This Is Home

Sometimes I feel like I live in a war zone. Dogs roam on dirt roads lined with barbed wire fences. Bars kiss the glass windows like long distance lovers reuniting. Exposed bricks meet, creating four corners of separation. Los Perros de las Rejas lay at the entrance to stare at the youth in the street. Between noon and 3pm silence encompasses the neighborhood. Walls come down on the market place likes curfew in the U.S. Los Pitufos wait on the corners, cackling with each other. What are they waiting for?

In real time I do not live in a war zone. The fences open with abuelitas holding llaves greeting friends with love. Men throw panchos into las calles for the street dogs to eat.3pm is met with preparations for merienda, a snack time filled with coffee, tea, and postres. Abuelas welcome me compartir en merienda, to share in this meal time. Dirt roads are traced with rays of sunshine while the wind runs through trees. Lemon trees that arch over walls so tall. Branches do not feel fear like we do.

My roots were not watered with the same fear of my neighbor. We never broke glass bottles to surround our home. Fences were for animals so that they would not flee. Why do I live in a cage to keep myself in, or is it really those in the cages that are not to be trusted?

Then again I have never been a person to keen on safety. I have watched the same house be robbed three times in my youth and still keep the doors unlocked. So many times have I walked the city streets past three with a dead phone and lost conscious. Back home the news will run for hours about theft, rape, murder, and kidnappings. Maybe if I did not know that even flowers have thorns and soft plants can be poisonous I would treat my neighbor more as a stranger. But I still frolic in the meadows.

But this image of war and brokenness is not as foreign as the land where I walk. I cannot forget the empty homes and filled streets of Philadelphia. The homeless, many refugees in the "War Against Drugs."  How many residents have been displaced through gentrifying quadrants? Citizens abandoned  like the schools that no longer exist. Pigs sit in their cars waiting to take aim. Or am I speaking of Baltimore? I meant to say Charlotte. Tulsaintpaoakland. Ferguson, the seeds. Bodies make for rich soil in a poor land. My mind wanders home to check on the garden, only to see someone has added more manure.

I sit outside behind rejas and pareds as I rethink my idea of safety. The golden cerradura shines in the sun like treasure, the link that shuts out the world. The leaves of neighbor trees whisper secrets from across the bricks. I can still follow the sky out of my dwelling. Is it just as blue in the garden back home or has the sangre of the soil stained the skies too? Birds chirp at each other breaking the silence of town. It is peaceful with closed eyes. Eyes shut like fed mouths. I am tired of looking at my stone cage but then I remember why it is here. I am safe, right? They have taken me from the garden and placed me to tend to the lemon trees. But I have never really been a gardener. I have never been a soldier either. Some only see me as good soil in a field of seeds. May my body ever meet the earth, by God let those seeds grow. 

Sometimes I feel like I cannot escape. I want to write about things that make me smile but the only words I have are "Hands up, Don't shoot." Over Five Thousand Miles away and I am just starting to feel secure behind my barbed wire fences and bar kissed windows, something I would have feared back home. My toes wrestle in new grass kicking futbol with the youth. I run from children during Pika on the patio. We spend spring nights together within holy walls. They too stare at stone cages but unlike me, they see home. I yearn to look at the same clay and see sculptures instead of barricades. I dream of seeing the beauty before the grotesque. One day maybe I will not be so captured by what is growing in the garden that I can enjoy the fresh lemons off of the trees. This is home now. Rest your head Nic. This is home. 

#ReclaimMissionary


Vocabulary
Los perros de las rejas/ Dogs of the gates
Los pitufos/ Smurfs (Slang for Police)
Abuelitas/ Grandmothers
Llaves/ Keys
Pancho/ Hotdog
Calles/ Streets
Merienda/ Meal time common between 4-6pm
Postres/ Desserts
Compartir/ To share
Tulsaintpaoakland/ Tulsa, St. Paul, Oakland
Rejas/ Gates
Pareds/ Walls
Cerradura/ Lock
Sangre/ Blood
Futbol/ Soccer

The Sound Of Music

Two years at St. Mark's Lutheran in Philadelphia has left me spoiled when it comes to worship. Every Sunday morning, 70-80 Lutherans joined together for at least two hours engaging in high church liturgy infused with praise and worship elements. The choir sang song after song accompanied by a piano, drums, and guitar. Music echoed through the high ceilings across the pews and into the balcony. Hands would clap as people stood swaying to the beat. For other traditions, this was a common occurrence across churches. In the North American Lutheran Context, this was quite rare which made it even more of a luxury for me. Concept: Lutherans with rhythm.

