I'm Going To Beat You with Your Bible (Prop. 8)

October 16, 2008

When I started at Loyola, I thought I knew what "The Bible said".

After all, I was a baptized & confirmed Episcopalian who'd been to Sunday School all my life, volunteered for every kind of committee, and attended over a dozen retreats. I'd even made one regrettable attempt at singing in the choir (which I've promised to never, ever try to do again.)

That made me an expert, right?

Yeah, not so much.

First day of one of my required Theology classes and the teacher, a Jesuit, started writing things on the board. "Marriage is for the weak." "Lobsters are evil." "Be a good slave."

He picked a student, and asked him: "What do all these statements have in common?"

The kid, being quick, said: "They are all in the Bible?"

The teacher nodded.

We all looked at the board and at each other. You just knew after that, it was going to be an interesting class.

And it was.

According to the teacher, "The Bible says..." is a lot like saying "The encyclopedia says..." To attempt to live by the values of it, you must actually know the books, their authors, their contexts, their base languages.

And you must be willing to make very difficult choices.

Because the Bible? Is not a cohesive document. It is a kaleidoscope whose many interpretations have, in turn, launched many faiths and religious ideologies over the centuries.

A guy named A.J. Jacobs recently wrote a (very funny) book about his attempt to live the Bible as literally as possible, and it highlights quite well why people must be interpretive.

So, with that pretty exhaustive preface, I submit to you that, by and large? California has nothing to do with me. I live in Illinois, have no say about how they run things over there other than to choose not to join them.

But man howdy, you wouldn't know it to see my email inbox.

As a radical, Bible-loving Christian, I have been informed, ordered, told, instructed, exhorted, and shamed into registering my support of Proposition 8; which would ban Same-Sex Marriage.

Despite the fact that I am NOT a Californian and have no vote, I feel like it's time to take a position.

Because of that teacher, long ago, I could probably sit and debate - from Genesis through Corinthians - God's idea of marriage as represented in the Bible. But because of that same teacher - I learned an even more important lesson.

I can't speak for God.

I can only speak for myself.

The Bible is contradictory and baffling collection, and I must choose how to understand it and define my faith. That is my responsibility, and gift - Free Will.

So here it is:
I am a radical, Bible-loving Christian woman and I believe that any two people who love each other worth a lifetime should never have the right to get married taken away from them - no matter what race, religion, or gender.

God is love. Anyone who says different is just trying sell me something.

/Thus endeth the soapbox.

(P.S. Dad Gone Mad says it much better than me. Of course, he's more liberal with the F-bomb, too.)

And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor

October 01, 2007

I know God must be close.

First of all, the Cubs are going to the playoffs. This was foretold when my beloved Red Sox won the World Series. There is only one other team with such a losing streak. One other team playing in its own old park with rabid fans and basement stats.

But that's not the only reason I spend most of my hours propped up almost entirely by faith these days...

I remember when I got my first real, full-time paycheck. I was 19, living in my first apartment, and I'd given up my 4 part-time jobs in favor of going to a temp agency and asking for something beyond minimum wage.

I drove the check to the bank and deposited it. Then I spent. I paid back a friend who'd loaned me some the month before. I did my first real grocery shop. I had the oil in my car changed. I got my hair cut.

Each and every expenditure was the right thing to do.

Except, I didn't have enough left over to pay the phone bill and it got turned off.

This is the lesson of the forest and the trees. And big pictures. And budgets. Hans Christian probably wrote a couple of fables about it. Much better than my nonfiction version, I bet.

We said we knew better. And we made one big decision: to have me be home with Bear, Homeschooling him until he could read and write at grade level - or until we decided there was a better way we could support to get him there.

And everything since that decision last April has come from it.

So, like a million other families, we face each week a million right decisions we can not afford to do. Oil changes for the car. Eye doctor appointments.

It saps your soul, you know?

Don't get me wrong, I'm not afraid of things being hard. Sure, it's humbling to be living on 30% of our former income. It's a challenge. It's word for challenge that means even more than just 'challenge'. But life should be hard; we're ready for it to be hard. I wouldn't bitch and moan about that.

OK, maybe I would, but I wouldn't mean it so much.

