Why do we do this whole Christian thing? Why do we go to church and proclaim the faith that we do?

I’m sure that there are a number of readers who will call me an idiot for even asking that question. The expected answer of – “because we love Jesus” (or something like that), is all the answer they desire. In fact, for some, any other answer is inappropriate and evidence of a compromised faith. But honestly, I hardly know what that answer even means for many people these days. “Loving Jesus” is the rote response, but the problem with rote responses is that they are often a poor substitute for real introspection. The pat answer suffices when in reality one hardly knows one’s own soul well enough to even begin to answer the question.

As much as people want to make everything all about Jesus these days, Jesus has unfortunately become a shield to protect us from deep engagement. People start asking questions, a dialogue develops, differences emerge and instead of letting truth be sought with courage someone at that point suggests that we just need to refocus on Jesus and stop all the arguing. Jesus is what it is all about, so thinking anything more complex than just evoking his name gets shut down. But who is that Jesus to them? Without reflection or introspection, how can Jesus even be known apart from being simply an icon that we worship?

Faith is complex. Our motives for belief are complex. No one simply goes to church for the pure unadulterated reason that they love Jesus. We go because something in the environment resonates with us. Be the church hip and relevant (whatever those mean), or soaked in art and beauty, or thick with tradition – our souls find a home that we can be comfortable in. A home where we can best find the paths that lead us to God. Or we go for the community. Be it the stay-at-home moms who find a support system in the two hours of adult contact they get each week at church. Or simply the friends who can connect over a shared discussion of theology, the church offers the communal connections our souls cry out for. We go for the music, the emotional high, the networking opportunities, the dating opportunities, the playground, the coffee, the need to feel right, the intellectual stimulation, the need for encouragement, the reminders of childhood, the desperate need to feel welcomed and included. We go for a million different reasons.

And yes we go for Jesus. Sometimes this is a two dimensional Jesus we call upon to shield us from asking the hard questions. Sometimes it is a Jesus we are imperfectly trying to follow. Sometimes it is a Jesus who has transformed our lives. So yes, we go to church for Jesus. But also for all these other reasons. And in truth there is nothing wrong with any of it. We are complex creatures, piecing together meaning in our fractured world in whatever way we can. Faith feeds off culture which feeds off community. Jesus is there, but he is incarnate in all the muck and mire and breathtaking beauty just as much today as when he was born in that stable. There is nothing to be ashamed of or to reject out of hand in admitting this complexity.

Where the problem lies is when we can’t look into ourselves and ask these questions. When we are too afraid to know ourselves well enough to admit these truths. When we slap on Jesus like a shield to protect us from the hard work of knowing, then we’ve stopped actually following Jesus. Following Jesus should never be our excuse to stop pursuing truth or to stop asking the hard questions. Following Jesus shouldn’t force us to pretend that we are above the cultures of this world or are too good to be influenced by basic human needs (like the need to be loved). Maybe a flat image of Jesus we project can form a wall strong enough for us hide behind, but the real Jesus can’t do such a thing because he is deep in the midst of all the realities of life, and culture, and doubt, and longings.

Asking ourselves why we are Christians should never elicit a simple straightforward answer. We are complex people who worship a complex God – we need to allow God to be in even that complexity. Our answers might end up sounding less holy or more self-centered, but at least they will be honest reflections of reality. Hollow answers, although sanitized and religious sounding, do a disservice to the God we claim to follow. I think Jesus desires our whole self – neediness and cultural baggage included – more than some unreflective protestation of devout worship. To make it all about Jesus, we have to admit that it’s never just all about Jesus. And that’s okay.

I’ll be perfectly honest – I had a hard time writing this post.  I’ve had multiple people ask me recently why there has been nothing at the Sojourner’s blog about the overturning of Prop 8 or about the struggle of LGBT folks for basic rights.  My queer friends who deeply respect the organization as a defender of justice for all ask why no one is writing about justice for them or celebrating when such justice is achieved.  My usual response has been, “yeah, someone really should write about that for Sojourners.”  That is until I was called out on my hypocrisy.  Why was I so willing to stick my neck out (and be ripped apart) for so many other oppressed groups, but not for homosexuals?  Why was I remaining silent?

