I’m Reading the Bible Again, and I’m a Little Nervous About It

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I’ve started reading the Bible again.

Only 6 years ago, I wouldn’t have taken out time to craft a blog post about this. I would have just done it, because reading the Bible regularly was what I did.

Sure, I’d go through spells in which I fell behind for a couple of days, or maybe even a week. But otherwise, I was a devout Bible-reader, a lover of devotions and daily quiet times, back when getting up before the sun was (slightly) easier than it is now.

By the light of my desk lamp or under flickering fluorescent in the dorm basement, I would read, journal, and pray for at least 30 minutes a morning, devoting the time with all the gusto I could muster in those pre-dawn hours. I looked forward to these quiet minutes with God’s Word. I used to see so much truth, hope, guidance, and love in those stories and verses, whether I proof-texted them or did amateur exegesis on them.

I felt God’s presence in a way I never have, before those times or since.

Then the faith crisis hit.

Before my eyes, the Bible transformed from a story of hope inspired by God himself into a text of manipulation, fear, and lies. My faulty foundation had been built on those words and how they’d been taught to me, and they had been found harmful and lacking.

The devotions grew more shallow. The regular quiet times ceased. Eventually, I stopped reading the Bible altogether.

After all, how could I trust something that had deceived me so much?

Instead of reading Scripture, I focused on service and worship. I connected with God through hearing peoples’ stories, in regular conversations and through blogs and books. I felt God’s presence when I mentored children, gave and partook of communion, gleaned food for local pantries, and helped people get free groceries for the month.

These became my devotions and daily readings, the living Word with me, and in many ways, these practices saved my faith from certain death.

Eventually, in fits and starts, I started to read the Bible again. I would halfheartedly begin my devotional practices but drop them once life became too busy. This changed a bit during seminary (for obvious reasons), but I read Scripture in an academic context.

However, contrary to popular belief, seminary didn’t further damage my relationship with the Bible. Instead, it helped me learn to love it again by allowing me to study and deconstruct it, to see how verses turned into ideologies and how context could upturn all of them.

In short, seminary taught me to love the Bible for what it is, not how I or any culture want it to be.

Now, after all that time of study and with a Master’s of Divinity, the idea of reading the Bible for my own spiritual health still freaks me out.

What came so naturally all those years ago feels like lifting an Olympic-sized weight after I’ve regressed to 5-pound dumb bells. And instead of allowing myself to simply practice studying again, I’m asking myself a million questions.

How do I read this now?

How do I read these texts after I spent a lifetime learning they only had one interpretation?

How do I read the stories of divine healing after I have seen and experienced unhealed pain?

Will the Bible push me deeper into the beliefs I already have, or will it make me become the person I once was, who I have fought so hard not to be anymore?

Will the Bible teach me to become a quiet and submissive woman after working so hard to be bold and confident?

Will I find myself chanting “All Lives Matter” and “America is a Christian nation” and “Love the sinner, hate the sin” in spite of everything I’ve learned about racial inequality, the brutal politics of our nation, and harmful notions of sexuality?

Will I care about any of the things I care about now, or will I cast those all away like I did my past ones?

Will I find God’s voice, or my own, or my culture’s, or some messed up combination of all of them?

Who will I become as I let this text shape me again?

I’m afraid to find out, because I fear the past me, the one who got so much out of those quiet times and turned a blind eye to the people God loves most: the poor, oppressed, and marginalized.

I fear becoming the person who feared learning new things would make me “too worldly.”

I fear becoming the person so affected by the warped concept of purity thrust upon me that I spent nights crying myself to sleep because I had sex before marriage.

I fear becoming the young woman afraid to take on leadership roles because I was taught my desires to usurp the authority granted for men alone violated God’s will.

I fear becoming the person who would not embrace my LGBTQ friends as they are.

I fear that Bible-loving girl, and while I want to love the Bible, I don’t want to love her. And I sure as hell don’t want to be her.

But that girl and Bible-reading are so tied up in each other, I’m not sure how to do one without becoming the other.

In short, I don’t know how to read and love the Bible as I am.