San Lucas is quite the opposite to be quite frank. The past few Sundays we have not had a musician to lead us into song. The congregation rely on each other to match the rhythm of the song while I rely on the grace of God to properly read the lyrics. For my own formation, this has been a challenge as I have relied so much these past two years to receive my spiritual nourishment through song. This lack of music has taken me on a journey to start playing music throughout the week. As someone with one year of piano lessons and no prior guitar experience under her belt, I expect this to be interesting.

The other day I was in the church salon fiddling on the guitar. A few youth were around but I was not really engaged with anyone. I tend to be a bit shy because of my Spanish. Then one of our young men, Nico, came  into the salon and was very excited about music. He started to go through the ELW with me and hum along with me. After a few tries he says "hold on" and runs to the church to grab another Cancionero. He comes back with a recorder and a music book. "Let's try this song" he says. "Ok cool," not fully understanding what was going on. I ask him to sing it for me first so I can get an idea of how it should sound. It was gorgeous. I explain that this is my first time trying to play notes and I have no idea how to play chords so excuse me. This guy was so patient with me. Nico accompanied my disheveled stanzas with his soft voice, repeating phrases to help me with the melody. We went through the song sharing Mate and Music all three verses. After each verse he would check in with me, "shall we continue? Are you getting it?" I would shrug and carry on. We sat together for close to an hour playing this one hymn. It was the most time I had spent with another person all morning.

As I say repeatedly, communication is something I cherish. The wonderful thing about communication is that it is both verbal and nonverbal. Music is something that can be shared without the need for constant talk. You get an idea of what the other person wants you to do fairly easily. The two of us played while youth went in and out of the salon. Some sat with us. Others ran to the patio. None of that really mattered though. I was just there for the fellowship after a while.

After our jam session (more like jelly), a bunch of us gathered around in a sharing of musical favorites and a few rounds of Hangman. My hips would sway every time Cumbia came on. Many of us had the same favorite artists both from the U.S., the Caribbean, and Latin America. The youth would ask me to translate lyrics for them from some of our favorite songs. I forget how many dialects and slang terms we use in our music. Then they played a bit of dancehall/ reggae and it took everything in me to not act as a fool. 

"Nic, le gusta bailar?"- one of the youth. 

"Si claroooooo!"- me. 

"Ok ok, ven."- them.

The music then switched back to Cumbia and we all grabbed partners. Next thing you know we are dancing in the Salon like a family reunion. Every few steps we would twirl inward then outward. Hands met then separated with the beat. We shared in this carefree moment through the sound of music. This beautiful craft that people spend their lives perfecting has this effect that brings groups together in the oddest of places. Again, I was just thankful for the fellowship. 

I am thankful for moments like these as it reminds me of why I am here. This is my year of formation, one of the last few steps before ordination. Being open to these experiences are imperative as it brings you closer to the people you serve. They too serve. Nico served me as he supported my wish to play music. The youth accompanied me in this cultural exchange through their willingness to be equally vulnerable with me and offer the gift of music. "It is good."

