The following is a copy of the reflection offered by Barbara L. Rice. Ms. Rice has a master of counseling and is a first-year, master of divinity seminarian here at Union. Her employment portfolio includes working with LGBTQ youth. As a community, we are graced by her presence and voice.

—arb

A Love that Would Not Let Me Go

When Zach was a child I loved him. When Elizabeth was a child I loved her. When Luke was a child I loved him. When Erica was a child I loved her.

[Hosea 11:1–12] is one of those passages of scripture that I have always been drawn to, never fully knowing why. I’m sure my 16-year-old interpretations of this text were age appropriately simplistic and egocentric. But there was something in my initial and naïve draw to the passage that was innate—that was calling me back to some womb-like recognition of my connectedness with a love that would not let me go. I would not have used those words, but there was a desire to ingest these images into my being. I wanted to know that type of security, that type of love. I wanted to watch an old home movie of God bending down to feed me when I was a toddler. I wanted to see, feel, and touch these cords of human kindness and bands of love. I wanted to know that they would catch me, would hold that space, would keep me safe. And I wanted the people in my life to know and feel that security and love in their own lives.

And I think in many ways those bands of love were very real in my heart and in my life. At the risk of being stereotypical, I was very much a tomboy, and it was considered cute to run around in my baseball uniform all year long. And I was always picked fairly quickly in the process of choosing kick ball teams in elementary school. I would occasionally be called dyke, but had no idea what it meant, and I didn’t care. I had friends because I learned early in life that if you listen to people they tend to like you. So, I could fit in pretty well and for the most part was spared the personal pain of bullying.

As I grew into adolescence I had that familiar gnawing sensation that many of you can relate to – that sense that something about me just wasn’t right. And it would creep into my thoughts now and then, this utter terror, that there might just be some tiny chance I was gay. This nightmare sat in the back of my mind and would rear its head, and I would think that if this is in any way true then I probably didn’t deserve to live. This belief that, if I were indeed gay, I would be unworthy of taking up space on the earth, mostly came from my family narrative which was passionately homophobic in the name of following Jesus. So, if this secret, this nightmare, was possibly true then it would mean that I was beyond the point of any repair.

And so I would sit with these images that I sought out in the Bible—pictures from Isaiah of loving protection amidst storms and scary things, the intimacy of Mary washing Jesus’ feet and his defense and love for her, and then this one in Hosea of having been known and loved intimately since babyhood regardless of my attempts to escape. And I would try to connect with that love and tell myself that this was enough, and tell myself that I could get through this life devoting all of it to God, and that I would be given the strength to keep myself together (i.e. not fall to the temptation of living in that ‘lifestyle’) until I died and could experience ultimate union with the Divine. My life was full of sports, friends, mission trips, school work, and service clubs. By all appearances I was a pretty happy teenager and as long as I could keep the terror silenced or distant then I was OK.

I wasn’t externally tortured for being gay, but I was internally tortured. I’ve thought about this a lot these last few weeks. I can’t imagine what I would have done if there had been this added layer of ostracism, of being targeted, or being ridiculed. I truly do not know that I could have survived that, and I look around at my friends in this room, not knowing each story, but knowing that for many of you it was a struggle that words can’t capture. And I sit with gratitude and awe realizing you have survived.

In my therapy practice in Greensboro, NC, I had the privilege of working with many teens and adults struggling to come to terms with their sexual orientation. Their struggles were often based on their understanding of what religion or the Bible said about same gender love, but they inevitably faced peer and family ostracism. In doing trauma work with my clients incidents of extreme bullying would often come up, and these memories would be so vivid that, as they were described to me, I felt like I was there. It was as if in their description I could see, hear, touch, smell and taste the terror, the fear, the punches, the tears, the shame. As if their spirits had been branded like cattle, we would work together to deconstruct the internalized messages left by these incidents. We would work to untangle and heal those messages, until they could become scars as opposed to gaping wounds, and we would work to take away the powerlessness of the memories.

However, the consequences of some of these marks can’t be avoided. I think about a 26-year-old gay man I worked with who suffered such horrendous bullying and abuse in high school that he stopped going to school to avoid being tormented, which led to him eventually dropping out altogether. He completed his GED and now works a minimum wage job while trying to go to community college at night. He struggles with just making it day to day—not only financially but also emotionally. He stays in relationships with fairly abusive partners because, as he would honestly share, if he didn’t have a partner with whom to live he would be homeless. The bullying and peer abuse that led to him dropping out of school has left its mark and he is trying to dig his way out, and it’s a long, dark path.

I recall checking my voice mails early one morning before work, and listening in heart breaking horror, as I learned that a queer mutual friend of several of my teenage clients had hung herself the previous night. I was familiar with this girl, who had committed suicide, because they both frequently spoke of her. When I saw these two clients that same day, they were both obviously wracked in pain with all the things that go along with the ones left behind by suicide—what could we have done, why didn’t we see this coming, why wouldn’t her parents get her help? But, as if that wasn’t enough, one of the girls, who also identified as queer, sat sobbing on my sofa as she told me how unsympathetic her parents were to this devastating loss. By her reports her parents were not at all accepting of her orientation, and did some ridiculing of their own. So, the night my client learned of her friend’s death she was hysterical, and went to her mother for comfort, only to have her mother respond by saying, “well, that’s what happens to gay kids, they end up hanging from rafters.”

