Homecoming

This is the word of the LORD to Zerubbabel: Not by might, nor by power, but by my spirit, says the LORD of hosts. (Zechariah 4.6)

Pinnacle of Hope

An extraordinary passage of Scripture surfaces in today’s lectionary readings—no doubt chosen for its relevance in the run-up to this weekend’s Feast of Pentecost. It comes from Zechariah, a complex record of divine messages and visions given to the prophet as the Jews come home after 70 years in Babylonian exile. Much of Zechariah finds scholars scratching their heads, trying to sort out the historical, political, and theological layers tightly compressed in God’s promise to resurrect the nation after its long night of sorrow and loss. Yet ever so often a thrilling shaft of light breaks through, the most famous in Zechariah 4.6: “Not by might, nor by power, but my spirit, says the LORD of hosts.” The allusion to God’s Spirit—which operates in a way that transcends might and power—makes the text a timely precursor to Pentecost’s outpouring of the Holy Spirit. “Don’t look for this thing to happen like anything you’ve known or seen,” it says. Then, when we take a moment or two to discover what “this thing” is, it knocks our socks off.

The message is forwarded through Zechariah to Zerubbabel, a prince appointed to reestablish the Jewish nation and, most important, rebuild the Temple the Babylonians destroyed while sacking Jerusalem. The original Temple sat atop Mt. Zion, the city’s highest peak. Prior to the Babylonian conquest, it shone as the Jews’ pinnacle of hope—hard proof of God’s faithfulness to them. After centuries of looking to the Temple to inspire future hope, all that remains on Mt. Zion is the rubble of dashed dreams. So great is the people’s attachment to the Temple that Psalm 137 says the Babylonian exiles wept when they remembered Zion. Now that the Jews are returning home, reconstructing the Temple is the first order of business. More than that, refuting lost hope is of vital importance.

Ten Soft-Spoken Words

Perhaps the best way to tap into the epic emotions riding on this enormous project is comparing it to the devastation we felt on 9/11, as well as our urgency to replace the World Trade Center with something more magnificent and richer in meaning. Anything less would mean the terrorists won, we said. The same drive to surpass the glory of Solomon’s Temple weighs heavily on Zerubabbel and the Jews. And given their primitive circumstances, I don’t believe we can begin to comprehend how overwhelmed Zerubabbel and the people must feel. Their entire land has been decimated. Their financial means and skill sets are woefully inadequate. What’s more, the young people Zerubabbel must rely on to do the hard labor never saw the first Temple. To a one, they were born after its destruction and it’s very possible that the will to see its resurrection through isn’t there.

To give us an idea of how long 70 years is, consider this: seven decades ago we were in the throes of World War Two. Now imagine we’d lost that war and spent 70 years under Nazi oppression. Could we possibly marshal our energy to restore our former glory? That’s what Zerubbabel is up against—with the added challenge of rebuilding the demolished Temple by hand. He feels powerless, totally incapable of the job he’s been given. And God’s answer to his long list of questions comes in ten soft-spoken words: “Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit.” If we were in Zerubabbel’s position, how would we respond? My best would be, “Okay… if You say so…”

Zechariah doesn’t chronicle Zerubabbel’s direct response to God’s message. But this we know. He and those working with him make astonishing progress in the Temple project. Although it takes many generations, glory returns to Mt. Zion. The second Temple becomes something far greater than the first: it’s a testament to God’s Spirit—not political might or human power. And it is this Temple where Jesus preaches, heals, and declares the New Order of God’s grace for all of humanity.

Our Life’s Work

To source timeless truth in biblical prophecy, we first liberate the text from its historical import so we can apply its principles to our lives and times. So we read Zechariah with eyes wide open for a word God would have us know today. To be sure, this text speaks broadly to all believers, promising eternal sustenance and restoration through God’s Spirit. But I would also encourage us to ponder it in the context of spiritual exile and reconstructing a Temple worthy of Isaiah 56—another post-Babylonian prophecy, which promises a place of welcome for outcasts and foreigners: “These I will bring to My holy mountain, and make them joyful in My house of prayer… for My house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples.” (v7; emphasis added) Thus, this prophecy comes to everyone who’s been forced into exile by exclusionary doctrine, to those alienated by false doctrines of fear and condemnation, to every child of God who’s lost hope and weeps when recalling the towering promise of grace that once secured their trust in God’s Word. And it’s especially relevant to all of us who’ve heard God’s voice convene a great homecoming for every faith exile. The task of rebuilding a Church in ruins, a people ravaged by the deceit of sexism and homophobia and legalistic bullying, seems too enormous to undertake. Our first impulse leads us to assert power and amass force to complete the task. But God would say to us, “Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit.”

Reconstructing a Church that shines forth as hard proof of God’s faithfulness and the Spirit’s renewal will take a long, long time—in all probability, longer than any of us will live. Many of the returning exiles know nothing of the Church’s true significance as a homeland for their souls. To them, it’s just a fabled institution that’s fallen to corrupt powers. They look to Zion and all they see are crumbling reminders of broken ideals. We must speak this word to them—telling them that God’s Spirit transcends might and power, and God’s promises are eternally true. We are in the first stages of an historic homecoming that will triumph in the building of a House of Prayer for All Peoples. Every gender, orientation, ethnicity, class, and personal circumstance will be welcome. We who hear God’s voice and trust God’s Word must make this effort our life’s work. Progress will be slow, but providence will prevail. This is God’s promise to us. And it is true.

Though the task of rebuilding the Church into a House of Prayer for All Peoples is enormous, God promises we will succeed—not by might nor power, but by God’s Spirit.

Let's Go Up

I was glad when they said to me, “Let us go to the house of the LORD!” (Psalm 122.1)

Till Every Exile Comes Home

What gracious Facebook friends I have! Besides linking posts on Straight-Friendly’s group page, I also put them on my personal page, dropping them on family and friends. Every time I post a link, I hear a lot of them groan, “Here he goes with that stuff!” Yet, other than a couple tightly wound Christians, not one has charged me with overstepping. In fact, I’m often surprised and moved by positive responses from people I considered unlikely to show any support. Ever the optimist, I imagine those who’ve not said anything pro or con view the links favorably. Meanwhile, the realist in me argues that many dislike what I do and are too polite to complain. The truth, I guess, lay in the middle. Most probably breeze by my stuff as I do much of theirs, because Facebook is the Land of the Unhidden Agenda, where any and everyone can say what’s on their minds and keep saying it until they’re tired of saying it—usually long after people tire of hearing it. Whether or not my FB friends look kindly on what I say and do there, it’s a smart bet they’re over it by now, many of them wishing I’d give it up and move on. Sometimes I wish I would, too. But I can’t.

