God, our Mother

I'm in a season of shaking things up in my theology. This isn't something new. People have been doing this since the history of the world, but this time I'm doing it for myself instead of only accepting what others have found. I'm seeing what truths stay and which of my "truths" aren't actually integral. Is my faith formed by a brick wall, as Rob Bell describes in Velvet Elvis: Beliefs stacked one on top of another, such that if one piece is found to be untrue, then the whole wall falls? 

I sometimes fear that if I shake too hard, my whole faith will fall down. I suppose it's a risk I'm okay taking. 

Spurred on by Sarah Moon's Mother Bear Liturgy, as shared in my senior seminar reconciliation course, I am examining God's identity--be it self-proclaimed or given by humans-- as father. 

So why would the Bible--the living Word of God--use "Father" to describe God if it is wrong or incomplete? Who am I to question that? Prompted by my wise professor, I continue to look deeper into the context. I must remember that the Bible, though still applicable today, was written by specific people, to a specific people, in a specific time. The context into which Jesus came was extremely patriarchal. It was a context in which rites, values, and wealth were passed on from fathers to sons. Jesus, who was born out of wedlock and was claimed to have been conceived without an earthly father, was considered illegitimate in his society. He had no father and he had no rites, values, or wealth. It was in this context that Jesus called God his "Father". This was an analogy that society understood. And an analogy that gave Jesus legitimacy. 

Jesus already acted so counter-culturally...so counter-Empire...would he have had the legitimacy he did if he talked about God as his Mother? Or as neither? 

Perhaps Jesus called God "Father" because of his lack of an earthly father; a redemptive and healing relationship for his own illegitimate status in society. And perhaps Jesus called God "Father" because of his love for the people he was with. Because he knew that we humans can't fully comprehend God's beyond-ness. We need Someone with pieces we can relate to. In that context, the relatable piece was "Father". 

It made sense for Jesus to call God Father in that context...what about now? 

After Jesus left the earth, his followers and his followers' followers continued to use this analogy. In Ephesians 5:22-33, for example, husbands are compared to Christ as wives are compared to the Church. Through this analogy, the author helps married couples gain their understanding of what love looks like in the different contexts. Yes, the love of Christ for the Church is immense. It meant giving up his life for the Church. But, really, how can one even compare the Church to Jesus? Yes, Jesus was fully human...but he was also fully God. GOD! And the church is so little in comparison. Why does the author choose men to be compared to Christ? Is it because men are innately created to be leaders, both spiritually and otherwise? Or is it perhaps because this was written to a patriarchal society? And possibly by a sexist author? 

I am sure that Ephesians 5:22-33 was a beautiful challenge to couples at the time...but what about now? 

Perhaps the reason this has persisted even through today is because males wrote the Bible. Because our church fathers chose the books to go in the Bible, the doctrines, and the creeds. And perhaps we're at a time when we don't need to rely solely on seeing God as only "Father". 

I think William Paul Young touches on our clingy-ness to God-as-only-Father when he brings the Trinity into The Shack. In this book the Holy Spirit is seen as an elusive Asian woman, Jesus as a middle-eastern worker (which is not far from what we know to be true). And "Papa", to top it all off, as a big black woman. This view of the Trinity is not neat or easy to grasp for those who grew up with White-Jesus flannel graphs in Sunday school. When the main character, Mack, asks Papa about them, Papa, with grace and candor, explains: 

"To reveal myself to you as a very large, white grandfather figure with flowing beard, like Gandalf, would simply reinforce your religious stereotypes"

Later, Papa (remember: big black woman) continues to explain: 
"I am neither male nor female, even though both genders are derived from my nature. If I choose to appear to you as a man or a woman, it's because I love you." 

As I continue reading The Shack and Sarah Moon's Apostles' Creed I find discomfort in the amplification of gender. How in the world can I see God as Mother? How can I re-claim my place, as a female, in Christian theology? And how can I do this in the midst of a still-patriarchal Church? 

Perhaps leaning into these discomforts is a key to addressing the misogyny and patriarchy still seen in the church today. Perhaps it's a key to understanding God in God's fullness. And perhaps the more we know of God, the more we know of ourselves and others. If our command, as Christ-followers, is to love God and to love others, perhaps this part of my theology is worth shaking. 

Courage for Death

From the moment life enters the world, we know death will come. This is the reality of life. But what if we die more than just at our final breath. What if life, when lived to the fullest, is really about dying.

What if I die to my theological superiority: my strictly western, white, male theology. If I die to conversion being the goal of my relationships. If I die to seeking truth only in things labeled "Christian".  

What if I die to beliefs that have been--both knowingly and unknowingly--passed down, through generations, since the "founders" of this U.S. What if I stop seeing people and land as things to be explored and conquered. If I die to my beliefs of what it means to be an American. If I die to forcing my voice and thoughts to be heard above others.

