By Charles Schlussel
Pastor Debra recently asked if I’d be willing to share what the Urban Abbey means to me. I hesitated for a moment or two and then said of course I’d be happy to. I’ve only been here for a few short months but I must say that the Urban Abbey has some of the most friendly people I’ve ever met, either that or I’m guessing it’s just hard to miss a six foot five tall bald guy with a huge smile continually plastered on his face and just maybe curiosity got the best of you wondering what in the heck all the non stop grinning was about. Seriously though from the very first time I walked into the Abbey I was greeted so warmly and made to feel so welcome that it was incredibly easy to feel at home almost instantly. As to what all the non stop grinning is about I’ve shared some of my back story with a lot of you but in the words of the late great Paul Harvey soon you’ll know the “rest of the story,” and if you don’t understand that dated reference, as Debra would say, congratulations!
To start this story we’ll need to jump into our trusty DeLorean, or for you of a younger generation we can borrow the good Dr.’s Tardis… Our first stop is the 1960s where I grew up in the small town of Norfolk Nebraska, all in all it was quite idyllic. I had a fairly happy childhood and everything was going well, the hippy movement was in full swing and had finally inched it’s way to Nebraska, I still had hair, a full head of shoulder length hair no less.
Life seemed pretty grand, that is until around circa 1974 at which point I turned fourteen and the hormone monster visited me full force and suddenly my world spun out of control. All of my guy friends had started noticing girls, but for me they were speaking an unknown language and I was starting to have feelings for which I had no known reference point.
A side note here, I know this will be unbelievable for anyone born after the 1990s but there was no internet NONE! and there were a total of about four or five TV stations to pick from, I had really never heard the term gay or homosexual ever used in any conversation. I was terrified. I didn’t know what was wrong with me and I had absolutely no idea if anyone else had ever experienced this before. There was no one to talk to because I was sure no one could possibly understand and if they did, they would surely be utterly and completely repulsed.
Fast forward to my high school years and I did find that there was at least one other guy who had similar feelings and I had my first awkward and fumbling experimental sexual encounters. Of course all of this had to be completely hidden for fear of hateful verbal ridicule and or the very real potential of physical violence or worse.
Fast forward again to 1980 and I found myself lonely and alone working in a strange city and was approached by some charismatic Christians who told me how to be born again, all my problems would be gone and life would suddenly become magically wonderful.
All I had to do was confess all my sins and promise to never do them ever again and I would escape all the terrors of hell. Actually sins were all bad but were easily forgivable by a quick I’m sorry prayer, except for one sin, the sin of being gay, this was the grandaddy sin of them all. This particular sin was so offensive it was labeled as an abomination to God and there was no passing go just a straight shot into a fiery hell of eternal torment. There was one loophole to the abomination of being gay though, you could admit that you had a same sex attraction as long as you remained celibate and never acted on it. I really did love God so I took the pledge and at age 21 gave up my sexuality and remained totally celibate for three plus decades until after years of talking about it I finally had the courage to start the process of coming out and started dating for the first time in my adult life.
So how did I end up here at the Abbey? Approximately four years ago after spending multiple years in prayer, studying stack after stack of theological books combined with years of tearful heartfelt talks, and encouragement by some of the best friends anyone could ever ask for, I finally came to the conclusion that I needed a new theology, One built on love, grace and inclusion rather than fear, judgement and exclusion. I left the charismatic evangelical church where I had faithfully served the last few decades.
It was a terrifying journey to set out in search of a new church home but a journey I knew I had to make.
Now please understand that the pastors at my old church are wonderfully sincere in what they believe and really do care about their people, but they have absolutely no idea of the hurt and unimaginable pain and harm that is inflicted on their LGBTQ members and that’s the reason I found myself on a journey looking for a new place to call home.
I had searched the last four plus years looking for somewhere to belong, a church that would accept me for who I am and encourage me to grow and that trek ended here when I walked through the doors into this beautiful loving community ensconced in this coffee shop-bookstore-church called the Urban Abbey.
The Abbey is a place I’ve dreamt of and yet conversely never imagined could really exist. For me it’s been an oasis that is quenching a thirst deep within my heart and soul. For the first time in my adult life I no longer have to compartmentalize and hide parts of who I am for fear I’ll be discovered, I’m understanding what it means to fully integrate myself into one person and to let down all my guards and know that I’ll still be completely accepted and loved and this is transforming me in ways I would have never thought possible.
