuser. I’ve marked John 3:16 out in my bible. Instead, I have been made at-one-with-God because God’s endless grace has called out to me my entire life, like a mother calling their child inside for dinner at the end of the day. I have been made at-one-with-God because it was God who knit me together in my mother’s womb and this God has never left me. My God, the God Jesus calls out to as Abba (Aramaic for daddy) is as tender as my father was each evening as I crawled onto his lap as a child. My God does not hold a belt, waiting to whip me for my day’s transgressions. Nor does God hold a belt that he used to whip someone else for my transgressions. Richard Rhor points out that salvation is much more about at-one-ment from God’s side than any needed atonement from our side. Jesus did not come to change the mind of God about humanity; Jesus came to change the mind of humanity about God. God does not love us because we are good; God loves us because God is good. Nothing we can do will either decrease or increase God’s eternal and infinite eagerness to love! I was right as a 12 year old: God loves me regardless and I am free to wrap myself in God’s divine embrace always. So why the cross? Why was Jesus crucified? That’s for another blog. Stay tuned. And yes, you have permission to cross John 3:16 out of your Bible. You belong in the Christian community even if you think that God abhors violence instead of requiring it. Maybe you belong in the Christian community because you think that God abhors violence instead of requiring it. All that blood on the cross was sickening and had nothing to do with you. *I am not and do not want to be a professional theologian. If you need more information about theories of atonement or the historical emergence of atonement theology in the western church—contact me! I would be more than happy to point you in the right direction. This blog was first published in 2012. It has been updated some, but still reflects my irrational and joyful attachment to the resurrection. *Be warned, I am about to admit to complete, irrational, unreasonable belief.* I am a mostly rational person when it comes to faith. But there are a few things that I believe that are irrational—at least from a 21st century scientific perspective. The biggest: I believe in the resurrection hook, line, and sinker. The virgin birth—totally not convinced. I think Mary and Joseph had sex. Good for them! Jesus walking on water? Powerful metaphor. But the resurrection, I believe in literally, to my very core. Perhaps this is just faith. Perhaps this is just hopeful thinking. I’m not sure. I am a questioning believer and an adamant follower of Jesus. I’m not big on doctrine, but I’m an ordained minister—go figure? I’m the first person to admit I think the Bible is riddled with mistakes and even some blatant mistruths, that prayer is complicated and mostly only changes my internal attitudes, and the doctrine of substitutionary atonement (read my former blogs) is hog wash. Don’t worry; I can’t be kicked out of the church for saying these things. I’ve already broken my ties with any denomination. But the resurrection? The belief that Jesus was dead and three days later walked out of the grave, appeared to the women, stuck out his bloody hands to Thomas to reassure him, and then ate fish beside the sea shore with the other disciples who had fled and gone back to business as usual. Yes, I believe it all. A faithful companion along the journey commented: “Sorry, Abby, I can’t worship a zombie.” I respect that and even find the comment comically accurate. So why do I believe in the resurrection? I don’t have an answer. At least not a good answer. I can only offer the following: I believe in God and for this reason, I believe in hope, even when realistic people tell me to be hopeless. I gave up believing that God could rescue starving orphans, Haitians from earth quakes, a mother with debilitating depression, victims of violence, struggling families, a child with every learning disability known (my list could continue). So if I believe in a powerless God and every day I encounter the utter brokenness of this world, then what’s the point? I am left with no choice than to believe in a God who does something! I believe in a God who loves. I believe in a God whose love is more powerful, more healing, and more creative than anything we broken humans can imagine. I believe in a God who invites us into a dance of co-creating love. I believe in a God whose love is active in this world through this dance of co-creation. I believe in a God who grants hope to the hopeless. Real hope. What does this have to do with the resurrection? The resurrection is the ultimate expression of God’s co-creating love. God did not possess the sort of military power that could defeat the systematically violent Roman Empire. Hence Jesus died a brutal death on the cross. But God did possess the power of co-creating love that sprang Jesus from the grave. Together, Jesus and God defeated suffering and death with this co-creating love. The resurrection, the defeat of the grave, continues to offer today the final word: love! This final word gives me hope for the starving orphan, the depressed mother, the