I once had a trusted friend ask me how I could claim be a Christian and vote for a candidate who supported abortion. The question was (is) hurtful. I was surprised someone who knew me so well and had seen my life up close would question my faith. I dodged the question and its implications and said that when I made decisions about who to vote for, I looked at multiple issues I care about, like policies concerning social services, education, law enforcement, etc.
But now I know a bit more about the history of abortion and the politics surrounding it. At one time (pre 1970s), Christians had a variety of opinions concerning abortion and some Christians probably even had no opinion. It wasn’t something at the forefront of politics and it wasn’t being used as a litmus test for being considered a Christian. Many of our Jewish siblings, then and now, would have probably said “life begins at birth.” This is still a prominent doctrine in the Jewish community based on Adam coming alive when God breathed on him and the idea that God’s spirit, when we take our first breath, is what brings fullness of life (our soul enters our body through God’s power). Read more on that perspective HERE and HERE.
Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being. (Genesis 2:7, NIV)
Anyhow, in the 1970s and 80s, Republican politicians wanted to draw in more voters, especially people from a Catholic background who were often quite progressive politically. Politicians and religious leaders worked together to use abortion to accomplish this goal (after testing some other issues that didn’t work as well to rally people together). They would begin to develop a faith-based voter block that would center the issue of abortion above all else. Over time, they were so successful at establishing this connection between faith and political policy goals that seemingly no one remembers a time before this, and many assume that Christians have always been, and indeed must be, “pro-life” (which is defined very narrowly as against abortion). We forgot the history and the political strategy that got us here. I only learned about it a couple of years ago. I’m sure my friend wasn’t aware of this in the 2010s when she expressed her surprise that I could claim to be a Christian without making abortion my main determinant in voting decisions.
A couple years ago, a pastor friend asked me whether I was pro-life or pro-choice. The conversation was in the context of some social media posts I had made that caused discomfort among some followers and they reported this to the church, which they knew was helping fund my community ministry. I realized my answer might determine whether or not this church would continue to partner with me going forward. I don’t remember my exact answer other than I was careful to emphasize that personally I am “pro-life”- children’s and women's lives – at all stages of life. I wouldn’t choose abortion for myself in most circumstances, I said, but did not think most churches were going about it the right way. I remember in this exchange feeling a familiar pressure to say the “right” thing – it didn’t seem like there was space for nuance or wrestling or (gulp) disagreeing with so much at stake. He thanked me for my honesty. I felt a certain amount of relief, as if I had passed a test. But I also knew I hadn’t spoken freely or 100% honestly.
By 2019-2020, it was becoming more frustrating for me to navigate the boundary policing that had become increasingly common in the Christian communities to which I was connected. The boundary policing seemed closely related to political polarization in our country and what I feel is an unhealthy relationship between some branches of the Christian community and the Republican party. The party promises power in government spheres and the potential of policies that align with supposedly Christian morals and values. The church spreads the message of the party to its members (voters), wrapped in biblical authority. Thus, to disagree is to reject the Bible, and to reject the Bible is to not be a Christian. (This makes my experiences less surprising, but not less hurtful). Many people like me have found ourselves suddenly or gradually in tension with communities who raised us and shaped us and who we love.
In this context, as a Christian sociologist, I am highly suspect: a probable liberal who is too willing to compromise my faith to satisfy the expectations of the world, caving into the temptation to trust human knowledge instead of God. When I advocate for social justice, it confirms suspicions. I was warned numerous times to be really careful about replacing the gospel with social justice.
Months later, as I prayed about being more honest (and public) with my convictions in ways that would stand in stark disagreement with my church community and result in the loss of my ministry as it existed at that time – a ministry I had labored to develop for 10+ years and felt called to since I was a teenager - the Holy Spirit asked me a hard question: What are you afraid of? What was standing between me and being able to live and lead with full integrity, fully integrated, publicly and privately the same person?
The answer, I realized with horror, was twofold: money and belonging. Most of my deepest friendships, my mentors, my leaders, even my family, were a part of the community I might no longer belong to or be fully welcome in. Since 2017, I had been living on missionary support, meaning I had fundraised my income from inside of this community. Living on this kind of income is common for Christians in full-time ministry. Most pastors have a salary that comes from tithe, and many missionaries live on salaries from the donations of churches and Christians. The idea is that fundraising from within the Christian community 1) frees a person up from having to work an additional job beyond the ministry, and 2) allows them to speak freely of their faith in ways they may not be able to if their income is tied to a nonreligious organization.
In theory, this is good (and seems to be supported by New Testament passages where the Apostle Paul discusses those who labor for the Gospel deserving to be supported by the community). In practice, it often means missionaries live under a microscope, their every move (and social media post) up for critique by supporters who can withdraw support (funds) at any time. The missionary must be familiar with where all the doctrinal (and these days political) lines are drawn in the sand, even if the lines move, and take every precaution not to cross them, especially in a public forum. We walk this fine line while also doing the work we feel called to do; for many years, I felt like the emotional and spiritual toll of staying in bounds and stifling some of my convictions and questions was worth it because of the real and potential good of the work.