I’ve heard it said many times that almost everyone respects Jesus and his teachings, it’s always the Christians they have the problems with…
What I’ve encountered here at the Abbey though is a true living out of Jesus teachings summed up in loving God and loving our neighbors as ourselves and who is our neighbor? Everyone!… and since I’ve been coming here the one thing I’ve seen truly embodied in this community is the actualization of those teachings in a total and complete acceptance of absolutely everyone regardless of race, creed, gender, lesbian, trans, gay, straight, believer or unbeliever everyone is welcome here. I’ve been equally astounded by the sheer volume of out reaches, special events and speakers that are touching peoples lives in very real and tangible ways. And finally I love that the only qualification for communion here at the Abbey is the question, “Are you hungry”? … Kinda sounds like someone else’s dinner parties that caused a bit of scandal because of who he dared to eat with. I for one am ready to see if we can cause a bit more scandal with our outrageous loving inclusion of absolutely everyone.
I still pinch myself almost every time I drive down to the Old Market and walk into the Abbey wondering if all this can possibly real and then I see all my new friends and that’s why you’ll see the big smile on my face as I walk in the door and “now you know the rest of the story.”
Tuesday, May 22, 2018
Wednesday, May 9, 2018
Collective Effervescence
Scripture
Luke 24: 13-17 (NRSV)
The Walk to Emmaus
Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, ‘What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?’ They stood still, looking sad.
Sermon:
Our scripture features this most unusual moment, strangers talking on a road and not just talking about weather but being honest, vulnerable and sad. Brené Brown invites us to hold hands with strangers. “Hold Hands with Strangers” is the opposite of everything I have told my four year old about strangers! We grow up learning to feel strangers out and think about if we can trust them or if they are safe. Plus consent is important… we should ask before holding hands, especially with strangers. But these logistics are probably not the point; and we can take it as a metaphor for a bigger word, Collective Effervescence.
French Sociologist, Emile Dukhiem penned the phrase, “Collective Effervescence” as an “experience of connection, communal emotion and a sensation of sacredness that happens when we are a part of something bigger than ourselve.” (Brown, 130). These experiences shift us from a focus on self to a focus on community or group. Later researchers Brown sites weave this thread of collective Effervescence with a sensibility they name as Collective Assembly. These collective experiences link us to one another, they make us less lonely, more happy and more healthy; they help us experience meaning, peace, joy and connection.
Brown gives flesh to these theories by reminding us about how major events and gatherings of both pain and joy connect us. These moments of the collective experience are not so much when we need to cry with people we don’t know, but people with whom we are inextricably linked by a collective experience of pain, like the Challenger Shuttle explosion, the Sandy Hook School shooting, or the destruction of 911. These moments when we need to hold hands or give hugs or just gather in person, face to face. These moments remind us of our connection to one another. This connection is forged in pain and joy. These are not only tragic, but also thrilling and even surprising events of communal joy. Epic movies where we know the words or concerts where everyone sings in unison and the band drops out and there we are all together, heart pouring out, waving our hands with strangers.
We know this because we are in Nebraska where almost every fall Saturday can be a moment of collective effervescence as the football stadium fills and the marching band makes a tunnel for the team to run on… maybe it’s just me, but when you cry at pre-game you feel pretty connected to 90,000 people. And the striking thing is that most of the time I would probably disagree, a lot, with half to two-thirds of these folks in red. We probably come out on opposite sides about almost everything - but in that moment we sing and clap and cheer and hug and hold hands. That’s the power of collective effervescence that binds us up beyond the differences that divide us all the time.
I love this notion of Collective Effervescence. Not just because I think it would be a great band name, but because I think it describes what we do and why we gather here each week, or at least what we try to do each week. We gather, we sing together and pray together, we connect with ancient stories, modern poetry and we give, literally give together. That’s pretty collective, and every week we make time here to listen to one another’s moments that give life and to hear each other’s voice around the scripture. Every week Kyle and I plan Sunday services and we think about the different ways to highlight a theme or experience, the difference in learning styles and social locations and also the hope that, in our differences, we at the Abbey will connect with one another and God. And sometimes it matters and offers meaning, and sometimes it works and sometimes, well, I or you or we learn something about what we could have done differently.
