TW: Brief Thoughts on Anatomical Metaphors

When the spouse and I talk first thing in the morning without caffeine, I think our conversations are a bit more off-kilter, somewhat entertaining, and a bit more unfiltered than normal since our brains are not working at full capacity without the sweet, sweet nectar of God (otherwise known as coffee). This morning, we ended up talking about anatomical metaphors that describe a person’s actions or characteristics. I brought up an example from a few months ago with a colleague:

Colleague: You have some cojones. 

Me: No, I don’t. 

Colleague: Yes, that took some cojones. 

Me: I literally do not have cojones. Why can’t a different word be used? 

Colleague: ... 

I myself have bought into this culture of language as well, telling a friend that he had major balls when facing a difficult situation. Which, anatomically speaking, he has them. And my friend is a brave individual. But why does this part of male anatomy parallel with courage and bravery? Why have I bought into this narrative?

In the morning conversation with my spouse, we were wondering about other anatomical words that would relate to courage and bravery. The only other one I could think of was that someone had heart. I don’t know if the coffee still hasn’t kicked in or that with recent personal and world events my mind is still operating in an interesting fog... but as of late, I’ve been struggling with a loss of words (which is awful for someone who likes to write). And I’m struggling to find another part of the human anatomy that communicates bravery.

Like... damn, you went all cochlea-out.

Or... that was all about the humerus.

It's all about the humerus.
Or in this case, the humeri.

When the coffee started to kick in, the conversation between my spouse and I became increasingly serious. I’m prone to asking out loud very obvious questions to which I already know the answer, but part of me has to ask the question out loud so it’s a part of the spoken conversation:

“Why do people use balls to talk about brashness and bravery?” 

To which I answered my own question out loud to my spouse and myself:

“Because patriarchy rules and has the power and that power isn’t for all. 
Because male genitalia is a part of anatomy that you can force upon and into another person. 
Because we live in a rape culture where it’s okay to treat people as less than and as mere objects. 
Because we live in a world where the words ‘power’ and ‘brave’ don’t mean what they should. 
Because sin is damn insidious.” 

I think about how rape culture communicates the most horrific of power dynamics, and that patriarchal language buys into this oppressive system. Maybe those with a penis, getting to whip out their genitals is what I would call brash, yes, but this is not what I consider to be brave. This is not what I consider to be courageous. But yet a dominant narrative, a dominant culture tells us otherwise. That if you have the powerful anatomy, you're awesome, and if you don't, then too bad.
Very either/ or.
Very ends of the spectrum and no life in between.
A dominant narrative tells us all sorts of awful things, that if you do not conform or buy into this dominant narrative, your body and your life do not matter.

As someone who loves how words are used and someone who believes that the Word made flesh came to dwell among us in the person of Christ, I also realize that there are consequences to the words we use (and do not use). I am also at fault for words used and words omitted; I continue to struggle and to learn and re-learn. I realize that words have power, and sometimes that power is oppressive and does not liberate. Words can give power to a segment of the population and victimize other parts of humanity, and there are times where we don’t even realize how entrenched we are.

Crucifixion and Synod Assembly (it's not what you think...)

This may look like any non-descript Synod Assembly.

People from all over the synod gathered around round tables ready to discuss and act on the business of the church.

For me, this was far from a non-descript Synod Assembly. This gathering of people represented the Body of the risen Christ when I desperately needed to hear the words of resurrection hope and promise.

What led to this revelation? On June 2nd, I was on my way to Reno, NV with one of my pastoral colleagues (who also happens to be one of my good friends from seminary). We decided to drive from the Bay Area to Reno to have the freedom of mobility in case we wanted to explore Reno in our free time (and honestly, to have a car to have absolute control to leave Reno as soon as we were able... no offense to Reno, we just really like being at our homes). We also had to depart a day early from the Bay Area since we were both attending the Synod Council meeting that preceded Assembly.