individual facing PTSD after a childhood filled with violence, the cancer patient, the Puerto Rican father rebuilding his community. The resurrection calls me to dance with love on my darkest days, when I am sure there is only suffering to be found in the world. The resurrection calls me to co-create in this world, instead of sitting and weeping. The resurrection calls me to roll up my sleeves, to pull out my check book, to fall to my knees, to utter a prayer, to hold on. The resurrection is God’s final proof that love is more powerful than anything else, even evil, even death. I know that what I believe can be questioned. I know my systematic theologian husband can poke holes in my argument. I don’t care. It’s what I believe. It’s the experience of one broken disciple, following Jesus, placing one foot in front of the other on the journey, and feeling powerlessness yield to an even greater power—love. Bad theology. What’s that? Bad theology is theology that hurts yourself and others. We’ll begin with the word theology, which scares some, but shouldn’t. Theology simply means “talking about God”. Bad theology, however, does not simply mean "bad talking about God." I have borderline bad talks with God all the time. For example, why in *bleep* are children being killed in schools like America has become some sick target practice? Deep down I know God isn’t responsible for school shootings, but I still have some pretty angry words for God, wondering why things aren’t shaping up better in this broken world. This is not bad theology. This is lament. There is a significant difference. Lament is good. The source of bad theology is distrustful religious leaders who desperately want to protect their power. The powerful use bad theology to control the powerless by enforcing uniformity. To expand our definition: Bad theology is religious rules proclaimed by religious leaders that excludes, isolates and harms. Bad theology is religious teaching that dismisses entire classes of people. And bad theology leads to verbal, emotional, physical, and sexual harm. Bad theology in itself has no power. Yet when these “rules” are institutionalized by the church, and often in the home, people confuse their religious leaders with God. These harmed individuals or groups feel God has rejected their identity and human story. This is exactly why naming bad theology is crucial work in the christian community. For centuries, the church and the “christian” home have denied people the experience of discovering God in the intimate unfolding of their story. We must return to just how those in power institutionalize rules to enforce their narrow, privileged worldview. Using religious language, these rules are referred to as doctrines. Doctrine is any set of beliefs taught by a church. Because we call these rules doctrine, instead of just plain old rules some human thought up, they take on a powerful authority. When these rules are institutionalized by the church, they are elevated to unchanging, immutable doctrine. These rigid rules, created by those in power, then shape our belief systems, hence the way we talk about God. Bad theology denies human experience, and the universal love of our grace-filled God. Instead, bad theology enforces institutional rules that preserve the privilege and power of those in power. I am a pastor of a progressive, emergent church that embraces only one rule: wear clothes to church, please. So why am I bothering with this conversation? There are many reasons. As engaged christians we should care about the repercussions of bad theology on God’s beloved children. But there’s a more important reason: spiritual abuse. Over the past 15 years of my ministry, an astounding number of individuals have shared with me their stories of spiritual abuse. Through heartbreaking stories, they have revealed their all too common stories of sexual, verbal, emotional, and physical harm inflicted due to doctrine. These stories are myriad: Children who were told to respect their horribly abusive parents, women browbeaten into subservience by their fathers and husbands, LGBTQ+ folks who were excluded from participation in their community and shamed for their identity, young children sexual abused by their religious leaders and sworn to secrecy, a woman shamed in front of her community for having sex before she was married, a young man who was told his entire family was destined for hell unless he converted them, parents who were instructed to beat their special needs child so that he would act like other kids, a young woman whose gifts for ministry were abundant, but was told she couldn’t preach because she was the wrong gender, a young man who was beaten regularly by his religious leaders for misbehaving, and more. Each story I have borne witness to was the result of bad theology. Each person believed that they deserved the abuse they endured. Each person believed that their suffering was God’s will. The first step to ending spiritual abuse is to name bad theology. The second step is to replace bad theology with an alternative: progressive, inclusive theology--theology derived from and consistent with the love teachings of Jesus Christ. Naming bad theology frees us to embrace