Because this is a church, sometimes we do it well and other times (because we are just people) we can be awkward… at best. We say the wrong thing without meaning it, we say the harsh thing meaning it, we have agendas and ego, and we avoid pain.
Showing up is hard work for us. It’s not like a Hallmark Movie where a good cry will be contained in two hours and we know it will end happy. We don’t know what to do when other people’s pain, hope, grief or joy spills out all around us. We don’t often know what to say or what to do, which might be the start of the problem. We are not often too great at just being present for it. Letting it be what it is and allowing it to be a part of us, too. That’s why we have all kinds of stupid, theologically bankrupt phrases. They are easy… like “God has a plan” or “God wouldn't give you anything you can’t handle.” I have heard good, loving church people say these things to people in their grief and their loss, and I don’t know anyone who has said, “Thanks that was so helpful. It’s nice to know that God is so confident in my abilities.” We not only apply the quick clash to pain and grief but to joy as well. We prepare people to experience heartbreak before it happens, like “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” In fact, if you look this little proverb up, you can find one website that shows you all the sayings like it about keeping it cool and not getting your hopes up in almost every language.
Jesus was nothing like this. He sat with people. He asked questions. He had hard conversations and honest responses. He taught in parable and in practice. He reached so deeply into his tradition that he could live it out. He touched people, when no one else would. He talked about abundance and then he practiced it, he talked about filling the poor with good things, and he actually fed people. Here we find him in the text today in those hazy accounts that come after his crucifixion and resurrection. Here in the Gospel of Luke, two men are walking on the road to Emmaus and they encounter a stranger. They could have kept going, processing their grief together, ignoring the stranger… you know, like normal people. I would have said, “It was nice to meet you but we are really having an important conversation right now… so thanks… bye.” But they don’t. They include the stranger, just like Jesus would have done. And they do something else unusual… they are real with him. They talk about their real grief rather than, “Oh, the weather in Jerusalem has been so nice," or "Have you seen the price of olives?” they do what Jesus did, and they are honest. The stranger listens to them in their distress and their grief. They recount the life and death of Jesus and their bewilderment and hurt, they say, “We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel.” They process this all together. Then there is the moment in the narrative where the stranger starts to quicken his pace and seems to be walking on and they do what Jesus taught them to do; they invite the stranger to stay with them, saying the evening is drawing near. There they are in their grief and pain and they are doing the practice that Jesus taught them, and then suddenly this stranger breaks the bread and they look again. Now this stranger is sacred, his face bears the resemblance of Christ. That collective ritual broke through, drew them together, and helped them see a stranger.
Everyone in this story is showing up, being vulnerable, engaging the collective, and then this ritual elevates the moment. If that’s not collective effervescence then I don’t know what is. That is why we gather, because the collective is hard and it takes practice. Jesus practiced his faith. When times were hard, the poetry of the Psalms and the wisdom of the prophets rolls off his tongue, and the thing that makes him powerful is not that he knows so much. It’s that he practices so much. He actually does what he reads, learns, and shares. That’s why we practice each week. So we are ready to show up and hold hands with strangers.
Brown tells the story of Sheryl Sandberg and I commend her book Option B to you. She shares the story of practice that begins on a vacation. She and her partner are on vacation, a special vacation without the kids, enjoying the day together, then they part for a moment. She thinks nothing at first of him not being in the room, but eventually the time to prepare for dinner is approaching and she seeks him out. After looking she thinks… the gym. Then she finds what I imagine is every partner’s worst nightmare. She finds him on the ground, breathless, bloody. She starts CPR, she calls for help, she takes the longest ambulance ride, she hears people say, “I am so sorry for your loss,” and she doesn’t want to let him go. She writes, “When we arrived at the cemetery, my children got out of the car and fell to the ground, unable to take another step. I lay on the grass, holding them as they wailed. Their cousins came and lay down with us all piled up in a big sobbing heap with adult arms trying in vain to protect them from their sorrow” (Brown, p134). There, piled in a heap of grief and tears and wailing, surrounded by family, she says to them “This is the second worst moment in our lives. We lived through the first and we will live through this.” She didn’t give them a cliché, she didn’t hush them, she reminded them, I think, of how resilient they are and then she began to sing a prayer from her faith; something she sang as a child, something that is a part of the service, a Jewish prayer of mourning. She began to sing and soon the adults joined her and then the children. The collective carried them in these moments.