When God’s Spirit and Word spoke healing to my heart, it broke anew for multitudes of LGBT and straight believers unjustly ostracized by foul doctrines of fear, shame, and rejection. Assurance that nothing can separate us from God’s love won’t let me quit saying so till every exile comes home. Compared to the task facing those of us who hear the Spirit call the Church to renew its first love—the Gospel of grace, equality, and inclusion—I know my efforts don’t carry a flea’s weight. Yet having so little to offer compels me to do all I can in the biggest way. With regrets to those who are weary with me, I suspect this obsession is with me for life, gaining insistence the closer we get to a day when Christians of every gender, ethnicity, orientation, class, and persuasion are joyfully, freely welcomed by all members of Christ’s Body.

Can—will—that day arrive? Along with believing there’s no good reason why it can’t, I find no use in excuses for why it won’t. Or so says my optimist. It never saw a mountain it couldn’t scale once faith in God’s power and trust in God’s purpose entered the picture. Oddly enough, my realist, who generally sides with logic and skepticism, doesn’t disagree. It does, however, stop short of buying the dream without caveats. Reviving the Apostles’ doctrine of Christ’s acceptance relies on us forsaking prejudices and myths that wormed their way into our traditions, fractured our unity, and corroded our witness. That’s a tall order.

Belittling a Few to Mass-Market Belonging

Since many who govern Christian lives obtained and hold power by preaching fear of rejection, we can’t imagine they’ll champion equality and inclusion. Early in the Christian movement, it became clear the leader with the biggest draw held the most clout. Not a few figured out that barring select groups was the quickest, surest way to pack the house with would-be insiders. For centuries, those charged with advancing the Gospel have built huge, slavishly devoted followings by fueling an intrinsically covetous desire to have what others can’t get. Twisting Scripture every which way—or, if that failed, inventing exclusionary “theologies” from whole cloth—they present the Church as a members-only organization, not the let-everyone-come organism Jesus brought to life with His blood. As a consumer strategy, belittling a few to mass-market belonging couldn’t be more effective; its replication in every ad touting status or getting ahead verifies that. One thing’s certain: it inflates many prelates and pastors’ self-importance and makes a lot of them very rich—every one of them fully aware that hawking the Gospel to endorse exclusion negates Its truth and cheapens the price Christ paid to substantiate It. Exclusion is the most subversive, dangerous doctrine ever visited upon Christ's Church.

You’d expect the shameful history of religious wars, public strife, and private torment brought on by Christian exclusion would cause every leader in every faith community to demand it cease, regardless if they care or even understand that true discipleship is defined and measured by Christ’s command to love God and others without restraint. But here’s the rub. Nullifying doctrines of inequality and exclusion cancels all power to leverage fear of rejection as a control mechanism and campaign tactic, which many in authority can’t afford to do.

Humanly Impossible

Suppose churches literally became what Jesus indicates they should be: safe harbors where none is rejected and all are equally entitled to God’s grace. How would that work? It’s humanly impossible. Despite the New Testament’s outlay of church governance, only a lunatic would try to hold such an unmanageably diverse and needy crowd together. With nothing to fear, what’s not to lose? Without sinners to keep out, there’s nothing to keep saints in. If Jesus means what He says in John 6.37 (“Whoever comes to Me I will never drive away”), and if the Spirit and the Church actually say what Revelation 22.17 says (“Let everyone who hears say, ‘Come.’ And let everyone who is thirsty come. Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a gift.”), we’re looking at a managerial nightmare. Not that there will be much to manage. Nobody joins a club that lets anybody in.

My realist urges me not to lose sight of the scarred history, ingrained traditions, and nagging insecurities that plague the priestly caste at the summit of the mountain that my optimist hopes to conquer. Waiting for an invite like the one in Revelation wastes precious time. That offer has stood since Christ stepped out of the tomb. It will forever stand. There’s no excuse for stalling in the valley, starving for community and nurture until those at the top send invitations barreling down the hill. If that’s what it takes to press our way toward inclusion, we ain’t going anywhere for a while, because what we’re waiting on ain’t coming any time soon.

Those occupying the mountain may rule it to their liking. But they don’t own it and can’t stop us from climbing it. So why keep murmuring about high officials and lofty communities too terrified of falling to budge? They don’t have to come to us—and we need to stop wishing they would. What they do or don’t do to end the Church’s long night of exclusion has no impact on us. God gives all exiled believers a fear-free, outrageously joyful answer to their dilemma. It’s not a demand or denial. It’s a decision, delivered on wings of a song that says, “Let’s go up.”

Going to Meet God

I was glad when they said to me, “Let us go to the house of the LORD.”

Most of us raised in church grew up singing one or another version of Psalm 122.1. Composers have set its lyric in every style and genre—from toe-tapping, let’s-get-our-praise-on versions that emphasize the “glad” end of the sentence to richly sacred hymns that evoke the privilege of entering God’s house. Psalm 122 is the third in a 15-song suite (120-134) known as “The Songs of Ascent,” sung by ancient Jews while climbing Jerusalem’s Temple Mount (a.k.a. “Mt. Zion”) for festival services. These songs surpass others that extol Temple worship. They’re informed with a sense of community and stubborn hope. They span an enormous range of emotions, referring to the best and worst of Israel’s experience. As worshipers look up to the Temple, they repeatedly describe a God Who watches over them. Their joy mounts as they sing; reciting how far they’ve come makes vivid where they’re going. It’s bigger than going to church out of obligation (like many part-time Christians do at Christmas and Easter). They’re going to meet God, every song drawing nearer to God’s dwelling.

