I had a great chat with a friend of mine today, a pastor from another Methodist church. We share similar perspectives on a number of theological and social issues, so part of our conversation involved hashing out some of the current debates about health care, GLBT rights, and ecological awareness. I had forgotten how refreshing it can be to link into a like-minded/like-spirited person, especially in the context of long-terms struggles for justice and the good. It recharges my batteries, reminding me that in believing as I do, I join other good people of faith and hope.
Together, my friend and I asked the question that's been bugging me of late: how shall we as Christians disagree about fundamental issues? Or, rather: how do I work, pray, and live as one in Christ with people who espouse beliefs I find difficult to reconcile with Christianity? What is my relationship, in other words, to those people who declined to stand along with me at the trial of Jimmy Creech?
Our conversation on that topic reminded me of another conversation I had back in the spring of 2004. On that occasion, I was in Pittsburgh, attending the United Methodist General Conference.
Once every four years, about a thousand delegates drawn from every Annual Conference in the US and from Conferences outside of the US, along with the Bishops, Judicial Councils, heads of UM agencies, and of course thousands of other onlookers, lobbyists, experts, and activists--all of them gather in one location to spend about a week defining what it means to be Methodist. At the GC, official documents like The Book of Discipline (the go-to manual for Methodist polity and doctrine) become in part open to revision. Delegates to the General Conference vet hundreds of proposed revisions to various operational procedures and official stances. The great majority of these proposals involve noncontroversial matters of logistics and meet-and-potatoes operation. But certain topics soon emerge as incredibly divisive.
The hottest debates in Methodism (as in many other denominations) revolve around issues of gays and lesbians in the church. Can GLBT people be ordained as ministers? Can GLBT couples be married? Are GLBT people welcome as members? Can the UMC honestly declare itself as of one mind on GLBT status and rights? These issues had riven the Conference in years past; a mass arrest had occurred, for instance, at the 2000 Conference. Tensions were high in anticipation of similar events this year.
And I was there, as I had been in 2000, not as a delegate but as one of an army of activists/lobbyists for the pro-inclusivity side. In the Conference, I sat in various sub- and sub-sub-committee meetings watching, listening, and taking extensive notes to relay to my own team leaders. I drafted position statements and talking points. I made contact with "friendly" delegates and offered what assistance (info, recommendations, perspectives) I could. Outside of the Conference doors, I handed out flyers, helped to organize para-conference events, lined the sidewalks in silent (and not-so-silent) demonstrations, and basically sought to be part of the pro-GLBT movement.
Of course, the "other side" had a coalition of its own. For every note-taker, sidewalk-liner, flyer-distributor, and talking-points-writer "we" had, the more conservative side had just as many. Indeed, we faced each other on the sidewalk, handed out flyers next to each other breezeways, sat side-by-side in innumerable meetings, taking notes furiously.
And, inevitably, we struck up conversations. Early in the conference, I was assigned to take notes on one of the relatively noncontroversial sub-committees. Most of the work of the conference during these first few days consisted of sub-committees hashing out the hundreds of proposals specific to their committee's purview. I watched along with dozens of other onlookers as fifty delegates slogged through rote votes, peppered with the occasional controversy.
During a break halfway through the second or third day, I spoke at length to one young woman sitting next to me. As it turned out, she was an alternate delegate from the Alabama conference. Just graduated from high school, she was at her first General Conference, representing her constituency, which was overwhelmingly conservative and opposed to the GLBT-inclusive cause I represented. We quickly identified each other as political adversaries, joking about how we worked for the "other side," but then moved on to chat about a number of other topics. Her boyfriend and family. My partner and family.
Another woman representing another conservative group overheard us. "What's your name, young man?" she asked, not unkindly, but not joking, either. I told her, and she opened a little notebook to write it down. "I'm writing your name down so I can pray for you," she said. My Alabaman friend, deciding this was a good idea, also wrote my name down.
This was a tricky moment. "I'll pray for you" can often be code for "You are so desperately in the wrong that only God can help you." I fear this is the message many people outside of the church hear when a Christian tells them this. I considered the possibility that the woman was communicating just that message. You poor, benighted person caught in your destructive, sinful lifestyle--all i can do is pray for you to find Christ. I quickly went through possible responses: question? educate? argue? take offense? ignore?
In the end, though--and I have to believe this was a Spirit thing--it struck me that I should be honored and glad to have someone praying for me. Heaven knows I need it. And so what if the woman's subtext matched my suspicions? Is not prayer still a good and appropriate response? She is, after all, not attacking me but promising to commune thoughtfully and earnestly with God about the well-being of my soul. I realized I wished more of my adversaries did that for me. In fact...
"Can I have your name, too?" I asked. "I like people praying for me, and I'd like to return the gesture." So we exchanged names, wrote them down, and I did pray for my two adversaries. I hope and trust they prayed for me.
Prayer, as CS Lewis said, transforms humans more than it transforms God. Like the act of writing, the act of articulating concerns, submitting them to God, and opening yourself to God's response changes the way I picture those concerns. I hoped, I suppose, that my acquaintances would be led by God to see my point of view--but in prayer I recognize that what God does is up to God. God knows best, not I, and my trust in God's power and wisdom (and--always--grace) must be greater even than my convictions about what side God is on.
As the Conference wore on and debates grew ever-tenser, one side or the other floated the possibility of a schism. Perhaps our differences on the GLBT issue (and the deeper doctrinal matters upon which that issue rested) were too great for us to remain in communion with each other. Perhaps we had best amicably depart. Conference-goers buzzed with nervousness about this possibility. I saw my friend from Alabama, a worried look on her face. She saw me. We caught up briefly with some small talk. Sure is busy. Sure am tired. It will be good to get back home.
Then she stopped. "Do you think we're going to split, John?" she asked. "I hope not," I said. "I don't think so." And we agreed to pray. We prayed not for the other person to see our side of things, but for the church by which we call each other brother and sister to remain whole.
And it did. And it does--barely.
God, be with the people I met in Pittsburgh. Be with my adversaries who believe so differently than I. Open me to their needs, their thoughts, their fears. Make us, keep us, one in you.
More tomorrow,
JF
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