My Reaction to the US election and what I wish I could say to the church.

(The response below is that of a Canadian Christian who who takes her faith seriously.)

I was deeply dismayed by the outcome of the election.  I cannot support a man like Trump with his views and his behavior.  I am deeply concerned about those on the fringe, the weak and vulnerable, those outside of the white Anglo-Saxon domain.  I believe Hillary was not only capable to be the next president, but that she would have led the US into a good season.   I liked her politics.  It’s interesting, isn’t it, that what sickened me might make you celebrate?  That’s what I need to talk about here…

I’ll start with divulging more political information about me:  I voted Liberal.  I believe there should be a carbon tax.  I believe the Trudeau Gov’t is far-sighted, regardless of its mistakes.  I should also add that I voted NDP. 

More opinions of mine?  I think that Pope Francis is a very good man.  He is addressing issues of power abuse and the subjugation of women and the poor that have never been talked about at that level of influence before….

I believe we should welcome immigrants; protect the vulnerable and our minorities. 

I am an environmental activist and I think everyone who calls self a Christian should be too.  Everyone should be actively caring for our land. I think that recycling is essential.  Thinking in terms of 7 generations into the future is how I want to live my life.  I do not panic that the end is near, allowing me to drop the ball on everything else but saving souls.  I cannot assume our Creator doesn’t really care about His creation because it’s all going to burn anyway.
  

Since I’m hitting these controversial subjects anyway, I should add that I see the nation of Israel as all those who call themselves redeemed, that “Israel” is not a geographical place but a metaphor for the people of God who know Him as their Lord.

I confess I have friends in the LGBT community.  I am close to numerous kids-now-adults who are currently undergoing a sex change.  And I really don’t care if the washrooms have gender-neutral labels on them.  I have friends who have chosen abortion over giving birth.  I have friends who cohabit and probably will never get married.  I have friends in other religious categories:  Sikhs, Muslim, Jews, Atheists.  I am not always comfortable with their choices or world views, but we are still forging our friendships; we still call one another friends even though we don’t think the same.  I still believe I am called to love in every one of these relationships, even though I sometimes am at a complete loss as to how to go about it.

… I understand this may be very offensive; the church has long been divided on these ideas; godly and intelligent men and women have stood on both sides of the divide.  Our history attests to how difficult it is.  People have been burned at the stake, sanctioned by the church.  The inquisition.  Apartheid...  Perhaps I have, just now, burned bridges with you because the divide between right and left/ liberal and conservative is just too big for us?  I may have positioned myself in just one too many a problematic camp for you to hear me any longer.

-- Here’s the thing, though.  …  I am not really in any political camp, other than the Kingdom Camp – at least I try to be.  I want to hold my political views lightly; i do not want them to determine whom I will befriend and whom I will not.  I do not want to polarize others because I said some things earlier that caused offense, but neither can any one of us be muzzled for our opinions, or feel they have to walk on eggshells. What does matter is how we talk about these things.  If one spiritualizes his political views as being invested with the authority of scriptures and God, then there is great danger of imposing a religious rule over one another.

I recognized a long time ago that my theology – what I believed about God -  has gone through some major overhauls even over the last 5 years.  More so over the last 20 years!  I don’t think like I did when I was 18; my world views have expanded, contracted, gone sideways and upside down.   My early, simple beliefs about who God is have been shattered by a number of things:  by the disappointment of people whom I thought were solid and righteous and then were exposed to be terribly wrong, by a church that shook my world when it fell apart, by certain books I’ve read, movies I saw, university courses that undid my assumptions -- all of these experiences and exposures to different ways of thinking have stretched and rocked what I believed.  Hear my heart in this:  we are never beyond the influence of the voices we surround ourselves with; we are not unaffected by individuals and circles we spend time in.  So, yes, it matters who we hang out with.  Equally important, though, is to note whom we do not interact with. How much do we avoid those who do things differently than we would, who think differently.  Do we live in carefully constructed silos with a whole lot of judgment over those we watch but do not know? And here’s the problem we have living where we do:  The CNP is a small place.  And our church is even smaller!  We are a messy assortment of left/right, liberal/conservative, a whole lot of church streams and a wide, wide range of theologies. If we are to interact at all, we must figure out how to live in this tension of our differences. 

