2013-05-25T04:27:49-04:00 Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/author/index.php?author=marilyn-sewell Copyright 2008, HuffingtonPost.com, Inc. HuffingtonPost Blogger Feed for Marilyn Sewell Good old fashioned elbow grease. tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2920757 2013-03-29T13:33:01-04:00 2013-03-29T13:42:29-04:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/

I am an advocate of stricter gun control laws. Like other advocates, I could list statistics, put forward comparisons to other countries, appeal to logic. But I would like to speak instead of my experience. Five members of my extended family have been killed with guns. The first two are part of my history and part of me, but these incidents do not enter my dreams now. The last two I just heard about last week: My cousin, 81, shot his wife, 77, and then turned the gun on himself, in their daughter's home. I did not know the couple.

The third killing was closer to home, and horrific. I will never escape the memory. My father came in from a fishing trip and lay down on the bed to rest. He had been drinking. My stepmother told him to get off her white chenille bedspread, with his dirty shoes and clothes, but he ignored her. She kept after him, insisting, and he pulled a gun from underneath the bed where it was kept, pointed it at her and said, "I guess you will leave me alone now." Again, she insisted. He shot her in the chest. Shocked at what he had done, he called 911. They lived in a small town, and the emergency vehicle arrived 45 minutes later, too late to save her life. During that time, he listened to her calls for help, her pathetic struggle to understand, before she died.

This killing affected me in a number of ways. I was horrified and ashamed. I could not bring myself to talk about it to anyone except my psychiatrist -- I couldn't let even my closest friends know. For months I experienced a weight on my chest, as though a huge rock was pressing out my breath. I blamed myself for the incident, thinking that if I had just sent my father a birthday card, maybe he wouldn't have killed my stepmother. I knew that was magical thinking, but something made me want to take responsibility for the death.

Then as a feminist, I was appalled when no one brought charges against my father, even the five grown sons of my stepmother. The death was seen as a domestic quarrel. This was the justice meted out in the small Louisiana community where they lived. My father left town for a year and then returned. But he was not unaffected: He slowly lost his mind, due to the combined effects of alcoholism and a guilty conscience. He spent his last seven years in a mental institution, and did not know even his children for the final few years.

The United States is a gun culture, and even more so, the South is a gun culture. I grew up with guns hanging on the wall in my father's bedroom. Guns were always available. How could you be a man without a gun? My brother and sister and I lived with our father and his parents. I was there the night that my brother came in late, and my grandfather turned a gun on him, mistaking him for an intruder. Big Papa, as we called our grandfather, came within an inch of shooting my brother.

Big Papa was unstable, and he would from time to time be driven into paroxysms of guilt about his youthful transgressions. When these attacks would come, he would hold his head with both hands and rock back and forth in his big easy chair and say, "I feel so bad -- sometimes I think I'll just go get the gun and blow my head off." All during the days of my growing up, I feared he might do just that. I imagined what it would be like to hear the gun go off, to go to the back bedroom and see my grandfather lying dead in a pool of blood.

It is true that we cannot prevent every drug-related shootout, every murder of a woman by the man who "owns her," every suicide, every mass killing that is carried out with a gun. But when guns are so easily accessible, and so many deaths are occurring, we have to start somewhere. How can we shift consciousness in a violent and gun-saturated culture? Cultural change takes time, but we can begin with the rule of law, the way we ended slavery, the way we gave women the right to vote, the way we integrated public schools. Let sensible laws lead the way. Changes in consciousness will follow.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2013:/theblog//3.2428646 2013-01-08T13:15:45-05:00 2013-03-10T05:12:01-04:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/

When I was a new minister, I had an encounter I'll never forget. I called on a well-to-do couple, the man then serving on the church board. My purpose was to ask them to increase their yearly pledge, which was embarrassingly low -- miniscule, even. After all, church leaders need to lead, I reasoned, and the church budget was hurting. After the requisite niceties, I brought up the matter of their gift. But I didn't get far before the wife spat out, "We're not increasing our pledge! We worked for our money, and we're spending it on ourselves." I was dumbfounded. I left with scarcely another word.

But this is precisely the attitude that seems to have taken a firm hold in the Republican Party: "I have mine, I deserve it, and the rest of you -- well, you're on your own." In the recent budget battle President Obama was able to get a small increase in taxes just for the wealthiest 1 percent -- those making more than $450,000 a year. Where did we ever get the idea, post-Ayn Rand, post-Horatio Alger, that we deserve what we have, because of our -- what? Virtue? Hard work? How did we lose our understanding that all of us, rich and poor and in between, are radically interdependent?

I think of my parents, neither of whom finished high school. I grew up with my father in N. Louisiana, where he worked as a roughneck in the oil field. His particular job was "stabbing pipe," which required him to climb to the top of the oil rig in all kinds of weather -- rain, sleet, cold -- in order to guide pipe into the ground. Many men were injured and some killed in the oil field. My father was lucky -- he lost only a finger, not his life. He worked for some of the biggest oil companies in the world. But we did not have health insurance, and we never had a paid vacation. Or any vacation, for that matter.

My mother was a professional dancer in her youth, but then the Depression came. And marriage and divorce. She lived in Cincinnati and earned her living cleaning the homes of wealthy people. No social security, no health care, no paid vacations. With this kind of work, you get paid when you show up. When you can no longer show up, you don't get paid. She ended her days cooking and cleaning for a group of priests, who gave her love and respect and the kind treatment she deserved.

As I write, I'm looking out the window of my cozy condo, and I see a worker in yellow rain slickers -- he is hosing off the deck of the building next door. I shiver as I watch. It's a bitter day. Oil field roustabouts, house cleaners, garbage collectors, busboys, street sweepers, slaughter house workers, window washers, fruit pickers, childcare workers and caregivers for the old and the sick -- because they work, we live.

There's a worm at the moral core of our country. It's called "individualism," or "self-sufficiency, or "independence," and it masquerades as a positive attribute. Those who believe they deserve their bounty, while others are undeserving, are simply out of touch. They are out of touch with their inherent connectedness, their own need for the many who serve and give, but get little monetary reward. They are out of touch with their humanity.

As a retired minister, I am not wealthy, but I pastored a large church and earned more than I needed. My job is to find the best ways to give away what I do not need, and to need less rather than more. It's a challenge, I must admit -- I live all too well. But as for taxes? I would be so willing to pay more in taxes, if I thought my taxes would bring food to the hungry, a home to the homeless, health care to people who lack it, and a college education to people who want to learn.

The budget battle -- and it will continue -- is not just a political battle; it is a moral battle. It's all about our character, our ethics, our sense of gratitude. In other words, it's about religion, and as such it is an issue that should be raised regularly in every house of worship in our country -- but it is generally not raised. And why? It's a touchy subject. We wouldn't want to offend anyone, now would we. Like Jesus did.

