Reclaimation
Today, I stood in my shower in utter despair. I ceased to believe in the possibility of change. Amidst the horrors of humanity implied by these election results, I couldn't imagine a world in which anyone's heart could be moved. My hope was gone, my call to ministry shattered. Why bother?
And then I remembered.
I remembered a People who had faced this despair.
Who were brought out of bondage only to be left wandering in the wilderness.
Who were conquered again and again but held fast somehow to the knowledge of Who they Are. Who in exile clung all the tighter to the markers of their identity, lest they forget to whom they belong.
Who knew Justice had come to set them free again and who rallied and fought for a better world. They truly believed it was happening before their eyes and under their hands. And then they watched that hope be crucified. What was left for then that evening but despair?
And so, though I've been feeling my way back into the intentional following of Jesus' examples of life and ministry for quite some time now, I think today is the day I reclaim for myself the title of Christian. Christianity gives shape and form to my Unitarian Universalism, like a skeleton shapes the body; my Unitarian Universalism gives life to my Christianity, like the flesh on a skeleton.
When the Pulse massacre happened, it suddenly became important for me to own my queer identity, though I'd been living inside it for some time. Today, I am determined not to let the identity "Christian" be defined by division, fear, and hate.
It is Good Friday in my heart. Justice has been crucified and laid in a tomb guarded closely that I may not remove it or bring it back to my people. Holy Saturday will be long--four years, at least, I'd guess. And until I remembered this story, which despite everything is rooted in my soul and my soul in it, I despaired. Remembering is the glimmer of a beginning of a new foundation for hope.
Hope of resurrection. Hope of the spirit of Justice, Compassion, and Love rising up out of the tomb and dispersing through all the people. I haven't learned much yet in seminary about the early church, but they had a boundless (possibly groundless) hope that got them through. A hope so big that it might just get me through, too.
This is not hope in an anthropomorphic sky god, or in a man more divine than any other. This hope in the resurrection of the SPIRIT, in the priesthood of all believers...hope that in the midst of despair, when all hope feels truly lost, we can and will, together, become Justice.
And then I remembered.
I remembered a People who had faced this despair.
Who were brought out of bondage only to be left wandering in the wilderness.
Who were conquered again and again but held fast somehow to the knowledge of Who they Are. Who in exile clung all the tighter to the markers of their identity, lest they forget to whom they belong.
Who knew Justice had come to set them free again and who rallied and fought for a better world. They truly believed it was happening before their eyes and under their hands. And then they watched that hope be crucified. What was left for then that evening but despair?
And so, though I've been feeling my way back into the intentional following of Jesus' examples of life and ministry for quite some time now, I think today is the day I reclaim for myself the title of Christian. Christianity gives shape and form to my Unitarian Universalism, like a skeleton shapes the body; my Unitarian Universalism gives life to my Christianity, like the flesh on a skeleton.
When the Pulse massacre happened, it suddenly became important for me to own my queer identity, though I'd been living inside it for some time. Today, I am determined not to let the identity "Christian" be defined by division, fear, and hate.
It is Good Friday in my heart. Justice has been crucified and laid in a tomb guarded closely that I may not remove it or bring it back to my people. Holy Saturday will be long--four years, at least, I'd guess. And until I remembered this story, which despite everything is rooted in my soul and my soul in it, I despaired. Remembering is the glimmer of a beginning of a new foundation for hope.
Hope of resurrection. Hope of the spirit of Justice, Compassion, and Love rising up out of the tomb and dispersing through all the people. I haven't learned much yet in seminary about the early church, but they had a boundless (possibly groundless) hope that got them through. A hope so big that it might just get me through, too.
This is not hope in an anthropomorphic sky god, or in a man more divine than any other. This hope in the resurrection of the SPIRIT, in the priesthood of all believers...hope that in the midst of despair, when all hope feels truly lost, we can and will, together, become Justice.
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