Those challenges hit me hard.  They opened old wounds and deep regrets of a time when I had been silent before that still cause me pain.  Tim was one of my closest friends in high school.  We knew each other from church youth group and would spend hours together discussing books or playing cards in some coffee shop.  We went to college in different states and in those pre-cell phone and pre-Facebook days when AOL was still pay-by-the-minute, we drifted apart.  I heard through the grapevine that he had come out of the closet and that all of our other youth group friends refused to associate with him anymore.  But even then I didn’t reconnect with him, caught up as I was in my own college life.  After graduation, I had no way to get in touch with him, but the desire to contact him and just let him know I still was his friend weighed heavy on my heart.  I always thought that someday I would find a way to reach him.  But then a few years ago while I was still living in another state my mom called and mentioned offhand that Tim had died after being hit by a car while walking home from a grad school class.  Apparently many of our former close friends from high school had refused to even attend the funeral in protest of his orientation.

I had remained silent for too long.  I don’t know if he assumed I condemned and rejected him like the rest of our youth group friends, I never got the chance to tell him otherwise.  I missed an opportunity to show love to the hurting and I will forever regret my silence.  And I miss my friend.

So I knew that I could not remain silent now.  Even as I am unsure of what exactly to say, I knew I had to be a voice standing in solidarity and celebration of the overturning of Proposition 8.  Our LGBT brothers and sisters need to see now more than ever that they are loved by the church – that we can come alongside them and mourn when they mourn and rejoice when they rejoice.   They need to see that the church sees them more than just as objects to be debated.  If we remain silent now by failing to publicly celebrate this momentous occasion we will have missed our opportunity to show love to the hurting.

So I am celebrating with friends who can now enjoy the same cultural and legal benefits of marriage as I can.  Who can now visit their partners of many years in the hospital and include their spouse in their health coverage.  And I join them in their hope that one day these basic civil rights will not only be available in a small handful of few states, but all across our great nation.  At the same time, I express my sympathy as they and their families continue to be thrust into the centers of controversy – forcing them to fight to hold onto basic civil rights in our society.  I don’t even pretend to understand their struggle to simply live normal lives and the day to day pain that causes, but I do know that I can’t contribute to that continued pain by choosing to remain silent.  I can’t wait for someone else to speak up for me – I can’t outsource loving my neighbor.  And so I rejoice with the parts of the body of Christ who are celebrating being granted one small portion of the privileges I already enjoy.  It seems almost pathetic and nowhere near enough, but it’s all I can think to do.

This post is part of a Synchroblog meant to jumpstart the conversation regarding what this “big tent Christianity” looks like. Participants in this synchroblog were asked to reflect on – “what does “big tent Christianity” mean to you? What does it look like in your context? What are your hopes and dreams for the Church?” There are dozens of different ways I can think of to respond to those questions, but what really resonates the most with me is the idea that big tent Christianity holds no place for fear.

In Psalm 23, when David speaks of how God guides, protects, and comforts him, he mentions that God prepares a table for him in the presence of his enemies. This isn’t some twisted comfort through schadenfraude or mockery of others – this is being able to sit at a table with one’s enemies and share a meal in peace. This is an image of what it will be like in the New Heaven and the New Earth when the entire body of Christ sits down at the banquet table of the lamb. Unitarians and Baptists. Catholics and Fundamentalists. Emergents and Neo-reformed. We will all eventually sit next to each other in peace.

I don’t say that to imply that our differences are insignificant or our theologies unimportant, but to affirm that we have no reason to fear the presence of the other. We can exist under this tent together.