If we cannot do this, then we have no choice but to build a wall.  Or run away and form a commune.   Or see the church as a safe lifeboat where we float above the sinful world and only let those in who think like we do.  Or gather our tribe and prepare for battle so we can fight those “others”.  We have names for these Others, depending on where we stand:  rednecks.  Tree huggers.  Yogis.  Activists.  Liberals.  Democrats.  Fallen.  Lost.  These labels keep us safely separate because we cannot possibly see ourselves aligning with them until they have assured us with similar enough speech or behaviours; we do not have it in us to love them unconditionally.  We do not know how to be tolerant because we have confused it with being righteous or “not of this world”.

No, at the end of the day my political opinions, my positions on certain world issues, even my theological views about end times or Israel or gender – none of that qualifies or disqualifies me before God.  It’s my heart.  Am I teachable?  Do I have humility?  Can I love in the face of these differences?  Can I draw in close to the heart of the Lord and ask Him to fill me with His holiness?  Can I forgive and not hold offense?  Can I serve and be in community with integrity and full presence?  Can I talk about ideas without villainizing those who don’t agree with me?

After the results of the election on Wednesday morning, I had a long-haul prayer with God.  I wrestled deeply.  Not because of the outcome, but because of my inner condition.  I was so filled with disgust and loathing, so angry.  And I knew it was not the Kingdom way – that in itself exhausted me because I wanted so badly to stay angry, so badly to spew on about Trump, so badly to linger in that bitter-sweet place of contempt!  The fruits of this?  Fear.  So much fear and loathing and finger-pointing.  Nothing of this is in “step with the Spirit”.

In Blueprint, we are studying Ephesians 4:  Unity in the Body of Christ.  This unity…  requires us to grow up and be mature; each one of us must have these same end goals:

- to see the church grow and be built up. 

- to be the salt and light in the world;

- to participate in the reconciliation that Pastor Al has been preaching about from II Cor. 5: reconciliation between individuals, between neighbours, between communities and nations…between those of us who call this church home.

- to welcome Jesus into the spaces we are in.

“Be completely humble, bearing one another in love.  Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace – just as you were called to one hope, one baptism, one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all.”   Eph 4 goes on to say that each one of us has been given a portion of grace.  We are not to settle for a small portion. 
This is my personal battle right now – to grow in grace.  I actually have to fight for it.  Because I know every one of us is called to the bigger Story of redemption, despite what our personal politics are. 

So let’s listen carefully to one another.  Let us choose our speech thoughtfully.  Let us be kind to one another and not make assumptions.  Let us resist the urge to villainize one another if we hear certain terms come out of our mouths.  May we learn to talk together about ideas without the religious or political spirit dividing us into camps.  Diversity is not a bad thing.  It’s ok to disagree because God is bigger than our current ideas.  This is a process.  Eph 4:22-32 : “to put off our old self…to be made new in the attitude of our minds, to put on the new self, created by God in true righteousness and holiness.. Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other just as in Christ God forgave you.” 

This is a tall order.  It is a very challenging walk.  I have only so much ability to stretch and be tolerant and listen well. I chafe against the status quo; I do not run easily with the herd.  And yet I so badly want to please people and really do need affirmation …. I realized through this election that I am more tribal than I thought.  I am surprisingly intolerant of those whom I consider intolerant.  In fact, I tend to avoid them because, admittedly, I am also a coward.  I hate confrontation.  And it is this condition that the Holy Spirit has been dealing with in me this week.  Because the Spirit of God lives in me, He is sifting through all my stuff.  I must recognize that I have blind spots, that my point of view is actually very limited.  This week I understood in a new way what Paul says when he starts Ch 4 with “I am a prisoner of Christ..”  I am actually captive to His ways.  I don’t have a choice about liking or not liking people, accepting or not accepting, etc.  I am called to walk in the Way of Christ.  Period.  And this means I must be wise about what I talk about.  I have to be sensitive to other people’s beliefs.  I cannot trumpet my opinions wherever I want to or however I want to because I think I am right.  I am not my own free agent that I can go do whatever pleases me.  There’s timing and context. 

Here’s the big truth:  we need our differences.  We need this variety of thinking.  We need to learn how to share our ideas and not get huffy.  We need to learn how to “put on Christ”.  This place, Crowsnest Christian Centre, is about as good and vital a training ground as any bootcamp out there.  Let us guard it carefully.

Karen Tamminga Paton

Election 2016: the next day

I want to share the post below, written this morning by a colleague, because it resonates deeply with my own feelings and my need to be reminded that we bear the image of God and are here to love our neighbor in the name of Christ.






