Hello all! As some of may have heard, my research proposal to the Christian Congregational Music Conference has been accepted! I am extremely happy for this opportunity, and have a busy few months of research ahead of me.
My proposal is to study the correlation between style of music (genre) performed in a given congregation during Sunday services and the position of that church on the question of Queer acceptance. The suggestion has been made that open and affirming churches perform a certain repertoire and style of music, while churches that are either open but not affirming or closed and not affirming perform another. My first question is: Is this the case? My second is: If so, why? If not, why is that the perception among some Queer identifying people? My final objective for this paper is to highlight the ways in which the theological and ethical identity of a congregation is reflected or challenged by the musics performed as normative worship. What might the implications of any conclusion drawn from this course of study be for practitioners and church leaders?
In addition to this research project, I have been given a couple of awesome opportunities to do some creative writing, and if all goes according to plan, you will be able to enjoy the fruit of my labor very soon! In any case, I will update here when more can be shared. But for now, take my word for it: it's gonna be awesome!
All of this to say, in addition to the small and insignificant task (sarcasm) of being the primary caregiver for a 1 year old, I am not going to be updating the old blog here as frequently with as much depth as I would like. I will still update it regularly, but the posts will just be shorter.
May you all be blessed with grace, peace, and faith over the coming months.
Showing posts with label About Nate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label About Nate. Show all posts
A Legacy of Fear
For much of my life I have been plagued by fear. When I was a small boy I would have debilitating anxiety attacks; most kids are afraid at night, but I was hysterically, irrationally afraid of something getting me in my sleep.
So I wouldn't sleep.
When I was a little older, I was terrified of losing my parents. I remember panicking so badly when they were late returning from a date that I literally ran into the wall of my aunt and uncle's house. From the outside. I was 12 at the time--not a little kid.
And so I tried to keep track of my parents at all times.
By the time I reached high school I thought I had overcome much of my fear. But the trials of teenaged society elicited a new fear; fear of ridicule and scorn. This then turned into fear of being unwanted, unloved. And so I would try my best to say the right things and not offend anyone--if you know me, you know that was completely unsuccessful.
Eventually I grew up.
My childhood fears subsided, or at least became more refined: I still can't sleep, but now I say it's because my mind won't shut off. I'm still afraid of losing my parents, but that's a natural fear when middle age and health concerns become reality, right? And I even stopped trying--sorta--to not offend anyone. Now I just try to offend them for the right reasons!
But I am still afraid.
When I was 26, I had the unpleasant distinction of encountering the hatred and animosity that bitterness can build in someone else. I was the erstwhile recipient of a character assassination by people whom I had considered lifelong friends. That event still stings. I wake up in the middle of the night terrified that they're plotting some new way of doing me harm.
A legacy of fear.
The religious community that I gravitated towards for most of my life was founded and built on fear. There are too many fears to count, but one big one stands out: fear of being wrong. This fear underwrites so much of what I've engaged in the past.
Perfect love casts out fear.
The reason I am writing this post is that at some point in my life I was grabbed by a reality that overcomes fear. I met Jesus--the real one, not the one who makes everyone afraid they're going to hell. I'd like to say that I'm not afraid anymore, but that just isn't true. But what I am doing is learning to live in the love that casts out fear. This love is not a white wash for evil, but is instead a love that realizes the evil--the wrongness of that fear--and forgives it. I'm still learning to do this. And I quite often react in anger and fear when I feel threatened. But the grace of God calls me out of it; calls me into a life of love without that kind of fear. And that is my goal; not just for me but for everyone I know. I want to live in the love that casts out fear. I want to be a part of that love.
So I wouldn't sleep.
When I was a little older, I was terrified of losing my parents. I remember panicking so badly when they were late returning from a date that I literally ran into the wall of my aunt and uncle's house. From the outside. I was 12 at the time--not a little kid.
And so I tried to keep track of my parents at all times.
By the time I reached high school I thought I had overcome much of my fear. But the trials of teenaged society elicited a new fear; fear of ridicule and scorn. This then turned into fear of being unwanted, unloved. And so I would try my best to say the right things and not offend anyone--if you know me, you know that was completely unsuccessful.
Eventually I grew up.
My childhood fears subsided, or at least became more refined: I still can't sleep, but now I say it's because my mind won't shut off. I'm still afraid of losing my parents, but that's a natural fear when middle age and health concerns become reality, right? And I even stopped trying--sorta--to not offend anyone. Now I just try to offend them for the right reasons!
But I am still afraid.
When I was 26, I had the unpleasant distinction of encountering the hatred and animosity that bitterness can build in someone else. I was the erstwhile recipient of a character assassination by people whom I had considered lifelong friends. That event still stings. I wake up in the middle of the night terrified that they're plotting some new way of doing me harm.
A legacy of fear.
The religious community that I gravitated towards for most of my life was founded and built on fear. There are too many fears to count, but one big one stands out: fear of being wrong. This fear underwrites so much of what I've engaged in the past.
Perfect love casts out fear.
