Christ on a Bike

Friends in need

Last week, the Kensington neighborhood of Philadelphia was devastated by a 7-alarm fire that left at least 27 families homeless or "severely affected," and over 400 homes without power. The Simple Way, a radical Christian community, is based in that neighborhood and lost one of their two buildings, the one that houses their after-school program, community arts center, the Cottage Printworks t-shirt microbusiness, and two community members (Jesce Walz and founder Shane Claiborne).

Two donation funds have been set up, one to help the many neighborhood families affected, and the other to support the rebuilding of The Simple Way's space and ministry. Please click to donate now.

The Simple Way is a phenomenal and inspiring community. They are living out their faith with community programs and a lot of love in one of the poorest neighborhoods of Philadelphia. Check out Shane Claiborne's book The Irresistible Revolution, which is a beautiful read.

While I may have some theological differences with these kids, particularly about sexuality, I can't let that keep me from being inspired by their work and example. I think most of what they have to say has incredible possibilities for radical theologies of other flavors, and I think we should get right on that.

A mountaintop experience

I was down in Virginia and West Virginia this past weekend to visit my partner's family, which was gorgeous and relaxing and full of new friends, and all the things a weekend in the country should be.

I also got to see a little bit of the recent development in WV (mostly due to people who work in DC moving further and further out), which reminded me of a piece I wrote for a forthcoming book about anti-poverty work in Appalachia.

The Poverty Initiative here at Union is a group of students, teachers, poverty scholars, and friends working to end poverty. Yes, we set our sights pretty high—but we believe that's the only way we can ever truly end poverty. "Charity" and other ways of alleviating poverty are important, but in the long run only maintain the ideologies that divide people based on their income and perceived social class.

Anyway. We took an immersion trip in January '07 to the Appalachian region—mostly WV, some of Ohio, some of Tennessee. This was an incredibly powerful experience for me, particularly the opportunity to look at rural poverty from an analytical, anti-poverty perspective, when most of my previous anti-poverty activism had taken place in downtown Providence, RI, and some in New York.

This piece, called Gentrification—in Appalachia?, is my reflection on the connection between urban class/development structures and rural ones. We spend so much time feeling disconnected from one another—urban from rural, rich from poor, students from the "real world," white folks from everyone else—but these divisions are all in our minds. The only way we're ever going to make any progress towards anything is if we begin to recognize how very interconnected we all are across whatever psychological boundaries we've built up for ourselves.

NB: Mountaintop Removal is a coal-mining technique that has become common in the past few years and is widespread in WV. It consists of systematically blowing up chunks of mountain, sorting through the rubble for a small amount of coal, and then dumping the remainder into the valleys. The result is that mountains and valleys are leveled into a barren wasteland; it will take 3,000 years for these sites to rebuild enough topsoil for anything to grow on them.

What would "Christ on a bike" look like, anyway?

One thing I pride myself on is being kind, or at least polite, to pretty much everyone. It's kind of silly to believe in peace and nonviolence when your actions show the opposite. But let me tell you, that's really hard sometimes. I mean, people do dumb things, and maybe we can learn to ignore them. But if the dumb things they do actually put you in danger, the situation gets a lot more complicated.

I've been struggling with this recently. I bike in a city that's really unfriendly to bicyclists (at best), or downright hostile (at worst). There are a few scattered bike lanes, but they're full of potholes, everyone double-parks in them, and they're no guarantee you won't get honked at, doored, cut off, or have to dodge pedestrians. Every time I venture out of my (remarkably low-key) regular commute, it seems inevitable that I'll get into an argument with someone who steps out in front of me, doors me getting out of a cab, runs me into a Jersey barrier, or otherwise ignores me and my right to be on the road. Even on that commute — two miles crosstown on residential streets — I was hit last week by someone running a red light. There are legitimate safety issues — riding a bike here is a dangerous proposition. Therefore, in some ways I have every right to scream and curse at the people who do dumb and/or illegal things that put me in danger.

Sometimes I think it crosses the line of my actual safety, though, and I end up yelling at people for doing things that could be dangerous, or just generally being distrustful of and cranky at every driver and pedestrian on the road, because experience tells me there's a good chance they'll do something dangerous.

At the same time, screaming and cursing is not a thing I particularly enjoy doing. It feels bad to me, it feels bad to the person I'm yelling at, and it just adds to the number of people screaming and cursing around the world. I feel called to be a voice of peace, hope, revolution, and love; not another voice of anger. I bike because I love being able to transport myself wherever I want to go, without relying on fossil fuels or anything else; because it's the fastest, cheapest, and most convenient way to get around New York; because my very presence helps advocate for the right of bikers to share the roads; and because I feel good when I do. I do not bike because I enjoy angry confrontation and the constant threat of being creamed by a taxi.

So what, then? Is my choice between being angry all the time and giving up biking? I don't think it has to be. I made a conscious decision years ago that I am not going to let fear rule my life. I am a firm believer in the basic goodness of people — they just do dumb things sometimes.