But all too often we avoid even listening to the voices of others for fear that they might corrupt us, or (worse) confuse us. We want to hold on so tightly to our little piece of the truth that we demonize everyone else and inoculate ourselves against their influence. So there are college students who are told (usually by their youth pastors) to stay far away from Bible and religion classes in college for fear that all that historical criticism will affect their faith. They fear any knowledge that might force them to change. Or there are the pastors who get fired from their church for having a book by an emergenty author on their shelves. Fear of new ideas creeping in shuts down the pursuit of knowledge or the ability to question. At our old church, we were taken to task for exposing the youth there to different Christian traditions because it might cause them to choose to be something other than Baptist. There was fear of anything but the known. And many fear listening to the voices of postcolonial, or liberation, or feminist theologians for fear these voices of the margins might challenge the way things have always been (as defined by one’s particular western tradition).

Instead of learning from each other and admitting that we all follow our own particular and highly imperfect cobbled-together streams of Christian tradition, we demonize each other out of fear. We make up words like heresy or syncretism to avoid having to actually listen to those around us. We have lost the ability to value what we value and yet still sit and break bread with those with whom we disagree. This Christianity looks like a bunch of small tents scattered across a plain, each trying to keep its distance from the other and to defend its territory at all costs.

So that’s why I love the idea of a big tent Christianity. It represents the place where we can come as we are (with beliefs fully intact yet held humbly) into a place where fear is banished and we can sit in peace with even our so-called enemies at the table of the Lord. It’s where we can be the body of Christ.

Last summer my inbox filled up with angry responses to my post recounting the often ignored history of the slaughter of the Native American’s at the Taos Pueblo (men, women, and children took sanctuary in the church and the US Army burned them alive inside). I was called every name in the book for daring to question the greatness of the US and our right to Manifest Destiny. Then recently, my post supporting the Cordoba House (the mosque going in near Ground Zero) was linked to at the Cordoba House site to demonstrate that some Christians do support the project. That of course brought on a new wave of hate in my inbox. From those accusing me of supporting the pedophile religion of Satan to those telling me I was mocking the power of Jesus by tolerating Muslims, I witnessed the overwhelming animosity Christians hold towards the other. The words of Jesus to love our neighbor apparently don’t apply if that neighbor looks or believes differently than we do.

Out of everything I have written, that these two posts should elicit such visceral responses demonstrates how deep the issues of racism and prejudice still are in the church today. Oh, churches might give lip service to accepting others and being “colorblind,” but in reality those fears and prejudices run deep. The general message of the white American church is eerily similar to a white person saying “I’m fine with black people; I just don’t want them living next door.” So we are fine with collecting dream catchers and turquoise jewelry and seeing sexy Native American teens running around shirtless as they turn into wolves, but not with listening to their side of the historical story or admitting to our country’s acts of terrorism against their nations. And some even say they are fine with Muslims as long as they don’t put a mosque where we can see it or ask us to engage in reconciliation projects. Stereotypes and prejudices are preferred to the truth and anger erupts if such positions are questioned or challenged.

Granted, many Christians aren’t even okay with the lip-service tolerance or the “equal as long as they are separate” mentality. Recently Pastors Terry Jones and Wayne Sapp of Dove World Outreach Center in Gainesville, FL declared September 11, 2010 to be International Burn a Koran Day. In a YouTube video (warning – video contains footage of a burning Koran) he tells viewers “if you call yourself Christian you should be burning the Koran because it is of the devil.” Their blog even lists the top ten reasons to burn a Koran as if it is some sort of late night comedy routine (interestingly enough, I’ve heard most of the arguments they list used against the Bible as well). Similarly, in a recent trip back to Taos, NM I heard some white Christians discussing how the genocide of the Native American nations was a blessed gift from God to eliminate the satanic influence of their cultures from our “one nation under God.” There are some things that are just so extreme and so absurd that it is hard to believe people are even saying them much less saying them in the name of Christ, but for many Christians this sort of hatred is at the core of their faith practice. Vengeance and revenge against the other has superseded the commands to love our enemies and to pray for those who persecute us.

