"Prepare Him Room": In the Company of Children, Sinners, and Much of the Senate

Hi, everyone!

A few months ago, I was getting ready for bed on a Saturday night, thinking through my plans for the following day. In the morning, I’d be going to church, as I often do on Sundays, but I was especially looking forward to this service. My church, like many Protestant congregations, celebrates Communion only on the first Sunday of the month, and this week was it! 

I should back up a bit here and explain that Communion has become an increasingly central aspect of my religious practice. Christians believe many different—and at times conflicting—things about what Communion actually is, but almost all practice this ritual in some form. Among other beliefs about the Lord’s Supper, my traditions have taught me that it somehow, mysteriously, connects us to other Christians who have participated in it throughout the world and throughout all of time. This is an incredible notion. It means that when I share bread and wine with Christians in Columbus in 2018, we are somehow joining with the Christians I have worshipped with in Savannah in 2011, or South Africa in 2008, or France in 2006, or Tacoma in 2003, or Spokane in 2000. It means that I am sharing a meal with at least some of my ancestors, from generations stretching across centuries, as well as all those who will come after me, stretching until the end of time. When I consider this, that the mere act of walking up an aisle and putting a tiny scrap of bread and a few drops of wine into my mouth could bring me into the company of such a group, I am floored.

You might say this is all in my imagination, and perhaps it is. But one of the benefits of spending so much time around fictional narratives is that I have seen how sometimes the deepest truths can be communicated only through the imagination. What’s more, I am learning that communal imagination is a pretty powerful thing (a common view of the past, a common understanding of the present, a common goal for the future). We can’t know exactly what is happening when we join together in Communion, but this mystery is part of what makes it compelling; we know that it is good for us, we know it unites us, but we can’t know exactly how. All of this is to say that this upcoming encounter gave me much to think about as I was brushing my teeth that Saturday night.

Mingled in with my thoughts about my schedule and my excitement about church were more distressing ones about the big news story of the past few weeks: the Kavanaugh hearings. Like many in the country, I had been horrified at the way Dr. Ford had been treated by some Republicans senators, and I was furious at a few in particular who I believed to be acting with the basest, most heinously political motivations, caring far more for their party than for truth and justice. (I realize some of the Democrats involved were far from blameless during this process as well, but my anger was directed primarily at a few key Republicans.) Eventually, my many, scattered thoughts bumped up against each other long enough that I was left with a startling realization: Most, of the senators are practicing Christians, which means that most, if not all, of them have, at some time or another, taken Communion. This quickly lead to another, even more stunning idea:

I was being asked to get ready to share a meal—the central meal of my faith—with Mitch McConnell.

I was dumbfounded. I was going to be connected with people I not only disagree with, but who I believe are creating policy that actively hurts many of the people I love. That was not something I was mentally, emotionally, or imaginatively prepared to do. It is one thing to unite with some vaguely imagined early Christians. It is something else altogether to voluntarily share a meal with someone against whom you have railed tirelessly for the previous six days.

I realized I was holding a great deal of anger toward people whom God loves and whom I too, therefore, am called to love. The Christmas carol, “Joy to the World,” has a line I tend to gloss over: “Let every heart prepare Him room.” God makes it abundantly clear in the Bible that we love Him in large part by loving the people He loves (i.e., everyone). So if my heart is to prepare Him room, it has to prepare room for, well, everyone. And as I finished flossing my teeth, I knew at that moment, though I was ready for bed, my spiritual preparations were far from complete. There simply wasn’t room in my heart for Mitch McConnell and all the others. But how do we do that? How do Christians make room in our hearts for those we believe to be the worst among us? For those who are ruining lives and spreading a spirit of mistrust, division, and even hatred?

Partly through this ritual we claim to value. 

One of my most fundamental beliefs about the Lord’s Supper is that it is relentlessly, radically, nonsensically inclusive. The story we recall every time we “eat this bread” and “drink this cup” involves Jesus and his Twelve closest followers and friends. But what I don’t often enough consider are the words that many Christians use to begin Communion: “On the night he was betrayed…” Jesus chose to share this last meal with people who he knew would betray Him. Just a few hours after they ate and drank together, these people would deny knowing Him. They would fall asleep when He needed them most. One would even turn Him over to the authorities so that he could be killed. These were the people that Jesus chose in order to initiate this ultimate demonstration and experience of unity? These were the ones with whom He broke bread and shared wine, knowing they had already let Him down in ways they could never undo?

If Jesus included Peter, James and John, and Judas in His Last Supper, I was realizing, I had better make some room in my heart for Mitch. And Lindsey. And Brett.

And the only way for me to truly do that, I think, is through this ritual. Because Communion doesn’t just unite us with all Christians throughout all time. Ultimately, I am in the company of all of my spiritual family only because I am in the company of God Himself. And coming into God’s presence forces me to recognize how I too have betrayed the divine in myself and in my neighbor. Rather than participating in a potluck, where each party contributes a dish, I am lining up at a soup kitchen to receive nourishment I can’t provide on my own. 