The collective experience doesn’t minimize pain; it connects it and connects us to one another. The collective depends on showing up all the time so the songs are there when you need to hum them. It depends on the courage to know your own emotions, to be there for the emotions of others. It is hard work to be open and present but it is the call of our faith. May we have the courage to hold hands with strangers.
Luke 24: 13-17 (NRSV)
The Walk to Emmaus
Now on that same day two of them were going to a village called Emmaus, about seven miles from Jerusalem, and talking with each other about all these things that had happened. While they were talking and discussing, Jesus himself came near and went with them, but their eyes were kept from recognizing him. And he said to them, ‘What are you discussing with each other while you walk along?’ They stood still, looking sad.
Sermon:
Our scripture features this most unusual moment, strangers talking on a road and not just talking about weather but being honest, vulnerable and sad. Brené Brown invites us to hold hands with strangers. “Hold Hands with Strangers” is the opposite of everything I have told my four year old about strangers! We grow up learning to feel strangers out and think about if we can trust them or if they are safe. Plus consent is important… we should ask before holding hands, especially with strangers. But these logistics are probably not the point; and we can take it as a metaphor for a bigger word, Collective Effervescence.
French Sociologist, Emile Dukhiem penned the phrase, “Collective Effervescence” as an “experience of connection, communal emotion and a sensation of sacredness that happens when we are a part of something bigger than ourselve.” (Brown, 130). These experiences shift us from a focus on self to a focus on community or group. Later researchers Brown sites weave this thread of collective Effervescence with a sensibility they name as Collective Assembly. These collective experiences link us to one another, they make us less lonely, more happy and more healthy; they help us experience meaning, peace, joy and connection.
Brown gives flesh to these theories by reminding us about how major events and gatherings of both pain and joy connect us. These moments of the collective experience are not so much when we need to cry with people we don’t know, but people with whom we are inextricably linked by a collective experience of pain, like the Challenger Shuttle explosion, the Sandy Hook School shooting, or the destruction of 911. These moments when we need to hold hands or give hugs or just gather in person, face to face. These moments remind us of our connection to one another. This connection is forged in pain and joy. These are not only tragic, but also thrilling and even surprising events of communal joy. Epic movies where we know the words or concerts where everyone sings in unison and the band drops out and there we are all together, heart pouring out, waving our hands with strangers.
We know this because we are in Nebraska where almost every fall Saturday can be a moment of collective effervescence as the football stadium fills and the marching band makes a tunnel for the team to run on… maybe it’s just me, but when you cry at pre-game you feel pretty connected to 90,000 people. And the striking thing is that most of the time I would probably disagree, a lot, with half to two-thirds of these folks in red. We probably come out on opposite sides about almost everything - but in that moment we sing and clap and cheer and hug and hold hands. That’s the power of collective effervescence that binds us up beyond the differences that divide us all the time.
I love this notion of Collective Effervescence. Not just because I think it would be a great band name, but because I think it describes what we do and why we gather here each week, or at least what we try to do each week. We gather, we sing together and pray together, we connect with ancient stories, modern poetry and we give, literally give together. That’s pretty collective, and every week we make time here to listen to one another’s moments that give life and to hear each other’s voice around the scripture. Every week Kyle and I plan Sunday services and we think about the different ways to highlight a theme or experience, the difference in learning styles and social locations and also the hope that, in our differences, we at the Abbey will connect with one another and God. And sometimes it matters and offers meaning, and sometimes it works and sometimes, well, I or you or we learn something about what we could have done differently.
Because this is a church, sometimes we do it well and other times (because we are just people) we can be awkward… at best. We say the wrong thing without meaning it, we say the harsh thing meaning it, we have agendas and ego, and we avoid pain.
Showing up is hard work for us. It’s not like a Hallmark Movie where a good cry will be contained in two hours and we know it will end happy. We don’t know what to do when other people’s pain, hope, grief or joy spills out all around us. We don’t often know what to say or what to do, which might be the start of the problem. We are not often too great at just being present for it. Letting it be what it is and allowing it to be a part of us, too. That’s why we have all kinds of stupid, theologically bankrupt phrases. They are easy… like “God has a plan” or “God wouldn't give you anything you can’t handle.” I have heard good, loving church people say these things to people in their grief and their loss, and I don’t know anyone who has said, “Thanks that was so helpful. It’s nice to know that God is so confident in my abilities.” We not only apply the quick clash to pain and grief but to joy as well. We prepare people to experience heartbreak before it happens, like “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch.” In fact, if you look this little proverb up, you can find one website that shows you all the sayings like it about keeping it cool and not getting your hopes up in almost every language.
