As promised, I have posted the lesson plans for a possible women’s group course on children’s literature and theology.  You can find the teaching plan on the Lesson Plans page.

It is quite possible I will also break out some of these books into separate courses, particularly some of the young adult novels like A Wrinkle in Time (or the entire Time trilogy) and Holes.  Please let me know if you have any suggestions or other children’s novels you might like to see covered in lessons or courses.

http://hackingchristianity.net/2011/09/methodist-kudzu-the-problem-of-beth-moore.html?utm_source=twitterfeed&utm_medium=twitter

I do not know much about Beth Moore, and I have never read or participated in one of her Bible studies.  I also think the author of the article makes some good points about Methodist theology and where it differs from other traditions.  The comments are for the most part nicely thought out, and well worth the read (a rarity on the internet!).  But there are a couple of points I would like to make, ones that might not come up in the discussion on hackingchristianity.net.

The first is, not to put too fine a point on it, that being wary or cautious of Beth Moore is already a case of too little, too late.  The United Methodist Church has not only let Beth Moore into the house, it gave her matches and lighter fluid.  On the one hand, as some commenters point out, the UMC  has lost touch with robust religious education in the first place (not that that is only a UMC problem).  We have the Disciple series, which I personally adore, but it is a long, intense course that requires considerable commitment.  None of those are bad things.  But we also need to balance those courses with shorter term courses for both men and women, and a not-so-small portion of those need to be related to the history and theology of Methodism (or other denominational classes, depending on the denomination) and theology and ethics in general.  I am also talking about going beyond “Methodism 101″ or Newcomers classes, though those are essential to the process.

As for the lighter fluid, well.  I have more than a sneaking suspicion that the reason Beth Moore works in so many Methodist churches is because both functionally and theologically, most Methodist churches are not really all that different from their more “conservative” counterparts.  Friends, Beth Moore is not the one setting the building on fire — it’s already burning.  As long as Methodist churches, whether they self-identify as mainline or not, or conservative or not, continue to practice in deed (if not word) as if there is little to differentiate them from other churches, then more conservative and “non-Methodist” ideas will continue to gain entrance.  All churches are different, but as someone who has recently been in more than a few different ones, including those of the Methodist tradition, they are beginning to look increasingly depressing on the inside.  I feel like the UMC’s tagline Open Minds, Open Hearts, Open Doors should have an asterisk, with fine print later on that reads “unless you are gay, poor, homeless, have unruly children who aren’t in the nursery, an immigrant, a person of color, disabled or differently abled, or something else that we say we support but really don’t.”  Functionally, what makes a United Methodist Church different on Sunday morning than the Baptist church down the street, particularly in the South?

Clearly the caveat is that not all UMC churches are struggling functionally or theologically.  A very many churches have thoughtful, kind and open-hearted clergy and laity who work hard to minister to their congregations, their neighborhoods and their world.  But I also think the United Methodist Church as a whole has some stepping-up to do, and sadly, that may be where the real problem is.  This is a church that is falling behind its mainline Protestant counterparts in issues like the ordination of gay clergy, still outlawed by the Book of Discipline and likely to remain so for the foreseeable future.  Even with the people trying to change the church from the inside, how long will it take the UMC to catch up with its Presbyterian, Episcopal, UCC and Lutheran counterparts?  The UMC, at least in my conference, still routinely places women in positions of lesser power than men.  Not all, but many, women are still only senior pastors of small churches, and assistant and associate pastors everywhere.  When we are still uncomfortable putting women in positions of power, does that mean we are still slightly uncomfortable educating them?

I think one of the most salient points for me, and one the comments picked up on quickly, is that there are almost no alternatives to Beth Moore, and I would broaden that to include not only the UMC/Cokesbury but most of religious education.  The commenters have come up with three possible alternatives, which is frankly three more than I was expecting.  The United Methodist Church is the largest denomination in the country and people can come up with only three possible female  religious education alternatives to one conservative woman.  And none of those women is widely distributed.  We are still desperately searching for resources to educate women within the church — the United Methodist Church, other churches.  There is something fundamentally wrong with that picture.