The question that plagues me is if the church will ever repent of its allegiance to hate and start following in the way of Chris instead? It seems like the church has embraced a culture of hatred. I used to have a bumper sticker on my car that said “I’m for the Separation of Church and Hate,” but someone found its anti-hate message so offensive that they vandalized it with a marker. On top of that, much of the church has lent its ear to the false prophets who mock the words of Jesus and who command their followers to run from the churches that encourage us to love our neighbor or to set the oppressed free. When the truth of God has been replaced by these racist and hate-filled lies of our culture, it is hard at times to have hope for the church. When yet another hate email arrives in my inbox questioning my faith because I spoke out against acts of violence and terrorism against non-white American peoples, I have to wonder where Jesus is in the church these days. But even amidst all that darkness there are glimmers of hope. I see the Christians (the National Association of Evangelicals even) asking that the International Koran Burning Day be canceled in the name of Jesus. I see the handful of Christians willing to stand with Muslims as they build the Cordoba House. These are public voices presenting to the world the side of Christianity that isn’t defined by violence and hatred. They may be few, but it is enough to keep believing that the core of Christianity hasn’t been completely corrupted or destroyed.

Sad thing, even as a disabled person the only reaction I ever heard about ADA was negative. People complained about the hassle of making space for the disabled. They said it was unfair that the disabled were being given special privileges (yes, seriously people were stupid enough to say something like that). And, most of all, they complained about the cost. And being in the church world, where I heard that complaint most often was from churches. Now I understand that churches often don’t have a lot of money, and to add another few hundred thousand onto a renovation budget to be ADA compliant is difficult. A church I was at once attempted to renovate their sanctuary to fit in more seating, but in the end we lost seats because of the ramp we had to put in to make the stage accessible. It was hard and forced the church to rethink where the money was to be spent, which of course led to some choice words being said about the “liberal nonsense of the ADA.” But in truth, I had to wonder why the church wasn’t the one out there doing whatever they could to include the disabled – even without being forced to by law. Jesus went out of his way to be with the disabled in his society, the church could at least do the same.

Where this gets confusing for me is the intersection of disabled people and worship. Straight-up, there is a lot that churches do in worship (especially in more experimental experiential worship) that is just plain inaccessible to the disabled. There have been a number of times at my current church where I have just sat quietly in my seat because whatever worship activity we were doing would have been impossible to do with one hand. And I always cringe a bit when we do active things, or create art, or meditate on a film and exclude the wheelchair users and the blind in our congregation. I similarly don’t wish to exclude the say, kinesthetic or visual learners in the church, but it sometimes feels as if there is no awareness of how a disabled person could enter into the worship experience. As a church have we forgotten how to go to the lengths of cutting open a roof and lowering our disabled friend in through the ceiling just so they could meet Jesus?

So as we celebrate these twenty years, I think it should be as a reminder of how far we still have to go in our culture and in the church. There are still churches that ban the disabled from serving as priests. And there are churches that see disability as a result of sin or of a lack of faith in the Lord to heal. I’ve been told to just have enough faith and the Lord will grow my arm, or to at least look forward to having two perfect arms in heaven. Disabled people need to be included in worship, but first, we need to be accepted as who we are. Not as people to be pitied or to be cured, but as children of God created the way God wanted us to be. We want to be included in community not because a law forces us to be put up with, but because the church desperately wants to love us and desires to hear our voice.

I think fun is great for church. I also think that activities like roller skating and rodeos (a big church in Nashville had a rodeo in church for July 4) don’t belong in the sanctuary. Hold them in the gym, the grounds, the activity center, the parking lot–maybe even in lieu of “regular” services sometimes, but not in the sanctuary. Keep this place apart for the decorum and solemnity that some activates need, i.e. communion, weddings, christenings, confirmations, funerals/memorial services, etc. Individual, personal introspective reflection is needed for enlightenment to occur.

I’ll be honest, I flat out disagree with her perspective, but I really appreciated the comment because of how it illustrates different conceptions of what the purpose of church is.
I addressed this topic of sacred space in church a few years ago (Sacred Space and Revolving Christmas Trees), but I think my perspective has develop even since then. My perspective has always been influenced by my “low church” experience, but I believe my understanding of what is sacred has become even more ecumenical over time. I’ve stopped seeing the sacred as a place I go to worship God, but as the place where God shows up in a variety of ways.

