Defiant Hope, Cuss Words, and Brandi Carlile
So much has happened this week that it’s hard to know where to start. As a social worker, I’m trained in the stages of grief- denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. But, this week has been a real life lesson in those stages as we grieve the death of the United Methodist Church. The thing about grief is that it isn’t a magic formula that follows a neat and tidy order. Grief skips stages, spends inequitable time on some parts, and sometimes requires that you start all over, or take two steps back. I’ve been through all the stages this week, and I’ve doubled back on a couple of them- all except acceptance. I’m not there just yet.
The General Conference of the United Methodist Church voted this week not only to continue the ban on same-sex marriages in the church and the ban of the ordination of gay clergy, but they doubled down and increased the penalties for our clergy who defy the rules. I watched most of the livestream of the conference and was crushed as it progressed over four days. It was excruciating to listen to some of the speeches against allowing full inclusion for out LGBTQIA+ community. I won’t dignify some of the hate spoken against inclusion from the floor of the conference or the self-righteous cries of persecution claimed by those doing the actual persecuting. However, there were some truly holy moments during the conference. We witnessed young people and old people; clergy and laity; and members of the LGBTQIA+ community and their allies standing together for love. They never stopped trying- even when defeat was inevitable, even when it seemed futile. They never gave up. There was testimony, pleading, preaching, singing, and unbelievable courage spoken in that place. There were holy tears and holy protests. They did not go quietly or complacently. They stood until the end for what they believed the UMC should be.
On Monday, the One Church Plan, which would have allowed for same sex marriage in the church as well as ordination for gay clergy, was defeated in committee. There are significantly more details to the plan, but it was our one shot for inclusion at this conference. Monday night I found myself in the depression part of grief. I was sad to my core and cried ugly tears. I was both stunned and unsurprised at the same time. I think that I knew in my bones that this coming, but I desperately did not want it to. I tried to tell myself in the week leading up to the conference that I was distraught because of the debate and the constant discussion. I told our pastor that the outcome, whatever it would be, would be easier than the debate. I was wrong. So. Very. Wrong. The outcome was worse. The ugly sobs came as that plan was voted down and one of our pastors present for the vote texted myself and my daughter, “Know that you are loved.”
Monday night was Bible study. Part of me felt that it was the last place I wanted to be after hearing scripture weaponized on the floor of the conference that same day. But a bigger part of me knew that I needed to be in church on this night and that the fellowship would be good for my soul. We’re studying Rachel Held Evans’ book “Inspired.” We talked of Jesus and how he loved the marginalized. We talked of the Bible and how it fits into that love. We learned of thick and thin faith. And then we were asked a question- “Why Choose Christianity?” In the pain of the day, my initial internal response was “Good question. On this day, I have no idea why.” But I did know. Even before I joined the church, I believed in God, and I believed in love, and I believed in hope. Christ is love. Christ is hope. So, through the disappointment, I am a Christian because I believe in love and I believe in hope. No one else gets to define that for me.
That answer started a march toward my next stage of grief- anger. I’ve described myself many times as naively hopeful, but I don’t think that’s accurate. I work in a field where I’ve witnessed the harsh realities of this world and the devastating consequences of people’s behaviors. I’ve experienced enough in life to know that there is a lot of pain and betrayal and abandonment in this world. No, I am not naïve. I am defiant. I will not give up my hope in spite of what the world, and even the church, may throw at it. It’s defiant hope and I will cling to it. I spent Tuesday watching the livestream of the final day of the conference. I watched with bitterness and a small amount of my renamed hope. Most of my sadness had turned to anger, but I still cried when they passed the traditionalist plan- this plan that worsened the whole condition of our church and eviscerated the souls of so many beloved children of God. I cried watching the anguish caught on facebook live streams, but not the official UMC livestream. The UMC livestream was turned off for that part. The conference ended at 6:30 pm. As it turned out, the conference had to end by 6:30 because there was a monster truck rally rolling in that night in the very same room. Make of that what you will.
By the end of conference, my anger was full-on. I decided that the last words of the day were not going to be of hate. I was not going to let the voices of 438 delegates have the final say. Those who know me well, know that I may occasionally let a cuss word slip, but profanity is not a general part of my vocabulary. And there are a couple of words in the dictionary that almost never come out of my mouth. Friends, I let out some words that had been dormant for quite some time. I even typed them. I may have told my 17 year-old to get some rainbow decorations on her way home because we were going to make a statement of what I felt those 438 delegates could partake in with themselves that evening. I may have sent a similar text to my husband requesting that he get gummy bears and ice cream because we were “going to celebrate the beauty in our midst and validate every soul’s worth that they tried to destroy today.” In that same text I may have also used some colorful verbs and nouns to convey my anger as I stated what I thought about a delegation thinking that they can determine my child’s worth. I might have used some colorful language to describe the anger I felt at the assault lodged against our UMC pastors, and their livelihoods, and their life’s work by a group of 438 people. I am not saying that my response was a Christian one, but it was a human one. That night my teenager cooked for us, and we blasted Lady Gaga, and we danced, and we put on pink sparkly hats, and we decorated with rainbow balloons and flags, and we played Valentine bingo, and our little family of five loved each other and celebrated each other and decidedly made “love” the last word of the day.
The aftermath of the General Conference has been a mix of emotions and various stages of grief. I believe that beauty will rise from these ashes. Sometimes something has to die for new life to be born. I absolutely believe that we will be a church that serves and cares for all within the walls of the church, and carries that love out beyond the walls to serve in our communities and our world. It is what we are called to do. Grace Avenue’s response to the General Conference decision was one of love, and inclusion, and yes, some defiant hope. (I’ve linked to our lead pastor’s statement below.) Our digital sign on Main Street proclaimed that, “All Means All” set against a rainbow background. All of Grace Avenue- our clergy and our staff and our congregants have vowed to proclaim that EVERYONE has a seat at God’s table- without exception. For me, the sadness comes back every time I witness the pain of others as they wrestle with what this means for them and their loved ones. At the end of the day, we are a family. It is both reassuring and heartbreaking to grieve with others who grieve. It is also holy.
That bring us to today, and today the role of my grief therapist is being played by Brandi Carlile. She has been on my playlist non-stop since the Grammy’s and I’ve listened to her album “By The Way, I Forgive You” on repeat since early this morning. I swear almost every song is applicable to this week. Music has a way of doing that. It meets you where you are and transforms to speak truth to things that it was never intended to. The title song speaks to where I think I will be someday- looking back and thankful for the pain as something beautiful was born of it. I’ve blasted the “The Joke” numerous times over the last week and cried every time. It speaks both to my sadness and determined defiance. “Hold Out Your Hand” and “Harder To Forgive” were decidedly dedicated to the WCA and may or may not have been accompanied by an Unchristian-like gesture and some more profanity. But, then I got to “Party of One,” the last track on the album. The album cut is a solo with just Carlile singing. Somehow hearing this song on this morning during this week just absolutely devastated me and brought back the ugly sobs. The song is about a relationship and the struggles that come with loving someone. She speaks of loving someone completely including the beauty, hurt, pain, struggle, and exhaustion that comes with it. She speaks the desire to leave that relationship and be done, and then in the end, ultimately decides to come home because the love is worth it. It ends with a repeated line of “I am yours, I am yours, I am yours, I am yours.” And yes- I am God’s and I am the church’s, and relationships are hard, and sometimes you have to fight and struggle to figure it out and make it right. But, this week I witnessed beautiful people fighting and struggling to make sure that the church is a home for all people. I believe that we will make it right, and we will come home together because, as the church, we belong to each other and we belong to God. They don’t get to take that from us.
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