Becoming Myself in a Rather Fight-y Community: Tyler Brinkman

March 2019 is a good month, because it brings us a post by Tyler Brinkman. Tyler is a current student at Anabaptist Mennonite Biblical Seminary pursuing an M.Div with a concentration in History, Theology, and Ethics; he enjoys teaching all the Anabaptists about Nazarene polity, and he tries to bring up the ‘real presence’ of the Eucharist as much as possible. His intellectual interests include theological anthropology, eschatology, neurobiological effects of trauma, and, well, pretty much anything in the humanities–and some of the sciences. He continues to be proud of his illustrious athletic career on his high school’s walking team until his career ended when he failed the requisite sports physical. Mostly, he’s just thankful for his wife, Crystal, who helps him to not lose his wallet, keys, books, and sanity.

I am excited that Steve asked me to write the blog post this month. I think I offered it to him early last year, and he said he had my name written down already. So I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to write something. Occasionally, I would think about what I would write when given the opportunity. And even now when I am writing this post (and when I’m supposed to have it done two days from now), I am unsure what I should write about.

But I am Nazarene. I’m one of those 5th-generation Nazarene types whose whole extended family are Nazarene. It is the spiritual soil in which I was nurtured, and I am forever thankful. It gave me tools to survive. I struggled a lot as a teenager; things were… difficult. Way too difficult. I had too much stress and responsibility, and I was constantly afraid that I was going to fail and the people around me would get hurt. And even if I were to fail others and they DIDN’T get hurt – well, I was still a bad person who deserved to be punished. This was my belief for a very, very long time. But thanks be to God – God called me to ministry.

I know it sounds weird to say – particularly for someone who has never actually been paid staff at a church. I’ve been a lay leader, and I’ve been a leader with a local ministry license. But I’ve been called; it’s just taking a seemingly too long time to get there. See, I was first called to ministry when I was 16; I was at a summer camp– TiP (Talent Identification Program) which was a 3 week program for “gifted students” (whatever that means) at Duke University. I do not think it is merely coincidental that I was called to ministry at a place of higher education; I have always grown the most spiritually from my participation in communities of learning. But it was there that God spoke to me saying “Go give hope to people who don’t have it.” Immediately, I was enthralled by that calling, but I had no idea where it would lead me. I still have no idea where that calling will lead me, and I am exceptionally glad about that. That calling – to give hope – helped keep me alive in times when I didn’t think I was going to make it. Times of despair when relationships were exploding, imploding, and just generally being broken. But that vision of hope is what gave me the hope I needed to keep fighting.

I often defined myself by what I was fighting – fighting depression, anxiety, mental health stigma, and just being a contrarian in general. This was how I saw myself, and that’s still true. But there is more stability. I’m still pretty fight-y, but I am not nearly as angry. NazToo helped teach me that I can be good even if I’m not great. It helped teach me that I am really kinda good at all this theology stuff I love to study, and it helped teach me how utterly ignorant of so, so many things I am – of how much there is still to learn. It helped give me confidence in the midst of some rough depression after I lost my job. The two times I’ve been able to get to hang out with a number of NazToo people – once at General Assembly and once at the 2018 Wesleyan Theological Society conference – I’ve gotten to meet so many good and wonderful friends for the first time. I remember telling some people before I even left to go to that conference “I’m going to meet them for the very first time, but it’s going to be a reunion.” And that’s what it was.

I have always found I have learned about myself in and through my relationships with others. That is still true today, and I have learned so much about myself through this wonderful band of freaks, weirdos, and ragamuffins. Even though I learned a lot about gut bacteria and microbiomes, church iconography, what movies have the best Christ figures, democratic socialism, and so many other topics – knowing myself is what I have learned most of all. I have learned, and I am continuing to learn how to understand what it means that I am loved by God. How do I make sense theologically, spiritually, intellectually, existentially that I, Tyler Brinkman, am loved by God? These are not the abstract questions of a seminary student; they are the most profound questions which have haunted and shaped the whole course of human history. I am not deluded to think my answers are unique or really encapsulate the totality of how we find our identity in God.

I was chatting with a dear friend just a few weeks ago about this very topic. She teaches me about grace and kindness every time we meet and interact through her words and actions, and we were talking about how we find our identity totally in being a beloved child of God. Can we even really claim any other kind of identity? I wanted to end by sharing what I said in response to that question. I was only able to come to these tentative, seeking, questioning conclusions through this little community on-the-outskirts. So this is a “Thank You” to NazToo for helping me to believe what I have always proclaimed. This is what I said:

“I agree with you that we are all God’s beloved, and God’s unconditional love is constantly poured out on all people – individually and corporately. What I would encourage you to think is how God’s love is constant, but not static, and that God never loves us abstractly.

Rather than saying God’s love is unchanging, I want to say that the love of God is always perfectly changing. This is not to say that God loves us in different degrees or in different ways. But rather than there is within the love of God an inherent movement, a dynamism. I think of the Trinity and perichoretic union of the three persons: God in Godself gives Godself to Godself – eternally. It is a divine dance, and it is this dance which constitutes the love which God is. But it isn’t static. There is genuine movement, but the love of God is so vast and so deep that in all that eternal pouring out God’s love will ever be diminished or depleted. In the same way, God’s love (which is God) is poured out in an infinite number ways to meet whatever our needs are in the moment. The identity of God is found in God’s love – God is Love. God’s identity is grounded in that Trinitarian union, and, in Christ, God identifies with us. We are taken up into the identity of God.

In the same way, we demonstrate the love of God by continuing to pour out our love for God, God’s people, and God’s creation. So we too find our identity in what we love. We aren’t defined by our actions, experiences, beliefs or words. In reality, I don’t think humans are ever ‘defined’ at all, at least not totally. But I think we can say that we are, in part, constituted by what we love and how we love. I think this works because, in the act of love, we open ourselves up to God, God’s people, and God’s creation. In loving, we take these people into our hearts and into our lives. I think of Crystal; I am who I am today because of Crystal. Not to say she’s responsible for everything I think, do, say (I would never wish to lay such a curse on her!), but rather that she opens herself up to me so I can become a part of her and she is a part of me. I think this is what it means when it says ‘the two will become one flesh’ (Which I don’t think is solely limited to marriage).

With this, I think we can find our identity primarily in the Love of God while also saying that what and how we love shapes who we are.

Because God’s love is never abstract. I think turning identity and/or humanity into an abstraction is an act of violence to human personhood. In the end, it tends to be oppressive for marginalized communities – just look at the denial of racism under the guise of ‘colorblindness.’ You said, ” I think of myself as a daughter, a sister, a mom, a wife. I think I’m somewhat creative. I try to be kind. However, all of that could be taken away”. I think you’re right in that those identities are provisional. But I also want to say that you will always be a daughter, a mother, and a sister as long as you are alive. Even the death of those beloved ones cannot rob you from being a daughter, sister, and mother. But what if instead of saying God unconditionally loves you regardless of who you are, we say God loves you exactly as you are? God loves you as a mother. God loves you as a daughter. God loves you as a sister. God loves you as a pastor. God loves you as an American (clearly God’s love is undeserved!) God loves you as a friend, a woman, your personality, your sense of humor, your kindness, your peacemaking, your hair, body, and eyes. God loves those things specifically about you. God takes joy in those things. So rather than diminishing your identity as you are actually in the world, God’s love affirms who you are in the concrete – the person found in the every-day drudgeries of life: The frustrated pastor, the exasperated mother; the one who can only do eyeliner on one eye a time.

I think this matters because of this: I am not an abstraction. God loves me in my whiteness, in my ignorance, in my Americanism, in my marriage, in my familial relationships (in which I include close friends). God loves me not because of those things nor in spite of those things, but God does love me as I am those things. But the concrete reality of my existence oftentimes turns me into an abstraction. Sometimes I feel that in reality that I, as myself, cannot connect with people. Instead I have to play the role of somebody else for the sake of affection and familiarity. This is exhausting.

I feel most comfortable in myself and my relationships when I am embracing the concrete identity of who I am. And I feel most secure and loved in my relationships when I am loved as myself – the unabridged, sometimes insightful, typically frustrating, occasionally angering person. I cling to those relationships because they are life-giving to me. But I do have a couple of relationships where I can do that. It is in those where I find myself best able to open myself up to others and wherein I find myself in others. This doesn’t mean we are defined by others; it means that we find our identity in God in the world.

These relationships are where I experience the greatest joy, the greatest contentment. It is where I feel like I best embody the embracing and love of God towards myself and others. As I’ve continued this journey – the less I’ve come to hate myself, be disgusted with myself, and generally been more at peace.

In short, it’s where I experience the greatest belovedness.”

A Worldview, Ever Changing: Serra Barrett

serraThis month’s contributor, NazToo’s Serra Barrett, is a writer, actor, director, and teaching artist in the Central Ohio area. She lives in Mount Vernon with her husband Jeremy and three beautiful children. She is currently working on earning her Master’s in Theatre. Serra is an amateur foodie and loves to experiment in the kitchen. She also believes that coffee is life. Her house is usually a mess because she is busy doing homework or making dinner.

As I have been pondering what to share with all of Naztoo these last few weeks, I have thought a lot about what I should say! When a writer is given the prompt: “write about whatever you want,” it is both a blessing and a curse. I tossed many ideas around and quickly discarded most. But I think I have settled on something you haven’t heard before, but that will feel familiar to you. It’s my story.

This is a paper I recently wrote as part of my Master’s studies at Regent University. I was asked what my worldview is, and that question took me back through my life to explore the events that have formed me; the experiences that have broken me and remade me again. I left the citations because I am, at heart, part English teacher so forgive me if they are distracting. Thanks for reading.

I remember the first time I became aware that I had my own worldview. I was in high school, at an international youth retreat with my church. It was the first night of Nazarene Youth Conference, 1999 and I was there with thousands of other Nazarene high school students from around the globe. It was an electric night, with the best worship band I’d ever heard, and a speaker who held the attention of every person in that stadium. But by the end of his talk, I found myself searching my heart over the challenge he had laid before us: “What is your worldview? How does following Christ shape how you see the world and those around you?” I had never before considered how or why I viewed things the way that I did. I was always striving to live a Christian life and love others, but I was less than aware of where my perceptions came from, or how they had been shaped. This realization led me on a journey that I am still on today, nearly twenty years later.