A fascinating aspect of The Songs of Ascents surfaces with four (122, 124, 131, and 133) composed by the Temple’s visionary, David, and a fifth (127) by its builder, Solomon. Yet these songs are written like the rest: in the voice of a commoner marveling at God’s goodness and power. Israel’s two greatest kings join the procession—not out of noblesse oblige or politically savvy solidarity. Implicit in their point of view one finds an electrifying confession of faith. This is God’s mountain, God’s house, and they, along with every pilgrim, are God’s people. They own these truths without presumption of owning what belongs to God. Canny recognition of what’s theirs and what’s God’s frees them from inequities and fears that shatter community and sanction prejudice.

David and Solomon leave their palatial heights to ascend Mt. Zion with their people. They surrender authority as Israel’s anointed leaders to honor Who’s really in charge. And while Israel habitually backslides into exclusionary policies, both kings consistently take a hands-off approach regarding elitism. God’s awesome reality in their own lives—made real by keen awareness they’re undeserving of divine favor—stays before them. In Psalm 131.1-2, David writes, “O LORD, my heart is not lifted up, my eyes are not raised too high. I do not occupy myself with things too great and marvelous for me.”

The Spirit of Ascent

This is the spirit of ascent: the mightiest man in Israel admitting he’s not big enough to take the reins from God. Weighty matters exceed his knowledge and authority. Much of what happens around him is unmanageable. What God demands is humanly impossible. Yet David doesn’t grab for control to retain to power and position. He’s so smart about where his authority ends and God’s begins that he celebrates his limits. And when the call goes out—“Let’s go up to God’s house”—he’s thrilled. It’s a little thing. But he does it in a big way.

When we answer the call to go up, we bear in mind our ascent is about meeting God where God dwells. We concede our limitations while doing what we little can in a big way. With that comes a lamentable concession that not every church is a house of God. Many don’t nurture organisms where faith thrives and all are invited to take the living water as a gift. They’re merely clubhouses—organizations whose members define themselves by what they’re not instead of Whose they are. They’re founded on covetous desire to have what those who don’t fit the accepted profile can’t. They preach and practice belittlement to conjure a false sense of belonging, status, and getting ahead. Thus, we have to free ourselves of the idea that boycotting worship because expertly marketed clubs won’t admit us proves anything. Our ascent bypasses such places without a glance. They’re not where we want to be, nor should be. Not being welcome is our first indication they can’t provide what we need. We’re climbing God’s mountain to meet God. Jesus promises never to drive us away. The Spirit and the true Body of Christ says, “Come.” We must own these truths.

A New Normal

In every Christian exile there’s a profound longing for a safe home where none is belittled and all belong. Those we find will, in many cases, be nothing like those we left. Our trek isn’t intended to return us to clubhouses that mock God’s sovereignty and our making. Our ascent leads to homes that defy the norm in obedience to a new normal. Once we start filling up authentic houses of God, members-only mentality will self-destruct. Fear of rejection will lose its luster, and physical, emotional, and spiritual violence born of exclusion will cease. For that to go, however, we must let go fantasies that homes where we’re not wanted or appreciated will suddenly change their ways. Mistaking magical thinking for faith-bred optimism can be as paralyzing and unproductive as stubborn denial.

Though it seems those occupying the summit hold the power and write the rules, nothing could be further from the truth. The power resides in us. The only rules that merit attention are laid out in God’s Word. They’re not hidden in obscure passages or legalistic fine print, either. They’re writ large in Old Testament commands to welcome the stranger and embodied in Christ’s life and teachings. God’s Spirit beckons us to God’s house. Let’s respond gladly. Let’s go up.

You call us to Your mountain, to meet You in Your house, O God. Forgive our reluctance to climb. Make us glad as we go up and lead us safely home. Amen.

There’s no excuse for stalling in the valley, expecting an invitation to come rolling down from those who occupy the top of the hill. Power to go up and meet God resides in us.

Sodom and Gibeah: A Tale of Two Cities

If anyone will not welcome you or listen to your words, leave that home or town and shake the dust off your feet. Truly I tell you, it will be more bearable for Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgment than for that town. (Matthew 10:14-15)

Body of Work

When coming attractions of Joel and Ethan Coen’s Burn After Reading (2008) hit theaters, I couldn’t wait for it to open. Primed by the preview for a maniacally funny political farce, I stumbled out of the picture in a daze. The clips shrewdly strung together to market the film turned up in its subplot, yet the primary story involved a woman’s desperation to get a face-lift. With not a glimpse of this in the preview, I left the picture uncertain about what the Coens wanted me to see and what they meant to say. Being a veteran film student, I fell back on a discipline I learned long ago: auteurism, which holds a filmmaker’s body of work reveals perennial themes that surface in every film. The most reliable means of understanding Burn After Reading’s moral would entail comparing it with other Coen films: Blood Simple, Raising Arizona, Fargo, O Brother Where Art Thou? etc. There it was, plain as day: vain ambition turns nice people into morons.

Oddly enough, the auteur theory also works remarkably well in identifying the morals of deceptively marketed Biblical texts. Approaching Scripture as a “body of work” is fundamental to our belief it’s the divinely inspired medium through which God speaks to us. Recurrent themes, perspectives, and motifs become prominent fixtures. While we may note variations in style and tone, the voice and message we hear are astonishingly consistent. Thus, when texts leave us befuddled, rather than project onto them or read into them what we want to see and hear, we’re wise to survey the entire body of work. If our skew doesn’t square with Scripture’s portrayal of God’s nature and message, we’re confused.

More Far-Reaching and Disturbing

If the God of Scripture doesn’t suit our agenda, we may splice together previews that prime others to view tales and texts our way. The most egregious example of this, hands down, is the account of Sodom’s destruction. The coming attractions promise a lurid tale of perversion—which figures into the story (though not as advertised)—with not a glimpse of the primary story line. Those unfamiliar with Scripture’s recurrent themes, perspectives, and motifs are apt to leave the story seeing only what they’re told to find. But the sensational gays-gone-wild promos don’t fool believers sufficiently versed in Biblical imperatives. They know what the story’s really about long before the posse pounds on Lot’s door, demanding he release his angelic houseguests into its mean hands. They’ve already connected it to a nearly identical episode in Judges 19, what God says about Sodom in Isaiah and Ezekiel, and how Jesus characterizes the city. And (surprise!) these texts define Sodom’s sin as more far-reaching and disturbing than same-sex attraction. In fact, not one scriptural reference to Sodom explicitly mentions homosexuality; those alluding to the city’s depravity describe it as “perversion” vis-à-vis the posse’s violent intentions to wield sex as a weapon.

