odd man out.

(Part 3 of 3. See part 1 and part 2.)

For part three, I simply want to synthesize a few articles worth your time and then close with a personal anecdote.

When actor Johnny Galecki recently made an appearance on The View, the hosts asked him about rumors that have circulated about his sexuality.  His answer was a breath of fresh air (the discussion starts right about 4:00 into the video): “I’ve never really addressed those rumors because I always figured, why defend yourself against something that’s not offensive?”

When homophobia does not factor into a relationship, it opens the door for genuine empathy, understanding, and love.  The empathy, in fact, is a radical empathy that willingly takes on the shame and suffering experienced by the other.  This is a relatively new concept to me, but it resonates deeply with my experience.

Andrew Marin, talking about labels and his decision to live and work in Chicago’s gay district as a straight man, shares this story:

“Just last week I was walking to get my hair cut a man stuck his head out of the window of his truck and called me a Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag. Then he sped off to continue his day like that was a normal thing to do.

“Those occurrences are far more common then any of us living in Boystown would like to admit. Yet my daily decision to stay in Boystown on this journey of love has shown me moments like that are worth every minute of the Kingdom I boldly claim to be a part of — because I can’t love someone who has been ignorantly labeled unless I take that label on myself.”

The kind of empathy he’s describing is a profound demonstration of faithfulness, and it connects with Richard Beck’s recent reflections on the death of Matthew Shepard, lynchings, and the cross:

“Until we see Jesus standing with the cursed we will never understand the central symbol of our faith nor what it means to be a Christian.

“Saul falls on his face on the road to Damascus. He looks into the blinding light and asks, ‘Who are you Lord? And the reply comes: ‘I am the one you are persecuting.’

“Jesus hangs on the crosses of the world, from the trees and from the fences.”

I’ve often heard it said Christians are not meant to explain the suffering of the world or justify it; rather, our role is to suffer with people, to dwell with them “outside the camp” as a means of personifying Christ’s presence among them (Hebrews 13:13).  Derek Webb relates this well in an interview:

“When you see people who are marginalized or under the judgement of the religious structures in a culture, the model that Jesus gives us is to stand with those people and if necessary, even absorb the judgement with them. That’s what He did, ultimately absorbing all the judgement for them but at the very least be willing to have His reputation ruined in order to stand on the side of His friends and His family.”

When someone receives this kind of love, it has the potential to be absolutely transformational and life-changing.  I know this from experience. 

Last year on Spirit Day, when people wear purple to support LGBT youth and protest bullying, a straight friend and I went to lunch.  Walking from the car to the restaurant, we noticed we had inadvertently chosen near-identical purple long-sleeve shirts to wear in support of the cause.  You may know that the town in which I live (and in which we were eating lunch) is small and staunchly conservative, and we both became immediately aware of the potential speculation our appearance could inspire.  “Oh, great,” my friend said, rolling his eyes and layering on the sarcasm thick enough to insure I didn’t misunderstand his meaning, “We look like a couple of queers.”

Usually, I think my generation’s affinity for mocking inappropriate mentalities (racism, misogyny, homophobia, etc.) by espousing them ironically is dangerous and harmful, and if you know my friend, you know he never makes these kinds of jokes.  But on a day that had already been emotional and exhausting for me—a day when everyone, it seemed, was talking about LGBT issues—the message of his sarcasm was loud and clear: He was not afraid of what people thought, he was not ashamed of our relationship, and he cared enough about me to take on my labels.  He was not taking sexuality lightly, and he was not ignoring the significance of reputation; rather, he was empathizing with my experience, sharing my burden, and effectively undermining the power of any homophobic comment someone could have made.

Willfully taking on the labels of others to understand their shame and pain demonstrates faithfulness and love that are essential components of community.  This is the kind of community where mutual affection and trust leads naturally to the confrontation of sin in the lives of the other members of the community—where, because we build no artificial walls on the basis of homophobia or any other fear, we have the privilege and the responsibility to carry each other’s burdens and keep each other from sin.

This is the kind of community in which, through my interactions with others, I never have to doubt that God loves me and bestows his grace upon me freely.

(Part 2 of 3.  See part 1 and part 3.)

I see three strong distinctions between hamartaphobia, the Christian aversion to sin, and homophobia, an aversion to LGBT people.  My desire is that Christians who do not affirm same-sex relationships would reflect on their own behavior to discern whether they are exemplifying Christ’s love through their actions in this area.

