Worship Spaces: St. Antony Antiochian Orthodox Church

 I ran across St. Antony Antiochian Orthodox Church one morning about a week ago on my morning bike ride. The small church is located at the corner of 6th and Columbia in Tulsa, just off the University of Tulsa campus. What caught my eye was the beautiful icon portraits of the Four Evangelists on the outside of the building.

St. Antony was founded in 1934 by members from St. George Church in Wichita. In 1976, the Old Cedar Club building was donated to the (up until then) itinerant congregation. It was subsequently remodeled, and the icons were added in the late nineties by Janet Jamie from Oklahoma City. Father George Eber (who is quite the prolific tweeter) has served the parish since 1981.

St. Antony supports the Righteous Joseph of Egypt Prison Ministry, a project of the Orthodox Christian Churches of Oklahoma administered by St. Antony. The church also runs the St. Euphrosynos Kitchen, providing a lunch to the community every Thursday.

Re-Examining the Responsiblity of Free Speech: Charlie Hebdo and Draw Mohammed

In the wake of the terrible shooting deaths in Texas this weekend at a "Draw Mohammed" event, I thought back to the words I wrote after the Charlie Hebdo shootings earlier this year. I think they are relevant today:

This argument quite gratuitously ignores the value of prudence, of evaluating our actions in light of how it treats others. Such sentimental musing is dismissed as the worst of that great sin, political correctness. Exploring the responsibility of our stewardship of free speech, of the bounds which we choose to police upon ourselves, is categorized into the same class as reading Bin Laden's declaration of jihad in wake of the 9/11; the horrific nature of the acts disclaims any possibility of understanding what provoked such a response. Never mind that we could learn how to prevent future tragedies by learning what causes such acts; so many would rather ignore all rational cause and effect in favor of keeping our own hands clean and just telling ourselves they hate our freedoms, our shopping malls, our tolerance. And so we invade their countries and mock their religious icons, and we disaffect an entire generation, and then we wonder why they lash out.

This isn't an argument that lays the attacks on the Charlie Hebdo at the feet of said magazine; but it also doesn't make them innocent martyrs. It's an argument that asks that same question as above: just because we can run those cartoons, does that mean we should?

Freedom of speech in a civilized nation means more than acknowledging the limitless bounds of our rights to say things. It means speaking with a self-imposed sense of propriety or respect. It means understanding that just because we can say something doesn't mean we should, not because a government tells us not to, but because we know that with great privilege comes great responsibility. It means that we know that tact and restraint, respect for others and their beliefs, is not a weakness or capitulation, but the ultimate example of civilization. It is the hope for a peaceful and tolerant future.

As Christians, we are called to a life full of respect and love for others. Every Christian who felt deep offense and anger at something like Piss Christ should innately understand the anger Muslims feel over depictions of the Prophet. We can acknowledge the right of persons to display these images while also calling on them to show the restraint to not do so, in the name of tolerance and respect. This isn't giving in to terrorists; it's coexisting with others in a diverse world. It's self-governance in it's highest and more virtuous form.

My prayers go out to the families who lost loved ones this week, that they might find peace and comfort. They also go out to humanity, in the hope that we can coexist peacefully and respectfully. Amen.

From My Bookshelf: Egalitarian Leadership in the Early Church

From Christianity: the First Three Thousand Years by Diarmaid MacCulloch, pg 242:

Thus from a very early date comes that peculiar Ethiopian arrangement which persisted for sixteen hundred years, as late as 1951: the presiding bishop (abun) in the Church of Ethiopia was never a native Ethiopian, but an import from the Coptic Church hundreds of miles to the north, and there was rarely any other bishop present in the whole country. 

This has meant that the abun rarely had much real power or initiative in a Church to which he came usually as an elderly stranger with a different native language. Authority was displaced elsewhere, to monarchs and to abbots of monastaries; monasticism seems to have arrived early in the Church of Ethiopia and quickly gained royal patronage. Around these leaders are still numerous hereditary dynasties of non-monastic clergy who, over the centuries, might swarm in their thousands to seek ordination on the abun's rare visits to their area. The education of the priests, deacons and cantors might not extend far beyond a detailed knowledge of how to perform the liturgy, but that was a formidable intellectual acquisition in itself. They were ordinary folk who thus shaped their religion into that of a whole people rather than simply the property of a royal elite. Over the centuries of trials and bizarre disasters that afflict the Ethiopian Church, they are the constant underlying force which has preserved its unique life against the odds.