the life giving love of God. Naming bad theology encourages us to shed the limits of human rules and embrace the limitlessness of God’s kingdom. Naming bad theology helps us to value the human story over ossified doctrine. Yes. Progressive. Progressive Christianity is a thing. In fact it’s a movement. Progressive Christianity is characterized by a willingness to question tradition, accept human & religious diversity, struggle for justice, care for the poor and oppressed, tend to the environment, and gather as a community in new ways. That just sounds good. What are Progressive Christians really about? Progressive Christians claim our identity as Christians and Progressives not because of what we believe, but because of what we do. Here’s the Top Ten List of things we “DO.” #1. Progressive Christians Pray. We pray as a spiritual discipline, but also as a means to ground us in our work. Prayer helps us do everything else on this list. #2 Progressive Christians Have & Enjoy Sex. We enjoy our sexuality within committed and loving relationships, believing fully that God created sex not just for procreation, but for enjoyment. #3 Progressive Christians Meet their Neighbors. Jesus commanded his disciples to love their neighbors. In our modern day culture, sadly, many of us do not even know the person or family who live right next door. Progressive Christians meet their neighbors and we build community where we are. #4 Progressive Christians Forgive. Even though it is difficult or emotionally inconceivable, we work toward forgiveness and reconciliation as Jesus taught, always mindful that forgiveness is a process. #5 Progressive Christians Struggle for Justice. We are engaged in a constant struggle for justice especially on behalf of those who Jesus names the least. Justice must be sought in every area of society for all people through many means from marching, to voting, to giving voice to the voiceless. #6 Progressive Christians Give. We give not just time, but money. We open up their wallets, swipe our debit cards, and write checks to support the important work of many, from cancer researches to refugee relief organizations, from local libraries to international NGOs. #7 Progressive Christians Participate in Community. We nurture our spiritual lives through the active participation in religious community in which our beliefs and worldviews are challenged and deepened by others. #8 Progressive Christians Care for the Environment. Climate change is real. We care for creation by first reducing, then reusing and recycling. And we do a lot more things actively, everyday, to reduce our carbon footprint, including voting, installing solar panels, and educating. #9 Progressive Christians Engage with the Other. We are not afraid of difference, but instead give thanks to God for the diverse beauty of the beloved community. We enjoy interfaith gatherings, learning about radically different lifestyles and cultures, and always welcome "the other" to be in community with us. #10 Progressive Christians Love. Everyone, actively, always. The hardest work there is, but without question the essence of what Jesus called us to do. I never believed Mary was a virgin. Even before I knew what “virgin” meant, I intuited there was something wrong about the word. My questions regarding Mary’s mysterious virginity were often met with whispers or “we’ll tell you when you’re older.” Later when I knew what the word virgin meant, I rejected that title for Mary even more vehemently. Mothers were a part of my daily life; in my limited experience as a child, mothers were holy regardless of their sexual status. From my own mother to my best friend's mother to the mother of the children I babysat: I knew a mother’s care was unrelated to her sexual proclivity. I suspected Mary loved her child wrapped in swaddling clothes the way all mothers I knew loved their children--deeply and devotedly. I also suspected, and later knew for a fact, that every mother did what the farm animals I saw growing up did. My mother had sex. My best friend’s mother had sex. The woman I babysat for had sex. Mary had to have had sex too. How else would she have become a mother? With no knowledge of IVF and little awareness of adoption, in my young mind, sex was a prerequisite to motherhood. Furthermore, sex did not make motherhood “yucky.” Instead, Hollywood made sex yucky. Therefore, I concluded with certainty: Mary was no virgin. So why on God’s green earth did the gospel proclaim that Mary was a virgin? Why did the early writers of scripture think it was necessary for Mary to be a virgin? Why couldn't we believe that, like the many women before who had become pregnant, she also became pregnant via sperm and egg, the natural sequence of procreation? I believe Mary’s pregnancy was undesired, not only by her, but by her community. Undesired (different from unwanted) pregnancies are a common occurrence. Most women unexpectedly find themselves pregnant at some point in their life. Depending on their circumstances these pregnancies range from a welcome surprise, to an inconvenience, to a deeply terrifying predicament. The factors surrounding each pregnancy are different, but for those women who find themselves