Monday, March 29, 2010

True Confession

It's the dissonance that gets me. I can live with paradox, irony, contradictions. In fact, so far as I can tell, they explain life. But I'm hung up on this specific dissonance: It has been eight (yes, that would be eight) years since I've been able to listen to my favorite music, the music that stirred and lifted my spirit for more than a decade. It was the music I had on in the car, at home, in my office, in my mind. A sweet mellow folk-music type Christian music emerged in the 80's with Marty Haugen, Michael Joncas and David Haas representing my favorite expressions. It was loving, gentle, expansive, gracious. And it was altogether too Peter, Paul, and Mary like for the girls. "Not that again," was a common refrain in our car. But I loved it. The music itself is beautiful, filled with gorgeous poetry, dynamic metaphors and images of lively life, generous reconciliation, and sccoops of courage. Two of the tapes (before CD time) actually wore out from overuse. You get the idea. When I left the parish I've told you about, I left that music behind too. Sadly, we used it there, some, so I had some awful associations that recurred every time it came on. But worst, most of all, it was the dissonance. The disconnect, profound and complete, between these songs that celebrated kindness and tenderness, generosity of spirit, a concern for justice and reconciliation, of unity and taking care of one another, in the spirit of Jesus and the horrible experience I had of church that belied all of these gracious gifts was too much to bear. Excruciating. Most of all, heart-breaking. Hearing a song, All Are Welcome, while living in an official church with silver-tongued charmers who, nevertheless, could not in eight years respond to any of my overtures, requests for conversation, who chose not to reach out to me in any way --- well, it was just too much. Clearly, I was not welcome. Now, a few things. I realize that the church is a lot bigger than the officiaries in one part of the world, in one smallish community. And I am beyond grateful to the 'church' that I've found here on Facebook and as a blogger who remind me daily that I DO belong to something loving, something generous and tender, Goddish, if you will. You all out there, those of you who are followers of Jesus, are now my church. And the ELCA Board of Pensions. You are my church. My only church. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I also realize that I can move on (I'd sure better!!!) before hell freezes over, er, I mean, before somebody from this corner of the church makes a move in my direction. I am moving on, out into a wider expression of grace. And thank goodness for that. I also realize that I can be the one to move in their direction. I have done that but I'm sure I could do it some more. "Excuse me, I'm the lost sheep. You didn't come looking for me but I'm here and I'd like shelter from the storm, please." I could batter down the doors. But this is part of my confession. Be gentle with me, okay. I am waiting. Not because I must but because I may. I am waiting for a word. It's due not to bitterness, or hurt, I figured out --- although there has been plenty of that and it swings by on a regular basis. But I am waiting. For their sakes. To give them the opportunity to feel moved, perhaps humbled, perhaps compassionate, perhaps curious, to move toward a reconciliation. Lord knows I am "owed" apologies, scores of them. But I'm beyond that. I think the experience of being humble, of apologizing, of offering contrition is life-giving. It restores the soul. And, there's this. Before I can be part of this community here in this place I need to know if it is a community that can humble itself, turn itself outward, welcome the lost home. Now. I keep saying this and it is absolutely true. Finally, this is not about me. It is about the thousands upon thousands of "me's" who have been shunned, pushed away, shut up and shut down by the official officials of the church. It is about the deaf boys who were sexually abused by their priest. It is about the hundreds of women in Protestant churches in this country, and their families, who were sexually abused by their pastors. It is about the scores of men and women who have been screwed more figuratively by the officialdom of the church. It is about us all. We need to know, is the church a trustworthy community? Can we invest our hearts and souls with you? Who are you? Mean and vindictive, or humble and generous? I spent a small fortune purchasing all my favorite music from iTunes the other night. I made a playlist on my iPod and have started taking small steps to listen to it. Oh my god, it is so so painful. It is so healing. I love it, I curse at it. I sing at the top of my lungs. I weep. The dissonance. All are welcome? "We are many parts, we are all one body..." Really? Not me. Not a boatload of other folks I know. The world is filled with warm and generous souls. Some say they are followers of Jesus, some not, many are done with the church. Some are journeying on other paths altogether. It is their loving and happy company I keep these days. And yours, many of you readers who are Jesus' people, you are Christ to me. And all of you, all of you, you're the people I want to belong with! And, as I listen to these wonderful songs I know I need still to be part of you. Whatever we call ourselves, we are about the things that make for peace. There is no dissonance as I commune here with you. True confession: I like this music and I'm not going to let the dishonorable and duplicitous behavior of some define reality altogether. Nope. Not their right. So, if not everywhere, then here, and out among you, all are welcome!