First, hamartaphobia is consistent while homophobia puts undue weight on particular issues.  I’ve harped on about the ways many Christians prioritize homosexuality above other kinds of sin, and I’ll keep harping on it because I fear it demonstrates how profoundly our culture subtly shapes us and our approach to faith.

There are three main passages in the New Testament that seem interested in some kind of same-sex issues, and each of these passages discusses homosexuality in the same breath as other issues that are much more readily accepted in our culture.  So, I Corinthians 6 discusses “the greedy,” “drunkards,” and “slanderers.”  I Timothy 1 mentions “liars.”  (Each of these passages, of course, also lists the more general “sexual immorality.”)  And Romans 1, the most substantial passage discussing same-sex issues, provides a whole litany of vices: “greed,” “envy,” “strife,” “deceit,” “malice”; it describes “gossips” and those who are “arrogant and boastful”; and it even mentions those who “disobey their parents.”

I believe inconsistency is the main reason many condemnations of same-sex relationships ring false and appear bigoted to those outside of the church.  When Christians claim same-sex relationships are a sin like any other sin but then react to them differently from how they react to every other sin (see anecdote from part 1), the discord is jarring.  The churchgoer who would forbid a gay couple from attending his/her congregation while half-heartedly admitting, “I should really work on my gossip/greed/envy problem eventually” demonstrates glaring incongruity.

I suspect the hamartaphobe would be as concerned with his/her own sin as with the sins of others, and each of the issues listed above would be equally bothersome because each of them involves attitudes and behaviors that do not reflect God’s nature.  Greed, for example, would be as troublesome as sexual immorality (and, consequently, all forms of sexual immorality would be equally troublesome).

The great news here is that God freely bestows grace on all who sin.  One of the most humbling verses in the Bible—”For all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God”—is actually nestled within one of the most uplifting passages of the Bible—”There is no difference between Jew and Gentile,” and, “All are justified freely by his grace through the redemption that came by Christ Jesus” (Romans 3:22-4).  Genuine hamartaphobia tends to foster humility, since one can no longer elevate oneself by exaggerating the immorality of others.  The result is a community in which everyone has an equal claim because no one really has any claim, and forgiveness flows as freely as admonition.

Second, hamartaphobia occurs within the context of enduring relationship while homophobia prevents relationship.  The difference here is the end goal: homophobia seeks to condemn, but hamartaphobia seeks to redeem. 

Galatians 6:2 tells us to “carry each other’s burdens,” and there may be no more concise definition of community in all of scripture.  I used to think the ideal faith community was a place where each person had fixed his/her baggage enough to be able to engage the other people selflessly and compassionately, but I’ve come to believe the ideal faith community is one in which each participant genuinely trusts and relies upon the others enough for them all to work on their baggage together.  The processes of confessing, forgiving, mentoring, discipling, encouraging, witnessing, rebuking, and loving each require more than one individual, and they’re all essential spiritual disciplines meant to form us into the kind of people we’re meant to be.  This means our journeys of recognizing and overcoming sin contribute to our relationships with one another and, ultimately, our ability to love.  Community is crucial for formation.

Hamartaphobia, then, opens doors for continued relationship.  When one believer confronts sin in the life of another believer, that conversation should only be the tip of an iceberg of faithfulness, trust, dependence, and support, with the understanding that the confront-er has every intention of listening to and journeying with the confront-ee.  Anyone who has been on the receiving end of one of these conversations (when handled correctly) knows it results in a wide variety of emotions—humility and some surprise, perhaps, but eventually gratitude and appreciation, since the confront-er’s willingness to speak boldly and plainly demonstrates love, respect, and concern.  The point of confrontation is to take on the other person’s burden.

Homophobia, on the other hand, is a means of closing down relationship.  It breeds self-righteousness by pointing out the perceived flaws of another; it enforces shame and guilt, which bear no resemblance to the kind of grief that leads to repentance; and it requires none of the Christian virtues of humility, patience, or kindness. Homophobia aims to cut off and to distance the other, emphasizing differences in order to divide rather than searching for similarities in order to connect.  It rarely leads the individual towards greater health and holiness (whatever form those may take), since it heaps on paralyzing pain.  Homophobia is punishment, not discipline.

Third, hamartaphobia is an outpouring of love while homophobia is an outburst of fear.  In my opinion, this is sharpest distinction between the two and the central crisis.  I’ve come to believe that all of our interactions with each other find their motivations either in love or fear, and I don’t see much overlap between the two.