As I began to explore my worldview for the first time as a high school senior, I considered my roots: both of my parents had been raised in parsonages and moved around their whole lives. Because of that, we moved into a house when I was three and there we stayed for twenty-five years. The stability of my parents’ relationship and the knowledge of the multi-generational Christian heritage I came from were probably the two biggest influences on my worldview as a teen and young adult. I believed that most people were good, that hard work was the way to achieve what I wanted out of life, and that the noblest goal a person could have was saving souls for the Kingdom. My worldview drove me to attend Mount Vernon Nazarene University, study music, and seek a career in ministry.

But life has a way of taking a naïve, bright-eyed youth with all her grandiose ideas and leaving behind a disillusioned, weatherworn woman in its wake. I soon found that ministry was harder than it looked, people were unreliable and deeply flawed, (in and out of the church), and God didn’t always show up for me in the ways I thought he should. Because of the road I’ve walked, these days I am just as likely to be praying fervently as I am to be questioning everything I ever thought I knew. And while that may sound extreme or paradoxical, holding these two practices together in dynamic tension has brought me to a deeper faith than I have ever known before.

Eight years ago, I went through the darkest time in my life. I had recently left a position leading worship at a church without another job lined up, I had suffered a devastating miscarriage, we were struggling to pay the bills, and I was completely removed from the church community in which I had grown up. Even though I had a supportive husband and two healthy children, I was angry with God for allowing me to dream of a future that now seemed unreachable. I reached bottom when I realized I wasn’t even sure there was a god to be angry with at all. My worldview, which had been firmly rooted in my faith, fell apart. And I was in no hurry to rebuild.

For about a year I drank and ate whatever I could get my hands on, avoiding at all costs anything that had to do with religion, spirituality, or self-awareness. Looking back, I truly believe I was a functioning alcoholic during those dark days. At this point in my life, I did not care what my worldview was. I did not care about myself or my future. Of course, deep down I really did care; I just could not yet face the unanswered questions I had about it all. If anyone had asked me then, I would’ve said my worldview was simple: live and let live; forget about trying to please some divine power that probably does not even exist. But God was working on my heart, even then.

In the spring of 2012 we found a new church home that seemed to be a good fit for us. I was still questioning everything, but because this church and pastor welcomed my questions and doubts, I kept going back. Through my questions, I found myself drawn back to God. He was there, in the bible stories I had known since childhood. These stories tell us of unreliable and deeply flawed characters who still experienced the grace of God in their lives. They remind us how to live with hope in the midst of our struggles, and they show us how to love.

As I found myself discovering my faith anew, my worldview came into focus once again, but changed from what it once was. I no longer viewed the world through the rose-colored glasses of youth, but instead saw it in its messy, imperfect, beautiful state; worth saving, and worth loving. I saw that for myself and for others, there is hope and promise in trusting God, as Paul says in Romans:

For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord (Romans 8:38-9, NIV).

Viewing others and myself in light of this passage guides my thoughts, my relationships, and my goals. It allows me to pursue relationships without ulterior motives, and to forgive myself when I fall short.

These days, my worldview is also shaped profoundly by motherhood. Having three lives dependent on me lends a responsibility, not just to my own children, but also to the children and citizens of the world. Becoming a mother taught me how we are all responsible to each other. As Mother Teresa once said, “If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other” (O’Connell, 2018). This idea that we belong to each other has become central to how I look at the world. We owe it to each other to love well, to be good stewards, and to seek justice. We cannot qualify life by making judgments on who is allowed into the Kingdom and who is not. Our only job is to be conduits of God’s love to those that need it most: the widow, the orphan, and the outcast.

Lastly, my current worldview is shaped by my aesthetic as an artist. When I look at the world, I see a place that needs great stories, great interpretations of myth, and creative presentations of truth. As humans, we are drawn to story, and I would say, we need it. Story defines us: the stories we hear, the stories we tell, and the ones we pass from generation to generation. I am thankful to be attending a program that agrees with me. I was happy to read that Regent University’s Department of Performing Arts and Music believes “…that we are called to tell stories both descriptive and prescriptive in nature” (Regent.edu, 2018). I believe that telling stories is innate to being human, and beyond that, telling stories is how we can know God.

Based on my worldview, I believe it is my calling as a Christian artist to tell stories. Stories from my unique point of view that encompass the truth of who we are, and call us forward to be who we are meant to be. A good story, well told, can have “characters… more ‘real’ than people… [and] a fictional world more profound than the concrete” (McKee 21). In story, we can get to the core of who we really are, and who we want to be.

Works Cited

The Holy Bible: New International Version. Zondervan, 2017.

McKee, R. (1999). Story. London: Methuen, p.21.

O’Connell, C. (2018). 12 Mother Teresa Quotes to Live By | Reader’s Digest. [online] Reader’s Digest. Available at: https://www.rd.com/true-stories/inspiring/mother-teresa-quotes/ [Accessed 22 Sep. 2018].

Regent.edu. (2018). Regent​ ​University College​ ​of​ ​Arts​ ​&​ ​Sciences School​ ​of​ ​Communication​ ​and​ ​the​ ​Arts Department Handbook. [online] Available at: https://www.regent.edu/acad/schcom/docs/theatre/forms/Departmental_Handbook_FALL_2017.pdf [Accessed 22 Sep. 2018].

 

 

 

The Chilly Light of Epiphany: Mitchel Modine

Our first blog post of 2019 comes to us from Mitchel Modine, a charter member of NazToo. He and his wife Marnie, a native of the Philippines, serve as missionaries for the Church of the Nazarene. Mitch is Professor of Old Testament at Asia-Pacific Nazarene Theological Seminary near Manila. Marnie is currently the Asia-Pacific Regional Secretary for the Church of the Nazarene. They met on the seminary campus after Mitch arrived in 2008, and will celebrate their 10th wedding anniversary on 7 July 2019.

When Steve Fountain first asked me to do this a year ago, I was in the middle of several writing projects, but I still thought I would be able to do this in time. Over the next few months, I scratched out a few thoughts here and there, but did not really get a lot going. In April, I talked to Steve again, and I told him I was making good progress. He kidded me that I was too early; at that time, my post was scheduled for October. Steve wrote me again in September asking if I could delay publication a few months, and I said it was no problem, because my post was not season-specific. (At that time, it was not, but now, as you will see, it is.) So, I put it on the back burner while I worked on the other thing that is due—was due—in December, which still is not done when I am writing this, but it will be, I think, I hope, I pray.

Unless a loved one is a writer, or you yourself are a writer, I suspect you do not really care about the process. Nevertheless, I went through a number of different drafts before I finally settled on what you see before you. None of them made me particularly happy, so my thoughts returned every so often to this post and I became a little more anxious about it, even as my anxiety over the other project increased apace. As late as the middle of December, I was left without anything, and now the deadline was looming closer. In the other December 31-due date project, I finally figured out a good plan and started working on it in earnest a few days into December, but for this I had nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. I was in the dark. I had no light. I had no idea what I was going to do, until…

Until a friend of mine posted a yearly retrospective thing on Facebook. I didn’t see it until the morning of December 12, but he wrote it on the evening of December 10 from his home near Philadelphia. This friend is someone I knew in graduate school. He was a few years ahead of me and on the “other side” of the Biblical Studies Area: New Testament. A bit of background on him is necessary. He was raised in the Restorationist Movement (Church of Christ), and had actually studied for pastoral ministry before turning his attention to serious academic study of early Christianity. In a way, his story mirrors mine: I also had been preparing to be a pastor, and changed focus toward pursuing a PhD in Old Testament while in seminary. When we were in school together, he called himself a “committed secularist,” meaning he had left Christianity and religion altogether. Some years after I came to Manila, I learned that he had converted to Judaism and I remember being so happy that my friend had returned to faith. This point should not be missed: I am happy that my friend returned to faith, and my friendship with him is not at all dependent on what faith he returned to.

Anyway, at the time of writing, my friend had just completed the Festival of Hannukah, the Festival of Lights. He wrote a long post about friends, those whom he has seen recently and those whom he has missed seeing for some time. He included a delightful phrase that set me ablaze: a nice metaphor for Hannukah if ever there was. Come to think of it, it’s also a good metaphor for Advent. They usually occur around the same time, of course. He wrote: “If you’ve celebrated Hannukah, I hope you’ve left the table full. If you’re still in the chilly dark of Advent, I wish you well in your coming celebration.”

The chilly dark of Advent.

Every now and again, I read a phrase that really takes my breath away. I read a lot—this comes with the territory of being an academic—and like many I make copious notes in the margins of print books. One of my common marks to make in a book is to underline a nice turn of phrase or particularly apt metaphor or vivid image and write, in the margin, GQ, my shorthand for “Great Quote.” I usually then forget about whatever it was that caused me to call that quote great. If I happen to pick up that book again, I linger over these GQs, only to forget them again once I turn my attention to something else. But, on occasion, one such GQ sticks with me, and I suspect that it will continue to arrest my attention, especially whenever the thing it was associated with happens again, whether or not I again pick up the book where I first read and marked the thing.

I am convinced “the chilly dark of Advent” will be one of those phrases that will never leave me. I doubt I will ever read my friend’s Facebook post again: a testament to the impermanence of that medium, even less substantial than an e-book (to which, incidentally, I do not typically add many comments). Though I did screenshot his entire post, I might not even keep those pictures (it required two). But the phrase will stay with me. The chilly dark of Advent. “If you’re still in the chilly dark of Advent, I wish you well in your coming celebration.”

The chilly dark of Advent. “If you’re still in the chilly dark of Advent, I wish you well in your coming celebration.” Where I live, it never gets chilly. Though some places in the Philippines like Baguio City in the northern mountains do get rather cold, in Manila the temperature almost never falls below 25 C (77 F), and for eight or nine months in the year it is typically much hotter than that, and oppressively humid besides. It also does not seem any darker here during this season than it does other times of the year. The Philippines does not observe “summer time” or “daylight savings time” or whatever one may call it. Also, because Manila is only 15 degrees north of the equator, the times of sunrise and sunset vary as little as a half-hour one way or the other all year long.

