Why Jennifer Knapp Matters

In a few weeks, the University Baptist Church will co-sponsor a Jennifer Knapp concert with our friends at the University United Methodist Church and Trinity Methodist Church. Some of you may know her from her old roots as a Grammy-nominated Christian music artist. She had quite a run in the 90's selling more than a million albums over just a few years. She catered to the Christian music industry, writing songs from her personal faith journey (and if you don't know who she is, I won't hold it against you). 

She began to wrestle with her sexual identity around the same time that she quit the music business. In interviews, she said that her desire to call it quits wasn't directly tied to her decision to come out as a lesbian, but for those of us who have come out, often times looking back, we can see how those decisions to be most fully who we are and to name our own identity permeate every other facet of our living. 

In 2009, Knapp was back with some new music, a new identity, a partner of eight years and a story of her journey towards love and inclusion. Though shunned by much of the Christian consumer market, Knapp has found an audience of faithful followers and supporters. Knapp bridges this weird divide: the conservative theology that so many of us grew up with and this new found identity of same-sex attraction and binding that up in love. 

I remember coming out to my friends and family. I am one of the fortunate ones who didn't have it too bad. My family, friends, and church community, for the most part, loved and accepted me for who I was. And the ones who didn't fell away or eventually came around. My loving community was still standing when I named the fullness of who I am. 

But my experience, unfortunately, is not everyone's experience. And I find that it is too easy to forget that sometimes. I have friends whose experience is not so easy. One friend of mine has just been completely shut out of her family of origin as she has begun planning her wedding with her life-long partner. Another is in an opposite-sex marriage with her best friend but is desperate for romantic love, as she has discovered her same-sex attraction. 

Sometimes as we journey away from that place of coming out or being outted, either as a member of the LGBT or a fervent supporter and ally, and that place of coming out looks so small in the rear-view as we look back on it, we can forget that others have just begun that journey. They are struggling for community. Searching for home. Desperate for the caring voice that says you are loved and accepted just the way you are. They are searching to hear the words "God loves you, just the way you are." 

Even in the wake of the Supreme Court's historic decision, we still live in a world where people are shunned, pushed out, and where young people take their own lives because the journey ahead looks too hard, steep, or thorny. We have folks walk through our church doors, young and old, rich and poor, where this journey is a new one. And so often unfamiliar and scary. 

Jennifer Knapp's concert matters. Jennifer Knapp offers a place of sanctuary. She appeals to that conservative Christian consumer base, is a familiar face in a new world for some. Her journey and story offer a place of refuge for people who are owning sexuality and identity for the first time. And we here at the University Baptist Church are called to offer that refuge. Though our coming out may be a distant memory, remembering that the wounds are fresh for so many is so important. Every once in a while I need a reminder that not everyone is where I am on the journey. And sometimes that is a firm kick in the pants (and thanks be to God for that). Because when I am open to that self-awareness, I can be an agent of God's refuge and peace in ways that I may not have otherwise been. 

So as we continue to celebrate our freedom to marry, may we keep an open awareness to others who are fresh on the journey. And as we continue to be a place of loving inclusion, may our self-awareness help us remember where we've been and open us up to where we are headed. May we always keep the power of inclusion at hand. 

I have dreams

Often, when I am on the verge of waking up, I am dancing between two worlds.  One is of apparent allergens in the air, cedar in particular, making my face feel heavy and the other is a world of deep, deep sleep where unusual scenarios play out and the most curious assortment of people gather.  I have intense dreams.  Just last night, in a world only created in my mind, I had a vivid struggle with someone I love dearly.  Eventually I convinced myself that I must be dreaming and there is no way this scenario would ever play out in reality and if I could just wake myself up, it would all be over.

Some dreams are funny.  Some rattle me to the core.  Sometimes I'm in the dark, something is chasing me and my legs are so heavy that I can't seem to get them to move at all, let alone run with the vigor that's pumping through my veins.

Some dreams I forget almost immediately.  As I make my way downstairs to start the morning coffee, the dream dissipates like early morning fog.  Other dreams haunt me for days and days.  Dreams I can't shake from my memory and replay in my head with great detail.  These dreams are the dreams that I wish would sometimes leave me be.  These dreams have the ability to knot stomach and rack my brain for hours on end.