When fear motivates my actions, I’m necessarily more concerned about myself than the other person.  I’m worried about how things will turn out for me, what other people will think of me, what this person’s actions say about who I am, whether or not the relationship is beneficial for me.  When love motivates my actions, though, I’m concerned for the other person: how to help her, how to protect her, how to support and empower her, how to redeem her crisis.  I don’t mind what the relationship is costing me because I’ve taken on her burdens through empathy and feel her pain as my own.  I have the right to say something because I have demonstrated love to her consistently.

If I intentionally withhold love from another person for any reason (as many people explicitly do, upon discovering the sexuality of a friend or family member), I flagrantly disobey Jesus’ command to love my neighbor, which he identifies as second only to the command to love God (Matthew 22:37-40).  Or, as one blogger so perfectly put it, “If you cannot love others, there is a problem between you and God, not them and God.”  Let’s make no mistake about it: When we’re talking about homophobia as I’ve defined it, we’re talking about sin.  We’re talking about sin that seems to be diametrically opposed to the ministry and teachings of Jesus, insofar as he advocated love and relationship.

Maybe I’m dreaming, but I look forward to the day when we all of us will be more (or at least as) concerned about homophobia—as far as it means the inability to love—than we are about homosexuality, when words like “faggot” will be more shocking and offensive to us than expressions of same-sex affection are.  To be sure, this is the case in many places.  But it many other settings, Christians seem to be trailing behind a culture that finds homophobia unacceptable.  In our efforts to attain holiness, we’ve often been guilty of diminishing certain individuals down to our stereotypes, fears, and expectations of them. 

Sound off in the comments: How else do you see a distinction between homophobia & hamartaphobia?  Is it possible to differentiate the two as I’ve done here, or is that just the unfortunate “Love the sinner, hate the sin” dichotomy that never seems to play out with regards to LGBT issues?

(Part 1 of 3.  See part 2 and part 3.)

Once when I was eating dinner with a group of peers, a friend and I were talking about the nature of our relationship (she being unaware of my sexuality).  As she tried to describe our interactions, she eventually employed a common pop culture archetype: “You’re like my gay best friend!”  (She used this as a compliment, suggesting that she felt safe around me and that our friendship was free of tension or drama.) 

It was as if someone had pressed the “Mute” button on the various conversations around our table—the silence was that sudden.  Some of the awkwardness came from those few at the table who were privy to the ironic accuracy of her assessment, but most were simply stunned.  Finally, one of the men at the table turned the volume back up to explain their shock: “‘Gay’ is, like, the last thing any guy wants to be called.”  There were nods of agreement, and gradually she apologized and clarified her statement.  One of the nodding heads belonged to me, since it was a time in my life when I agreed being gay was the least desirable condition for any follower of Jesus.

I’m starting a series of posts to combat what I see as a profoundly deceptive and pernicious mentality in many Christian circles: that homophobia is a natural, suitable expression of sin-aversion, specifically when homosexuality is considered a sin.  It goes something like this: “I believe homosexuality is sinful, which explains my hostility toward homosexuals.  God’s design for humanity did not include same-sex relationships or even same-sex attractions, so my disgust with homosexuals is a natural result of the way their sexuality rebels against God’s design.  Expressing my disdain for homosexuals is my way of protesting a sinful lifestyle and calling the people around me to live up to God’s standards.”

Let me start with some wordplay.  I’m going to rely on two words: homophobia and hamartaphobia.  When I say “homophobia,” I’m referring to an aversion to LGBT people that may or may not be related to one’s moral commitments; when I say “hamartaphobia,” I’m referring to the Christian aversion to sin, insofar as sin means any attitude or behavior contrary to God’s design for the world.  My main thesis is that hamartaphobia is a healthy, essential position for followers of Jesus, whereas homophobia is toxic and contrary to the gospel.

[EDIT (1/26/12): Based on some comments, I want to clarify my terms a little more.  “Hamartaphobia” is actually a legitimate, diagnosable anxiety disorder, essentially defined as an irrational fear of making a mistake or committing a sin—this exists in the secular realm as well, even for people with no religious commitments.  Within Christianity, there is a kind of unhealthy hamartaphobia that results from a poor understanding of grace and forgiveness.  In these posts, though, I’m simply using the word “hamartaphobia” to refer to that healthy desire of a faithful Christian to avoid sin, and I choose the word because it’s a nice contrast for “homophobia.”]

(I recognize I’m in danger of falling into the “Love the sinner, hate the sin” dichotomy that has become very unpopular, but stick with me.)