The reason I am writing this post is that at some point in my life I was grabbed by a reality that overcomes fear. I met Jesus--the real one, not the one who makes everyone afraid they're going to hell. I'd like to say that I'm not afraid anymore, but that just isn't true. But what I am doing is learning to live in the love that casts out fear. This love is not a white wash for evil, but is instead a love that realizes the evil--the wrongness of that fear--and forgives it. I'm still learning to do this. And I quite often react in anger and fear when I feel threatened. But the grace of God calls me out of it; calls me into a life of love without that kind of fear. And that is my goal; not just for me but for everyone I know. I want to live in the love that casts out fear. I want to be a part of that love.
Let's Talk About Non-Violence
I made a commitment to non-violence in 2009, after surviving the coup that ousted Honduran then-president Manuel Zalaya. It wasn't that singular event that persuaded me to commit to peace, but was rather a long series of events that culminated in a so called "moment of clarity."
Antecedents
My spiritual heritage finds its roots in the undercurrent of 16th century religious reform - alternately called the "Radical Reformation," "the Anabaptists (re-baptizers)," or the "left wing" of the Protestant Reformation. Despite some suggestions to the contrary, most scholars now agree that this movement originated in Zurich ca 1524. The hallmarks of this type of Christianity are equality among the faithful, social justice, and non-violence (there are of course other aspects of this heritage that are emphasized by others, but these are the points of emphasis in my religious history).
I grew up always having some notion that lethal violence was bad, and that it was always better for people to live than to die. But along the way I became convinced that there were certain situations where it was necessary for someone to die. Most compelling to me was the history of WWII. I was absolutely convinced that the Allies were right in opposing Hitler's Nazism. This conviction illustrated to me that there are certain situations that demand lethal force.
Exceptions that prove or exceptions that deny?
So let me back up a little bit and explain what exactly I mean by non-violence. Non-violence to me is a pretext for dialogue: It is an orientation of discourse that seeks to answer the injustices of such evils as Nazism before they demand violent response. Non-violence to me is not a reactive measure - a passive resignation to the triumph of evil should it manifest itself in power - but is a proactive stance that seeks to identify evil before it has a chance to take root. That stance attempts to reveal and subvert evil before it demands violent response. The failure in the context of WWII was not the Allied response to Hitler's aggression, but was instead the unwillingness to check the Nazi regime's aggression preemptively.
Make it smaller.
Okay, so Nazi's and the holocaust are extreme examples, and hopefully not ones we are ever going to face in real life (although don't rule it out). What about a mugging? Or a home invasion? What then? Do we condemn our families to death by inaction when it seems unavoidable? Again, the answer is pre-emptive. What can I do to identify those potentialities and undercut them before they become reality? Can I avoid a mugging by how I dress? Can I avoid a home invasion by not flaunting my wealth or by making sure my house is secure? Perhaps not, but I can work towards reforming the social conditions that make mugging or home invasion attractive activities. I can advocate for better working conditions for others. I can commit myself to a community where my neighbors know me and know that I am looking out for their interests, and hopefully they will do the same.
Boil it down.
But ultimately, it boils down to a faith that relies on God for my protection and an understanding of the world that sees Love as the antithesis of fear and hatred. I cannot profess loving someone I kill, and therefore I cannot kill someone if I profess to love them.
Antecedents
My spiritual heritage finds its roots in the undercurrent of 16th century religious reform - alternately called the "Radical Reformation," "the Anabaptists (re-baptizers)," or the "left wing" of the Protestant Reformation. Despite some suggestions to the contrary, most scholars now agree that this movement originated in Zurich ca 1524. The hallmarks of this type of Christianity are equality among the faithful, social justice, and non-violence (there are of course other aspects of this heritage that are emphasized by others, but these are the points of emphasis in my religious history).
I grew up always having some notion that lethal violence was bad, and that it was always better for people to live than to die. But along the way I became convinced that there were certain situations where it was necessary for someone to die. Most compelling to me was the history of WWII. I was absolutely convinced that the Allies were right in opposing Hitler's Nazism. This conviction illustrated to me that there are certain situations that demand lethal force.
Exceptions that prove or exceptions that deny?
So let me back up a little bit and explain what exactly I mean by non-violence. Non-violence to me is a pretext for dialogue: It is an orientation of discourse that seeks to answer the injustices of such evils as Nazism before they demand violent response. Non-violence to me is not a reactive measure - a passive resignation to the triumph of evil should it manifest itself in power - but is a proactive stance that seeks to identify evil before it has a chance to take root. That stance attempts to reveal and subvert evil before it demands violent response. The failure in the context of WWII was not the Allied response to Hitler's aggression, but was instead the unwillingness to check the Nazi regime's aggression preemptively.
Make it smaller.
Okay, so Nazi's and the holocaust are extreme examples, and hopefully not ones we are ever going to face in real life (although don't rule it out). What about a mugging? Or a home invasion? What then? Do we condemn our families to death by inaction when it seems unavoidable? Again, the answer is pre-emptive. What can I do to identify those potentialities and undercut them before they become reality? Can I avoid a mugging by how I dress? Can I avoid a home invasion by not flaunting my wealth or by making sure my house is secure? Perhaps not, but I can work towards reforming the social conditions that make mugging or home invasion attractive activities. I can advocate for better working conditions for others. I can commit myself to a community where my neighbors know me and know that I am looking out for their interests, and hopefully they will do the same.