The astute Bible reader easily recognizes what we see in Sodom is no different than what we see in Abu Ghraib and observe in prisons: intent to commit dehumanizing gang rape that defies orientation and gender. The previews may prime us for oversexed gay men prowling for fresh flesh. But the story isn’t about sexual gratification, gay or straight. It’s about extreme violence fueled by paranoid fear of strangers. How can we assert this with any degree of certainty? Judges 19’s story of the Levite’s concubine replicates Sodom’s circumstances and reveals exactly what the hostile crowd had in mind for Lot’s visitors. Then God and Jesus explain what Sodom means.

Lasting Harm

Scripture at large detests hostility toward strangers (passive or aggressive) as gross sin. We note this consistently in Old Testament texts and Jesus’s teaching. That’s the moral crisis portrayed in the stories of Sodom and Gibeah, a village in Judges that carries out Sodom’s intentions to their gruesome extreme. For brevity’s sake, we’ll stick to the key events. Yet I urge reading the two texts (Genesis 19; Judges 19) in tandem to discover their many eerie similarities. A Levite travels home after visiting his concubine’s father. Seeking a place where he, she, and a servant can stay the night, he follows the custom of his day. They enter Gibeah and sit in the village square, waiting for someone to offer them shelter. But they’re ignored—a bad omen, especially since he’s a Levite, a born priest. Finally, a local takes them in. Wicked men surround the house, shouting, “Bring out the man who came to your house so we can have sex with him.” (v22) The owner pleads, “Don’t be so vile. Since this man is my guest, don’t do this outrageous thing.” (v23) As Lot does, the host offers them his virgin daughter and the Levite’s concubine; like the men of Sodom, the Gibeah posse has no use for the women. (True to their time, they regard women as replaceable property.) The men seek to do lasting harm to the Levite’s person. The two cities’ tales diverge due to the nature of the guests. Lot’s visitors are angels; they blind the men of Sodom and the city is razed. No such supernatural intervention occurs in Gibeah.

The Levite surrenders his concubine. Judges 19.25-26: “They raped her and abused her throughout the night, and at dawn they let her go. At daybreak the woman went back to the house where her master was staying, fell down at the door and lay there until daylight.” The Levite finds her corpse clutching the threshold. Enraged, no doubt stricken with guilty regret, he dismembers her body into 12 pieces, sending one to every tribe in Israel. The national outcry indicates the horror of Gibeah’s sin: “Just imagine! We must do something! So speak up!” (v30)

The men of Gibeah carry out what would have transpired in Sodom had Lot’s guests been mortal. They violently act out their fear of people whom they believe threaten their security and way of life. Their hostility is primal, embedded in human fight-or-flight response to fear. Like all rapes, it employs sexual aggression to express perverse desire to dominate another, physically and psychologically. Sodom and Gibeah are all about leveraging power—not pandering to libido. Both brutally violate God’s command to welcome strangers and treat them respectfully and compassionately. (As Jesus defines it, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”) Israel’s reaction to the Gibeah atrocity says it all. It’s unthinkable, intolerable, and must be dealt with.

Sodom’s Lesson

How is it, then, that Sodom (and its ally, Gomorrah) gets all the attention—in Scripture and pop culture—while Gibeah goes missing? We answer that with a modern parallel. Why do we talk about 9/11, yet seldom mention the 1993 World Trade Center bombing? Both sprang from identical motives. Both cost innocent lives. But 9/11’s epic destruction eclipses 1993’s collateral damage. If we told both stories in tandem, the villainy of a tiny terrorist cell would be so obvious vilification of Muslims we've witnessed since 9/11 would be utter nonsense. Nine-eleven, 1993, Oklahoma City, and other terrorist attacks would be seen for what they are: mass violence perpetrated by wicked lunatics. Like 9/11, Sodom’s spectacular demise makes better copy. Unfortunately, also like 9/11, ignoring Gibeah invites homophobic believers to cast a wide net demonizing an entire community rather than dealing with the real lesson Sodom teaches. Exploiting the tale to excuse LGBT prejudice and exclusion merely proves how woefully they abuse the text. For are they not perverting Scripture to promote the very sin that destroyed Sodom?

The true nature of Sodom’s lesson cannot be questioned because Scripture authoritatively seals it from alternative readings. In Ezekiel 16.49, God declares, “This was the sin of your sister Sodom: She and her daughters were arrogant, overfed and unconcerned; they did not help the poor and needy. They were haughty and did detestable things before me. Therefore I did away with them as you have seen.” In Isaiah 1, God scandalizes Israel’s disobedience by calling its people “rulers of Sodom” (v10), reviling their hollow piety and unequivocally demanding they repent: “Wash and make yourselves clean. Take your evil deeds out of my sight; stop doing wrong. Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow.” (v16-17) Jesus confirms this message in Matthew 10.14-15, when He tells the disciples to leave any home or town where they’re not welcomed and “shake the dust off your feet.” (In Luke 10.10-11, He instructs them to “go into its streets and say, ‘Even the dust of your town we wipe from our feet as a warning to you.’”) The warning: “Truly I tell you, it will be more bearable for Sodom and Gomorrah on the day of judgment than for that town.” The Gibeah parallel notwithstanding, these texts clearly define Sodom’s sin and its consequences.

To hijack the narrative as rationale for LGBT condemnation and exclusion not only replicates Sodom’s wickedness, it brazenly contradicts what God and Jesus say about it in no uncertain terms. There is no Scriptural basis for this reading. Instead of being troubled by people who’ve been seduced by this wickedly naïve distortion of Scripture, we pray God opens their eyes and speaks to their hearts. Whether or not they realize it, they’ve got extremely urgent, spiritually crucial, and intensely personal conflicts with God and God’s Word they must resolve. They need our compassion and prayers.

To interpret the Sodom story as a gays-gone-wild tale is to misread it entirely—and to disregard all that Scripture, God, and Jesus say about it.