So when in doubt, improvise.  I will make the commitment to form new lesson plans and curriculum for women’s book groups and Bible studies.  My lesson plans for The Help are already online, and I will look to post other lesson plans I have done in the past in the next few days (including one on using children’s literature to discuss theological issues and one on religion and television/movies).  In the next weeks I will try to post at least one new (small) curriculum a week on a novel or non-fiction book people might want to read in churches.  These will look much like the curriculum I did for The Help.  If anyone has suggestions on books they would like to see a curriculum/lesson plans for, please let me know!

In any case, it is always a full-on run for me until Parent’s Night, at which point I hit the obstacle course’s brick wall and try to climb it through sheer will (preaching is less nerve-wracking for me than any parent meeting, which I may want to note for future vocational discernment purposes).  This Parent’s Night, at one of the class informational sessions, I made a joke while introducing myself that I have both an M.A. in education and an M.Div. — and what else can you do with those things except teach children at a church?

In essence, though, it has been a question I’ve been asking myself lately:  having been educated and trained to perform ministry, how is my current work a ministry?  Upon reflection, I find the following to be true:  the care and teaching of young children is an intense practice in loving kindness, practicing patience, and doing justice.

Most parents would probably agree, of course.  But try imagining one child, or two, or three — and then imagine twelve of them, all the same age, all vying for the same amount of resources, including your time, attention, and patience.

Sometimes I think that anyone who is interested in peacemaking should spend some time in a toddler classroom, where every ego is new, fresh, and the most important thing to that child.  The day is an exercise in fairness and conflict-resolution.  Who had this toy first?  How does “first” equal (or not equal) “fair”?  How long is it right for someone to have a toy before they have to give it to someone who wants it?  Do we have to take turns or can you work together (with the same blocks, at the same paint easel, with the same baby dolls)?

How we treat others is of the utmost importance.  It’s okay to be mad or angry or frustrated or sad or upset, but that doesn’t mean you can hurt other people.   We use our words.  It’s not okay to hit, push or bite just because we don’t get what we want.  We notice when other people are hurt and try to help them.  We don’t want them to be hurt by something we did.  Sometimes it’s better to walk away and find something else to do.  Sometimes we have to stand up for ourselves when someone is trying to hurt us, but that doesn’t mean we can hurt them back.  Sometimes we have to ask for help from someone bigger (older, more powerful, cosmic) than us when we don’t know what to do.

I don’t know when we stop learning these things (or forget that we did learn them), but I often think that our communities small and large might be better off if we kept some of our early education in mind.   I, at least, will be trying to practice these principles in the months ahead.  It might not be complicated theology, but it is certainly not a bad way to live — or to practice ministry.

I have a particular interest in this theme.  I was always a literature person (I maxed out my lit credits at Sarah Lawrence), and at Candler I was able to continue an interest in literature and theology (thanks to Carol Lakey Hess, Ellen Marshall, and Joy McDougall).  To make a long story short, I think that narrative and storytelling can have huge implications for theological reflection and religious practice.  I think that people identify and connect with stories — their own stories; fictional stories; the real-life stories of others.  Narrative has enormous power to move us, to make us rethink assumptions, to make us more engaged, to empower us.   Storytelling, both written and oral, has so far been explored in fields as diverse as ethics, religious education, pastoral counseling, dialogue between religious faiths, peacebuilding efforts, and more.  For example, the CNN religious blog posted an essay on storytelling this weekend. You can find the story here:  http://religion.blogs.cnn.com/2011/08/07/my-faith-how-storytelling-saved-my-life/?iref=obnetwork.

I am interested in storytelling in many of the above mentioned theological settings.  My unique interests are in the field of religious education and fiction, particularly how literature can be used in church settings to explore theological issues.  My M.Div. thesis, which I have posted on the new page “Academics,” explored the idea of using book clubs in churches as a vehicle for the religious education of women.  The Help holds a special place in my heart because it is the novel I used as a model for the type of work that could be done in such a setting.