Nevertheless, every year I and all of the Christian world experience “the chilly dark of Advent.” Aside from my friend’s delightful phrase, I find his acknowledgment of other religious traditions and their special days heartwarming. He ended his post by saying that he would see us on the other side of Solstice, which is yet another nod to the divergent ways people mark the time. I once reposted a meme which suggested that one should say “Happy Holidays” because, in this time of the year, some x number of religious traditions celebrate y number of holidays and “mine aren’t the only ones that matter.” I got some pushback from expected quarters on that, but I still think it is right.

The chilly dark of Advent. As the candles get lit—at the time of writing it is the middle of the Second Week, so just under halfway to go—the darkness increasingly fades away. Advent is chilly and dark, but the lights come in, quietly, slowly, building up to the grand celebration of the Nativity and the lighting of the big white one in the middle, the Christ Candle. The Christian season of Advent mirrors the Festival of Hannukah in that way, though with fewer lights, lit more slowly, and for a different reason. My friend cited the rabbis, who suggested that the point of the miracle is not the light that lasted the whole eight days, but the hope of the first day, when all seemed darkness and grim and hopelessness and death. He wrote: “the holiday is the firm, determined, ‘no,’ spoken by the sound of a match strike in a dark room.” The hope of lighting the lights, whether the lights of Hannukah or the lights of Advent and Nativity and Epiphany, is a defiant shout into the darkness, that the darkness has not overcome the light (John 1:5), and that those who walk in the light, as Jesus is in the light, know the blood of Jesus cleanses them from all sin (1 John 1:7).

I knew very little about the Christian Calendar until I came to seminary. I was, in a phrase I like to use, a “Christmas and Easter Christian.” I intend by this not the usual meaning among pastors: fringe members of the community who only attend on the two most important times of the year. Instead, I take this phrase to mean a more-frequent or even most- or all-Sundays attender, who nevertheless only recognizes those two. I do not count myself among those who sniff at confusing Christmas with Advent, but I do share with them a deep appreciation for the fullness of time, so to speak. Though I am not and never will be involved in pastoral ministry, I enjoy the rhythm of the Christian year, which connects the content of key seasons to the experience of the physical year. For example, Advent, Nativity, and Epiphany together form a complex of principal celebrations during the winter in the Northern Hemisphere. Yes, it is not cold and snowy everywhere in the world in this time, but this triad does occur in the Winter in Israel, where the events these seasons commemorate took place. The average temperature in Israel during the months of November–January is 15 C (59 F). Snow and cold are often associated with death and dreariness and darkness. Or, in a phrase, chilly dark. The chilly dark of Advent.

“If you’re still in the chilly dark of Advent, I wish you well in your coming celebration.” Now that I have pondered over my friend’s greeting some more, I think if I met him for coffee or some other potable, I would offer him a gentle critique of his wording, on two levels. On the one hand, Advent may begin in the chilly dark (in the North and the West anyway), but it does not end that way. On the other hand, Advent is a preparatory time for the coming celebration, but then it is in its own right a celebration, a growing, slow advance of hope. We experience a waning of the light, as the days grow shorter, closer and closer to the shortest day of the year, ironically just a few days before Nativity. We experience increasingly cold and bitter days, when we would rather stay in yet we cannot because responsibilities do not end even in Winter. But then…

Then we strike a match. Then we say our defiant No! to the dark. To borrow and slightly alter my friend’s words again, the season of Advent “is the firm, determined, ‘no,’ spoken by the sound of a match strike in a dark room.” The lights are lit slowly, painfully slowly, one per week for four long weeks, as the darkness of the short days grows ever deeper. The Advent candles are not the same as the Hannukah candles, and Advent is not the same as Hannukah, but both of them are, in the context of the religious traditions in which they participate, a shout against the dark. The lights of Advent move slowly, deliberately—unlike the shout of God into the dark of creation: “Let there be light!” The lights of Advent move slowly, deliberately—unlike turning on a light when you enter a dark room. The darkness at creation fled away at the shout of God, and the darkness in a room flees away at the approach of the light: there is no struggle between them; there is no certainly about whether dark or light will prevail. But Advent is a struggle. The lights of Advent move slowly, deliberately—unlike the rapidly approaching, suffocating darkness which is Holy Week. Especially in Holy Week, but now in Advent and in Epiphany—when, respectively, the lights are quickly marching out, choked by the darkness; and slowly marching in, invading the darkness—I always try to adopt for myself the same mindset as John Wheelwright in A Prayer for Owen Meany: “I am terrified that, this year, [the Resurrection] won’t happen.” For Advent: maybe, this year, the Baby will be still-born. For Epiphany: maybe, this year, the Wise Ones will report to the king rather than helping to protect the King.

The lights of Advent move slowly, deliberately, until on the Feast of the Nativity we light the big white Christ Candle. Then the Nativity Season has finally begun, running through January 6, the Feast of the Epiphany. Epiphany is Christianity’s answer to Hannukah, the festival of the light shining in the darkness. The strike of the match is the sound of hope, hope shouting its defiant No! against the dark. Dylan Thomas wrote to “Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” but the triad of Winter celebrations—Advent, Nativity, Epiphany—represent the slow, steady, deliberate march of the light into, and against, and over, the darkness. When the lights are all lit, we should leave them lit at least until the Epiphany. For Epiphany is the rage for the dying of the dark. The dark of Winter comes to a shining, flaming, gleaming, radiant end with the Epiphany, also called the Theophany—the revelation of the Christ to the Gentiles. The three seasons go together, inextricably. If they are celebrated separately, their worth is tarnished, and the light is put under a bowl.

The chilly dark of Advent leads into the chilly light of Epiphany: there is still darkness and dreariness and death all about, but the match has been struck. It is still cold and the days are still short, but the darkness and the bleakness do not have the last word. At the Winter Solstice, the days are at their shortest, and immediately begin their inexorable journey toward their highest point six months later at the Summer Solstice. Yet even at this darkest point of the world, we rage against the dying of the light. And we rage for the dying of the dark. This struggle between the light and the dark is part of the rhythm of life, which the Christian Calendar, among other things, recognizes. It reminds me of the despair turned into defiant joy of the hymn, “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day:”

And in despair I bowed my head:
“There is no peace on earth,” I said,
“For hate is strong, and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.”

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
“God is not dead, nor doth He sleep,
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail,
With peace on earth, good will to men.”

As we journey into the chilly light of Epiphany, may we strike a match in the dark. Life is a struggle: let us rage against the dying of the light, and rage for the dying of the dark.

Lament, Advent, and Welcome: Erin Moorman

The NazToo blog welcomes the Advent season with a post from our own Erin Moorman. Erin is a district-licensed minister in the Church of the Nazarene, currently co-pastoring a local house-church-plant and working full-time in the city to support her family of five. She collects fair-trade nativities from around the world, the newest of which is from Russia (but she promises it had no influence on the most recent elections whatsoever). She also continues to annoy her friends and family by celebrating her “40th Birthday Year” through the remainder of 2018.

A couple weeks ago I shared with some friends that I was having a hard time appreciating the “Name something you’re thankful for” Thanksgiving memes that had started going around in November.

I didn’t feel thankful.

It’s difficult to think of something to say “thank you” for when one thing after another, then after another, and then two more for good measure, pile up around you – weighing against you daily, weekly, for months, with no resolution in sight. Whether it’s finances or health or relationships, or all three at once and then some, at some point “I’m thankful for the basics” or “I’m thankful things aren’t worse” lose their luster when you just want things to feel normal again. And “I’m thankful I’m not as bad off as that person” just feels joyless, as well as selfish and heartless. No. Thanksgiving memes weren’t doing it for me.

The Sunday before Thanksgiving, we attended a Thanksgiving Service and the pastor preached from Philippians 3:1 and 4:4: “Rejoice in the Lord! Rejoice in the Lord always.”

Near the beginning of the service the pastor led us in prayer specifically for those suffering in the midst of the California wildfires. During the message I found myself wondering, even if I were able to rejoice myself, how would that message be received by the people being devastated by the fires that very day? Would that message truly carry hope for them?

“Paul’s words carry weight because he wrote them in the midst of his own suffering.”

OK, sure. But it’s one thing to choose to rejoice myself. It’s another to tell others to rejoice in the midst of their suffering. In the midst of my thanksgiving-meme-induced slump, someone telling me to rejoice wasn’t actually encouraging. It brought no resolution for my needs or answers for my questions. It brought no hope that a resolution would come. It brought no peace to my anxiety. It was just words. Words which wanted to silence my lament so that others could enjoy their own moment of rejoicing.

OK. I realize that’s not completely fair. That, of course, is not their intent. But the result feels the same.

The pastor continued: “It’s not about rejoicing about all circumstances. It’s about rejoicing in all circumstances. We can rejoice in all circumstances because of the Lord! We rejoice in Him!”

Oh, that’s right. We rejoice In The Lord. It’s not about what I’m dealing with, but rather Who is with me.

So I wondered some more: Who is with me?

For me the answer was an omnipotent, omniscient, omnipresent, holy loving Savior who knows my every need and can fix them if He wants to. But He sure is taking His time. If He’s not answering desperate prayers, what is it exactly that I’m rejoicing in Him for? The things He’s done in the past? Those are said and done. Should I be thankful for the works of the past? Yes. But the works of the past aren’t answers to prayers now. God isn’t just “was”, He “is”, and I need Him now. The people in California need Him now. The families at the border need Him now. The kids in cages and the vets on the street and the lonely outcasts contemplating suicide need Him now. Is “Rejoice in the Lord” more than just sentiment? Are we really OK with His presence feeling so distant?

The pastor then invited the congregation to share in a time of testimony. For anyone who has experienced testimony times, it wasn’t anything unusual. Short, long. Calm, emotional. Specific, general. Praises for recent days, praises for decades of faithfulness. But there was one testimony which stuck out to me.

