September 11 is an eerie day for me, as I assume it also is for most Americans in the post 9/11/2001 era. What it must be like for most Americans to remember the happenings of that fateful day, however, and to have it define their consciences and their very beings, is not something that I am familiar with or can understand from experience.
The truth is that my September 11 story is one of life as a missionary in a predominately Muslim town in Central Africa. On September 11, 2001, I was living in Ngaoundere, a bustling town on the central plateau of Cameroon. I was teaching English and Bible at a Protestant High School where many of my students were Muslims. When those planes hit the World Trade Center, it was a little after 3 p.m. in my part of the world. I had just finished teaching for the day and had gone out to the market to buy rice, milk powder, and cheese.
My 9-11 story is that on that afternoon I walked into a shop for ex-patriots that is owned by a prominent and beloved Muslim family in our town. Madame Alizar and her husband are originially from Lebanon. They have made a good living opening their shop selling things that Africans don't eat (like cheese) to the many missionaries and foreign buisiness people that come to Ngaoundere.
On that afternoon the TV was on in the back room. When I came into the shop, Madame Alizar saw me and came out to the front counter. She grabbed my arm frantically and said, "What are you doing here?" Something was obviously wrong. She told me that I had to go home (to my home in Ngaoundere) at once, that something horrible had happened in America.
By the time I got back to my home, it was all over, and the other missionaries were looking for me. They had CNN International on and we all sat down and watched. We knew that this was REALLY bad. Perhaps some of us even knew what it might mean for our country. I can't speak for anyone else, but I know that I did not.
My experience of 9-11 is not one of fear. I don't understand what it was like in America in what must have been those horrible days following the attacks. I hear stories of the eerie quietness of the skies. I hear that the churches were full that following Sunday, and that people stopped each other in the street and remembered their humanity for a while. I have heard those stories.
I have also seen how much 9-11 shaped our consiousness as Americans into something that I didn't recognize when I finally came home to U.S. soil in July of 2002.
On September 12, 2001, I awoke to another average school day. Life just went on. And then there was a knock at my door. A Muslim woman who was my neighbor had come to offer her condolences for what had happened the day before in the U.S. I told her it was OK; I appreciated her kind words, but she didn't have any responsibility for what had happened. Then she told me something that I believe sets my 9-11 experience apart from probably just about every American I know: She said that she didn't have any personal responsibility for the violence, but she was sorry anyways. She talked about how disgusting it was that this horrific act of violence had been done in the name of her religion. She told me that this is not what Muslims believe, and that the Prophet Muhammed would not have condoned this.
This might not have marked me so deeply except that over the course of the day, it happened again and again. Muslim people who I knew, and ones I didn't know, came to me again and again, all day long, to tell me they were so sorry that this had happened and that it had been done in the name of a religion that they espoused. These people, my Muslim neighbors, were truly grieved by the violence that had been committed in the name of Islam, the Prophet they love, and the God they love.
When I came home to the U.S. I began to realize how different my 9-11 experience was from others' experiences. September 11, 2001, changed the face of America in ways that I do not believe are all positive. And, it seems to have been the defining moment of my generation, like the way the Kennedy or the MLK assassinations shaped my parents' generation, or the Great Depression and World War II shaped my grandparents'. And, strangely, I find myself being left out of that defining moment. I missed it--I missed the defining moment. That makes me incredibly different. I believe it also makes me incredibly lucky.
I have been given a gift. For many years, I was afraid to tell people about how the Muslim community cared about and supported me and my fellow missionaries in the days following September 11. It is a very unpopular message, but a true one. I know now, as I did then, that it is a story that needs to be told. I just haven't been able to tell it until very recently.
I know a very different Islam than the one that was portayed here in the days after 9-11. Don't believe everything that a too-liberal media tells you that you should believe about the events of that day and its aftermath. Don't believe everything the government tells you, either. The politics of fear have encroached on our lives and controlled us for too long. Propaganda was not just used in communist USSR or Nazi Germany to control the people; it has been used here in America, too, by our government and media over the last 8 years, and used well. Don't buy in to the idea that Islam is evil. "Islam vs. the West" is something that we have blindly accepted without really knowing what that means.
Remember September 11 for what it was. It was a tragic day in a world full of tragic days. Remember those little glimpses of humanity that you saw in the days following that tragedy. I know I do. I often think about those faithful Muslims who ministered to me in the aftermath of what has become an identity-altering day in the life of my nation. Pray that unity and new birth will arise from the ashes of that day, and that that unity and new birth will include a new identity where people of all faiths can be seen as valuable.
Showing posts with label Christians. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Christians. Show all posts
Friday, September 11, 2009
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Breaking Up and Breaking Out
I almost dropped out of seminary.
The reason for my "almost break-up" with the church, the "straw that broke the camel's back" is, at this point, mostly unimportant. I credit a good friend of mine for convincing me to stay. He told me I only had two options: I could leave and let the church stay the way it was (break up), or I could stay, and exact change from the inside (break out). I chose to stay, because at that time I could never see myself as being anything other than a Lutheran. Maybe the idealist in me really believed that this is still a "reforming" church, and not just the "reformed" church of Martin Luther's Reformation.
My blog has been silent for a long time. The last few months have been filled with wonderings and wanderings as I struggle with a church that falls so short of my expectations, and a call to ministry that even I don't entirely understand.