What if I die to society's rules for how and what I, a woman, do with my body. If I die to both extremes: my body as a "stumbling block" or my body as my one weapon over men. If I quit using food to self-discipline my actions. If I stop using "like a girl" as an insult.

What if? And what if I do this knowing that death is not the end. It doesn't have the final word because I know that life begins out of death. Nature teaches us this through life cycles and even our dinner plate shows: the death of one thing brings room for the life of another. 

From my death would arise the beginning of understanding God, others, and the world in a wider way. I'd sit, as uncomfortable as it might be, with the truth: I don't know all. My conversations with "others" would come from a desire to grow and know, not to convert. My need to defend my beliefs would lower and my ability to walk with others would increase. 

From my death to privilege would start a deeper understanding of systems and the humans within the systems. My death to the American identity would begin an inclusion as my first nature. An understanding of self outside of nationality. I would ponder the thought that perhaps my fixing of things isn't working. Maybe "it" wasn't even broken to begin with.

From my death would begin actual self care. I'd begin to feed my body all the nutrients it needs...plus some extras because it's delicious and I don't need to shame myself. When I look at the mirror I'd ask myself "How do I feel wearing this?" Not "How will he/she feel when they see me?" I would step up to leadership, even in the presence of men. 

From death comes life. But if I have any understanding of myself and humanity, it is that we fall short even with our best intentions at mind. This being so, I am convinced that this death must be a continual dying process. Not one that is just on MLK Jr Day or Thanksgiving weekend. I too quickly return to old habits and clench my hands around beliefs again. 

So again, I must choose to die. It is in this death that I can learn life. If we're not dying, where is our life coming from? 

For this is the reality of life: from the moment death enters the world, we know life, too, will come. 

May we find courage for death and hope in life. 

resurrection against rome

There are times when I feel betrayed by the Christian Church. These weeks are some of them. It's as if I've been given only a part truth and it is only now that I see it to be such. Is there even such a thing as a part truth? 

The cross is arguably the most important image in the Christian faith. It was upon a cross that Jesus died and from that death he rose again. This is a central piece to Christianity. Yet now, for the first time in 21 years "in the church", I've begun to learn that this message is only a part truth. 

Jesus' death and resurrection was more than that. It was more than salvation for after life. It was for redemption in life. It was against oppression.

These latter pieces are beyond evident in examining the historical context of Jesus' life. I tend to forget--and maybe you do, too--that Jesus was an actual man in and actual historical context. 

Jesus was born into oppression. During his life, Rome had power and domination. One way that the Romans showed this control was through mass --and also more small-scale-- crucifixions. If someone was breaking the political outline and structure that Rome had created, crucifixion was often Rome's answer. There, beating hearts would stop. Lives would become mere bodies, hanging on a tree. On display for the community to remind Romans and others alike, that Rome was in control. 

It was in this context that Jesus was put to death. His actions and words had a political influence that led Rome to crucify him. (Jesus was political...what?!) As Curtiss DeYoung writes in co-authored Radical Reconciliation, "It was execution by Rome and therefore resurrection against Rome." 

I had to sit with that for a while. Rome so clearly represents (and was truly) oppression and oppressors. Jesus was killed by oppression and rose up against oppression. For me, that hits to the core. This brings my perspective on oppression beyond empathy and sympathy. It brings, for me, hope and support for action and conversation. It also brings this sense of betrayal. Why haven't I ever heard this part of Jesus' life before? 

Have I missed this message because the religion of Christianity somehow--almost twistedly-- latched onto western and colonising people groups? If they are a main part of my foundation for Christianity today then of course I had never heard this message. How could oppressors preach this message? As Curtiss wrote further in his book, "Unjust systems appear normal to those in power, and any change will produce feelings of loss." 

Can Christianity be for those in power? Can someone who is part of an oppressive majority actually follow Jesus? 

Can I actually follow Jesus? 

For me, I am confident that God's love and Jesus' steps are not just for the oppressed. But I also believe that we can not actually follow Jesus until we know oppression and steward power. As someone who does desire to follow Jesus, I am learning what this means in my own life. 

I know oppression as a woman living in a sexist society when I feel unqualified because of my gender (especially in the church), when I have to consciously change my actions to meet male expectations, and when I see the dehumanization of women in media. 

I know oppression as a white person living in a racist society when I realize that I am a part of the oppressive group, when I question my prejudiced thoughts, and when I listen to those who are a part of the oppressed group. 

And I know oppression as a human living in a sinful world when I see the lies I'm living under and let the truth reign instead, when relationships break, and when shame corners me into isolation. 

I know oppression and am learning all the more as I seek and learn. I am able to better see the power I have in society and how to steward the power. How to be a bridge. After all, Christians believe that Jesus was freakin' God. That is power. Yet he laid it aside and lived a life under oppression, even dying to oppression. But the story didn't end there. He came back to life. He resurrected against oppression.