In the Catholic tradition, there are several groups of Christians who are asked not to participate in Communion: children who have not yet gone through the process of learning about the Catholic understanding of the ritual; people who have committed what is called a “mortal sin” for which they have not yet gone to Confession; and Protestants. I don’t agree with the reasoning behind these requests, and my own inability (as a Protestant) to participate fully in Communion in Catholic mass has been a source of ongoing struggle for me. However, one benefit of this system is that it has reminded me that I am not above the “least of these”—children, sinners, and religious outcasts (those, as it turns out, with whom Jesus was most frequently, and scandalously, known to associate). 

So to the extent that there is communion among those of us in line for this soup kitchen meal, it is because we recognize that none of us deserves to be here, but we have been invited nevertheless. It is a phenomenal paradox: we prepare our hearts to share a meal with those we cannot stand, those whose motives are mixed, or even those who may soon turn away from God, by sharing a meal with them. 

Another fundamental paradox in Communion is the marriage of justice and mercy. God cannot and does not turn away from the deep wrong we wreak in the world. Just because He broke bread with Judas doesn’t mean Jesus wasn’t killed because Judas literally sold him out. “Joy to the World” also tells us that God “makes the nations prove the glories of His righteousness and wonders of His love.” All of us, and especially those in positions of power, will be held accountable for the degree to which we have proven God’s righteousness and love. The inclusivity of Communion isn’t letting anyone off the hook. Rather, it exposes that, apart from our status as being beloved by God, we are perhaps most united in our failure to love Him well.

I have been challenged this Advent season to remember the importance of Herod in the Christmas narrative. It’s always struck me as a bit unfortunate that we have to talk about him in what would otherwise be a story filled with wonder, joy, and some cute animals. There is a reason our Christmas songs dwell on all the characters but him; it’s just not pleasant to consider the political ugliness and violence of Herod. But this year, I am grateful for his presence in the story, even if I am not grateful for him. He reminds us that God knowingly chooses to enter a world made ugly by our violence and division. He reminds us that Jesus came to save Herod as much as He did Mary. Put another way, he came to save Mitch as much as he did Mouse. Whatever Herod and Mitch do with that offer is not my business. I am called only to eat with them if ever they join the table.

Have a wonderful week! I’m assuming if you have made it this far, you celebrate Christmas, so I’ll wish you a happy one! 

Sarah/Mouse

Re-formation Part 4: Six Reminders

Hi, everyone! 

This is the last in a series on the 500th anniversary of the Reformation which I started a year ago and am only now finishing (because, well, PhD...), six months before our wedding. Today, I conclude my list of twenty lessons I’ve learned from being in relationship with my fiancé Mike. He is Catholic and I am Protestant, and this difference has been the source of many discussions, much learning, and, at times, tension. 

I began with seven attitudes I’ve found have helped as we move forward in an intentionally ecumenical relationship. Last time, I discussed seven mistakes I am prone to make when I consider our religious differences. Now, I end the list of lessons with six things that I’m trying to keep in mind, knowing that some of our differences of opinion and belief cannot be easily (or ever) resolved.

15.) I need to be willing to cut the conversation short. 

Mike and I love to talk about anything, but where religion is concerned, we could (and sometimes do) go on for hours. In theory, I appreciate that we will likely never come to neat resolutions on some issues, but in the moment, I find myself wanting to continue until we have reached a point of agreement (or at least until I have made all of the points I wanted to make!). I’m not great at conversational cliff-hangers, especially when they mean that I might not have been fully understood.

This can lead to conversations that are heated or long—usually both. Mike is much better about recognizing this tendency than I am, and he can table the conversation, knowing he can return to it later. Inspired by this, I’ve started thinking of this practice as a spiritual discipline. In the same way that someone struggling with overeating might decide to stop munching on snacks even in the face of cravings, I need to learn to exercise restraint when it comes to discussions (as anyone who has ever had a conversation with me in a car or past 11:00 pm can likely attest). 

16.) I need to be patient, recognizing that a single topic may take multiple conversations to discuss. 

I am much more willing to cut a discussion short if I remember that some topics need time to sit and develop. One of the very best things about marrying Mike is that we literally have the rest of our lives to talk! Some conversations are like poems or short stories, intentional and meaningful, but short and contained. Some are novels, lengthy and rich, but still digestible as a single unit for those who are up for the challenge. Many of our conversations, though, are the equivalent of the Harry Potter series. Epic and expansive, they have to be experienced in installments. Characters and themes weave in and out, and I find myself growing up and growing deeper as we return to them over time. It takes discipline to put down a compelling book halfway through or to wait for the next installment in a series to be released. But waiting, I’ve learned is part of the process; waiting is where much of the processing and transformation happens.

17.) I need to seek practical solutions even if we there aren’t ideological ones. 

Mike and I have come to understand a lot about each other and at times have even changed our minds about long-held beliefs. However, I realize that there are some things about which we will never be in exact agreement. A relationship is lived in reality, not just in ideas. How, we have to ask ourselves, do we work toward a concrete compromise without letting go of beliefs that are important to us as individuals? 