My struggle is with a larger church (i.e., not a specific congregation, but the wider church) that preaches the "priesthood of all believers" but doesn't live it. My struggle is with a church that doesn't know how to affirm my gifts for ministry not only as a church leader but also simply as a Child of God. I struggle with my own ability to be a diaconal minister (deacon, or servant) in this world and in a church that I feel has let me down. It has told me my service is important and then turned its back on my call in so many ways. In the semantics it plays between "ordination" and "consecration" and in the inequality in pay and responsibility between clergy and deacons, the church has made its stand. My call did not come out on top. I wasn't really hoping it would--equality would have been nice.
I could go on, but I won't. I am writing this blog so that others who struggle with questions of faith might know that you are not alone, and so that you know that even the people who "work in the church" are often plagued with doubt and misgiving. I also wish for something better for my church, and for myself.
The question that faces me today is the same one that has faced me for months, perhaps even years. It was 2003 when I almost dropped out of seminary.... in many ways my questions today are still the same....
Should I "break up" with the church, or "break out"? Is my role the role of a leaver or a reformer? I know that I want something better, but I'm not sure I have the heart to make it happen. I'm not sure I'm a reformer. All I want to do is be a diaconal minister (deacon, servant) in the truest sense of the word. I just want to serve... I don't want to spend my time convincing people it's a good idea. I'm not sure the church knows what this call to diaconal service really means. What about the preisthood of all believers? If we're all priests, then who says diaconal service needs to happen within the context of a "call" or a "consecration"? Isn't God bigger than even the church's box?
The reason for my "almost break-up" with the church, the "straw that broke the camel's back" is, at this point, mostly unimportant. I credit a good friend of mine for convincing me to stay. He told me I only had two options: I could leave and let the church stay the way it was (break up), or I could stay, and exact change from the inside (break out). I chose to stay, because at that time I could never see myself as being anything other than a Lutheran. Maybe the idealist in me really believed that this is still a "reforming" church, and not just the "reformed" church of Martin Luther's Reformation.
My blog has been silent for a long time. The last few months have been filled with wonderings and wanderings as I struggle with a church that falls so short of my expectations, and a call to ministry that even I don't entirely understand.
My struggle is with a larger church (i.e., not a specific congregation, but the wider church) that preaches the "priesthood of all believers" but doesn't live it. My struggle is with a church that doesn't know how to affirm my gifts for ministry not only as a church leader but also simply as a Child of God. I struggle with my own ability to be a diaconal minister (deacon, or servant) in this world and in a church that I feel has let me down. It has told me my service is important and then turned its back on my call in so many ways. In the semantics it plays between "ordination" and "consecration" and in the inequality in pay and responsibility between clergy and deacons, the church has made its stand. My call did not come out on top. I wasn't really hoping it would--equality would have been nice.
I could go on, but I won't. I am writing this blog so that others who struggle with questions of faith might know that you are not alone, and so that you know that even the people who "work in the church" are often plagued with doubt and misgiving. I also wish for something better for my church, and for myself.
The question that faces me today is the same one that has faced me for months, perhaps even years. It was 2003 when I almost dropped out of seminary.... in many ways my questions today are still the same....
Should I "break up" with the church, or "break out"? Is my role the role of a leaver or a reformer? I know that I want something better, but I'm not sure I have the heart to make it happen. I'm not sure I'm a reformer. All I want to do is be a diaconal minister (deacon, servant) in the truest sense of the word. I just want to serve... I don't want to spend my time convincing people it's a good idea. I'm not sure the church knows what this call to diaconal service really means. What about the preisthood of all believers? If we're all priests, then who says diaconal service needs to happen within the context of a "call" or a "consecration"? Isn't God bigger than even the church's box?
Friday, August 1, 2008
People Who Get It
Can I just say something?
I spent last week with an amazing bunch of young adults. Four of them were from my congregation, and six of them were from a Methodist church in Hamilton, New Jersey. We spent the week in Wyoming County, West Virginia, serving with Appalachia Service Project (ASP). We didn't all go together. Heck, we didn't even know each other before last week! But when we were placed at the same work site together, relationships were formed and magic happened.
I just want to say how easy it is sometimes to get frustrated with people who don't get it. Many Christians don't understand what it means to be Christian. They don't understand that the call to Christian life is the call to service. Day after day I constantly wonder how I am supposed to empower people to live out their Christian call to service when they think service is synonymous with "serve us."
I was really proud to be a part of our little band of four who embarked on a journey to serve in West Virginia last week. And, I was really honored to get to know the six from New Jersey. I felt like I had come home... I was really in my element, in service, hands (and just about everything else) dirty. And, I was surrounded by people who get it. Granted, we all had our moments of insanity. But I know that at the end of the day, these were ten devoted people who understand the meaning of Christian service. I needed to be reminded of what that feels like.
Thank you.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Her Story: My Story
Nafissatou
This weekend at Trinity's annual spring women's retreat our topic was Her Story: My Story. We studied biblical women and their legacy for us as 21st-century inheritors of their stories. The first night we were there we all shared about the women in our lives who have most influenced our own faith. For me, there have, of course, been many such women. My mother and grandmother are very important parts of my own faith journey. But the women I chose to talk about this weekend are Hadja, Hanizou, and Nafissatou.
These women are three very faithful Muslim women who live in central Cameroon. Nafissatou was my student when I taught English there. Her mother is Hadja, and her little sister is Hanizou. I know it may seem strange that I would name three Muslim women as important influences in my Christian faith journey, but there it is.
I have many stories that I could tell you about Nafissatou and her family. What is important to know for this story is that her mother and father took care of me, loved me, and treated me like I was their own daughter. To this day, I am Hadja's daughter, and I am sister to Nafissatou and Hanizou.