An older gentleman stood and shared that he had preached at another church the previous week. He said the title of his message was “The God of Tears”, and that his message was about how God speaks the language of tears.

And my heart rejoiced.

The God Who is with me is the God who understands the language – the “wordless groans” – of tears. He (unlike so many people) is not afraid of lament. He knows that rejoicing and lamenting aren’t an “either/or” endeavor, but a “both/and” journey. That makes it more than sentiment. That makes God near.

Which made me think of Advent.

Advent holds a special place in my heart. Advent restored my joy at a time when Christmas began to lose all meaning for me. At some point in my early-adulthood, I’d found that all the usual Christmas preparation and expectations felt empty. If Christmas was really about Jesus, why was my church “business as usual” except for a Christmas sermon, a few Christmas carols, and a little added pageantry? If Christmas was really about Jesus, why was it a struggle to get my family to set aside time to read the Birth Narrative on Christmas morning? If Christmas was really about Jesus, why did our family’s schedule say that it was really about food, family and presents? I learned what I’d been shown, and what I’d been shown wasn’t doing it for me.

It didn’t feel like it was about Jesus.

It didn’t feel special.

It didn’t feel joyful.

“Great,” I thought. “I’m going to become one of those ‘Grinches’ people hate to be around” and figured it was probably time to claim the “Bah Humbug” hat someone had given to my mom as a joke several years before.

But through thoughtful prayer I was guided to learn more about the history and traditions surrounding Christmas, and in that learning I found Advent.

Advent is all about that near/far, rejoice/lament tension.

All of the incessant “Joy, Joy, JOY!” from Thanksgiving through December 25th had taken away my permission to lament. The “Christmas season” (as I then saw it) seemed to want to silence my lament so that others could enjoy their own moment of rejoicing. “Joy” was the expectation, and if I didn’t feel it, I was lesser. Not being “in the spirit of Christmas” felt almost “not Christian.” But the Christian walk is more than mere sentiment, and I must have felt that Christmas was, too.

Then Advent whispered, “God speaks the language of tears.”

And my heart rejoiced.

The God Who is with me is the God who recognizes that waiting is hard. He isn’t afraid of lament. Even though I may not feel joy, He (unlike so many people) is with me anyway. It was no longer mere sentiment. God was near.

And that made me think of Welcome.

In a service orchestrated to tell me I needed to feel joyful when I really didn’t, I felt out of place. The preacher’s testimony made me feel welcome.

In a season orchestrated to make me feel joyful even if I really didn’t, I felt out of place. Advent’s message made me feel welcome.

I felt welcomed by God and God’s people in my lament, and that gave me joy.

* * * * * * *

As I was listening to the sermon the Sunday after Thanksgiving, I realized that I’d had a sense of peace that week that hadn’t been there the week before. I had no “right” to the sense of peace I felt. Not much had changed in my circumstances. But through the words of that preacher’s testimony, God had spoken to my heart and restored my hope. In restoring my hope, He gave me a peace that “passes understanding.” In finding peace, I once again could rejoice. In being able to rejoice, I was better able to love those around me. God had given me the gift of joy by welcoming my lament.

Like all Israel, the shepherds in the fields had waited for God to fulfill His promises. God’s presence must have felt distant. I imagine that there were many times they struggled to have hope, peace, or joy; or to recognize God’s abounding love. And then one ordinary night, the angels spoke to them. The angels didn’t speak to everyone in the world. They didn’t even speak to everyone in Israel. They told a few lowly, poor, outcast shepherds. And those few rejoiced. They were welcomed by God to share his Word.

And it has been that way for Christ’s people, since. God speaks, and in speaking He welcomes and restores us. The Word sneaks up on us and speaks powerfully and deeply to our hearts in ways we can’t always explain – one faithful person at a time sharing with another.

And that word doesn’t just say “Rejoice!”

It says, “I understand your tears, and they are welcome.”

Welcoming suffering makes God near.

Welcoming those who suffer makes God nearer.

So what might be the message we have for the people in California? The families at the border? The kids in cages and the vets on the street and the lonely outcasts contemplating suicide? Maybe it’s that God understands their tears, and that both they and their tears are welcome by God and God’s people. But it has to be more than just sentiment. It has to cause us to be near to them, and allow them to be near to us.

The things God has done in the past are worthy of praise, but they are a sign-post telling us we can hope in the things to come. The Creator God continues to create. He continues to work. And He asks His people to work creatively with Him in the lives of those around us. For those who have lost everything, we share our abundance. For those seeking asylum, we share our security. For those who are separated, we give restoration. For those homeless and sick, we give stability and health. For those who feel ostracized and unwanted by those they know, we wrap our arms around them and share our love. One faithful church at a time sharing with others.

And we remember that true welcome does not require them to feel joy if they don’t. But maybe – just maybe – as they are welcomed with their tears and lament, the gift of joy will find them, too. For joy comes in the moment of a hope fulfilled.

* * * * * * *

As we wait this Advent, I pray that the never-endingly patient God of hope, peace, joy and love will be with us all, and give us hearts of welcome to those in need.

Grace in Place of Grace: Emily Greenhalge

November’s post comes to us from Louisiana, courtesy of NazToo-er Emily Greenhalge. Emily is Pastor of Discipleship at GracePointe Church of the Nazarene in Shreveport, LA, where she has served for six years.  She blogs intermittently at https://theostoria.wordpress.com/, and is the mother of three amazing kids.

“As Christ followers at GracePointe, we are called to bless others with the grace we have received so we can point them to Jesus.”

We say this together as a congregation every Sunday before the benediction.  I’ve heard it and said it so many times over the past seven years as a part of this body of believers that it’s become like blood that flows through my veins.  It comes to my mind every time I begin to feel self-righteous and “holier than thou.” It is the answer to my judgemental spirit and critical attitude. Luke 12:48 says, “From everyone to whom much has been given, much will be required.”  

Grace.  Undeserved favor of God.  A gift freely given. Something completely out of our hands, but something we’ve been called to give to others.  It’s by grace we have been saved, not by works so we have no reason to boast (Eph. 2:8). It is grace that goes before us and chases after us as we are pursued by a loving God.  It is grace that empowers us to love our enemies and forgive when we’ve been wronged. Grace. Marvelous grace.

So if that’s what we’re called to, why do we keep hearing stories of people who have been deeply wounded by the Church?  Growing up, it was the warring factions of the conservative holiness movement. My own family is still bleeding thirty years later from the legalistic battles of the 80s and 90s. In my high school years, it was the worship wars, where style was the focus and substance was an afterthought.  In college, it was the image of the institution that mattered most. Grace was given until someone got caught and it was made public. In the past few years, we’ve heard over and over about how our “big tent” only stretches so far, and often only in one direction. And in recent months, heartbreaking stories wearing the hashtag #churchtoo and #SilenceIsNotSpiritual have shown again that grace is sometimes limited to those whose power and privilege we feel the need to protect.  

Fortunately, these aren’t the only stories we have in the Church. For each tragic failure, there are also beautiful tales of redemption. You see, I have a story that is still being written.  I was given the wise counsel as a young minister to “preach from your scars, not your wounds,” and I’ll admit my wounds are still healing. So rather than bleeding on the proverbial page, I’ll take this opportunity to write about the grace I’ve been receiving, and the grace I feel the Church is being called to give to those who are hurting and broken among us.

I have received such grace recently, at a time when I needed it more than words could express. When I was broken in a million pieces, my local church leaders surrounded me in prayer and support, and grieved with me as I grieved.  I was challenged to think through my feelings and decisions, and they ultimately trusted that God was leading me in the way I should go. My district leadership counseled my pastor to love me through my pain, and then brought my story to their leaders.  I arrived at our District Ministry Preparation weekend prepared to sit before the board of ministry and be told I wouldn’t be granted a license renewal. Instead, my letter to the district board of ministry was received with love and compassion, and my mentors laid hands on me and prayed for me.  At district assembly, one of those dear leaders asked how I was doing. When I told her what my fears had been and how the Church had loved me so well, she hugged me and I heard through my tears as she said, “Emily, the Church believes in you. I believe in you.” Grace in place of grace already given.  

In John’s Gospel, we read about the incarnation of Christ, how God became flesh and entered into our world as one of us, feeling our pain and knowing our struggles.  It’s one of my favorite passages, as I tried to convey to the teens I teach in Sunday school when we studied it.

14 The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth.

15 (John testified concerning him. He cried out, saying, “This is the one I spoke about when I said, ‘He who comes after me has surpassed me because he was before me.’”) 16 Out of his fullness we have all received grace in place of grace already given. 17 For the law was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. (John 1:14-17)

The logos of God, God’s thoughts, God’s person, God’s very being, became flesh and (as the late Eugene Peterson paraphrased) “moved into the neighborhood.”  God’s holy Self became one with God’s creation, experiencing all of the joys and all of the sorrows, all of the victories, and all of the struggles of humanity. Before the Church was ever exhorted to weep together and rejoice together in Romans, Jesus showed us what it means to enter into the broken story of humankind and become a means of grace.  And it is by that grace that God calls us to do the same.

We are a broken people.  We are often a broken Church.  Even as I rejoice in the grace God has given me through the body of Christ, I grieve with brothers and sisters who have not experienced the Bride of Christ at her best, those who have been cast out in an attempt to protect the institution of the Church.  I weep with my friend whose story was not heard when her marriage ended. I mourn with the women who have been told they have no mentors in ministry. I’m wounded with those we have given up on instead of walking with in discipleship. And I suffer with those who have suffered abuse at the hands of those tasked with spiritual leadership. As we hear the stories of such failures of the Church in recent years, we cry out together in a lament of “Christ have mercy.” We grieve with those who are grieving, and it is with great hope that I say we learn from our past failures and grow into the opportunities God is giving us.  

Out of his fullness, we have all have received grace in place of grace already given.  May we give as freely as we’ve received.

This is the One That the Lord Has Made: Taryn Eudaly

October’s blog post comes to us from NazToo admin Taryn Eudaly. Taryn is a recently ordained elder in the Church of the Nazarene. She and her husband have three daughters and fondly remember sleep and privacy. She’s currently in the MDiv program at Portland Seminary and spends her time trying to feed her kids while doing homework and working to topple the racist patriarchy that built America. She grew up in Open Bible and Evangelical Free churches but became a Nazarene when she felt a call to ministry. She may not be a fourth generation or have roots in Texas or Kansas City, but she is Nazarene, too.