Well, I’m here, we’re all here, to say ‘no.’ That’s not the inevitable fate of gay kids. Swinging from rafters, jumping off bridges, shooting themselves in the head… this is not the unchangeable fate of our queer kids!

How I wanted to transmit to these clients, to my friends, and so many others, a sense of the tenderness of God’s love, of these totally devoted images such as this passage from Hosea. I wanted them to know that they too had access to a love bigger than all this pain; that they too could tap into a love that would not let them go. This is our job – to take this love to the people, to be living examples of this determined devotion.

As some of us have been telling our stories for the video, I’ve wondered about who didn’t make it among us. Who would have been here, sitting with us now if they could have made it a little longer? How has God grieved for the lives cut short due to hate? Who are we missing? What ghosts are among us who dreamed of seminary and theological education, but who didn’t survive the crucible of a queer childhood, adolescence, and young adulthood? Where would they be sitting right now? How would they enrich our community and our lives here at Union? Who would be their boyfriend, girlfriend, their partner? Who would be their best friend on the hall? And so I look out at your faces and am filled with gratitude that you made it, that we have the chance to become the beloved community; that we have the chance to share our stories with each other. I also am grateful to have made it, and grateful that I have been able to cling to my daughtership during dark times.

And out of Egypt I called my daughter. Out of Egypt I called my son. Out of Egypt I called my child. Daughtership, sonship, beloved child…. What does it mean to be called out of Egypt, out of bondage, out of slavery? What does it mean to be called to freedom, to life? Sometimes we prefer the bondage we know over the freedom we don’t know. But we are called, if we can hear – and I believe we can hear when something inside of us is ready to hear – to take the first steps of a journey towards freedom. Sometimes that first step is a commitment to find support, to find somewhere you can be honest.

For me I heard the call towards freedom one day in 1997. I was a campus minister with InterVarsity Christian Fellowship,a conservative parachurch ministry, and I reached a point after years of being in reparative therapy, where I could no longer live with my internal incongruence. I reached the point where I didn’t care if I was indeed going to go to hell, because I was already in hell – my life was hell, my internal struggle had driven me to the brink of again wanting to be on the other side of this existence into the next one, just wanting Jesus’ arms around me. So I picked up the phone and called my supervisor. And, as I suspected, I was asked to resign, I was then asked to leave my non denominational church, which led to loosing most of my friends, and my family relationships experienced a type of death from which they have never fully recovered. And, it was in this wilderness space that I spent a lot of time reading and praying and wrestling with what to do. Regardless of what others said, what did God say? Could I still have a relationship with God and live this earthly life in a way that honored all parts of me, including my sexuality? I had wanted to be in vocational ministry since early childhood, and I thought that dream was over, and I was not sure who I was without this dream. I knew I did not want to live without a palpable connection to God, because to me that has been the only thing that gives life meaning. So, I decided I would take the first step. I would just move forward with what I could, and live, and see what happened. It was kind of an experiment because I was out of options, other than suicide. Of course what I found was more connection with God, and that God did not forsake me, but met me in ways I could have never known without taking that first step.

In this way, I was experiencing something similar to what Hosea describes at the end of the 11th chapter: “They shall come trembling like birds from Egypt, and like doves from the land of Assyria; and I will return them to their homes.” The freedom of flying, even though you’re trembling. The sense of soaring even though you’re shaking – but heading to your true home. I happen to believe that home is always and only coming home to that love, that Divine love, that claims us and declares us perfectly made. In essence I believe coming home is a kind of coming home inside of ourselves, to rest in the love that waits for us there. As these tragedies in our queer community have moved us to share our own stories, as we have been moved to do anything we can to give a struggling kid hope for one more day, I have come to feel that we can become, that we are becoming the beloved community. And I believe it is from that grounded place that we move out into the world to serve, to stir, to rage, to liberate, to mourn, and to ultimately heal. As Hafiz said, “God revealed a sublime truth to the world, when He sang, ‘I am made whole by your life. Each soul, each soul completes me.’”

When Tyler Clementi was a child I loved him.

When Billy Lucas was a child I loved him.

When Seth Walsh was a child I loved him.

When Asher Brown was a child I loved him.

When we were children God loved us.

—Barbara L. Rice, MS LPC

©2010 Project Union Responds. Reprinting available with permission.

Click on the image below to view the video:

–Video coordinated and produced by Project Union Responds team. ©2010 Project Union Responds

Blankfein: Trust me. I'm doing God's work here.