#ReclaimMissionary

Eternal

I remember you

In your most authentic state

Rich dark hair that flowed like rivers

A smile that could cut through stone

Melanin that matched mine in the sun

Eyes that hid behind a camera

Then I never noticed the memories you captured

Photos are irrelevant to recollect your presence

You are freckle on my face

A crease in my palm

Embedded

I remember new years of old you

Warmth from kisses and hugs
Decades stroked your skin
Like water gliding through stones

Yellow Tail in your glass

Collard Greens and Black Eyed Peas on your plate

You are good fortune and wealth

You are home cooked meals and health
Like a calendar without dates
A clock that has stopped
Timeless

I remember you 
As the caretaker of all youth
Early morning trips to the Bronx Zoo
With packed meals we made at home
Kids that outnumbers the fingers on your hands
Hands that held the smallest of numbered kids
Each one of us fit into your arms
We were birthed for your embrace
I remember you
Not that I can ever forget
You are an imprint on my heart
A tattoo on my skin
Eternal

#ReclaimMissionary

Sermon: Peace or Violence

A meditation from the Gospel of Luke 16:19-31

#ReclaimMissionary

If I Were Food

I am an oxidized avocado, poorly preserved and unappealing to consume even though the flavor is still the same. I am a bruised grapefruit being avoided at the breakfast table. My content is desirable but my presentation is questionable.

Here I am trying to be a vicar with the vocabulary of a four year old and no prior knowledge of my environment. It feels like everyone assumes I am competent in this work purely on this basis that the ELCA sent me but they also struggle to see me as clergy because I cannot laugh at their jokes or sit and have long meaningful conversations like pastor types do. This could also be me entirely in my own head and insecure about this language barrier. On sunday mornings I practice reading the lecturas before worship and I still find myself to be embarrassed as I read below normal speed, backtracking over words that are probably common knowledge in spanish. During meetings I sit down with my notepad or tablet ready to be engaged until I conclude that I have absolutely not idea what is going on and shut down. It is so hard not to want to give up but there is only so many times I can ask for people to play charades with me.

Presently I am straddling the not so fine line between an enthusiastic presentation and complete disengagement. There are times when I want to speak and be involved in the small group discussions. It is there that I am over emphasizing hand gestures or cheering when I get words right. That led me into an uncomfortable situation where a handful of micro- aggressions came about from an older woman as she associated my aesthetic with the baptist tradition and so on and so forth. Then there are times when I am exhausted at trying to listen to soft spoken people run through sentences like Usain Bolt at the Olympics.

I am not even the bull in the white

I come off as stand offish while the people around me continue to speak and look confusingly at me when my responses are limited to “Oh yea?” and “Oh ok.” Clearly neither approach has benefited me at this point and I am still trying to remove the stone cold New York glare off of my face as I walk around in my collar. As of now I suck at casually smiling, communicating in spanish, and creating a pastoral presence. Maybe Latin America is not my future call?

Don’t get me wrong, there are some days when I feel great about my communication skills. Sometimes I come home and reflect on the conversations that were had and realize it was all in spanish. The other day I met the first communion class and received so much love from a bunch of ten and eleven year olds.

They were patient and kind. During free time I was invited to play with them outside. We exchanged hand games from my childhood and games of tag from theirs. For a few hours I felt like a banana covered in Dulce de Leche during Merienda.

I was wanted and engulfed. In one night I found mutuality amongst children as we both had something to share with each other. They do not know who is the ELCA nor do they know my credentials. To them, I am just a woman in a clergy shirt with her cat Fideo (Penne’s new name is spanish for “Spaghetti”). That was my time to present my pastoral skills and to show them I will care for and support them like my Supervisor does. Amongst the youth, one’s title is earned not given.

I am a peeled orange, vulnerable.

I sat with my Supervisor for our first one on one. “How are you feeling?” she asked me. How am I not feeling? What exactly am I feeling? For years I have relied on my personality and smooth talking to get me through life. I am personable. I ask the right questions. It does not take much for people to feel good around me. Those same gifts I have sewed and tended to for years are no longer available to me. Those crops are out of season. How am I feeling? Like The Little Mermaid brushing her hair with a fork. Discombobulated and confused as to why my methods are not efficient.

I am hiding behind administrative work and instant coffee. God how I miss my Colombian Dark Roast. Sometimes this feels like the longest game of tag and I am it. Even when I think I’m catching up, I am still behind. For someone who has just naturally been good at learning, this is a very rough place to be. I told my supervisor “This is the first time I have not been able to build relationships with the congregation.” Does this mean that the congregation does not like me? No, I’m the cute New York Vicar with vibrant head wraps and a Septum ring.