I’m trying to figure that out, though. I can’t properly explain why. I don’t know if it’s the Spirit’s prompting, or because I re-read The Unlikely Disciple and felt nostalgia for my old evangelical devotion days, or because I feel like I “ought” to.

All I know is I’m doing it. And I’m praying, in fear and trembling, for it to change me, but I’m not sure how I want to be changed.

What If Mary Wore Pink Chucks?

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As a child, I hated the color pink.

It was a “girly” color, and as a child, I didn’t want to touch anything feminine. I wanted to be seen as tomboyish.

And I hated shoes.

I preferred socks or bare feet, even over rocks, cool hallway tile, slick grass, and scorching blacktop.

But when my mom asked me what I wanted for my 25th birthday a year and a half ago, I shocked her by saying all I wanted was a pair of bright pink Chuck Taylors.

I’m not entirely sure when or why this obsession began. I might have seen someone wearing a pair and been drawn to them. Maybe I finally started warming up to pink. Maybe it was all the Doctor Who I was watching. All I know is I fell in love with the idea of having pink Chucks.

So my very generous mother got them for me on my 25th birthday. And I wore/continue to wear them everywhere.

I wore them to seminary classes, when I spoke at chapel, and to my seminary graduation. I wear them on date nights, while running errands, and when hanging out with my high school Sunday School group. Those shoes make me feel more “me” than any other item of clothing I have.

So what if they are considered by some to be the shoe of choice for the counter culture, a style of conformity for the non-conformists? I love them. They are comfy, bright, and stick out in a way that makes me want to be seen. I feel most comfortable, excited, empowered, and ready to take on the world when I lace them up and walk out the door.

So at choir practice last Wednesday, when I realized the upcoming Sunday was the Third Sunday of Advent, the Sunday of Joy and the lighting of the pink candle, and that we would be singing Mary’s Magnificat, I just had to wear those spunky shoes.

But since I’m also a huge people pleaser, I had to ask my choir director if it was OK to do so.

She smiled and nodded as she replied, “Yes. Please wear them.”

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So I wore them to sing the Magnificat, in which Mary proclaims how she, a humble handmaiden, will be regarded as blessed throughout all generations, that God will upset the mighty systems of the rich and lift up the poor and oppressed. And she sings this ballad after she accepts the dangerous call from God, delivered to her by an angel, to bear the Messiah into a dark world, and after an in-utero John the Baptist leaps inside Elizabeth’s womb.

This is no schmaltzy ballad from Mary meek and mild. This is a song of resistance, one which should strike terror in all the elite, belted from the pipes of a fierce female whom, of all the women in the world, God chose to bring the True Light into the world.

This might have even been Jesus’ lullaby.

When this was the song I was called to sing, the pink Chucks were the only shoes I could think of to wear. They made me feel free, subversive, excited, and bold enough to do God’s work of upsetting the powerful, even if that meant upsetting structures from which I have long benefited. I chose these shoes, because they were the color of joy, of the Advent candle and of my own joy in being myself, called to do God’s work, which Mary exemplified in her life and her song.

Maybe Mary would have worn pink Chucks, too, as a display of her femininity and subversiveness for all to see, all that made her the woman God chose to bear Jesus into the world. Maybe she would do this to demonstrate that girls of all ages and from all walks of life have fire in their souls that the world desperately needs. Maybe she would lace up her pink Chucks and tell all the girls and women of the world that when the world tries to denounce their femininity as something less than, something to be violated and exploited, something that makes them “weak” and “meek,” they should show the world that being bold is a strong, feminine trait.

Because we need all the emboldening we can get to proclaim justice and the upside-down kingdom of God into our own dark world. And sometimes our proclaimation outfit is a pair of bright pink Chuck Taylors.

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My Faith is Solid…and This Worries Me

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My senior year of college threw me into a major faith crisis. It was the year I took my most challenging classes, heard the most upsetting insights, and asked my hardest questions.

During that time, I began to question everything from my conservative Pentecostal upbringing. And in this case, “everything” is not much of an exaggeration.