The Thanksgiving after I left Cameroon, Nafissatou's father, Sadou Daoudou (or as we called him, Baaba Sadou, or "Daddy Sadou") came in from his morning walk and fell down and died in the middle of their living room floor. He was 74 years old, and had lived a very rich and fulfilling life. He served as Minister of Defense in the Cameroonian government under President Ahmadou Ahidjo during the early years following independence. This had made him and his family very worldly people, which I think is one of the many things that so endeared us to each other.
Anyways, the summer following Baaba Sadou's death, I was back in Cameroon for a visit. Pierre and I went to visit Nafissatou and her mother and sister after church one Sunday. Hadja was still very sad over the loss of her husband. We came and sat in their living room, drinking tea and talking. When we left, Pierre forgot his small blue Gideon New Testament that he had placed on the side table. We never even remembered we had left it.
Three months later, I was standing in our kitchen in St. Paul, Minnesota, at lunch time when the phone rang. I picked up the phone and heard the familiar delay we often get on calls from Africa. "ALLO?" I heard a voice say from far away on the other end of the line. It was Nafissatou.
"Hello? Rebecca, I am calling to tell you something important," she told me.
"Is everything okay?" I was a little worried. I slumped back against the kitchen counter. It was snowing outside.
"Yes. Do you remember that Bible you and Pierre left at our house last summer when you visited us?"
I admitted to her that I did not.
"Ever since the day you left it, my mother has been reading it."
This was one of those missionary moments where your breath catches in your throat. "And?" I croaked. I wasn't quite sure I wanted to know the rest. Will these people still be the people I love if they become Christian? Part of why I love them is because of their heritage and family life that center around the practice of Islam. The selfish part of me wanted them to remain exactly the way they were.
"And, I am just calling to tell you that Muslim people love Jesus, too. We love Jesus."
I started to cry.
That is why Nafisstou and her family have had such a profound impact on my faith. I am pretty sure now that they will never become Christians, and that is OK. They don't need to. In many ways, the greatest Christian love I have ever experienced came from this close-knit family of Muslim women. Their openness to understanding my story, to having an experience with my God, and to loving me all the same has had a profound impact on how I live my life today as a Christian.
They are also a great example for me of what it truly means to be a missionary. Mission is about relationship. Hadja never would have read that Bible in the first place if we didn't have such a deep love for each other. Nafissatou never would have shared what she did with me if we hadn't already been bonded together as sisters. In so many ways, this family has ministered to me more than I could ever care for them.
Nafissatou is the reason that I have a Master's Degree in Islamic Studies. She and many of my other female students--Aissatou, Mairamou, Hadjijatou--they made me want to know more about who they are. The practices of Islam are so intimately bound up with their everyday lives that I couldn't know them without knowing about what they believe and practice. In many ways, we made an exchange... Nafissatou got that Gideon Bible, and I got a Master's thesis on Modern Women in Islam.
I wish that more Christians could show our Muslim brothers and sisters grace and godliness like Nafissatou, Hanizou, and Hadja showed (and continue to show) me. Nafissatou and her family are some of the most faithful, godly people I have ever met.
This weekend at Trinity's annual spring women's retreat our topic was Her Story: My Story. We studied biblical women and their legacy for us as 21st-century inheritors of their stories. The first night we were there we all shared about the women in our lives who have most influenced our own faith. For me, there have, of course, been many such women. My mother and grandmother are very important parts of my own faith journey. But the women I chose to talk about this weekend are Hadja, Hanizou, and Nafissatou.
These women are three very faithful Muslim women who live in central Cameroon. Nafissatou was my student when I taught English there. Her mother is Hadja, and her little sister is Hanizou. I know it may seem strange that I would name three Muslim women as important influences in my Christian faith journey, but there it is.
I have many stories that I could tell you about Nafissatou and her family. What is important to know for this story is that her mother and father took care of me, loved me, and treated me like I was their own daughter. To this day, I am Hadja's daughter, and I am sister to Nafissatou and Hanizou.
The Thanksgiving after I left Cameroon, Nafissatou's father, Sadou Daoudou (or as we called him, Baaba Sadou, or "Daddy Sadou") came in from his morning walk and fell down and died in the middle of their living room floor. He was 74 years old, and had lived a very rich and fulfilling life. He served as Minister of Defense in the Cameroonian government under President Ahmadou Ahidjo during the early years following independence. This had made him and his family very worldly people, which I think is one of the many things that so endeared us to each other.
Anyways, the summer following Baaba Sadou's death, I was back in Cameroon for a visit. Pierre and I went to visit Nafissatou and her mother and sister after church one Sunday. Hadja was still very sad over the loss of her husband. We came and sat in their living room, drinking tea and talking. When we left, Pierre forgot his small blue Gideon New Testament that he had placed on the side table. We never even remembered we had left it.
Three months later, I was standing in our kitchen in St. Paul, Minnesota, at lunch time when the phone rang. I picked up the phone and heard the familiar delay we often get on calls from Africa. "ALLO?" I heard a voice say from far away on the other end of the line. It was Nafissatou.
"Hello? Rebecca, I am calling to tell you something important," she told me.
"Is everything okay?" I was a little worried. I slumped back against the kitchen counter. It was snowing outside.
"Yes. Do you remember that Bible you and Pierre left at our house last summer when you visited us?"
I admitted to her that I did not.
"Ever since the day you left it, my mother has been reading it."
This was one of those missionary moments where your breath catches in your throat. "And?" I croaked. I wasn't quite sure I wanted to know the rest. Will these people still be the people I love if they become Christian? Part of why I love them is because of their heritage and family life that center around the practice of Islam. The selfish part of me wanted them to remain exactly the way they were.