We were joking in the car that we had a bag of grapes, a pack of Mentos, and a bottle of water between us, and that hopefully we wouldn’t be stuck in the infamous Donner Pass and have to resort to the cannibalism of days past. We were listening to satellite radio and I was singing my heart out to many a 1980s hair ballad. The trip was off to an uneventful start, but that changed in the high Sierras. It was in that infamous Donner Pass that I received the phone call that I had been dreading; my spouse, who was keeping vigil at his father’s deathbed, called to let me know that the hour had finally come. His dad slipped from this side of the eschaton to the other.

My spouse is a calm and collected man, and at the same time, quite loving and caring. He is also very close to his parents and his older sister. When I heard his voice on the phone, it was a voice from him I never heard; if there was ever a time that I could audibly describe what ashes and sackcloth sounded like, it was deeply entrenched in my spouse’s sobs and lamentations that day.

Because we were in Donner Pass, I lost reception on my cell phone. I looked at my friend driving the car, and about a million thoughts filled my mind to the brim. I was overwhelmed. I didn’t know how to feel; honestly, I was emotionally and psychologically preparing myself for the anniversary of my own father’s death which was going to happen the next day, the first day of Assembly. I wasn’t prepared to hear of my father-in-law’s death. Even though I had left St. Louis days before saying what was my final farewell to my father-in-law, I had tricked myself. I had somehow entered into the land of denial. I had convinced myself that there should have been more time.

I burst into tears and started yelling obscenities, especially the one that starts with the letter “f” and ends with the letter “k”. I yelled that word repeatedly as my friend drove down the Sierras and closer to Reno. I then started to laugh and cry simultaneously, convinced that I was going insane and that the circumstances of the timing of deaths in my life as of late have been eerily tied to regional and national church functions. My father went into a coma when I was in Sacramento at Synod Assembly the previous year; I left Assembly early to fly cross-country and made it to his deathbed in time. While working at the National Youth Gathering in Detroit a month and a half after my father’s death, my spouse’s aunt died. Upon my return from the Youth Gathering, my spouse and I were on a plane days later to attend the funeral in Illinois. And now this year’s Synod Assembly was marked with the death of my father-in-law.

I texted the Assistant to my bishop since cell phone reception was still spotty. When my friend and I arrived in Reno, I was half out of my mind and in a daze. I somehow functioned enough to get everything out of my car and check into the hotel. I was met at the hotel’s reception desk by my synodical bishop, who heard the news of my father-in-law’s death from the Assistant to the Bishop. They were both aware that the anniversary of my own father’s death would be the next day. He asked if there was anything he or the synod could help with; I told him that I had no idea, that I knew I needed to leave for St. Louis but I just didn’t know when. I somehow sat through the Synod Council meeting later that afternoon; honestly, I was still in denial. I thought I could lead a totally normal existence for an afternoon in a Council meeting, but as the afternoon crossed into evening, I knew where my heart was and where I physically needed to be. I booked my flight to leave Reno Friday afternoon with hopes of reaching St. Louis in the unholy early morning hours of Saturday.

There were many things I was supposed to do at this Synod Assembly. I was supposed to introduce a video made at the 60th anniversary of the United Nations Commission on the Status of Women to the greater assembly. I was supposed to present a workshop about intersectionality through the lens of the United Nations Commission on the Status of Women. I was supposed to toast my dad and smoke a cigar with a company of good friends. I was supposed to vote on synod business. I wanted to encourage discussions on #decolonizeLutheranism.

Schedules were rearranged and I was given the opportunity to give my report to the greater assembly on the United Nations Commission on the Status of Women. As I approached the dais to give my report, one of the assembly chaplains (a pastor I respect and enjoyed working with in my previous call) was called up as well. After I gave my report, after the video was shown, the bishop told the assembly that I stayed to give the report but was headed to the airport to be with my spouse and his family to grieve together. The assembly sent me off in prayer, the prayer that I experience resurrection hope in the midst of grieving. Prayers for traveling mercies. Prayers for peace and love. To be sent off with the assembly’s prayers was both humbling and powerful.

To profess the resurrection of Christ crucified... this is the business of the church, and I experienced that fully during my short time at Synod Assembly.