Dear colleagues,

As a scholar and teacher of minority literatures and gender studies, I know I have some hurting students and colleagues who need some encouragement today. I hope the rest of you will indulge me. I send this message to you who are grieving or fearful this morning:

As I lay awake last night, my heart was with all of you whom I dearly love who fear that the results of this election signal a social endorsement of discrimination and hate, so to you I send this message:

To my African American friends who fear their lives still will not matter, that they will continue to be “them”; to my Latino and Mexican family and friends who fear further vilification and accusations; to my LGBTQ friends and family who fear steps backward in attaining full equality, respect, and social acceptance; to my Muslim friends who fear increased religious hatred and discrimination; to my friends in the refugee community who fear more cold rejection as they flee from terror; to my dear friends in the disability community who fear unchecked mocking, bullying, and discrimination; to my environmental activist friends who fear the loss of any chance to protect the earth and end environmental racism; to my Native American friends who fear that the evil unleashed by Euro-American greed and love of power will continue unchecked, destroying cultures and Mother Earth; and to all the women who fear that sexual assault and harassment has been trivialized and will be increasingly excused and unpunished: I grieve and mourn with you. And I vow in the days, months and years to come to pray with you, stand with you, and fight with you. May we work together against the realization of these fears; our strength has never lain in politicians or governments but in God and each other, working together.

I look to you with great thankfulness for the models of resilience, resistance, solidarity, and steadfastness in the face of discrimination and oppression that you have been to me and so many others over the generations. I am constantly reminded that Jesus left the 99 to go after the one, that He formed his intimate circle around the marginalized and oppressed. We are not forgotten. I pray for that day when the image of God, Creator, in each of us will be recognized, honored, revered, and defended with divine strength; I pray for that day when hearts of stone will be turned to hearts of flesh, when Love will finally reign.

“Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your God will be with you wherever you go.” (Joshua 1:9)


Grace and peace,

Linda Naranjo-Huebl
Associate Professor
English Department
1795 Knollcrest Cir. SE
Grand Rapids, MI  49546
LN22@calvin.edu

Samuel

 

 

I was sleeping and I awoke-
there were voices;
people called: we are hungry and thirsty--
and I went and said:
why did you call me?

And they said: we did not call you,
go back to sleep.

 

I was sleeping and awoke-
there were voices;
people called: we have illness and war--
and I went and said:
why did you call me?

And they said: we did not call you,
go back to sleep.

 

I was sleeping and I awoke-
there were voices;
people called: we have illness and war--
and I went and said:

Why did you call me?

And they said: we did not call you.

go back to sleep.

 

But one said:

If you are called again
you must say: here I am, I’m listening.

 

I was sleeping and I awoke-
there were voices.

I said: here I am, I’m listening.

Then I heard:

You must be the voice of the people
who are hungry and thirsty,
who are ill and dying,
who lie in the darkness of the prison.

Listen!

 

And I listened.

I would be that voice.

 

                                                            -Lieuwe Hornstra

                                                            --tr. from Frisian - HB

A Dream Remembered, for Father’s Day

I dream sometimes, maybe often.
Most are forgettable, like passing images in the night.
The more vivid ones tend to be chaotic, weird, violent, like plunging down an ocean cliff.

This dream was different.
This dream was like a story, with a beginning, middle, and end.
A dream, but every part so real.

A garden, thriving under a summer sun with rows of lettuce, cabbage, cucumbers, and more, much more.
In the middle of the garden, my mother, tending the work of her hands, bending down to check the progress.
I held very still, mesmerized by the image of my mother who had passed away nearly ten years ago.
I knew that it was a vision, that I couldn’t call her name, couldn’t run to her, couldn’t touch her.
But I experienced her presence nonetheless, and it filled me with extraordinary wonder.

And then I saw something else that truly transfixed me.
Straight across from where I stood in the shadow of a tree, on the other side of the garden, I saw my dad approaching, my dad who had been gone for fifty years, approaching now slowly, hesitantly, cautiously, as if approaching holy ground. 
He stopped at the garden’s edge, slowly sank down to one knee, and looked at my mother.
With her back toward him, she could not see him.
She could not see his face, his gaze, the look that spoke of eager expectation.
Moments passed, the scene before me bathed in tranquility, yet poised for something more.

I waited, tense with anticipation for the possible reunion.
Then I saw Dad stand up, open the garden gate noiselessly, and ever so gently walk toward Mom in the center of the garden. 
As he came closer, I saw his face change as if an invisible veil of ineffable peace and bliss were drawn over it.
She must’ve felt someone approaching then, for she turned toward him. 
I will never forget the way Dad looked at her, the way I had never seen him – the tenderness of the smile and the love in his eyes strong enough to erase the pain that had sometimes been between them when they were together, and all the pain that had been in their parting so many years ago.