It means there is a gap between the members and me that has yet to be bridged. We are at the same train station looking at each other from opposing platforms. There is a draft that flows right between us. I hate the disconnect.

Is this how Moses felt when God had called him to lead out of slavery in Egypt? He doubted himself and pleaded with God. He too felt disconnected and unable to speak to the people of the nation. I get it Moses. Regardless of his skills and qualifications, how does one communicate when there is a barrier between the two bodies? I always need to tell myself, God does not make mistakes, people do. And I tend to say this after I have finished struggling with what I feel God calls me to do. So my question is how? If Aaron was appointed to lead with Moses, to be the connector between Moses and the Hebrews, who then is my Aaron? Or am I supposed to be Aaron from the ELCA to Grand Bourg? No, this is my narrative, I’m Moses.

Mood:Just happy the whole parting the seas thing worked out

Not as some prophetic figure either but as merely a leader in a community of God looking to support God’s people as we move into Canaan, a healthier place as church. 

As I was continuing to my thoughts the following line was going to begin with “I want,” and maybe that is my problem today. There is a lot of things that I want that maybe God does not have in plan for me. I may want an Aaron but this is not the part of Exodus I am thinking of. No, I think we are farther in it then I had planned. This is the desert when the people are doubting their own wants of liberation, telling Moses they rather be slaves in Egypt. I am both the people and Moses contemplating what to do now that I am here in Argentina. God moved me out of my comfort zone and I accepted the call. Fideo and I boarded the plane and made it out of Egypt but Argentina is not necessarily my promise land. Argentina is journey. Moses would call upon God and ask time and time again how to keep the people together. The people continuously fell short of God’s commands. Yet God did not give up entirely on the Hebrews. Clearly this story continues on for a while and essentially the original people never made it to Canaan. This journey was passed down to the children to go forward. Even Moses did not make it. Maybe that is something else to ponder. Not every journey ends in pure glory. Rather, sometimes the glory is seen in hindsight as the person who endured the struggle. 

Pharaoh: "What are thoseeeeeeee?"

I am a boiled potato, slowly being mashed into a new form. I am being placed in uncomfortable conditions, conditions that softens the hardness of my exterior, conditions that make me more eligible to be consumed.

The applied pressure will not diminish me but give me newness in my presentation. I will be shapeless, able to adjust to any setting, or so I hope. This post was originally written after my first week in Grand Bourg, my third week in Argentina. This has now been home for officially a month and though I still struggle, my anxieties have lessened.  Eleven months. That is all. I can do this.

If not for myself, maybe for them?

#ReclaimMissionary 

"My People" and All People- A Reflection from Esther

“I remember you was conflicted, misusing your influence. Sometimes I did the same, abusing my power full of resentment, resentment that turned into a deep depression. Found myself screaming in a hotel room. I didn’t want to self- destruct. The evils of Lucy was all around me. So I went running for answers until I came home. But that didn’t stop survivors’ guilt. Going back and forth, trying to convince myself the stripes I earned or maybe how A-1 my foundation was. But while my loved ones was fighting a continuous war back in the city, I was entering a new one.”

– Kendrick Lamar, Hood Politics

            Recently I had a discussion with someone about my choice of words and the pastoral message I present.  The individual was concerned with the term “my people”, me making claim on the people I represent on a daily basis. I was told a pastor should be for all people. This is true. A pastor should in fact be for all people. This does not make the communities that I represent any less part of my identity, culture, or social spheres. Regardless of my collar I am still Black, I am still Woman, I am still Queer. These so happen to be some of the largest marginalized and exploited communities in the United States today.  How can I as a Christian leader in the church neglect or not acknowledge the same people the rest of society has forgotten? By being prideful and hopeful towards these same groups do not negate my care and love for all people. 

Maybe this is also the balance that Pastors of the margins continuously try to create. It is for this reason I bring up the story of Esther. Esther was a young Jewish woman living in Exile with her cousin Mordecai, the man who raised her after the death of her parents.  They were in the citadel of Susa under the rule of King Xerxes. Her family was refugees, minorities, in a land they were expected to now call home. During the early stages of the story, King Xerxes begins a quest for a new queen. Out of all the young women in the land, it is the young Jewish woman that captures the heart of the king. Regardless of his infatuation with Esther, she continues to keep her nationality and family background a secret. Queen Esther is assumed to be another Persian of the kingdom.

