Unattended Baggage

I wrote this short essay at the airport on December 3, 2015. I was headed to New York City to take some time to reflect on change and newness during the season of Advent. I needed the time to reflect as I just left my first call.

But the mass shooting at San Bernadino happened.

Because I felt paralyzed by fear of making someone upset or suspicious, I decided to sit and write to calm my nerves.

I'm sharing this short essay today because Donald Trump won the Indiana primary last night. He will likely become the Republican candidate for President of the United States of America. This man has built his campaign on racism, xenophobia, and hatred. I share this short essay because I do not want the story of my life to be reflected by these words.

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I always feel uneasy the day following a terrorist attack. Part of it is because of personal safety and whatever, but there is this deep, dark, secret part of me that after a tragedy or violent act, I say a list of prayers.

I pray for the victims and their families.

I pray for peace.

Then there’s that deep, dark, secret part of me that prays that the act wasn’t committed by a brown person.

My nerves are cranked up when it is a brown person. That means I get to be even more aware of the skin I inhabit.

As I was sitting at the gate of my very delayed flight, I took notice of three teenagers who, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be white. Their carry-on luggage was strewn about on the floor at their feet and they were either talking to one another or absorbed with the iPad game in front of them. An announcement came from their gate with the news that their flight to San Diego had been cancelled. There were a series of groans and a "Really?" that came from their area. They wandered off to the gate agent to get rebooked on new flights. But their luggage remained on the floor, unattended. Unaccompanied.

I stared at this unattended luggage for a bit and realized the privilege that is attached to it. These young and unaware people walked to the gate agent and left their bags unattended. I don't know if the automated message, "Please report any unattended luggage" played over the loudspeaker, but it echoed in my mind. If I were to walk away and leave my luggage unattended to check with the gate agent, I fear that there could be hell to pay. I fear not for my luggage, but for myself, for my being, for my person. I fear that I will be questioned, interrogated because my skin is of a particular color.

If I were to be bitter and even spiteful (because these emotions come up during a time such as this, God forgive me), I could report the unattended luggage. The young, unaware people could claim the irresponsibility of youth to departing their strewn bags at the seats. If I were faced with a similar situation, I couldn't claim the irresponsibility of youth even though I look younger than my years. I could claim the sin of sloth, but even then, as a brown woman at the airport the day following a mass shooting committed by two brown people, my being, my nationality, my loyalties would be called into question because I will somehow always be "other." I will always be a "modified" American; my South Asian otherness will be brought up, never mind my birth and seventeen years of residence in Colorado, my decade of education in South Carolina, my current domicile in California, my role as an ordained minister of Word and Sacrament in a mainline Protestant denomination with Western European roots. I will always be other due to a complicated history of brutality, of lines drawn, of glass ceilings, of being a "model" but also a "minority."

This is why I must be aware of the skin I inhabit, especially in particular places. This is why I behave. This is why I don't raise my voice. This is why I am polite. Even when people are rude. Even when I am pulled aside in lines for additional security. I was once pulled aside when traveling with my white husband. He is a quiet and calm man, but when I was pulled aside in a security line and being treated "unfairly"; he became angry. I told him that he needed to calm down; his anger wasn't going to help me get through security any faster. It was odd to see him angered; I wondered if he knew I that moment that his outward expression of anger was also a privilege?

I behave. I am pleasant on the surface. I don't leave my luggage unattended.  But I certainly do carry around some baggage.

Three Stories about Mentors

Formation cannot happen in a vacuum. In order for formation to happen, community needs to happen. Relationships need to happen. The willingness to learn something new... to take risks... being willing to fail can all happen. Mentors are those guides, those wise and experienced individuals, those who have been around the block, perhaps participated some in the “school of hard knocks” to accompany us on fascinating, adventure filled, joyful, sorrowful journeys. It can take just one person to plant a seed. It can take just one person to water a seedling. It can take just one person to nurture a plant. Learning and growing is a rich experience in community; learning from the diversity of members of the body of Christ can enrich our faith lives and faith journeys in such amazing (and challenging) ways.