"And, I am just calling to tell you that Muslim people love Jesus, too. We love Jesus."
I started to cry.
That is why Nafisstou and her family have had such a profound impact on my faith. I am pretty sure now that they will never become Christians, and that is OK. They don't need to. In many ways, the greatest Christian love I have ever experienced came from this close-knit family of Muslim women. Their openness to understanding my story, to having an experience with my God, and to loving me all the same has had a profound impact on how I live my life today as a Christian.
They are also a great example for me of what it truly means to be a missionary. Mission is about relationship. Hadja never would have read that Bible in the first place if we didn't have such a deep love for each other. Nafissatou never would have shared what she did with me if we hadn't already been bonded together as sisters. In so many ways, this family has ministered to me more than I could ever care for them.
Nafissatou is the reason that I have a Master's Degree in Islamic Studies. She and many of my other female students--Aissatou, Mairamou, Hadjijatou--they made me want to know more about who they are. The practices of Islam are so intimately bound up with their everyday lives that I couldn't know them without knowing about what they believe and practice. In many ways, we made an exchange... Nafissatou got that Gideon Bible, and I got a Master's thesis on Modern Women in Islam.
I wish that more Christians could show our Muslim brothers and sisters grace and godliness like Nafissatou, Hanizou, and Hadja showed (and continue to show) me. Nafissatou and her family are some of the most faithful, godly people I have ever met.
Friday, January 4, 2008
The Summer of 1999
Or, How I Came to Africa: A Love Affair
It kind of surprised me as I looked back over almost a year of posts that I have hardly blogged at all about Africa, something which is so central to my identity and ministry. I guess as time marches on and Africa disappears farther and farther into my past, the reality of my present situation outweighs any experience I had there. Do you think the uniqueness of who I have become because of that place will eventually disappear altogether? Sometimes I ask myself that question. And, as much as sometimes I don't like being different from everyone else, I also don't want what makes me unique to disappear.
The other question I always ask myself is if I will ever make it back to Africa. I am afraid to answer that question. I am afraid the answer might be no, and I don't know if I can accept that. I don't want to always be on this side of the Atlantic looking out across it at great distance, as if it were a lover I abandoned a long, long time ago.
I was last on the African continent in July of 2003. That was a month-long visit to Cameroon, the primary purpose of which was to help my husband Pierre emigrate to the United States. Prior to that, I lived and served as a missionary in Ngaoundere, Cameroon, from August of 2000 to July of 2002.
The first time I was in Africa, though, was for a trip to Tanzania in the summer of 1999.
I would really like to be able to express to you in words how that trip changed my life; I'm just not sure if it is possible.
Have you ever had a moment in your life that was so magical and wonderful that it seemed surreal? That was the way the entire summer of 1999 was for me. The best way that I can describe that time in my life is that I fell in love; everything around me after that summer had this magical, wonderful, shimmering glow. My perspectives on the world and education and religion and what really matters all changed. Some of my problems didn't seem so important anymore. Other things seemed more important than ever.
One of my really personal memories happened after I returned from Tanzania. I was walking down Main Street in Salem, Virginia, right up the street from my college, and this girl walked by. She was talking on her cell phone. Blah, blah, blah... I don't really remember what she was talking about. What I do remember is what I thought: The whole world had been turned upside down, and it seemed like I was the only person on the planet who knew it or even gave a damn.
It seems virtually impossible for me to explain to you what it was that so shook me up, got inside me and turned me upside down and inside out. Maybe an example will suffice.
Part of what I was doing that summer at Roanoke College was writing an honors paper on the Lutheran Church in Tanzania and the process of inculturation, which is basically the phenomenon of the gospel message taking on certain attributes, symbols, and traditions of the local culture. An example of this would be illustrating Jesus as a black man in Africa or an Arab in the Middle East. Another example would be offering... in Africa, it is often less about passing the plate and more about your first fruits: grain from your harvest, a goat from your field, a live chicken. Try sitting through a worship service while two live chickens with their legs tied together flap around on top of the altar!
One of the things that I learned very quickly during my time in Tanzania (and later in Cameroon) is that a lot of the Christian theology, doctrine, and tradition that I learned in college (and later in seminary) are very entitled. What I mean is that it is very convenient to believe certain things and practice your religion in a certain way and have a sense of entitlement about it, until you go somewhere else where the same rules just don't apply. The people in my current congregation would have a cow if someone brought chickens into the sanctuary! They have enough problems if the poinsettias aren't all lined up properly or the Christ candle is in the wrong spot. They have enough problems because we have switched our communion practices to intinction. We all complain about things that don't really matter a whole lot, when you think about it (Oh, they matter to us... they just don't matter much in the grand scheme of things).
The summer of 1999 showed me that I am NOT the center of the universe.
My theology is NOT the center of the universe.
My tradition is NOT the center of the universe.
My church is NOT the center of the universe.
My GOD is the center of the universe.
God made us all so unique and beautiful. God gave us minds to think, hearts to feel, and ears to hear. God gave us a message that is so universal that it can be practiced and believed in so many different ways. The only thing that remains the same is that Jesus Christ died and rose again to save us. Whether that Jesus was black or white, whether we offer him chickens or $20 bills, whether we take communion on our knees or in passing by dipping in a cup, it doesn't really matter. The only thing that really matters is that the Christians in America and Tanzania and Cameroon and the Middle East and Costa Rica and everywhere else worship the same Jesus Christ.