⁵ When Haman saw that Mordecai would not kneel down or pay him honor, he was enraged. ⁶ Yet having learned who Mordecai’s people were, he scorned the idea of killing only Mordecai. Instead Haman looked for a way to destroy all Mordecai’s people, the Jews, throughout the whole kingdom of Xerxes.

⁷ In the twelfth year of King Xerxes, in the first month, the month of Nisan, the pur (that is, the lot) was cast in the presence of Haman to select a day and month. And the lot fell on the twelfth month, the month of Adar.

⁸ Then Haman said to King Xerxes, “There is a certain people dispersed among the peoples in all the provinces of your kingdom who keep themselves separate. Their customs are different from those of all other people, and they do not obey the king’s laws; it is not in the king’s best interest to tolerate them. ⁹ If it pleases the king, let a decree be issued to destroy them, and I will give ten thousand talents of silver to the king’s administrators for the royal treasury.”

¹⁰ So the king took his signet ring from his finger and gave it to Haman son of Hammedatha, the Agagite, the enemy of the Jews. ¹¹ “Keep the money,” the king said to Haman, “and do with the people as you please.”(Esther 3: 5- 10)

Whether she asked for this or not, she is a leader of a people unfamiliar to her. She pledges allegiance to a nation that later commits themselves to the discrimination and violence against the Jews. While she is living in privilege, she sits at the table with those who plan the demise of the people who raised her and made her whole. Now her kin are being hunted by the people who she is obligated to uplift and serve. Every night she lies in the bed of injustice. I wonder if she tosses and turns wondering if her loved ones are resting well or if their heads are impaled on poles. I envision Esther today wrapped in prints of the American flag as her olive skin reflects the blue, glows through the white, and bleeds into the red. Her long dark hair, thick like rope, is tied up like the secrets of her origin. She sits at a desk watching every single body camera that suddenly turns off before shots are fired. She saves every recording of her brothers lying on freedom’s concrete as they leak like an old faucet. Then she is asked to preach on a Sunday morning about God’s steadfast love to an audience that looks less familiar as the videos become clearer.

Miriam Harris, Philadelphia BLM Protest

I cannot speak for my peers but I do believe it is fair to say, we clergy-types are people first and pastors/ vicars second. This is our vocation the same way others are lawyers, nurses, house keepers, and landscapers. I am a Black Queer Woman with or without a collar like Esther is a Jew with or without her crown. We cannot escape or abandon those who made and created us, nor is that what we want. When I wake up thousands of miles away from home and see another hashtag, my heart aches. It aches for the cyber activists trying to breathe life back into these names. My heart aches for the parents and loved ones that could be any one of my aunts or cousins. But it also aches for the boys, men, girls, women, and others that see themselves in these videos. It is haunting see yourself lying in a street left to die and that is the reality. If my nationality, race, origin, and life experiences made me the spiritual leader I am today, why does that influence have to stop because of my vocation?

“4 When Mordecai learned of all that had been done, he tore his clothes, put on sackcloth and ashes, and went out into the city, wailing loudly and bitterly. ² But he went only as far as the king’s gate, because no one clothed in sackcloth was allowed to enter it. ³ In every province to which the edict and order of the king came, there was great mourning among the Jews, with fasting, weeping and wailing. Many lay in sackcloth and ashes.” (Esther 4:1-3)

My reality is that my North American church does not and may never reflect who I am. That is my decision to continue to be a member of that church. I believe that my church body is still a beautiful reflection of God’s people. I also believe that within the margins of my church, my people are still present and I can uplift them as well. Esther is not a prophetess because she was silent about the ethnic injustices happening in her country. She was both, queen to the oppressor and to the oppressed. She had a duty to all people and that looked like her speaking for the ones bearing pain, her people.