Homophobia comes in a wide variety of forms: conscious feelings of disgust or distaste towards LGBT people, unwillingness or inability to talk about LGBT issues, a constant need to assert one’s heterosexuality (I’ve seen this more with males, such as the “no homo” meme), irrational fears about an LGBT individual’s intentions, desires, or general trustworthiness, a tendency to speak in stereotypes or broad generalities, discomfort in close relationships with LGBT individuals (especially those of the same sex), and yes, even outright verbal and physical abuse.  Here’s what doesn’t necessarily constitute homophobia in my book: believing same-sex relationships are not part of God’s design for humanity, walking with your Christian brothers and sisters and calling them to a particular sexual ethic, and genuine ignorance to the experiences of LGBT people based on a lack of exposure.

Hamartaphobia, on the other hand, comes from a place of submission to God’s will, a genuine desire to understand God’s structure for our lives and a willful obedience to that design.  The scriptures are rife with examples of appropriate distaste for sin.  We are called to “Have nothing to do with the fruitless deeds of darkness, but rather expose them.” (Ephesians 5:11); we sing, “Blessed is the one who does not walk in step with the wicked or stand in the way that sinners take or sit in the company of mockers” (Psalm 1:1); and we are instructed to “Submit [ourselves], then, to God. Resist the devil, and he will flee from [us]” (James 4:7).  And this hamartaphobia naturally extends into our relationships with other believers—as we live in community with one another, our mutual love requires us to hold each other accountable to the standards to which we have committed ourselves: We are to “correct, rebuke, and encourage—with great patience and careful instruction” (II Timothy 4:2), appreciate the benefits of discipline and instruction (Proverbs 15:32), and in very specific situations, to avoid association with those who claim to be believers but live in flagrant sin (I Corinthians 5).

The problem is when one confuses homophobia and hamartaphobia, when one’s belief that same-sex relationships are sinful (hamartaphobia) leads to any of the negative expressions listed above, like fear or silence or violence (homophobia)—or to the unstated assumption at that dinner table that being gay is the absolute worst way to be.  This is the catastrophe I want to help us avoid through the next few posts.

Every year on Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, I read King’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail,” which I cannot recommend enough to anyone passionate about issues of justice and equality.  As you may imagine, the letter has resonated with me much more deeply over the last few years, especially as I’ve become aware of the subtle and not-so-subtle forms of oppression that exist in regards to the LGBT community.

I can distinctly remember the first time I recognized the word “minority” as an accurate descriptor of me.  It happened the first time I came out to someone who was an ethnic minority, and as we talked back and forth, I suddenly realized there was a word to describe my experience—the experience of not fitting quite right, of inadvertently messing up the status quo by my very existence because my perspective and needs and expectations were different from what was common, of always punishing myself and apologizing to others for seeing things differently.  The word was “minority,” and though I think the prevalent race-sexuality metaphor is too simplistic, I do understand what it means to be an outsider.

There was a time when I thought the desperate cries of minorities (of all kinds) were little more than so much noise, manufactured discontent learned from years of life on the supposed margins.  I can pass as a member of the majority, and I’ve often been callous to the prophetic cries of minorities in my midst because I don’t personally feel the sting of what they’ve experienced: I’ve never been called a racial slur; I’ve never had my abilities or competence questioned because of my gender; I’ve never had trouble entering a building or participating in a worship service because of a physical disability; and I’ve never faced the despairing frustration of an economy with no place for me.  I often surrendered to the illusion that the world in which I live is perfectly fair, inclusive, and just.

And then I stopped fitting like I was supposed to fit, and then I understood what King meant in his letter: “Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.”  When I oppress my brother or sister, it may not be readily apparent to me how I’m hurting myself, especially when that oppression contributes to (or at least sustains) a lifestyle I enjoy and take comfort in.  But the poison of injustice is a toxin that spoils the reality of common human experience, much as a little yeast spoils the whole batch of dough (Galatians 5:9).  It doesn’t matter whether I am the direct victim of injustice because injustice hurts us all.

Through my participation in the body of Christ, I have discovered something more meaningful, significant, and fulfilling than what I’ve found anywhere else.  I love the church, and I want the church to represent the fullness of Christ’s body.  Nevertheless, that’s only possible when we have eradicated all remnants of injustice and oppression.  I’m often tempted to believe things are exactly as they’re meant to be, since I’m often comfortable as as an almost-member of the majority; but to succumb to that temptation would be to continue silencing the voices of my brothers and sisters who bear the burden of what the church is getting wrong, whose pain gives clear vision to see how far we are from what the church could be.