Marilyn is the subject of a documentary film, "Raw Faith," now available on Netflix.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.2317806 2012-12-18T09:50:08-05:00 2013-02-17T05:12:01-05:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/

I woke up on last Saturday morning to a glorious sunrise which comforted me, somehow, after the horrific shooting deaths of children in Newtown, Conn., the day before. The sunrise reminded me of the beauty and joy which children bring to us careworn adults. I was newly aware of the hope children embody, and how much I cherish their splendid innocence. And the coming of the new day spoke to me of the new beginnings, always, which follow tragedy. The deaths of these little ones, and the ones who died trying to protect them, can be redeemed only if we learn from this heartbreaking event: We must do everything within our power to prevent mass shootings -- and the everyday gun violence which has become commonplace in our society.

How bad is it? The Brady Center to Prevent Gun Violence reports that 30,000 people are killed by guns in the U.S. each year, or 82 a day. Thirty of those die from one person shooting another, and another 52 die from suicide or accidents. You will hear people say that "guns don't kill, people kill." This is a nonsensical argument. Yes, there are other ways to kill, or to commit suicide, but none so lethal as guns. Easy access to guns gives people both the likelihood and the enormous power to kill.

We know from looking at the record of other countries that gun regulation makes a huge difference. Consider what happened in Australia after they had a mass killing of 35 people in 1996. The country banned rapid-fire long guns, did a buy-back of 650,000 guns, and passed tighter rules of licensing and safe storage of guns. These measures reduced the number of guns in private hands by one-fifth -- mostly the type of guns used in mass shootings. In the 18 years before the law, Australia had 13 mass shootings -- but none in the 14 years after the law was enforced. Moreover, the murder rate in Australia fell 40 percent, and the suicide rate with guns has dropped by more than half. We can learn something from the Australian experience, if we care to.

Gun control is not only a societal issue but also a personal issue for me: Three members of my extended family have been killed by guns, one killed by accident while hunting and the other two murdered. In one of those murders, a 14-year-old boy shot and killed an adult. In the other, one family member shot and killed another. I grew up in the Deep South, at a time when multiple guns hung on every wall. The guns that killed were handy, and they were used. Perhaps this latest horror in Connecticut, this really unspeakable event, will be the catalyst for gun regulation.

So amidst our collective grief, I offer this sunrise as a symbol of hope. May we learn, and may we change.

Marilyn is the subject of a documentary film, "Raw Faith," now available on Netflix.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1976607 2012-10-19T07:42:21-04:00 2012-12-19T05:12:01-05:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/
I say this with some real sorrow, and some measure of guilt. I was brought up Southern Baptist, and the church nurtured me and cared for me as I grew up without a mother in a small town in North Louisiana. I owe that church a lot. Some of my relatives remain in fundamentalist-evangelical churches. A professor at a local conservative evangelical seminary has reached out to me in friendship and has asked me several times to speak to his World Religions class. He published my response to one of his essays in a recent book on Christology. He is a good man. He wants his students to know that our world is multi-cultural and to understand and respect the different faiths and ethnic groups they will encounter in the real world, outside the seminary. He and I have had long theological conversations over coffee, and because of his progressive beliefs about environmental issues, I suggested him as a speaker at our UU national conference a few years ago, where he was well received.

The last time my friend asked me to speak, however, I refused. I find myself in the strange position of being a liberal who is closed, in relationship with a theologically conservative evangelical who is open. I'm having to ask myself why.

I thought about my visits with his students over the past few years. To me, a seminary is a place where students open themselves to new ideas, where they question received beliefs. Seminary changes people who attend, sometimes radically. When I visited my friend's class, I did not try to convince students that Unitarian Universalism was the faith they should adopt -- I just gave a review of our history and tradition. But as I have tried to explain to my friend, during those visits I always felt like "an insect under glass." The students were unfailingly polite. They smiled. They were not confrontative in the least. The closest comment that came to confrontation was the honest, halting expression of one young woman who closed out the discussion by saying, "I just wish ... I just wish ... you believed ... more like I do." I could see that she was concerned for me, maybe concerned even for my soul, which she no doubt thought would be burning in hell upon my demise. Each time I visited, I went away depressed and discouraged. I wanted curiosity, passionate discussion, even a reasoned rejection. Instead, the students put up a glass shield I couldn't penetrate.

But my classroom experience is not the only reason I have lost tolerance for this brand of Christianity. Conservative evangelical Christians are sure that they are right about so much, but from my vantage point, much of what they believe is unloving and in fact destructive. I'm thinking about my two nephews. One is a handsome, talented, funny, warm human being who happens to be gay. His older brother is also handsome and talented, but he is a jock sports star and business man -- and in his case, a conservative Christian who lives in the Deep South. The older brother will not speak to his younger brother, nor allow his four children to see their uncle, presumably because they might be adversely influenced. The brothers' alienation is deeply hurtful to my sister, the boys' mother. The older brother's attitudes are culturally influenced in a region that is profoundly, fervently conservative, both socially and theologically.

Of even more concern is the preponderance of hate crimes being committed against gays and other minorities. There were 6,628 hate crimes reported in 2010 (the last year data was available), 47 percent race-related; 20 percent religion; 19 percent sexual orientation; 13 percent ethnicity or national origin. According to the Southern Poverty Law Center, 1,018 active hate groups were operating in the United States in 2011, a 60 percent increase since 2000.

Is it fair to blame these crimes on conservative Christianity? Not directly. No doubt, the great majority of people who commit hate crimes would not call themselves Christians of any variety. Indeed, conservative Christians typically say that although they may disagree with the sexual orientation or religion of another, they "hate the sin and love the sinner." In fact, they may go so far as to say that they themselves are "sinners saved by grace." However, I would maintain that these Christians, almost all of whom condemn gays for loving differently, support and perpetuate the milieu in which hate crimes take place. They contribute immensely to the cultural ground out of which prejudice grows and flourishes.

Ministers, respected authority figures in conservative evangelical churches and related institutions all over the country, are preaching their theology of singularity. To be sure, some evangelicals, such as my friend the seminary professor, are encouraging their people to be more like Jesus in terms of social justice and to be more protective of God's green earth. These "new evangelicals" are a growing subset of evangelicals who are changing the religious conversation in conservative circles.

But my friend is a theological conservative, and so far as I know, all conservative evangelicals believe there is but one way to salvation: through faith in Jesus as your personal savior. That stance turns everyone else into an infidel. An unbeliever. A moral pervert. A sinner doomed by God to everlasting punishment. So if these "others" are offending God by their sins and are on their way to hell, what covert permission is being given to those inclined to act violently on their prejudices?

Oppression could be thought of as on a continuum, with one end of that continuum being genocide and the other being more "acceptable" forms, like jokes making fun of minorities, women and gays. Somewhere in the middle is the silence, the refusal to speak out against prejudice, of which Martin Luther King said the following: "History will have to record that the greatest tragedy ... was not the strident clamor of the bad people but the appalling silence of the good people."