And then the garden vanished.

But the memory of that dream has not.
Even now I’m awed and mystified by it.
And blessed.
For on this Father’s Day, in a world of too many absent fathers, the vision of parental shalom lingers as a precious and permanent possession.

A Pre-Christmas Conversation

    Time is getting close, Son..
Yes, Father.
    My children are crying.
They've been crying a long time, Father.
Remember Eve when she had her first baby?
    She cried long before that, Son.
It's not the pain of childbirth only, is it.
    No.

Why are you silent, Father?
    My heart grieves much, Son.
    I did not make my children to suffer so much.
    I have loved them all, you know.

Why did it happen, Father?
    You mean--sin?
Yes.
    It's hard to explain, Son.
    But I did not will it so.
How long must it go on, Father?
    That's what I want to talk to you about.
    I want to comfort them.
    I want to save them.
And you need me for that?
    Yes, Son, I want you to go among them.
How?
    Like one of them.
How can that be?
    How?  Hmm, are you ready for this?
I don't think so.
    Well, the good news is that you'll come among them as a baby.
A baby??
How will I become a baby?
    The human way, mostly.
Will I have a mother?
     Yes.  
Hmm, I see.
I've never had a mother.
    I know.
Will I have a father too?
    I will always be your Father.
Will be human, then?
    Yes, mostly.
Will they know me?
And will they listen?
    A few.
Only a few?
    Yes, at first.
Why?
    My children are so blind, so deaf.
    They take so long to see the light,
    to hear the voice.

Will it be hard?
For me, I mean.
    Yes, very hard.
And painful too?
    It is painful to be human.
Will I suffer, then?
    Yes.
Much?
    Yes, very much.

Will I ... must I ... even ...
    Yes, my Son, you must even die.
You don't love me then!
    I love you very much, my Son.
Then why do you want me to die?
    Because I love my human children too.
    I want to show them how much.
    I want them to believe it.
    I want to forgive them for their blindness, their deafness, their sin.
    That's why you must die for them.
Alone?
    Yes, you will feel all alone.

I'm afraid, Father.
    Yes, Son, and you will be more afraid.
Will you help me?
    I will never leave you.
And will you show me what to do?
    You will always do my will.
Will I see you again?
    Of course.
    I will raise you up again,
    and then you will come back to me.
I'm glad of that!

Will it make a difference?
    A difference?
I mean will the world become a different place,
more like it was at first, long ago?
    Not right away, Son, not for a long time, even.
    But someday, yes:
    What you're going to do now will someday make all the difference.
But till then, will people go on as they are now?
     Most will, yes, and worse.
     They like to change everything, except themselves.
Why should I go, then - what's the use?
    Because you're the only Way, Son,
    to tell them Truth
    and give them Life.
    Those who will receive you as my Son will receive me,
     and they will change.
Why?
     Because they will know Love.

    And now it's time to go, my Son.
As a baby?
    Yes; the world loves a baby,
    but a Savior not so much.
Where will I be born?
     In a humble place in Bethlehem.
    You will be poor, that the poor may be rich.
I will miss you, Father.
    And I will miss you, Son.
    But I will be with you, and through you,
    with all my other children too.
    Tell them that.
    Show them your Father, bring them my word of Peace;
    offer them my gift of Life.
    Bring my kingdom among and within them.
Is that your will?
    Yes, my Son, that is my will.
Then, Father, your will be done.

                       ~.~
   
  

Last Words

Sixty years ago today, Dad suddenly died.

Sixty years dims and erases many a memory, as if a shade were drawn over it.

But not this one.

What happened that day, Nov. 10, 1955, will always be an indelible part of my being.

That morning Dad had done the early morning chores as usual.

The dawn had come promising a crisp but beautiful November day.

According to Greta who had helped with the milking, Heit had been in a good mood, maybe more talkative than usual. 

Could it be that, after seven years of very hard immigrant labor, he especially enjoyed the sweet taste that morning of finally being on his own place and improving the quality of his own livestock?

The pain must’ve hit him suddenly when he was in the silo.  And it was excruciating. Somehow he managed to climb down, to leave the barn, to make it to the house.

Did he sense even then that it would be the last time?

I was still recovering from TB and exempt from farm work.

The ominous sounds downstairs woke me up that morning – agitated voices, rushing footsteps from one room to another, and the frightening moans of someone in great pain.

When I came down, my mom and sister’s faces told me that something very serious was going on.

Heit was in the bedroom now, his moaning growing in intensity.  Mem hurried back to tend to her husband.  I stayed in the kitchen, afraid to go to the bedroom, afraid of facing a father in agony.

