IN WHICH: We take some time to be real

You know, there's a lot they don't teach you in seminary.  A lot of it is minor - the kind of stuff you could waste an entire year of seminary covering and still either not be prepared for or think that it was splitting hairs while you are still a student.  Stuff like "how to compile an annual report," or "why the church directory should be handled by a full committee," and "how to respond to the person at the grocery store who saw your picture in the paper and so knows who you are and acts like they've known you since high school, but you don't have the foggiest idea who they are and you're too embarrassed to admit it" would be topics eagerly covered, but readily dismissed by many seminarians.

But one thing that perhaps it would have benefitted us to spend some more (or any) time on is "how to be true to yourself and still be the pastor of a church you care about."  This is the one that's getting me more than any other right now, and truth be told, it's a post I've been mulling over since at least November.  Fair warning - this post is going to get political.  It's going to be a little raw, a little charged, a little more real than I allow myself to be otherwise.  But I need some catharsis and this is the space I choose to write in.  If you'd like to avoid some amount of ranting and venting, please feel free to stop reading and wait until the next sermon posts, or until I get a hankering to write something a little less controversial, a little less charged.  I won't be offended.  If, however, you'd like to get a little more insight into the life of a blue pastor living in a red state... well, then, buckle up and feel free to join me for a bit.

Like I said, this post has been... cultivating?  Fermenting?  Stewing?  Whatever le mot juste is here... for a while.  I sat at my laptop and started furiously typing something out in the early hours of November 9th just about the time I saw Pennsylvania turn red.  I typed.  And typed.  I tried to process, tried to make some sense out of the jumble of stuff going through my mind at the time.

And then I went to bed.  I woke up the next morning and never went back to the post.  I thought about what I wanted to say, listened to the news and my go-to podcasts (NPR Politics has been a real godsend this year), weighed the things I was hearing and how I was feeling after some time to sleep... and I didn't know what to say, what to do, what to think.  Still don't, if the truth be told.

The fact is, I have a lot of thoughts on all of this - anybody who knows me, who's heard me talk, follows me on Facebook, or (to some extent) listens to my sermons or reads them as I post on this blog... you know where I stand on a lot of things.  I don't hide my political feelings.  At the same time, I do a lot to keep myself as reserved as I can manage - believe that or not.  I have a lot of colleagues in ministry, friends from seminary, and other friends not involved in ministry at all, and I see the things they discuss, the articles and memes they share, and a lot of it resonates strongly with me.  I hover over that "share" button and my first instinct is to click it, to dive headfirst into a growing movement, to jump into the controversy and argue against all that I'm seeing until my fingers fall off and my voice fails me.

And yet, ultimately, nine times out of ten I satisfy myself to "like" the post, to move on, and usually to not comment, not share, not engage.  There's an uncomfortable reality to being a "blue" pastor in a "red" state - despite my own beliefs, my own political passions and convictions, there are people in my community and congregation who would strongly disagree with me.  I've been blessed over the last four years now to build relationships with my congregation, to be welcomed to share in the lives of these people, to hear their stories, to sit beside them in times of joy and times of sorrow, to seek for ways to point to Christ's presence in their midst.  It's a role that I cherish, but one that is also incredibly fragile, particularly when it comes to controversial issues in the political sphere.  It's dangerous to be political as a pastor, even if we do acknowledge that our faith is inherently political in the first place.  Jesus' message was fiercely political - so much so that he was crucified because of it.  Jesus was accused of trying to lead an insurrection against the Roman government.  He was accused of trying to supplant the Jewish authorities, trying to subvert the Jewish law and traditions themselves.

I'm not Jesus - I strive to point toward him at all times, but I'm not him.  And as a pastor, I'm called to walk a very fine line - I have political beliefs and convictions, and as long as I don't advocate for a particular candidate, tell people how to vote, or otherwise use the pulpit for political campaigning, there are no legal restrictions that would keep me from speaking out from the pulpit against many of the things that have been going on in this new administration.  But because I'm a pastor, and because of the relationship that I share with my congregation, I am also aware (painfully at times) that, as passionate as I may be about a particular political issue, there are those in my congregation who do not share that same passion, or who are just as passionate about the issues, but from a different point of view entirely.  If I choose to be as vocal as I might like to be about these things, I run a genuine risk of ostracizing and alienating my parishioners.  I could damage the relationship I have with my congregation.

Odd as it may seem to be in such a place where I am so at odds with the majority of our local population, odd as it may seem that I so often feel like a stranger in a strange land... I'm relatively happy to be where I am.  My family and I have been blessed immensely by our congregation - they support us in ways we can't even express our gratitude for.  I feel blessed to be in the community in which I live - I've seen members of our community come together time after time to support their neighbor, to encourage the youth in our area and support the school district.  There's a sense of community here that you don't always get the opportunity to witness, and even though it's certainly not what it used to be even ten years ago, there's a lot of opportunity and potential in our town.

I occasionally still miss living in Pittsburgh - right now, especially.  There aren't exactly any marches happening in Vandalia - at least, not until whenever our next parade happens.  To go to any marches or protests, I'd have to have driven two hours to get to Columbia or St. Louis.  All of my elected officials for state and federal levels are about as Republican as they get - I feel a sense of futility in trying to call them because I feel like I'm not truly one of their constituents.  As a white male, I'll never know what it feels like to be truly disenfranchised, but it's nevertheless a much different experience and perspective to feel like voicing your opinions has the possibility of making you a pariah in your own town, to be on the receiving end of the polite midwestern/southern "bless your heart" dismissal.

