Author: MASadmin

What if I don’t buy into the captive church?

Big Signage For about a month now, there has been a blog post brewing in my brain. Every time I set down to write it, nothing really comes out. But the post is there, lurking. I find myself walking my dog and thinking about it. Every once in awhile, my thoughts return to it. And when I’m standing in worship at my field site, my home church, or my seminary, the post comes back to life.

But I still haven’t figured out what to say about it.

The thoughts started bubbling after reading about the white middle class captivity of the ELCA. I buy a lot of what Rev. Clint said – whenever I leave New York City and enter an ELCA church, I’m always aware of how brown I am. That doesn’t surprise me nor shock me. I honestly think that you could probably argue that the ELCA is still heavily tied to its immigrant roots, still heavily American but not entirely (or what not). My not being a cradle Lutheran and spending most of my time experiencing the urban version of Lutheranism probably taints my view quite a bit. And it probably doesn’t help that I’m Hispanic.

My issue with this kind of thinking isn’t that it’s false. I think its very valid. Asking the question why the ELCA is middle class & white and asking the question how to get that to change – those are good questions. And being honest with our own personal stake in the ELCA being the way it is, that’s great too. In fact, wherever I end up is probably not going to look a lot like me. And I’m use to that. But I’ve been wondering – if we keep saying that the church is too white, too middle class, too this or too that – what does that say about the members of our church who aren’t white and who are poor? And what do we do about the members of our denomination who claim that identity and say “hey, I don’t buy into that?”

I don’t know – maybe no one will say that. But I’ve been thinking about it. There’s something very good about the corporate body saying “oh hey, we’re too much like this. We need to change.” I’m down with that. But there is a part of me that doesn’t mind thinking “well, that’s not me.” So what’s the trick then? To be honest about who we are as an organization but also be open enough so that all minority groups can lay a claim to it, own it, and say that the ELCA is me and then some? Or is this a tad too personal and I’m trying too hard to stick out? I don’t know.

But if we’re really trying to get all sorts of groups to buy into what it means to be in the ELCA (or the Church, church, Christianity, etc) – how do we mean it? That I haven’t figured out.

I know what the Metro-New York Synod has been doing to try and change that feeling. I know we have lots of assistants to the bishops that are minorities. That’s good, to a degree. And I think there’s something valuable of having someone that “looks like me” in a position of hierarchical power. But if you’re part of a synod that also says its going to close 50 churches..well….

I’m not sure where I’m going with this. But I’m slowly drawing into it the question I’ve had about what it means to buy into the ELCA. In fact, that term, “buy in,” is probably becoming some sort of rallying point for my thoughts and there’s probably some dangerous theological problems with just using the term “buy in.” But well, hey, I’ve never been a fan of using the term “loyalty” (as in, there is no denominational loyalty anymore) that I keep hearing too.

I wonder if any of this kind of thinking will lead anywhere.

King David, Noah’s Ark, Richard Scary, Pirate Sharks, and Detachable Bears

Today after church, K and I took a trip to the Lower East Side. We visited our favorite dumplings place (Vanessa’s), ran a few errands, and then popped into a new store: Jane’s Exchange: Children & Maternity Consignment.

With K being 19 weeks along, the need for new clothes is rather high. Luckily K was raised by a mother who loved thrift stores and passed those genes on down. While she rummaged through the wide selection of maternity clothes, babby clothes, toys, and games, I sat and read for Seminary (a feminist perspective on Matthew and Luke-Acts anyone?). The longer I sat, the more clothes, books, and other items were piled on top of me to “hold”. Before you knew it, I was buried in babby goodness. A book about pregnancy, a couple of Richard Scary board books, two really tiny books about Noah and King David (sadly missing the Goliath and the Bathsheba incident), and a ton of onesies covered me. With my reading done, I called K to dig me out.

As we headed to the check out, we noticed behind the counter a used Sophie Giraffe. As its maker claims, it is the most famous baby toy IN ALL THE WORLD. This Giraffe that squeaks (Twinkie is under the mistaken opinion that it is for her) will run you around $25 retail (a little cheaper on Amazon). It is the toy that when I run into expectant mothers at seminary, I ask whether they received one at their baby shower. Most think the toy is silly but we all agree that we must have one and Lord have mercy on the woman who does not get one. So there it was, behind the counter, staring at us, for only five bones. We snapped it up, no questions asked. A used teething toy that’s in great shape and looks like it never was used? Heck yes.

While walking towards our next appointment, we got to joking with each other. K said, adamantly and loudly on Avenue B that our kidling “deserves all the best things! … Well, used best things.” And it’s true. He does. And based on the pictures I took of K while waiting for the L train, he’ll get them.

SHARKS.ON.PANTS.
THERE ARE SHARKS ON PANTS.

It has an eye patch
And pirate sharks on the shirts

K's love of Kermit and Fozzie knows no bound
And frogs and bears holding out on all the onesies.

THERE’S A BABY IN THERE

Last week, K and I went in for the anatomy scan. Well, she’s the one that was being scanned. I was there for moral support and coat holding. The idea behind everything was that they would poke around using the ultrasound machine and take measurements of the little person growing inside her. We arrived at the office, checked in with the ultrasound technicians, hung up our coats, and BAM! time for the examination. K laid down on the examining bed, with a screen above her, letting her watch what was going on. I sat at the foot of the bed and tried to look over the technician’s shoulder. I got comfortable on my little stool and waited. But I didn’t have to wait long.

And then I saw a spine; a femur; a heart; a head; more spine; and then a hand. It was awesome.

Babby stynxno was curled up, resting, and seemed to be using the placenta as a pillow. The technician took the measurements she could but we weren’t able to see the face. The little baby wouldn’t uncurl. The technician tried everything, going in from the left, the right, the underside, and even asked my wife to wiggle around and see if it would wake up. But every time the technician tried to take a scan, babby stynxno would raise up its first and try to push the annoying thing away. It refused to uncurl.

“It’s stubborn!” the technician said.

“That’s my kid!” K cheered. It seems our kid got both our stubborn streaks.

At the end, we were told that K would have to come on back to try and get more measurements of the face. We were given a stack of 8 sonograms in one long strip, like what you’d get at a photobooth on the boardwalk. We weren’t asked what pictures we wanted – the technician just tried to take the best ones she could. And, in the middle of the batch, was a picture that I didn’t expect. Because, you see, we found out the sex of the child. And they took a picture of it. So right there, in the middle of the strip of pictures, right there, is a picture of my babby’s nether regions.

I don’t think that one is going up on the fridge.