This is why I write this blog and why I just won’t shut up about the oppression of our LGBT sisters and brothers.  Yes, it hurts personally to be the victim of such oppression, and yes, I feel a particular tenderness for LGBT people like me, but I want to live into something that is even closer to the fullness of Christ than what I’ve gotten thus far.  As we all aim for that end—because surely what we’ve tasted of Christ’s love makes us yearn for more—the people who are oppressed possess an invaluable voice that continues to siphon away any of that lingering poison of injustice.  Their pain is our pain, and their hope is our hope.  This is why, like King, I can’t wait any longer to make things right:

“We know through painful experience that freedom is never voluntarily given by the oppressor; it must be demanded by the oppressed. Frankly, I have yet to engage in a direct action campaign that was ‘well timed’ in the view of those who have not suffered unduly from the disease of segregation. For years now I have heard the word ‘Wait!’ It rings in the ear of every Negro with piercing familiarity. This ‘Wait’ has almost always meant ‘Never.’ We must come to see, with one of our distinguished jurists, that justice too long delayed is justice denied.’”

Many Christians who have little experience interacting with LGBT people display hesitancy when they talk about LGBT people, and one of the main difficulties they face is choosing what terminology to use.  I completely understand this hesitancy, because an inconsistent jargon has developed among LGBT Christians in regards to what sort of language is most appropriate, most accurate, and most faithful to God’s calling on our lives.

This matters.  This matters because language shapes reality.  New language expands our minds to understand new concepts and to provide nuance for our perspectives.  Here’s an example: When my niece was first learning to speak, she would call any four-legged animal a “dog.”  She didn’t know the words for “horse” or “mouse” or “tiger” or “bear” yet, so she used the word “dog.”  But it wasn’t just that she didn’t know the names of different kinds of animals; it was that she perceived all four-legged animals identically.  Because she didn’t have language to describe different kinds of animals, they were all the same to her: They were all “dog.”  Now that her vocabulary has drastically increased, she can classify animals into all different categories using the correct words for them.  Her ability to perceive the difference between a dog and a horse was directly tied to her possession of different words to describe them.

Language also shapes reality in regards to one’s experience of sexuality.  From where I stand, there is a world of difference between the statements, “I’m gay,” and “I struggle with same-sex attraction.”  But it gets much more subtle than that.  There’s a difference between saying, “I experience same-sex attraction,” and “I struggle with same-sex attraction.”  There’s a difference between saying, “I am a homosexual,” and, “I have a homosexual orientation.”  There’s a difference between saying, “I am gay,” and, “I identify as gay.”

Many people perceive all of the above statements identically—they all sound like “dog.”  In my experience, though, the vast majority of Christians who have wrestled with reconciling some kind of nontraditional sexual attraction with faith have traveled a journey of semantics, which actually represents a much more profound journey of trying to understand how one’s sexual attractions and one’s identity are related.  Most of the LGBT Christians I know choose very specific words to describe themselves (though most demonstrate flexibility in order to communicate with different audiences) and have identified certain words they consider unacceptable.  In all honesty, this makes it extraordinarily difficult to write a blog like this one, since I’m trying to use inclusive and non-offensive language while writing concisely.  Even in this paragraph, I hate to use the phrase “LGBT Christians” because I want to honor those people I know who experience same-sex attraction but intentionally reject the language of “Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender” based on their own perception of identity.  For them, using those words to describe themselves is as inaccurate as calling a rabbit a “dog.”  Nevertheless, others reject the language of “struggling with same-sex attraction” with the same veracity.

(You’ll notice, by the way, I haven’t said anything about behavior or sexual ethics.  How descriptive language and behavior are related is a different conversation, but suffice it to say that I don’t personally believe any of the examples of language I’ve used above imply anything about behavior.  In my opinion, neither “struggle with same-sex attraction” nor “gay” nor anything in between tells me anything about how an individual lives.  But I digress, and I know my opinion here is debatable.)

Language has been important enough in my journey that one could almost trace the development of my self-perception simply by tracing the language I have used to describe myself throughout the years.  One of the most patient campus ministers in the world once sat through an hour-long conversation with me as I talked through different labels and which I wanted to use for myself, and she may not have realized at the time how absolutely crucial the discussion was (or how grateful I am for her willingness to indulge me).  Even if the actual circumstances of my experience were not changing (i.e., sexual attraction to males), my perception and interpretation of that experience was changing dramatically.

A discussion of the meanings of these various words and phrases is beyond my ability here, so I’ll close with two suggestions.  First, if you have the time and resources and interest, do some research to discover the meanings behind different terms.  This is particularly difficult for Christians, since we simultaneously need to juggle the language that is considered appropriate in our culture (like you’ll find in this somewhat political guide) with language that is consistent with a distinctly Christian perspective on sexuality; and depending on your beliefs, those two worlds may or may not overlap, and the language appropriate for people who share your beliefs may be different from the language appropriate for people who believe otherwise.  If you’re willing to explore the fascinating jargon, you’ll be able to choose the words you use purposefully and speak without hesitancy.