The Forum for Theological Exploration is inviting people to share their stories of mentors. Having one mentor is life-giving; I don’t know what to call it if you have three. I am extremely fortunate to have three mentors who have accompanied me in my faith journey. One of the biggest aspects of mentorship in my life was that they were able to see something in me that I couldn’t, or that I was just discovering. These mentors accompanied me in this journey of exploration that led to a baptismal font, and ultimately, as an ordained minister of Word and Sacrament in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.

At some critical point, I have written letters to these three people. In the links below, I share those letters here and a brief story of how these mentors have accompanied me to the place I find myself today. I am sad at the brevity of the stories, though; writing the entirety of the journey would take days and months.

The Reverend Chris Heavner

The Reverend Marcus Hess

The Reverend Ross Merkel

Mentor Story One: Chris Heavner

September 19, 2013

Dear Chris,

How do you start a letter to someone who has so changed the course of your life? How can someone offer something more than thanks and gratitude for giving me the space to discover that I am a beloved child of God, even with all of my faults, my imperfections, my issues? It seems that mere words will have to express the emotions and experiences I have with your life and celebrating your 30 years of ordained ministry.

Chris, I thank you for living up to the meaning of your name, of being a bearer of Christ to those around you. I thank you for extending to me grace, mercy, and the open space to be myself as I was traveling along in my faith journey. I thank you that on the first of those weekly meetings all those years ago, you said, “I’m not out to convert you. I just want to share this time with you.” I am grateful that you took the time to walk with me as I had questions about Christianity. I appreciated the questions you asked me about Hinduism. The time that you, Karl, and I spent together talking about faith is precious to me; I now define that time in my life as being a catechumen.

But as we both know, God does surprising things with unexpected people. Little did I know that God was reaching out for me, and I was not at all expecting to have that experience within the walls of University Lutheran Church in Clemson hearing the words to “I Was There to Hear Your Borning Cry.” You continued to support me as I was baptized, and especially when I was exploring what God’s call was on my life. I knew somehow that God was calling me to a life of service, but I was still discerning what that service would look like. I am grateful also for those conversations as I was exploring going to seminary.

I am also so, so, so grateful and thankful that you came to the west coast for my ordination on such short notice. At times, I wanted to pinch you to make sure that you were really here, that you were really at my ordination, that you were really giving me one of my charges as I was getting ready to begin my life as a minister of Word and Sacrament.

Your ministry has impacted so many. Your ministry as a campus pastor has certainly changed my life, and I still marvel at how God has the paths of people intersect in amazing and astonishing ways. I continue to be amazed and astonished on the impact you have in my life, and I am forever grateful to God for you.

Your sister in Christ,

The Reverend Tuhina Verma Rasche 
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When I met Chris, I knew little about Christianity. My initial exposure was from the greater culture: I knew to expect presents on December 25^th and I could wear a pretty dress and gorge myself on hard boiled eggs sometime in the spring months. When I moved to South Carolina, I was exposed to the Bible Belt of the American South. Some of that exposure left me with a bad taste in my mouth; if people claimed that they were going to hell because they were friends with a Hindu, I didn’t want anything to do with that god. Because of that god, I didn’t think too favorably about Christianity. I didn’t need Jesus to “save me.” If anything, I thought I needed to be saved from a god who encouraged narrow-mindedness.

I met Chris in the fall of 1998; I was a sophomore at Clemson University. Leigh Roberson, a dear friend, invited me to a student meal. Every part of my body screamed “NO” at the invitation as I had previously been offended by people professing a Christian faith... but when she mentioned that the meal was home-cooked and (best of all) free, I quickly changed my mind and asked when we were going to be headed out. There’s something to be said about hunger; I had a physical hunger that evening, but with Chris, I also discovered I had a spiritual hunger as well.

I was introduced to Chris and the students of Clemson’s Lutheran Campus Ministry. Chris and the other students were kind and invited me into their fellowship; I didn’t feel the oppression of having to be someone I was not within this Christian setting. I could be my entire Hindu, hungry self.