I poked holes and made cracks in all aspects of my theology to see what would stay in tact and what would crumble. Unfortunately for me, most of it crumbled. I found out very fast that what I had thought was my rock solid foundation consisted of sand, and I began to sink into its mire.

I pondered predestination and free will, religion and science, the “debates” about same-sex marriage and LGBTQ equality, and the culture wars. I wondered about the legitimacy of doctrinal “facts” like the Trinity, the inerrant word of God, salvation through Christ alone, and whether or not women should pursue leadership roles (I actually wrote my thesis about this topic).

These questions of crisis kept me fearful and skeptical of the Church for many years. Engaging with my home community was too much for me. There was no room for questions, doubts, or even different opinions. Instead of trying to make some change from within, I ran away from the community which had once been my home, and I still have yet to return.

Fortunately, my journey led me to many brothers and sisters of the Christian faith who gave me space to ponder, wonder about, and tinker with my faith. They heard my questions, and when necessary, they offered new insights to consider. They told me I didn’t have to look at things through the black and white, right and wrong lens of my upbringing. They taught me new, life-giving, colorful ways to interpret the Scriptures, live as the Church, and follow Jesus. They taught me about the harsh realities of racism, sexism, and elitism I had been taught were long dead, and they taught me how prayer and protest go hand in hand. They let me create and lead. They swore, did theater, loved books and comics, and prayed. They seemed like authentic human beings, not the carbon-copy perfect Christians to whom I had been accustomed.

I met these people in school and church, in the theater and in the classroom, on the streets, in student apartments, and in cushy homes. They guided me through seminary and the faith communities I joined. They helped me find God and faith anew.

Now, I’m out of the faith crisis and living into a more solid, steady, and real faith. I still have questions, but now I feel more comfortable with some things being unresolved and have a firmer understanding in what I do and don’t believe. I continue to be irreverent while revering the sacred Presence around and within us. My prayers are more consistent, and they are full of joy, lament, and honesty. I feel closer to God and the Church than I have for the better part of 5 years.

And this worries me.

While in faith crisis mode, things were new and uncertain. Everything from whether or not I would remain in the Church to which authors I would revere was under question every day. Now that the ground beneath my feet is firmer, I’m not sure what to do. What do I do when the next step I take meets firm ground instead of sinking sand? What do I do when I’m swimming steadily instead of struggling to stay afloat?

This isn’t foreign territory. I remember when my beliefs were steady, before I knew the true essence of my former foundation. I remember what I was like when I was “right,” in every definition of the word. I distanced myself from those with whom I disagreed and felt the need to correct them when I was around them. I look back at who I was then with some disgust and horror, hoping I will never again be like this.

I don’t want to shut myself off from others, especially those who still struggle to feel welcomed by the Church. I worry that my more solid faith will be appalling to those still struggling and full of doubt. I worry that instead of listening to and hearing them, I will revert back to my old tendencies to correct and give clear-cut answers for chaotic and hurtful circumstances. I worry I will lose my sense to be understanding and be sympathetic to where my brothers and sisters are in their journeys.

I fear I will forget what it felt like to be on the outside looking in. I fear my present comfort will cause me to forget this difficult, wonderful, and necessary part of my journey, a part of my life which I treasure more than my any of my times of certainty.

So to alleviate these concerns, I will need reminders from my community.

There will be times I need to be reminded to do the hard work of listening to others, with whom I agree and disagree, who comfort me and challenge me. I will have to work hard to resist the temptation to either rest in tepidness or continue pursuing fleeing fancies. I will need regular, gentle reminders to hold my ideas with open palms instead of clenched fists.

I will need those younger and older than me to keep me in check, and the wisdom and stories of people of all ages and walks of life. I will need to be reminded I am not the be all and end all of the Church or good theology, and that steadiness in faith does not equate with unyielding certainty. I will need my blind spots pointed out and my slip-ups called out (but graciously, please!). I will need as much help as I can to keep moving forward in this journey.

So as I live into this time of steady faith, please continue to challenge and share with me. Keep telling your stories. Be honest about your beliefs and the joys and struggles of your lives. Continue to ask questions and remind me to keep asking them, too.