The Bible talks a lot about dreams.  Especially in the Hebrew Scriptures, we see that dreams held some sort of significance.  Joseph was an interpreter of dreams.  Many times, it is on the brink of sleep that angels of the Lord appears to say something to God's people.  When the prophet Joel acts as a mouthpiece for God, God says that the old folks will dream dreams and the young will see visions.  I think Joel is talking more about Martin Luther King Jr and John Lennon dreams and less about my nightly wanderings down darklit paths.  And while I share visionary dreams of a world in peace and a world free of oppression, hatred, and war, I also dream dreams that speak to my personal journey.  And I am not the first and I think there is something to be said about that.

When I wake up from one of those gut-wrenching dreams, the kind of dream that I know is going to hold me hostage for the day, I've had the tendency to grit my teeth and fight through those dreams.  I've been one to wait for the tide to subside to return to my sense of normalcy.  However, lately, I'm trying to do a better job of letting my dreams speak to me.  I've been trying to be more proactive about running alongside my dreams instead of being dragged through the mud by them.

These dreams speak to my insecurities.  They speak to, perhaps, my inconsistencies.  Often my fears are played out right before my very eyes and I have to come to terms with what that fear would look like in reality.  These types of dreams speak to the fears that lay dormant inside in my waking self that come raging to life as I rest helplessly in my sleep.  My dreams make me come face-to-face with the fears I mask.

Lately, naming those fears has been a healing practice.  When I face people from my past that have trespassed against me, I am learning to lean into forgiveness.  When I face the personality traits of myself that I am most afraid of, I am learning how to be delivered from the evil that rests inside of my soul.  Healing comes when we can face our fears and when we can let go of those insecurities that we hold onto so tightly.

I have dreams.  But I believe God's desire for us is to see how those dreams speak into our waking lives.  We have the opportunity to see where there is a space for healing and to work towards wholeness and repair.

Scarred

Lately, my dog Kudjo and I have made a habit of checking out Texas State Parks.  Texas has a great state park system-- definitely underfunded-- but a great system for sure.  We are regular hikers at McKinney Falls State Park, which is within Austin City limits.  But recently we ventured out to Bastrop State Park, just a few miles from the church where I serve as youth and music minister.  Kudjo and I spent a Friday morning working in the youth room and then headed out to the state park for an afternoon hike.

I was curious to see what shape the park was in.  Before I moved to Austin, I spoke with the Rector, Mother Lisa, at Calvary about the community and she reminded me of news articles that seemed so distant in my mind.  While I was sipping coffee and reading the news in the safe confines of my Louisville bed in 2011, Bastrop County was being overtaken by the most destructive wildfire in Texas state history.  My very removed memory was immediately replaced with personal stories of loss, destruction and pain.  Over 1,500 homes were destroyed by the fire.  Nearly 50 families in our parish alone lost their homes.  The fire is something that, for this community, is a shared memory.  A small Texan community came together to take care of each other.  And as an outsider coming in, I have had only listening ears and words of comfort as these memories and stories are shared with me.

So when Kudjo and I took our trip out to Bastrop State Park that day, I knew what we were to find.  We were greeted by signs warning about falling trees and eroded trails.  We were also greeted by a happy Park Ranger, who wanted to make sure we knew what was hidden just behind the tall pines that towered at the entrance at the park.  She told us of the fire, that 96% of the state park burned.  She told us of the replanting efforts taking place and she also told us of a road that would lead out into Buescher State Park, just 15 miles down the road, which was more suitable for hiking and nearly untouched by the fire.  I thanked her for the information and headed down the road.  Within a half of a mile and with the turn of a corner, our world quickly changed from tall beautiful pines to the remnants of trees that once lined the landscape. 

