Category Archives: Anabaptist-Mennonite theology

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How Charles de Gaulle Shaped My Theological Odyssey, by J. Denny Weaver

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Guest post photo of author J. Denny WeaverWhen President Joe Biden traveled to France for the D-Day commemoration in June 2024, he and French President Emmanuel Macron emphasized the closeness of their relationship and the alliance between their two countries,. That closeness was most certainly not present in the 1960s, when French President Charles de Gaulle, who in my mind towers over his era in a way no politician does today, changed the course of my professional career.

It might be hard to imagine, but the story of Charles de Gaulle’s impact (and even potential implications or lessons for today’s national and global political dynamics) begins with my first stint in seminary. For the first time, I learned that the Old Testament had a plot. I was fascinated by the study of the prophets, whose writings I learned were commentary on the kings of Israel and the need for the people of Israel to seek justice. I immersed myself in the Hebrew language, with its unusual letters and reading right to left, and I became quite good at it. It was the onset of my career goal of becoming a religion professor in college or seminary. After this seminary work, I decided to pursue Old Testament as my particular focus.

The war in Vietnam was heating up. After two years of seminary, I volunteered for a term of alternative service with Mennonite Central Committee (MCC). MCC sent my wife Mary and me to Brussels, Belgium, for a year of French study, and then to Algeria, where I was an English teacher in an Algerian lycée (high school). After this interlude, I intended to finish seminary and then pursue graduate study in Old Testament.

During the years 1966-68 that we lived in Algeria, I listened to both French and Algerian news on the radio and read French and Algerian newspapers. At the news shop in town I could buy Le Monde, the influential and internationally-known French paper. In 1968, French president Charles de Gaulle was much in the news. As I recall, notable actions and policies of le grand Charles, as the 6-foot 5-inch de Gaulle was nicknamed, included the following: vetoing British entry into the Common Market, refusing to sign a nuclear test ban treaty, expelling NATO headquarters from Paris, boycotting Israel after the Six-Day War, attacking the U.S. dollar as the standard for international currency, instituting university reforms that had students rioting in the streets of Paris for a month.

He also put wind in the sails of Quebec separatism when he traveled to Canada and bypassed the capital in Ottawa. Heading directly to Quebec, de Gaulle gave a speech that concluded with the words, “Vive le Québec libre! Vive le Québec libre!” (Live free Quebec!). Such actions perplexed and angered both French and American peoples.

I certainly did not understand what de Gaulle was about. When I asked my French colleagues at school what de Gaulle was doing, the majority said, “C’est vieux est fou“ (that old man is crazy), as they referred to the seventy-eight-year-old president. Le Monde even had an editorial with the headline “Est-il fou?” (Is he crazy?)

When I asked Jacques, my best French friend, what was going on with Charles de Gaulle, he had a different answer. It usually began “You have to understand,” followed by a longish policy or history lesson.

One day, probably weary of my questions, Jacques gave me a set of books and explained that everything I needed to know was in those three volumes. These books, profusely illustrated, gilt-edged, bound in embossed leather, were a limited edition of de Gaulle’s war memoirs, his Mémoires de Guerre. Jacques’s father was a Gaulist member of the French parliament. De Gaulle had prepared 600 copies of this special edition as gifts for his members in parliament. Jacques had his father’s copy to loan to me.

De Gaulle’s tomes proved fascinating reading. Written two decades earlier, the memoir read like a suspense novel. I spent several spellbound weeks reading about the experiences of le grand Charles in two world wars, as he led the forces of truth and justice, namely the French, against an array of opponents.

The account was enlightening. Jacques was correct—what I needed to know was in these volumes. I learned that de Gaulle believed that in World War II, the United States and Britain had failed to accord him the role and the respect that he thought he and France deserved. Thus he simply did not trust them.

As I read his story, it became clear to me that his policies in 1968 were all designed to counter British and United States influence and to raise the profile of France at their expense. We might even say that he was getting even with Britain and the United States for their earlier attitudes. Rather than being the chaotic policies of a crazy old man, as most of my French colleagues said, the policies of 1968 reflected a coherent strategy, shaped by de Gaulle’s experiences more than two decades earlier. One certainly did not have to agree with his actions, but the story brought clarity to them and would give insight to those who sought to counter the policies.