So I've largely held back - out of love and respect, I've held back a lot.  I look for creative outlets and seek ways to stay involved as much as I can, but the majority of my political ranting has been within the four walls of our home or in the car as we listen to podcasts/news and yell at the situation.  I know I could mess around and carefully tweak the privacy settings of all my social media interactions.  I know I could make sure that folks from my church only see the posts I want them to see, but I also believe in a general amount of transparency as a pastor.  When I have members of my church willing to come to me with the things that keep them up at night, the things that they're passionate about themselves... should I not be willing to share my own life with them, too?

So it's time for me to be real for a moment.  Maybe not too real, maybe not as real as I feel like being at times, but still time to be real.  To get some things out in the open and off my chest.

Reality is - I'm scared.

I'm scared of the kind of person we've put in the highest position of leadership in our country.  I feel like we've only seen the beginning of what this man is going to attempt to do, and that by the time enough of us decide it's worth doing something about, and not just one tribe of us decides to stand up and speak out... that it'll be too late.  Have we already opened Pandora's Box?  Or is there still a chance to make things right?

I'm scared for my son right now.  I'm scared for the fact that he has special needs due to his having been born with part of his brain missing, and we're looking at putting someone in charge over public education who has no experience with public education, who doesn't appear to care about special needs students, and who wants to privatize schooling as much as she possibly can.  I'm scared because I live in a rural area and there are no other options for my son to "choose" if our public schools get further gutted.

I'm scared for the kind of nation we're being shaped into at this moment - I'm scared that our attitude of putting "America First" is going to make us into global public enemy number one.  And that our thin-skinned commander in chief is going to lead us into yet more conflicts that we can't afford.  I'm scared that the things we were taught about in our history books and told that "America will never be," America is about to become.

I'm scared for the people who come to this country seeking shelter, who grew up hearing about America as a land that embodied the phrase "give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore."  I'm scared for those homeless, tempest-tossed who come seeking to find the lamp lifted beside the golden door, who have already gone through an extensive process to be cleared to come here, and who are instead met with blockades, armed guards, and closed borders.  I hurt for them as they are kept outside and the explanation is given that they could be terrorists, while the countries that actually sent terrorists into our borders to attack us still have the door held open for them.

I'm angry that we're allowing a businessman to hijack our country to further his own business goals and seem to be willing to do nothing about it.  I'm angry that we've seemingly turned a blind eye to a foreign nation that has deliberately manipulated the most sacred institution of Democracy.

And it hurts that I often feel like there's basically nothing I can do about it.  It hurts that I already feel so weary over all this, that I'm tired of being so frustrated and scared.  It hurts that I recognize that I don't even feel the half of what others in this country are feeling because I've been privileged enough to have been born white and male.  That while I want to join some great Resistance movement and be able to look my children and grandchildren in the eye and say I was not a part of this... more often than not I remain silent because I don't know what to say or do in the first place.

I've decided to resist in my own way - maybe it's enough, maybe it's not.  Maybe there will come a time when stronger resistance becomes necessary, and I'll pray that I'm ready for that step even as I pray that our fears and misgivings continue to turn out to have been over-exaggerated and not as necessary as we feel right now.  But nevertheless, I've decided to resist.

I'm taking my cue from the Declaration of Barmen, at least to some extent - since I don't get the opportunity to resist a whole lot where I am by marching, protesting, or doing anything overtly, my choice has been to resist in my preaching.  I'm not going to shy away from the issues facing our nation and our church.  I will continue to faithfully proclaim the word and administer the sacraments in my community - and my preaching will inevitably intersect with the events of the world happening around us.  I will not turn the pulpit into a campaign platform, nor will I explicitly focus solely on current events and topical preaching.  But we need to be ready to recognize the political nature of our faith.  We need to acknowledge that the Word speaks into the situations that we face, both as people of faith and as citizens of our world and nation.  Scripture is very explicit in telling us God's vision for how we are to treat the widow, the orphan, the alien, immigrant and refugee in our midst.  Jesus is clear in his expectation that we love not just our neighbor, but also our enemy.  The message is there for us to hear: justice is God's, and God calls us to be voices crying out for God's justice.  This is a message, a calling, and a reality that are inherently political, and to try to avoid it, especially in the face of the actions our country has been taking, is to be unfaithful to our calling.

I covet your prayers as I strive to be faithful to my calling.  And if I say something in a sermon that sparks something for you, if you want to talk to me about it, if you want to share in your concerns, I'll be glad to listen.  We may not agree, but my promise to you is to be respectful of you, to listen to what you have to say, and to attempt always to be in honest, open, and loving dialogue with you.

As for my prayer?  I pray that in four years, I look back at this particular post and frown at myself for being so upset about a very rough first couple weeks of a new administration.  I pray that the office of the Presidency changes the man who currently fills it, that the people he has picked to lead are tempered by those who are aiding them, that the voices of those who speak out in concern for those who are at risk of being oppressed right now end up being heard and heeded.  I pray that in four years, we are ultimately better off than it currently feels we are or will be.  I pray that God works in all of this in spite of the things that feel so much right now as if they are working against God's mandate to us in scripture.  And I pray that God gives me the courage to be a voice in the wilderness.