Making the Cut

When I enrolled in my freshman year of college, I somehow managed to get a music scholarship, so I had to at least pretend to be a music major in order to collect that money. This required that I enroll in all the obligatory music theory and conducting classes and the interminable piano lessons. But I was most hopeful about joining the college choir. This choir had an amazing reputation, and I had always loved singing, so I hoped that I could pass the required audition. I was not accustomed to audition procedures, so I timidly offered the pianist my Mendelssohn piece, feeling very intimidated, standing in front of those stony-faced choir officers and conductor. I was thrilled later to find out I was one of only three freshmen invited into the group. However, my sense of acceptance and belonging into this esteemed choir stopped right there with the audition. All those upperclassmen were terribly unapproachable, and music majors have a reputation of being snobby and arrogant (no offense, Bobbie and Sondra). These folks were only interested in scoping out the competition and knocking out the prima donnas. Not only was I no competition to these people, I was invisible to them. Other choir members hardly spoke to me that first year; I doubt many of them even knew my name by the time we boarded a bus that spring for our choir tour to New Orleans. I cannot tell you how lonely Bourbon Street is when you are by yourself! There is a particular flavor of loneliness when you are with a group but not in it. The only time I felt an ounce of connection to any of those people was when we were actually singing. The fact that I survived and held on through all four years, eventually becoming the choir president, is a testament to, well—my love for beautiful music, and my stubbornness. But also, my need to belong and to fit in. I dropped the music major, but I picked up some friends and I worked hard to make that choir a more inviting place for newcomers.

We’ve all had times in our lives where we felt isolated, lonely, and excluded. It seems like a rite of passage during adolescence in particular, where many of us learn to hide parts of ourselves and pretend to be someone or something else in order to be accepted. Sadly, we often carry those “skills” throughout our adulthood and sometimes lose sight of our true selves completely. Other people with external or internal differences that set them apart from the norm also have a difficult time feeling included.

Belonging is about having a safe-enough environment where people can show up and be seen and accepted and valued just as they are. It’s a place where you fit in enough that you can be yourself. Belonging needs to include places beyond the home and the workplace. In the past, barber shops and beauty salons filled this need for some. More recently, Panera Bread and Starbucks have seized on that market. The church has historically offered THE primary place of belonging in our society. However, I wonder how many churches were or are actually places of true belonging. I believe a brief history of the Christian Church is instructive in regard to belonging. Since our time is limited, I’m going to attempt a speed history:

After Jesus died (or ascended into heaven, depending on your perspective), the early band of Christians were “out” and paganism and Roman mythology were “in.” Christians stuck together like glue, and belonging mattered, because they were persecuted mercilessly and sometimes literally gave up their lives for their faith and for each other. But then in 313 CE, Roman Emperor Constantine inexplicably decides to decriminalize Christianity, and 67 years later Christianity becomes the state religion of the Roman Empire. So suddenly, Christianity is “in” and paganism is “out.” But power and political prestige is not good for Christianity, which quickly develops creeds and ecumenical councils and hierarchies and litmus tests to clarify who gets to “belong”, and who gets “excluded” or shunned – or even executed.  This got worse with the Crusades in the 1100s (when Muslims were now “out,” in addition to pagans) followed by Inquisitions in the 1400s (when even other Christians were “out” for daring to believe even a little differently), followed by the Christian justification of imperialism, settler colonialism, enslavement, and genocide across the globe, rendering any non-European indigenous person “out.” We saw this again in the 20th century with the Holocaust. Christianity has developed a habit of claiming moral, legal, or religious obligations that enrich some and destroy others, all in the name of a God purported to love everyone and to offer the most ultimate belonging possible. Even today, in Western political circles, Christianity is “IN,” and everyone else is “OUT.”

So, congratulations! We made the cut, sort of. We’re in the choir. Now the question remains, do we want to sing along? An argument could be made that as soon as the Christian church was thrust into the mainstream and given power, it lost its moral compass. I believe the first century church had a much better grasp of offering belonging than its 21st century counterpart.