What a great and rare example of widely shared leadership and knowledge in the early church.

Being the Light in Our Failing Public Schools

In the most recent issue of Plough Quarterly, Catherine McNiel wrote a thoughtful piece about her and her husband's decision to place their three children in the Chicago public school system, instead of a private Christian school or homeschooling. She focuses on the trepidation she felt at this decision, and the Christian imperative they felt to place their children where they did. The piece struck a chord with Arianna and I. As parents of Julian, age 2, and Evelyn, 6 months, this is a subject on our minds as we begin to near that decision ourselves.

Catherine begins by considering the view prominent among many Christian parents, that public schools are unsafe places for families who try to raise their kids with a Christ-centric worldview. She cites a local Chicago newspaper that reported that 76%  of students in Chicago-area public schools are from low-income homes, and then touches on the increasing trend for parents to not consider public schools as a viable option. She then asks the money question:

But what about the children who are left behind, in increasingly darker places as each Christian light is removed? Should the Christian response be to abandon troubled public schools - or should our answer rather be to infiltrate them?

Catherine and her husband elected to send their children to the local public school. She says,

I understand why so many families seek other options. But when we visit our sons' elementary schools, and see the at-risk, English-as-a-second-language, first-generation American children working hard to make their way, I think of all the resources that are lost through educational white flight. My heart aches each time I meet a strong Christian family whose talents, resources and faith will never intersect with the children in our public school - including my own children. When I hear the well-intentioned advice, "If you move there, don't send your kids to the public school," my heart cries, "But that's where we need you!" 

We recently moved to Tulsa, OK. It's Arianna's hometown, and we love it here. I plan on starting seminary in the fall at Phillips Theological Seminary here, so we will be here for the next three-four years at the very least. Julian will start school in that time, and Evelyn will be very close. This is a subject fresh in our mind as parents.

Tulsa schools, while not terrible, are still part of the public school system of Oklahoma, ranked 49th in the nation. Public education is under constant attack from our state legislature, and private Christian schools are found in abundance. This includes high quality institutions like Cascia Hall and Heritage Hall. The continuing cuts to education funding in Oklahoma has weakened already over-burdened schools and educators. Classroom sizes are rising, resources are shrinking, and standardized testing is destroying the little remaining faith many Oklahoma parents have in public schools.

So, the question is: why would we want to subject our kids to this? I am a strong proponent of the concept of public education. I believe quality education to be a right of all children, and I think the state has a duty to provide that to all children. I am also a strong believer in the absolute separation of church and state, and so I want secular schools, where there is no teacher-led prayers or Bible study and well taught, empirically-based physical and social sciences. I believe we have a duty to support public education and fund it adequately. I believe the increasing diversity of our schools is not something to be feared, but prized in the experiences it will bring our children.

But, I also understand schools are more dangerous than ever, that public education is in bad shape, that the education our kids receive in public schools is increasingly substandard and headed in the wrong direction. Julian and Evelyn don't deserve to play the role of guinea pigs, or to be the tools with which we prove a point. So again, why would we put our kids in public schools?

The other thing we wish to avoid is the idea of the "White savior." I don't want us to be misunderstood as saying we can save all the poor (read:minority) students by infusing more white kids back into public schools. Diversity and difference will help our children grow, but not specifically because our kids are there; our kids will benefit just as much from the diversity they encounter and the other kids will benefit from our kids.

The point is, in all honesty, me and my wife come from privilege, and we have resources we can sink into a public school that will help every kid enrolled there, along with what everyone else brings to the table. When parents such as us decide to send our kids to a private faith-based school or homeschool, we are in a small way taking substantial resources away from kids who don't have the benefit of that option.

I come down on the side that Catherine articulates: because it is where we are needed. Jesus calls us to be like salt, like yeast, like light: to permeate everything, everywhere, in order to bring the Kingdom on Earth here and now. She writes:

Choosing public education-even in a troubled school district-is my Christian act of hope, justice and redemption. I choose public school not because I don't care, but as a commitment to care and invest even more. My husband and I see this as a kingdom-building opportunity, in our own small way adding what we have to the wellbeing of the city. And we are not alone-beyond the discouraging statistics and failing test scores we have found committed teachers, administrators, and parents working together to make a difference. God is always found working in even the darkest of places.