Let us remember that faith is never meant to be stagnant and still but ever-moving and ever-changing. Let us journey on together, wherever and as we are.

Now What?

SPOILERS for anyone who somehow hasn’t finished the entire Harry Potter series yet. If you haven’t, please get on that. You’re missing out.

Harry Potter was my gateway drug to geekdom. Before I knew what fandom was and before I could even admit that I liked fantasy, I fell head over heels for JK Rowling’s Wizarding World.

I can’t remember exactly when I started reading the books or from whom I got the first one. I do know that when the first movie was announced, I was 4 books in and madly in love with Daniel Radcliffe.

And I definitely remember attending the midnight release of the very last movie: Deathly Hallows Part 2.

I went with Bryce and my college friend Betty. We stood in line, me with my Dumbledore’s Army T-shirt, Betty in her plain white T with a Hogwarts crest stitched on, and Bryce with his wizard’s hat. A photographer snapped a photo of us in the long line from the theater balcony, and we made it in the local newspaper.

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I remember the excitement and dread at the thought of this being the end. I remember cheering when Ron and Hermione kissed and when Neville killed Nagini the snake. I remember being disappointed in the portrayal of the final battle between Harry and Voldemort and the lack of Dumbledore’s story. I remember smiling through (possibly) teary eyes when grown up Harry, Ron, and Hermione watched their own children roll away from them on the Hogwarts Express. But most of all, I remember the film ending, holding Bryce’s hand in the stillness that comes with the blank screen just before the credits begin to roll, and thinking to myself, “Now what?”

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After spending so much time with Harry and his friends, in their lives and adventures, I felt a jolt as the screen went blank and the lights came up, blinding in their harsh reminder that story time was over, and the world was waiting for me to go back.

And from the blank screen through the car ride home and even while I drifted off to sleep that same evening, I asked myself a number of questions:

What happens next? Do the characters really live happily ever after? Will more troubles befall them? How do I go back to reality? What did this story teach me about life and the world around me?

Isn’t this what stories are supposed to do? Not simply entertain and remove us from the world, but to put us back into reality with a new perspective and lots of questions? Isn’t that what good stories do to us?

The Old and New Testaments have similar endings which, if read well, simultaneously unsettle and excite us. 2 Chronicles, the last book in the Hebrew Bible, ends with King Cyrus’ cliffhanger order for the Jews to return home to Israel. John’s Revelation at the end of the New Testament offers us a vision of the future, in which the powers of darkness are defeated, and we are invited into the new kingdom to dwell with God.

Both endings inspire hope and wonder in their readers. What will happen when the Jews return from exile? Will they renew the covenant with God only to break it again, or will they remain faithful? Are a new heaven and a new earth really possible, and when will they happen?

Then when we look at the world as it is, and we feel another jolt.

After we close our Bibles, we see that heaven and earth are as separate as ever, and we are still in exile. 

After we close Deathly Hallows when Harry says, “All was well,” we return to the world around us, where things may or may not all be well. 

We finish hearing or watching the story, but the story is not finished with us. And we may ask, “Now what?”

What do we do with a proclamation of returning home when we are still in exile? What do we do with the promise of a new heaven and new earth in a broken, bleeding world? What do we do after the evil lord is defeated in one story but others loom large in the lives of others?

Sometimes, these questions push me to love God and others with a renewed fervor, hoping that through these efforts, the exile will end, and the world will get better. Other days, these questions overwhelm me and make me want to retreat or join the “bad guys,” who seems to have more efficient ways of getting things done. Either way, the stories are not finished with me, nor am I finished with them. 

Maybe that’s how it’s supposed to be for now.

Why This Story?

As I’ve shared before, there have been times in which participating in the Church is difficult. There have been times in which I am less engaged due to everything from boredom to fear of being and expressing myself. But through engagement with theater, TV shows, and comic books, I’ve discovered my desire for a connection with God and others through story.

An instrumental story in this process is The Sandman series by Neil Gaiman.

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In September 2014, I began reading The Sandman at the recommendation of a fellow comic lover and survivor of the Bridgewater College Philosophy and Religion department. I bought the first issue online and lost myself in the world of Morpheus, the lord of dreaming.