We can also look at belonging and the church in relationship to the major holidays that are being celebrated currently in the United States—Juneteenth and Pride Month. Both of these occasions honor people Christianity has marginalized.

While the North American colonialists engaged in a Christian-justified genocide against indigenous people here, we similarly justified enslaving and exploiting African people brought here against their will. The American South, again with the endorsement and full participation of Christianity, rationalized slavery with Biblical passages and with the directive to save the souls of “lesser” beings.

When Abraham Lincoln issued the Emancipation Proclamation in January 1863 that declared enslaved people free, the radical news was blocked in parts of Texas, where there was little Union presence. And so it was not until 2½ years later, on June 19, 1865, when Union General Gordon Granger arrived with 2,000 troops in Galveston, TX, to enforce the Emancipation Proclamation. Finally, the enslaved people in Texas learned that they were formally free. June 19th has become Juneteenth or Emancipation Day, and is now a national holiday.

Those of us with the benefit of more history understand that the “end of slavery” was merely the beginning of a long, tedious and often violent struggle for Black Americans toward full humanity, and full equal rights as US citizens. As of Juneteenth in 1865, Black Americans “belonged” legally as free people in the US, but they were not welcomed in a true sense of acceptance, celebration, and integration into the full life of United States citizens. They were allowed into the choir, but they weren’t given the music scores; they were bullied and ostracized in every way. Ongoing police brutality, disparate health outcomes, wealth gaps, and the need for a Black Lives Matter movement reminds us we’re still not there.

We at HCUCC are a largely white and Christian congregation. By acknowledging Juneteenth here, we are invited to lament over our participation and collusion – even when unintentional -- in a vast and shameful historical injustice, and also recognize the repercussions that continue to perpetuate inequities and harm to all Americans. We are also invited to celebrate the indomitable spirit of the African American people - and surviving indigenous people - who managed to survive despite seemingly insurmountable odds. Currently, legislation is being promulgated to erase the struggle of Black Americans. We have critical opportunities now to unlearn both implicit and explicit racism baked into us and our institutions and impoverishing us. We have ongoing opportunities to do things differently.

On another plane of American cultural development, people of marginalized sexual orientation and gender identity have always been “out” and cis / straight people were “in.” However, these marginalized groups gradually began coming out of the shadows and claiming their right to full humanity. But this too was—and is—fraught with oppression, violent attacks, and Christian retributions. The Stonewall Uprising in June 1969 was a pivotal event when mostly gender non-conforming members of the LGBTQ+ community forcibly protested against police brutality and discrimination at the Stonewall Inn in NYC. The revolution sparked a decades-long global movement for queer and trans rights and inclusion and full belonging into the fabric of American society. It also laid the foundation for Pride celebrations worldwide. Those of you who are straight and cis may miss the significance of “pride.” When the only thing queer people had experienced prior to Stonewall was shame and oppression and secrecy, having pride and celebrating one’s identity was a shocking turn—for them and for the larger society. And I would venture that most every queer person today still continues that terrifying pilgrimage from secrecy and shame to celebration—sometimes without a community to support them. And some, especially trans folks, still don’t survive that journey towards belonging. June Pride serves as a reminder of the progress made in the fight for equality and the ongoing challenges of true belonging faced by LGBTQ+ individuals, especially in the wake of harmful new legislation

Today, more than 50 years after Stonewall, even though I am legally married to the woman I love, if I had a dollar for every time I’ve been called an “abomination” to God, I could be a rich woman. I’m in the choir, but I’ve been told to keep my voice down and not stand out. As long as the prevailing cultural perception of Christianity remains non-affirming of LGBTQ people, all of us who claim Christian faith have some degree of complicity in anti-LGBTQ culture and the resulting violence, murder, and suicide it has caused. As Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel noted, “We must always take sides. Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim. Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”

Wow. That was fun.

I don’t mean to be so depressing this morning, but it is a major problem that Christianity has never acknowledged, much less turned away from, its violent and oppressive history. That leaves us with a lot of questions.