This Tuesday Goldman Sachs executives will go before the Senate’s Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations. A string of indicting emails have been revealed by the S.E.C. and the Subcommittee charging that Goldman fraudulently intended to mislead investors on risks (bets) related to mortgage-backed securities. The S.E.C. is charging that Goldman created and marketed securities that were deliberately designed to fail. Moreover, Goldman was so clever that they knew how to profit off those failures as the American people lost their homes. Economist Paul Krugman likens it to looting, pure and simple.

Last November, Lloyd Blankfein, the chief executive of Goldman Sachs, claimed that Goldman Sachs was “doing God’s work”. A month before that Goldman Sachs executive Brian Griffiths said that Jesus would understand Goldman’s work: “The injunction of Jesus to love others as ourselves is a recognition of self-interest. . . . We have to tolerate the inequality as a way to achieving greater prosperity and opportunity for all.”

Essentially, much of Wall Street practice has become a game in which a few people are opulently paid to mislead and exploit consumers and investors. What’s more, its a game that rewards so well that those profiting will say anything to stay in the boon. What’s next, a testimony about a visit from Gabriel?

What we can hope for the most is a road to Damascus experience. If Saul could become Paul, maybe Goldman in a miraculous act of contrition can fall to its knees and beg for forgiveness.  Probably like you, I’m not overly-convinced a conversion experience is coming, but maybe Tuesday will be another chance to shine some more light on these egregious practices–maybe not blinding, but light nonetheless.

NY Times: Goldman Cited ‘Serious’ Profit on Mortgages

And I think that blaming it for the financial collapse is a horrific example of “blame-the-victim” scapegoating.

Yes, African-Americans and Latinos held more sub-prime mortgages than did whites and yes, African-Americans and Latinos are broadly represented in Prosperity churches. This is correlation, not causation. The holders of those toxic mortgages are not the people who originated the loans. They are not the people who profited from risky lending. We often hear the term “predatory lending” in these situations. The predators were the banks; the people in Prosperity churches were the prey. Quoting Rosin’s article about Pastor Garay’s congregation:

One other thing makes Garay’s church a compelling case study. From 2001 to 2007, while he was building his church, Garay was also a loan officer at two different mortgage companies. He was hired explicitly to reach out to the city’s growing Latino community, and Latinos, as it happened, were disproportionately likely to take out the sort of risky loans that later led to so many foreclosures. To many of his parishioners, Garay was not just a spiritual adviser, but a financial one as well.

In pointing this passage out, what I want to make clear is that it is dishonest to just blame a particular church or theology without looking at the relationship between that church/theology and capital markets. Rosin does a fine job of pointing out troubling aspects of Prosperity Gospel thinking but she leaves off any implications for or indictment of the markets in which Prosperity preachers operate. It borders on racism to lay blame for the sub-prime collapse at the feet of African-American and Latino borrowers while not mentioning the White bank executives who invented sub-prime mortgages in the first place.

None of the foregoing should be understood, however, as a defense of Prosperity Gospel’s claims about Christianity. I want only to point out that–theologically and sociologically speaking–Rosin has not sufficiently examined the issues before her. As to Prosperity preaching itself, I think it does enough damage on its own:

Once, I asked Garay how you would know for certain if God had told you to buy a house, and he answered like a roulette dealer. “Ten Christians will say that God told them to buy a house. In nine of the cases, it will go bad. The 10th one is the real Christian.” And the other nine? “For them, there’s always another house.”

Pastor Garay has argued his way right into logical fallacy: the self-sealing argument. This is merely one example of many given in the article. Others include poor exegesis, proof-texting, torturous re-imaginings of the social messages of the Gospels, love of this-worldly status… I could go on, but that’s another article entirely.

“Praise God! It’s a miracle,” two women decide as they fall to their knees in prayer.

The next day The Catholic League president Bill Donohue immediately demanded an apology from David, and the media had something to talk about other than Abdullah Abdullah dropping out of the Afghan run-off. For the media it was comic relief. For many Christians it was a call to arms against those who defile the “sacred.” (Check the comments on Fox’s coverage if you need verification—almost 1400 comments when I posted this.)

Is it offensive? Of course it is. A picture of Jesus on a sitcom may not be sacred, but it, in the Christian’s mind, still points to the sacred in some way. However, I gotta say we miss what’s going on here if we focus on the outcome of David’s heavy flow: a urine tear on a picture of Jesus. That’s not what’s important. David’s stunt was not so much about the urine on the picture of Jesus as it was a satire on religious zealotry. The kind of religious zealotry that continually proclaims one’s own martyrdom with no recognition of how “true belief” denies others’ freedom. Because, you know, if you’re preoccupied with your own perceived harm, when can you see how you have harmed others?

What’s more important here: Defending a water coloring of Jesus on a television show—a show, mind you, that has made its name off being offensive? Or, I don’t know, maybe calling to question some things that really matter? I hear there are a lot of hungry people in the city. Maybe we can be upset about that together.

Or, maybe we can get upset each time the first amendment doesn’t go our way. That sounds productive…

Watch the clip:
youtube.com

Media/Commentary from All Sides:
mediamatters.org
usatoday
firstthings.com
Bill O’Reilly (Video)