Suzanne DeWitt Hall's Blog, page 10

Today's Reader Feedback Made Us Cry

Today we heard from the Board president of a coalition of faith organizations which welcome, affirm, and include LGBTQ+ people in New England. He and his fiancé have been working their way through Where True Love Is together, and he now wants to get copies for each member congregation in the coalition. Here's what he had to say about the devotional: Thank you so much for WTLI; it's not only the best LGBT devotional I have read, I consider it a must read for all Christians. I think I am going to be buying a bunch for Christmas presents. ... The people I am planning to give it to will read it. And I think they will be moved some. You use logic and theology and reason...I have no words to describe it to people besides "you need to read this."I've always known that Jesus loves me, but you tear down every argument to the contrary in a rational, well thought out, scripturally derived way people have to listen. And the ones who are using threats and vitriol towards you do so because they know that this book is a better sell for Christianity than the version they have been shilling that's gotten them wealthy.I think Jesus wept when he read your book; but not all tears come from sorrow.We read his words, and shed tears of our own. We are grateful for the feedback. May God use Where True Love Is to help heal hearts and minds; to mend relationships; and to build the Kingdom.

What Transgender People Need from Churches

This post originally appeared on the Reconciling Ministries Network website.Recently, I attended the Spring Awakening event organized by the Missouri Conference Reconciling United Methodists. It was my first time at an RMN function, and my wife and I were thrilled to meet wonderful people who are all working toward social justice and inclusion for the LGBTQ community. The centerpiece of the day was a panel discussion. The panel was composed primarily of transgender people, but two others also participated. The first was the mother of a young trans man, and the second was the director of the Washington University Transgender Clinic.The discussion was insightful, but one question captured my full attention. I wrote down the answers because I knew the information needed to be passed along to my pastor and to others who are doing the work of reconciliation. Here’s the question, and the responses.Click here to read the rest of the story...

What Happens When You Hide Your Light Under a Bushel?

“You are the salt of the earth; but if the salt has become tasteless, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled under foot by men. You are the light of the world. A city set on a hill cannot be hidden; nor does anyone light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all who are in the house. Let your light shine before men in such a way that they may see your good works, and glorify your Father who is in heaven." (Matthew 5:13-16)A few years ago I read this passage from Matthew in an entirely new way.Previously I'd just envisioned a basket being plopped on top, and the light being blocked. But for the first time I realized how ridiculous it would be to do what is described. Not simply because it would nullify the purpose of the lamp and waste a precious resource, but because it would be downright dangerous. What happens if you put a basket over a flame? Depending on the weave, the fire could go out. There might not be enough oxygen to keep it going. But if the flow of O2 is good the basket could easily catch fire. And the house, which should instead have been filled with light, could be destroyed. If your salt loses it's saltiness, it is thrown away. Trampled. Returned to dust. Lost. If your light is hidden under a bushel, your entire existence can be put in jeopardy. Turned to ash. Lost. So don't do it. Don't hide your light. Love. Dance in being. Add saltiness, and live.

What Makes Traditional Marriage Traditional?

(A version of this piece first appeared on the Marriage Revolution blog.)I've been thinking about the phrase "traditional marriage", and wondering how the concept of "traditional" is being applied. I concluded that it must be related to time; the length of a practice and its repetition renders something a tradition.And so I decided to look at the "one man, one woman" argument, commonly known as "traditional marriage," from the perspective of time.Turns out polygyny (one man, more than one woman) was alive and well in Christianity until relatively recently.Paul counseled that church leaders have only one wife, which makes it pretty clear that it wasn't a requirement for regular Christians.St. Augustine and St. Basil of Caesarea both wrote about it in the 4th century. Socrates of Constantinople addressed it in the 5th century.Even Reformation hero Martin Luther thought it was permissible under some circumstances, saying:"I confess that I cannot forbid a person to marry several wives, for it does not contradict the Scripture. If a man wishes to marry more than one wife he should be asked whether he is satisfied in his conscience that he may do so in accordance with the word of God. In such a case the civil authority has nothing to do in the matter." In simultaneous contrast, the Council of Trent took a firm stance on the issue in 1563, finally declaring polygyny and concubinage anathema. At least within the Roman Catholic church.So. Let's ignore the polygyny that continues to occur in some Mormon circles etc., and call 1563 the beginning of "one man, one woman." That means that what people are calling "traditional marriage" has been the standard for 452 years as of the date of this writing.Abraham seems to be the first biblical example of polygyny, and he walked the earth around 2,000BCE. If I do the math, that means that for at least 3,563 years, marriage between one man and more than one woman was occurring among the faithful.That's 3,563 years of polygyny compared to 452 years of "one man, one woman".Which, then, is more "traditional"?