But if you don’t have the time or resources or interest—and believe me, I understand that we can’t all be experts on everything—then I believe the most responsible action is to pay close attention to the ways LGBT (or same-sex attracted, or homosexual) people in your life talk about themselves and to use the same language they use.  Grant them the charity of assuming they’ve given more thought to the implications of language than you have, unless you have done your research and have legitimate reasons to use different terminology, as some have and do.  Captivating conversations—and deeper understanding—can begin with the simple question, “I’ve noticed you describe yourself with the word _____.  Is there a reason?”

Above all, recognize the immense power of language to shape reality, and make sure the words you use are shaping the kind of reality in which you desire to dwell.

What if the rich young ruler really is about money?

You may be familiar with the story of the rich young ruler, which appears in Matthew (19:16-30), Mark (10:17-31), and Luke (18:18-30).  I have participated in three large churches throughout my life and attended a private Christian university, and the near-unanimous message I received from other Christians was that the story of the rich young ruler is not about money, not really.  I have typically heard some variation of one of these two interpretations, or a combination of the two:

1) “The story is about commitment and sacrifice for the sake of following Jesus.  Notice how Jesus ends the story by talking about how we should be willing to leave our families, if that’s what’s required, because our highest allegiance should be to him.  Jesus tells the rich young man to sell his possessions because he knows that’s the one idol the man isn’t willing to give up for the sake of becoming a disciple, and ultimately, the story ends sadly because it shows us that sometimes Jesus lets us choose our idols instead of choosing to follow him.  We all have different idols—for some, it’s money, but for others, it’s sex or addictions or ambition.  Regardless of what our idols are, we have to be willing to surrender them if we want to follow Jesus.” 

2) “The story is about grace and our inability to earn what God gives us.  The man comes to Jesus hoping to earn God’s favor through his obedience to the law, but Jesus tells him to do the one thing he knows the man cannot do in order to demonstrate that the man cannot possibly live perfectly and earn God’s grace.  Ultimately, the story ends sadly because it shows us we have to come to Jesus on his terms; if we try to earn God’s favor rather than accept it as an undeserved gift, freely bestowed, we cannot follow Jesus.”

To be completely honest, I think these are both pretty solid interpretations of the story.  I doubt that the requirements Jesus places on the rich young ruler are universal, simply because we don’t see any similar requirements throughout the rest of the Bible.

What’s interesting about both of these interpretations, though, is that they brazenly ignore a direct, red-letter quote from Jesus.  Matthew’s version records it thus: “If you want to be perfect, go, sell your possessions and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me” (19:21).  Even if we can dodge that statement by claiming it’s specifically aimed at the man in the story, we have a much harder time dodging the statement that follows, which seems more blanketing: “Truly I tell you, it is hard for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of heaven. Again I tell you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God” (19:23-4).

I’ve often heard this story—and specifically, the first interpretation—used in discussions about homosexuality.  Essentially, the message (even if it is delivered gently or indirectly) is: “Just like Jesus told the rich young ruler he could not follow him unless he gave up his idol of money, you cannot follow Jesus [or join our church, or join our small group, or work at this Christian institution, or be my friend] unless you are willing to surrender the idol of your same-sex relationship/identity/behavior.”

What bothers me is that never, ever in my entire life of growing up in the United States (literally one of the richest societies in the history of the world) and participating in three middle-class churches (which each included many wealthy members) and attending a private Christian university (with a hefty price tag), never, ever, not ever have I heard anyone apply this passage to a rich person.  I honestly cannot think of any time in my life when a congregation or Christian institution rejected someone because s/he loved money too much.  And I’m not talking about embezzlement or any dishonest use of money; I’m talking about the simple adoration of wealth and possessions.

This is not an attack on the wealthy, and I know a person’s financial status does not determine the state of his/her heart.  It just staggers me to think that while I have seen people apply this specific passage to the issue of sexuality, I have never once seen someone use it in its most original, specific, clearly defined application: the idolatry of money.  And I cannot believe that every rich Christian’s heart (including my own) is purer than the heart of the man in this story.  Surely someone (probably many someones) alive today needs to hear the same words the rich young ruler heard in regards to his or her finances.