One of my favorite Sandman stories is in issue 4. After an occult leader imprisons him for 70 years (as depicted in issue #1), Morpheus/Dream escapes and begins searching the world for his lost totems of power. One of these totems is a helmet, which a demon is Hell withholds from him. Dream enters hell and finds the demon, and the demon agrees to hand over the helmet only if Dream defeats him in a battle of wits, or what they call the “oldest game.” They start with small forms (hunter defeats wolf, hunter defeated by horsefly which harms his horse, etc.) and begin building until the demon declares himself as the form Anti-Life, “the dark at the end of everything.”

Everyone in hell thinks Dream is beaten. After all, what can defeat the Beast of Judgment, “the end of universes, gods, worlds…of everything?”

After a brief pause, in which all the demons of hell wait with baited breath, Dream replies, “I am hope.”

And the demon has no retort.

Dream leaves Hell with his helmet and a little more power, and I move on with the flicker of faith within me burning a bit stronger than before.

This small line has saved my faith more times than I can count. I am anxious and pessimistic about the world around me and the Church to which I pledge my allegiance. It is easy for me to look at world and Church and lose hope in them. In these times, I tell myself to look into the Story which I  say I am a part of, but all I see are stories retold so often and in such dry ways that I see little life remaining in them.

Yet this one line, this tiny sentence, written by a man who many in the Body of Christ would claim is not “one of us,” is sometimes the spark which keeps my faith alive.

Why, when I claim to be part of the Greatest Story Ever, is this story the one which keeps me going? What has happened to our Story, and how can it come back to life?

 

True, But Not Real

I have struggled a lot with my reformed Christian identity, a transition from certainty to an openness to doubt and questions. One of the hardest parts of this transition has been engaging with the biblical text. After two decades of being taught that the Bible is an infallible textbook, a major faith crisis blew all those assumptions out the window. After that, it was hard for me to pick up the Bible I had lovingly and consistently read for guidance. It didn’t have anything “real” anymore, so how could any of it be “true” to me?

So, instead of pursuing the Bible, I’ve been engrossed in books, movies, and TV shows. I know that these stories I love aren’t always based on real events. I also know that I can learn as much, if not more, from a work of fiction as I can from a textbook. Because I don’t worry about whether or not these stories really happened, I focus on their messages.

I witnessed an alien’s adventures through time and space, the love he felt for his companions, and his heartbreak over their later losses. I read the stories of a man traveling cross-country with gods and of a child meeting the cosmic beings who lived in the farm down the lane. I saw a family travel across a war-torn galaxy to be reunited.

In these stories, I listened to these fictitious characters explain real-world experiences: life involves love and loss, pain and joy; we are capable of tearing each other apart and bringing each other together; people will go to great lengths for their loved ones to know love and safety.

I didn’t know if I’d ever find stories like this in the Bible. After viewing the Bible as a textbook for so long, I didn’t believe I was allowed to see it any other way.

And then, unexpectedly at worship one Sunday, I finally heard such a story.

It was a story about the people of Israel crossing the Jordan River. The priests walked before them with the ark of the covenant, and in a parallel to Moses crossing the Red Sea, the waters of the Jordan parted so that everyone walked across dry land. Then, 12 men, one from each of the tribes of Israel, took a stone from the dried up river bed. When they reached the other side, they formed the stones into a makeshift monument. This would remind them of how they came to the Promised Land, given to them by God. It would be a story passed down to their children, and their children’s children, as a testament to the God of Israel’s provision for the people. It would be a story to give them hope in their most difficult times.

Normally, I struggle with miraculous stories like this. I’ve seen them used and abused by proclaimers of the Prosperity Gospel, and their use in this way has caused me and others to stumble. Because of this abuse, I find them hard to believe, and as a result, I tend to immediately discredit them. But this one Sunday, I wasn’t concerned with the seemingly impossible physics behind parting an entire river. This Sunday, I heard and listened to the story differently, because I didn’t worry about whether or not this story actually happened, whether or not it was “real.” Instead, I thought about how true this story was to the people of Israel.