Boil it down.
But ultimately, it boils down to a faith that relies on God for my protection and an understanding of the world that sees Love as the antithesis of fear and hatred. I cannot profess loving someone I kill, and therefore I cannot kill someone if I profess to love them.
The Older Brother
This post is inspired by Erwin McManus' sermon of 14 December, 2014.
Have you ever felt like you are on the wrong side of a story? Like the things that happen to you should have happened to someone else, or that the things that happened to someone else should have happened to you?
Have you ever watched someone make a terrible decision and been powerless to stop it? Maybe you've even tried to stop them; tried to explain how they were making a mistake; tried to alert them to the dangers of what they were doing?
Has it ever seemed like the entire country was devolving into violence, anger and hatred? And despite your loud yelling, obvious logic, and confident propositions no one listened to you?
I have.
And let me tell you how I've responded: I've been critical, angry, and petty. I've been despondent, ready to throw in the towel on this whole Christianity thing.
And I've been self-righteous.
I've been angry at the unjust flourishing enjoyed by those who seem to only care about their own interests and getting their own way--no matter what it costs others. I've been livid by what I perceive as self-absorbed piety.
And I've been angry at God for allowing the world to be like this.
But it gets worse. I've been angry at God because the people who seem to be the worst violators of justice and peace are those who call themselves Christians. And even worse still is that these people who claim to follow Jesus are claimed by Jesus too! They enjoy all the benefits of their privileged position, thinking that all they need to do is acknowledge that it was God who gave them that privilege.
And it makes me angry.
So angry in fact that I don't want to go to church, listen to a sermon, sing a song, or talk about Jesus. I've begun to feel as if the people at church are there celebrating themselves and the good fortune of being them.
Breathe.
In Luke 15 Jesus tells the parable that is commonly called "The Prodigal Son." I used to think I loved that story, because that's what good Christians do: they love stories of redemption and hope. But over the years I've begun to like it less and less. Not because I stopped loving redemption and hope, but because I started to realize that my identification with this story was not that of the prodigal, but of the the other son.
I am the older son.
I've never gone off the rails. I've made good decisions. I've done good things in my life. But I am critical and judgmental of those who haven't--let me qualify that-- I've been critical and judgmental of those who are critical and judgmental. I am what I critique. And I need to change.
Not a change that stops calling to a destructive world, but a change in my own heart. A change of how I feel about my fellow "older brother" types. And a change of how I feel about God.
Because the story in Luke 15 is really about God. It is really about a God who loves even the most disgustingly self-righteous as well as the most disgustingly unrighteous and wants to bring both types home. And I need to celebrate when they, like I, come home.
Have you ever felt like you are on the wrong side of a story? Like the things that happen to you should have happened to someone else, or that the things that happened to someone else should have happened to you?
Have you ever watched someone make a terrible decision and been powerless to stop it? Maybe you've even tried to stop them; tried to explain how they were making a mistake; tried to alert them to the dangers of what they were doing?
Has it ever seemed like the entire country was devolving into violence, anger and hatred? And despite your loud yelling, obvious logic, and confident propositions no one listened to you?
I have.
And let me tell you how I've responded: I've been critical, angry, and petty. I've been despondent, ready to throw in the towel on this whole Christianity thing.
And I've been self-righteous.
I've been angry at the unjust flourishing enjoyed by those who seem to only care about their own interests and getting their own way--no matter what it costs others. I've been livid by what I perceive as self-absorbed piety.
And I've been angry at God for allowing the world to be like this.
But it gets worse. I've been angry at God because the people who seem to be the worst violators of justice and peace are those who call themselves Christians. And even worse still is that these people who claim to follow Jesus are claimed by Jesus too! They enjoy all the benefits of their privileged position, thinking that all they need to do is acknowledge that it was God who gave them that privilege.
And it makes me angry.
So angry in fact that I don't want to go to church, listen to a sermon, sing a song, or talk about Jesus. I've begun to feel as if the people at church are there celebrating themselves and the good fortune of being them.
Breathe.
In Luke 15 Jesus tells the parable that is commonly called "The Prodigal Son." I used to think I loved that story, because that's what good Christians do: they love stories of redemption and hope. But over the years I've begun to like it less and less. Not because I stopped loving redemption and hope, but because I started to realize that my identification with this story was not that of the prodigal, but of the the other son.
I am the older son.
I've never gone off the rails. I've made good decisions. I've done good things in my life. But I am critical and judgmental of those who haven't--let me qualify that-- I've been critical and judgmental of those who are critical and judgmental. I am what I critique. And I need to change.
Not a change that stops calling to a destructive world, but a change in my own heart. A change of how I feel about my fellow "older brother" types. And a change of how I feel about God.
Because the story in Luke 15 is really about God. It is really about a God who loves even the most disgustingly self-righteous as well as the most disgustingly unrighteous and wants to bring both types home. And I need to celebrate when they, like I, come home.
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