I can anticipate one criticism for where I’m headed here, and it goes like this: “Yes, okay, we probably don’t give money the attention it deserves in our North American churches today.  But that doesn’t mean we should just start accepting all kinds of behavior.  The fact that we’re soft on money doesn’t mean we should be soft on sexuality, too.”  My problem here is that, once again, we’re giving much more weight to homosexuality than to anything else considered sinful—we’re essentially saying that we don’t mind getting other things wrong as long as we get sexuality right, even if those “other things” are issues that receive much more attention throughout the gospels and the scriptures, or if the New Testament even describes those “other things” as “the root of all evil” (I Timothy 6:10).  If we’re going to prioritize sex above all other issues of morality, we had sure better have a strong scriptural reason to do so.

Because if the rich young ruler really is about money, then a lot of us are in deep trouble.

I waited a few days to compose this post because I didn’t want to write from unfiltered emotion.  Nevertheless, ever since I read about a private Christian school in Tennessee that essentially banned any discussion of homosexuality among its students and faculty, I have felt shocked and indignant.  Here’s the text of the school’s new policy:

“Homosexuality is forbidden in scripture (Romans 1:27, Leviticus 18:22).  A staff member or student who promotes, engages in, or identifies himself/herself with such activity through any word or action shall be in violation of this policy.  Should the administration determine a violation of this policy, the person involved will be subject to disciplinary action with the possibility of permanent dismissal.  Any applicant who is not in compliance with this policy will not be admitted.”

The school in question is Rossville Christian Academy, which serves about 300 K-12 students and whose mission is, according to its website, “to challenge a diverse student body through high academic standards, seeking to instill and inspire Christian virtues in a safe and nurturing environment.”  I only know as much about this situation as I could gather from internet news stories, so perhaps I should take it with a grain of salt, but the very idea of the policy struck a nerve with me.

Policies like these are not how the church is to go about training children up in the way they should go (Proverbs 22:6).  Nor are they how the church is to help children avoid conforming to the patterns of this world (Romans 12:2).  Policies like these are how those with authority convince people like me that we’re freakish, unlovable, and alone.  They’re how people like me learn that the church is no place for us to talk about our experiences of sexuality and that there’s no room for us in God’s family unless we can privately eliminate our desires.  They treat homosexuality differently from all other behaviors considered sinful, which is entirely inconsistent with the scriptural picture of holiness and immorality.  They’re worse than overt homophobia, in my opinion, because they try to pretend homosexuality does not exist and thereby dismiss and silence the experiences of countless individuals.  Lest we try to point too big a finger at Rossville, let’s not ignore the countless other churches, Christian institutions, and even social circles in which the exact same policy is the unwritten, de facto law.

The worst part of the story is that the policy is evidently reacting to one particular student, and I can’t imagine how the policy is affecting him/her and his/her fledgling identity formation.  I’m certainly not naive enough to believe this rule will actually prevent kids from talking about the issues, but its very existence sends a clear message about what the school believes (and what it wants its children to believe).  I know it’s difficult to talk about sexuality, and I know we want to raise our children with particular values, and I know many of us simply haven’t had enough time to give the homosexuality issue the attention it deserves.  But a policy that uniquely outlaws discussions of homosexuality—in any institution—is misguided, inconsistent, and deeply toxic.

Ever since I stumbled across Audrey Assad’s song “Winter Snow,” I haven’t stopped thinking about it and what it says about God’s gentleness.  Here’s how it starts:

“You could’ve come like a mighty storm with all the strength of a hurricane; you could’ve come like a forest fire with the power of heaven in your flame.  But you came like a winter snow, quiet, soft, and slow, falling through the sky in the night to the earth below.”

Depending on whom you ask, Christmas falls anywhere on a spectrum between “the most wonderful time of the year” and “the darkest time of the year.”  I’m not saying anything new when I identify how the experience of being an LGBT individual in our current climate often involves pain and brokenness in relationships with family, with friends, and with God—and for many, the Christmas season tends to exacerbate that pain.

So for those approaching Christmas with anxiety, grief, or trepidation, I offer this encouragement: God became man, and from that very moment, things were and are and will be different.  It means we won’t be stuck, enslaved, or broken forever, and even if things are bad now, we get to experience momentary glimpses of the wonderful things that are coming when God brings creation to its glorious conclusion.  If you feel lonely, know that you are not alone; if you feel anonymous, know that there are people who legitimately care about you and want what’s best for you; and if you feel hopeless, receive the birth of Jesus as God’s bold and incredibly gentle proclamation that things are different now.