This is what we must do. We can't let those without the resources to place their children in private or charter schools suffer from a lack of resources and diversity. By working together, we can make all schools places of exceptional teaching, learning and growing. That is why we are choosing a secular public school. We want to be a light, to help make schools a great place again, in any small way we can. In Catherine's words, "let's acknowledge the problem and respond with infiltration rather than abandonment."

Worship Spaces: First United Bretheren Church, Tulsa OK

Saturday, I attended an Earth Day festival at Garden Deva Sculpture here in Tulsa with Arianna. We attended under the auspices of her employer, Tulsa Hub (which is really cool, you should check it out.)

While there, I noticed an old (and seemingly abandoned) church across the street. I crossed and took the pictures seen here with my phone. They are the first in a series of posts featuring photography of the many beautiful churches here in Tulsa, and beyond.

But in doing a little research about the old church to share here, I found it has quite a magical history. Originally built as the First Evangelical United Brethren Church, at some point it was repurposed as a recording studio. In the early 70s, during the heydey of the Tulsa music scene, rock star and Tulsa native Leon Russell bought the building. During his five year stint as owner, the place became the center of music in Tulsa, attracting world-famous musicians such as Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, Tom Petty, Peter Tosh and George Harrison to record there.

Since the 70s, it has been used on and off as a studio, at times sitting empty and unused. Five years ago there was a plan to revitalize the building and reopen it, but it doesn't seem much came of it. The building's Facebook page has posts from last fall about plans to renovate, but nothing new has been posted since October.

You never know what you'll find wandering about. I feel this is an auspicious start to this series. I hope you enjoy.

Reflection on Holy Week: The Descent into Madness, and the Devastation of Absence

I'm enjoying Holy Week more this year.

This isn't to say that I didn't enjoy it in the past. But I'm understanding it better now, as I grow in my knowledge and my faith. I've been able to focus on the progression of the week, the meaning of the days and the season as a whole. I've been able to just be present in this week.

Last year, I spent all of Lent and Holy Week terribly conflicted about what it all means.

This turmoil came out of my own personal Christology, for lack of a better term. As someone who views Jesus first and foremost as human, who doesn't put much stock in miracles and virgin births and physical resurrections, I was rightfully having a hard time deciding just what was so important about Easter. My big epiphany for last year was while having lunch with my pastor at the time, who told me that all Christians believe in the Resurrection of Christ, but we all may have a different idea of just what form that resurrection took.

This year, I feel more at peace about Easter and Holy Week. I'm excited about it, I'm enjoying the many, many church services, and I am spending a lot of time thinking about what it all means without worrying about it. I've been focusing on two main themes.

First, the dichotomy of Palm Sunday and Good Friday has really struck me this year. In the span of five short days, the Passover crowds of Jerusalem go from hailing Jesus as a king entering his kingdom, to condemning him to death in the most painful and humiliating way. To think about Jesus on the cross, saying "Forgive them, they know not what they do," is really powerful to me.

The whole thing just seems to be a big commentary on our own misunderstanding of what he meant, and of how quickly we can turn on something that seems great at first but ultimately disappoints. It's a striking reflection of our own flightiness and tendency to follow the crowd. We are all complicit in that rapid change. A whirlwind turn of events begins, and we get so wrapped up that the next thing we know, Jesus is on the cross and we are standing there not even realizing just exactly what happened.

Part of my reflection on this theme has been focused on the Cleansing of the Temple. That  really had to be the breaking point for most people. It was such a jarring act, one with such significance and passions surrounding it. That must have been the point when those whispers from the Pharisees began to sink in, and the ball started rolling down hill, and everyone slipped into a blood lust they didn't wake up from until a week or so later.

Except they probably didn't wake up from it. They probably just went about their lives, and one day in the future remembered back to that crazy rabbi who threw the moneychangers out of the Temple and caused such an uproar. What ever happened to that guy?

Second, I've thought about the devastating absence the disciples must have felt after Jesus' death. Here is a man they have dedicated their lives to for more than three years. He was wise, caring, loving, a force of character more powerful than anyone they had probably ever met. No doubt he had a mythical presence in their minds, a larger-than-life aspect of their lives as changeless as the seasons. Despite his assurances of his impending death, they clearly didn't believe him, assuming he would always be there, and leading the way to great and wonderful things.