What was so special about the summer of 1999? In some ways, it was realizing my own obscurity. I am so small, and the world is so big and cruel and hard. So much of what I do doesn't matter to anyone but me. It was in learning of my obscurity that I gained the greatest gift... I gained a peek into what it truly means to be a Child of God.
I am wonderfully and beautifully made.
The same God who made me also made the dusty streets of Africa.
The same God who made me also made the tall Maasai and the towering Baobab.
The same God who made me also made those chickens on that altar.
The same God who made me also made a planet where America and Tanzania can co-exist.
So different, and yet so similar. So far apart, and yet so strangely near to one another.
Our God is an awesome God.
It kind of surprised me as I looked back over almost a year of posts that I have hardly blogged at all about Africa, something which is so central to my identity and ministry. I guess as time marches on and Africa disappears farther and farther into my past, the reality of my present situation outweighs any experience I had there. Do you think the uniqueness of who I have become because of that place will eventually disappear altogether? Sometimes I ask myself that question. And, as much as sometimes I don't like being different from everyone else, I also don't want what makes me unique to disappear.
The other question I always ask myself is if I will ever make it back to Africa. I am afraid to answer that question. I am afraid the answer might be no, and I don't know if I can accept that. I don't want to always be on this side of the Atlantic looking out across it at great distance, as if it were a lover I abandoned a long, long time ago.
I was last on the African continent in July of 2003. That was a month-long visit to Cameroon, the primary purpose of which was to help my husband Pierre emigrate to the United States. Prior to that, I lived and served as a missionary in Ngaoundere, Cameroon, from August of 2000 to July of 2002.
The first time I was in Africa, though, was for a trip to Tanzania in the summer of 1999.
I would really like to be able to express to you in words how that trip changed my life; I'm just not sure if it is possible.
Have you ever had a moment in your life that was so magical and wonderful that it seemed surreal? That was the way the entire summer of 1999 was for me. The best way that I can describe that time in my life is that I fell in love; everything around me after that summer had this magical, wonderful, shimmering glow. My perspectives on the world and education and religion and what really matters all changed. Some of my problems didn't seem so important anymore. Other things seemed more important than ever.
One of my really personal memories happened after I returned from Tanzania. I was walking down Main Street in Salem, Virginia, right up the street from my college, and this girl walked by. She was talking on her cell phone. Blah, blah, blah... I don't really remember what she was talking about. What I do remember is what I thought: The whole world had been turned upside down, and it seemed like I was the only person on the planet who knew it or even gave a damn.
It seems virtually impossible for me to explain to you what it was that so shook me up, got inside me and turned me upside down and inside out. Maybe an example will suffice.
Part of what I was doing that summer at Roanoke College was writing an honors paper on the Lutheran Church in Tanzania and the process of inculturation, which is basically the phenomenon of the gospel message taking on certain attributes, symbols, and traditions of the local culture. An example of this would be illustrating Jesus as a black man in Africa or an Arab in the Middle East. Another example would be offering... in Africa, it is often less about passing the plate and more about your first fruits: grain from your harvest, a goat from your field, a live chicken. Try sitting through a worship service while two live chickens with their legs tied together flap around on top of the altar!
One of the things that I learned very quickly during my time in Tanzania (and later in Cameroon) is that a lot of the Christian theology, doctrine, and tradition that I learned in college (and later in seminary) are very entitled. What I mean is that it is very convenient to believe certain things and practice your religion in a certain way and have a sense of entitlement about it, until you go somewhere else where the same rules just don't apply. The people in my current congregation would have a cow if someone brought chickens into the sanctuary! They have enough problems if the poinsettias aren't all lined up properly or the Christ candle is in the wrong spot. They have enough problems because we have switched our communion practices to intinction. We all complain about things that don't really matter a whole lot, when you think about it (Oh, they matter to us... they just don't matter much in the grand scheme of things).
The summer of 1999 showed me that I am NOT the center of the universe.
My theology is NOT the center of the universe.
My tradition is NOT the center of the universe.
My church is NOT the center of the universe.
My GOD is the center of the universe.
God made us all so unique and beautiful. God gave us minds to think, hearts to feel, and ears to hear. God gave us a message that is so universal that it can be practiced and believed in so many different ways. The only thing that remains the same is that Jesus Christ died and rose again to save us. Whether that Jesus was black or white, whether we offer him chickens or $20 bills, whether we take communion on our knees or in passing by dipping in a cup, it doesn't really matter. The only thing that really matters is that the Christians in America and Tanzania and Cameroon and the Middle East and Costa Rica and everywhere else worship the same Jesus Christ.
What was so special about the summer of 1999? In some ways, it was realizing my own obscurity. I am so small, and the world is so big and cruel and hard. So much of what I do doesn't matter to anyone but me. It was in learning of my obscurity that I gained the greatest gift... I gained a peek into what it truly means to be a Child of God.
I am wonderfully and beautifully made.
The same God who made me also made the dusty streets of Africa.
The same God who made me also made the tall Maasai and the towering Baobab.
The same God who made me also made those chickens on that altar.
The same God who made me also made a planet where America and Tanzania can co-exist.
So different, and yet so similar. So far apart, and yet so strangely near to one another.
Our God is an awesome God.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Thoughts on Grace--A Mission Theology Primer
Part 1
I have been thinking a lot about grace recently.