All religious traditions are not equal. Some beliefs foster freedom, growth and a deepening of compassion. Others are rigid and exclusive, warning of eternal punishment for those who don't believe in the one true path to salvation, as they see it, or for those who love someone of the same sex. For the personal support the church of my childhood gave me, I remain thankful. I'm sure many conservative evangelicals today feel similar gratitude for their community. But for the damage that conservative Christianity does to people and for its perpetuation of prejudice and hate, I must reject this tradition. I believe those who teach it and preach it are doing great harm, and I in no way wish to be an ally.

Marilyn is the subject of a documentary film, "Raw Faith," now available on Netflix.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1915011 2012-09-27T16:35:11-04:00 2012-11-27T05:12:01-05:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/
The significance of King's discovery is that it has pushed both Christians and non-Christians to think about Jesus as a sexual being. Christian tradition, in avoiding the question and seeing Jesus as asexual or anti-sexual, has been guilty of failing to make him fully human. How did this tradition develop?

Although the earliest Church was Jewish, the Gospel was being preached chiefly to the Gentiles. They were immersed in Greco-Roman philosophical ethics, which posited the dualism of body and soul. Paul himself had studied widely in this tradition and the impact of that philosophy shows up clearly in his teachings. He saw the body as a hindrance to the spirit -- at best a temporary housing for the soul.

Control of their followers, including sexual control, was essential for the early Church, because of their conviction that they were in the "end time." Modern-day readers of the Scripture often greatly underestimate the importance of the eschatological time frame of the early Christians. Sexual abstinence was practiced not because of some imagined abstinence of Jesus, but rather because these Christians thought earthly time was limited. Also, perhaps early Christians wanted to set themselves apart from the known sexual excesses of the Roman world.

Augustine of Hippo (354-430), arguably the most influential theologian of Christendom, answered the question "How are we to be saved?" from a Platonic perspective. He propagated the belief that the sex act itself was sinful, and that original sin was transmitted by concupiscence. So, for Augustine, we poor humans are inherently sinful. Since Jesus was perfect and without sin, it follows that he must have been conceived by God and born of a virgin -- and needless to say, never had sexual feelings himself.

So Augustine's unfortunate premise and shaky logic calls into question human sexuality, per se: it follows that those who strive for the purity of Jesus would look upon their sexual impulses as sinful. We use sex for pleasure as well as procreation, of course, but often the pleasure is laced with guilt, and we find ourselves unable to celebrate sex with our whole being. Instead of integrating our sexuality with our spirituality, the cultural norm evidences a striking incompatibility of our sexual impulses with our yearning for God. Women are reduced to the virgin and the whore. In spite of the supposed freedom of young women to indulge in loose sexuality liaisons, the double standard still reigns: bad girls are for sex, good girls are for marriage. How many synonyms for "slut" do you know?

Was Jesus married? The Gospels are silent about the subject. But as William Phipps argued long ago ("Was Jesus Married," Harper & Row, 1970), Jesus most likely followed the expected pattern of conduct for a young man in ancient Judaism, which was to be betrothed shortly after puberty. In fact, marriage was not a question to be determined by a Hebrew boy; rather it was his father's duty to betroth his son. The average age of marriage for boy was 16 and the age of betrothal even younger. We know that Jesus was circumcised at the age prescribed and that he was taught Scripture and apprenticed as a carpenter. Is it not reasonable, then, to believe he was an obedient son in being betrothed and later married? Of course it is difficult for some Christians to accept the fact that Jesus was throughout his life a Jew.

Certainly Jesus's open, easy, egalitarian relationships with women were unconventional. He was known to consort openly with prostitutes. He drew many faithful women followers, who were apparently treated as equal to his male disciples. This accepting attitude of Jesus toward women stands in great contrast to the heavily patriarchal Hebrew practice of his day.

Even a cursory view of the Scripture shows us Jesus to be intensely alive, vital and responsive. He had a strong sense of humor, and he was certainly no ascetic: Jesus in fact was criticized by his enemies for being a "glutton and a wine-bibber." He enjoyed the company, conversation and the celebration of marriage feasts. He was forever eating and drinking in many various homes, of Saints and sinners alike, during his ministry. He was pleased and delighted to be anointed with sweet smelling oil.

Moreover, Jesus was keenly aware of the natural world: the reaping of grain, the sheep in the fold, the sparrows' flight in the marketplace, the wind listing where it will. The images in many of his parables are drawn from the sensual pleasures of everyday life. Surely we can conclude from the evidence that Jesus was very much in touch with the erotic dimension -- that is, the life force within him. To believe that he could be this responsive to his immediate environment and be unaware of himself as a sexual being is highly unlikely. Chances are that this very sensual man was moved to sexual desire easily and frequently.

Typically, Christians are afraid of Jesus's humanity, preferring to see him as a Divine stick figure without the usual human flesh and frailty. Why does this image persist? Perhaps it is because we know all too well the failures and inconsistencies of the flesh. We know we are animals, we know the ways in which our physical needs and desires upset our equilibrium. Could Jesus really have awakened with an erection, or desired a sensuous woman in the marketplace? Blasphemy! To conceive of Jesus struggling in the same way we do is unthinkable.

Maybe these images seem blasphemous to us because we don't want a God clothed in flesh. We cannot accept incarnation -- we need a God "up there," perfect in beauty and form. We deny Jesus's humanity because we cannot stand his likeness to us. In Jesus, God is saying to us, "Accept your own sacredness and beauty! This is what it can mean to be human!" But we turn away, afraid.

The Jesus I know is robust -- a carpenter, capable of doing heavy work. He is a fleshly man, filled with thankfulness for the beauty of the natural world, and one who enjoys good food and drink. He is a man of great tenderness, not ashamed of his tears. He does not hide his feelings, and goes straight to the heart in a few words. The Jesus I know enjoys his body and is aware of the wonders of its shape and movement, likes to feel the sun on his limbs, takes pleasure in resting after a long day's journey. He likes the feel of splashing water on his skin when he washes.

And he is a sexual man, one who enjoys being a man, including having a penis, though it is sometimes troublesome for him, demanding attention when he wants to be otherwise occupied. But he accepts that as simply part of what is, like being thirsty or feeling weary or getting angry. Sexuality is part of being human, and it's good.

In his remarkable self-acceptance, Jesus seems to bring new life to whoever comes near. His presence is extraordinarily vital, is fearsome, and calls for a profound response. Jesus is in fact God's invitation to wholeness and self-hood. When we are able to celebrate Jesus in the flesh, we understand that we, too, are called to incarnation, called to embody God's Spirit in our earthly form. Perhaps this challenge is too daunting, so we prefer to strip Jesus of his humanness and to deny our own potential for divinity. Karen King has asked us to consider what we have lost.

Marilyn is the subject of a documentary film, "Raw Faith," now available on Netflix.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1570948 2012-06-11T07:21:23-04:00 2012-08-11T05:12:07-04:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/
When we got there, George insisted on putting me in a wheelchair, and wheeled me in. Why all this attention? I'm all right. I had to wait only a few minutes before being called into the intake room, and then my memory fails me again, because the next thing I vaguely recall was the pain at having a catheter inserted. I had become unconscious a second time, and had experienced what the staff was calling "a seizure." So then comes the neck brace, the oxygen mask, the IV. At this point I was wheeled away for an MRI. Or so George says. I have no memory of any of this. No permanent damage was discovered, so I was released after several hours with the diagnosis of a concussion.