As a child I attended a large Bible church that while it had a sanctuary, I was never allowed to enter it. I spent my time in the children’s building far away from the worshiping adults. After moving to Austin, our church met in a sanctuary with moveable chairs. The church used to meet in a used car dealership, and since building a sanctuary, used it for not only worship, but also cleared it out for children’s and youth events or set it up with tables for all church meals. That particular church now has a state of the art stadium as its sanctuary. I later was on staff at a stereotypical iconoclastic Baptist church for awhile, where the sanctuary was painted stark white with no adornments to potentially distract us from the word of the Lord. Since then I’ve attended churches that have met in school cafeterias, YMCA karate rooms, a community center for mentally handicapped adults, a warehouse, and my living room.

This experience has ingrained in me the conviction that the building is simply a gathering place for the body of Christ to meet and be the church together. When you meet in a house church it is impossible to keep the sanctuary set apart for “the decorum and solemnity” of a few activities. But we were no less the church and no less able to worship God because we sat on the same couches on Sunday morning that my husband and I had snuggled together on to watch a movie the night before. The space wasn’t sacred because it was set apart to be used once a week, it was sacred because the body of Christ gathered there to support each other and worship God. Same thing with the church we currently attend. We are Journey Imperfect Faith Community that gathers at the Warehouse. The Warehouse is not Journey. Our “sanctuary” is our living room, where we worship, share meals, have movie and board game nights, hold meetings, host recovery groups, and simply be the church with each other. Personal introspective reflection and enlightenment occurs there, as does fun, and lament, and community.

I honestly have a hard time fully entering into worship in sanctuaries whose sole function is to be a sacred and holy space. I struggle with justifying such a waste of resources – not only for creating an ornate expensive structure to begin with, but for the clinging so tightly to a space that gets used once or twice a week. How is that good stewardship? How does that allow us to serve God and each other? How does that allow us to be the body of Christ? For me, setting apart a space as sacred flies in the face of all that Christ was. He tore the curtain in the temple, he told us to worship him in spirit and truth. He didn’t confine himself to the trappings of a building or argue that the temple should stop being the community hub that it was in favor of it only being a place of worship. He taught that all of life is sacred, and that we have opportunities to serve and worship in all aspects of life.

I get that there are Christian traditions that value a set-apart sacred space (and I am sure I will have an interesting time wrestling with this as I enter an Episcopal seminary this fall). And I fully get how our environment can influence or shape a worship experience. But I have a hard time limiting the sacred to just that which is solemn or full of decorum. God is far bigger than that. I don’t want to shut out who God made us to be as his followers just because I only want to affirm one aspect of who God is. Places become sacred because we seek God there. How that happens is a mystery and is as multifaceted and diverse as God herself. I believe we can encounter God in so-called sanctuaries in worship and in meals together, in the laughter of children and in the struggles of a small group. The sacred permeates it all.

A couple of weeks ago at my church the topic was having faith like a child. The teaching time ended with our pastor throwing bouncy balls around the room instigating an all-church ball fight followed by finger-painting and blowing bubbles. Yes, my church is a tad quirky. But what I took away from that morning was not so much the childlikeness of these acts, but how unusual it was for people to allow themselves to have fun in church. We were tearing down our barriers, abandoning church propriety, and simply allowing ourselves to be in the moment enjoying life. It felt good.

Now I am one of the first to argue that the point of church shouldn’t be to attract and entertain the masses. Coming to church to hear what we want to hear and sing our favorite songs has very little to do with following Jesus. But neither does checking our personalities at the door and assuming a generic “churchgoer” persona every time we gather at church. For some churches that involves pretending that monotone recitation and droning songs are actually soul-inspiring and their preferred way to express their spirituality. For others it’s dressing up in the church costume (never been in fashion anywhere anytime dowdy skirts, ugly floral shirts, dark hose, and unstylish yet still uncomfortable shoes), clutching that oversized study-Bible, taking sermon notes you will never read again, and mindlessly singing lyrics you don’t really believe while hoping no one finds out that you really enjoy Lady Gaga and had a couple of beers with friends the night before. People feel like they must play a part in order to even be at church – acting out a lie in order to fit in. Is this the point of church?