Clergy Reviews Make My Heart Sing

Hearing from readers who find the Where True Love Is devotional helpful or healing is a wonderful joy. Hearing from clergy takes that emotion to an even higher level. I'm so grateful for such encouraging words.

Can False Prophets Bear Good Fruit?

Matt 7:15 “Watch out for false prophets. They come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ferocious wolves. This verse from Matthew is often used to describe people like me who offer apologetics for Christ's acceptance of same-sex relationships. I've been called a false prophet from an assortment of places online, sites in which fundamentalist Christians gather to pick up scripture like a burning brand with which to purge the land of the scourge of gaydom. The passage continues with this:16 By their fruit you will recognize them. Do people pick grapes from thorn bushes, or figs from thistles? 17 Likewise, every good tree bears good fruit, but a bad tree bears bad fruit. 18 A good tree cannot bear bad fruit, and a bad tree cannot bear good fruit. 19 Every tree that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire. 20 Thus, by their fruit you will recognize them. Galatians 5 tells us more about good fruit:Gal. 5:22 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, forbearance, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, 23 gentleness and self-control. Against such things there is no law. In conversations with the folks I mentioned above, verses of scripture spray out like bullets from a Gatling gun, with little skill and no concern for accuracy. Just a scattershot of ammunition designed to destroy or at least frighten into submission.My prayer for those of us who love God from within same-sex relationships is that we be mighty bearers of good fruit. In all our discussions, no matter how infuriating or repetitious or contentious, may we bear gentleness and self-control. May our behavior stand in sharp contrast with the hatred, discord, jealousy, fits of rage, dissensions, and factions that are listed as un-Godly fruit described in verse 20.May we return the harsh brutality of scripture as weaponry with a gentle rain of living water. And may they indeed know us by our fruits.

The Struggle to Rejoice

I'm having a hard time being productive today. My heart is heavy from the news of school shootings and the arguments and division which fill the news and social media. It's hard to hold on to energy and enthusiasm, but I have to do it. The need to bring God's kingdom to earth is renewed with every news cycle, and I am called to do my part.While scrolling through posts on my author page, I came across this talk which I gave at a beloved church we attended before moving out of the region. It reminded me that rejoicing isn't something we do simply because we are feeling happy. It;s an act which God commands, and rewards.And so I will rejoice. It will be my act of repentance for today. May it be yours as well.

Ash Wednesday Fish

I wrote this summary of our Ash Wednesday three years ago, and for some reason, never posted it. Posting now, because I still need to take to heart what we experienced.
Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, and Dolce and I discussed the readings of the day over breakfast. We'd taken our time getting out of our warm bed and so breakfasted late. I sliced thick slabs form a lovely loaf of fresh sour dough bread and fried a couple of eggs each. I slathered butter over the crusty toast. Dolce made yummy sounds the whole time she at it. Toast is one of her favorite things. We compared how Jesus' instructions to keep pious actions on the down low seemed to be in contrast with the very public sign of a dark smear of ashes across the forehead. Dolce talked about the practice of giving up chocolate or other favorite vice, wondering if it would be more in keeping with Christ's instructions to just go out more fully into the world as carriers of God's love? And so off we went to our church's Wednesday fee lunch program for the hungry. We'd been planning to attend for months, to see if we might volunteer here as we have once a month at our previous church's meal program. When it is our night to cook we consider ourselves the hosts of an extended family dinner party. We choose a menu that is special, balanced, and contrasting in textures, colors, and flavors.