terrified, it almost always has something to do with power. In Mary’s time if an unmarried woman was found to be with child there was one course of action: stoning. And there was nowhere to flee, because anywhere she fled, the rules would be the same. Women were the property of their fathers and then their husbands. Mary was without power. So why would Mary risk having sex? I think that Mary was raped, like so many women before and after her. As a powerless woman, she had no control over her circumstances, no protection from her attacker, no recourse to the law. Instead she was a young girl, betrothed to a man, who found herself confronting a death sentence. Historically we know that Mary lived in an occupied country. Ancient Palestine was under Roman rule. And if we can draw any inference from other occupied countries, violence was everywhere. Palestine was kept under Roman rule through the terrifying violence of its military. The likelihood that Mary was raped by a Roman soldier is high. My theory of Mary’s undesired pregnancy is this: like many other powerless women in Ancient Palestine, Mary was raped by a Roman soldier. She just happened to be one of the unlucky ones who became pregnant and could not blame her pregnancy on her betrothed. Thankfully for Mary, Joseph was a magnanimous and compassionate man. He protected Mary, accepted her as his wife, and spared her execution. He broke the rules in order to be kind, as would his son three decades later. *** So what does this mean about the Christmas story? Does it make Jesus no longer God’s Son? Does it make the whole story a filthy tale of sexual power? Why would I want to ruin the lovely story of the manger? I don’t. In fact, I am seeking to create a story more powerful and more consistent with the Gospel. Mary’s story has taken on an entirely new meaning since I have come to believe that she, like many women, was a rape victim. Mary's #metoo story speaks of a God who can transform violence into something whole. It is a story about the God who turns the crucifixion into the empty tomb. By nature, this same God would transform a violent rape into a magnificent child, with 10 fingers and 10 toes, wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger. And God did transform the unwanted sexual violence of an abusive occupier into a beloved child. And this child would grow to be a man who preached a redeemed social order-- a social order in which the first would be last, in which the occupier would be powerless. *** Is this really why the gospel writers chose to call Mary a virgin? Maybe. I can’t be certain, but it seems a perfect way for a male culture to hide the truth. For too long we have been hiding the insidious truth that many men use forced sex to dominate women. We have kept this secret of violence-sex-power for so long we can’t admit that maybe Mary was a victim too. So we’ve embraced her virginity and become complicit. Virginity was more believable than speaking the truth about sexual violence and harassment. But those days are done. The tide of #metoo cannot be held back any longer. And if you think there has been a tidal wave of #metoo confessions, just wait. There's a tsunami coming. Part of the tsunami is understanding and accepting the story of Mary's pregnancy. Maybe it wasn't a Roman soldier. Maybe it was a neighbor or Mary’s father. Regardless, Mary’s pregnancy was not of her own choosing. Yet the miracle of Jesus’ birth, the wonder of Mary’s courage, the beauty of the manger are not lost. Instead, it is as powerful as the stone rolled away. We are the people of a God who turns stories upside down, who transforms violence into new beginnings, crosses into empty tombs, #metoo stories into babies who grow to preach of an entirely new social order in which the first shall be last. *** *It is important for me to mention that I am not the first person to suggest that Mary was raped by a Roman soldier. In fact the first time I heard this theory suggested was by Donald Capps, my professor at seminary. But it dates back to Celsus, a second-century Greek opponent of Christianity. Sabbath. Remember? It’s one of the ten commandments. God is pretty clear when God commands us to take a sabbath. There is much in the scriptures that is very unclear. Sabbath is not one of them. “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor, and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the LORD your God. On it you shall not do any work, you, or your son, or your daughter” (Exodus 20.8). No excuses: we are to take a sabbath for a full day. Yet few of us do. If ever. Not even for half a day. People used to take the sabbath more seriously. Was it because they were more religious? Or was it because their bodies would have fallen apart if they did not rest from the exhausting toil of physical labor? I’m not sure. But I know that sabbath is important and elusive. For me, too elusive. I have discovered recently how essential sabbath is to our spirits. It was certainly essential to my family on our eighty-five day out west trip. Our entire family would reset after keeping sabbath on the road, ready for the next adventure, filled with gratitude for what we had seen, and grounded in the present. I