Honestly, the streets of New York are no picnic for anyone. Driving is insane (but you're encased in steel), walking you're frustrated at slow folks on the sidewalk and in constant danger of getting hit by something (but there's safety in numbers), and even cabs are both expensive and terrifying. The big reason biking is unique is there are so few cyclists — no one expects you, even in the bike lane.

I guess I can try to focus on that. People cut me off because they're just as stressed out by the situation as I am, not because they necessarily are trying to hurt me or inconvenience me or insist that I have no right to be on the road.

Or, you know, I can always just imagine myself in a preacher collar or a habit and remember to act appropriately!

academic hat

I wanted to share with you some of my favorite papers I've written through my first year of seminary. They're obviously a little more formal than things I might normally put on a blog, but I think they're pretty accessible, and they're great examples of some of the directions I'm exploring with this whole theology thing.

First: from Old Testament 101, an ecofeminist reading of the book of Job. I was frustrated at traditional interpretations that read God as ignoring Job's concerns, and Job as just giving up. Job is the only character in the Bible who really stands up for himself—his friends tell him he must have sinned, but he knows that doesn't fit with his experience, and he says so. In my opinion, it's a great book that gets ignored too often. For your reference, the text of Job (RSV).

Next up: from Intro to Systematic Theology (with James Cone, father of Black theology), a meditation on queer theory being (racially) segregated, and ways we can move past that, called "What Does a White Mestiza Look Like?" (borrowing from Gloria Anzaldúa's writings on mestizaje).

On to the spring semester: from New Testament 101, my interpretational theory. We were asked to first socially locate ourselves and then evaluate various methods of Biblical interpretation in light of our personal perspective, all leading to a (future) articulation of our interpretational method. This is (I think) a pretty interesting look at my personal politics/theology, as well.

Last, for now: from Christian History (part 1), my examination of the Byzantine iconoclastic crisis in 726–843 and the gendered nature of the scholarship around it, called Divine Flesh. I started looking at this period around the 7th ecumenical council because I was interested in the use of art and visual imagery in the church, but was really struck by the way most scholars supported the assumption that the iconophiles (those in favor of icons) were overwhelmingly female. I was suspicious, and found enough evidence that this might not necessarily be the case; so this paper is first a historical overview, and second an admonition that critical thinking skills are always necessary, especially where gender is concerned.

Having coffee with God

I got to the church a few minutes early for the evening jazz service, so I grabbed an iced tea on my way in, since I was sweaty from the ride. I hadn't been there before, so I asked how to get to the sanctuary, and was told I'd have to finish my drink in the lobby.

A few weeks ago, I was home visiting and managed to make it to a Sunday service at the church I went to for about a year before I moved. I had some tea with me, like I usually do, and my friend had brought coffee. After the service, the pastor and I ran off to talk about ordination things, then when we got back to the sanctuary, my friend stopped us and said, "I got yelled at for having coffee in church!" The pastor's immediate reaction was to sprint up into the giant pulpit she never uses, and put on her best Official Pastor Voice to say "I hereby permit you to have drinks in church!"

We asked, "Wait, any drinks?" And she thought for a second, and said "Sure!"

When I was a kid, I drank an absurd amount of coffee. I had this really nice stainless-steel mug that came pretty much everywhere with me. So of course, it came to church as well. Most of the time I finished it during Sunday school, so it didn't make it into the service, but during the summer (no Sunday school!), it came right on in. Apparently it caused a little bit of a murmur among some parts of the congregation, but then, so did my blue hair. No one actually ever said anything, though once my dad said he had talked to the pastor about it, and she had said it was fine with her.

I'm really fascinated by the different ways we treat our churches and meeting houses. Is it God's house? Does God not like liquids in God's house? (What about Communion wine?) If God had a problem with me drinking coffee, wouldn't God object to, say, coffee hour? At least the stuff I brought was decent coffee!

I should mention that I grew up with a strong dose of Quakerism along with my Protestantism. Quakers are very explicit that the meeting house is just that, a gathering space, and nothing more. It is not God's house, Meeting is not God's time, Sunday is not God's day — because every space and time belongs to God. You are no more or less in God's presence during Meeting than at any other time of the week, so special clothes and special behavior is unnecessary. (Well, special clothes are always unnecessary to the Quakers, but that's another story.) In my view, this meant that if it was okay to bring coffee to school with me 5 days out of the week, it was okay to bring coffee on the 6th day, too.

I think it says a lot about the place God has in our lives. If the church itself becomes sacred — "You can't do that here, God is here!" "You can't dress like that here, God is watching!" — God becomes localized, contained. If I have to be on my best behavior in the sanctuary because of God's presence, what does that say about other places, other times? If it's okay to wear jeans and drink coffee in our homes on Sunday afternoon, does that mean God isn't there? Does that mean God has stopped watching?

Why is it that so much of organized religion seems designed to contain God as much as possible?

Step out of the Box

This is a short meditation I preached in a chapel service led by the Arts Caucus on the first day back after spring break. Our theme was "Step out of the Box," and we incorporated a ton of different media, including song, photo, dance, and poetry, and we read a synopsis of the book of Esther.