And then they wake up Saturday morning, and...he's dead. His dead body seems a lot smaller than proportions it seemed to have taken on in his life. His words and teachings already seems like a distant echo.

And life goes on, and things are the same as before, and no one really seems to care except the  11 of them, the Women, and a few others.

And most of all, their teacher, their leader, their brother, their friend-their good, dear, loving, close friend- is dead. How devastating must that have felt that morning? What did the last three years even mean if here they are, alone?

Again, as someone who doesn't believe in a bodily resurrection, this is where the questions deepen. Because it's not just Saturday morning that they wake up in despair. It's the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and so many more other days that they were supposed to be doing amazing things. Life must have seen empty in the days and weeks after the crucifixion, as these men and women tried to figure out how to go on  and what to do with their lives now.

And so the big question becomes, what does Easter really mean now? If it's not about Jesus rising bodily from the tomb on that Sunday, what is it all about? That's what I've really been pondering for a couple years now. And this year, I'm starting to get some glimpses of just what it may mean.

When I think about those lost and devastated disciples, I start to understand what Easter means. Because they didn't give up, go into hiding, or return to their old lives. They built something new. They took up the mantle Jesus relinquished in his death, and began the process of changing people's lives and spreading the message they had internalized.

That's what Easter is about: the inability of death and darkness to prevail, even in the most depressing of times and situations. It's a reminder to us to keep pushing forward, that Jesus' life mattered for something and so does ours, and we have responsibility to engage in something greater than ourselves. That's Easter. That's Holy Week.

The questions keep coming, the pondering doesn't end, but the meaning is there.

It's Time to Welcome All People to the UMC Table

Update: Edited for clarity.

I read this passage the other day, from Lindsay Harts, on moving from Evangelicalism to an Episcopal congregation:

"Everything is centered around this one moment where people of all ages, gender identities, races, ethnicities, sexual orientations, political beliefs, and backgrounds are welcome to come to the table and receive the elements. Whether or not the bread and wine are a symbol or whether you believe that they are the literal body and the blood are up to you. I believe they have enormous power to change hearts, attitudes, lives, tear down prejudices, bridge gaps, and bring peace. I believe that in most cases, the elements speak louder than any sermon or hymn or prayer. Something mysterious and unfathomably beautiful happens at the table. It's a place where any person, no matter what belief system or background they come from can come and receive the God of peace.”

I think this is a beautiful rendering of the Church, as a place for all people to come together in Christ and share in the table fellowship that breaks down all barriers. 

This is what I want in a church. 

After trying out a variety of other churches and denominations, I came home to the United Methodist Church because that is where my heart is. I love the Wesleyan theology and tradition, connectionalism, and the unified, global structure of the UMC that does so much good in the world. 

But I think the UMC is deficient in one area: treating all people as equal. 

As a denomination, we still embrace a discriminatory stance towards our LGBT brothers and sisters. Our Book of Discipline contains language that makes them second-class Methodists, both through their denial of marriage equality and the ability to serve the church as ordained clergy.

Many of the Methodist clergy I have been around include a variation of this phrase in their communion liturgy: "This isn't just this church's table, or a Methodist table; it's the Lord's table and all are welcome here." But as long as the Church continues to deny full equality to all, then every time a pastor says this, it is in part a lie. When we as the Church refuse to extend that attitude of inclusion and hospitality beyond just the act of communion, we undermine the inclusivity that it represents to the world.

Communion is one of the most poignant and central rituals in the Christian tradition. The table is a place with no barriers, no restrictions, no rules about who can sit and partake. It is a place of Christian fellowship for all God's children. The symbolism of all the people coming together around a common table, where all are equally valued and loved, should extend beyond the table to the entire life of the church. I hope and pray the UMC will soon make that true in practice as well as in rhetoric. Because when I am ordained, I want to be able to say that at this table "people of all ages, gender identities, races, ethnicities, sexual orientations, political beliefs, and backgrounds are welcome" in all aspects of the Christian life and experience.

Note: I want to be very clear, so that this post won't be misconstrued or misunderstood - both purposefully or accidentally - that I am in no way implying that the UMC refuses Communion for LGBT people. One of the most wonderful things about the Methodist tradition is that in fact all are welcome at the table. I am of the opinion, as articulated above, that I think that attitude should be extended within the life of the whole church. Thanks to all who commented and engaged in the debate that helped me realize this post needed some clarification. -JD