A week or so later, I saw Dr. Ferguson, a seizure specialist. I had had two episodes of grand mal seizures from stress over 40 years ago. Was this a recurrence? I knew that I had all of the indicators that made me vulnerable to stress seizures: a viral infection, exhaustion from a two and a half week tour of speaking engagements, and serious jet lag from the trip back home. Dr. Ferguson said,"If you had seizures this time around, they were atypical. I don't know what happened. No one can tell you what happened. You had a ... brain event." I appreciated her candor, her honesty. Did I have an atypical seizure, initially, and then another seizure in the emergency room? Did I faint, because of exhaustion and dehydration? Did I, in fact, trip on the rug, the edge of which was upturned, but hit the floor before I had a chance to catch myself? Or did some other physical phenomena occur, some unknown something or other which put me down, which could have killed me, and which I have no knowledge of, and no way to protect myself from? What remains is a lot of fear.

Dr. Ferguson is wise. She said to me, "This was very frightening for you. You have come face-to-face with your mortality." That would be correct. I am a changed person, in some fundamental ways. I know more about what is important to me. I mean, I know more, not just intellectually, but in my bones, in my blood. I know I love my husband, my husband of less than three years, not just in the way I used to say, "Love you, Honey," when he leaves in the morning, but I love him in the way I love my own flesh. Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. We are married anew.

When I met George and we fell so suddenly, drastically in love, I was in my late 60s, and he was in his early 70s. I told him, teasing and yet halfway meaning it: "I'll marry you, if you will give me 30 years." After all, people live to be more than 100 years old these days, don't they? One of my congregants when I did an interim ministry in Boca Raton, Fla., was 103 years old. His name was Herb, and he was there every Sunday, third row, chair on the end. Happens all the time nowadays -- centenarians breaking through time, challenging the ravages of age. That's the way I thought, because that's the way I wanted to think. I wanted our lives together to go on for a very long time.

Was I denying reality? We all do, in order to function. We can't imagine the automobile accident when we start the car, or the stroke that floored grandmother, the one whose genes for high blood pressure we inherited. We don't know, any of us, how much longer we have on this earth, but we do know that the older we get, the shorter that time is likely to be. Our bodies are not machines that can be repaired and restored endlessly. They stop healing so quickly, they wear out, they will at some point break down irrevocably, and we will leave this mortal flesh. Existentially, it is impossible for most of us to actually understand that we will one day not exist, although that is what is in store. It is the natural course of things. Part of Buddhist practice is to imagine one's own death, to further imagine one's corpse decaying. The Buddhists say, "We are of the nature to become ill. We are of the nature to die." So it seems.

The great value of coming close to death, by accident or illness, is the gift of perspective. The gestalt of our daily existence becomes distinct, and what is trivial drops away to make room for the essential. And what is the essential? Love in all its forms. We discover that we have no interest in grudges, little patience with gossip, no use for sarcasm. Anger gives way to the deep sadness that is its one true source, and we wonder at the foolishness of hate. We look at others as they go about their daily living, judging and misjudging people, getting in a tiff over a parking ticket, complaining yet again about the weather. And we think, "Stop it! Don't you understand? We don't have time."

So what do we have time for, my darlings? We have time to notice the flight of the smallest sparrow, to imagine and dream, to take pleasure in beauty in all its forms, to relish good food. We have time to live in thankfulness, which is another way of saying to pray without ceasing. We have time to hear a cry for help. We have time to be present and available, to be still and give ourselves to the moment. We have time to be fully alive in the days we have been given, for they are numbered.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1322913 2012-03-06T11:36:14-05:00 2012-05-06T05:12:01-04:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/

For three days Rush Limbaugh verbally attacked a young Georgetown University law student who testified in support of the Obama administration's requirement that health insurance plans cover contraceptives for women. Among other pejorative terms, Limbaugh called the young woman a "slut" and a "prostitute." For this behavior, he has lost many advertisers, and is in danger of losing his credibility as a radio personality.

We need to remember that just a few short years ago, historically speaking, Limbaugh would have been speaking for the majority. More than any other single person, a diminutive woman named Margaret Sanger changed all that.

Working as a nurse among the poor of New York City, Sanger was entreated by poor women, over and over again, "Please, Miss, tell me what should I do, not to have another baby right away?" She was at a loss to answer this question, and when she asked doctors, they were of no help. Women from families of wealth and education learned how to plan their pregnancies, but poor women were vulnerable. Sanger saw these women having baby after baby, falling deeper into poverty. Desperate, they sometimes took the risk of aborting a pregnancy themselves.

Then one incident pushed Sanger over the line, giving her clarity about her life's work. This is how she tells the story in her autobiography. She had been called to the home of a Mr. and Mrs. Sachs, as she refers to them. When the husband, a truck driver with little income, came home, he had found their three young children crying and his wife unconscious from the effects of a self-induced abortion. Sanger and the doctor worked hard to save the woman, and Jake, the husband was at hand, doing what he could. Three weeks later, Sanger was preparing to leave the home after her final visit, and Mrs. Sachs said to her, "Another baby will finish me, I suppose?"

Sanger told the doctor that Mrs. Sachs was terribly worried about having another baby. The doctor was a kindly man who had heard this sort of thing so often that he just laughed and as he went out the door, he said, "You can't have your cake and eat it, too. Tell Jake to sleep on the roof." Sanger looked at Mrs. Sachs and saw on her face a look of absolute despair. "He can't understand," Mrs. Sachs said, "but you do, don't you? Please tell me the secret, and I'll never breathe it to a soul. Please!"

Sanger didn't know what to tell her, but she promised to come back. Night after night, the wistful image of Mrs. Sachs appeared before her, but she made all sorts of excuses to herself for not going back -- she really felt helpless in the face of this woman's need. Then the telephone rang one evening three months later -- it was Jake Sachs, and he was begging her to come, in an agitated voice. She hurried into her uniform, grabbed her bag and started out, dreading to enter that home again. When she turned into the dingy doorway, she saw the three little children, and then she went to the bedside of their mother. Mrs. Sachs was in a coma and died within 10 minutes. Sanger folded her still hands across her breast, remembering how this woman had begged so humbly for the knowledge that was her right to have. Mr. Sachs was pulling out his hair like an insane person and wailing, "My God! My God! My God!"

Sanger walked and walked and walked for hours through the hushed streets of New York. The sun was just coming up, as she arrived at her home. It was the dawn of a new day for her, too. She had been irrevocably changed by this experience. She ends this chapter of her book by saying, "I went to bed, knowing that no matter what it might cost, I was finished with palliatives and superficial cures; I was resolved to seek out the root of evil, to do something to change the destiny of mothers whose miseries were vast as the sky."