All I could think about was what the stones in this story meant to the Israelites, who would endure falls from grace, exile, and persecution throughout their history. I thought about the truth this story told these people, and what it would continue to tell them time and time again.

They were not alone. They were chosen and beloved by the Creator of the Universe. They would always be known. The Name would always have a plan for them, so that maybe the world would remember their Creator.

And I think I was able to accept this idea of a story being true, but not real, because of all of the “non-biblical” stories I’ve been absorbing. I think because of the Doctor, Neil Gaiman, A Wrinkle in Time, my comic book heroes and anti-heroes, and so many more, I’ve learned that something doesn’t have to be an accurate account to carry a true message.

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Could these stories have truly happened? Could it be that the power of God physically parted the Red Sea and the Jordan River? Yes. What keeps me going, though, isn’t the certainty that this literally happened.

What keeps me going are the stones by the river, that remind me and all God’s people of the Lord’s provision. What keeps me going is the meaning of the name Emmanuel, God with us, which reminds me to be God’s presence in a broken world. The truth of God’s love, mercy, and guidance that I find in these stories and many others are what keep me going when nothing else seems certain. These truths, not their “realness,” are what matter the most to me.

We don’t need more certainty. We need more faith that the stories are true.

We are Judas

I prepared and shared this sermon at Eastern Mennonite Seminary chapel on 3/12/2015 for my preaching class. Please let me know what you think!

Judas1Judas. I rarely hear people talk about him, much less preach about him. After all these years, he remains the disciple turned away from the group, no halo around his head, the eternally condemned outcast.

In the film Jesus Christ Superstar, Judas is portrayed as a disciple who fears how far Jesus is going with his mission. He wants change, but he doesn’t want change the way Jesus is doing it. Overturning tables in the temple, telling off the authorities, speaking vaguely in parables, proclaiming God’s kingdom in an occupied land where Caesar was lord. He knows the consequences of Jesus’ words and ministry. He knows there is a cross involved. And he is scared.

In Terrence McNally’s passion play Corpus Christi, Judas is Jesus’ (or Joshua’s) high school sweetheart. In this play, Judas is a suave, self-confident man who follows Joshua as a disciple but wants more romantically than Joshua is able to give. This jealousy leads to Judas’ betrayal, which causes him great remorse in the end.

In both portrayals, Judas wants something that Jesus won’t grant him. Jesus refuses to conform to Judas’ standards, and as a result, Judas takes matters into his own hands.

But what does the biblical text say about Judas?

It says he was a disciple of Jesus, a man who literally walked, ate, and preached with Jesus and the 11 other disciples. As a disciple, he witnessed firsthand Jesus’ miracles and heard his teachings. Judas accepted Jesus’ good news and was willing to follow him and bring God’s kingdom to earth. He was good with money. Maybe a little too good. Whatever his intentions may have been, he wanted to give something to the poor.

The text also says he repented. This part of the story tends to be ignored. And yet, he goes to the priests and begs them to make him right with God, which is what priests are supposed to do. Yet like so many other authorities, they deemed him incurable, and they turned him away. And then, Judas hangs himself because no one will help make him right with God. Even as the curtain of the temple tears in half, Judas dies because he cannot bring himself to see the opening. In his eyes, he is not forgiven or reconciled, not with himself, not with the priests, not with God.

Judas followed Jesus more intimately and closely than any human alive on earth today, and he still, for whatever reason or intention, turned him in. And when he couldn’t find reconciliation, he took his own life.

judasI understand why this is a story we are uncomfortable facing. If one of Jesus’ own disciples can betray him, what hope do we have? I believe as a result of this fear, the Church has taken Judas’ story and applied it to those outside of the Church. Instead of applying his character to faithful disciples in the Church today, the Church has imposed Judas’ nature onto those deemed enemies, those “outside” looking in. There have been many names for them: Jew, Muslim, conservative, liberal, heretic, black, indigenous, LGBT, and so forth. I see how the Church has identified “the Other” we face with Judas to scapegoat them without feeling too guilty for their actions.