We walked in to the fellowship hall and saw full tables and faces of mixed complexions and ages. Most people were men. Two women were there with two girls who looked to be five to seven years old. We chose a table and sat between a group of three deaf men who stayed busily engaged in conversation through the meal, and a twinkling-eyed, middle-aged Hispanic guy with a service pit bull at his side. A smiling volunteer greeted us and quickly brought plates heaping with food. The air was redolent of fish and we saw a floppy brown rectangle, a mound of suspiciously glossy smooth mashed potatoes, a tiny bump of coleslaw, and a pile of grayish peas mixed with soft, soggy carrot rounds. A dense under cooked biscuit rested atop the whole thing, earning pride of place perhaps because it was homemade. I looked at the food and dug in, forcing my foodie proclivities down as I lifted fork after fork of the bland mush into my mouth. A young Hispanic man joined us a few minutes later, calling our neighbor Papi and chatting animatedly with him in Spanish. Papi entertained us throughout the meal with stories about the dog. Her toenails were painted bright red. He fed her from his fork, starting with a bite of coleslaw. He scrolled through photos of her on his phone. One showed her dressed in a camouflage tutu, in another she watched TV, and in a third she sported sunglasses. Her name was Tanya, and helps him when he has seizures. He said she was his wife.

A youngish man behind me stood up to take care of his garbage. For the next five minutes he berated the room at large. "Who threw that fish away? There's nothing wrong with that fish!" His dark eyes flashed as he looked around, while pulling up the sleeves of his snow coveralls, and pulling a knit cap down over his tousled black hair. His skin was sun and wind darkened, his lips chapped. "That fish is good food! Who would throw that away?" A female voice muttered in response, but he merely stomped away in disgust. Dolce hates fish but she'd dutifully eaten a few bites in solidarity with the group. I took the abandoned remainder, scraped off the soggy coating and ate the thin flakes of flesh that were revealed.

Papi continued chatting with us and with he newcomer. He told us about a place around the corner called Common Ground where you could get free donuts and coffee. He said you could hang out and watch TV, maybe watch a movie. He recommended it to us, explaining that it was open every day from 12:00-4:00.

By this time the moms were getting in motion. One said "Come on! It's time to go!" and a little voice responded "I want to stay a while and get really warm!" My heart clenched at the thought of the girl needing to stock up on heat calories, wondering if they'd be spending the afternoon outside. But mom didn't want to hear it and she bustled the girl to the bathroom, and eventually toward the door. As she passed by, the littler girl called out her friend "Come on! We're going to Common Ground!" And so I relaxed, picturing her continuing to be warm at least until 4:00.

I continued working at the pile of gluey food in front of me, hating to wast it but full to the point of nausea. Eventually it seemed like we'd stayed long enough and so I threw away our disposables and thanked the folks in the kitchen who had cooked and served us. They wished me a good and day and we went back out into the sparkling snow, saying goodbye to the woman we see on Sundays, who's face looks like it is caving in in the center, so eventually her forehead and chin will meet in the center. I'm not sure how she manages to push her walker through all that snow and slush outside. It must be exhausting.

As we drove home I thought about the contrast of the simple, beautiful breakfast we'd eaten and the Styrofoam pile of calories placed before us a lunch. I thought about the fasting called for as a Lenten practice, and wondered if becoming overly full during this meal could somehow be a form of that practice. I thought about how much we would like to bring our own style of serving into this setting once a month. How we would like to host a family party for this group of womenless men and single moms with kids and gumming old women and middle aged black ladies with red sequined hoodies, and half frozen young men who know the value of a flat greasy block of fish, and friendly, fatherly guys who want to help two middle class women know where to find free donuts.

So tomorrow I'll hunt down the contact information for the program's coordinator. Hopefully she'll let us throw that party once a month.

Out of the Mouths of Babes

The events in Charlottesville, VA and the response out of the Oval Office have left me feeling angry, helpless, and emotionally fraught. It’s hard to get work done, and I’m snippy and less compassionate than those close to me deserve. I woke up this morning hoping I could shake it off and buckle down to the job of trying to make the world a better place, but not having a lot of confidence in my ability to make a difference.

 Then came a private Facebook message from a woman named Judy who bought my book Rumplepimple for her grand children. Some months ago she sent video of the kids reading it, and she’s kept in touch since then. We accidentally sent her an extra copy of the book recently, and she’d planned to send it back.

 Here’s what the message said:

Read the rest of this piece on The Huffington Post...

Arts as Activism Interview

This week I had the pleasure of participating in an interview on the subject of arts as activism. Have a listen.