7 So the king and Haman went to Queen Esther’s banquet, ² and as they were drinking wine on the second day, the king again asked, “Queen Esther, what is your petition? It will be given you. What is your request? Even up to half the kingdom, it will be granted.”

³ Then Queen Esther answered, “If I have found favor with you, Your Majesty, and if it pleases you, grant me my life—this is my petition. And spare my people—this is my request. ⁴ For I and my people have been sold to be destroyed, killed and annihilated. If we had merely been sold as male and female slaves, I would have kept quiet, because no such distress would justify disturbing the king.”(Esther 7: 1-4)

            Esther was brave by acknowledging her nationality. She placed her own life on the line for her people simply by acknowledging the social injustice in the Kingdom. When Esther says “and spare my people-“she unbinds herself from any chances of her being the exception. Rather she aligns herself with the oppressed. She gives the faceless a face. In case the King could not find compassion for her people before, he is now looking at the kind hearted woman he loves pleading for her life and the life of others like her. Esther speaks with transparency about the realities her people are facing. While they are cozy within the palace walls, genocide of sorts is happening around them. Take mercy on my people. Pastors of the margins (and allies) take on this task every time they bring up the issue in our country. When I say my people, I am letting the world know that I value us. And I will continue to claim my people as I will continue to demand justice. Like Esther, I will continue to serve all people of God and keep justice at the frontier. I will be unapologetically committed to protecting us even when it means placing me in compromising situations with those in power. In the words of almost every one of SJW Twitter, “Yes, all lives do matter and it is the (Black/ Trans/ Women/. .) Lives that are being murdered right now so let’s do something about that.” Rest in Power Terence Crutcher.

#ReclaimMissionary

One Thing I Learned In Seminary

 

public

adjective

adjective: public

1. 
   

   of or concerning the people as a whole.

   
   

   "public concern"

   
   

    

 

theology

noun

noun: theology

1. 
   

   the study of the nature of God and religious belief.

   
   

    

   
   

   
   

   
   

   
   

 

 

 

 

     I remember when I first began at LTSP as a full time student. Every first year student was obligated to take "Introduction to Public Theology" with JP. Professors and community leaders of interfaith organizations would come to our class to speak about specific topics. We had these obscure readings that caused classroom wide debates. By November we all were throwing up our hands in frustration. "What the hell is public theology? Why has no one given us an actual definition yet." We were tried and upset at what seemed like a pointless class. That was the same semester that Michael Brown's murderer was not indicted by the Ferguson Grand Jury. After the announcement I walked back to my apartment while four other seminarians sat on my couch talking at the news. I threw on my clergy shirt, my black dress suit, and my black Jordans with my red pastoral care book and took the train into the Center City where my skinfolk were protesting. That was public theology.

    Public theology is the outward presentation of ones understanding of God. For me, I understand God to be with my people as we grieve our brothers and sisters being murdered by public servants. How I express that understanding is by being present as a reflection of the living Word. Public theology is the faithful commitments we keep to our neighbors like the Global Missions Unit of the ELCA. We as a church believe in enhancing the quality of life of all people therefore we fund doctors, nurses, seminary professors, teachers, and volunteers to accompany these neighbors. In its most simplest form, public theology is the religious version of actions speaking louder than words.

    Two years after that class I am serving a church body that is in the process of a restructuring of sorts. I sat in a meeting of other pastors, vicars, youth, and lay people all present to discuss the línea estratégicas. We broke into small groups to discuss the first point:

 

1. Ser iglesia de comunidades evangelizadas y evangelizadoras (to be church of evangelical communities and evangelical people)

 

    Three pastors went back and forth for a few minutes about how to reach the youth. They spoke about their dying churches and how hard it was to do outreach. Everyone seemed to be on different pages. When I first arrived, I was introduced to a church here for the poor and disenfranchised. I was informed that this was a progressive church that advocated for the marginalized only to later find out there are not many diakonia outreach programs, the congregations are more commonly middle class, and we have not played a significant role in much of Argentine History. Yes this is a church of 30 congregations, and I was still surprised with how much more talk there was then action. (This is not to diminish the importance of the 6 schools of IELU and the few social welfare ministries in the country.) I finally asked the group,

"¿Que está nuestra teología pública como una iglesia?" and "¿Cómo nosotros expresamos nuestra fe y como nosotros mejorar?" "What is our public theology as a church? How do we express our faith and how do we improve?" There was a moment of silence followed by, "Did you say public theology? That is a great question. What is our public theology?"