Postscript: Facts to Know

As we test the contextual and theological legitimacy of anti-LGBT clobber texts, there are a few enlightening facts to know about homosexuality and Scripture:

• No words or phrases that strictly translate as “heterosexual,” “lesbian,” or “homosexual” appear in Scripture. None exists in ancient Hebrew and Greek, as “straight” and “gay” categories didn’t exist in pre-modern cultures. The terms—and identification of people by sexual preference—are recent phenomena, having been coined and instituted by 19^th-century psychologists.
• The number of scriptures that mention same-gender sex (which is not the same as same-sex orientation) totals 15. Those calling for compassion, justice, equality, and hospitality exceed 3,000.
• No unified sex ethic exists in Scripture, let alone one that sanctions heterosexual orientation to the exclusion of all others.
• Dozens of sexual practices ordered by Biblical edict are now universally banned in Christian circles, outlawed in most nations, and socially regarded as dangerous taboos. (We’ll review several of them in an upcoming postscript.)

Why Exclusion Won't Work

Everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving, because it is consecrated by the word of God and prayer. (1 Timothy 4.4-5)

Soul Food

Being one with Southern roots who’s also an incurable Francophile, I’m always amused by the similarity between dishes I grew up with and offerings on French menus. The cooks who fed me as a child may not have exhibited the flair and nuance Parisians are famous for. But without hesitation any of them could trade places with a three-star French chef and each would feel completely at home in the other’s kitchen. Southern food—soul food—shares one fundamental with French food: disdain for waste. If it’s edible, it’s credible. With a bit of ingenuity and a lot of patience, the lowliest parts of any beast or plant can be transformed into delicacies when cooked with the right seasonings at the right temperature. Southern cooks and French chefs create culinary triumphs from foodstuff less imaginative cooks toss aside by viewing all food as inherently good and useful. How it’s treated makes the difference. And they take it upon themselves to treat it with love and respect that brings its goodness to light.

Cracklings are a good example. They’re pigskin sheared from fatback (just what it sounds like). You rub rock salt, cayenne, and black pepper on the skin, cut it in strips, and bake them on a rack. Heat causes them to puff up and the residual fat mingled with spices saturates them with flavor. Cracklings make for a fine snack. But they’re best with white beans slowly simmered in the juices of a ham hock, roast beef drippings, and other leftover meats. In France, they call the bean portion cassoulet and pigskin bits grattons. Grattons are less spicy than cracklings, but cassoulet tastes the same as our bean stew. We call it “country cooking;” they call it “cuisine.” Either way, it’s soul food, because it reflects reverence and appreciation of goodness in everything God makes.

Wasteful Cooks

The soul-food philosophy is identical to the one behind Paul’s statement to Timothy: “Everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected if it is received with thanksgiving, because it is consecrated by the word of God and prayer.” (1 Timothy 4.4-5) On its own, it sounds like a sunny proverb. (A Web search turned up eight posters—all happy and pretty—with its inscription.) Yet when we read down from verse 1, we discover it’s a cautionary reminder. Paul warns his young charge to be wary of believers who “abandon the faith and follow deceiving spirits.” (v1) They’re seduced by “teachings [that] come from hypocritical liars, whose consciences have been seared as with a hot iron.” (v2) Paul cites two erroneous doctrines that exemplify the sort of foolishness Timothy should guard against: “They forbid people to marry and order them to abstain from certain foods, which God created to be received with thanksgiving by those who believe and know the truth.” (v3) Then, lest Timothy succumb to similarly baseless notions, Paul restates the truth: “Everything God created is good, and nothing is to be rejected.”

If you’ll indulge one last tug on the soul-food metaphor, Paul’s saying, “Stay clear of wasteful cooks. If they throw out perfectly good food because they think it’s nasty—or too hard to swallow—or it violates religious taboos—or they have neither talent nor patience to bring out its flavor—or ingratitude blinds them to its goodness—don’t hang out in their kitchens and eat at their tables. They’re incompetent.” Returning to Paul’s original context, his message makes sense. People who doubt the inherent goodness of God’s creation, who feel no compunction about rejecting anyone or anything God made have no business messing with God’s business. Beliefs that alienate aren’t to be believed. Religious groups that throw lives away instead of gratefully seasoning and preparing them for service aren’t faith communities. Christians who dismiss people on sight have yet to see Christ. And taboo-driven traditions that teach exclusion have abandoned Christ’s way to follow hypocritical liars with seared consciences; they’re neither credible nor competent in the faith.

Received with Thanksgiving

The Church and the Body of Christ it represents are ordained for one purpose and only one: to nurture faith. The last recorded conversation we have between Jesus and Peter, whom Jesus charged with founding the Church, confirms this. In John 21, Jesus asks whether Peter loves Him. “Lord, you know I love you,” the disciple protests, to which Jesus replies, “Feed my sheep.” He takes Peter over this three times to leave no room to doubt the Church’s mission is feeding souls. Policies and practices, doctrines and dogmas that hedge this command by questioning the inherent goodness in God’s creation and rejecting anyone for any reason evidence no love for Christ. That’s why exclusion won’t work for those in committed relationship with Christ. Out of love for Christ, they turn no one away. They receive everyone with thanksgiving, knowing what each life can become once it’s seasoned with God’s word and prayer.

Genuine Christians know exclusion won’t work, because they know how God works. God isn’t in the trash business. God doesn’t throw us away. God saves us. Open any page in the Gospels. Every word Jesus says, every story He tells, every trait He exemplifies, and everything He does points directly toward redemption. “All that the Father gives me will come to me,” He says in John 6.37, “and whoever comes to me I will never drive away.”

So where did this noxious idea that one must become righteous to be part of the Church originate? It makes no sense. Being part of the Church is how we become righteous. That’s why exclusion won’t work. And that’s what anyone struggling with religious exclusion has to realize. The landscape is dotted with churches deceived by doctrines of exclusion and ingratitude for God’s creation. Without knowing it, they’ve abandoned the Church Christ ordained. When they say you’re not good enough to belong, they speak for no one but them. God created you. Know that. There is goodness in you. Know that. You deserve to be received with thanksgiving by believers committed to bringing your goodness to light. Exclusion only works if we allow it. Love for Christ won’t permit that. That’s why exclusion won’t work.

