Graduates: We commit ourselves to ongoing transformation in you (God) and through our relationships with our families, friends, and neighbors. May we practice forgiveness rather than frustration, reconciliation rather than resentment, and vulnerability rather than violence.

Faculty: Almighty God, we are humbled by our call as teachers and hold sacredly our commitment to teach and train our students. We stand amazed by their gifts and their talents and are confident that, with your guidance, they will be persons who stand as your word in this world. Grant them quickness of mind and warmness of heart.

(La Danse by Henri Matisse is “sort of” our school mascot)

Just a few things about the ceremony that reflect my school well:

• The graduating student speaker for the MACP program, Paula, shared her strong and kind feminist voice through the perspective of peace. In her stories, the faculty acknowledged her strength and voice and hoped for her that she’d fight when she’s called to fight, and to be a conduit of peace at all times. I love my school, my faculty, and my peers as we all struggle toward being peaceful agents in the midst of fighting for justice.
• PLAY. The faculty member who gave the charge to the graduating class, Dr. Steve Call, urged the graduates to always play. He quoted one of his academic supervisors, “You have to get old, but you choose to grow up” (or something along those lines). I was drawn to my own thoughts of play, believing that it is in play that life and death, grief and joy, loss and gain, ending and beginning meet. It is in play that life is processed and synthesized and loved. This graduating class plays well…and I hope that I will be able to say the same for myself.
• Which brings me to my last bullet point…I will be hooded in one year. That is all.

Second: Tomorrow is the Seattle Pride Parade. I am so happy to have friends (mostly non-gay) join me for this adventure. But, as I’ve been on this journey to establish and live into the pride I have for my own lesbianess, I am more and more aware of the gap in awareness (my own and others’). One thing that has come to my attention both through writing this blog and conversations stemming from my posts as well as discussions in my Therapy 1 class at MHGS is that most people are not familiar with reparative therapy (a.k.a. “sexual orientation change efforts”, SOCE, conversion therapy, reorientation therapy). This has been a major part of my story, and I hope to soon finish a blog post specifically about my experiences with and understandings of reparative therapeutic techniques. Just putting that out there. If you have specific questions about this that you would like for me to address in my post please leave your thoughts as a comment.

In the meantime, I raise my glass to celebration and pride!

(a photo I shot at last year’s parade!)

So, I thought I’d mark this last year, and the here-and-now present, by acknowledging my own seasons (of love):

• I was on a journey to find my voice as a Christian Lesbian (for some reason I wanted to capitalize Lesbian, who knows?). I am still on this journey. In the process of looking for my voice in this specific way, though, I’ve found myself. As a white, historically middle-class (meaning I’m a poor grad student now, but I’ve known life through the middle-class perspective), woman…I’ve discovered that there’s more to me. I’ve discovered that I have a beautiful feminist voice, one that seeks to bring justice to all gender and sexuality. I’ve discovered that I am feminine, that I love being a woman, that I am still in the process of becoming. I’ve (continued) to discover, too, that I love women. And I’ve uncovered a deeply theological but more importantly personal understanding of the Gospel as a calling toward embracing humanity, and nurturing the humanity in others, differences and all.
• In becoming more of me, I had to leave. I left my parents and my sister. I left my known Christian “family”. I left my understanding and certainty, my “knowingness” and rigidity, my beliefs and disbeliefs. I left God the Father and found God the Mother. I left what/who I should/must/need to be and found my desire and passion. I left my box and found a world. And, I left Beloved. Leaving, I’ve come to realize, does not mean that what is left is wrong or bad. Leaving, I now believe, nurtures growth and has the potential to honor what can no longer be, but what was and what is yet to be. I left me and found me. I never disowned, denied, abandoned, or compromised who I am in this process of leaving…in fact, quite the opposite is true, I integrated, offered great dignity to, and loved all parts of me–those left and those kept. I also discovered, though, that this western and urbanized world I live in does not tolerate leaving much at all.
• I fell in love with the question. I just finished reading a chapter entitled Dancing With Uncertainty from Irwin Kula’s book Yearnings: Embracing the Sacred Messiness of Life. Certainty, it seems, whether in the context of relationship, theology, therapy, or the past/future is binding and concealing. It is in uncertainty, in loving the question more than the answer, that surprise happens. Maybe that’s what I’ve fallen in love with: surprise. Either way, I am grateful for Kula’s words around dancing with uncertainty because it calls me to action, to movement, and to doing so unabashedly. When I considered what it means for me to dance in uncertainty within the context of relationship, this was my stream of thought:

This dance is an invitation to be who I am, to live intentionally into myself in relationship. Not knowing the response of the other/not dependent on the certainty of the relationship, but the freedom to offer my presence without compromise. Risking on behalf of the beauty of the relationship that is yet to be–and loving who I am with others.

