#17: Smoke

Apparently, Fred Phelps died. I won't lie: I think the world is a little brighter without his footprint, though his actions will continue to reverberate for a long time. I'll admit: it's easy for me to let him slip from my mind. He never directly hurt me. I think his mission was disgusting, but my existence was not called a pestilence of the earth.

Last week, an old friend un-friended me on Facebook. I don't totally know why--though I have my guesses. I'm Mennonite, a pacifist, and in general fairly liberal. I'm not saying this friend isn't some of those things, but I think one too many peacenik-y links on Facebook was too many. I've written this friend twice since I was dumped, but the lack of response to both tells me it's over for the foreseeable future. I've had a busy week, so I haven't had a lot of time to reflect on this turn of events. I've finally had a minute to consider the end of the relationship: how I'd valued the fact that we were people with differing views who still managed to remain friends; how we talked about what we had in common rather than what we didn't; how I was a fool to think this friend valued our friendship as much as I did.

My temptation is to send one more message of anger and frustration, and spew the darkest bile at this friend, which is probably what some of Fred's victims want to do. This, of course, is on a much smaller scale than the anger of the LGBTQ community, and I don't mean to imply that this friend's behavior is anywhere near his behavior. It just made me realize how easy it is to let plain old hurt get the better of me.  I know that to let anger and hate pour from my fingers only hurts me in the end.

When I took the final driving test for my license, a wall of smoke from a field fire suddenly surrounded the car. I wanted so badly to hit the brakes, but I knew there were at least three cars behind me. So I carefully slowed down and drove through the smoke. The instructor said how calm I seemed and how I'd made the right decision. I think he was a bit surprised. I didn't admit it at the time, but I felt anything but calm. Somehow my body decided not to obey the frantic calls from my brain to stop. Frankly, I think that wall of smoke was the only reason I passed the test, because I nearly turned into oncoming traffic an hour later!

I hope I keep steady and that my fingers refuse to do what's in my mind.

#14: Standing With My Community

This is the letter I sent to Ervin Stutzman, regarding MCUSA's statement about the inclusion of LGBTQ members as pastors:

These last few days have made me angry, sad, and tired. Not only has my home state attempted to make discrimination (in the name of religious freedom) legal, my church has once again begged off the responsibility of standing up for the "least of these" in our midst.

That is where these people are. Right here, right now. Whether they are "out" or not, they have been quietly attending Mennonite churches since the beginning, bidding on quilts at relief sales, cooking food for potlucks, serving as ushers or nursery workers, even standing at the pulpit. And yet, when they finally garner the courage to let their true voices rise up and ask for an official setting at the table, we squelch their request beneath the words "Scriptural Authority," "God's Will," "Discernment," "Spectrum of Opinion," "Forgiveness," and "Task Force." 

I am tired of it. I am tired of people I love being treated as though they are unworthy of the priesthood of believers. I am tired of continuing the charade of "discernment," which really means "shut up and let the righteous speak." I am tired of the supporters of our mistreated brothers and sisters having to couch their words of change between phrases like "not that those against the LGBTQ community in church are bigots" in order to get their words of change at least given a breath's chance.

But you know, that's what we all really are. Bigots. Each time we look the other way when a minority is treated like a thug, each time we cover our ears when a disabled person is made fun of, each time we pretend a same-sex couple is only a pair of "really good friends," we have taken part in the system that puts us on the inside and others on the outside. We are all guilty of this.

I am not a theologian. My ethics come from life experience. As a child, I was taught by my Mennonite church to believe being LGBTQ was an abomination. But then I met these "abominations," and I realized how they are simply people with childhoods and histories and loves and hates like me. And that was it. They are like me, and I am like them. They are no more or less perfect than I am. They are my community, and I am not going to let the pleas for "discernment" muffle their voices.