But we, the Church, need to talk about Judas as if he were one of us, because he was and is one of us. As the body of Christ shaped by these stories, we cannot deny Judas’ story any more than we can deny the stories of the other disciples. We cannot deny his story or condemn him, because to do so would be to deny a crucial part of our stories as disciples of Jesus today. And we cannot identify outsiders as Judas to condemn them, because then we will fail in our mission as the body of Christ for all of the “outsiders.” If we cannot see ourselves in Judas’ story, then we are lying to ourselves. To deny or condemn Judas’ story is to deny and condemn the Church, and we cannot be willing to do that. And to only identify the “Other” as Judas is to become the hypocrites about which Jesus ardently warned.

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We are Judas because he was a disciple of Jesus. We are Judas because he loved, listened to, and learned from Jesus. We are Judas, because he played a crucial role in bringing about the beginning of the Church.

Because it was Judas’ damnable actions that resulted in the tearing of the veil that separated God from humanity.

We are Judas, because we are capable of tearing veils, even when we are at our worst. We can rip seams with the best or worst of intentions. We can make tears even though we are not perfect. We can make open sanctuaries despite our own failures.

Yet we are also Judas when we turn our backs on the least of these, because Jesus identified most with the marginalized, not the powerful. We are Judas when we turn our backs on each other, because Jesus says we are his body alive on earth. We are Judas when we refuse to forgive ourselves and hang by our own nooses of shame, bitterness, and guilt.

Is there any good news in this?

Yes. There is.

The good news is that Judas was a human. Maybe the most human. More like us than we’re willing to admit. And Jesus came to bring forgiveness to all humans, no matter how far we stray from the message, no matter how many times we sell Jesus out in the name of our good intentions, no matter how many times we put up walls against each other instead of bridges to each other. There is good news in the fact that Judas helped bring about the tearing of the veils that keep us separated from God.

I believe Archbishop Desmond Tutu has it right on two big things related to this story: “We may be surprised at the people we find in heaven. God has a soft spot for sinners. His standards are quite low.” and “Without forgiveness, there’s no future.” Only God could use someone like Judas, a man who cruelly didn’t receive reconciliation in his own life, to bring about the reconciliation of the world. And God can use his story to remind us of how cruel we can be to those we deem “incurable.”

As the Church, we are called to learn from our stories, and Judas’ story has something to say to those who turn away those who seek God. Judas, as have many others, learned the hard way how a lack of forgiveness can cruelly cut a life short. We have seen how we hang ourselves from our own nooses, and we have seen others hanged by the nooses of the religious authorities who deem them incurable. We have seen people within the Church cut their lives short, because they have been taught that something about themselves, whether it’s their sexuality, their questions, their illnesses, or something else that makes them “an outsider,” are not acceptable in the Body. They went to the priests seeking reconciliation and love, and they were met with a cold shoulder and a cord of rope.

I have hope in Judas’ forgiveness and Jesus’ love for him, because I have to have hope in the forgiveness and love God has given to me. I have hope that Jesus yearns for those to feel his embrace when others have said that they are untouchable. I have hope that Jesus would not have scapegoated Judas and instead would have held him like a brother as Judas let the tears fall. I have hope in Judas, because I have received those embraces when I felt untouchable, and I have hope in Judas, because I believe in the reality of the torn veil, even when I can’t always see it.

We must accept that if one of us is unforgiven, we are all unforgiven. If one of us is an outcast, we are all outcasts. We are a united body, and what affects one of us affects all of us. What hurts one of us hurts all of us. What heals one of us heals all of us. Judas was part of the body. If he cannot be forgiven, none of us can be forgiven.

But the curtain has been torn in two. There is forgiveness. For Judas. For me. For you. For the Church. For all of the times we have turned our back on Jesus because he didn’t conform to our standards. For all the times we turned our back on the least of these because they didn’t conform to the Church’s standards. For all the times we have turned our backs on each other because we didn’t conform to each others’ standards. There is forgiveness for all of us in all things and for all people.

The veil is torn. There is forgiveness, and it is radically unfair. Thanks be to God.