Chris gave me the space to ask a multitude of questions. Some of the questions were fairly simple, but could lead to a paradoxically complex response. Questions such as

“Why do you sit down and stand over and over again during worship?”

“Do all churches have Bibles in the pews?”

“Why is Good Friday called a ‘good Friday’?”

Chris also asked me questions about my faith life at home as a practicing Hindu. The time with Chris was not a pressured sales pitch on Christianity, but it was instead an amazing and earnest dialogue of beliefs and experiences. Because Chris and I had a relationship where we valued and respected one another, we felt comfortable in open and honest conversation. We were able to hold our differences and love and respect one another. Because of our relationship, I was able to learn so much about the church... and about myself.

When I was discerning if I should go to seminary, Chris was one of the first people I called. I’m assuming he was surprised at this point of my journey, but he was one of the best conversation partners in my discernment process. When I hit a rough patch in seminary, Chris was present with a cup of coffee, a listening ear, and a pastoral presence when I visited South Carolina. We ended up in Chicago at the same time in 2011. I had the opportunity to see the city through his eyes as we walked around the city where he received his seminary education. I asked him so many questions about parish ministry. I still recall what he told me that day about what he learned in parish and campus ministry: “Love your people.” I took those three words with me when I started my internship at St. Paul Lutheran Church, Oakland and Lutheran Ministry to Nursing Homes. It sounded like a simple lesson, but in this broken world, it was one of the most beautiful and complex lessons that Chris passed on to me. Love your people, even if one of them grabs your ass while distributing communion in a nursing home dining room (yes, that happened). Love your people, even if there is a situation of intense conflict. Love your people in their sorrows and their joys. 

Internship concluded. Seminary concluded. “The Draft” (otherwise known as the assignment process) concluded. Waiting... concluded. The people of St. Paul, my internship site, further affirmed my call to ministry by calling me to be their pastor alongside their current pastor. Even though there was a schedule conflict, Chris rearranged his schedule so that he could give me one of the charges at my ordination. Having the opportunity to serve communion while he was present cannot be put into words.

Chris has become more than a mentor now; he is family.

Mentor Story Two: Marcus Hess

Dearest Marcus,

I wish I knew what to write. There’s a flood of thoughts that don’t really have words that can really express what I feel. Ultimately, I am so, so thankful and grateful to God that our paths crossed in such an incredible way. In the midst of this grief, I continue to give thanks to God for your presence in my life and in Karl’s life. You have journeyed with us to places of joy, but also to places of deep sorrow.

Much of my grief comes from expectations that I had that may not be met. I was hoping that you would stand with Ross Merkel, my internship supervisor from St. Paul in Oakland, for my ordination service. I was hoping that if Karl and I were ever to be blessed with children, that you could serve as their godparent and walk with them in their faith journey. But part of this grief comes from my heart turned inward on itself.

I turn outward with God’s love and grace. With that abounding love and grace, I write this while weeping with a joyful heart. The joy comes from your presence in my life, and this is evidenced in the photographs that are included in this letter. Photographs of you, Karl, and me during your ministry at Salem. Photographs of us as you became more than a pastor to me, but a close friend and colleague. Then there are the photographs of seeds planted by the Holy Spirit through your ministry. I desperately want you to see the seeds the Holy Spirit planted through your ministry. I wanted you to see Karl and me after the first time I preached at Salem, standing at the font where I died and became anew. I wanted you to see me take on the yoke of ministry, distributing the sacrament of Holy Communion. I wanted you to see that the Spirit was on to something when you told me that I should go to seminary. I don’t regret telling you, “You ought to take that and shove it up your ass.” I don’t regret it because I see how the living God comes to surprise us in the most unexpected of places. Little did I know that when you invited yourself to Karl’s and my apartment back in 2006, our lives would never be the same. I will continue to be grateful to God for that.

We will continue to commune together, wherever and whenever we are.

