The Democracy of Wisconsin

Did you hear about the peaceful protests in Egypt that started last month? How the people of Egypt ousted Hosini Mubarak simply by taking to the streets and demanding, peacefully, that their voices, voices crying out for democracy, be heard? So did Wisconsin.

When you sign any political petition online, they usually ask for your email and get you on their mailing list to send you more information about the cause for which you're showing your support. It makes sense. I have signed political petitions online, and my email inbox is flooded with political crap every day. I skim them, sign the petitions for issues I already cared about anyway, and then delete. Sometimes, I'll go so far as to post links to petitions and news articles to my Facebook in support of causes. But, for the most part, I am not a huge political activist. My political beliefs don't quite fall into liberalism or conservatism "perfectly" and so I often find myself not completely "on board" with the majority of the political activism about which I get emails.

When I started getting emails about Wisconsin though, I was sincerely annoyed. I already thought the whole situation was ridiculous, and now my inbox was getting filled with ridiculous calls to support the ridiculousness. If you don't know what's going on in Wisconsin, here are the basic "facts": the Republicans are trying to pass a bill that is anti-union, and the Democrats don't like this. So they (the Democratic lawmakers) fled the state. Literally. Their absence prevents the Republicans from having the necessary-under-law quorum to pass any bill involving money, which is pretty much all bills. The citizens of Wisconsin too have made their disapproval of the bill heard by staging peaceful protests at the state capital, comparing Madison, Wisconsin to Cario, Egypt.

I'm all about power to the people, but seriously? Fleeing the state? Thousands of people leaving their jobs just to go protest an anti-union bill? And the nerve of comparing themselves to Egypt! Egyptians have shown incredible courage in their fight for their freedom; Wisconsinites just seemed to be jumping on the "let's find something to protest" bandwagon. Their lives were in no danger. No one shot rubber bullets at them or threw tear gas; they were safe,  not brave.

And then something happened. As I was listening to myself grumble about how stupid the Wisconsin protests were, I suddenly realised what I love most about my country but so often forget to appreciate: that we can protest without fearing for our lives, that we are free to unite and stage protests for what we believe in, and that we are also free to think the protests of our fellow Americans are stupid.

I know very little about the bill being protested, actually. I haven't formed an opinion on the bill either way because I just don't know the details. I don't even have an opinion on unions, really. They're good for some people and bad for others, but I don't know what the net benefit or net harm of unions are or what would happen in the long run were this bill to pass or were it to fail. And if it weren't for the Wisconsin protesters, I wouldn't be aware of my own ignorance.

So I signed a petition in show of my support for the Wisconsin protesters. Not because I had done my research and discovered that the protestors were right and the bill would cause more harm than good, not because I supported their cause, but because I supported their willingness to stand up for their belief that this bill would cause more harm than good. I decided to show my support for the right of all people to protest, even when I do not agree. Let the voices of all people be heard; let no one be silenced. This is democracy.

Will You Heed the Call?

One half of my family is Catholic, and the other is Presbyterian, but I was raised in an Evangelical school. I had no clue there were any differences between the different Christian denominations growing up, mostly because I didn't even know there were different denominations. The words got thrown around, but were never processed. What I knew of Christianity was limited to my Evangelical school, as my family provided very little religious guidance to me. (Actually, I provided the religious guidance in the family with my constant desire to pray, read the Bible, and talk about God; I have always been incredibly drawn to religion and spirituality.)

So coming out was painful. Evangelical Christianity was clear on homosexuality, and my school was no different: I was a sinner. My declaration of my sexuality was a blatant defiance and rejection of faith. And I was thus no longer under God's grace, until I could deny my sexuality and live in accordance with what God wanted. No one offered me help, only condemnation. It was up to me to figure it out, and I knew immediately that I would never be able to convince God that I was straight. God knew me; I could not hide from God. In coming out, God ceased to be the loving, protective, embracing God I had known and needed. In coming out, God became an angry, hateful, condemning God of wrath I feared. Painful does not even being to describe how much the battle between my faith and my sexuality tore me apart. I am still not healed.