The site of the state park is literally breathtaking.  I stood at the lookout, surveying our surroundings of tall, black, dead trees, when a light rain started to fall.  I said, "Thank you for the rain, God".  But then, almost immediately, I grew a little bitter.  I thought, "if only rain would have fallen earlier.  Why didn't this rain come before the fire?  If only this ground wasn't starving for a little rain two years ago..." I hated to think of the lost possibilities that rain could have brought for this now lifeless landscape.  I hated to feel that cool water hit my skin... that same medicine that could have saved the all of the life that had been lost around me.  The drizzle turned into a steady rain and my bitter journey began as we walked down the trail that lay before us

As we steadily made our way down and around the hills, my mind wandered to the "why's" to God.  Why this?  Why that many homes?  Why all of this beautiful forest?  Why...?  I thought about the very practical reasons fires like this happen.  Central Texas has been and continues to experience one of the worst droughts in history.  That year in particular was one of the hottest summers on record for the state of Texas.  And heavy winds brought down power lines and then fueled the sparks that were created by those downed lines.  There are very concrete reasons why this fire happened the way it did.  But is still does not calm my larger why?  Why, God?

Walking through the scarred forest, I found myself thinking about those practical answers to my larger questions and ultimately couldn't help but think about the systemic ways that evil or sin enter our world.  Sin, for some, are things that you avoid-- certain behaviors, beverages, thoughts, or attractions.  Sin, for me, however, goes much deeper and permeates our cultures, our relationships, our politics, our standards, our ecological choices, and our world in ways that are far beyond simple black and white, yes and no, easy answers.  

So as I walked the trails of a land that is scarred by this fire, I think about the fact that it will be generations before the scars will be but a distant memory.  This landscape, for generations, will have the visible signs of something awful.  And I am reminded of the Israelites and their 40 years in the desert.  I am reminded that their sin was felt for generations after them.  As is much of our lives.  Evil or sin or whatever you want to call the bad in the world permeates our lives and our systems and leaves scars.  Some wounds are quickly healed while others may last generations.  The visible sign of the brokenness of larger systems permeates that forest, permeated the Israelites, and thus permeates our own lives and tiny worlds that we create for ourselves.

I continued my journey through the trails, treading lightly so to not disturb the towering domino blocks disguised as trees and my eyes were stretched searching for signs of green.   And no sooner, I found just over the hill, there were seedlings popping up everywhere.  New life out of this scarred landscape.

Eventually, the scar will fade.  Eventually the loblolly pines will regain their prominence in this lost pine region.   Eventually Bastrop State Park will be thriving again.   Eventually life will arise out of this death and this fire will be but a distant memory.  It will be generation before this fire's scar fades, but already among the black of the dead trees, new life is breaking forth.  And so goes our lives.  We may have scars and we may create scars, but may those visible reminders also be places for new life to spring forth.  May they be places where healing and forgiveness are found.

a small window into the forest.

New life springing forth

Miles and miles of burnt forest.

In the darkness... we wait

As a minister, I have a lot of friends in ministry.  Due to this overabundance of religious folks in my life, my Facebook newsfeed has been flooded with Advent posts.  Most ministers in my denominational tradition and similar traditions have a great appreciation for the church calendar and often try to fight against the ads and the and commercials that have been blaring Christmas music for months now.  And while the commercial Christmas season is upon us, the Church is in a season of waiting.  The Church has found it fruitful to engage in a time of waiting.  So we wait.

And while I could go on and on about waiting for this Christ Child--waiting for the small and vulnerable baby to be born as the first sign of showing the world a subversive way to be in the world-- this season of waiting is always wrapped in the darkness which consumes us.  There are so many wonderful things about the Christmas story and layers to the advent waiting, and while I appreciate the many angles of Advent, I am most enthralled with the small candle that is lit in the darkness, reminding us that this darkness will not last forever.

I have great appreciation for the intermingling of the pagan traditions of the winter solstice and birth of the Christ child.  Christians have not developed anything new when they created a season of waiting for the light in this season of darkness.  Instead, they shared in this waiting with people from around the world, putting their own angle on it.

I have a really hard time with winter.  Winter has always been my least favorite season.  I have a really difficult time enjoying the cold, long nights.  As much as I love a good bourbon on a cold winter night, I would still, on any day, rather be watching the sunset at 9:30pm in the heat of the summer.  But every fall I find myself fighting for daylight as it slips away, day by day.  And then as December rolls in, and I find myself again defeated in my fight for the light, I wait.  I know that I must wait.  The light is coming, even if it is not yet here.