When I was asked to write a post for this blog, my initial reaction was a mix of pride and terror. My brain constantly swirls with so many furiously fluttering ideas that I can never manage to grab one before it flies away. Should I write about my disability? #metoo? Church abuses and sexism? I ended up backing out for a couple months.

All of those topics are just ways of talking about me. Look what I’ve overcome. Look how special I am because of what I’ve suffered. But the fact is I am special. Truly, gloriously, amazingly special. And it is by the grace of God that I can believe that at all and I hope you recognize that you are gloriously, beautifully, fearfully, wonderfully special, too.

After my husband and I were baptized in 2009 we moved to Mississippi. I knew that I was called to ministry but I had no idea what churches would allow women to do the work. Thanks to Google, after a couple of months I found a local Church of the Nazarene. There were a lot of issues in that congregation but the power and love of the Holy Spirit is there, too. We stayed and I fell in love with the holiness theology that affirmed my experiences as real and holy.

After 8 years in the church I love her more than ever. She is a cheap whore, selling off her body for status, reputation, and butts in seats. But she is also a caring mother, nurturing babies into maturity and growth, feeding and comforting and sending off her children. The Church of the Nazarene has taught me about sexism and racism, about grace and love.

When I read about the lynching of Christ it is because of Nazarene brothers and sisters in SoCal that I can understand the truth of that statement. When I see LGBTQIA members hurt and outcast it is Nazarenes who have taught me the holy humility of apology and acceptance. These things are proof to me of the reality of prevenient grace, sanctification, and being transformed into the image of Christ – of being made truly and fully human.

And that’s the beauty of what I’ve learned in NazToo. When the Bible says we were chosen before the foundations. Before we were conceived in our mothers wombs, we were conceived in the mind and Creative imagination of God. Our existence is not just accidental. Your life is not an accident. Your call is not something extra hanging around that God throws at you hoping it fits.

Your existence is on purpose, for a purpose.

Have you ever fallen in love? My husband is, to me, the most incredible man. I could list a hundred wonderful things about him and he wouldn’t really sound all that special, just like a good man. But he is. He is the ONE person I want as my spouse. And that is how Christ feels about every one of us. He lists the things about us that make us uniquely ideal and wonderful and loveable, down to the number of hairs on our head.

Once, not long after I was saved, I was sort of just sitting with God. Praying, listening, just thinking. And I asked, “Why did you create us?” I mean, really, it’s a hell of a question that I think anyone who has experienced trauma will ask. Why did you create us, why did you allow horror, why did you even bother with it – not because it makes me think you’re a bad God, but because I wonder what even is the point? It seems ridiculous. There was no anger or sadness attached to the question, but the answer I received blew me out of the water. I heard a voice say “to delight in you, my daughter.”

Dude. Just. . . dude.

To have someone truly delight in my existence, delight in my personlity, delight in my joys and recoveries and work. To delight in the fact that I am I, is, honestly, something that I am still working to accept. But realizing this truth, that becoming more like Christ is also becoming more uniquely humanly me, is the core of our spiritual journey. Nobody is going to be the same as anybody else when they work out their salvation with fear and trembling.

I don’t know why this is the topic I’ve chosen. I know that I wish someone had convinced me of this truth, of this gospel, far sooner. Maybe this will help someone on the path to recognizing the good news that Christ is for them. But I do know I wouldn’t have managed to hold this truth so well if it weren’t for the loving church I found on Facebook.

The people of I’m Nazarene, Too walked with me through fear and anxiety, joy, disappointment, discouragement, and distrust. They gathered around me and sent me to a conference to make me a better pastor, they gave me housing and food. They sent gifts for the unexpected baby who sleeps next to me as I write this. They have lifted me up, challenged my assumptions, given grace as I grow, and discipled me in ways that have been missing at every church.

It is this surety in who I am and in their love that has allowed me to work through the pain of my mentor and pastor admitting to an abusive sexual relationship (although he doesn’t admit it was abusive), and his wife blatantly lying to me about it to try to cover. This surety has helped me reach out and work with a therapist to deal with my PTSD. It has allowed me to be vulnerable and open and resilient and flexible through the triggering reports during the Ford/Kavanaugh hearings.

However, the greatest joy for me in knowing how adored I am, how intentionally I exist, and how unique I am, is recognizing that it is pure grace that made, surrounds, and fills me. I can pour that grace out on others. I can pour it out on those who incite righteous anger, and those who draw out pity. I can pour it out on those who vote in ways I find irresponsible and practically violent. I can pour it out on those who stand by and wring their hands. On those who wear hats and march and yell and scream but don’t love their neighbor. And I can pour it out on myself, a libation poured out to God, humble and thankful grace for the daughter in whom he delights. And I can talk about me because I am someone worth that love and attention, because God made me worthy. And you are worthy of that same care, attention, and grace.

Today my prayer is that you will be opened to the truth of who you are, who you are in Christ, and the joy with which the God Who Sees You (El Roi, Gen 16:13) delights in your very being.

Broken into Beautiful: Audra Foltz

September’s post is from NazToo-er and brand-new Mom, Audra Foltz. Audra says of herself: I am a stay at home mom with two little boys (James and Jonathan) and now a baby girl, too (Junia). I’m not really your typical pastor’s spouse. I am not a great piano player and enjoy straight legged pants and leggings 😉. I do enjoy music and attended MVNU as a performance major and psychology minor only to graduate with a BA in General Music, focusing on voice as my instrument, with a Drama minor. I also love sports, specifically softball, and enjoy fishing and camping. My outlet is mostly music and singing. Let’s not forget my love of using GIFS to bring humor to heavy situations. I didn’t grow up in the Nazarene denomination but joined shortly after my husband took an assignment 8 years ago. I’m still Nazarene too.

I admit, when Steve approached me to write a blog post, I panicked. I started saying “I am not as theologically educated as. . .”, “I am not a good blogger as. .. .”, “I don’t have as interesting a topic or story as. . . .” I soon realized that I just need to stop it and write my story.

You may be curious about my title, and would probably think it’s confusing. My hope, is that at the end, I have encouraged someone who has had similar life experiences, and shown them that they are never alone. I hope they are inspired to tell their own story, and find healing in the process.

I’ll start with my childhood. I was born in Mansfield and grew up in Galion, OH. To those of you that are unfamiliar, that is in North Central Ohio, about an hour north of Columbus. My mom was a teacher at that time and my dad, a grocery store stocks person. From what I remember they seemed happy up until our world turned upside down one evening at a softball game that my dad was playing in. I recall after the game, mind you I was only three years old, my mom started yelling at another woman. I was scared and confused. My oldest brother was quiet and crying. Next thing I know, my mom put us in the car in a hurry and started chasing this woman all the way to her home. Then a cussing match happened, my mom yelling from our little Blue Chevette, and the woman from her house. Later on that week, my dad packed up and left.

We immediately became a “Dysfunctional Family.”

Fast forward to about a year later, my dad married this woman. I didn’t know at the time, but later on in life, I found out my dad cheated on my mom with her. To make it worse, my brother went with my dad to visit her one evening and witnessed my dad and her kissing, he asked my mom about it, and that’s why confrontation happened. She seemed really nice up until they said “I do.” Not long after, she started saying hurtful things about the clothes my mom sent with me on visitation weekends, my hair, my tomboyishness. I can go into many details, but I will leave it at the fact that she verbally abused me. I struggled at a young age figuring out who I was simply because I had someone that tore me down behind closed doors when my dad was working and my brother was out with friends in the neighborhood. One damaging memory I had was when I was around 4, she had an issue with how I wiped myself after going to the bathroom and had all of her nephews and my brother come in and she shamed me. It is why, to this day, I don’t really like anyone in the bathroom with me. Fast forward to several years later, a struggling elementary student, no confidence, no faith or trust in many adults, my dad found another woman and then I witnessed his infidelity and was asked to keep it a secret. Interestingly enough, it happened twice, and he ended up leaving wife number two and his two daughters he had with her, for wife number three.

So along with “Dysfunctional Family” I add “Dysfunctional Family and Verbally Abused Childhood.”

Fast forward to high school. I became heavily involved with youth group at the church we were attending. I also was heavily involved with activities at school.
I played softball, cheered, played in concert band, twirled as a majorette for marching band, sang in show choir, concert choir, and for the jazz band, and even became involved with student council. I did everything that I possibly could to keep my mind busy. That helped me pushed a lot of my past down and gave me some fulfillment. I also met a guy my freshman year. I fell hard. He played basketball and our flirting started when my cheer practices were the same time as his basketball practices, so we hung out at school with a group until they started. He said the right things and was the biggest sweetheart. We had an awesome honeymoon period of about two years, until things started to go south towards the end of our sophomore year. Peer pressure of doing certain sexual acts happened. We didn’t go “all the way,” but enough to where those were not enough to quench his sexual tension. I wanted to stop doing those things all together, simply because of the guilt and shame, the convictions of the sex talks in youth group at the time. He wasn’t having it. The physical abuse started small. Pushing me into my locker when no one was around. Threatening by raising his hand to me when I said “no.” It grew worse and he would punch me in places where I could easily hide them or make an excuse that it was a bruise from softball practice or running into something. He cowardly hit me to where only he could have pleasure of power. I know some of you are asking “Why did you stay?” Well. . . as a high school girl that simply wanted a boy to love and like me, I believed his tear-filled apologies every single time. I was also manipulated with “I love you so much, I won’t do it again. Please forgive me.” I sadly believed it every time, until one day after a softball practice. This is where hurt gets deep. On that day he decided no wasn’t enough and raped me. I would go into details, but instead of ripping open past scars, I simply will say that was sadly the last straw for me. We broke up the end of our senior year; yes, I went through two years of abuse, and I never told him where I was going for college and even have had a restraining order put against him after numerous attempts of trying to contact me, thanks to the help of some officers that I became friends with later.

I now became “A Rape Victim and Damaged Goods.”