was eager to remember this learning when we returned from our blessed sabbatical adventure a few weeks ago. (Yes, it is not lost on me that sabbatical and sabbath are related.) I wanted to hold on to sabbath. I made sure every week my calendar reserved a time for our family to have sabbath together--Friday night movie nights, Saturday campfires. I wanted to somehow hold onto the new internal clock our family had developed. But I forgot about myself. I ignored my own need to keep sabbath. Over the past three weeks, upon returning from my sabbatical, I’ve worked too much. This was to be expected. There was much to catch up on. Not to mention, I wanted to catch up, I was eager to be back at work. But then things spun out of control. For a nine day stretch I didn’t take a day off, or an evening off, or anything. I became grumpy and weary. Fortunately, the Holy Spirit seems to have an interesting and humourous way of doing her own thing. On Monday I had an eye doctor appointment, the usual see-how-much-vision-Abby-has-lost-this-year sort of appointment. The doctor informed me I was overdue for an eye dilation in order to check the health of my eyes. The doctor warned me I wouldn’t be able to read for at least two to three hours. Okay, I thought, I’ll be able to start work around 1:00. That’s fine. There were plenty of other things I could do. For some reason my eyes did not recover quickly. I wasn’t able to do any computer work or writing until late Monday evening. Really late. I tried and I couldn’t. The Holy Spirit had her way. Instead, I enjoyed a full life giving day of forced sabbath. I cooked and listened to a book and enjoyed my daughter. That night I fell peacefully asleep and did not wake in the middle of the night with racing thoughts. On Tuesday I didn’t feel frantic, wondering just how I would accomplish all the tasks before me. Instead I moved forward with my work gratefully. And it felt like overnight, somehow, my work list shrunk, as if someone else had edited it. I wonder how it would change our culture as a whole, not just on an individual level, if everyone took a day of rest? How can we in this postmodern world, where all of us carry our work around on our phones, carve out sabbath in our lives? We can’t inist our eye doctors dilate our eyes once a week, although I think that might help . . . . We have to change. We have to figure this out. We shouldn’t feel guilty when we’re being unproductive. We have to value our lives and our relationships more than success, more than our task lists, more than our wasteful busyness. The good news is that sabbath works, and keeping sabbath can change us and change the world. The challenge is to keep sabbath in a frenetic world. We need rest. We need sabbath. I remember vividly the confusion I experienced when half my sophomore dorm headed home for Easter. Why were they heading home? Didn’t they want to celebrate Jesus’ resurrection with their college community?
I preferred to stay at college with my faith community. At the University chaplain’s office I discovered my spiritual home. That Holy Week we gathered on Thursday for a candlelit meal and communion as the chaplain read the story of Jesus’ final meal with his disciples. The following day we shared in an ecumenical stations of the cross service in town. Easter morning there was a town-wide sunrise service and then a traditional Easter service later on campus. As the trumpets sounded and the massive chapel organ played “Christ the Lord is Risen Today,” I was sure anyone sleeping would be roused from their slumber. While I was growing up, at best my family made it to Easter. If they were feeling particularly religious we might make it to Palm Sunday too. So, I didn’t want to return home and miss the journey with my faith community through Maundy Thursday, Bad Friday, Holy Saturday, and Resurrection Sunday. I wanted the full experience, and I got it. And that first Holy Week transformed my understanding of Easter. At the age of 19, my definition of Easter did not include family brunch or daffodils (growing up in Buffalo I already knew daffodils were not an Easter thing) or dyed eggs or the Easter ham, and certainly not stories of bunnies or baby chicks. Instead, my newfound understanding was about a hope beyond imagining. This hope was not shallow or anemic, like a childhood wish, but a profound, shake you to the bones, turn the world upside down hope. It was a hope anchored solidly between Bad Friday and Easter Sunday. It acknowledge Bad Friday yet celebrated Easter Sunday. Some people would prefer to overlook Bad Friday and go straight to the good stuff, but not Joseph T. Nolan: Nobody warns, “So many shopping days to Easter!” No costly gifts, no monetary loss. Easter seems too easy. It is--if you forget about the cross. In my entire childhood upbring I never heard Easter spoken of in relation to the cross. Instead, if anything Easter came swiftly on the tails of crosses made of Palms. They were child-fashioned crosses--no nails, no crown of thorns. I may have been protected from the gruesome reality of the cross, but as a result Easter seemed of no more consequence than Valentine’s Day. |
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