For most churches personality and pleasure are so denigrated that the idea of allowing oneself to have fun in church (or even admit that you have fun outside of church) is beyond comprehension. But if we can’t enjoy God’s diverse creation and express our true selves when we gather as the body of Christ, where can we? I know life shouldn’t be dichotomized into sacred and secular, but it seems like we’ve divided it in truth into church and then all the places we really experience God. Why is spiritual joy constrained to uncomfortable pews when just about every person in those pews would admit that they experience far more joy at a day at the lake with friends or playing a game of catch with their kids? Why do we have to turn to TV and dinner clubs to connect with others who can express with us the intense pleasures to be found in good food? For that matter, why are our blog conversations about theology far more meaningful that what we get at church? Sure, I get that all of life can be called “church,” but so why is real life kept away from the place where we gather as the church?

God created us to experience pleasure, to take joy in the wonders of creation and the church has decided to blatantly ignore that part of ourselves within its walls. I know it goes against our cultural conditioning to allow ourselves to be who God created us to be as we gather as a church, but I wish having fun in church wasn’t so taboo. Throwing bouncy balls around in church felt weird because it was weird. We let down our guard and enjoyed the moment. We let the lines between the church façade and the enjoyment of life blur for a moment and something magical happened. I’m not saying here that we should get rid of structured church, or teaching, or songs and liturgy, just that we also allow God to be bigger than all those things. God gave us so much in this world to take pleasure and find joy in, why do we pretend to ignore that in church as if we are ashamed of God’s gifts? Let’s have fun in church, or at least stop hiding and start embracing and celebrating the holiness of how God created us to experience and enjoy pleasure. We all already admit such things are from God, why do we act otherwise when we gather as the body of Christ?

At the Journey Warehouse we call our gathering space “the living room.” I love the image because the living room is where a family does life together. We make it cozy, we make it represent who we are, and we claim it as our own. Over this past year Journey’s living room has been transformed into a garden, a threshold archway, a waterfall, and even the wonderful world of Oz. These transformations represent where we as a community, a family, are going together.

This week the living room has become a bit of Treasure Island, complete with a Pirate’s Lair, Tiki Hut, and Jungle. The children have claimed the space for themselves as they sail across the seas as merchants and dance to rousing choruses of “The Pirates Who Don’t Do Anything.” As they explore what things God wants them to treasure, they have grown comfortable in the space and it has become their own. While at times this familiarity might be chaotic, there is something special about knowing the kids feel safe and at home in the living room.

I’ve worked in churches before that made rules about where — and more importantly where not — children could be in the church. Church councils would pass rules barring children from the sanctuary or the fellowship time. The kids were kept hidden in the basement – far, far away from the adults. And the kids knew that they were not wanted, that the church was not a place where they were truly welcomed or safe.

So I am so grateful for the community at Journey embracing its members of all ages. For saying to children, teens, and adults alike that “this is your home, come on in and relax, let this place represent you.”

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One of the joys of VBS is watching what the kids take away from the week. Having such an intense daily experience where the kids get to “do church” and learn about God outside of the ways they normally do truly does affect their lives. My kids, for instance, have been singing the songs from the week around the clock. I hear my daughter singing to herself as she lies in her bed at night, and even my barely verbal toddler has got the “na na na” chorus down. These songs, these ideas, these themes are part of their life now even if they don’t fully grasp their meaning.

As an adult who knows that she will never fully understand her own faith or the ways God works in the world, I get that the kids will only partially understand what they are singing or what they are learning. But they are internalizing these ideas in a loving and safe environment. That is how God is working in their lives in the moment.

