Thursday, May 20, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Jennifer Knapp: My Take: On Fear, Faith and being Gay
By Jennifer Knapp, Special to CNN
As a young girl, I learned to read music. The scattered black dots on the page, successfully decrypted and performed, began to make more vivid the world around me. I began to discover the private, personal and strange journeys that playing music had to offer. I listened, I sang, I played, and I began to write songs of my own. For me, music has become the tool through which the meditations of my soul find deeper peace and understanding.
As a young adult, I began to pursue a purposed life of faith centered on the teachings of Jesus. Many would say that I "became" a Christian. Curious, passionate and confounded, I entered my local evangelical Protestant church with a new appreciation for my spiritual self and participated with full fervor. There too, I experienced music as a gift that could draw out the deeper cries of not just my heart, but the hearts of others as well.
More and more, my spiritual pursuit began to be reflected by the songs I was writing. I laid down the questions of my faith I was too embarrassed to share aloud, or worse, uninvited to speak of openly. The songs I wrote directly pertaining to my faith were warmly greeted and celebrated in my church. Soon I found myself with more invitations to play my little songs. Starting in local churches and humble country sanctuaries, onto summer camps, college campuses and conferences of faith; I didn’t know it, but I was becoming a “Christian artist.”
Almost exclusively, I was playing in and around churches - Methodist, Baptist, Lutheran, Pentecostal, Episcopalian, Catholic - and some churches that had no recognizable denominational affiliation other than a cross over their door. Where I began thinking that all Christians were alike, I quickly discovered that they were not. They all spoke of Jesus the same, but their practices and traditions, their “do’s and don’ts,” could be vastly different.
As confounding as this was to me, I learned to respect the houses where I was asked to play, learned to listen a bit more closely, and even more, learned to appreciate the diverse styles and methods with which many people process their spiritual journey. As the invited but alien artist, it often fell upon me to find our commonality, to sing of what we could mutually share and celebrate.
Through trial and error, offense and blessing, I learned that not even a Christian could be solely judged by his cover. Blundering assumptions about how I thought one church might believe, or even how one single congregant among them might believe, only left me an agent of offense. I began to recognize the intense personal nature of each individual’s specific spiritual journey. I began to see the powerful protection a community of faith could be for the fragile and broken. I also have seen the tragic emotional and spiritual devastation brought upon those who sought only compassion and were greeted with condemnation in times of utmost vulnerability.
All this I have seen, when I just wanted to play music. I just wanted to explore my faith. I simply wanted to meet others, converse, encourage and learn about how to be ... well, a meaningful person. I have definitely found myself in the midst of an adventure I would have never imagined or called for.
This was the world I found myself in when I realized I was gay. After years of subtle comments, wary glances and leading encouragement to get married and have babies, I was fully aware that I had a foot in the door of some houses that were about to be slammed. At the same time, I had experienced years of rich and fulfilling dialogue with many people of faith who taught me the soft landings of compassion. Still, it was hard not to respond to the fear. I questioned whether my faith had betrayed me, or I if had a betrayed my faith. I wondered if music was a ruse and could unite no one.
Like wistful balloons loosed to the wind, I was about to release both faith and music, but I could not release what I had learned.
Where music had led me to very strange lands, full of people with differing faith practices, cultural expectations, gender roles and more ... it had taught me to listen. Through the torrent of life’s confusion and seeming incongruities, there is a spirit, a song, that if we strain hard enough, we can hear. What we can hear, when we listen, is how we are much the same.
From time to time, a song catches our ear and we follow it outside of our usual haunts. We stumble out of our chosen sanctuaries and toward the source of sound that seems to reveal our heart’s longing. It is only when we get there that we can see the diversity of the many who were called by the same tune. Will we be encouraged to see we are not alone? Shamed that we do not want to share it with others differing from ourselves? Or will we simply listen?
The opinions expressed in this commentary are solely those of Jennifer Knapp.
As a young girl, I learned to read music. The scattered black dots on the page, successfully decrypted and performed, began to make more vivid the world around me. I began to discover the private, personal and strange journeys that playing music had to offer. I listened, I sang, I played, and I began to write songs of my own. For me, music has become the tool through which the meditations of my soul find deeper peace and understanding.
As a young adult, I began to pursue a purposed life of faith centered on the teachings of Jesus. Many would say that I "became" a Christian. Curious, passionate and confounded, I entered my local evangelical Protestant church with a new appreciation for my spiritual self and participated with full fervor. There too, I experienced music as a gift that could draw out the deeper cries of not just my heart, but the hearts of others as well.