#decolonizelutheranism and Gender Identity: a guest post by Iren Raye

*A guest post by Iren Raye, #decolonizeLutheranism*

 

Hi friends, I’d like to tell you about myself. My name is Iren Raye, and I go by “Raye.” But this wasn’t always my name – I completely changed it last year. I was named Holly Nicole Wilson at birth, and assigned the gender “girl.”  I identify now as transgender, genderqueer, non-binary, non-conforming, agender. There’s not just one word that describes it for me. I don’t fit the gender I was assigned at birth, that I was raised as. I don’t fit the gender binary at all. I never have. And believe me, I have tried.

This story is not just about me. I am telling this story about me in order to tell a story about the church. My church. The ELCA. Trinity Evangelical Lutheran Church in Santa Barbara, CA. Abiding Savior Lutheran Church in St. Paul, MN. Holy Trinity Lutheran Church in Livonia, MI. Lord of Life Student Congregation at California Lutheran University. El Camino Pines. St. Mark’s. Christ. Grace. Luther Glen. University. PLTS. Davis. Incarnation. LSTC. Wicker Park. Augustana. So many different names, one ELCA. This doesn’t even cover the number of congregations I’ve worshipped and communed with, worked for, visited, or eaten with.

I am part of the #decolonizelutheranism movement. And why? I am a cradle Norwegian Lutheran. I fit into the Lutheran culture, right? Why challenge it? Because I’m also Mexican. And British Isles. And west coast. And trans. And 90’s alternative. And I’m tired of needing to only embody the ¼ of my heritage that is Norwegian Lutheran in order to fit in. I’m tired of the hegemonic white church culture.

I want to come at this from the perspective of gender and sexuality, because that is the part of my experience with the ELCA that is sorely disconnected from the gospel. Gender roles, gender norms, genderpresentation, sexual expression, relational norms. It is very difficult for me to tease these things apart in my journey, my pain, my confusion, my faith life, my ministry career, my need to fit in, my need for success. I could (and plan to) write many many pages on all of these things and how I have experienced them in the ELCA. For today, I want to focus on one:

Gender presentation.

I have always had panic attacks getting ready for church. From when I was a kid, to a youth minister, to a camp director, to a seminary student. It has been shamed into me that I must look nice for church, which explicitly means that the way I dress day to day does not look nice. I have been told in more than one church that jeans are not appropriate attire. I have been told I should wear skirts more often. That the skirt I was wearing is inappropriate. When I decided I did not want to wear bras anymore because of beauty standard issues in our society, I knew I would not be able to go braless at church. Inappropriate. Another panic attack. I have been told in more than one ministry setting that I cannot have an eyebrow piercing because I am a role model to youth and other young peers. I have been told that what we wear to church is a uniform. And no, this pastor was not talking about albs and other worship garments. He was referring to the way we must dress to present ourselves appropriately to God and each other.

Panic attack. My heart is racing and my stomach is churning by typing and reliving these moments.

I have realized in the past few years that part of what I have always experienced in this clothing anxiety is gender dysphoria. I have been experiencing major distress in having to present myself a certain way. Having to “dress up” in our society is a very gendered experience. You can shop from the women’s section or the men’s section. I could dress up feminine or butch. Those were always my only two options. To look like a woman, or to look like a lesbian. Neither of which were labels that made me comfortable at all, because they do not fit who I am. Add to that the anxiety that I was being misogynistic by not wanting to look like a woman, or be perceived as a woman who loves other women. I receive my biggest support from women and from lesbian-identifying women in particular. However, the limited gender categories and limited gender presentations that fuel perceptions in society put me into a dizzying spiral on a daily basis.

More distress. More panic attacks.

But what does this have to do with the church? You may be thinking, “Raye, it sounds like your brain is just giving you anxiety, not the ELCA.” And that’s partly true – I have an anxiety disorder, but I believe it has been impressed into me through repeated encounters of shame. Shame that even though I am freed from dysphoric distress by wearing jeans and a t-shirt, I am not worthy to sit in a pew, read from the lectern, or lead singing in that outfit. Regardless of how clean, modest, attractive, and comfortable an outfit I put together, it could still be deemed unacceptable by laity and clergy at any given moment.