Jesus was nothing like this. He sat with people. He asked questions. He had hard conversations and honest responses. He taught in parable and in practice. He reached so deeply into his tradition that he could live it out. He touched people, when no one else would. He talked about abundance and then he practiced it, he talked about filling the poor with good things, and he actually fed people. Here we find him in the text today in those hazy accounts that come after his crucifixion and resurrection. Here in the Gospel of Luke, two men are walking on the road to Emmaus and they encounter a stranger. They could have kept going, processing their grief together, ignoring the stranger… you know, like normal people. I would have said, “It was nice to meet you but we are really having an important conversation right now… so thanks… bye.” But they don’t. They include the stranger, just like Jesus would have done. And they do something else unusual… they are real with him. They talk about their real grief rather than, “Oh, the weather in Jerusalem has been so nice," or "Have you seen the price of olives?” they do what Jesus did, and they are honest. The stranger listens to them in their distress and their grief. They recount the life and death of Jesus and their bewilderment and hurt, they say, “We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel.” They process this all together. Then there is the moment in the narrative where the stranger starts to quicken his pace and seems to be walking on and they do what Jesus taught them to do; they invite the stranger to stay with them, saying the evening is drawing near. There they are in their grief and pain and they are doing the practice that Jesus taught them, and then suddenly this stranger breaks the bread and they look again. Now this stranger is sacred, his face bears the resemblance of Christ. That collective ritual broke through, drew them together, and helped them see a stranger.
Everyone in this story is showing up, being vulnerable, engaging the collective, and then this ritual elevates the moment. If that’s not collective effervescence then I don’t know what is. That is why we gather, because the collective is hard and it takes practice. Jesus practiced his faith. When times were hard, the poetry of the Psalms and the wisdom of the prophets rolls off his tongue, and the thing that makes him powerful is not that he knows so much. It’s that he practices so much. He actually does what he reads, learns, and shares. That’s why we practice each week. So we are ready to show up and hold hands with strangers.
Brown tells the story of Sheryl Sandberg and I commend her book Option B to you. She shares the story of practice that begins on a vacation. She and her partner are on vacation, a special vacation without the kids, enjoying the day together, then they part for a moment. She thinks nothing at first of him not being in the room, but eventually the time to prepare for dinner is approaching and she seeks him out. After looking she thinks… the gym. Then she finds what I imagine is every partner’s worst nightmare. She finds him on the ground, breathless, bloody. She starts CPR, she calls for help, she takes the longest ambulance ride, she hears people say, “I am so sorry for your loss,” and she doesn’t want to let him go. She writes, “When we arrived at the cemetery, my children got out of the car and fell to the ground, unable to take another step. I lay on the grass, holding them as they wailed. Their cousins came and lay down with us all piled up in a big sobbing heap with adult arms trying in vain to protect them from their sorrow” (Brown, p134). There, piled in a heap of grief and tears and wailing, surrounded by family, she says to them “This is the second worst moment in our lives. We lived through the first and we will live through this.” She didn’t give them a cliché, she didn’t hush them, she reminded them, I think, of how resilient they are and then she began to sing a prayer from her faith; something she sang as a child, something that is a part of the service, a Jewish prayer of mourning. She began to sing and soon the adults joined her and then the children. The collective carried them in these moments.
The collective experience doesn’t minimize pain; it connects it and connects us to one another. The collective depends on showing up all the time so the songs are there when you need to hum them. It depends on the courage to know your own emotions, to be there for the emotions of others. It is hard work to be open and present but it is the call of our faith. May we have the courage to hold hands with strangers.
Prayer:
Gracious and Generous God
We are tender and awkward, loving and true.
We are worried and unsure, weepy and wrong.
We are focused independence and worried about if we belong.
We see difference and distance, we place ourselves in order and rank.
But you call us to community, to see your face in the stranger to take heart and take hands.
You call us to our best selves, you inspire our better angels,
You grant us renewal and resolve,
To show up in the hard spaces and sing out songs of great love
To take heart and take hands.
© Rev. Debra McKnight, Urban Abbey
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)