Grace has a lot to do with the issues I had with the mission theology of Pura Vida Missions when I travelled to Costa Rica. I have kind of been thinking that I need to explain myself a little bit. I complained a lot about poor mission theology in some of my most recent posts, and then I never said why I think it was poor theology, or what good theology looks like. The other week my friend Chris asked me, "Becca, why was it so bad? What exactly was it?" So, I am going to tell you what I think. Now, I know who some of my readers are, and I know that not all of you will be comfortable with my take on things. Please understand that this is an expression of who I am deep in my theological being more than it is a condemnation of what you may believe. I have to be true to myself--in the words of Martin Luther, "Here I stand. I can not do otherwise. God help me, Amen!"
I think I need to start this blog with a story from my past. I grew up in Huntsville, Alabama, in the middle of the Bible Belt. Alabama tends to be very religiously conservative. They are also almost always a "red state" during presidential elections. Most of the people who I went to high school with were from the Southern Baptist tradition. Those who weren't were generally non-denominational, evangelical, or Pentecostal Christians (this is based on my observation and personal experience, not on data I researched). As a more liberal Lutheran person, I was in the minority religiously, and I therefore had to think hard about what I believed at a very early stage in my life. I often saw the incongruities between my faith and the way I practiced it and the religious habits and beliefs of the people around me.
One of the things that made me very uncomfortable as a Lutheran growing up in Alabama (I always used to joke that there were only 3 Lutherans in all of Alabama, and they were all in my family) were the questions. I remember one of my friends asking me once, "Are you Christian?" I told her yes--I am a Lutheran. "But, are you CHRISTIAN?" she asked. Another time someone asked me if I had been "saved," i.e., if I had decided to give Jesus my heart and asked him to be my personal Lord and Savior. Lutherans just don't talk like that! So, I gave what I still believe to be a very correct answer--I said that I had been baptized as a baby and that Jesus died and rose for me. I said that God loves me and all of His children, and His grace has set me free from the bondage of sin and death. I am proud that as a young person I was able to articulate my beliefs and stand up for my faith. I owe that in no small part to my parents, Sunday School teachers, youth leaders, and pastor.
My experiences as a youth growing up in Alabama led me to develop a strong mission theology while I was still in high school. The questions people asked about my faith made me uncomfortable mainly because I felt like they were trying to evangelize me. ME!? A good Christian girl? I knew that some people felt that I needed to convert from my sinful Lutheran ways and join the Southern religious status-quo. I found that offensive. I still struggle with prejudices against conservative and evangelical Christians because I know how horrible their evangelism tactics made me feel at the time. The basic sense of their argument (in my eyes) was that God couldn't save me unless I conformed to their belief system.
When I was a junior in high school I had an amazing, transforming, spiritual experience at the ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church in America) National Youth Gathering. If I had to pinpoint a moment in my life when God finally got to me and transformed me, that would be it. Following that experience, I really began feeling the call to ministry. More specifically, I began feeling the call to MISSION.
My view of mission at that time was what I had been shown by the Christians around me--something that made me feel icky, as if God couldn't grant me salvation unless I was like them, "born again," "saved," or whatever. The idea that I could be called to mission made me feel, well, icky. I didn't want to make others feel as disrespected and unloved as others' Christian evangelism tactics had made ME feel. No one had ever bothered to ask me what I believed. No one had bothered to find out WHO I was or WHAT I was all about. They didn't care much about who I was at all. They just wanted me on their side. They wanted me on the "right" side (both figuratively and politically).
I recently met a man from Africa who married a Pennsylvania Dutch girl from Lancaster County. My husband Pierre and I met them because of the reason we often meet people like them--we look like them and have a demographic similar to theirs. White American woman marries black African man and vice versa. We had dinner together. I will never forget the first two things that man wanted to know about me when we met for the very first time. He knew I worked in the church. And yet, what did he want to know? 1. Was I "born again"? and 2. What did I think about "gay people"? Seriously? That's it?
Bad mission theology is bad specifically because it does not seek to discover others' stories. It does not respect who they are or seek to know more about them. Bad mission theology only has ONE goal: to "save" poor, lost souls. Bad mission theology's general definition of poor, lost souls is anybody who does not believe and practice the same thing you do. Bad mission theology does not take into account that it is GOD who does the saving, and not over-zealous Christians.
The other thing that really frustrates me about bad mission theology is that it assumes that God is somehow limited in God's power to save humanity. It puts God in a box. It says, "Hey, look. If you are Lutheran, gay, Muslim, liberal, an adulterer, thief, or a hippie (or something else we don't like), God just can't save you. Sorry. But, there is hope for you--become like us, and God will love you like God loves us." Bad mission theology claims that the only truth that exists is the truth these people are perpetuating.
Now, I'm sorry, but exactly what kind of God do these people believe in, anyways? Didn't Jesus come to save HUMANITY? Didn't Jesus eat with prostitutes and tax collectors? Aren't we all as sinful as that Lutheran liberal gay hippie who is cheating on his wife sitting next to us on the bus? Don't say you're not! I know I am, and you are, too. The good news is, God loves us ALL anyways!
That's what grace is all about. God CAN and DOES meet us where we are, love us as we are, and transform us into the people God calls us to be. GOOD mission theology understands that, respects that, and yet also challenges us to become more closely aligned with who God wants us to be.
In Part 2 I promise I will stop ranting and get to the heart of who we are as Christians--despite my early aversion to the call, I now fully believe that ALL Christians are called to mission. I want to talk more about good mission theology and the work that all Christians are called to do.
I have been thinking a lot about grace recently.