• I’ve invited others to join me on this journey of exploring all the parts of who I am. And I have been pleasantly–and shockingly, at times–surprised by the amazing company I have gained. Both in “real life” and in blog land. I firmly believe that I know more of myself as I am in relationship with others. Though I have not been to church regularly in God knows how long (literally, God only knows), I have found my church in my friendships, often over a beer (or two) and good food. I have attended church religiously in the form of random adventures with my cohorts to sushi restaurants, Seattle parks, book readings, catching shows at the Tractor Tavern, Gypsy Adventure getaways, Compline services, and lounging in the (sometimes…well, actually, most times not at all) sun shiny outdoor cafés. It is so good to experience who I am as i am reflected by the others in my life, and it is in our difference that we find our sweetest connectedness.
• My very first post was essentially a poem illustrating “where I’m from“, and now I wonder even more about who I am now, and I am invested in the present. Recently, I’ve developed at least a rough draft of my therapeutic stance (what I would describe to my future clients what doing therapy with me would look like), and in doing so I have learned more of where I am now and how the past is alive in the present. So, I am dedicated to story, and I am dedicated to my intuition and my gut. Mostly for me…right now. Each day I learn more of what it means to listen to myself (my heart, my desire, my delight, my grief, my being). And it is so good.
• Lastly, I am learning and living by this: love begets love.

I am in love with life. I have held dear the moments, days, seasons of despair and grief, and I’ve danced well in life and delight. I have surprised myself and am grateful for growth and curiosity. Thank God I am here, in this place called Seattle, with the people I am with, exploring the messiness of relationship and humanity. Thank God I am me.

Here’s my cheers–I am raising my abundant glass, so to speak–to another week full of pride and hope and to another season (year) of dancing with abandon into all of who I am.

(Illustration credit to Huch MacLeod at Gapingvoid)

She’s Crazy

Have I told you that I’m kinda crazy?

Sometimes I hear voices that are telling me “to do..” or “not to do..”

Often times I wonder whose voices these are and ignore them or embrace them

Sometimes I like to skip on my lunch breaks, through the cross walks, in my business clothes

Often times people smile, rarely do they “care” in the way we fear they’ll care

Sometimes I am so distracted by creativity in living forms that I miss the social norms

Often times I welcome this “distraction” because it is really the way I learn to love

Have I told you that I’m kinda crazy?

Sometimes I am deeply wounded–and I wound–as I flail through relationships with the ones I love

Often times I cannot let relationship go because I see and feel and breathe the humanity that we share

Sometimes the roses in the beautifully manicured garden call my name as I wander by

Often times I pause and wait and listen with my ear close to the petals…just soaking in the beauty of the dandelions instead

Sometimes I experience more about life through plants, and dogs, and ocean shores, and birds

Often times I most fully engage this life through the delight and pain of relationship with humanity

Have I told you that I’m kinda crazy?

Sometimes people expect me to be something I am not, and so I surprise them

Often times I surprise myself most

Sometimes I cry when there’s laughter, I am silent when I “should” speak, I am curious when there’s judgment

Often times I struggle toward going with my flow, just being me

Sometimes I hear that who I am is not okay, that “how I be” is not even second best

Often times my authenticity is more crucial for my life than being first or best or “right”

Have I told you that I’m kinda crazy?

Sometimes I learn much of myself from the strange ironies painted in the shapes of clouds

Often times my translation of what the sky teaches collides with the grounded reality of where my feet travel

Sometimes I shout of different ways when I must keep quiet, I engage conversation when no one else wants to see

Often times I choose to play: when debate is on the table, it’s story I desire to hear and share

Sometimes I am not heard, or seen, or loved well, or noticed, or given space to be

Often times I make myself known through my creation; “in my foolishness I am a free being”

Have I told you that I’m kinda crazy?

Sometimes I prefer the chaos of wounded relationship to the neatness of isolated individuality

Often times it is in the places of most messiness that hope is most alive

Sometimes my friends become my family, my family become my friends, and I become sister, mother, lover , and kindred spirit

Often times I am most authentically myself as I live in all of these ways I am

Sometimes I still do not know who I am

Often times I just I am…crazy.