" I shoulda rode in on a donkey."

If I'd only known. I feel like a real ass. "I shoulda rode in a donkey," I told a friend. "You what?!" she replied. "To have had any credibility at all, to come across as a big whompin' deal, to look strong and worthy, I should have come into the church on Palm Sunday morning riding on a donkey. "That's what a predessor did, rode in on a donkey, basking in all the adoration of Palm Sunday, children waving palm branches, laying down their robes to make a smooth way for the ass to move through the aisles and up to the front of the church." A donkey. The pastor, the pastor of the church rode a donkey into church on Palm Sunday. The phrase Messiah Complex comes to mind. I believe the words she used were "boundless narcissism." The crowd loved it. They ate up his messianic theatrics and powerful, charismatic personality week after week. Unfortunately, they also covered up the multiple transgressions that ruined a vast multitude of lives from before that day to this day. Christian people are called to follow Jesus. To imitate him. But not in triumphal glory. Rather, Christian people are to follow Jesus in service, humility, love, and even in sacrifice. Putting their needs, their desires in submmission for the good of others, the community. Not for personal gain or self-aggrandizement. The first time I related this story to an outsider, she almost fell off her chair, laughing. Except we agreed, it isn't so funny after all. Pretty pathetic. On all accounts. I was sitting in the church's library going through old photo albums with long-time members when we got to the donkey photos. I burst out laughing, thinking it was a joke. But no, it wasn't, and these stalwarts were rapturous in their remembering, filled with longing for those good old days. Of abuse. (Eer, never mind.) I had no idea about this incident when I agreed to become pastor of this particular church. I had no idea about a lot of the boundarylessness of the congregation, its incestuousness with former clergy, the emotional affairs, as well as regular explicit sexual contact. Would I have agreed to the job, had I known this, and also known a lot more of the background than the bishop or anybody else dared to tell me, Not without certain very explicit conditions. Including the unconditional support of the bishop's office. Oh well. We know now how that went. A community of people earnestly seeking their messiah, even if it's an imitation, a fake, a deeply troubled soul who wants to serve himself more than God, is a dangerous community. They will fall over at the first feet that come down the pike. And, after his disatrous fall, they will seek another and another and another, another messiah. Clearly, such a community is also one in great pain, confusion, carrying and probably hiding older and deeper wounds that only a Superman can fix. A community desperately seeking such a messiah of their own is a vulnerable community and one that deserves appropriate, informed lovingkindness. Which was why I was sent there. With conditions agreed to, common perspectives understood amongst the regional church's leaders (my support team, in theory), promises made. And we know how well that turned out, now, too. Following a false prophet -- even if the words are kosher, the behavior belies them -- creates chaos that continues unto the fourth and fifth generations. It's one thing to have a healthy self-image, to reflect the glory of God. But this pastor's act was one of presumption, entitlement, privilege. Unbridled narcissism. Arrogance. So. Think about this for a moment and work with me here, to catch a better glimpse of the perversion of clergy sexual abuse. The minister claims for himself the triumphal entry, -- whether or not on an actual ass, -- the power, a very real identification as God present. But riding on a donkey, for mercy's sake! The choir is singing, the pipe organ is at full volume, "All Glory, Laud, and Honor to you, Redeemer King...." The crowd joins the song. They wave the palm branches, the children are overawed and delighted, waving and shouting "Hosanna!" I know in such a case that my head would be too big to fit through the door. My messiah quotient would be off the charts, my grandiosity would be boundless. The minister's act was sheer arrogance. When Jesus said, "Follow me," he didn't have this in mind. Jesus didn't invite us up on the donkey, at least not in this triumphalist way. Okay, so we have the minister all dressed up, a palm wreath, robes, sandals, flowers, waving palms heralding his entrance. Young children, I've discovered, get mixed up between Jesus and the pastor him/herself. "Are you God?" It happens. Even to women, it happened to me! So, yes, in this instance, in the Palm Sunday spectacle, we'd have to say that