Attending MVNU was not my first choice; however, they were offering a softball scholarship, which I later turned down simply because of the conflict with my major, and I was also still healing from a softball injury. I dated a lot of guys my freshman year. Some of them are in this group, and I simply want to say that I appreciate your patience with me, since you absolutely had no clue what was going on in my life. I shoved a lot of my pain down from high school with weekend partying which turned into some middle of the week partying. My grades suffered throughout college because there were moments where I simply didn’t care. The heaviest of my drinking started after my grandpa died. He was my father figure. The only man in my life that fully trusted. That was right before my sophomore year had started. I ended up getting involved with praise team, which ended up being the start of a turning point. I ended up one day telling a few of them my story and also opened up to the team I was a part of and my praise team leader’s boss, who later becomes one of the most impactful women in my life. They loved me where I was at. Helped me find counseling services. Helped me by simply being there for me. They could have easily shunned me, but they didn’t. They continually prayed for me and checked on me.

One day in chapel, after a binge night of drinking due to some things that triggered some of my pain, God spoke to me in the most beautiful way. No, it wasn’t an audible voice, but simply some perspective. I was extremely hung over. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if my friends near by didn’t smell the alcohol coming from my pores. I was only at chapel so that way I could get my credit and leave. I remember staring at these beautiful stained glass windows in R.R Hodges Chapel. I remember finding it unique how someone can take these beautiful pieces of broken glass and make a breathtaking window with them. Then it hit me. The epiphany. God can take someone so broken and turn them into a beautiful masterpiece. The artist makes a purpose out of that broken glass and turns that purpose into something beautiful. I am God’s “broken and beautiful masterpiece.” So as the song “In Christ Alone” played. . . I took some friends down and laid it all on the altar. I accepted God’s love for me, that I felt undeserving of, because I have been told I am damaged goods, and I just let that love take hold and surround me. That is where my healing journey with God started after years of hating and not trusting.

I didn’t share this story to feel pity. I only share it to hopefully inspire some who are scared to share their own story. I also share this story knowing that everyone’s healing process isn’t the same as mine. I also admit that I still have triggers. I still have had moments where I had and still have to communicate to my own husband why I shut down. I will also end my story with the fact that even though my dad ended up marrying for the fourth time, he has recently found Jesus. Thanks be to God. As my healing journey continues, I see God turning a broken past into a beautiful future, and I am forever thankful.

Thank you for this opportunity to allow me to share with you, for taking the time to read this, and for allowing me to be vulnerable for a bit. As you go throughout your day, know that you are loved.

God Bless,
Audra Foltz

A New (Old) Revival: Rich Shockey

NazToo is fortunate to count among our number Rev. Rich Shockey, who brings us a particularly challenging post for August. Rich is an ordained elder in the Church of the Nazarene and works in non-profit. He feels especially called to advocate for and defend the most vulnerable among us. He mostly joined NazToo for the exit posts and plans to stay until he comes up with a crafty enough one for himself.

“What the church needs is revival!”

It’s a mantra oft-repeated by well-meaning evangelicals. I can imagine this very phrase was common among those early Nazarenes who sought a more embodied spirituality than they found in their Methodist churches.

And I agree. We do need revival. But maybe not how you might think.

Language of revival is endemic to evangelicalism. For the Church of the Nazarene, revival is connected intimately with the holiness camp-meetings and “revivals” that birthed the denomination. In the late 19th and early 20th centuries “revival” in the fledgling Church of the Nazarene came to represent that move of God that calls people to a deeper spiritual life, marked by devotement to God and service to neighbor.

And so it’s no surprise that many Nazarenes today call for “revival” when they seek a greater move of the work of God in the life of the church and the world, recognizing that it is only through the new life given by the Spirit that we can move deeper into the divine life.  

But, for many, revival simply means a large-scale wave of consecration, making salvation something highly privatized and disconnected from the wider scope of the Kingdom of God.

Of course, seeing greater devotion among saints and sinners is a noble thing. But I’m not so sure that this fully captures the breadth and depth of the new life that the Kingdom of God proclaims for the world.

Perhaps the kind of revival that God wants to bring is not private, highly individualized, and esoteric, but grand, far-reaching, cosmic, and for us all.

God wants to bring moral revival to God’s creation, and God is calling the church to be the vessel of that revival.

But moral revival threatens to undermine the reigning empires of power, seeing the valleys raised up and the mountains made low–the rough ground made level and the rugged places made straight (see Isaiah 40:4).

Any revival that ignores that our black children are being killed, our brown neighbors are being alienated, and our native neighbors are being further marginalized is no revival at all, for it operates in a culture of death, which is by definition anti-revival.

Real revival is difficult to have while our neighbors—even parts of our own body—are dying.

And this is part of the problem of the way we remember the revivalism of days past (especially in the mid-20th century), one that thinks of salvation only in terms of punching a golden ticket to “heaven,” yet neglects the redemption of our bodies and the social systems that can either hold them captive or liberate them. A revival that calls for escape from this world is a kind of Gnosticism at best.

On the contrary, a true, incarnational revival should draw us deeper into the world, embracing our connectedness, both to one another and to God’s creation. It will recognize that sin is both personal and systemic, and that Jesus is the remedy for both.

Declaring personal freedom from sin is worth little if it speaks no hope for the sinned-against.

And so my pastoral vocation has drawn me further into a much more embodied evangelism, one that requires those of us with power and privilege to use our very bodies and resources to proclaim sight to the blind and release from bondage to the captives.

I first realized that this kind of revival might come with an actual cost to me as I stood with 586 clergy at Standing Rock and bore witness to the state-sponsored harm of both indigenous bodies and the creation itself.

We burned the Doctrine of Discovery in ceremonial fire and repented of the colonialism that declared that white bodies mattered more than any other.

Through clouds of tear gas, cascades of water cannons, and the barking of menacing German Shepherds, I saw that this revival may require a more literal interpretation of giving one’s life for our neighbors than I had ever thought necessary in my comfortable, American-Christian subculture of relative safety.

It seems that more Nazarene clergy than ever are donning their clerical garb and realizing that both their priestly and prophetic dimensions of their vocation are calling them to the streets, speaking “truth to power” and proclaiming that the reign of the Kingdom of God often stands in direct opposition to Caesar and his cult of emperor/empire worship.

This kind of moral revival is decidedly Nazarene, embedded in our DNA of care for the marginalized from the beginning.

This moral revival will require that all of us, called by virtue of our baptism to enter into those waters that drown with Jesus, must recognize that the Spirit of God beckons us to notice the places where God is working in the world: with the poor, the disenfranchised, the marginalized, those affected by war, the immigrant and refugee. It will require us to recognize that being pro-life means using our bodies to defend the life of every person.

And we will have to embrace the cruciform path of the Prince of Peace, laying down arms, prejudices, and our very lives for one another.

So, practically speaking, what can we do? While bickering on the internet with strangers may be fun sport for some, here are a few modest suggestions for us:

  • Join the work of the Poor People’s Campaign. This is the extension of the work began by Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. It is their work, led by Rev. William Barber, that first helped me embrace the language of moral revival. You’ll learn about effective use of civil disobedience and how to be arrested in a protest.
  • Connect with your local Interfaith alliance. In Kansas, I serve on the board of Kansas InterFaith Action, and we work in both education and advocacy for compassionate concerns in Kansas. Don’t have one in your town? Start one. Find other peace-oriented clergy to join you. Learn the language and culture of protest and find ways to speak out collectively.
  • Enter into the stories of the marginalized and help amplify their stories. Use your privilege to be a voice for the voiceless. Bear hope for the hopeless; e.g., find out who oversees the refugee resettlement work in your community and see how you can help. Matt Soerens of World Relief is always an eager partner with the Church of the Nazarene.

So, yes, may God—through the power of the Holy Spirit—revive our hearts, but may God also revive our collective moral conscience, helping the church witness to a kind of holiness expressed in love for others not yet seen.

Phil Hoy’s Guide to being a ‘Traitor’: Philip Hoy

July’s post is brought to us by NazToo’s Philip Hoy, a nearly-21-year-old from Carrickfergus, Northern Ireland. He attends church in his neighbourhood and is the NYI Vice-President for the British Isles North District. He is currently studying Music and Audio Production at Queens University Belfast and doing grassroots reconciliation and starting work at a castle.

Dia duit. Cad é mar atá sibh? Is mise Phil Ó hEochaidh. Ta mé í mo chonaí í Carraig Fhearghais, Aontroma,Tuaisceart Éireann.

Translation: Hello (literally ‘God be with you’). How are yous? My name is Phil Hoy. I live in Carrickfergus, County Antrim, Northern Ireland.

The first couple of sentences you just read were Gaeilge (in Irish). That is one of the many reasons why the majority of my town and about half of Northern Ireland would consider me a traitor.

To understand Ireland and its culture (and also to get the full significance of this blog) you need to know the history of Ireland. Unfortunately for yous, it is long, confusing and full of bloodshed. Luckily I’ve compiled a short history of Ireland, particularly that of the North, that will help you out should you choose to read it. I’ve added it as an appendix.

(Please note: when the terms ‘Protestant’ and ‘Catholic’ are used, this doesn’t necessarily and usually doesn’t mean practicing Jesus followers but culturally affiliated people groups. Here are some other terms and their definitions.

Unionist- Someone who wants Northern Ireland to remain part of the UK.

Loyalist- Extremist subgroup of unionists. Have and are prepared to use violence

Nationalist- Someone who wants NI to be part of the Republic of Ireland

Republican- Nationalist version of Loyalists)

I grew up on the kinda border between lower middle class and the upper end of the working class. I went to school and church in a very working class, loyalist council estate which is just across the road from my housing estate. ‘Hood adjacent’ would be the American equivalent. Every day on the short drive or walk to school or church I seen the large paramilitary murals of men in balaclavas with machine guns spouting pro-British and anti-Catholic rhetoric. Many of my classmates da’s were in the UDA (Ulster Defence Association, a loyalist paramilitary group). I was told from a young age that I was British and other people around me would say that Catholics weren’t like us and that they wanted to get rid of us. People would sing inflammatory songs about Catholics and the Pope and use the derogatory terms fenian and taig despite the fact that very few of us had ever met a Catholic to see if these prejudices were true. We would go to the 11th of July Bonfires, with giant piles of stolen wooden pallets (seriously, Google some of them, they are huge) celebrating the 12th and shows of superiority over Irish Identifying Catholics. This was when I was about 8 years old. My parents never taught me to be like that; it was the culture around me.