Margaret Sanger eventually became the founder of Planned Parenthood International. But it was a long, hard slog getting there. She began doing research on contraception, and in 1916 opened the first birth control clinic. Nine days later she was arrested. She was convicted, with the judge stating that a woman did not have "the right to copulate with a feeling of security that there will be no resulting conception."

She went all over the country with her message of contraception, violating the Comstock law against sending "obscene" reading matter through the mail, and was thrown in jail eight times, once in my hometown of Portland, Ore., now a progressive enclave. She was invited by a Portland church to address their congregation, and she was the honored guest at a lovely dinner. But then when she began to distribute her pamphlet Family Limitation, she and others were arrested. Undaunted, she writes, "I was tremendously gratified by seeing women for the first time come out openly with courage; over a hundred followed us through the streets to the jail asking, 'Let us in too. We also have broken the law.'"

Once again, almost 100 years later, women seeking information about contraception are called "obscene," and poor women are threatened with the loss of protection from unwanted pregnancies. But as Susan G. Komen learned last month, and Russ Limbaugh is learning now, great numbers of us will rise up in protest if women are denied access to contraception. Those days are over in this country. It's about time. Would that we could say the same for the whole world.

Marilyn Sewell hosts an on-line radio show on religion and public life: www.rawfaithradio.com]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2012:/theblog//3.1188146 2012-01-06T15:39:44-05:00 2012-03-07T05:12:01-05:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/
I have been retired from the parish ministry for over two years now, but I remember so many of my congregants vividly. I have been thinking about Margo, an elderly woman of refinement and wealth, but totally unpretentious and simple in her living, and uncommonly generous to the church. I had visited her over the years, as she went into an inevitable decline. Because of a lack of oxygen to her brain, she began to drift away from time to time. When I visited her, I wondered if she knew who I was. I busied myself with the various tasks of my ministry, and I realized that months had gone by without my seeing Margo. One day as I left the church, I had a strong inclination to visit her. I should've known to follow my intuitive sense and drive directly to her home, but I did not. I was tired. I could always go another day, I reasoned. But of course I could not. The next day I got the call saying that she had died. I regret not saying goodbye to someone I loved. Sometimes "now" is not just the best time, but the only time.

Another memory. I had been in a relationship with a man during most of my time in graduate school. He was good for me in many ways. But the relationship was star-crossed and fated to end, so I had decided to break off the relationship. I still cared for this man, of course, but all logic worked against us, and I knew I was doing the right thing by leaving him. A few months into our separation, he called to tell me that his father had just died. He asked me to cancel my plans for the weekend and come to him. I was torn. I considered his request and decided not to go. I wanted to break the bond between us, and I thought it would be unwise for me to be with him during this tender time. I left him alone with his great sadness. I regret not going to be with my friend.

A third memory. This incident happened many years ago, when I was a young mother, but I remember it keenly. I had gotten a puppy for my two little boys -- an adorable black and white soft, fluffy kind of puppy -- but as it turned out, they did not want a puppy. When I ask my older son why, he said, "I'd rather have a goldfish. You don't have to take a goldfish for walk." So I had to find a new home for the puppy. I put an ad in the local paper, and soon someone called saying they had a good home for the dog. When I got to the house, however, I noted that it was cluttered and dirty, that the children were half clothed, and a couple of skinny dogs were already there. I should have scooped up my puppy and made my exit. But I was raised to be polite, and I did not have the courage to tell this family I felt their home was unfit, so I left our beautiful little puppy with them. I regret not protecting an innocent creature that was dependent upon me.

In each case, my heart was telling me what I needed to do. And in each case, I allowed other considerations to overrule my intuitive sense of what was right. I have learned over and over again in this world that the heart knows a deeper truth than reason can reach. Connection matters. Caring and kindness trump every rationale.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1144905 2011-12-20T08:23:17-05:00 2012-02-19T05:12:01-05:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/

I am weary of hearing well-meaning friends question the Occupy Wall Street phenomenon. They ask, "What do they want? They don't have any clear goals -- how can they hope to bring about change?"

I want to ask:

"What was the meaning of Gandhi's fasts? "

"What was the meaning of the Watts riots?"

"What is the meaning of the young Syrian who set himself on fire because he could find no job, and started the Arab Spring?"

In other words, what is the meaning of a human cry? There comes a moment from time to time in history when a system is so patently unjust and cruel that people rise up against it and say, "No more!" Sometimes the people have not worked out a clear political agenda. Perhaps in their anger and pain, they have not sorted out the issues, or chosen leaders, or created a movement. Perhaps they never will. But this does not mean that their cry was in vain.

Occupy Wall Street has had great significance. If nothing else, OWS has changed the national conversation and shifted the civic discourse. They have made space for the voice of the people.
Since the country's founding, our national myth has been the promise of equal opportunity for all. Of course, that opportunity has never been there for everyone: we have never been truly egalitarian. However, the ideal was there, calling to us as individuals and as a nation to broaden the umbrella, including more people in that promise. And so we have recognized our theft of Native American lands and destruction of native culture; we have set a course for civil rights for those whose heritage was slavery; we have said that women should be considered equal to men and should be rewarded equally for equal work.

But somewhere during the last 30 years, we got lost on the way to the bank. We came to believe that "greed is good." The best and the brightest of our university students concluded that making a lot of money and garnering many possessions is the great goal of living. A country that understood neighborliness and compassion as positive goods began to look past the hungry, the homeless, the afflicted, as if they were in no way connected with those of us who are strong and able. We began to stop making things and began to spend our working days shuffling paper and making bets on the vagaries of the stock market. We refused to believe that the earth had limits, and we kept sucking up resources as though there were no tomorrow. In other words, we have been living in sin.

As so often happens when change is needed, we left it to our young people, to those strong enough in body and spirit, to wake us up. Occupy Wall Street is calling out the devastating results of corporate greed. The occupiers are saying this must stop. They're saying we must make human need and the care of the planet our central concerns.

At my age I am not healthy and vital enough to go downtown and lived in a tent for weeks, so I have been on the periphery of the movement. But I realize that I'm in debt to those who have been willing to shake the bars of the cage. They are serving as prophets- they have asked us to look at nothing less than the soul of this country. My only response is a deep sense of gratitude. With this new consciousness, there is at least the possibility that we can move to a new place.]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1155592 2011-12-18T20:04:16-05:00 2012-02-17T05:12:01-05:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/ Portland Monthly magazine. I didn't want to do the interview. As I told editor Randy Gragg, "I don't like Christopher Hitchens. He is rude. He is a bully. So why should I help get his work before more people?" But Randy prevailed upon me. After all, Hitchens would be giving a lecture -- about God, of course -- in my hometown of Portland soon, and people would be passionately interested. I agreed to do the interview, and I'm so glad I did.