Exclusion won’t work for those in committed relationship with Christ. They find goodness in all of God’s creation and receive everyone with thanksgiving.

Set Them Free

The cowering prisoners will soon be set free; they will not die in their dungeon, nor will they lack bread. For I am the LORD your God, who churns up the sea so that its waves roar... I have put my words in your mouth and covered you with the shadow of my hand. (Isaiah 51.14-16)

Exponentially and Continuously

October 11 is National Coming Out Day (NCOD) in the States and many European countries. (The UK observes it on 12 October.) It’s a relatively new tradition, and we’re just getting the hang of it. One might think of it along these lines: as US Independence Day is to Election Day, LGBT Pride is to NCOD. Pride celebrates freedom to be counted as equally recognized and honorable members of society; NCOD creates an occasion for women and men who’ve not yet embraced their freedom to do so. Since it involves no polls, there are no reliable data to assess its real impact. Yet even if we could calculate how many took advantage of NCOD, the figure—whether 5 or 5 million—would concede a gulf-sized margin of error to account for not including everyone, regardless of orientation, who quits the closet alongside the newly out LGBT individual. Coming out must be measured exponentially and continuously, because none of us comes out alone—whatever our closets may be (and we’ll get to that in a minute).

Calling off the hide-and-seek routine initiates a journey. The instant we say, “This is who I am and where I’m going,” we essentially ask everyone who hears (and hears of) our declaration: “Are you coming or not?” Thankfully, some hurry to join us, saying, “It’s about time!” Others come along despite uncertainty they’re equipped for the journey. Some need more time to process the information we just dropped in their laps—information we’ve had years to absorb—and send us off with promises to catch up, which they ultimately honor. Then, sadly, others want no part of it. They issue an ultimatum: “If you quit this closet, we’re through.” That’s why we can never know exactly how many people come out. It’s Henry + 6 x the people they inform (- those who stay behind). It’s Nancy + 250 x their friends and neighbors (- others who refuse to leave her closet).

What Do We Do?

The person coming out is never one data point, but a cluster of them that continues to multiply as more supportive allies accumulate. We show them our respect and gratitude by factoring them into our thoughts and conversations about coming out. As Christians, however, we’re also compelled to consider the missing points—the people shackled to prejudice and fear, those who sever ties to us because they’ve wound their love around doctrines, dogmas, and myths, and, finally, the unfortunates who filter every difficulty they face through their what’s-in-it-for-me sieve. What do we do—what can we do—for the people who can’t, don’t, or won’t leave our closets to take this journey with us?

We set them free.

Not us. Them. We set them free. This is where coming out ceases to be about us. Surely we understand those who willfully remain behind. How can we not, having fled the very terrors that torment them? It took years for us to muster the courage to defy it. Their reticence shouldn’t shock us in the least. Can we comfortably accuse them of conscious hatred, hypocrisy, and cowardice after inflicting the same harms—and many more like them—on ourselves? How soon we forget the doubt and confusion that darkened our lives!

Because we weren’t honest with God, others, or ourselves before coming out, we often look back on the closet as no more real than we were while trapped inside it. It’s now a cliché we’ve outgrown, a cartoon chamber of horrors we sneer at. But the closet remains very real to everyone it holds. It’s a prison that warps the heart of anyone too weak to resist its pressures. We recall the crippling grip of cowardice and the pain it hides in mean talk and hateful postures. The closet’s realities must never escape us. People we dearly love still languish there. And though we’re out of the closet, we won’t truly be released from it until we’ve done all we possibly can to set them free.

Answering Under Cover

“Okay!” I hear some complain. “The horse is dead. Put your stick down and tell us how we rescue our loved ones. What has to be done to tear the closet down?” We don’t tear it down. And we most certainly don’t go back into it, thinking we can sneak them out. (I know several who’ve tried and ended up worse off than before they came out—a few going so far as to submit to voodoo mind control therapy, attempting to reshape God’s image to reflect their fears. Oh yes, the closet is an extremely sinister place!) We free those still trapped in our closets by speaking and living freely. While they may claim they no longer care about us and may even say they hate who we’ve become, never doubt they’re attentively observing and listening to us. More likely than not, they watch because they’re primed to expect we’ll one day reappear at the closet door, begging forgiveness and readmission, like prodigals who’ve squandered their dignity on high living and carnal pursuits. In other words, they wait for us to fail. They don’t want us to fail, but they’re convinced we need to and we will. And that’s okay, because their attention is all that matters. With that, we have a God-given opportunity to demonstrate what freedom and integrity look like.

When we dedicate our lives to our Maker and devote our energy to pleasing Him, what they actually see bears no resemblance to what they anticipate. As I’ve personally witnessed again and again, our departure from their closet-based assumptions will trouble them. It should, as coming out constitutes a profoundly daring leap of faith—an act of determination based on confidence that God made us and loves us as we are. And faith never goes unrewarded. So coming out changes us for the better. The trials and hardships that often follow the leap are sent to refine our character, correct our thoughts, and increase our faith. Coming out fixes our speech and amplifies our courage to calm the distress that troubles others. Listen closely to Isaiah 51.14-16. God promises what we say and the confidence we express will become keys that release those still locked in our closets:

The cowering prisoners will soon be set free; they will not die in their dungeon, nor will they lack bread. For I am the LORD your God, who churns up the sea so that its waves roar—the LORD Almighty is his name. I have put words in your mouth and covered you in the shadow of my hand—I who set the heavens in place, who laid the foundations of the earth, and who say to Zion, "You are my people."

See how this works? God honors their faith by troubling their minds. The churning doubts and roaring disapproval come from Him. He honors our faith by enabling us to answer under cover—to speak words He puts in our mouths boldly and fearlessly, knowing His hand rests over us. It doesn’t matter what closet we have (or have yet to) come out of. The things we want to hide are things God wants to use. Nothing He gives us is unworthy or unsightly. Every trait and talent, everything that makes you uniquely you, is given to steer and sustain your journey. Shake off worries about what others will think or how they’ll respond to your freedom. Come out. Claim your gifts. Use them. Demonstrate freedom and integrity. You’re surrounded with people waiting for you to come out. You know people who won’t get it at first, but they’ll follow in time. And you also know people too threatened and uncertain to leave your closet. See God in their churning. Hear Him in their roars. His hand will shelter you so you can speak His word to their troubled minds. You may have to speak it over and over. But keep speaking. Keep being. Set them free.