She must be something special. She is. Celebrate her.
She loved life and it loved her back. Celebrate her passion.
She listened to her heart above all other voices. Celebrate her wisdom.
She pursued big dreams instead of small realities. Celebrate her priorities.
She saw every ending as a new beginning. Celebrate her resiliency.
She discovered her real measurements had nothing to do with numbers or statistics. Celebrate her self-esteem.
She was kind, loving and patient…with herself. Celebrate her tenderness.
She woke up one day and threw away all her excuses. Celebrate her accountability.
She realized that she was missing a great deal by being sensible. Celebrate her spirit.
She turned her can’ts into cans, and her dreams into plans. Celebrate her goals.
She ignored people who said it couldn’t be done. Celebrate her independence.
She had a way of turning obstacles into opportunities. Celebrate her magic.
She went out on a limb, had it break off behind her, and discovered she could fly. Celebrate her faith.
She discovered she was the one she’d been waiting for. Celebrate her self-reliance.
She added so much beauty to being human. Celebrate her presence.
She walked in when everyone else walked out. Celebrate her friendship.
She just has this way of brightening the day. Celebrate her radiance.
She made the whole world feel like home. Celebrate her warmth.
She decided to enjoy more and endure less. Celebrate her choices.
She decided to start living the life she’d imagined. Celebrate her freedom.
She colored her thoughts with only the brightest hues. Celebrate her optimism.
She was an artist and her life was her canvas. Celebrate her brilliance.
She ran ahead where there were no paths. Celebrate her bravery.
She crossed borders recklessly, refusing to recognize limits, saying bonjour and buon giorno as though she owned both France and Italy and the day itself. Celebrate her joie de vivre.
She held her head high and looked the world straight in the eye. Celebrate her strength.
She not only saw a light at the end of the tunnel she became that light for others. Celebrate her compassion.
She designed a life she loved. Celebrate her joy.
She took the leap and built her wings on the way down. Celebrate her daring.
She said bye-bye to unhealthy relationships. Celebrate her happiness.
She remained true to herself. Celebrate her authenticity.
She made the world a better place. Celebrate her.

{She} …by Kobi Yamada

Paradoxical Ekklēsia

The Church is machine:

hard, metal, untouchable, unmovable, uncomfortable, dead material

is paralysis, is fortress, is blow horn

no silence, more declaration!

The Church is selective hearing—

God spoke, It Is Written, His Story, history

It is the constrainer, the pressure-cooker, the prison

In or out, no middle ground; one way, one truth, one life: one story

The Church is stagnant:

stationary, safe from harm, keeps the sheep from danger;

creates danger to keep its sheep safe from, creates (exploits) the margin

It warns its audience against difficulty and declares prosperity;

it offers shame when the gift of abundance is absent

The Church is not moved by or for difference

It actively shields itself from variety: man-woman, yes-no, saved-lost, straight or straight

It would rather the rainbow be black and white

—mostly white—

all other color is not…

The Church is square and its pews are full of square pegs:

perfectly the same, perfectly fraud

Its edges are rigid, strangers know well not to get too close

it’s how the Church “likes” it

The Church speaks a language of exclusion

the mother tongue meant for certain ears

silence and disengagement for the rest

The Church is a building, and, if set to fire, it will burn, vanish.

The Church is body:

felt, sweaty, bloody, living, breathing, caress-able flesh

is hands, is feet, is two ears and one mouth—

less talking more listening

The Church is space for hearing story—

all stories welcomed within her embrace

She is the container, the greenhouse, the safe haven

She holds and grows and protects her beloved: all are beloved

The Church is movement:

She is drawn to the margins; she dances through the heartbreak—

to the heartbreak, into despair, pirouettes of grace

She brings reason for redemptive hope

She is the lap on which we sit when it is too much

And her lap is big—big enough for all both-ands and neither-nors

The Church sways her hips to the music of the world

aching for rhythm and heartbeat—

transformed by the thump thump drumming of her creation,

welcomes transition toward newness

She lends herself toward others—

toward the otherness that is yet to fill her family

The Church is not blind:

she sees, she identifies, she validates difference

Not colorblind, not gender-blind, not human-blind;

She chooses to see, She can’t not see

She loves the rainbow, and she celebrates the diverse flavors of life

She defines color

The Church is poetry and she declares the prose and verse of her parish

She sounds like truth and justice—sounds of inclusion and acceptance

The Church is relationship, the embodiment of invitation

She is the union of bodies and spirits, the joining of life and death

The Church is me, and is found in you—

but She inhabits us

Communion is the taking in of all the circular and un-bordered truths of God

The Church: she lives and breathes,

She moves and speaks a language that all can understand: love.