What does all this mean for us, here at High Country UCC? Aside from recognizing our complicity in Christianity’s historic and current-day oppression, genocide, hatred, and exclusion, how does a group like ours justify continuing participation in Christianity? And how do we ensure belonging, love, harmony, and inclusion?

For one thing, we acknowledge what has happened, and we do our best to stop perpetuating those harms, and instead, actively and publicly counter them. High Country UCC was created for radical inclusion. Some of us remember the infamous postcard introducing this new church. Circulated to 15,000 homes in Watauga County, the card showed a little girl’s bloomers being exposed and lamented that the church is “a little behind.” From our very beginnings, the church specifically focused on acceptance and belonging for people who previously had been marginalized by the church’s exclusive doctrines and anti-LGBTQ stance.

We prioritized asking good questions over finding rigid answers. We tried to focus on letting people show up as they were. We required no new creed, no dress code, no litmus test, no 6-week membership class. As a result, within this church the range of spiritual and religious beliefs people hold is a remarkably wide one.

Repeating a creed, reciting a salvation code, making blanket theological statements is easy. But what about living together without claiming to have all the answers? What about continuing to love people who annoy the heck out of us or with whom we cannot see eye to eye? What about having to make compromises in the way we worship? That is messy. That is intimate. That is uncomfortable. But, when done with care and compassion, integrating diverse beliefs, perspectives, and dreams, this is the work that creates community. That is belonging.

When High Country UCC was in its infancy, our straight couples worshipped side by side with a not-insignificant group of LGBTQ individuals and couples, many of whom got to show up to church as themselves for the first time in their lives. Jennifer Moore gave me permission to share a bit of her story from that time period. She had been trying to reconcile her traditional religious teachings about homosexuality with her husband’s open acceptance of LGBTQ folks. On one of those first Sundays at HCUCC, when Tom Moore introduced Jennifer to Teri Cleavinger and Mary Miller as “partners,” it was a bit of a jolt to her system. However, over the coming weeks and months, she watched Teri and Mary, the way they interacted with each other and the way they expressed their faith and supported others. And later when Mary got sick with cancer, Jennifer noticed how Teri cared for her in the same way Jennifer would have cared for Tom in a similar scenario. She distinctly remembered the night she was sitting on the sofa at home with Tom and commented to him, “Teri and Mary are no different from you and me. They love each other just like we do. There’s no way you can call something like that wrong.”

            I share this story because it represents one of the most beautiful ways we become community with each other… we get to know each other. We accept each other as we are. We find commonalities in our shared stories. And when we realize we had it wrong about something, we make a shift. I can’t think of a better way to describe a “community” of faith.

            Jennifer and others in this congregation have provided a different kind of community to me through the years. Some of you all know that an occupational hazard for me as a hospital chaplain--constantly being with people on the worst day of their life--has had a drastic impact on my theology. Add to that all the ways Christianity has harmed people with its exclusivity, and I just keep shifting and shifting to the point that I often question Christianity’s capacity for redemption and relevance. Jennifer and I do not share the same worldview. Not even Cath and I do. None of us in this room likely shares the exact same worldview. That’s not the big deal. The big deal is that Jennifer and I can talk about these differences without losing a sense of connectedness to each other. For some reason, she’s not so turned off by my radical views that she shuts down. And the questions she asks me are respectful and curious, not accusatory. In turn, I try to be as respectful to her. Jennifer might offer a corrective if I’m leaning too far over the ledge. Sometimes I go on off the ledge anyway. But at least I have people who are helping ground me and keeping me connected to a caring community. That gives me safety to continue seeking my truth, even if it would be heresy anywhere else.

           That’s belonging. It’s not very pretty sometimes. It gives us headaches and makes us cry and twists our insides to have to wrestle with these things, to feel discomfort, to confront the possibility that we had something wrong, and to allow a relationship not to be “easy” and “natural” all the time. It causes cognitive dissonance when we compromise on varying our worship expressions. But we all got here together, and we need to be able to live here together. And how else do humans ever grow and mature and change?