It doesn’t matter why they’re watching, as long as we can show them the freedom and integrity that come from leaving our closets of fear and doubt.

What's in a Name?

If you suffer as a Christian, do not be ashamed, but praise God that you bear that name. For it is time for judgment to begin with the family of God. (1 Peter 4.16-17)

Netherworld

I’ve not taken time to think much or write about Anne Rice’s disavowal of Christianity because I’m not a fan of her novels. I am, however, an admirer of her individualism. She is one intrepid lady. She merits respect for risking popularity to challenge readers to reconsider their views on timely and controversial topics—even though her eccentric persona often seems as calculated and pretentious as her prose. Rice’s knack for shock appeal ranks her with Madonna, Prince, and Lady Gaga. (She’s a rock star trapped in a writer’s body.) Yet despite her mannerisms and methods, I usually trust her motives are sincere. This most recent tempest gives me pause, though. Whatever her intentions are, she’s in over her head with this one.

Rice’s decision to no longer identify as a Christian while continuing to abide by Christ’s teaching traps her in a netherworld not unlike that of her most famous vampire, Lestat. He’s not dead, but he’s not alive. Rice’s situation is no less bizarre. She’s abandoning the Body of Christ while hanging on to Its Head. It’s a double severance—her from It, It from Him. This may be a marketable premise for a novel, where paranormal constructs build suspense. In terms of faith, it’s a perilous position. It accedes powerlessness (or unwillingness) to forgive, a thing so alien to Christ one can’t conceive how Rice’s proposition possibly works.

Suffering and Shame

In the rush of comments, many gave her the benefit of the doubt. “Well, she’s leaving the Church, not the faith” they said. That sounds reasonable, since Rice castigated her chosen denomination as “anti-gay,” “anti-feminist,” and “anti-birth control.” But, by her confession, she didn’t quit the Church or her church. She quit being a Christian. That’s profoundly different, as she should know from a decade of writing extensively about her faith and early Christianity. It’s also too glaring a blunder for someone who earns a fortune with words. If she didn’t mean it, why did she type it? First Peter 4.16-17 solves the mystery better than anything I’ve come across. “If you suffer as a Christian, do not be ashamed,” it says, “but praise God that you bear that name. For it is time for judgment to begin with the family of God.” It’s not the Church, her church, Christianity, or Christ that Anne Rice wants to escape. It’s being called “a Christian.” She’s trying to elude the suffering and shame that comes from being numbered with a people that dishonors itself by its disobedience to Christ, disregard for others, and disrespect for God’s creation. We can empathize with her feelings. But is her move sensible and scripturally sound?

Rice has done exactly what Peter teaches not to do. The rashness of her action reinforces the attitudes of millions who cite the Body of Christ’s iniquity as justification for staying away. But isn’t naïve to believe Christianity and the Church would be ideal were it not for the heretics, hypocrites, and demagogues? Christ and His teachings are perfect because they’re divine. The religion and institution built on them are manmade and therefore never were nor ever will be perfect. When the Apostles recognized this, they fervently urged us to strive for perfection. Perfect Christianity and a perfect Church imply full knowledge and understanding, which obviates their purpose—i.e., increasing our knowledge and understanding. In 1 Corinthians 13.9-10, Paul says, “For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears.” The perfection we long for will come, and learning to forgive and tolerate one another's imperfections is what leads us to it. In light of this, Rice's defection seems either premature or immature, or possibly both.

Peter instructs us to praise God for suffering and shame that comes “when you bear that name.” Saying “I’m a Christian” confesses weakness and imperfection. It embraces every believer’s imperfections—even the failures and enthusiasms that contradict what we believe Jesus taught and exemplified. “I’m a Christian” tells everyone, “Yes, I belong to that unruly, conflicted family that constantly embarrasses itself and the Savior it follows.” We can’t admit this without suffering and shame. But we praise God for the grace to do it, because acknowledging our brothers and sisters’ faults as integral to their faith teaches us why our faults and failures are so integral to our beliefs. It’s why condemnation and ambivalence have no place in Christianity or the Church.

The Forgiveness Quotient

Could it be Christians who inflict suffering and shame are given to us so we can learn to love, forgive, and accept them before attempting to do so for non-Christians? In Matthew 18, Peter asks how often must he forgive his brother, suggesting seven as a reasonable quota. Jesus takes Peter’s figure, squares it, and multiplies it by 10: “I tell you, not seven times, but seventy times seven.” (v22) Before we conclude our duty to forgive expires with Sin #490, we should note the numbers’ symbolic weight. Seven represents perfection. Seven squared totals absolute perfection—i.e., God’s nature. Ten signifies completeness. The forgiveness quotient is perfection X perfection X completeness. Ergo, there is nothing a Christian can do, say, or suggest that we mustn’t forgive. Rice’s reasoning is flawed because it concedes we haven’t power to forgive and tolerate imperfections found in the Body of Christ.

What would Peter’s comment be if he caught Rice’s announcement about rejecting the Christian name. He might ask: Whom does this benefit? Does severing your family ties help them? Can you influence their thinking and behavior in absentia? How can you convey God’s love and acceptance to the world if you can’t tolerate us? “For it is time for judgment to begin with the family of God,” Peter tells us. Everywhere in God’s household, we find imperfections—in us, others, our leaders, our dogma—everywhere. If we’re not present, doing our family duty by wrestling with our failures forgiving one another, as living proof of God’s grace and mercy, nothing will change. Christianity has no interest in what others do against us. It's only focus is what we do for them. We’re Christians. We make change happen. What’s in a name? If it’s “Christian,” there’s love, forgiveness, acceptance, integrity, humility, and power. For all the suffering and shame that comes with it, it’s an honor both to be a Christian and called one. We pray Anne Rice and anyone else deceived to think otherwise will grow to understand this.

Peter tells us to praise God for the privilege of being called “Christian”—despite the suffering and shame our failures impose on all who bear the name.