I knew that my job in approaching the interview was to not get hooked by Hitchens' jabs at Christianity, or at me, for that matter. I had my list of questions all ready to go. During the interview, I had the feeling that I was encountering a "bad boy," a playful persona honed to perfection, one that he was totally conscious of and used brilliantly for PR purposes. I also sensed underneath the persona a deeply wounded, angry child. I don't know where that anger came from, but it was a given from which he moved, and then used his brilliant intellect to focus, parse and dissect. No one could encounter that extraordinary mind without marveling. That day Hitchens simply spoke in whole paragraphs of perfectly constructed concepts, consistently, for more than an hour.

After his lecture on Jan. 5, a small group of us were invited to have dinner with Hitchens. There were several of us clergy present, including Marcus Borg, the internationally known Jesus scholar; plus Andrew Proctor, the head of Portland Arts and Lectures; Emily Harris, local radio personality; and of course Randy Gragg. Hitchens was known for his ability to drink great quantities of alcohol and never lose his sharp edge, a capacity in full flower that evening. He downed one glass of red wine after the next, hardly pausing except to ramble on, and managed to insult, in particular, the clergy. An African-American minister mentioned how much gospel music meant to him, and in response Hitchens quoted Percy Bysshe Shelley, and then told the minister that the words of Shelley were much more meaningful than "that gospel stuff." Marcus Borg attempted to speak of his devotional life, but Hitchens would have none of it. Borg left the dinner early, with a kind but oblique remark to Hitchens: "Whatever you are doing, you do it quite well."

I tried to encourage Hitchens to pause from time to time and listen to what others around the table were saying, but I was largely unsuccessful, as you might imagine: He charged on ahead, totally dominating the conversation. I was one of the last ones to leave the dinner, and found myself on the sidewalk in the dark night, still talking with Christopher, who still held a glass of red wine in his hand. Unaccountably, I felt a clean, clear sense of affection for him. I know in my own life the anger that is always there, waiting to be tapped. I know that this rage has its uses, to counter ignorance and injustice, and I know it sometimes bullies and hurts.

The interview itself revealed a surprisingly religious Christopher Hitchens. He ended up using words like numinous and transcendent and soul. He said, "I can write and I can talk, and sometimes when I'm doing either of these things, I realize that I've written a sentence or uttered a thought that I didn't absolutely know I had in me until I saw it on the page or heard myself say it. There is a sense that it wasn't all done by my hand." A bit later he added, "Everybody has had the experience at some point when they feel that there's more to life than just matter." At the end of the interview, I told Hitchens, "I would love to have you in my church because you're so eloquent, and, I believe some of your impulses -- excuse me for saying so -- are religious in the way I am religious." And Hitchens responded, "I'm touched that you say, as others have that I've missed my vocation. But I would not be able to be this way if I were wearing robes or claiming authority that was other than human. That's a distinction that matters to me very much."

Hitchens did not miss his vocation. He has done more than most anyone to focus popular attention on the egregious dimensions of religion. He just wanted the world, and all its people, to be pure. Unfortunately, we are not. Hence, the impulse for religion.

Read the printed interview, or hear the entire audio interview: Questions of Faith]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1070763 2011-11-08T09:01:22-05:00 2012-01-08T05:12:01-05:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/

My sister Donna and I recently took a self-guided blues tour of the Mississippi Delta. It was an extraordinary experience. I grew up in the South, but never visited the Delta, the emotional heart of the blues, which runs from Vicksburg, Miss., to Memphis, Tenn. This is rich land that former slaves worked as tenant farmers. The area has a history of slavery, followed by Jim Crow and the Ku Klux Klan. It was and still is characterized by illiteracy, poverty and steaming hot weather. It is also noted for some of the most authentic and moving music made anywhere in our country. Most people will recognize some of the names associated with the area, such as B.B. King, and Muddy Waters. If you know about the history of the blues, you will have heard of Charley Patton, Robert Johnson and Son House -- early blues musicians, all from the Delta, and now long gone, but still influencing American music.

We started our tour in Ocean Springs, Miss., where my sister lives, and worked our way north. We had only five days, so we missed a lot, and never made it to Memphis, but what we saw and heard touched me and changed me. Greenville and the Walnut Street Blues Club was our first stop, where the legendary John Horton band was playing. The music was loud and the cigarette smoke was heavy. We settled tentatively into a back table, wondering if we could really handle this scene, but the sound soon drew us in. When the band took a break, Horton invited other musicians in the house to make music -- a guitarist and then a singer, both nondescript black men with amazing talent, took the stage. I wondered what other musical wonders might be lounging around in the club. We were hooked. Our tour had begun.

From Greenville we went north to Cleveland, Miss., and then onto Clarksdale, where we dropped in on Morgan Freeman's Ground Zero Blues Club, unfortunately, on an off night. We went on to Red's, which is a real juke joint, with absolutely no commercial flavor. We had trouble finding the place, which was across some railroad tracks, unlit on the outside and looked as if it were boarded up. Finally we saw the one word RED'S in red paint on the door, so we ventured in. Red himself was behind the bar, and silently waved me off when I offered plastic for a beer. Watermelon Slim was playing, and he is the real deal. He played with his guitar on his lap, and made it hunger and sing with a pick and a miniature whiskey bottle.

What struck me about our trip to the Delta was the amazing music that comes out of this poverty-stricken area. The blues has a distinctive sound, a kind of sweet yearning which comes from the flattened notes, plus the crushing and the sliding. Singers go to the heart of our pain: desire and betrayal and love gone wrong. Acceptance is there, and humor. The music is raw, and it is real. So much in our lives these days is the opposite - fabricated, stripped of true emotional content. This music of the Delta is from the heart, with nothing held back. It reached a place in me where few other art forms are able to go. I think that maybe its power comes from the universality of the feelings expressed. No matter what station in life we hold, all human beings long and all human beings lose. Maybe the hard lives of these people in this hardscrabble place enables them to express with more honesty and power what we all experience.

The other interesting thing is that these clubs and juke joints we visited are the most racially integrated places I have ever been. And we're talking here about Mississippi, a state in a part of the country so widely reviled for its racism. I experienced black and white musicians playing together, and black and white patrons gathered together listening to the music. Perhaps it is the music and its acknowledgment of the common human experience that has drawn the races together here in Mississippi. As a Southerner who grew up with terrible divisions of race, I felt some little piece of healing in this coming together of the races.

I know I have been changed in some subtle way by my trip to the Delta. The music touched some deep place in me that wants to be authentic, that is weary of the deep divisions of race and class in our country, that is tired of the superficiality of most of American culture. Of course, it is because of my class privilege that I had the resources of time and money to travel to Mississippi, to stay in nicely appointed motels, and to seek out the most nurturing food available during my journey. I have returned home now to my safe and warm home in progressive Portland, Ore., where I can if I wish play my blues CDs in comfort, and remember.