Soon after Ashley and I first started dating, she spent a summer working in Ohio at the Arc of Appalachia Nature Preserve.  One of the landmarks that the preserve has acquired is a Native American mound formation called "Serpent Mound".  And while I will not claim much knowledge about the ancient culture that built this mound, it is clear that there was a huge appreciation for the astronomical calendars, in particular the winter and summer solstices.  The giant mound formation which forms a huge serpent is built in such a way that the sunset of the summer solstice sets directly in line with the head of the serpent and the sunrise of the winter solstice rises directly in line of the coil of the tail of the serpent.  How cool is that?

picture of the summer solstice celebration, 2010

The solstices, these days, are celebrated by local pagans and hippies at the mound.  The summer that Ashley worked at the Preserve, we went to celebrate the longest day of the year with the drummers and meditation circles.  And while I cannot claim to know what these ancient cultures thought about these astronomical events, it was quite the experience to spend a solstice on this site that has surely had visitors and celebrations for thousands of years.  I hope to one year spend that winter solstice up on that hill.


Winter begs us to wait and look for that light that is to come.  And as the early church leaders placed this Christian celebration right in line with pagan celebrations of the solstice, they entered into the larger dance in which we are just a part.

So as the minutes of light continue to slip away into the darkness, every year I enter this season of Advent with an expectant heart.  I wait for the light to return.  I join in the pagan celebration in waiting for the solstice.  And I join in the Christian celebration in waiting for the vulnerable Christ candle to be lit in the darkness of winter.

Anger

This morning, I had an early encounter with the world as I dropped Ashley off at work.  She starts work at 7:45, so  I was off to run some early morning errands.   As I made my way through the Austin traffic, the humdrum of the morning commute, I came across a man crossing an intersection, and clearly upset with something.  As I keyed in on this man, scanned the situation to try to piece together what happened, I realized that he was telling off a truck that had inched a little too close to the cross walk.  With the full -bodied, every-inch of his being, full-lunged expression, this man made sure to let the truck know that he was going to cross the road anyway.   And he did... making a commotion the whole time.

As I drove on, I thought to myself, "Wow, it's not even 8am and this man has had quite the day."  It takes a lot for me to get that worked up that early in the morning.  But as I think back on that encounter, between two strangers (I presume), I can't help but wonder why this man got so mad over such a minimal situation.  How does this man have the energy to put so much into his ranting about the trucks misstep?  Why does he react so violently to such a mundane situation?

I heard a story on NPR a few months back about how easy it is to de-humanize driving.  Most road-ragers out there, whether it be some or most of the time, somehow make a mental shift about the car and the person who is driving it.  In our brains, we go from this is a person driving to this is just a metal box in my way.  We put our blinders on to the humanity driving or even riding in the other car and instead of making safe and smart decisions, we often get filled with rage because someone cut us off, or because someone didn't press the gas as soon as the light turned green.

I'm guilty.  I have been known to be road-ragey from time to time.  But this morning, as I watched a man verbally accost a truck, I ponder a few things: Why is he so angry?  How did the truck driver respond to that?  Did that encounter put a damper on the start of his day?  Was he screaming right back at the man in the street?  Or was he caught off-guard and shocked by the encounter?

It causes me to slow down a little bit (both on the road and mentally) and remember that our lives are in concert with so many different people throughout the day.  Strangers, friends, partners, family... And when we dehumanize the very being of another person, we are missing the point.  Even if that person has really pushed our buttons.  And sometimes we will encounter people who are having a bad day.  People who are going to be angry and mean regardless of how kind your expression and inviting your words. People are going to cut you off in line at the school drop-off and not notice that the light has turned green. But instead of using that as an opportunity for lashing back at the anger in the world, perhaps we take it as an opportunity to absorb some of that anger and to put grace and peace back into the world.  Perhaps we look into the eyes of that other person and see the humanity in them and respond accordingly.  It may not seem like a lot, but it does create a little more peace in this world.