More and more, my spiritual pursuit began to be reflected by the songs I was writing. I laid down the questions of my faith I was too embarrassed to share aloud, or worse, uninvited to speak of openly. The songs I wrote directly pertaining to my faith were warmly greeted and celebrated in my church. Soon I found myself with more invitations to play my little songs. Starting in local churches and humble country sanctuaries, onto summer camps, college campuses and conferences of faith; I didn’t know it, but I was becoming a “Christian artist.”
Almost exclusively, I was playing in and around churches - Methodist, Baptist, Lutheran, Pentecostal, Episcopalian, Catholic - and some churches that had no recognizable denominational affiliation other than a cross over their door. Where I began thinking that all Christians were alike, I quickly discovered that they were not. They all spoke of Jesus the same, but their practices and traditions, their “do’s and don’ts,” could be vastly different.
As confounding as this was to me, I learned to respect the houses where I was asked to play, learned to listen a bit more closely, and even more, learned to appreciate the diverse styles and methods with which many people process their spiritual journey. As the invited but alien artist, it often fell upon me to find our commonality, to sing of what we could mutually share and celebrate.
Through trial and error, offense and blessing, I learned that not even a Christian could be solely judged by his cover. Blundering assumptions about how I thought one church might believe, or even how one single congregant among them might believe, only left me an agent of offense. I began to recognize the intense personal nature of each individual’s specific spiritual journey. I began to see the powerful protection a community of faith could be for the fragile and broken. I also have seen the tragic emotional and spiritual devastation brought upon those who sought only compassion and were greeted with condemnation in times of utmost vulnerability.
All this I have seen, when I just wanted to play music. I just wanted to explore my faith. I simply wanted to meet others, converse, encourage and learn about how to be ... well, a meaningful person. I have definitely found myself in the midst of an adventure I would have never imagined or called for.
This was the world I found myself in when I realized I was gay. After years of subtle comments, wary glances and leading encouragement to get married and have babies, I was fully aware that I had a foot in the door of some houses that were about to be slammed. At the same time, I had experienced years of rich and fulfilling dialogue with many people of faith who taught me the soft landings of compassion. Still, it was hard not to respond to the fear. I questioned whether my faith had betrayed me, or I if had a betrayed my faith. I wondered if music was a ruse and could unite no one.
Like wistful balloons loosed to the wind, I was about to release both faith and music, but I could not release what I had learned.
Where music had led me to very strange lands, full of people with differing faith practices, cultural expectations, gender roles and more ... it had taught me to listen. Through the torrent of life’s confusion and seeming incongruities, there is a spirit, a song, that if we strain hard enough, we can hear. What we can hear, when we listen, is how we are much the same.
From time to time, a song catches our ear and we follow it outside of our usual haunts. We stumble out of our chosen sanctuaries and toward the source of sound that seems to reveal our heart’s longing. It is only when we get there that we can see the diversity of the many who were called by the same tune. Will we be encouraged to see we are not alone? Shamed that we do not want to share it with others differing from ourselves? Or will we simply listen?
The opinions expressed in this commentary are solely those of Jennifer Knapp.
Donald Miller Article From Relevant Magazine
Donald Miller wonders when it's OK and right to ask congregants to move on.
A couple times at a church here in Portland, the lead pastor has very kindly asked people to leave. I remember a specific time he just stood up and asked how many people had been coming to church for a year or more but hadn’t found a way to plug into the community. He then invited them to plug in (which at this church means to serve or find a home group or work in a ministry), and then told them if they hadn’t found a place that fit them, it might be time to try another church. It sounds rude, and the pastor wasn’t making anybody feel guilty—he just needed the chairs. He didn’t want to have to preach another service. The next week, there was a slight drop in attendance which freed up some chairs. I always admired that about this pastor.
To be clear, he hadn’t given up on them. And to be more clear, he hadn’t asked them to leave the Church (capital-C). What he was doing was leading; he was saying “this is where this community is going, where God has called us to go, and there may be other churches that God has called to just preach sermons and have people come and listen, perhaps doing ministry outside the community.” This pastor felt very strongly that the sermons, and even Sunday morning, weren’t what defined the church he had planted, but rather it was the act of “doing” work “together.”
Perhaps I admire this for the wrong reasons. Perhaps I get a bit tired of the unwritten rule of be as absolutely friendly to everybody as you can, nearly kissing up to them. I wonder if that doesn’t make a group of people spoiled. That idea is certainly debatable. My “black and white thinking” readers will see it as one way or another, but I think this is largely contextual. And it’s also a matter of calling for each church, perhaps.