But when Mem came back to tell me that Heit wanted me to come to him, I had no choice.

Still I hesitated.

Feelings between fathers and sons are often complex, confused, even strained, especially in those uneasy years when sons grow uncertainly toward adulthood and express their insecurity through a sharp-edged critical faculty.

I had hardly been a rebel, but maybe a self-righteous idealist is worse.

We had sometimes been hard on each other, more often through silence than through words.

So I hesitated.  I was not prepared.

When I entered the bedroom, my insides told me that I was about to step into a new dimension of being.

I saw Heit, stretched out on the bed, his face contorted with the terrible pain that was wracking his body.

His eyes turned to me.  Those light-blue eyes spoke of intense pain, but it wasn’t the pain that struck me.  It was a tenderness, a gentleness I had never seen before that reached my soul.

He beckoned for me to come closer.

He took my hand; he stroked it gently.

This was not the Heit I thought I had known, but my heart told me now that I had always wanted, I had always needed his tenderness, his gentleness, his love.

Then he pulled me closer to him.

In between spasms of pain he tried to say something: “You are such a dear boy.”

He pulled me closer still, put his arms around my neck, and tried to speak again: “I’ve sometimes done you wrong, will you forgive me?”

Too choked to speak, I could only nod.

Then he kissed me.

When I stumbled out of that room, I knew that I had been on sacred ground.

My father’s faith became real to me that day.

Heit died later that night, hours after surgery for a bowel obstruction.

The next day I hid in the barn, among the bales of hay, and wept.

I wept with grief for the years in the past when Heit and I could have been tender and gentle with each other, and weren’t.

I wept with grief for the years to come when our love for each other would not be a part of life.

But I wept too with gratitude for the heavenly gift of grace that had hallowed those last minutes with my dad.

Grace that had softened a sometimes stern, proud spirit into a loving father who asked his son’s forgiveness.

That was the Father’s gift when Heit died sixty years ago.

And that gift became my lifelong blessing.

For on that day my Dad’s faith became real to me.

A Love Remembered

Today, Nov. 3, is the day I would call my mom to wish her another Happy Birthday.

I wish I could do that one more time, but she’s been gone for some years now.

I’d say: “Happy Birthday, Mom,” but often in Frisian: “Lokwinsken mei de jierdei, Mem!”

And then I’d sing to her over the phone, across the 2500 miles that separated us:

O wat zijn we heden blij,

Memke is jarig, memke is jarig!

O wat zijn we heden blij,

Memke’s verjaardag vieren wij!

Yes, it was long distance, but for those special minutes on the phone we’d sometimes feel closer than if we had sat together around the table with all her children and grandchildren watching her blow out the candles.

I miss Mem, and I know I always will.

When I think back on her life now, I feel sadness that she was more acquainted with life’s shadows than its sunshine.

Life was hard in the early years of the 20^th century. 

She loved her school and teachers, but she had to go to work when she was only twelve.

A brother she loved drowned when he suffered a seizure close to home.

In her later teens, much of the farm work fell on her sturdy shoulders when she had so much wanted to spend more time with friends.

My thoughts go back to the war years now in Holland, when this feisty Frisian mother had four children to raise, took on the risks of giving a hiding place to a resistance fighter wanted dead or alive by the Germans, took in his wife and baby as well, and showed her mettle by joining the resistance movement herself as a distributor of underground publications throughout the area. I will never lose my mental image when I saw her peddling through town, the saddlebags of her bike bulging with illegal papers.

As a young boy I was afraid for her.  But I was in awe too, and felt strongly bonded to this plucky woman who was my mother.

On this day I remember especially the day the shadows darkened and dreams shattered when Heit, Mem’s husband of twenty-eight years, suddenly passed away.  There would be no visit back to the homeland as husband and wife; there would be no sunlit ascent toward the leisure years when all the setbacks, frustrations, and hard work of post-immigration would finally give way to some stability and security and contentment.

She did what she had to do when she was twelve.  Now as a widow of fifty-three, with herself and a young daughter to support, she once again had to go to work outside her own home.

But what I remember especially this day is her love.

It was love that kept her letters and phone calls coming when I felt lonely as a sick soldier in an Army hospital.

It was love that didn’t pressure me to become a farmer when that would’ve enabled her to stay on the place she and dad had worked so hard for.

It was love that let me go to Calvin College after her recent loss. She did not lay a guilt trip on me.  Instead she hugged me tight; our tears were the language of love.

That love is my permanent treasure.

Thank you, Mem!

And thank you, God.