I read the religion section of the Huffington Post almost every day, in addition to the basic news and politics. I love reading all of the varying ideas about faith, religion, and spirituality, and often want to just share every article on there. But nothing comes close to this article, which does not possess great insight or revolutionary ideas in the least. Instead, it is a brief article on the beginnings of what seems to be Evangelical Christianity's coming acceptance, inclusion, and embracement of homosexuality. I started crying as I read the article, and have stopped many times while writing this entry just to regain my composure. Had just one person in my Evangelical Christian community dared to tell me that I deserved full acceptance and inclusion, that I was just as deserving of love as my straight peers, within Christianity and that my sexuality did not separate me from God or make God furious with and hate me, I would have been spared incredible amounts of suffering. If only just one person told me that my sexuality and my spirituality could coexist in harmony, not war. If only.

I would love, more than anything, to hear that even now, though I don't need to hear it to know that the God I have faith in loves me exactly the way I am, gay, straight, or upside-down. I would cry, just to be accepted in the place I had so desperately needed to be accepted as a child. I am stronger now because of my struggle, but I desperately hope that Evangelical Christianity, and indeed all peoples, will heed and echo the call to accept, include, and embrace, regardless of sexual and gender identity so that no one else ever need suffer the way I did. 

Please, I beg you, accept, include, and embrace.

A Week in Review

It has been quite the week, as usual:

I discovered how very much un-healed my spine is, now five months after my collision, when I woke up Wednesday unable to move my neck, shoulders, and upper spine. I barely moved all day, and the pain has continued throughout Thursday. I just want to be mobile by Sunday.

I got myself into a "heated" debate about politics and religion, in which I found myself defending, for some crazy reason, a conservative, Christian, Republican who more or less said that God punishes women who have abortions by making the rest of their children handicapped because the first born of all creatures are to be "dedicated to the Lord" and called it fact. Someone posted the quote, and then added in how furious Christian Republicans made them. I jumped in, identifying myself as Christian and a registered Republican (though, honestly, I'm not a huge fan of either party) that did not agree with him. The discussion quickly became about how secularism and atheism are superior to religion because they "don't have beliefs" and how America was founded by atheists. Atheistic superiority is just as hateful as Christian superiority, and I had to make my own opinion heard. It was probably stupid, but I saw my 16-year-old self in that Christian-hating, atheistic superiority. It was probably a fight against my own ego, more than anything.

I reconnected with an old friend, to whom I owe my life for making me swear to her that I would never ever commit suicide. I was twelve, and life was hell by thirteen; though she was no longer a part of my life, that promise kept me alive. So it was weird to reconnect. It feels dream-like. It feels like life has been poured into my soul again, like my promise has been fulfilled, and depression's reign over me is gone forever. Light has returned. But it's less about her and more about me; I don't need a promise to lighten the dark, for I am the light.

Sunday, Archbishop Desmond Tutu is coming to my church to preach. My church will be utterly packed. And while he gives his sermon, I will be elsewhere on campus, assisting in Children's Chapel and missing his sermon completely. As selfless as it may seem to help with the kiddies and miss Archbishop Desmond Tutu's sermon, I'll admit that it wasn't really a hard sacrifice to make: the sermons are filmed every Sunday, so I watch it Sunday evening/Monday morning; I love being around kids; and the kids are all getting taken up to the altar to celebrate the Eucharist up close and personal with Archbishop Desmond Tutu, so I'll be up there with them. I'll miss feeling the energy of the room during the sermon, but I have to say it's not too bad of a trade off. And I don't mind doing my duty to help out the church. After all, what kind of future priest would I be if I wasn't willing do my part?

UPDATE: Children's Chapel got cancelled so that the kids could all hear Archbishop Desmond Tutu's sermon. I'll get to see it live after all! Apparently, people are going to be lining up to get good seats over an hour before the service, yeesh! I've heard (or, well, seen on Facebook) people who definitely do not go to my church talking about coming. I'm pretty excited. Also, my spine is getting better.

A Foolish Struggle

I want to want wisdom, true wisdom. I've spent many years having my ego inflated with comments about my being "wise beyond my years" or an "old soul" or something like that. My ego longs for more. More, more, more! So often, I find myself just finding quick-fix façades of wisdom though, instead of true wisdom. I'm too afraid of admitting that I am not wise to truly gain wisdom. My pride and my ego have too strong of a hold on me.