Of course, that partial understanding can be amusing at times as well. As my daughter sang a VBS song about dancing and singing for her king, I asked her who her king was. She gave me a weird look and after thinking for a moment said her brother’s name. She explained that he was the person she liked to dance and sing with so he must be her King. We had a nice little chat about God being the king of kings, but I was moved that at the age of 5 she grasped the joy and exuberance of worship that song suggests far better than most of us.

God is working in these kids’ lives – often in ways we don’t plan or expect. Creating the space for them to experience God is, for me, at the heart of what it means to serve children. And often in helping create that space, the children in turn teach me something and draw me closer to God.

Forbes Magazine recently posted an article on the high numbers of professional women who constantly feel like they will be called out at any moment as frauds. They are convinced that they are nowhere near as intelligent as everyone seems to think they are and so it is only a matter of time before they are revealed as frauds. The Forbes article of course pointed out how this self-doubt can be detrimental to the success of the business as a whole since when women feel like frauds they are less likely to seize opportunities presented to them. Impostor syndrome causes women to dismiss praise, add disclaimers to their statements, and constantly feel less intelligent or mature than their peers.

In short, to mirror the qualities and virtues of a nice and humble Christian girl.

So while business magazines list the dangers of women being plagued with impostor syndrome, I don’t hear it talked about often in church circles. Self-loathing among women is common, but often it seems that the most vulnerable we can be with each other in Christian circles is to admit to the surface issues. “I’m ugly” or “I’m fat” are safe struggles we can share with each other. As hard as it may be to admit those feelings, at some point we realize that there isn’t a woman out there who doesn’t feel the exact same way. We can dismiss those issues as lies our culture imposes upon us and find affirmation and healing in the love of Jesus (or something like that). But it’s harder to admit to being plagued by self-doubt issues like “I’m not smart enough” or “I’m not successful enough” in a church culture where humility is considered a virtue and women are discouraged from being successful to begin with. So in addition to being scared of being called-out as frauds, in the church we fear being called-out as prideful and ungrateful if we are honest with our struggles.

Many feminist theologians though believe that while pride may be the common sin of men, for women our sin is lack of confidence. Instead of trying to make ourselves into God, we feel so unworthy that we fail to give all of our gifts to God and this world. And yet, we still are instructed over and over again in how to be humble – resulting in women staying silent out of fear of being assertive (prideful), putting disparaging disclaimers before all of our ideas, and shutting ourselves out of opportunities for success, pleasure, friendship, and service because we feel like it would be too forward of us to assume we are equal to interacting fully with our peers.

I know this isn’t everyone’s story, but I’ve seen it often enough to know it’s out there. And it’s generally a story told at the point of utter brokenness – when people are beyond having expectations matter anymore. It’s disturbing though that instead of helping people step confidently into who they were created to be, the church often instead brings people to the breaking point where they can be real only as they are ready to walk away from the church itself. There needs to be a better space for true vulnerability and for re-framing our understanding of virtue. Women shouldn’t be praised for feeling unworthy or for denying that God gave them gifts. We shouldn’t have to be conflicted between following God according to the world’s definition and actually following God. This is about more than confidence and self-worth; it’s about being truthful – something I hope could actually be valued in the church.

This past Sunday we focused on how Jesus embraced women and other marginalized people – no matter who they were or what they had done he offered them a place at his table. We told these stories from the point of view of those Jesus reached out to and included. It was a beautiful and emotional service, as we affirmed that all were welcome and loved by Jesus and at our church. For it, I wrote a piece based on the story of the bleeding woman Jesus heals that I also wanted to share here. -

The Bleeding Woman

I’d gotten used to the bleeding. And the weakness that went along with it. But it was the loneliness that consumed me.

For twelve years, my body has unnaturally bled. At first I thought it was just my monthly courses run long, but then it didn’t stop. I tried to hide it from my family of course, smuggling out the dirty rags to wash down at the river. But nothing gets past my mother. When she found out she just gave me that look, you know the one, the one that told me that I was a complete failure – worthless. Whatever was she going to do with an unclean daughter?