All my love,

Tuhina  

I truly believe Marcus saw something in me that I could not see. We were both new, in a way. He was the new interim pastor at Salem Lutheran Church in Glendale, CA. Karl and I were also new; we were sort of transient church-goers and would show up at church from time to time. At a church event, Marcus came to sit with Karl and me. When he discovered that my mother had stacked up our pantry with new and fresh Indian spices, Marcus invited himself over to dinner. Sadly, Marcus did not know that I am actually an awful cook (he professed much later in our relationship that he had a hard time eating dinner that night. He felt obliged to eat the very subpar Indian food I cooked that evening because we had just met and he invited himself to our apartment).

Because I was so curious about this man who invited himself into Karl’s and my apartment and our lives, we would get together over a cup of chai often. It was over a cup of chai that I had my “Ethiopian eunuch” moment with Marcus (yeah, I realize a lot of people cannot claim a moment as such. That’s why I want to own it). I told Marcus that I wanted to be baptized. He presided over my baptism on May 6, 2007. The day was an absolute blur. Some moments I remember with great clarity, while I am grateful for pictures taken that day because I could not recall some of the events. On May 14, 2007, Marcus and I met for a cup of chai; he told me that I should go to seminary. I thought he was crazy. I told him as much. Years later, I angrily yelled at him, told him he changed the course of my life on that day and I was upset because I wanted to have “control” over my life. He told me that it wasn’t just some nifty idea; he was following the moves of the Spirit.

Marcus was my John the Baptist. He was the voice that cried out from the wilderness. He had the voice that told truth, even if that truth was hard to hear. He was a beautiful man, and a damn fine pastor. Marcus taught me that the Gospel, that the risen Christ, can radically change a person’s life. He showed me how to live joyfully. He also showed me how to die gracefully. If I learned anything from Marcus, it is that in baptism, we are tied to Christ’s death... and to Christ’s resurrection. He taught me that Christians are a people of both Good Friday and Easter Sunday. He taught me that the risen Christ not only appears in the breaking of bread at the altar in a sanctuary, but also in fellowship over a poorly cooked meal.

Mentor Story Three: Ross Merkel

Dear Ross,

I don’t really know what we thought of one another when we first met. I find it pretty funny that our first meeting was immensely uneventful, something that can be easily forgotten... except for my bit of kleptomania in stealing your pen. I recall that I found you to be odd; you really, really, really wanted that pen back.

Honestly, I still think you’re odd, and I mean that in the best way possible.

We met again when I came to interview at St. Paul for my internship placement in early 2011. I remember leaving your office excited and terrified of the possibilities of having you as my internship supervisor. I continue to be grateful to God to this day that I was at St. Paul for internship and that I have you as a mentor. You became my supervisor during a point where I was still trying to discern my call; I was frustrated with the injustices within our denomination and I was ready to call it quits and return to being a housewife eating bonbons all day. You were open and honest with your struggles with the ELCA; you taught me that while the easier thing may be to quit and walk away (and eat delicious bonbons), following God’s call is not the easier thing to do. If I really wanted to enact change, you taught me that I had to be within the structures and systems of power because within the walls, I can still have a say.

God places people where God needs them at points in our chronos existence, thereby transforming our chronological lives to get a glimpse of what God does in kairos time. I truly believe that is how you came to be at St. Paul and why your ministry has not only endured, but also flourished. You have shown so many people time and time again how the resurrected Christ is at work in the world, especially when we respond to our neighbor in need. You have also formed and shaped a new generation of pastors to challenge the church and the status quo for the sake of the Gospel.

There are not enough words to convey what I want to say about the impact of your ministry in the greater church and the world. There are not enough words to express what I want to say about our relationship... but will there ever be enough words? Will there ever be enough time? I know that come September 15^th, when the Pastors’ Study becomes the Pastor’s Study, life at St. Paul will be incredibly quiet and I will very much miss you. God be with you and Bob as you venture into the next part of your journey.

Your brown sister in Christ,

Pastor Tuhina Verma Rasche

Ross taught me about being a shepherd. He taught me about being a resident theologian. He also taught me about loving my neighbor, and what a glimpse of the Kingdom can look like when an entire community can come to love their neighbor.