But I can, if I choose to do so, find a way to be in relationship with those on the margins. They are the truth tellers: the hopelessly addicted, the single mom who can't feed her children, the one who is dying without friends or family. I could visit the tent city that is Occupy Portland. There I would find committed young people who are drawing the nation's attention to the crack in our Liberty Bell -- and the tents also include mentally ill and homeless folks, who have nowhere else to go. These campers are making their own kind of music: it is dissonant to this radically unequal culture, and we need to hear it.

Why is it that we must go to the margins of society to find what is real? Perhaps it is only at the margins where people have so little to lose that they are free of pretense, unwilling to play the games which draw the rest of us in too much of the time. My trip to the Delta reminded me that when I hold myself away from those who struggle just to get through the day, I am the one who loses the most. If I am looking for redemption, this is where I am most likely to find it. ]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.1002104 2011-10-11T14:27:12-04:00 2011-12-11T05:12:01-05:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/

I'm waiting to see what the religious response will be to OccupyWallStreet, which is a true revolution of the people. It is a cry from people who have been abused far too long by those who hold economic and political power. It is a cry for justice and compassion. It is a demand for responsibility from our elected leaders. What will the established churches say in response?

Most likely, not very much, if history tells us anything.

During the abolitionist movement of the 19th century, most churches were "gradualists," saying that, yes, slavery was wrong, but social change takes time, and we should just let slavery die out naturally. Religious leaders didn't want to disrupt the economic system that supported their churches, and they certainly didn't want to introduce conflict into their institutions, which might result in a loss of both membership and financial contributions.

During the civil rights movement, black churches were heavily involved, of course, but mainline Protestant churches remained firmly ensconced in the status quo. The same thing held true during the Vietnam War. Most clergy who spoke out against the war were not leaders of congregations : they were chaplains (William Sloane Coffin) or Catholic priests (the Berrigan brothers) or administrators (Bishop John Shelby Spong). While young people flooded into the streets in protest, getting beaten up and jailed by the establishment, churches were mostly silent.

The OccupyWallStreet phenomenon is a true prophetic moment, and it should be the subject of sermons all over this country. But I suspect it will not be. Sermons will continue to be preached about saving souls, giving generously to the church itself, and avoiding the usual temptations of the flesh. The systemic sins of the culture will not be addressed, except by a few bold and isolated preachers. Why? Because the churches of this country, like all middle-class institutions, are more interested in the protection of the institution than in the prophetic message of Jesus.

Who are the people marching in the streets, with colorful signs, in such great numbers? These protesters simply feel that they have no alternative. Business and government have acted in lockstep and have refused to listen to those whom they should be serving. OccupyWallStreet is a coalition of people who have lost their jobs, people who have lost their homes to the bank, young adults for whom there are no jobs, people of all ages without health care, environmentalists who see short-term economic gains trumping care for the planet, veterans who doubt that our current wars are worth it, and concerned citizens of all stripes who have looked askance at our dysfunctional Congress, and have finally said "enough is enough."

Some of these people go to church, I expect. But they cannot take their grievances to the church. They would not feel it appropriate, most likely. They may say to their church, "I can't find a job," or "I am depressed," or perhaps they can go to the church food pantry and get a basket of groceries. But they cannot ask the church to stand with them against the powers that be--the banks and their political lackeys--who sold out ordinary citizens.

It is no wonder that more and more people in this country identify as "unchurched" in national polls. When churches and ministers refuse to be involved with the real pain of real people, and have as their main mission maintaining their institutions, they lose their relevance. They have no prophetic voice. And without a prophetic voice, what is their purpose for existence? They become just another social organization to provide a gathering place for their members.

Churches are not allowed to participate in partisan politics, lest they lost their non-profit status. But they can and should be involved with political issues, because politics determines how the economic pie is divided--and that becomes very much a moral issue. When ministers speak out against systemic sin, they risk losing financial support, it is true. Congregants who benefit most from the economic status quo may leave and seek safer ground. But the integrity of the message will draw many others, in greater numbers.

The church's proper role is to stand on the side of the disenfranchised and to call out wrongdoing and injustice in our society. Jesus did not say," I have come that you might be comfortable." He said, "I have come that you might have life." OccupyWallStreet has given the church an opening, a decisive moment in history. The Holy Spirit is not on the side of safety and stability. When will the church find its prophetic voice?
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.963324 2011-09-18T20:05:27-04:00 2011-11-18T05:12:02-05:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/ Higher Ground," about a woman who has fallen in with a group of Christian fundamentalists, gets all of it right: the language, the baptismal rites, the Christian "marriage counselor" and the attractive patriarchal pastor. I should know -- I grew up Southern Baptist in North Louisiana and so I've experienced this movie. In fact, I found the film creepy in its authenticity. It took me back to a place I didn't want to go.

Farmiga plays the lead role of Corinne, who becomes pregnant as an 18-year-old, gets married and after nearly losing her child in an accident, gives herself to Jesus and a group of Protestant evangelicals. The strength of this film is that we really like most of these individuals. They are warm, caring and within the structures they have chosen, absolutely morally consistent. We never feel that the film takes an easy swipe at any of the characters -- with the possible exception of the marriage counselor -- and we see people, like ourselves, who are struggling to find their way through personal conflicts and the moral thickets of contemporary life. Because they are fully rounded human beings, they are believable, not caricatures, as one might expect in a film of this kind. Farmiga plays her role with no hint of irony and with great feminine beauty and sensitivity.

Corinne's problem is that she is highly intelligent, a reader of literature and a woman who is deeply intuitive. She wants to be a believer and she calls on God to speak to her and lead her, but her God is not a God of easy answers. When she prays, silence is the only response. And she can make no theological sense at all of the tragedy which visits her best friend. When the grieving congregation sings, "All is well with my soul," she tries to join them, but the words stick in her throat. All is not well with her soul. She is sensual and sexual in a social context of repression. She is a woman of subtle intellect thrown in with people who know all the answers all the time. She is with a husband who fails to be her equal spiritually, intellectually and sexually.

As we watch Corinne struggle, we wonder whether or not she will escape. After all, these are her chosen people and she is loyal to the core. She would rather deny herself than deny them. We understand this impulse, for all of us want community. All of us want a home. But she finds she must try to save her own soul.

I left the theater very troubled. I remembered the priest who told me I was going to hell when I left the Catholic Church at the tender age of twelve. I thought of the gay pastor I knew who died of AIDS, but was never able to reveal his plight, or his sexual orientation, to his congregation. I thought of the evangelical seminary professor who assured me that Jesus was the only way to salvation and that Gandhi is in hell. I recalled a conversation with my fundamentalist brother, who told me that women should not lead at church.

There was no intentional ill will or meanness of spirit in these people: the priest cared about me and the family; the congregation was devoted to their minister; the professor was warm and friendly; my brother loves me dearly. So what is the problem?

The problem has to do with the human consequences of fundamentalist values: these groups value rigid belief over human good. But any religious group that would deny others the opportunity to grow and contribute because of their gender or sexual orientation, which are God-given, is not a life-giving religion. Fundamentalists seem to be oblivious of the harm they do, and lay it all to the individuals who are "disobeying God," thereby bringing the harm upon themselves.