For those approaching Christmas with joy and eager anticipation, lean into that joy, and receive the hope Jesus’ birth offers.  In a real, tangible way, allow yourself to become the means by which God brings about his kingdom: Look for those who feel lonely, anonymous, and hopeless, and show them through hospitality and genuine affection that things are different now.  Tell them they are not alone; show them you care about them; and extend the hope which you have received.

Merry Christmas.

From Peter Enns’ Inspiration and Incarnation: Evangelicals and the Problem of the Old Testament, a Christmas-themed anecdote:

“In one of my classes I was challenging students to think of examples of where we have assumed that something is in the Bible when in fact it is not.  One student answered, ‘Some people think that the names of the three wise men are found in the New Testament, but the fact of the matter is, we don’t even know what the names of the three wise men were.’  This was a very interesting comment.  True, some people assume that the names Caspar, Melchior, and Balthazar are found in the Gospels, although they are not.  But neither are three wise men!  The Gospels do not specify the number.” (122)

Within many of the circles in which I run, scripture is understood to be the highest source of authority when it comes to theological reflection.  If we’re going to give scripture that much weight (as opposed to other sources of theological reflection like reason, experience, or the historical tradition of the church), it’s absolutely essential that we take seriously how we’re using the scriptures to ensure we’re using them consistently and as they are meant to be used.

I have a hunch that many of our arguments about scripture aren’t really about what the scriptures say but about how we believe the scriptures should function in the lives of individuals and faith communities.  Quite often, I’ve seen theological debates in which each person involved calls into question the other person’s fidelity to scripture.  (“If you would just read what the Bible says…” or, “If you weren’t so disobedient to what God says in this verse…”)  But the problem isn’t that either side is ignoring or devaluing the scriptures; on the contrary, his/her respect for the scriptures is what makes the other person’s position intolerable.

So, for example, if someone tends to interpret the scriptures more literally, she might be tempted to accuse someone disagreeing with her (perhaps with some accuracy) of abusing the scriptures by ignoring what they seem to say plainly.  Or, if someone tends to draw scripture interpretations from a historical-critical approach to interpretation, she might be tempted to accuse someone disagreeing with her (again, perhaps with some accuracy) of abusing the scriptures by ignoring the vast distance between the cultural setting in which the scriptures were composed and our present setting.  In either case, though, the individual has a very high respect for scripture; the difference is simply how she believes we can read the scriptures most responsibly.

I don’t want to make any declarations here about the best way to interpret scripture.  I want to request something much simpler: Let’s be careful when we use the language of “The Bible says…” when what we actually mean is, “My interpretation of the Bible says…”  Very often in the debates about homosexuality, people begin referencing the Bible, as they well should.  The problem is that their references aren’t always accurate.

For example, I’ve often heard some variation of the statement, “The Bible defines marriage as a commitment between one man and one woman,” but the Bible does no such thing.  The Bible is simply not interested in defining marriage because the Bible is not a dictionary.  Instead, the Bible is full of examples of marriages, teachings about marriage, and theological discourse about marriage.  But you won’t find a definition of marriage within the Bible because Webster did not write the Bible.

Don’t get me wrong: I think we can and should use the Bible to determine what kind of committed relationships are holy and pleasing to God, but I want us to watch our language when we talk about what the Bible does and does not say.  I cannot legitimately say, “The Bible defines marriage as…”  But I can legitimately say, “I believe the scriptures provide a framework for understanding God’s intention for marriage as…” or “I believe the scriptures lay out a consistent theological foundation for allowing marriage to include…” or even “My interpretation of the scriptures causes me to define marriage as…”

When we can bring our conversations to that level, I think we’ll get a lot more done—and I think we’ll waste a lot less time arguing whether we do or don’t know the names of the three wise men.

I’ve been going back and forth over the last few days about whether to post this video, but after seeing how it affected a friend of mine last night, I think it’s pretty valuable:

“It’s Time.”

I think talking about issues is much easier than talking about people.  When we talk about issues, we can stay in the theoretical, and it’s much easier to think of things in absolute terms.  When we talk about people, suddenly we’re talking about your roommate or your sister or your coworker, and the conversation gets much more complicated.

This happens all the time in the homosexuality debates.  I would certainly never say that the theoretical realm is bad, and I think it has a lot to say to our behaviors and beliefs.  But I’ve noticed that theoretical conversations tend to be much more insensitive and abrasive than conversations about and involving people, and I think one of the reasons many Christian conversations about homosexuality become insensitive and abrasive is that many Christians simply don’t know any LGBT people.

I think one of the reasons this video is so moving (and, in my opinion, so compelling) is because it is not about issues.  It’s about people—two people, in fact.