In all honesty, when I came to Ross as an intern, I was a bundle of sad and angry emotions. I felt that as a brown woman and a convert to Christianity, I didn’t have a place within the church. I felt that I was hitting my head against a wall. I was tired of being nice to people when they gave me backhanded compliments. I was tired of not speaking up for myself. I told Ross on my first day of internship that if “the experience sucked,” I would quit. He told me that his wish for my internship was to have a formative experience in building my pastoral identity. He told me that he had high expectations and that he was not likely to back down. That first day of putting everything on the table set the tone for our relationship.

I didn’t know much of Ross’s story with the greater church when I came to him as an intern. I came to learn it through the people of St. Paul Lutheran Church in Oakland (I still think that I am the only intern [or at least one of a very few] in the ELCA who started their first Sunday of internship at a Pride festival). I continued to learn about it when I was called to St. Paul to be Ross’s colleague in ministry. I learned from Ross that living out the Gospel is far from the easy; the Gospel calls us into uncomfortable places. The Gospel calls us into places where we can be persecuted. But it is also the Gospel that sets us free. We are to live out the fullness of who God created each and every one of us to be. We are to love our neighbor in the fullness of who God created our neighbor to be, and that call to love can be complicated. Ross preached, taught, and proclaimed that God’s people were to feed Jesus’ sheep through agape love. Ross showed me that through the Living Word, through our own hands and feet as the risen Christ in the world, we (God’s people) are to feed Jesus’ sheep. He taught me so much about agape love; that self-pouring out, the self-giving love of one’s self for our neighbor in need. Sometimes that agape love brings joy; sometimes it was accompanied by heartache. Ross taught me this by living it out in his ministry, that he shared joys and struggles with the congregation, and in the midst of many events both good and bad, he continued to tell us and show me where the Holy Spirit is at work in the midst of our elation... and in our scars. Ross taught me that the Gospel has something to say in every. single. aspect. of our lives. I learned that this is tied to liturgy. Liturgy is not just some thing that Christians do on Sunday; liturgy is living an entire life of worshiping God. Liturgy is the “work of the people.” I learned from Ross that everything we do in social justice, worship, and the entirety of our lives is to proclaim the Gospel.

#DecolonizeLutheranism

Article IV: Of Justification.
1] Also they teach that men cannot be justified before God by their own strength, merits, or works, but are freely justified for 2] Christ's sake, through faith, when they believe that they are received into favor, and that their sins are forgiven for Christ's sake, who, by His death, has made satisfaction for our sins. 3] This faith God imputes for righteousness in His sight. Rom. 3 and 4.

Image created by Jason Chesnut

I never set out to be a Christian. I never wanted to be a pastor. But alas, here I am, an ordained minister of Word and Sacrament in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America. I had an experience with the resurrected Christ that changed my life, and because that experience resonated so deeply with my soul, I couldn't turn away. Nothing in my conversion experience made sense; if anything, I wrestled with it for almost a decade, until I stood at a font on May 6, 2007. As much as I wanted to turn my back on the resurrected Christ,
I.
Just.
Couldn't.

But I cannot (and most certainly do not) want to lobotomize who I was and my life experiences that led up to that day in Salem Lutheran Church in Glendale, California. The rich culture from my heritage, my life experiences, the formation and guidance I received from friends and family came to construct the lens in which I view the world, a "terministic screen" if you will. I still think about the formation of my prayer life with my family. I still think about (and believe) that everything has a connection being a part of God's created world. I still think about the Trimurti, but how that has shifted and changed and transformed as a believer in the Trinitarian God.

