The holiness of porous boundaries

Boundary Maintenance

“We’re the United Church of Christ, not the Unitarian Universalists.”

This objection was raised during floor debate prior to the vote for the (now elected) General Minister of the United Church of Christ, Karen Georgia Thompson. Karen Georgia asserted in her plenary address that already in the UCC are agnostics, atheists, people from non-Christian religious traditions, and people with no particular religious affiliation at all—of course, probably some Christians, too! 😉

“What are we doing to make sure we affirm these visitors and members in our congregations, and open the doors so that others from non-Christian traditions feel safe?” I felt the warmth and security of affirmation. “Not everyone will believe like everyone else and that’s a good thing!”

And all God’s people say Amen!

I was privileged to be in the room as a voting delegate at the 34th General Synod of the United Church of Christ to hear Karen Georgia’s address and vote in the affirmative to approve her as the next General Minister of the UCC. The first Black woman to serve in this role.

And again, all God’s people say Amen!

Of course, the objection is not without its merit. The UCC, which is the acronym for the United Church of Christ, has long been chided by outsiders as standing, instead, for, “Unitarians Considering Christ.” No matter how you feel about it, it’s a pretty funny joke. And a joke that deserves a little attention. Let me say that this sentiment is motivated by what sociologists describe as boundary maintenance:

The ways in which societies (or social systems) maintain distinctions between themselves and others. Many have suggested that, by studying the ways in which a society attempts to define its inherently ambiguous—and hence potentially dangerous—peripheral areas, it is possible to obtain a better understanding of what constitutes its key cultural values.

There are at least two issues that I see originating from the concern for identity markers and boundary maintenance in religious communities. First, just what does it mean to identify as a member within the tradition, and second, who gets to decide? These interrelated questions are clearly linked to the the definition offered above, especially, “what constitutes its key cultural values.” The use of “potentially dangerous” in the definition is worthwhile, too. The peripheral areas, what I may describe as porous boundaries, present a risk to those who circumscribe those boundaries more rigidly, in other words, those who hold the seat of power.

Boundaries are drawn to exclude outsiders, while affirming insiders. From Evangelical Christian communities, I’m troubled by these data from the Pew Research Center:

• Eight-in-ten White evangelical Protestants (81%) say the country’s founders intended it to be a Christian nation, making them the Christian group most heavily inclined toward this view.

• The vast majority of White evangelical Protestants (81%) say the U.S. should be a Christian nation

With these data, it’s not merely drawing boundaries for who counts as a member in the social group. We must ask: What is the role for non-Christians, when 80% of a Christian group claim that America was founded by Christians, intended to be Christian, and should be a Christian nation? The insider-outsider divide has real consequences, when exclusionary ideology moves from pews to policies.

Don’t mishear me, I am a staunch advocate for mobilizing parishioners toward political action. Centering the margins, that is, taking the lived experience of those who are historically denied power and using the platforms of the powerful to amplify voices and needs for these communities is, I think, one of the few through-lines for the biblical literature, which is, otherwise, a multivocal text. In other words, the Bible does not speak with one voice or perspective; it is the collection of multiple books and source documents, written by different authors, over a thousand year period, and so, we cannot impose a single voice or point of view onto the text, from our own perspectives. But, as just said, concern for those without power does seem to be a consistent theme throughout the Hebrew Bible and Greek Scriptures.

This should not surprise us, the material conditions for the communities of authorship behind the major sources of the Bible were often living as citizens of a vassal state to larger empires or caught up in the geopolitical conflicts of the Bronze and Iron Ages.

Israel (Judea), in the Hebrew Bible historical context was surrounded by Egyptian, Greek, Assyrian, and Babylonian empires. The New Testament, composed under Roman occupied Palestine and surrounding areas, witnessed the total destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, the centerpiece of religious and political life for the Jewish people for more than 500 years.1 For the centuries of authorship in the Hebrew Bible and the two or three centuries for the Greek Scriptures, Israel had enjoyed very few periods of autonomous rule.

