I was raised in a divided family. And in many ways I still find myself living in a divided family. As the oldest granddaughter, I was invited to sit alongside of my grandfather as he received the golden elephant award for the Henderson County Republican Party. As an only child, I learned my parents political persuasions were different. As a woman called to ordained ministry, I’ve had my southern Baptist ordained father-in-law hold my hands and pray for my ministry, and I have had others say “my ordination is incompatible with Christian teaching” I listened to our “adopted daughter” share how she received a notebook on how not to be gay from her mother, and I listened as her mother begged me to help her see the biblical mandate. I yearly sit with my extended family on the porch of the beach house listening to a variety of perspectives on immigration. My family is divided. And in the midst of this diversity, I experience love and learn how to love.
Two weeks ago, I held a hand washing service as my church concluded a series based around our 2019 ministry theme: “Serve.” I had the opportunity to wash so many different hands and my prayer was that God would use those hands to offer love and grace and mercy to our world. Two of the hands I washed were those of my parents. As I washed their hands and looked into their eyes I said, “May God continue to bless these hands who taught me how to love.” They are different different hands. Politically one is conservative and one is liberal. One woke at 5:30 every morning to read the Bible and pray and the other spent the Sunday school hour each week catching up on the latest sports news from the night before. One sat in an office in the midst of academia and the other visited the dirt floor homes deep in the Jackson County Mountains. One is my mom and one is my dad. They are different and together they taught me how to love.
I have spent the last few days in St. Louis with my other divided family called the United Methodist Church. It was the church my parents chose after they married, it was the church I was baptized in, confirmed in, raised in,ordained in, am raising my children in, and it is the church that taught me how to love, who to love, and how to live. Over these few days, I have listened as people passionately shared how they love without limits and others share how love calls them to uphold tradition and biblical authority. I have been yelled each morning by Christians on the streets who protest our conversation on human sexuality. I have listened as my LGBTQ brothers and sisters sing “Jesus loves me.” I have cried. I have laughed. I have prayed. I have cried and prayed some more as I witnessed how divided we are. Love was present because God was present, but in the midst of the division it was not the love I recognized. Yesterday after the General Conference voted to uphold our denomination’s traditional stance on marriage and ordination, I realized that our division is really an expression of our brokenness. We are divided, but more than that we are broken. We are a broken people in deep need of God’s healing power.
I was seated near a group of 30 some young adults who stood for almost 1 ½ hours chanting, screaming, “no,” and “stop the harm.” I will hear the reverberations of their voices for a long time. In the midst of their chanting, I saw a broken church on the convention center floor. A group who desired unity gathered in a crucifix form on the conference floor, others danced and sang together, and others sat silently alone at their table.
Walking out of the convention center, I heard many of our sisters and brothers holding hands and singing in solidarity. Others walked out in silence. Police surrounded the convention center to maintain order. I wept. I thought to myself: this is my family and we are broken. This is the church and we are broken. I continued to weep.
Many have asked what I am going to do. I am still processing all of my feelings, and yet I know I am ready to walk into the brokenness. There is so much brokenness in my life now: tomorrow I will officiate a funeral, Friday I will have a biopsy, Saturday I will be a mom at a robotics competition and a dance competition, Sunday I will be in the pulpit proclaiming God’s word, Monday I will go with my mom to her first chemo treatment, Tuesday I will learn the results of my biopsy, and Wednesday is Ash Wednesday. I will walk with those who are in their darkest valleys, I will face the sterile environment of medical uncertainties, I will join #teamkaki on the journey of chemo, and I will confess my sin and invite others to confess their sin. I will remember my own mortality. I will proclaim that good news that resurrection comes from brokenness. I will confront the brokenness that does harm, and I will weep with the brokenness that excludes. I will hold those who feel broken and alone. I will wash broken hands, I will serve alongside broken people, and I will forever pray for healing and restoration. I will trust that God is at work in my divided family. I will walk in the brokenness, and I will love.