we've got a minister pretty much setting himself up to be (almost, virtually, like) Jesus. Now, imagine this minister seeks to be inappropriate with you, sexually, or in any other way. And you have this visage of him, up on the donkay, the "Hosanna's" ringing, "Blessed is the One who comes in the name of the Lord." And you are at a vulnerable point in your life. Confused, lonely, rejected by another lover. What do you say? How do you respond to his winsome, powerful charisma? Sadly, thousands of women every year are seduced by their pastors. Thinking it is the answer to their prayers, a special liaison with God. No, only a selfish offer from a predatory pastor, and their only real liaison is with his narcissism, his "user" personality. Hence, the work I did for seven years at the ELCA churchwide offices: seeking to stem the tide of clergy sexual abuse all across the country, to assist bishops and other church leaders as they resisted the temptation to fop these guys off on some other unsuspecting parish, to stop offering easy access for perpetrators to those upon whom they could prey. Hence my work with others of the ELCA in supporting bishops who needed to deal out the appropriate discipline (NOT, read excommunication or ostracism) but appropriate discipline to those clergy who misused their power, who abused it and their parishioners. (Work that fell on arrogant, frightened and deaf ears in some regions.) Hence the work of empowering congregational members to recognize and resist boundary violations attempted by their clergy, and the work of interpreting this behavior to vulnerable women (and children) who might think that having the pastor's "special" attention is a positive, not a disastrous thing. And hence the work of helping clergy and potential clergy understand the stakes for their parishioners whenever they became sexually, emotionally or otherwise inappropriately intimate with them. And, hence the complex reactions in a congregation like the one I served for three years, where abuse occurred at a such a scale for such a long period of time, a length of time that boggles the mind. And no such perspectives were provided, no healing offered, no transparency regarding this tragic history. I think Pope Benedict has an inkling whereof I speak. I hope. I hope. And other bishops too. In the aftermath of donkey rides on Palm Sunday and the violations that occur in the shadow of night, congregation members experience, such as a bishop or elder or superintendent, helps them to understand what has happened, their pounding impulse is to sweep things under the rug. To prevent anything or anyone from even attempting to agitate the waters. And in an instance like the one I encountered, to stop at nothing to prevent the shameful secret from coming out, to be so driven by fear they lose all reason and lash out in ways that I'm sure they would be embarrassed by in other circumstances. It wasn't them, their best selves, who attacked me. It was the scared, hurt, angry selves who were flying blind and mean. I actually don't feel bittnerness or anger toward them, the parishioners on the front lines, so much as at the regional leaders who could have helped them, helped us all, to move through a tumultuous time. As far as I'm concerned, the parishioners were set up, turned lose like a mob and told, "You will do what you will do." Such is the tragedy of the parish I served. Their woundedness. Their pain. I grieve for them as for myself. Their suffering has gone on longer and continues, for the most part, without benefit of understanding, of perspective. They did a horrible thing to me. But it was because a horrible thing was done to them. This is the grief, the sin that continues unto the fifth and sixth generations. My heart weeps for them this day, "If only you knew the things that make for peace." Healing peace is not easy. Not formulaic. (Note to professionals who intervene: Family systems theory doesn't work here, not as a template to impose. It's way more convoluted than that!) It requires hard work and slogging through swamps and across exposed deserts. But it is worth it! As we enter another Holy Week, within the Christian tradition, my real hope for those who are still stuck in the aftermath of clergy sexual abuse is that the promise of rising to new life will embolden you, inspire you to take a step, just one, then rest, then another, rest again, and then another, and find pilgrims to join you as you move into the healing, dynamic resurrection power of God. Jesus bet yes. He went all in to say yes. I trust that. And, finally, just to be clear, if you are a Christian, a follower of Jesus, you do not belong in a parade on the back of an ass. You belong on your kness, scrubbing. And just leave the donkey out of it altogether. Okay