Grace has a lot to do with the issues I had with the mission theology of Pura Vida Missions when I travelled to Costa Rica. I have kind of been thinking that I need to explain myself a little bit. I complained a lot about poor mission theology in some of my most recent posts, and then I never said why I think it was poor theology, or what good theology looks like. The other week my friend Chris asked me, "Becca, why was it so bad? What exactly was it?" So, I am going to tell you what I think. Now, I know who some of my readers are, and I know that not all of you will be comfortable with my take on things. Please understand that this is an expression of who I am deep in my theological being more than it is a condemnation of what you may believe. I have to be true to myself--in the words of Martin Luther, "Here I stand. I can not do otherwise. God help me, Amen!"
I think I need to start this blog with a story from my past. I grew up in Huntsville, Alabama, in the middle of the Bible Belt. Alabama tends to be very religiously conservative. They are also almost always a "red state" during presidential elections. Most of the people who I went to high school with were from the Southern Baptist tradition. Those who weren't were generally non-denominational, evangelical, or Pentecostal Christians (this is based on my observation and personal experience, not on data I researched). As a more liberal Lutheran person, I was in the minority religiously, and I therefore had to think hard about what I believed at a very early stage in my life. I often saw the incongruities between my faith and the way I practiced it and the religious habits and beliefs of the people around me.
One of the things that made me very uncomfortable as a Lutheran growing up in Alabama (I always used to joke that there were only 3 Lutherans in all of Alabama, and they were all in my family) were the questions. I remember one of my friends asking me once, "Are you Christian?" I told her yes--I am a Lutheran. "But, are you CHRISTIAN?" she asked. Another time someone asked me if I had been "saved," i.e., if I had decided to give Jesus my heart and asked him to be my personal Lord and Savior. Lutherans just don't talk like that! So, I gave what I still believe to be a very correct answer--I said that I had been baptized as a baby and that Jesus died and rose for me. I said that God loves me and all of His children, and His grace has set me free from the bondage of sin and death. I am proud that as a young person I was able to articulate my beliefs and stand up for my faith. I owe that in no small part to my parents, Sunday School teachers, youth leaders, and pastor.
My experiences as a youth growing up in Alabama led me to develop a strong mission theology while I was still in high school. The questions people asked about my faith made me uncomfortable mainly because I felt like they were trying to evangelize me. ME!? A good Christian girl? I knew that some people felt that I needed to convert from my sinful Lutheran ways and join the Southern religious status-quo. I found that offensive. I still struggle with prejudices against conservative and evangelical Christians because I know how horrible their evangelism tactics made me feel at the time. The basic sense of their argument (in my eyes) was that God couldn't save me unless I conformed to their belief system.
When I was a junior in high school I had an amazing, transforming, spiritual experience at the ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church in America) National Youth Gathering. If I had to pinpoint a moment in my life when God finally got to me and transformed me, that would be it. Following that experience, I really began feeling the call to ministry. More specifically, I began feeling the call to MISSION.
My view of mission at that time was what I had been shown by the Christians around me--something that made me feel icky, as if God couldn't grant me salvation unless I was like them, "born again," "saved," or whatever. The idea that I could be called to mission made me feel, well, icky. I didn't want to make others feel as disrespected and unloved as others' Christian evangelism tactics had made ME feel. No one had ever bothered to ask me what I believed. No one had bothered to find out WHO I was or WHAT I was all about. They didn't care much about who I was at all. They just wanted me on their side. They wanted me on the "right" side (both figuratively and politically).
I recently met a man from Africa who married a Pennsylvania Dutch girl from Lancaster County. My husband Pierre and I met them because of the reason we often meet people like them--we look like them and have a demographic similar to theirs. White American woman marries black African man and vice versa. We had dinner together. I will never forget the first two things that man wanted to know about me when we met for the very first time. He knew I worked in the church. And yet, what did he want to know? 1. Was I "born again"? and 2. What did I think about "gay people"? Seriously? That's it?
Bad mission theology is bad specifically because it does not seek to discover others' stories. It does not respect who they are or seek to know more about them. Bad mission theology only has ONE goal: to "save" poor, lost souls. Bad mission theology's general definition of poor, lost souls is anybody who does not believe and practice the same thing you do. Bad mission theology does not take into account that it is GOD who does the saving, and not over-zealous Christians.
The other thing that really frustrates me about bad mission theology is that it assumes that God is somehow limited in God's power to save humanity. It puts God in a box. It says, "Hey, look. If you are Lutheran, gay, Muslim, liberal, an adulterer, thief, or a hippie (or something else we don't like), God just can't save you. Sorry. But, there is hope for you--become like us, and God will love you like God loves us." Bad mission theology claims that the only truth that exists is the truth these people are perpetuating.
Now, I'm sorry, but exactly what kind of God do these people believe in, anyways? Didn't Jesus come to save HUMANITY? Didn't Jesus eat with prostitutes and tax collectors? Aren't we all as sinful as that Lutheran liberal gay hippie who is cheating on his wife sitting next to us on the bus? Don't say you're not! I know I am, and you are, too. The good news is, God loves us ALL anyways!
That's what grace is all about. God CAN and DOES meet us where we are, love us as we are, and transform us into the people God calls us to be. GOOD mission theology understands that, respects that, and yet also challenges us to become more closely aligned with who God wants us to be.
In Part 2 I promise I will stop ranting and get to the heart of who we are as Christians--despite my early aversion to the call, I now fully believe that ALL Christians are called to mission. I want to talk more about good mission theology and the work that all Christians are called to do.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Diaconal Ministry
What the HECK is it?