I stopped praying for wisdom. It seemed silly, after all, to pray for a quick-fix from a God whose divine intervention I doubt. I find it hard to believe that asking God for anything will bring any results; even if God exists and is listening, why would God intervene in my life? Why would God waste his/her/its/their time with intervening in my life? It seems ridiculous. And what? God's going to do it just because little old me asked? It just doesn't make sense.

I took out my Book of Common Prayer, flipped to the Thanksgivings, and just started reading each prayer of thanksgiving out loud, fighting desperately against my ego which sought to get what it could out of this God and then leave God behind, fighting against my own selfishness. "Thank you, Lord." My ego screamed. Over and over and over again. The ego which mocks me for my (hesitant) belief in God and makes my fight against my own hatred of organised religion even harder. Organised religion has burned me, has scarred me, and every time I see or hear words like, "God," "Jesus," "faith, "prayer," and so many others, all of the pains the church has caused me come right back.

And my ego laughs at my foolish struggle. Why fight to have faith? What is the good of faith? Why should I subject myself to the pains of my past, pains brought on by the followers of the very God I wish to be close to? Why suffer? This is utterly foolish. My recent breakdown was brought on by church, by faith. Why should I force myself to relive the pain of my childhood? It was buried deep in the past; why should I have to "deal with" and "reconcile" my past?

We give you thanks, most gracious God, for the beauty of the earth and sky and sea; for the richness of mountains plains, and rivers; for the songs of birds and the loveliness of flowers. We praise you for these good gifts, and pray that we may safeguard them for our posterity. Grant that we may continue to grow in our grateful enjoyment of your abundant creation, to the honour and glory of your Name, now and forever. Amen.

I don't know what else to do but pray. I hate prayer. I cannot bow my head and clasp my hands together; this feels like submission to the hateful religious leaders of my childhood. It feels like self-mutilation and self-destruction. It feels like bowing to a wretched dictator. My very being rebels against this submission. I hate submission because I was forced again and again into submission by "God." But that "God" is not the gracious God which created the beauty of the earth and sky and sea; the richness of mountains, plains, and rivers; the songs of birds and the loveliness of flowers. That "God" is not the God I could ever bow before because that "God" rules with fear, not love. The God I once knew and the God I long to know again is a God of love, not fear or hate.

Grant me courage, O God, to love you. Heal my broken, fearful heart, that I may come to know and trust you. Guide me to seek out wisdom and not falsehood. Help me, O God, to be light, not darkness. Envelope me in your peace and guard me from evil. Let me not fear.

Burning Out

I knew this day would come, but I'm surprised it took so long, actually: I am utterly burnt out from church. It's Sunday night, and I just got home after being at church for eleven hours straight, non-stop doing things. Busy, busy, busy. I feel so utterly exhausted. As we sung through the last hymn in the evensong, I was wondering why on earth we had to sing five whole verses. Wasn't one enough?

It's been three full months of this ridiculous "join every activity possible" attitude, and I'm only just now feeling any kind of exhaustion. A little food in my stomach and a chance to just sit down and relax, and I'm already feeling like I could be ready for more by morning when you read this.

I'm emotionally burnt out though. Not from church particularly, but overall. Last week was a very long week, full of inner turmoil, and I'm still recovering. Maybe it's my church's fault for bringing to light all of my unworked-out issues. Maybe I could blame my church for being such a strong positive force in my life that my subconscious figured now would be a good time to launch repressed issues at me and throw me into a "spiritual awakening." Why not blame my church?

I'm glad to be burnt out. I'm glad to feel exhaustion take over me. Because you know what's going to happen now? I am going to rest. My church has pushed me and pushed me to the point of utter exhaustion, but now I get to rest. And I can rest in the church. As exhausted as I was once the day was through, I felt like I could spend even more time there, only resting rather than working.

This is how I know my church is right for me, this is how I know it is home. It is a place where I am pushed and pushed and pushed until I can take no more, and then the moment I have passed my limit, I can rest. And soon, I know, I will be energized again and ready for more pushing, to feel myself grow like a balloon being filled with air and feel my skin stretching and stretching, but never popping. I am being filled with life, even in my exhaustion.