Breastplate of St. Patrick

Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me,
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

I bind unto myself the name,
The strong name of the Trinity;
By invocation of the same.
The Three in One, and One in Three,
Of whom all nature hath creation,
Eternal Father, Spirit, Word:
Praise to the Lord of my salvation,
salvation is of Christ the Lord.

Today I am afraid of being the “token” lesbian. Actually, it is not that I fear that today I am the token lesbian, but that I will always be the token lesbian. I have come to discover that efforts toward social justice often require of the justice-seeker to be not only the spokesperson for the cause, but also the example–the living proof of cause. I continue to participate in my studies at Mars Hill Graduate School and hope for the progression of the Gospel within the context of the institution toward praxis as open and affirming for all peoples, regardless of sexual orientation. Within this work toward social justice, it is inevitable that I will be the token lesbian….most obviously because I am currently the only “out” lesbian in the school and I work on staff in a rather public position; and, also due to my  presence in this work and investment in hoping for the further growth of MHGS as a Christian academic and theological institution, and the Christian Church globally (as much as I hesitate to add that). I have a feeling that many minorities feel like the “token” sometimes. I just want my token to have worth and to be valued.

Beloved and I have a cockapoo, The Boy, who dictates much of our lives and occupies much of our conversation. The Boy has taught me many life lessons, but one that has had lasting impact is his lesson we’ve entitled “The Token Poo.” Most tokens are accepted as being “just-enough-effort”. Each night one of us takes The Boy out to do his “duty” before bedtime. Generally speaking, he’s pretty consistent and we don’t let him back in the house for the last cuddle of the day until he’s done both duties. He’s so eager to please–or he’s so desperate to get back in the house–that sometimes when he doesn’t even have to do his poopy duty he’ll do the squat and fake us out without producing the prize. Other times, he’ll work just long and hard enough to produce a “token poo”. Hardly worth the work, the token poo is just enough for The Boy to be let back in the house. We have to be consistent in our training, feeding, and caring for The Boy so that his token poos don’t become the most acceptable and expectable effort.

A token anything  is really not enough, and generally speaking, tokens aren’t good. A token is barely tolerable. I don’t want to be tolerated or written off, or “just accepted”. Neither do I want to be the token evidence for any movement toward justice…but, I want to be proof of justice, long-standing, pervasive, and transforming justice. So, with that said, I am preparing to be the token lesbian at a first-ever event at MHGS meant to provide the context for which the community can have a facilitated conversation specifically about gay Christians. We’re starting this process simply by watching “Through My Eyes” as a community and then having a short discussion afterward. This is huge movement toward stimulating conversation in our community about the integration of sexuality and spirituality beyond what I have initiated (and I really have nothing to do with this event except that a few months ago I requested for the library to provide the film for students and faculty to check out ). And I hope that this is not token. I don’t believe it will be. Really.

If it is a token effort, and when I am the token lesbian, I hope these tokens are valued, acknowledged, and cared for. When The Boy gives us a token poo, we are proud that he tried…especially when we know that he most likely doesn’t have to go but he gives us as much as he can to please us (the discussion of how I personify The Boy will have to wait for another time). I guess I want my “tokenness” to have worth. I want to know that my token lesbianness is cared for and acknowledged…and sometimes, I think, I just want to offer my tokenness for the sake of getting through it. The Boy knows that he has two mommies to cuddle with him and love on him, not to mention a treat, when he offers his token. I know that I have friends, allies,  and family who will be cheering for me on the sidelines and who will acknowledge me in the midst of the work toward social justice.

Thank you, to those of you, who “pick up” my tokenness. Who see me, and who call me to more.

The Spirit (likes to dress up…)

by: Mary Oliver

The spirit
likes to dress up like this:
ten fingers,
ten toes,

shoulders, and all the rest
at night
in the black branches,
in the morning

in the blue branches
of the world.
It could float, of course,
but would rather

plumb rough matter.
Airy and shapeless thing,
it needs
the metaphor of the body,

lime and appetite,
the oceanic fluids;
it needs the body’s world,
instinct

and imagination
and the dark hug of time,
sweetness
and tangibility,

to be understood,
to be more than pure light
that burns
where no one is –

so it enters us –
in the morning
shines from brute comfort
like a stitch of lightning;

and at night
lights up the deep and wondrous
drownings of the body
like a star.

Also quite helpful in my new endeavors toward a more holistically experienced spirituality, I have  held tightly to textural and artistically textual renderings of the Holy Spirit. One of these examples is an interpretation of Makoto Fujimura’s Golden Fire as a visual depiction of the Spirit as a cloud:

Golden Fire
2006
Gold leaf, ground minerals on Kumohada paper
124 x 89 inches

I, sometimes, want to be able to touch and feel, to speak and read, to contain and comprehend (at least in part) the Spirit. These are pieces of that–this poem and artistic rendering–allowing me to feel the Spirit differently and alive.