Contrary to a liberal relativism, I do not believe that all religious beliefs are equal and worthy of respect. Faith healers in Oregon are now on trial for the death of a child, one of several children who has succumbed to the beliefs of a sect ironically called the Followers of Christ. Faith healing, of course, is an extreme religious position, but I would suggest that every belief system should be judged by its effect on the individual and on society. Does it help the individual break barriers and flourish, or does it create barriers to growth, spiritually and otherwise?

There are still children having nightmares because they have been told they are going to hell. There are adolescents becoming suicidal after being rejected by their fundamentalist families because of their sexual orientation. There are far too many Corrines out there, still struggling to make sense of a faith that denies both body and spirit.

Every religious group and every religious leader must ask one simple question of our faith and practice: does it harm or does it heal? With subtlety and excellence, the film "Higher Ground" asks us to think on these things.

Hear Marilyn Sewell on Raw Faith Radio: http://www.pagatim.fm/raw-faith-radio-with-marilyn-sewell/]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.932223 2011-08-23T11:14:34-04:00 2011-10-24T05:12:01-04:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/
Haugen says it's his right to die. And he believes that the courts are a mockery of justice. In a statement before the court at his recent hearing, he read from his hand-written remarks: "I sit in my little cage on the row and watch, as everyday rulings are made that reinforce the fact that there is no such thing as equal protection ..."

The state did a practice run on August 16, Haugen's original execution date. According to the Oregonian, a corrections official threw a notched belt at Haugen, ordering him to measure his neck, arms, wrists, ankles, and legs, but did not explain why. Haugen guessed that the prison needed measurements for the straps which will hold him down when he receives the lethal injection. "It needs to be done in not only an ethical way, but in a moral and dignified manner," Haugen said.

If there is no reprieve, Haugen will be the first man executed in Oregon since September 6, 1996, when Douglas Franklin Wright died by lethal injection. Wright lured five homeless men to a remote spot, promising jobs, only to shoot four in cold blood. The fifth man escaped and told the story. Wright was convicted on October 6, 1993, and confessed to another kidnapping and murder in 1984, this one of a 10-year-old boy.

Several of us parish ministers visited the governor to ask that he commute Haugen's sentence to "life in prison with no possibility of parole." The governor had the power to do so, but said that his hands were tied because "the people have spoken."

As a minister, I was invited by a local television station to be present at the station for an interview immediately following Wright's execution. When the reporter asked me how I felt upon hearing that Wright was dead, I said that I felt sick to my stomach. I said that as a citizen of Oregon, I felt responsible for the death of this man. If it is morally wrong for an individual to kill, then it is also wrong for the state to kill, I said. I remember that the atmosphere at the station was something of a circus. I left as soon as possible.

There is no practical reason for supporting capital punishment, for we know that it is no deterrent. We also know that it is more expensive to execute a prisoner than it is to keep one in prison for life, because of the cost of appeals. And we know that the death penalty is widely practiced with prejudice and unequal application of the law. Recently cases have been re-examined with DNA evidence, and we now know that some innocents have been on death row. The only remaining motive for capital punishment is vengeance, and that motive is spiritually bankrupt.

The state of Oregon instituted capital punishment in 1864, by statute. In 1903, by law hangings were carried out only at the Oregon State Penitentiary, to avoid the spectacle of public attendance. Twice since then capital punishment has been repealed and then reinstated, the last time in 1978, with 64 percent of the vote. At the moment, there is a strong movement in the state against the death penalty, and I hope Oregon will soon join the 16 other states who have outlawed this practice, one that has been given up long ago by other countries in the West.

Some people say that Gary Haugen has the right to die, if he so wishes. I disagree, for if he dies at the hands of the state, then his blood will be upon all Oregon citizens. We are the "people who have spoken." I, for one, do not want to be guilty of taking a life. He has no right to make me a killer.
]]> tag:www.huffingtonpost.com,2011:/theblog//3.924409 2011-08-12T07:00:49-04:00 2011-10-12T05:12:01-04:00

Marilyn Sewell http://www.huffingtonpost.com/marilyn-sewell/
Churches almost always prefer charity to justice. Let's take, for example, the question of hunger. Churches find it easier to open a soup kitchen, rather than lobby politicians or put pressure on government to feed hungry people or help them get jobs. I must confess at this point that I, too, give money to charity. But just this morning as I once again wrote a check to the food bank, I note that every year there are more hungry people in my state of Oregon. Last year 240,000 people used the food bank, compared to 200,000 the previous year. What's wrong with this picture? To effect change, churches must move beyond charity to justice, changing the economic and political systems that keep people impoverished.

I don't wish to say that all charitable giving is wrong. Certainly, if we have more than we need, we should give some of the excess away. And there is a sound argument for hands-on work by churches, for the act of serving soup to impoverished people gives middle-class people some sense of what the less fortunate are facing in their everyday lives. These experiences may very well motivate individuals to advocate for policy change. So yes, write the check, serve the soup, but don't stop there.

The problem with charity, including charitable deeds done by churches, is that it allows people to believe that a given social problem is being addressed, when actually there is only a Band-Aid being put on the wound. It allows donors to feel good because they think that they have "made a difference." Actually, charity may do more for the donors than for the institutions they purport to serve. The problems that people face in a country like ours, in which there is such a wide disparity of wealth, cannot be addressed comprehensively by charities, no matter how many people of good will donate or volunteer. Charities act unilaterally and piecemeal, and they tend to serve the sexy causes (i.e., anything to do with children), rather than those less emotionally compelling (e.g., homeless mentally ill men).

When I became a parish minister, I began to understand why almost universally churches will avoid political action in favor of charitable deeds. For one thing, churches are populated mostly by middle-class people, who are relatively comfortable. And ministers of these institutions value stability more than mission. We professional leaders are reluctant to do anything that would cause conflict or controversy in our churches, fearing an institutional split -- or at the very least, a reduction of gifts to the church.

Some church people wrongly believe that churches will lose their tax-exempt status if they take a stand on political matters. But the tax code is clear: churches and ministers may speak out at will on any issue, so long as they do not engage in partisan politics -- that is, advocate for one candidate over another.

Other people believe that politics is worldly and not therefore suitable for an institution given to spiritual endeavors. Realistically, however, we must understand that politics determines everything from assuring that we have clean drinking water to deciding when we go to war. And politics determines how the abundant resources of this country are shared -- or not shared. These issues, which are decided in the political arena, have moral dimensions which churches can hardly ignore, if we are to be taken seriously as a religious people.

Church is not just a place where good friends gather to support one another; it is not a place where people go to save their own souls, and ignore the very real pain of their neighbors; it is not a place to maintain nice, middle-class values. The Holy Spirit is not on the side of stability. Jesus did not say, "I have come that you might be comfortable." He said, "I have come that you may have life." Church is a place to take the demands of justice seriously, and to trouble the waters, when necessary. Will there be controversy? Maybe so. But there will be integrity, there will be mission, there will be life.
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