But as I got older I started to notice things. I realised my next door neighbour (who my family is good friends with) who was from Muff, Co. Donegal was probably a Catholic. And he was just the same as us. Any ‘Catholic’ I ever met was always the same as me. Any time we went on a church trip to Scotland or England everyone always called us Irish no matter how often we protested that we were NORTHERN Irish or that we were British. I started to think that if the British didn’t consider us British then what were we? In high school one of my only friends at school was a Catholic and we got on really well. I began to get interested in social justice and learnt some of the history of the Troubles. Then from September 2016 to August 2017 I lived in the south side of Chicago with an organisation called Mission Year (which is a story for another time). I was able to look at back home from the outside. I began to see how silly the divisions in Northern Ireland really are. I then started to look into the history of Ireland and realised that Protestants until the Partition of Ireland considered themselves Irish.

I started to research my family history. My da’s side were all rural, farming Presbyterians for hundreds of years back, but the names in the family tree were a lot of them ‘Mc’ (‘Mac,’ meaning son of, was usually shortened to ‘Mc’ in Ireland) names and from the Highlands and west of Scotland which means they were originally Irish. Even the name Hoy which although was possibly Scottish was actually an Irish name and was the anglicised version of Ó hEochaidh (pronounced O Hoey). It was very possible that an O hEochaidh due to either marriage or persecution or both converted to Presbyterianism and anglicised the name to Hoy to appear more ‘Protestant’? The fact that there were ‘Mc’ surnames meant that my ancestors spoke Irish! Having grown up thinking this was only for Catholics I realised that many Presbyterians in Ireland during the 16, 17 and 1800s only spoke Irish and it was a prerequisite for ordination in the Presbyterian church. The culture of rural County Antrim was Irish in character. On my mum’s side, her granny’s last name was Adrain. On researching this name I found that it was originally O Drean and were chased out of County Roscommon during the 12th century by the Normans and the MacDermotts into East Antrim which is the only area in Ireland were the name occurs today. Those that remained Catholic shortened their names to ‘Drain’ whereas those who converted to Protestantism changed it to ‘Adrain.’ So I started to think that maybe if I was ethnically Irish and lived on the Island of Ireland then maybe perhaps I was Irish after all. I began to see that, culturally, Northern Irish Catholics and Protestants weren’t actually that different other than where most people DON’T hang their hats on a Sunday morning. After working for social justice in Chicago seeing racial reconciliation between white and black Americans I really had a heart for reconciliation between Catholics and Protestants back home. I started to change politically from a soft Unionist (someone who wants Northern Ireland to remain a part of the UK) to an Irish nationalist (someone who wants Northern Ireland to join the Irish republic free of British interference) and identified as Irish. I’ve also started to ‘decolonise’ my Christianity as have a lot of indigenous peoples around the world. All this made me to people back home a ‘traitor.’

This September I started Queens University to do a degree in Music and Audio Production. I quickly befriended Catholics and started going to play Gaelic football and learning the Irish language at an extra-curricular class at uni. I dread to think about what people from my primary school and the estate would say to me now. I know for a fact that if I was to wear my County Antrim Gaelic football tracksuit bottoms around the housing estate at the least I would get slandered and intimidated or beat up or worse. Around the estate are Union flags and paramilitary flags to mark territory to show Catholics aren’t welcome. If I were to get caught taking these down I would more than likely get beat up at best or kneecapped at worst. Carrickfergus has the most paramilitary presence of any town in the North of Ireland. They practically run the housing estates. They sell drugs through dealers to young people and then beat up or kneecap young people for having drugs. They extortion local businesses for ‘protection money’ and if that isn’t paid the business is burnt or chased out. The politicians and police and the people who live in the estates are too intimidated to do anything about it. If people in my 98% Unionist town knew of my cultural and political leanings I would not be made welcome. The Church is apathetic at best about reconciliation. Many Protestants don’t consider practising Catholics as truly Christians. Ecumenism is at the back burner. Sometimes I feel like I’m the only one seeking to bring unity. I found a small cross community church group which meets once a month but we are few and I’m the youngest there by about 40 years. We have no government and Brexit is throwing a spanner in the works due to the fact that Northern Ireland will be the only touching part of the UK with the EU. If a hard border is enforced then Dissident Republicans will threaten violence. If a border is placed on the Irish Sea loyalist paramilitaries will feel isolated further encouraging their siege mentality and threaten violence. Some farmers’ fields run through the currently invisible border. It’s a nightmare. And we have no one to plead our case in the UK parliament except DUP members who are extremists and pro-Brexit even though Northern Ireland as a whole voted to ‘remain.’

It’s coming up to the 12th of July. The bonfires will be burnt and the bands will march through Nationalist areas to intimidate them. There are often recreational riots from disenfranchised, working class young people with nothing to do over the summer months, added to by the sectarian tension. Most people in Northern Ireland are only culturally religious and don’t actively follow Jesus. Protestant and Catholic are really used as an identifier for British Unionist and Irish Nationalist. Since I’m a mixture of both I suppose I’m a kinda Proddy Fenian. There has not been a functional power sharing government for 530 days. Please pray that the politicians would work together for the sake of the people. Also pray for me as I seek to bring peace and reconciliation in my small realm of influence with God’s help. Please pray for this small corner of the island that it’ll once again become a land of saints and scholars instead of the land of hatred and intolerance it currently is.

Appendix

Here is a brief (!) history of Ireland. I would encourage you to read it as most people I come across outside of Ireland (and many in it) know very little of our history and so cannot understand our conflicts and problems.

In the early centuries AD, the islands of Ireland and Britain were Celtic (this is pronounced like a ‘K,’ never an ‘S’ btw; the only time it’s is pronounced like an ‘S’ is the Glasgow football team). This is not so much an ethnic group but more of a cultural one. The people were tribal. The peoples of Ireland were Gaels and Q Celtic whereas the peoples of Britain were P Celtic. During the early centuries AD some Gaels led by Fergus Mor MacErc (the same Fergus my town Carrickfergus is named after). He was returning to Ulster looking for a holy well to cure his leprosy when his ship struck a rock and he died. The rock is where my town developed became know as the Rock of Fergus) traveled to the Highlands and Western Isles of Scotland settling there bringing their language, culture and Celtic form of Christianity with them founding the Kingdom of Dal Riada comprising some of County Antrim in Ireland and the west of Scotland. By the 7th century or so the Highlands and Islands were Gaelic in ethnicity, language and culture, and Christian in religion. Meanwhile the area of Britain now known as England had been invaded and subsequently abandoned by the Romans with the Angles and Saxons bringing an entirely new Germanic and pagan society to Britain that was very different to the native Celts. They pushed the indigenous peoples into Cornwall and Wales whilst the Kingdom of Alba or Scotland as it is now known was still Celtic.

Flash forward to 1066 AD. The Battle of Hastings. The Normans (a group of Vikings who invaded, settled and intermarried with the native French forming the area of Normandy in the north of France) invade England and take over. They then, under the encouragement of the Pope (which will become very ironic centuries later), set their eyes on Ireland. They first captured the area around Dublin known as the Pale. Ireland is split into four provinces: Leinster, Munster, Connaught and Ulster (of which the current day Northern Ireland comprises 6 out of the 9 counties of Ulster). Ulster was always the most rebellious province so in order to get a stronger hold on Ireland they sent a Norman Knight (John De Courcey) up North who built a large castle on a rock, and aye, you guessed it, that rock was Carrickfergus. Now the Normans, as of all Western Christendom, were Roman Catholic so the only differences between the Normans and the native Irish were cultural. Things, however, were about to change. During the 1500s England became Protestant and a large part of Scotland became Presbyterian (differentiated from Protestant here by the term Dissenter). The Normans in Ireland, or the Old English as they were soon to be called remained catholic and had their power taken off of them so many assimilated with the native Irish. Ulster was still very rebellious so Queen Elizabeth I and later James I began to ‘plant’ Ulster with Scottish Presbyterians and English Anglicans. The Scots Presbyterians were persecuted because of their faith in Scotland and so sought a better life in Ireland. The mostly English Anglicans sought land and wealth. There was now a religious as well as cultural divide between Irish Catholics, Scottish Presbyterians and English Protestants (read Anglican). Cromwell came and slaughtered hundreds and thousands of natives, telling them they had the choice between going either “to hell or to Connaught’. After the Restoration of the Monarchy James II came to the throne of England. And he converted to Catholicism. This made the Protestants of England and Ireland nervous but gave hope to the Catholics of Ireland. So what did the Protestants of England do? They invited a Dutch king (William of Orange) to come and take over and drive King James II out. James fled to Ireland and started gathering an army. King William (or King Billy as he’s known here) landed by boat in Ireland to fight James and by now you’ll have probably guessed where he landed. That’s right. Carrickfergus. Then the battle and the date that’s engraved on the minds of every person in the north of Ireland’s brains happened : the Battle of the Boyne, 12th of July 1690. King Billy won the battle and the war which became known as ‘The Glorious Revolution’. Ever since the Orange Order (although founded in the late 1700s/early 1800s) has marched on the 12th as celebration and to lord it over in superiority against Catholics. But what both sides don’t want people to know is that the Pope actually sent King Billy a letter of congratulations due to it also being involved with the King of France (told you Irish history was confusing). The victory of King Billy paved the way for the Protestant Ascendancy. This was the Irish parliament in Dublin comprised almost entirely of English descended Anglicans. They ruled over the native Irish Catholics and Presbyterians persecuting both under the Penal laws. Catholicism was outlawed, many forced to hold mass out in the fields or in hiding. Presbyterian marriages and Eucharists weren’t held as valid and all were forced to pay tithes to the established Anglican Church :The Church of Ireland. Things were getting so bad that in 1798 the United Irishmen Rebellion took place. Ironically in Ulster this rebellion was led by PRESBYTERIANS! The oath of the United Irishmen was to set aside the divisive names of Catholic, Protestant and Dissenter (Presbyterian) in favour of Irishman. Many on both sides of the sectarian divide don’t like to mention that the founders of Irish Republicanism were Presbyterians and Protestants. The rebellion was squashed. Many were killed as a result. In order to stop this from happening again, the Presbyterians were given more privileges similar to the ‘White Bribe’ to white indentured servants in the United States. The Presbyterians were still not well off but in the eyes of the state ‘at least they’re not Catholic”. They became ‘Protestant.’ The ironic thing is that ethnically and culturally many of the Scottish settlers were technically Irish, descended from the Dal Riadans who left Ireland to Scotland with King Fergus. Many still spoke Gaelic with some even being monoglots in it and were able to converse with the Irish with little difficulty. Some even intermarried although this was slightly rare. However after the failure of the rebellion there was an attempt at collective amnesia. The Scots Presbyterians ‘forgot’ their role in the rebellion, their Celtic culture and language and started to identify as ‘British’ instead of Irish. Ireland was added to Great Britain (England, Wales and Scotland) in 1801 to form The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.