At first they tried to take me to doctors. Always the Roman doctors, not the Jewish ones – they didn’t want it getting out in our community that I was unclean. The doctors were more than willing to take my parents’ money, but nothing they did helped. The bleeding just continued – and I grew weaker and weaker. When it got to the point that I was too weak to even help my mother with the chores, my father had the idea to marry me off as quickly as possible. I assume he knew that my condition would be discovered, but then I would be another man’s problem.

I’m surprised I survived the night my husband found out the truth. I think I passed out sometime after the third blow weak as I was. The next thing I knew he had thrown me at my father’s doorstep – demanding payment for the humiliation of having been given worthless goods. My father, of course, denied knowing anything at all – calling me a deceptive harlot, spitting in my face, and saying that I was no daughter of his.

Now everyone knew I was unclean. No one could touch me, and everything I touched or anywhere I sat immediately became unclean. No shopkeeper would allow me near his wares; no housewife would allow me to pause to catch my breath on her doorstep. I begged as best I could for the occasional bite of bread, as my condition even barred me from the profession most desperate women end up turning to. No one wanted me.

So like I said, I got used to the bleeding and the weakness, but the loneliness got to me. No one’s touched me for nearly twelve years. Oh, I’ve been spat upon and received the occasional kick from daring young boys – but no hugs, no shoulder to cry upon, no sister to help braid my hair. And it’s been that long since I’ve been allowed in the synagogue as well – to raise my voice in praise to God or hear the precious words of the Torah read. I am as invisible and worthless to God as I am to everyone else.

But then I heard rumors about a rabbi who could heal the sick and even raise people from the dead. Now, I’d been to my fair share of doctors and magicians who had claimed they could heal me – but somehow I knew this man was different. I don’t know how I knew, but something deep inside gave me hope that this time I could finally be well.

It took me a few days though to work up the courage to approach him. I knew I could never ask him outright for healing – I doubt any rabbi would heal a woman who broke the taboo of speaking in public to a man. And I was sure he would despise me for making him unclean if I even came near him. So I knew that my only option was to secretly approach him. If he truly was a holy miracle worker, just touching the hem of his cloak should be enough. I was good at slipping quietly through crowds; I just prayed my touch would go unnoticed.

I saw him hurry through the streets following one of the important synagogue leaders. His disciples were pushing the crowds away to help him through, but I knew that if I did not seize this opportunity, I may never get another chance. So I slipped through the crowds until I was close enough and then I reached out my hand and lightly brushed the edge of his cloak. And I felt a power course through me, I felt alive and full of a strength and energy I hadn’t felt in years. I knew I was healed. I wanted to shout for joy, I wanted to tell the whole town that I was clean again. But I knew no one would believe me, and I needed to quickly get away from this Jesus before he noticed me.

I was slipping away when I saw him stop in his tracks, and my heart sunk. He knew. He called out “who touched me?” His disciples laughed at him, they were in a crowd there were dozens of people touching him. But he asked it again and I knew my worst fears had been realized. I had risked it all for this one chance, and now I would be punished for my desperate attempt. I wondered if in his anger he would just whip me like the other men I had accidentally touched or if he would reverse my healing – condemning me to isolation for the rest of my life.

I knew I had no choice, so I threw myself at his feet, trembling in fear as I awaiting his punishment. I couldn’t even bear to look at him. I stammered out how I so desperately wanted to be well and how I knew that just touching his cloak would heal me, and that it did, that I was finally well. And I apologized over and over again for my brazen actions, hoping he would understand just a little why I dared make him unclean.

But then everything changed. You know when there’s that moment when your world shifts? This was it for me. He didn’t yell at me, he didn’t beat me. He didn’t even walk away in disgust. Instead he walked towards me and knelt down at my side. And then, and I will never forget this, he placed his hand on my shoulder and said “Daughter, your faith has healed you go in peace.” My own father had rejected me and no one had touched me in years, and here this rabbi blessed me and called me daughter. That touch, that word healed me more than just stopping the bleeding had. For the first time in years, I felt accepted and loved – I felt whole again.

Jesus looked past the names and labels that my culture had imposed upon me, and healed my wounds. He gave me a place at the table.