The Help also profoundly uses the theme of storytelling itself, as a novel that not only tells a story few have hard before, but as a novel that uses storytelling as a connection between characters and voices.  The women in the book are writing a “book-within-a-book,” based on the African-American maids telling their life stories — and the stories of their employers — to the protagonist of the novel.  Throughout the novel, we see how rich life is when women share their stories.

In honor of the movie’s release — where I hope even more people will be exposed to the power of storytelling —  I have posted the lesson plans I created for a women’s book group to read The Help together.  You can find a link to the lesson plans on the new page “Lesson Plans.”  It is my hope that someone will be able to use them!  (If you do, I’d love to hear about it. )

I’m not exactly new to “church shopping,” though I do have a healthy dislike of that phrase.  (It smacks of a little too much consumerism for my taste, a little too much “what can this church do for me” rather than “what I can I do to serve this church.”  But it is a seemingly irrevocable part of our ecclesiastic vocabulary these days, at least judging by the amount of times it was used during my education, not to mention administrative church meetings.)  One of the distinctions of my childhood was a healthy dose of moving for my father’s job, and we spent time looking for churches in every place.  I mostly have memories of the churches where we ended up staying — and of peeling off pantyhose in the Florida heat as soon as we got home.  And although my parents were (and are) long time United Methodists (before the Methodists were even United), more important to them when I was young was where they liked the pastor and the people.  As a result I have experience in traditions as varied — or not — as Presbyterian, Dutch Reformed, and United Methodist.   As a result, middle-of-the-road Protestantism is more or less my brand of choice.

These days, however, my thoughts have turned to Anglicanism.  I am looking for a denomination where, as a lesbian, I can be ordained if I choose to pursue that calling, and since I live in the deep South, until recently there were only a couple of choices in that regard.  Fortunately for me, the Evangelical Lutherans and Presbyterians have now come around on this issue, but still, the Episcopal church looms large on my horizon.  Most of that is still about comfort.  As my academic adviser pointed out, when she was asking me, with her head literally on her desk in a gesture of both exasperation and supplication, if I was sure I didn’t want to “go Episcopal”  (and after I had assured her that I was uncomfortable “going UCC” like many of my brethren), Anglicanism and Methodism are sister traditions.  Because of my interests, academic and otherwise, ecclesiology and specific church doctrine, including denomination, is important to me.  Too Reformed (yes, with a capital R) and I tend to get skittish, too evangelical — or unstructured in general — and I get the heebie jeebies.  My partner grew up Episcopalian, another excellent reason to explore that church tradition.

Still, on Sundays, as I sit in different Episcopalian churches, I feel like a little girl playing dress up with clothes that are too big for me.  Academically I understand the order of worship, and even like it.  I love taking communion every Sunday, and that may end up being the official seal of approval, since that would be difficult to give up now (as an aside, UMC, every first Sunday, really?  For shame!).  But it’s the little touches that are more difficult, like the fact that the hymnals only have numbers and not titles on the hymns.  We also tend to attend high church services, and I find myself carefully reading the instructions on communion in every bulletin.  I take by intinction (the method of dipping the bread in the cup) out of both habit and hygiene, but different churches have different rules — can I touch the bread myself?  Or do I have to have it done by the server and placed on my tongue?

Many of the things that make me uncomfortable will come, I know, out of practice.  I’ll grow into them.  More important are other temperatures I take during services:  what is the theological take in the sermons?  Are there other gay and lesbian congregants?  How racially and ethnically diverse is the congregation?  How warm are the people?  How do they treat visitors?  How do the clergy seem in less ecclesial moments, like the parish announcements?  How many children are there, and how old are they?

Later, I will want to know what other parts of the church are like.  What are Sunday School classes like for adults?  What kind of groups does the church have?  I smile and have a church on my list almost just because they have a feminist theological group.

In other words, there’s really only one question I’m asking:  where will I fit in?

And that always reminds me, when I think about all the internal workings of a church, that it is made up of people.  Churches are a human institution, and they are all too human, in all the best and the worst of ways.  They are subject to all of our own projections about what is right, what is good, what is fair, what and who God is and how we live that out, and who we are.  The universal fact of every church, in any denomination is ultimately human frailty.  I know my own worries about hymn titles and intinction are reflections, imbued with my own frailty.