I will also not assimilate to an ethnic notion of Lutheranism; I simply cannot and will not be something that I cannot be. There is a personal note to this; I think of my beloved maternal grandfather. He was a kind and brilliant man. He was so eloquent in his writing and speaking. And while he was studying to get his Masters degree, he was a part of the student movement in India's struggle for Independence from the Empire. His blood flows in my veins. He taught me to love words and literature. His history has shaped my own. Because of my beloved grandfather, I too love words. I too love literature. And maybe it's because of him that in the past days with #decolonizelutheranism, I have felt something stir within me and my passion for the church of Christ. I have a deep love and weird fascination in this spiritual home in which I've been led. I rather enjoy jabbing with my friends and colleagues on so many aspects of Lutheran theology. But when that theology becomes intertwined with an ethnic identity is when the stranger does not seem to be welcome. I only want to be who God created me to be; a broken being who is forgiven. I also will not be quiet. I know that I have come to serve within a denomination that has its roots firmly planted in Europe. But they are roots... roots grow out into shrubs, trees, flowers... roots that branch out into new and exciting and beautiful (and honestly, weird and sometimes scary and outright bizarre) areas.

Christ is the center of everything for me... but it is through the weirdness of my cultural background and life experiences that allow me to embrace the resurrection of Christ that much more. It is through the lens of my culture and my lived experiences that I can share the Gospel and tell the story of the risen Lord. I can tell and show that...
I believe in the Holy Spirit.
I believe in the holy catholic Church.
I believe in the communion of saints. 
I believe in the forgiveness of sins.
I believe in the resurrection of the body.
I believe in the life everlasting.

Amen.

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ETA: My friend and colleague, Jeremy Serrano, answers the question, "What does a Lutheran look like?" at his blog. 

Brief thoughts on the stench of death.

I’ve been reading this week’s Gospel lesson attempting to prepare a sermon for All Saints Sunday. I desperately want to talk about the promise and hope of resurrection because that is what I am to proclaim as a Christian. I find that proclamation to be difficult today because I find myself to be stuck in the tomb. There’s a stench that comes with being sealed in a tomb. There’s the physical stench, the decomposing and decay of a human body that once was. But I think there’s another stench; the social stench.

I’ve come to know experiences with death this year that I wish I didn’t. I saw my father, a man who lived life large and unapologetically, wither away to almost a skeleton covered with skin. The man who was larger than life died a death that whittled him down to skin and bones. That death took place on June 3, 2015. Today is the eve of All Hallow’s Eve. Almost five months have passed, and I realize that in some ways, I carry the social stench of my father’s death. I still grieve. My lens on how I see death and resurrection has been forever altered. Sometimes it’s good. Sometimes it’s not.

What is this social stench? I’m not entirely sure, but I can try to describe parts of it. I know that I will never be the same person after the evening of June 3, 2015. That morning, I had a father. Later that evening, I didn’t. There is a boundary line drawn on that day that cannot be erased on this side of the eschaton. I know that my mom’s life, my brother’s life, and my life will never be the same. I become emotional when I talk about my dad and the things that he enjoyed. I become emotional whenever I think about calling him. I become emotional with the realization that he never got the experience of being a grandparent. Simply put, I become emotional.

This is not to say that I have been emotional twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. But that grief is beautiful and complicated and painful, and it sneaks up on me when I least expect. Sometimes it happens when I sit by myself. Sometimes it happens when I’m in conversation with someone. Sometimes it wakes me up in the middle of the night and I stare at the ceiling. It is there.

Sometimes the grief is overwhelming, I feel like I am in the clutches of grief and it will swallow me whole, devouring every sense of my being. There are other times where it is a slight pang of sadness, a gentle little wave that comes in and pools around my feet. Sometimes, I don’t even notice that it’s there. Sometimes grief feels like the stench of death is oozing out of my pores. That stench feels like the Ruth to my Naomi, and not in a good way.

I think the social stench has impacted how I am in relationship with those around me. Relationships that I had with friends that entailed long conversations into the night are now silent. Sometimes I don’t know what to say; sometimes they don’t know what to say. We stare at each other in silence across an abyss of experience and sadness. Perhaps that chasm will close as time progresses. Perhaps it won’t?

With death and decay comes something that continues to surprise me: compost. New relationships have grown out of the social stench of death. New growth has come in conversations where I was previously too meek to contribute. But honestly, I still struggle. I still have days where I seem to move through the five stages of grief multiple times a day. I still feel this ache in my heart where an emptiness now resides. 

But that’s the thing about compost... something will grow.