One example involves a few aspects of wedding planning. There are a lot of Catholic traditions and requirements for a wedding service that simply aren’t important to me, and a few which I object to for one reason or another. Mike understands my perspective and even shares some of my objections, but because it is important to him that our marriage is recognized by the Catholic church, we have to follow the guidelines we have been given. If we each took a 100% ideologically pure position, we would be stuck. And that would be ridiculous. One of the few things I’m 100% sure about is that I want to marry Mike, so to make that happen, we each budge a bit. We will be married in a Catholic service, but we are asking a Protestant minister to be a concelebrant. The Scripture passages read in the ceremony will be among those permitted in a Catholic wedding, but we will attempt to choose ones that reflect a vision of marriage that I am willing and wanting to sign up for.  

Just this one situation has involved a lot of hard work and has taken months to hash out, and I know that there will be many more examples in the future. Being with Mike will continue to challenge me to be a person of both principle and compromise.

18.) I need to remember the Lund principle. 

This principle comes out of the 1952 World Council of Churches in Lund, Sweden, and says that churches of different denominations should do everything together except that which, in good conscience, they must do separately. What I find so helpful about this challenge is that it assumes we have more in common than not. Most of the time, in other words, we should be living life together. The times when we need to act separately are actually quite rare. While the Lund principle was intended for ecumenical relations among Christian denominations, it is a helpful reminder for Mike and me as well. 

I’ve discovered that I have a strange tendency when it comes to people who are different from me. The more different we are, the more likely I am to find and celebrate our similarities.  

Paradoxically, the more similar people are to me, the more likely I am to focus on the areas where we differ. 

This is ludicrous, but I know I’m not alone. Certainly there are conflicts based on major categories of difference, but some of the most ardent disagreements come about the most minute variations in opinion or belief. How many fights have people in the same congregation had over worship style or the type of bread at Communion? How are we able to focus so intently on such minor differences? 

That’s not to say, of course, that the differences are always insignificant, or that we should pretend they aren’t there. But if the majority of what Mike and I believe is the same, maybe we should be spending the majority of our time living out those beliefs. Together.

19.) I need to see the bigger picture always. 

One of my favorite picturebooks is Seven Blind Mice, by Ed Young, an adaptation of an old Indian fable in which seven blind men try to identify a new object. Each man (or mouse!) encounters a different part of the object and describes it to the rest of the group. One compares it to a snake. Another insists it is a pillar. Another says it is a fan. It is only the last man (or mouse!) that investigates the object thoroughly, reporting that while it has the characteristics of a snake, or pillar, or fan, all together, it is an elephant. The truth comes from many perspectives, from seeing not just the parts but the whole.

If I had to choose a life motto, it would be “There is always a bigger picture” (well, that or, “Strive to be a balance of Bert and Ernie”). So how does this sentiment apply to my relationship with Mike? There are, I think, two ways: First, it encourages me to remember there is a bigger picture to Mike than what I experience in any given conversation (see lessons 1-5 and 8-12). Second, it reminds me that the bigger picture of our relationship is one of joyful agreement, unity and partnership. 

I recently came across a TEDx talk in which Julia Galef suggests two metaphors for the way we interact with information. We can be soldiers, wanting to defend our beliefs, or we can be scouts, wanting to see the whole truth clearly. I want to be a scout (and not just because I like To Kill a Mockingbird). 

20.) I need to remember that my job with Mike is the same as it is with every human: to see and respond to God in him. 

I don’t think I’ll ever be un-astounded at this aspect of my faith. As he is wont to do, C. S. Lewis puts it best: “The load, or weight, or burden of my neighbour’s glory should be laid daily on my back, a load so heavy that only humility can carry it, and the backs of the proud will be broken. [. . .] it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal.” So when Mike and I disagree, which we will continue to do at times, I need to respond as though I’m speaking with God Himself. Just typing that sentence gives me shivers. What an honor. What a responsibility. What a gift.

One of the little attention-focusing devices I came up with while I was teaching preschool was to ask the children to turn their ears on (we then pretend we’re turning a switch by each ear and say “Bing! Bing!”), and turn their eyes on (“Bing! Bing!”). The kids seemed to like it and I often found myself using this technique half a dozen times or more in a given day. How would my life change—how would my relationship with Mike change—if, even half a dozen times a day, I turned my eyes on (“Bing! Bing!”) to see the divine in those around me? Would I still focus on ideological and doctrinal differences, seeing people in categories of “us” and “them”?

From what I can tell, the people who model this ability to see the divine in others don’t. Rather, they approach people with loving curiosity, intentional empathy, and relentless humility. They don’t deny genuine differences among people, but they also don’t make differences the defining features of a relationship. That's quite a lot to aspire to. But, as evidenced by the incredibly divided nature of our politics, our religions, our families, and our communities, there are plenty of opportunities to practice! 

I’m sure I’ll write more about my relationship with Mike later, but for now, I’ll end by thanking those of you who have responded in person or online to these thoughts. Thanks also to the many of you who have inspired or encouraged these thoughts in the first place. Please keep the conversation going! How are you dealing with the divided world in which we live? How do you work and learn alongside people with whom you disagree? What lessons can you share? 

Have a week full of unity, curiosity, and love! 

Sarah/Mouse