As I prayed that afternoon and sat with the Holy Spirit, and after I answered honestly that I was afraid of losing friendships and financial support, the Holy Spirit shined a harsh light on my complicity in the oppression of others by allowing my fear of to silence me. My silence and sidestepping and saying the right things to the right people was dishonest and harmful to myself (severe burnout) and to others (ongoing oppression and exclusion that my silence was aiding and abetting). And my silence and the belonging and money it protected was also a mark of extreme privilege – I could continue to belong and draw support from communities that many other people were excluded from and oppressed by. I needed to repent, and that repentance would require action (remember Zacchaeus and how his repentance was followed by reparations?).
But Zacchaeus stood up and said to the Lord, “Look, Lord! Here and now I give half of my possessions to the poor, and if I have cheated anybody out of anything, I will pay back four times the amount.” (Luke 19:8, NIV)
The Holy Spirit has a way of disturbing me to my knees and then digging deeper. I heard another question: Do you trust me? And I realized that although I was often in a constant state of worst-case scenario thinking and anxiety (this is the trauma that comes with the microscope), I had never had a reason not to trust. Over the years, I had made many decisions that had seemed off-the-beaten-path when compared with my peers. I answered a call to ministry and went to a Bible college and then I dropped my English and Bible majors to study Sociology and Humanities at that college. I went to graduate school to get a PhD in Sociology, and to face endless questions from well-meaning Christian siblings about how I was able to hold onto my faith in such a “liberal” and “anti-religious” space. (Answer: I found the sociology department more hospitable to my faith than the church was to sociology). I stayed single for a long time so I could focus on school and ministry. I stayed in Baton Rouge to continue working locally instead of going elsewhere for ministry. I started and led a large summer ministry program for 8 years even though my status as a single woman sometimes made that challenging because of the ways churches I was a part of centered male leadership. All along on this winding path, God provided and sustained in ways much deeper and more meaningful than finances. Jehovah Jireh indeed. I never felt like I didn’t belong with God even when belonging in human communities felt tenuous.
And so, I decided to put money and belonging on the altar – to make a willing sacrifice, if necessary – and to stop playing along with the human systems that had created so much fear within me. By this time, these systems had led to depression, weariness, and burnout as I struggled to balance doing ministry and pleasing the people who I thought I needed to please so I could still belong to the community and be financially supported in the work. It was a heavy yoke that I had taken upon myself and then been too afraid to put down. It was not God’s will or God’s way of operating.
“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:28-30)
These systems remain mostly invisible to people who fit well within them and do not question them. For people like me, who God has wired to bump into the walls and ask questions, they become like ever-tightening vices. I entered counseling in 2018. After over two years, my counselor pointed out one day that the source of a lot of what I was experiencing seemed to be the boxes I had chosen to climb into and the pressure I now felt to stay in those boxes even though none of them were a good fit for who I was growing into as my faith deepened and expanded. (Some people might say as my faith "deconstructed" but I think growth is a descriptor with less baggage that still rings true for me because I embraced disorienting change in a season of growth but did not feel disconnected from God). And yet, I seemed determined to plant my feet and stay. But at what cost? I could see his point. I was suffocating. My mental and physical health had been declining. Counseling was helping me gradually restore this health, one honest conversation at a time, but I needed to move beyond weekly conversations in a safe place and into significant actions in the real, and much less safe, world.
I knew that reclaiming my health – the abundant life God promises – would require me to live boldly with integrity and to choose what I know to be Spirit-led convictions over fear.
The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly. (John 10:10)
I wanted to be able to live and serve in integrity and love, not fear. And so, I chose the Spirit and I committed to being truthful, starting with clearly declaring my affirmation and support of my LGBTQ+ siblings. I gave up jobs and connections/partnerships that would have restrained me from crossing this boundary that I needed to cross. I rejected the microscope I had lived under for so long and waded into the heartbreak of experiencing fracturing and distancing in relationships with people who I (still) love and who (still) love me. What might have looked like burning everything down from the outside was actually a step towards living more freely and with more trust in God’s goodness than I ever had before. In a relatively short span, I climbed outside of the boxes of organized ministry and even, for a time, organized and institutional church. Financial support, and belonging, did dwindle. But life and the ministry have continued to flourish in multiple ways. My actions have borne fruit.
Likewise, every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot bear good fruit. Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. Thus, by their fruit you will recognize them. (Matthew 7:17-20, NIV)
Some of that good fruit has come as I have re-engaged with church over the past year. I was recently confirmed in the Episcopal church and am involved with a local church community where it is safe for me to speak freely and ask questions and be who God has wired me to be – a Christian and a sociologist. In an Episcopal context, those two pieces of me are not viewed as oppositional to one another. The gospel being preached on Sundays and in the community does not feel fragile and is not contained by any human boundaries. There is a mystery and a love and a grace running through this community that is new to me but oh so beautiful. This is such a strange experience that sometimes I still flinch when I expect to be caught out of bounds.
As an example, we held a Sunday school class recently about systemic racism. I spoke up during the class multiple times, even expressing disagreement with statements others made, and always holding my breath for the backlash to come. After church one Sunday, a lady who I did not know approached me in the parking lot. “Hey, I have been in the class with you” - she said, and I internally flinched and lost my breath - “and I just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate it when you speak up and how much I am learning.” And I exhaled. This really is different.
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