Hello, and welcome back. I hope some of you have had a chance to relax over this break. It is so important, now and then, to take the time to relax and be a more whole person. I know that for some of us, though, this was a time to get things done that we don’t have time for during regular classes. We work more to make some extra money, we spend time in the library doing research, and I know that many of us in the Arts Caucus took some time for the art we love so much. But now, we come back to school, to classes, and it’s time to shift gears. Time to pick up the fabric and yarn that’s already scattered across my floor. I’ll clean the paintbrushes off my desk to make room for a stack of books.

That’s a really sad thing to think about. As much as I love my work here (and I do), and even enjoy most of my countless hours of reading, I am also an artist. Gluing bits of paper together into a collage fills me with a kind of energy that few other things do. The color and the texture, and the figuring out the best glue for the surface I’m working on, that speaks to a whole different side of my heart than does Biblical study. Putting that side of me away again may seem necessary, if I want to get all my work done, but I am putting myself into another box that’s just not big enough. The “student” box is all well and good, but it’s got way too many corners to fit my flowing, rounded artist self in there too.

"These are the scriptures of today..."

Today was supposed to be a cleaning day. I was not particularly excited about that. I was bored and frustrated and kind of lonely, and the last thing I wanted to do was scrape burned food off my stove.

So I dragged my unenthusiastic self outside to get more vinegar, and for some reason I brought my camera with me. At 3rd Ave., there was some kind of parade going on. Yeah, it's New York in June, we have a lot of parades. On my way back, I slowed down to watch a bunch of girls (most of them 11–14 or so) with red and white pompoms.

What were they cheering? It took me a second to figure it out.
"Je-sus! Je-sus! Je-sus!"

Turns out it was something like the festival of los niños evangélicos—every group in the parade was a local church youth group! There was even a float reenacting Samson's destruction of the temple in Judges 16, complete with a small boy in padded muscles and a long wig :-) It amazes me what ridiculous things we do in the name of Christianity. Though, I mean, a lot of times they're pretty fun.

Later on I was trying to make my Saturday night alone a little less depressing, and I headed down to the Village to check out a vegetarian café I hadn't been to yet. I got there and realized I had no cash, so I figured I might as well trek over to my bank several blocks away.

On my way back, I noticed a pair of fabulous gay boys going my way, using their giant umbrellas as canes. (The strutting kind, not the old-lady kind!) They came up next to me and said, "We love your calf tattoos. We've been noticing them and just had to tell you that." So we started chatting as we walked along together, and it came up (quickly) that the text on my tattoos is from Micah, and that I'm in seminary, planning to be a minister. They were really fascinated, which I'm sort of coming to expect. (I guess I don't really look like your stereotypical minister...!)

As we walked the several blocks together, we had something of a whirlwind theological discussion; one of them uses theater in his therapeutic work, and we agreed that might be profoundly spiritual; they asked me about new images of God, incorporating all this artistic work and queer theory and feminist theology—and of course I'm no closer to settling on one image of God than I was before I started this journey—so I told them about some of the reading I'm doing now (particularly Ivone Gebara and Marcella Althaus-Reid), exploring the concept of the Trinity as a metaphor for community and relationship. We have this beautiful image of 3 beings who are different and yet the same, separate and yet part of the same essential Oneness, and it's high time we recognized that. Even our traditional imagery tells us we need to connect to one another in fluid, dynamic, tri-fold ways, yet we insist on walling ourselves off, whether individually or in couples. Neither one will let us form the kind of communities we need to thrive as spiritual beings.

And then we went our separate ways. Though not before one of them (John) declared his undying love for me, and we had a nice hug on the corner of 8th Ave.

Several hours later, I've walked myself all over SoHo and the Village and I'm worn out. I shuffled into a subway station I'd never been in, and there was a guy playing guitar. I sat down near him, halfway listening, and part of the chorus was "These are the scriptures of today..." but I was too tired to follow the rest of what he was saying. As my train pulled in, I stood up and dropped a dollar in his case, thanking him. He said, "God bless," and I looked up. His t-shirt had a fancy cross design made out of a ton of rhinestones. I smiled, snapped his picture with the little film camera I had on me, and ran to catch my train. I should go back and see if I can find him with my nice camera, when I'm awake.

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So. Here I am, and here you are, a meeting in this wilderness of the internet.

I've just finished my first year of seminary, and I'm pursuing ordination in the Presbyterian Church, USA. This blog will be, at best, a place for me to share the loads of thoughts, questions, and theological AHA!s; and for you, my dear audience, to walk with me along this undoubtedly rocky and amazing path. I am certainly not what most people expect from a minister, at first glance, but I do have a deep love for this thing we call God, the Divine, the Spirit, and an incredible desire to discover God in the places and people where no one expects God to be. But I know God's there, I've had enough surprise God-sightings to know that I should never stop looking.

Also, I bike. Creation is an amazing thing, and we're a part of it. When we destroy it, we destroy ourselves, we destroy parts of the body of God. Let's start paying attention.