    The conversation continued with examples of public theology, references to the American church's role in the Underground Railroad, and a debate of how IELU can profess their public theology and who in the pews would be offended. I sat there thinking of Metro New York Synod's banner at the New York City Pride Parade in 2007 when I first attended. How happy I was to see my church at my event. This was the year after I began my discernment into ministry. I was reminded of how Advent Lutheran Church of Havertown goes to the train station to give ashes to commuters. Most distinctly, I thought of the second Saturday night of every month when St. Mark's Lutheran Church in Philadelphia drives the church van around Center City to hand out 100+ dinners to the homeless packaged with a bulletin. How fortunate have I been to grow up in a tradition where we are present where it is needed. The ELCA committed themselves to being active in mission both domestic and international. As much criticism as I give my dear church, they have a universal understanding of their Public Theology.

    Being a guest at the IELU table has been informative and reflective. After small groups we came back together as a whole and shared notes. Every single group was different. One of my greatest take backs was a question Wil posed, "Do we want to be inclusive or integrative?" To include implies a dominant and a recessive, a norm and an other. There is power connected to the word inclusive. We have the ability to determine whether or not someone else can assimilate. That is not the role of the church. To integrate is to acknowledge there are multiple different and equal parties involved. Integration is intentional and cohesive. Although I will say as history has shown us, integration is often one sided. Whites did not start attending black schools, it was blacks that went to white schools. Gender neutral attire incorporates pants options but not skirt or dress options. When integration is in fact mutual, problems within the culture arises. Notice how our country flips out when automated messages of corporations say “press 1 for english.” Personally, I rather people be upset that pressing 1 is an option over a resource being inaccessible due to a language barrier in 2016. Maybe our public theology will reflect integration of all cultures whether it is baby boomers and millennials, european and pueblo originales, or traditional and modern styles of worship. That of course is not my call. I am merely a guest at the banquet, not the host.

    I never thought public theology would be the tool I pull out of the shed during internship. Then again, I did not necessarily expect to be doing half the things I am doing this year. I am curious though where this understanding of public theology has taken my peers and students before me in their ministry. How many of us have taken this very vague model and applied it to our contexts where we serve today? Are we still trying to discern what Public Theology means to us? I hope we are all still playing with this subject. public theology, like most theologies, is ever growing and ever changing and also still relevant. We may not be harboring slaves across the Mason Dixon but there are congregations aiding refugees as they cross the border. We are still writing social statements to tell the world we do not support illegal settlements in Palestine or that we stand against mass incarceration. Public theology is all around us, some more obvious than others. I conclude with a question to the reader:

 

What is your public theology?

 

#ReclaimMissionary

 

 

 

 

Haikus

(Meeting random people on the street)

-¿De donde eres?

-Estados Unidos, ¿vos?

-Why, uh, are you here?

 

(Week One of Introductions)

So many greetings.

Why is everyone kissing?

Did she cusp my butt?

(Argentine Micro- Agressions)

“Your expressions are

Like a Baptist. I love it.

You’re U.S. black, ¿yes?”

(First Communion Class)

Small children laughing

Shout “¡lo tengo, lo tengo!”

We share something now.

(Pastoral Care I)

What did she say now?

I want to understand you.

I’m sorry I can’t.

(Pastoral Care II)

Why is she crying?

They left to tell him good-bye.

I’m sorry he’s gone.

(Language Barriers)
 

Can we build a bridge
 

Over the gaps between us
 

Or shall we face walls?
 

(New found dietary habits)
 

Breakfast- Lunch- Dinner
 

Hearts collapse in on themselves
 

Dulce de Leche
 

(Questions that need answers)
 

Where is my Pastor?
 

Is time a social construct?
 

Can I get a text though?

    

 

Mood:

#ReclaimMissionary