Today, day two of my second round of theology class, we read about and discussed pneumatology–the study of “spiritual beings and phenomena, especially the interactions between humans and God. Pneuma (πνεῦμα) is Greek for “breath”, which metaphorically describes a non-material being or influence” (thank you Wikipedia, for enhancing my laziness when it comes to defining such abstract concepts). Essentially, we’ve ventured into the messiness of studying the Holy Spirit. I read a few articles last term and then read a few more in the last week by Feminist theologians who have much to say about the Holy Spirit (and beyond). I found myself drawn to–and identifying with–Elizabeth Johnson’s (She Who Is) deliberation of the Spirit, Sophia. This naming of the Spirit is derived from the Old Testament Woman Wisdom. Integral to God’s creativity and encounter with humanity is the work of Woman Wisdom. And thinking of God as Trinitarian calls us to consider the wholeness of God–the Spirit, Sophia, as equally God as Christ and the Godhead–each of the Trinity with glorious particularities. Of course, feminist theologians have, for a very long time, fought for the freedom and validity of naming God and God’s Persons with female pronouns. This, though, to work to shift the pendulum from the extreme of complete male-oriented hierarchical understandings of God to a balanced, more authentic representation of God as encapsulating all gender and beyond. It was reading through Johnson’s writings last term that helped me re-frame feminism from understanding it as a women’s issue against men to (at least in the current theological realm) feminism being a call to wholeness for all genders and all peoples; it is about the work toward social justice and freedom for all oppressed peoples; it is about offering life when the cultural trend is a declaration of death. Yes! I am a feminist.

Side note: A number of years ago when I was part of a college student ministry I remember being given a book as a gift by a friend who was worried about my “susceptibility” to the feminist thoughts; the book is called The Feminist Mistake by Mary Kassian and is highly recommended by the likes of Beverly LaHaye. Kassian cleverly named her book, at least in part, in response to Betty Friedan ideas in The Feminine Mystique, published in 1963. Friedan’s thesis–as interpreted by Kassian–was that women had a mythological picture of women to live up to, and when they did they were unhappy. I’ve kept the book for the good memories (perhaps there’s some sarcasm here)…or just so I can poke fun at the gross misunderstanding  of feminism and the Conservative Christian Right’s efforts to maintain patriarchy at all cost (cost, of course, for women and other oppressed groups).

Johnson expanded on her understanding of the Spirit as an agent for justice and liberation….In my mind, this is how I have come to understand the Gospel, the incarnation of Christ, and the Creator’s  intent for creation: freedom and liberation. When we wonder where God is, or what God is doing when we are experiencing suffering and pain, Johnson offers that Sophia “like a midwife…works deftly with those in pain and struggle to bring about new creation” (Johnson, 136). Sophia, the Spirit, is the prophetic agent of God toward bringing life where there is death, the advocate for the voiceless, the teacher of justice and courage; Sophia is God, and God furthers the Gospel through fighting oppression and despair. Sophia is feminist. How’s that for provocative? (Chelle would be proud)

This morning, waking up to news of the horrific earthquake in Haiti, I wondered where the “midwife” Sophia was at work…laboring alongside those who are still lost, and those who have died, amidst the debris and fallen buildings; was she advocating for life in the face of literal death? Is/Was Sophia at work breathing, as the Spirit (pneuma) does, on behalf of those who are so shroud in grief that breathing is impossible while wailing and weeping? I believe so. Sophia is not a flowery or light-hearted God-Person. Sophia is the battle for life when the enemy is death and obliteration…the work of the Spirit, which is evidenced in the life of Jesus as he was always naming and countering the social oppression that was perpetrated by the mainstream, even cost Jesus his life. Sophia, in complete love, prophesies life…and this is a dangerous prophecy when it requires engaging death and the in between (like the labor pains, the time just prior to bringing new creation into being and there is no way around the tearing of flesh and riveting contractions for new life to exist). God is there, in Haiti, She has been breathing and laboring, and crushing death, and working toward life, and with the dying–perhaps even more presently felt and experienced in that moment, between death and life, than in any others. And the destruction continues, and death is real, and the suffering that identifies the Haitian people is so real. Sophia, maybe unlike I have ever imagined the Spirit to work before, is there “pouring water upon what is arid; healing what is hurt; making flexible what is rigid; warming what is freezing” (Johnson, 136), and breathing with those who cannot find their breath to do so alone.