Like complaining about the snow as you hike up Everest. It's not like you expect ponies and rainbows, you know. It's EVEREST. You expect the snow, you're dressed for the snow, so even if you say 'Damn! It's a lot of snow!' - you don't really mean it.

I'm not complaining about not having money. I left the job that brought the money. So, there that is.

But there's hard... and then there's the edge of impossible.

That makes us question ourselves. Bends our confidence.

If what we've decided is truly right, then how come we aren't able to take care of the basics?

And that's where we lean on our faith. And each other. Or drown trying.

There's no nobility in being poor. Any honor in it must come from the reasons for the condition.

And so we hang on to that. And look for the silver lining. Or, as CD says; Brass. We'll take brass. Or any shiny rock.

We celebrate our newfound simplicity. Solidarity. And faith.

Good things, and yet some days they don't balance out the pain.

Brought to you by the letter F, the number 1, and the conviction that wavers and then finds a gust to soar on, wearing a blue baseball cap.

In a black cassock, hemmed with duct tape

September 13, 2004

I have always felt God near. I have always thought the message of Jesus Christ was that of love. I've always, as far back as my memory reaches, been involved with my church and faith (Episcopalian, for those keeping score).

And I've always wanted to be part of the solution. So when I moved into the city (Chicago) when I was 25, I took myself over to the Episcopal Cathedral office building and said "OK, what needs doing?"

I was immediately tackled to the ground by a horde of understaffed employees.

After the dust settled, it was decided that I could start by interpreting, into sign language, the Bishop's next sermon. (Me and sign language is another story.)

A few Sundays later, I showed up early for services and was outfitted, rather crudely, into a spare cassock hemmed with duct tape and told to stand next to the lectern.

They had me start out there, so I just interpreted the whole service rather than look like a human statue. The place was full as you can imagine - a real turnout because Frank, the bishop, was presiding for the first time in months.

I felt obvious, and a little embarrassed. Was I was interpreting for the sake of the Church seeming "inclusive"? I would have bet there wasn't a deaf person in a 5-mile radius. But I grimly pressed on.

Finally, Frank stepped up and began to speak.

His sermon that day was about his recent trip to Israel and the Middle East.

I was struck by his warm, compelling voice. Frank, it was immediately clear, was incredibly sincere. As he talked, he revealed a deep sense of humor and a profound aura of faith.

He talked about his trip. About meeting people of many religions and beliefs. Of being gutted with the tragic reality of the region - the clashing, bomb-ridden screams of incompatible righteousness. Frank talked about wearing a pilgrim's ring and a pilgrim's eyes and seeking for the concrete symbols of his inner spirituality.

As he talked, and I was woven into his spell, my hands grew more and more eloquent and pure. Sign language lends itself to picture-stories.

Finally, Frank reached a moment in his journey where he decided he could no longer be a pilgrim. He removed his ring, and laid it as an offering beneath an underground fissure said to be a Holy place.

As Frank said the words, my hands drew the pictures. I slipped an unseen ring from my hand and gently placed at the base of Frank's pulpit.

We both grew still.

I could not interpret words that had not been said.

And he was so caught up in my interpreting that he stopped speaking.

We looked at each other, in a full church, and the moment swelled. The congregation didn't know if they should chuckle or cry.

Finally he reached out and touched my hands with his. Letting go, he said "like that. Exactly".

And he was done.

I was shivering. I don't remember the rest of the service.

Later, Frank called me into his office overlooking Chicago in the twilight afternoon. We had the first of what would become a series of conversations about faith and fundamentalism; about journey and calling.

We signed some papers, and a few weeks later I had a job description and a locker at the cathedral and a cassock to put in it - one that was tailored for me by one of the volunteers. This was involvement on a whole new level, and it consumed a great part of my life.

It was many years later that I surrendered the cassock willingly and left for another path and another destination. Frank had been promoted away from the bishopric and with him went my desire to work for the diocese.

I became a civilian, and had to relearn living. It was a long, painful change that took years. But I must have succeeded because people now never guess at my life before.

That suits me fine, most days.

But I'm not "undercover" pretending to be something I'm not. I changed careers and lifestyles, but I didn't change my fundamental belief system. I neither hide nor shout my faith - I live in it.

But sometimes, sometimes I remember when.