So instead, I put my energy toward fitting in. Toward dressing like a respectable white woman ministry leader, by the collective ELCA’s standards. These are not standards written down in any place, but rules enforced through shame. A hegemonic cultural standard, in which the ruling ethnic group determines cultural norms through unspoken means. In our country and church, this is white Western, upper-middle class, mid-20^th century Americana kinds of standards.

The big issue here is: when I dressed and acted according to these standards, I was successful as a professional ministry leader in the ELCA. I received jobs, was promoted, was invited onto planning committees, was introduced to synod and Churchwide leaders, received access to higher education. If I could look the part, speak the part, and live the part, I got the role. The problem is so much of it was an act. A forced act of survival. On one hand, financial survival. It was an act I needed to play in order to receive a salary, afford rent and food. On the other hand, it was spiritual survival. I did what I had to do in order to be allowed not only to worship in a pew, but to live out my calling to serve and lead the church. Every moment that I have the courage to drop the act and be myself, I risk both my livelihood and my belonging in my faith home.

This is why I am part of #decolonizelutheranism. Because, as much anxiety and distress and depression and suicidal thoughts it gives me, I have the white privilege to play the part and be a successful leader in the ELCA. But not everyone has my light skin, my neurotic need to fit in, my ability to “pass” as a respectable Lutheran. Others, by virtue of appearance, family heritage, language, sexuality, gender expression, vibrant personality, or cultural expressions of worship, do not “pass” as Lutherans and are always “othered.”

I refuse to be a part of the hegemony anymore. It is not worth my mental and emotional health. I should not have to hide who I am in order to be a member or leader in the ELCA. There are so many of us that have heard the gospel through the Lutheran lens: that the grace of God has overcome all barriers of sin and evil and has saved us from oppression. We are no longer slaves, but free. We no longer hate and restrict, but love and welcome. I love the ELCA, our joy-filled worship, our full reliance on the grace of God in Jesus Christ, our trust in the Holy Spirit to make us one through the sacraments of baptism and communion. These gifts are for all the people of God. This is what the #decolonizelutheranism movement is all about.

Bishop Eaton herself has raised up again and again the need for us to acknowledge the limitations of our church, especially in terms of race and racism.  When asked about the #decolonizelutheranism movement at the Sierra Pacific Synod Assembly this weekend, Bishop Eaton acknowledged that our movement is addressing importantissues of cultural exclusion (minutes 23:00-27:00 among others). I appreciate her words and her support on these issues.

However, Bishop Eaton couched us as a group of younger, newer pastors and seminarians. I suppose that in the ELCA, these words sort of apply, given the age demographics of many of our congregations. But on the other hand, I have had 32 years of experience in this church as an active member and ministry leader. While some of us may be “newer” pastors, we are not new to this church.

Bishop Eaton also characterized us as being impatient, which is true. But, Bishop, impatience is NOT a charism of the young. It is a charism of the oppressed, the pained, the bleeding, the dying. There are some of us that need change NOW. Not because we are young and idealistic. But because we and others are being cut off from ourselves in our faith home. Our churches – where we hear the good news that God loves us unconditionally, passionately, overwhelmingly, just the way we are – simultaneously are the places where we are silenced, reduced, and controlled by one group’s cultural standards. This affects us painfully. This is not a surface issue. This is a heart and soul and salvation issue. Can we fully be ourselves, our gender non-conforming, culturally non-conforming, sexually non-conforming, clapping and dancing in church, eating-disordered, neuro-diverse, wearing non-Western-elite clothing, messy, loving, broken, whole selves? We want the ELCA to celebrate that our full selves are saved by the grace of God – not to be changed through conformity but to be transformed through acceptance and belonging.

Decolonize the hegemony. #decolonizelutheranism.

Raye @irenraye 
queerly Lutheran theologian - PhD @LSTChicago - queering your visions and expectations with holy indecency - derby grrrl aka Death Raye