In the mid 1800s the Great Famine happened when the potato crop failed. This mostly affected Catholics and Presbyterians and the poor in general. The English had brought the potato to Ireland from the Americas and introduced it as the staple diet. Meanwhile they exported all the other food such as crops and meat out of Ireland to England. To make matters worse there was a very large storm that year that blew many of the fish away. So when the potato blight hit there was nothing to eat. There was other food but it was all exported to England or given to wealthy Anglican landlords. Poor families starved. 1 million died and over 2 million emigrated over the next 100 years due to the famine. The English government did very little to help. There’s been cases of families being forced to walk for 20 miles to get food from a alms house and being turned away and found dead with grass in their mouths. Many see this as a genocide against the Irish people through British colonialism. Ireland was in fact the practice ground for the British Empire. The native language and culture was beaten out of school children. The land was confiscated and given to absentee landlords who rented the land back at extortionate rates. In the late 1800 hundreds the Catholic Emancipation laws were passed.

Now that Catholics were in parliament there was a growing demand for the Irish people to be governed by themselves. The Home Rule bills were sought to be passed. However the Protestant majority in the North (due to the Plantation of Ulster) but minority in the whole island feared that Home Rule would mean ‘Rome Rule’. The 1916 Easter Rising happened which paved the way for the Irish War for independence in the early 1900s. Ireland won her freedom from the British however the British minority in the north wanted to remain part of the United Kingdom. Consequently they smuggled guns from Germany and threatened war with Britain if Britain didn’t keep them. That makes sense. Obviously. Britain agreed and the island of Ireland was partitioned to create the state of Northern Ireland separate from the Republic of Ireland. ‘A Protestant country for a Protestant people.’

For the next 50 years Catholics/Irish identifying people faced similar injustices to black people in the States during the 60s. Catholics were discriminated against in jobs, housing, voting and were burned out of their houses by working class loyalists. This came to a head in the late 60s with the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association (NICRA). At a NICRA protest the RUC (the mostly Protestant comprised police force at the time) started to attack the protesters in what is known as The Battle of the Bogside. This is what is considered the birth of the Troubles.

The Troubles were a civil war like conflict between Irish identifying ‘Catholic’ Republican paramilitaries, British identifying ‘Protestant’ loyalist paramilitaries and the British Army. Many atrocities were carried out over the 30 years of the conflict including Bloody Sunday, Bloody Friday and bombings carried out by the IRA and the UDA and UVF. The conflict officially ended in 1998 with the Good Friday Agreement. This was officially the end of the violence but it has continued on an off on a smaller scale since. British Identifying ‘Protestant’ unionists and loyalists are separated culturally and proximity wise from Irish Identifying ‘Catholic’ nationalist and Republican. Walls known as Peace Walls separate Unionist and Nationalist areas of Belfast and Derry. Schools across the whole country are segregated on sectarian lines. Unless you go to an integrated school most children will never meet a child from the other community. The way the government works here the people vote for political parties not based on policies but to keep the ‘other side’ out. Last year votes were almost split 50/50 between the Unionist DUP and the Nationalist Sinn Fein. The few smaller parties got the rest of the votes. This is the first time ever since NI was formed nearly a hundred years ago that there hasn’t been a Unionist majority. The way Stormont works is that there is a First Minister and a Deputy First minister who are pretty much equal but one is from one community and one is from the other. With the two most extreme parties (DUP and Sinn Fein) filling these positions tension is Leah’s rife and after a botched renewable energy scheme which lost the country £500 million along with arguments over Irish Language rights the government collapsed and as of writing Northern Ireland has been run by unelected civil servants for 530 days. The 50 politicians who are part of the assembly receive £131 a day without having done a day’s work since the collapse.

 

 

A Memoir of Racism and Repentance: Andrew Arp

June’s blog post is provided by NazToo’s Andrew Arp. Andrew is a part-time pancake chef/child wrangling father of four. He and his wife Crystal have been married for almost 16 years and he currently teaches Science at a local middle school and serves as the Lead Pastor at Odessa First Church of the Nazarene in Odessa, TX.

November 28th 2006 is a day that is forever burned in my memory. It was a Tuesday morning and I was sitting in my office looking at my computer doing who knows what to pass the time. All of a sudden the secretary patched a call through to me. “Mr. Arp, this is Chris from Bethany Christian Services” (the adoption agency we had been in process with for seven months). “I wanted to let you know we showed your profile to a birth mother.” My internal monologue was buzzing. “Yes Mr. Arp, and the birth mother chose you.” This is awesome. Most of the time you get 6-8 weeks to prepare for the baby’s arrival. I was ecstatic. “And he was born yesterday.” My reply, “So it’s a he . . . ” The next week was a blur as we prepared to welcome our first born. We were collecting supplies and buying every preemie outfit we could get our hands on as we found out he weighed a little less than five pounds. In the midst of all the hustle and bustle we really had no idea how much welcoming an African American son would transform our world.

Anyone looking from the outside would have never picked me to be the father of someone who was black. I grew up in Rossville, GA, at the foot of Lookout Mountain. A locale so historically racist that it warranted mention in Dr. King’s, “I Have a Dream” speech. I didn’t even learn until later in life that my great-grandfather was a member of the Ku Klux Klan. But inherent racism wasn’t so much taught, as it was just a part of the fabric of society. Many of our schools were still mostly segregated not by law, but by county and city lines. There was even common understanding about which parts of town you could go to and which parts you didn’t need to be caught in after dark if you were the wrong skin tone. I grew up surrounded by rebel flags and friends whose given names were even Robert Lee or Jefferson Davis.

Under the shadow of this culture I really wasn’t exposed to much else in terms of diversity. It wasn’t that I was necessarily hateful, but the implicit superiority complex was expressed in different terms. I even recall being a junior high student at church camp where the late night jokes we shared in the cabin were of a racist variety. I still remember the delight we took in saying the n-word as a punch line where we proudly enunciated the final “r” as if it was our divine right as Southerners. After all, we had been educated regarding the war of Northern Aggression from an early age and we knew the way the world worked. We knew that extended to us white southern males was a divine right to look down on other races because that’s the way God made us. I shudder to even write the words today. But as I grew older I fortunately grew wiser. I was able to travel and I was exposed to various cultures and got to know specific people from other races. It began to rock my world a little bit. But I still had on blinders. I remember even hearing the song “Colored People” by DC Talk and thinking, “Yeah, we’re all in this together. We can be color blind and the world will just magically fix itself.” It wasn’t until that 4lb 8oz baby came bursting into our lives that we realized the world isn’t so easily put back together.

The first eye-opening experience that we were privy to was losing a job. Prior to the arrival of my son I had been a youth pastor at a church for about a year and a half. It wasn’t the healthiest of working environments, but we were managing and the youth seemed to still respond to us. When we brought our son into our home and the church for the first time everyone was so excited because we had adopted an African child. “Um, correction. He’s actually African American.” “Oh.” A few weeks later I was brought in on a Monday and told to have my office cleaned out that Tuesday. I didn’t even get to address the students. We honestly thought the laundry list of complaints they gave us for the termination seemed petty. And when my wife was telling her boss at Pottery Barn, who happened to be black, about it, her boss began weeping. She said to my wife, “Crystal, you’re in a different arena now.” Later we even heard that some parents were apprehensive because since we adopted a black child might mean that we support inter-racial dating…mind you, this was 2008.

Then February 26th, 2012 happened. My son was four years old and an unarmed black child named Trayvon Martin was shot and killed in Florida. All of a sudden my world was rocked again. I knew that life for my son was never going to be the image I had in mind for him. I knew that eventually I would have to have conversations with him about how he interacted with authority figures outside the house. I knew that I wouldn’t be able to let him play with guns in the front yard. Even today I am terrified of how he is perceived as he is a 5’4” 11-yr-old who wears a size 11 shoe and looks so much older than he is. I am always careful to tell him to obey any authority figure until mom or dad can get there and sort things out…but I feel like I have been a complicit part of this society. Even last year when he was learning about the Civil War the teacher kept referring to “us” and “we” in the class notes when speaking about the Confederacy. Don’t you know that “us” and that “we” fought to keep my son in chains? Don’t you know that I am a part of that history and for that I can never repent enough?

I am a white male living in twenty-first century America. I have been raised from a place of privilege and power and have taken it for granted most of my life. But now my family consists of a son who is black, another son who is Latino and one who is bi-racial. I have sought forgiveness for the heritage and hate of which I was a part in my youth. I have come to terms with the implicit racism that defined my early years. But now I am learning to listen and participate in a community different than the one that raised me. I have engaged in the Black Lives Matter movement. I attend Martin Luther King Jr. day festivities. I even go to a barber shop where I am usually the minority. I realize these actions are small and insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but my son is only now eleven. I have a lifetime with him to continue to repent, continue to relearn and continue to embrace cultures different than my own. And maybe that’s how I begin to see the Kingdom come.

God’s will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.