Don't Ask, Don't Tell

You did not treat me with contempt or scorn. Instead, you welcomed me as if I were an angel of God, as if I were Christ Jesus himself. What has happened to your joy? ... Have I now become your enemy by telling you the truth? (Galatians 4.14-16)

The Mysterious Thorn

Overall, Paul’s an up-front, no-holds-barred kind of guy. When he finds restraint useful, he typically says why that’s best. For instance, near the end of his second letter to Corinth, he explains, “This is why I write these things when I am absent, that when I come I may not have to be harsh in my use of authority—the authority the Lord gave me for building you up, not tearing you down.” (2 Corinthians 13.9-10) In other words, “Better we hash this out on paper now than get into arguments when we’re together.” The only subject Paul shows any reticence in writing about frankly is his mysterious “thorn,” a personal issue he refers to in 2 Corinthians 12 and Galatians 4. It’s fairly safe to say reliable knowledge of what troubled Paul so much died with the last individual who knew him personally.

Thus, we have centuries of scholarly theories, none more plausible than the next. The second-century writer Tertullian is convinced Paul’s vexed by chronic ear infections, which helps explain his mercurial personality. But others propose sexual desire, stuttering, malarial fever, and acute eye inflammation. The last supposition assumes Paul’s condition is secondary to his blinding conversion, a notion supported by a reference to his eyes in Galatians 4 (see below). In any case, accepting we’ll never conclusively identify Paul’s problem doesn’t impede our learning from how he deals with it.

Additional Findings

The famous 2 Corinthians passage is Paul’s primer on the matter. He says his thorn is given to keep him humble, which would set off intense conflicts in anyone of his talents and drive. But Paul also copes with daunting insecurities due to his circumstances. He’s a latecomer to this movement, a man who’s burdened by a notorious past that casts shade on his motives and sincerity. More than that, he’s called to bring Gentiles into the faith—a mission many Jewish believers oppose. So Paul’s past, his role in the Church, and innumerable obstacles concomitant with his purpose already humble him. The added struggle amounts to more than he can bear. Three times, he begs God to remove it. God refuses, assuring Paul, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” (2 Corinthians 12.9) When Paul accepts his thorn isn’t going away, he changes his attitude. “That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses,” he writes in verse 10. “For when I am weak, then I am strong.” This mindset is the key lesson we derive from Paul’s condition. Disadvantages that might cripple our self-image and effectiveness become assets when we place our trust in God’s grace.

In Galatians 4 we uncover additional findings. Galatian believers have retrenched into religious traditions and verge on losing their faith. In verse 9 Paul asks, “How is it that you are turning back to those weak and miserable principles? Do you wish to be enslaved by them all over again?” He reminds his readers: “It was because of an illness that I first preached the gospel to you” (v13), alluding to his problem. This tells us Paul’s discretion on the page does not imply any shame about his thorn. He’s very open about it and uses it to witness God’s grace. But it’s also apparent his thorn stigmatizes him in some way. He writes, “Even though my illness was a trial to you, you did not treat me with contempt or scorn. Instead, you welcomed me as if I were an angel of God, as if I were Christ Jesus himself.” (v14) Now, in the wake of regressive influences, the Galatians withdraw their welcome because of the very thing they once tolerated gladly. In verses 15 and 16, we hear his sorrow: “What has happened to your joy? I can testify that, if you could have done so, you would have torn out your eyes and given them to me. Have I now become your enemy by telling you the truth?”

Burying Our Thorns

What weighs on Paul is worse than rejection. He’s wounded to know had he concealed his thorn (assuming it was possible), estrangement from the Galatians wouldn’t have happened. He’s penalized for his honesty! It angers and confuses him that formerly tolerant believers can’t discern they’ve been manipulated. He understands his freedom from shame and confidence in grace are no threat to the Galatians. But they most certainly intimidate those who oppose him. “Those people are zealous to win you over, but for no good,” he insists. “What they want is to alienate you from us, so that you may be zealous for them.” (v17) Before he debunks their heresy, he adds, “I am perplexed about you!” (v20) Nothing would please me more than asserting Paul’s frustration is an anomaly, a convergence of social and religious prejudice never again seen in Christian circles. But to this day, believers and faith communities adopt “don’t tell, don’t ask” positions at the urging of obstructionist dogma that neutralizes their duty to welcome the stranger, accept the outcast, embrace the weak (and their weaknesses), abhor rejection—in short, to love others as themselves.

Advocates of exclusion amass power through fear. “Believe what we say,” they threaten, “or there’ll be Hell to pay!” And sadly, many of us with thorns as inescapable as Paul’s submit. We lack the Apostle's confidence in grace. To keep our predicaments from coming to light, we conform to “don’t ask, don’t tell.” Most definitely, this is the easier way to go. But is it right? Paul would say, “Definitely not!” Burying our thorns hides God’s grace. Not only that, it offers no hope to believers who’ve lost their joy to hateful teaching. Later, Paul challenges those who’ve fallen for erroneous ideology: “You were running a good race. Who cut in on you and kept you from obeying the truth?” (Galatians 5.7) His question revokes “don’t ask, don’t tell” by exposing how it nurtures deception and disobeys truth. We delight in our weaknesses so God’s power may be revealed in us, for our sake as well as others’. It secures our confidence and restores the joy false teachers have stolen from gullible believers. That’s why, when asked, we must tell.

Although we're encouraged to keep silent about our thorns, duty to God, others, and us demands open honesty.

Postscript: The "Drew Marshall" Interview

Audio of my interview on last Saturday's "The Drew Marshall Show" is now available at the program's Website. It was most stimulating. The conversation covered a broad range of topics, from my personal faith experience to marital equality. Whether or not this indicates anything, it ran past its original 35-minute time slot by nearly 10 minutes. Please take the time to give it a listen. It is most definitely a product of our shared journey. I pray God uses it for His honor and glory, just as I pray you'll find it useful in some way and worthy of sharing with others.

Finally, if any good comes of it, none of it would be possible without your loving support and effective prayers. I owe all of you an immeasurable debt of gratitude, and truly thank God for all He's doing in and through you. The praise is His, but the reward is yours!

"The Drew Marshall Show" - April 24, 2010

The interview is listed under the "Journey" segment. I'll be most interested to hear your thoughts. And, once again, thank you!