The Bible contains the documents by and for the oppressed. Hearing a call in sacred texts to raise the voices and needs for those who have been oppressed is a very different project than establishing a Christian Nation; one is a use of power, the other, an abuse. That Christianity becomes the state religion of Rome should not shroud the fact that Jewish and early-Christian communities are those without the means of larger empires, center divine justice in their sacred texts, and are oriented toward a future eschaton, an end time, a messianic age of banquet and peace, when all will have enough and “nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war any more” (Isaiah 2.4).

Empire and authority privileges the few, but the politics of peace, justice, and equity are relational, and affirm the belovedness of all people. While I must stop short of reading too much into the ancient literature, for risk of violating the same cautionary guidance against univocality I’ve already articulated, I do find consensus views in the prophetic tradition of Old and New Testaments. Whether you look to the lion lying with lamb of Isaiah, Micah’s doing justice, loving kindness, and walking humbly, or Jesus’ child who leads them, there is a clear message of peace, humility, and vulnerability at the core of the prophet’s message.

What Does it Mean to be a Christian?

This is my newsletter, so I won’t shy away from personal disclosure and autobiography—in fact, maybe this newsletter could use a little more of that, thoughts? I’d love to hear them.

When I try to recall a moment of self-identification as a Christian, I’m hard-pressed to identify a particular moment or event. On the one hand, I’m a pastor’s kid to a mainline Protestant pastor. Dad was finishing his undergrad when I was born, and as a toddler, I have vague memories of the large crows around Christian Theological Seminary in Indianapolis that we’d see when Mom and I picked up Dad from classes. I grew up in the church. So maybe it’s right to say that I don’t recall a moment of identifying as a Christian because it was the backdrop to my entire life. But I’m not sure this is exactly right.

As is often the case, I’ve learned about my life and experiences through learning about the lives and experiences of friends and acquaintances, sometimes after the fact. My first real moment like this with respect to religious identity was in high school, when a girlfriend attended church with me on a Sunday morning. She leaned over and whispered during the communal meal, “Your church does communion wrong.” I think I snorted with laughter. Not malicious laughter or laughter designed to denigrate. I was simply reacting to, what I took to be, the absurdity of what she said.

“Does communion wrong?!” the words ricocheted around my head. That was the first time that I truly recognized that other people thought there were right and wrong ways to participate in a sacred expression of religious rite or ritual. I realize this may present me in a naive light, and that’s probably a fair critique, but the point I’m making is that our tradition was one of an open table. When the table is open, all are welcome, no matter who you are, or where you are on life’s journey. There was no “wrong way” to participate in the holy meal because ours was a tradition of radical hospitality. You cannot be radically hospitable and rigidly doctrinal.

Have you ever been to a friend’s house for the first time, and they ask you to remove your shoes when you walk inside, and you realize your socks have holes in them? Then each time you hang out with that person again, you are careful to pick your best socks before heading out. Houses of worship should be places of hole-y socks.

The more public I’ve become when discussing religion, especially on social media, the more that I see the boundary maintenance obsession from so many Christians. I rarely fault individual Christians for this, though, the interpretive communities (pastors, denominations, etc.) are usually at fault when someone is accused of doing communion wrong—not the leaders for administering the sacraments, but the religious leaders who say there’s only one “right way” to do it, oh and by the way, it’s our way.

The most heartbreaking rendition of the communion incident is this zinger of absolutely toxic theology, “You cannot be gay and Christian.” The number of times I’ve heard people on social media platforms espousing this hate speech—and that’s what this is, friends, hate speech. The number of times I hear someone say this to another person online, the more I feel myself distancing from a label anywhere near Christian.

What confused me as a high schooler, the remarks from my then-girlfriend, wine and wafer in hand, was the film trailer for the harmful Christianity that many of us are now made to suffer through. Whether I ever thought critically about self-identifying as a Christian, I certainly wouldn’t today. On a live stream recently I heard Rev. Timothy, “Rev. Timoth,” Silvia wisely remark, “The greatest threat to the institutional church today is the church itself.”

“Follower of Jesus,” is a thoughtful label that many have adopted to distinguish the Jesus we meet in the gospels from the Jesus we meet in the Church. But the plot thickens.

The Rabbi Asked, “Do you Accept Jesus as Lord and Savior?”