Some of you are aware of our relational covenant. It is a document that maps out the way we want to relate to each other, especially in times of disagreement or discord. It’s a work in progress, and we are still new at living into it. But the church council and the WISE team have been trying to put it into practice, and I am seeing glimpses of what it can mean to embrace the messiness rather than the easier alternatives.

I am aware of how wide the spectrum of beliefs is within our congregation, folks for whom HCUCC is an important place of belonging. I have become aware of how hard it can be within one worship service, to meet the needs of all who may find their way here, whether seeking traditional and comforting, or new and edgy inspiration.

Here are some of the questions I find myself asking:

·       What is sacred? What is Holy?

·       Do we need a “Mighty Creator” when the Universe herself is miraculous and powerful and sacred?

·       Do we keep calling ourselves Christian, given the Church’s checkered history of aggression, violence, and exclusion?

·       If God is still speaking, can’t God speak through new music lyrics and modern-day poetry and Sufi Mystics as well as the Bible?

·       Speaking of God, do we keep using that overworked and masculine word “God,” or are other more inclusive terms more appropriate?

And beyond those questions is the even more challenging recognition that traditions that offer a sense of belonging and community ritual for some invoke trauma or feel harmful to others:

·       Heavy use of the Bible, for example, when the Bible has been used to condemn and spew hate toward some of us?

·       Or offering wine during communion, when people with substance use disorders are triggered by the smell of alcohol?

·       Or arranging the chairs in one big circle so that people have to look at each other, when some of us are introverts?

·       Or roasting animals on our back lawn for a church celebration when some of our members are vegetarian?

Our church has had our share of other decision-making challenges, too: Renting out the annex. Purchasing an expensive sound system. How to manage ourselves during Covid. These are not easy questions. And I’m not assuming I have the answers. At times, we are tempted to sweep dissent under the rug or go home angry. And I admit, I have done both of those things. When we do that, though, we preclude the possibility of the richer community that we are capable of. When we courageously disagree in love and offer one another curiosity and compassion in differences—that’s where the real spiritual growth and a deeper belonging happens.

While many of us are seeking belonging, we can also create it. To create belonging, we take the initiative to reach out, to show compassionate curiosity toward that person who happened to sit down beside us, to strike up a conversation and to help a person feel able, or more comfortable, and hopefully safe, being themselves.

Likely all of us are doing some searching and some creating. And likely most of us have had and will have times where we felt like we didn’t belong … even in this church. Belonging is not a static experience. We don’t find it once and have it always. (It’s not “once belonged; always belong.”) It ebbs and flows; it has seasons; and it fades at times. But belonging is critical to our survival. And we have to work at it. It can be frightening and feel vulnerable to show up as our full selves, and to invite others to do that too, to voice our disagreement, our concerns, our questions. But perhaps that is our task—to grapple, to wrestle, to learn how to be uncomfortable if we’re accustomed to comfort, and to help create belonging for all of us.

What if the job of the post-modern church, or of THIS post-modern church, is to create radical belonging? Not just letting people into the choir, but truly  welcoming their unique voice—inviting relationship, belonging, and community? Making space for everyone, to the best of our ability, with a special sensitivity toward those who are vulnerable?

Today’s institutional church is still largely behaving in a pre-modern context, afraid of honest inquiry, desperately clinging to traditional understandings of heaven, hell, salvation, sin, and God without critical examination of those concepts or associated harms. This pre-modern form of church doesn’t converse too well with the post-modern world we now inhabit. And sadly, it seems the church has not learned enough from its earlier mistakes. The church desperately needs new directions.

Once we at High Country UCC were leaders in shifting church. In many ways we still are. I wonder, though, if we have become a little complacent and comfortable, and stopped pushing the envelope of helping the church to move forward. What kind of choir do we want to be? My invitation to us today is that we start pushing the envelope again, even if that means our choir creates discordant sounds. We may need to push ourselves, nudge each other, challenge the larger society, experiment with different ways of being, question a lot of things. … And we must do all of that with compassion. I believe we are up to the task. We do not need to fear honest questions, nor each other. We can embrace these challenges, learn from them, and let them guide us to the new directions into which the Sacred is calling us.

May it be so.