Thank goodness for a living God and a Holy Spirit, really.  No wonder we celebrate Pentecost!  If not for that, imagine then where our churches, and we, would be.

How disposable are people to churches?

Most good pastors I know (and having been to seminary, I know a number of good pastors) would answer that people are not, of course, disposable to churches at all. In most Protestant traditions I am familiar with, people are the church.  There are certainly many theological and ecclesial arguments to be made in that vein. (Which are not germane to this essay, but which might be explored later.) For example, even in the United Methodist Church today, one of the arguments for the continuation of the interency system is that itinerency bestows a certain amount of responsibility for being The Church on a church’s membership and not its pastor; in other words,  moving pastors every few years helps ensure that churches stay together because of the members, not because of the personality of a pastor.  For another example, many pastors I know would also have to report, and are often judged on their effectiveness, at least in part, on their “people” numbers:  How many members are on the rolls? How many attend?  How many visitors are in regular attendance?  People count in our churches, and they are counted in many different ways.

But, and there is always a but, I wonder how much pastors, and people, really care about their church members.  How much do members really matter?  When it comes down to it, how disposable are people?  As long as business continues on as usual, and pews get filled, do we care who is in them?

That may be a bit unfair.  These questions have certainly been fueled by my own disappearing acts.  I have recently started looking for a new church to attend.  There are several reasons for this; most of them have to do with my denominational issues regarding the United Methodist Church and its refusal to ordain openly gay and lesbian men and women.  It has been easy for me to confuse my growing separation from the denomination with my growing separation from the church I used to attend.  Unfortunately, I do not see that changing, particularly as I continue to discern issues of my own call to ministry and ordination.

The fact of the matter is, though, that I stopped attending the church where I am a member last September.  I remember it clearly. It was stewardship Sunday, and the pastor had preached a distinctive sermon on how we (the people) needed to choose not just the UMC, but this church in particular to be our church.  (And to give our money to, of course.)  I cried through the entire final hymn because there was no way I could make that choice — no matter how much I might have loved this church, I could no longer worship at and serve a larger church that was wishy-washy on validating me simply as a person, much less adamant on disowning me as a possible member of the clergy.

My involvement with the church did not completely end at that moment. These things rarely have a clean break.  I had committed to teaching a nine-month adult spiritual formation class, and I honored that committment.  Tuesday nights I was still showing up, leading my small band of sometimes merry adventurers through scripture.  The problem was, I started going other places on Sundays.

The other problem was, no one seemed to notice.  The pastor and I tried to arrange a coffee meeting to no avail in February.  In May, nine months after I stopped attending that church regularly, I got what seemed to me to be a form letter email that I had been “missed” at the church.  That email still sits in my inbox, simply because I do not know what to say.  A church friend poked me on Facebook, and it was more touching to me than it probably should have been, because no one from the church had contacted me in months.

The fact was, I had disappeared, and it was okay.

I had served the church as a member.  I had served the church as an intern when I was at seminary.  I had taught Sunday school, run Sunday school, in fact; I had chaired committees, sat on administrative council, helped lead worship.  I had even preached from its pulpit.  But I stopped sitting in its pews, and no one blinked.

How often do we let this happen?  How often do places in pews start to go empty?  How many ghosts of former members litter the sanctuaries, the education buildings, of our churches? How often do people like me leave quietly, not because we had a huge falling out with the pastor, or other members; not because we move away; not because we got out of the habit?

How many people leave churches not with a bang, but a whimper?

The question, to me, is not so much why it happens.  The question is not how to stop it.  The question is: in the end, why are we okay with it?  Shouldn’t our people mean more to us than that?

Of course, people make decisions. I did.  I left of my own free will and, hopefully, with the help of the Holy Spirit as I continue on my own faith journey. I don’t think we need to chain people to our pews.

The thing is, open doors work both ways.  We’re thrilled when people use those doors to walk in.  Is that enough?  As long as people keep coming in, are we happy?

Should we be concerned with what happens when people use the open door on their way out?