When we discovered our connection to mom’s biological (Jewish) family, and I’ve spoken on this at great lengths here and elsewhere, something opened from within that drew me closer to this sleeping giant of ethno-religious identity marker—back to boundary maintenance! Dad was, and remains, wonderfully supportive. For the past 20+ years, I’ve dedicated myself to learning about, studying within, attending services, and adopting home rituals to recognize my Jewish ancestry. Something about it feels very right to me—very natural. Of course, for as long as I remember, Jesus’ identity, even within childhood Christian education, was that of Jewish carpenter, rabbi, and teacher.

Nervous, yet optimistic, I met with rabbis and began attending synagogue years ago, but slowly disengaged with all forms of religious affiliation. For several years, I was found at neither church nor temple. A few years ago, I really felt a call to reignite engagement with my complicated religious identity, where the idea for this newsletter actually started! I began a process of discernment. Where do I fit? What do I do with this passion for the study of sacred literature? The truth is, it took several years to let go of the idea that my terminal brain cancer would kill me any day now. Those fears have not gone away, but with seven years of survivorship, it was time to will myself toward living like I wasn’t nose-to-nose with my mortality. Ironically, maybe it’s not living like that, that is the sign you’ve learned to live with life as it is.

In this protracted period of discernment, I wanted to reconnect with communities that I had neglected. I set up a meeting with a rabbi at the temple where I had been attending a decade ago. I shared my story about being a pastor’s kid, discovering my connection to Judaism, and wanting to more fully explore what this means for my life.

The Rabbi Asked, “Do you Accept Jesus as Lord and savior?”

I likely reacted in the same way to being told, “You’re doing communion wrong.” Do I accept Jesus as Lord and savior?! I wouldn’t even describe myself in those terms, before I had any knowledge of our family connection to Judaism! I don’t even think Jesus wanted anyone to accept him as Lord and Savior! He certainly didn’t ask anyone to worship him or demand it of his followers!

And here we meet the difficulty of boundaries. I’ve found myself to be not Christian enough for the Christians yet too Christian for the Jews. I find myself needing to persuade Christians that it’s OK that I don’t affirm Jesus as the divine messiah died for my sins, and we can still be in a productive, relational movement toward justice and peace, and I’m persuading Jews of the same. On first meeting, Christians are worried that I haven’t accepted Christ, and Jewish people are concerned that I have.

Porous Boundaries

Every week you all see my Sunday Post, what has been the anchor of this newsletter for its first six months of existence—are you appreciating these? I’d love to hear your thoughts if we would like to continue seeing the weekly Sunday Post, or more intermittent remarks on a wider range of issues!

What you may not see are the TikTok and YouTube videos I make to support the Sunday Posts. When I talk about the Sunday Posts I have a stock intro that I repeat at least weekly, “Each Sunday we’re reading the assigned gospel reading from the revised common lectionary through a Jewish lens to restore the authentic context to the gospel accounts.”

This is absolutely how I see the project—and more so, how I see my life. I am so proud of ongoing faith-based organizing within the UCC. I have been privileged to be involved with movements around anti-racism, disability justice, LGBTQIA open and affirming work, environmental justice, and combating food insecurity. And I identify these actions to be on solid footing with the way of Jesus—and the way of Judaism, which, for obvious reasons, overlap!

The Jesus of history, as I dedicate so much of my time to studying him, is not the fulfillment of the Scriptures for Jewish people. Jesus is so firmly planted in Second Temple Period Judaism, Torah observance, the Law of Moses, and repentance, t’shuvah, turning toward the Mosaic Law that was his tradition. And it’s my tradition! My family’s tradition. My relatives keep kosher, attend synagogue, and usher their children through b’nei mitvah.

Is it better to say that I am Christian—by upbringing and volunteer work? Or Jewish—by matrilineal descent and appreciation for the Law? What about secular humanist, because I think God cares more about how we treat each other than how we treat God. What about “Follower of Jesus”? That captures the essence, but only if your Jesus is the Jesus of history, not the Jesus of doctrine.

Maybe in the end, it is best to say that I’m UCC: Unitarian Considering Christ.

One thing I know for sure is that when Karen Georgia said we are a place for people from all religious traditions, or none at all, I celebrated. If you celebrate, too, you’re in the right place.

And all God’s people say, Amen!