There are other church leaders who, perhaps lacking in maturity, are just offensive. They talk like shock jocks, like slightly cleaned-up Howard Sterns, offending people and polarizing communities into people who are “with us” and “against us” (interestingly, this characteristic has been said to come from having been personally abused, needing to know who will submit to me and who won’t in order to feel safe) but this really isn’t what I’m talking about.
I think we are often afraid to say to somebody “You know, you don’t fit” because we might hurt them, so we get into relationships (and church is all about relationships) that simply aren’t right. We do this instead of helping people move on to a relationship that is right for them.
The truth is, there may be some people who simply aren’t a fit. It’s not that they are bad, it’s just that they aren’t really contributing anything, either because they haven’t been provided with a way for them to contribute (poor leadership) or because the system is allowing them to hang on as a pariah. Either way, something has to change, or else your church will become a place people come in order to be entertained.
Another pastor friend of mine planted a church several years ago. It was an offshoot of another church that was rightly falling apart due to divisions and lack of leadership. About 150 people came to that first meeting, and my friend stood up and asked everybody to really think about why they were there. He said that if anybody had come there with torches, with an axe to grind against the old church, to please leave. He didn’t want to build a reactionary church filled with people who were against something. He wanted to build a church filled with people who are for something, instead. The next week, only 50 people showed up. Years later, though, his church is healthy and vibrant and, well, quite large.
So what do you think? Are churches supposed to be warm and inviting to everybody, no matter what, or is it OK to identify people who just need to move on and find something else that fits them better? What’s your feeling about this? Aren’t there people in your church who, quite honestly, just need to move on?
This article originally appeared on Donald Miller's blog.
A couple times at a church here in Portland, the lead pastor has very kindly asked people to leave. I remember a specific time he just stood up and asked how many people had been coming to church for a year or more but hadn’t found a way to plug into the community. He then invited them to plug in (which at this church means to serve or find a home group or work in a ministry), and then told them if they hadn’t found a place that fit them, it might be time to try another church. It sounds rude, and the pastor wasn’t making anybody feel guilty—he just needed the chairs. He didn’t want to have to preach another service. The next week, there was a slight drop in attendance which freed up some chairs. I always admired that about this pastor.
To be clear, he hadn’t given up on them. And to be more clear, he hadn’t asked them to leave the Church (capital-C). What he was doing was leading; he was saying “this is where this community is going, where God has called us to go, and there may be other churches that God has called to just preach sermons and have people come and listen, perhaps doing ministry outside the community.” This pastor felt very strongly that the sermons, and even Sunday morning, weren’t what defined the church he had planted, but rather it was the act of “doing” work “together.”
Perhaps I admire this for the wrong reasons. Perhaps I get a bit tired of the unwritten rule of be as absolutely friendly to everybody as you can, nearly kissing up to them. I wonder if that doesn’t make a group of people spoiled. That idea is certainly debatable. My “black and white thinking” readers will see it as one way or another, but I think this is largely contextual. And it’s also a matter of calling for each church, perhaps.
There are other church leaders who, perhaps lacking in maturity, are just offensive. They talk like shock jocks, like slightly cleaned-up Howard Sterns, offending people and polarizing communities into people who are “with us” and “against us” (interestingly, this characteristic has been said to come from having been personally abused, needing to know who will submit to me and who won’t in order to feel safe) but this really isn’t what I’m talking about.
I think we are often afraid to say to somebody “You know, you don’t fit” because we might hurt them, so we get into relationships (and church is all about relationships) that simply aren’t right. We do this instead of helping people move on to a relationship that is right for them.
The truth is, there may be some people who simply aren’t a fit. It’s not that they are bad, it’s just that they aren’t really contributing anything, either because they haven’t been provided with a way for them to contribute (poor leadership) or because the system is allowing them to hang on as a pariah. Either way, something has to change, or else your church will become a place people come in order to be entertained.
Another pastor friend of mine planted a church several years ago. It was an offshoot of another church that was rightly falling apart due to divisions and lack of leadership. About 150 people came to that first meeting, and my friend stood up and asked everybody to really think about why they were there. He said that if anybody had come there with torches, with an axe to grind against the old church, to please leave. He didn’t want to build a reactionary church filled with people who were against something. He wanted to build a church filled with people who are for something, instead. The next week, only 50 people showed up. Years later, though, his church is healthy and vibrant and, well, quite large.
So what do you think? Are churches supposed to be warm and inviting to everybody, no matter what, or is it OK to identify people who just need to move on and find something else that fits them better? What’s your feeling about this? Aren’t there people in your church who, quite honestly, just need to move on?
This article originally appeared on Donald Miller's blog.
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