As I continue preparations for my consecration on November 4, I am getting a lot of questions about Diaconal Ministry. People receive my consecration announcements, and they inevitably have 2 questions:
As I continue preparations for my consecration on November 4, I am getting a lot of questions about Diaconal Ministry. People receive my consecration announcements, and they inevitably have 2 questions:
- What's a Diaconal Minister?
- What's a Consecration?
So, I am off to "God's Country" for the next two weeks (My grandfather was from Minnesota, and he always swore it was "God's Country" - that and "The Land of the Sky Blue Waters"), and I thought it might be nice to answer those questions before I leave.
NOTE: This is not the "controversial" post I have been working on; it's just a little something to tide you over until I get a chance to write again.
First of all: If you are reading this post, then you are welcome to attend my consecration. So, before I tell you what a consecration is, let me officially invite you to one! Here is the invitation:
Now the word of the Lord came to me saying,
“Before I formed you in the womb I knew you,
and before you were born I consecrated you;
I appointed you a prophet to the nations.”
--Jeremiah 1:4-5
You are cordially invited to the Rite of Consecration of
Rebecca Hanson Kolowé
to the Ministry of Word and Service as a Diaconal Minister in the
Evangelical Lutheran Church of America
November 4, 2007 at 4:00 P.M.
Trinity Evangelical Lutheran Church
1000 West Main Street, Lansdale, Pennsylvania 19446
(Corner of Routes 63 and 363)
Reception immediately following
Rostered leaders are invited to vest and process. The color of the day is white.
Please come! I hope to see you there!
***
Now, to answer those two questions! Here is an excerpt of an article that was originally published in Trinity's Lansdale Lutheran. It should answer all of your questions about Diaconal Ministry, consecrations, and perhaps some other things! I wrote it, and have made some changes here to better suit my blog.
DIACONAL MINISTRY
Rebecca Kolowé, Trinity's Pastoral Assistant in charge of adult and young adult education, is about to become a consecrated Diaconal Minister.
What is Diaconal Ministry?
Diaconal Ministry is a ministry of Word and Service. One way to explain it is to compare the ministry of a Pastor with the ministry of a Diaconal Minister: Pastors are called to a ministry of Word and Sacrament. This means that Pastors preach the Word and administer the sacraments (Holy Communion and Baptism). Diaconal Ministers are called to a ministry of Word and Service. This means that Diaconal Ministers preach the Word and focus on serving others.
What is a Diaconal Minister?
A Diaconal Minister is someone who is consecrated (or “set apart”) by the church to perform ministries of Word and Service.
What is a consecration?
A consecration is a rite of the church in which Diaconal Ministers are set apart for their particular ministry. It is very similar to the way a pastor is ordained.
What do you mean by a ministry of service?
The church says that Diaconal Ministers are called into a ministry of service at the place where the church meets the world. This means that Diaconal Ministers are called to serve the poor, afflicted, unlovely, and anyone who lives at the fringes between church and world.
If your ministry is a ministry of service outside of the church, then what are you doing working in a congregation?
The official website of the ELCA (Evangelical Lutheran Church in America) Diaconal Ministry community (Please visit the ELCA Diaconal Ministry Community online at www.elca.org/diaconalministry) states, “Diaconal Ministers work to seek wholeness in the world and to help the people of God to live out the Gospel… [Diaconal Ministers work towards] equipping others for healing and justice in the world.” One aspect of service to others equipping the people of God, the people in the church, to be in service to others.
What kinds of jobs do Diaconal Ministers do?
Diaconal Ministers serve in a lot of different areas. Some of them, like me, work in congregations, encouraging and equipping others to serve. Other Diaconal Ministers may work for social service organizations, as chaplains, in campus or youth ministry, as counselors or spiritual directors, or in other areas.
How do you get to be a Diaconal Minister?
Diaconal Ministers must attend an ELCA seminary and complete the required degrees and requirements. Candidates for Diaconal Ministry also undergo a candidacy and call process before they are consecrated to service.
What is the difference between a deacon and a Diaconal Minister?
Diakonia is a Greek word taken out of the New Testament that means “service.” A deacon, therefore is a servant. Diaconal Ministers and deacons are both servants and are both the same thing. “Diaconal Minister” is the term that the ELCA has decided to use to designate its deacons.
As a Christian, I help serve others, too. What's the difference between me and a Diaconal Minister?
In many ways, we are ALL called to be deacons, and all of the various ways we minister to each other are important. All Christians should be in service to others. Jesus called us all to be deacons when he said, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself” (Luke 10:27). The difference between an ELCA Diaconal Minister and other lay people is that a Diaconal Minister has attended seminary, has gone through the church-wide call process, and has been consecrated (“set aside”) by God and the church to a specific ministry. It is similar to the way a Pastor is educated, called, and ordained to a specific ministry.
Aren’t you a deaconess?
I am not a deaconess. In the ELCA, deaconesses are women who are a part of a deaconess community. Although our call to service is very similar, only women who are a part of the deaconess community are to be called deaconesses. I am a Diaconal Minister, and you may call me a deacon.
Why have I never heard about Diaconal Ministers before?
Deacons have existed in the wider church for hundreds of years. However, the term “Diaconal Minister” and its recognition as a consecrated ministry of the ELCA only became official in 1993.
Why haven’t you told us earlier about you being a Diaconal Minister?
I am actually not a Diaconal Minister yet. I graduated from seminary in 2004, but was still working to complete the candidacy and call process when I began working at Trinity. I finished those final requirements in April. I will officially become a Diaconal Minister on November 4, 2007, when Bishop Burkat consecrates me as a Diaconal Minister. That service will be here at Trinity, and I would love for you to come and be a part of that special day!
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