From this reading in de Gaulle’s war memoirs, what I realized for the first time was how significantly historical understanding can clarify issues in the present. In this particular case, an account decades before explained the 1960s tumultuous context in France. After seeing how a bit of history clarified events in France, this insight about the potential impact of historical understanding convinced me to change my graduate school focus from Old Testament to church history.

And that redirected my entire career. Without Charles de Gaulle’s memoirs, I would have had a much different career. De Gaulle launched me on a new path. Eventually this led to my developing a new approach to atonement theology that garnered international attention. The path to that atonement image was neither smooth nor direct. Learning came from a variety of sources, sometimes with embarrassment. For the entirety of that story, see my memoir, New Moves: A Theological Odyssey

In that book, the historical context insights I learned from de Gaulle help me understand how multiple views of the atonement came to be. I tell of how my own personal and especially theological history shaped me to move, ultimately, beyond understandings I came to believe supported violence rather than the ways of peace Jesus taught and invites us to live out even amid today’s many violences.

J. Denny Weaver, Madison, Wisconsin, is Professor Emeritus of Religion who taught for over 30 years in the Religion Department of Bluffton University. Well known as the developer of a nonviolent approach to atonement theology, he is author and editor of many books, including The Nonviolent Atonement, Becoming Anabaptist, Defenseless Christianity (with Gerald J. Mast), Living the Anabaptist Story (with Lisa Weaver, and his memoir, New Moves: A Theological Odyssey. As senior editor of the C. Henry Smith series, he oversaw 13 volumes.

Anabaptist-Mennonite, Anabaptist-Mennonite theology, Anabaptist-Mennonite writing, Bible, biblical interpretation, Faith, God, Peace, Suffering, Teachings of Jesus, Theodicy, violence of God

The God of Joshua and Jesus, by Ted Grimsrud

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Author photoOne of the more challenging passages in the Bible is the story told in the book of Joshua. God’s chosen people enter the “promised land,” meet with opposition from the nations living there, and proceed—with God’s direction and often miraculous support—to kill or drive out the previous inhabitants. The book ends with a celebration that now the Hebrew people are in the Land, poised to live happily ever after.

Probably the most difficult aspect of the story to stomach is the explicit command that comes several times from God to the Hebrews to kill every man, woman, and child as part of the conquest. This element of the story is horrifying, even more so in light of the afterlife of the story where it has been used in later times to justify what are said to be parallel conquests—such as the conquest of Native Americans and native southern Africans. I wonder as a Christian pacifist what to do with this story. But, really, even for Christians who are not pacifists, how could any moral person want to confess belief in such a genocidal God—or accept as scripture a book that includes such a story?

Exhortation not history

I want to see if we can find meaning in the story that will help us put it in perspective and protect us from uses that find in the story support for our violence. More than defending Joshua per se, I want to defend the larger biblical story of which it is a part—an essential story for faith-based peacemakers. So, the first step for me is to recognize the type of literature, in a general sense, that Joshua is. I will call it “exhortation,” not “history.” It was an account likely written many years later than the events that inspired it may have happened. It was shaped in order to offer exhortation to its readers and hearers to seek faithfully to embody the teaching of Torah. I do not think it was meant to tell the people precisely what happened in the Joshua years.

I would characterize the Joshua story, then, as a kind of parable, a story (mostly if not totally fictional) that makes a point. To see the Joshua story as kind of a parable does not take away the troubling elements of the story—however, I think such a view changes what is at stake for we who believe in the Bible. What is at stake for us, most of all, is to try to discern the lesson the story is meant to make—not to feel bound to believe that the details are factual. Thus, for one thing, believing the Joshua story conveys important truths does not require us to accept its portrayal of God (or of the vicious character of the “conquest” of the promised land) as normative for us.

In what follows, I will not work at discerning what it is that we should make of the still present problem of why the Hebrews would have told a story with such problematic details about their tradition and their God. Such reflections are important, but they are beyond what I am able to articulate right now. Rather, I want to focus on what I understand to be the ethical, political, and theological concerns of the parable. Especially, I want to focus on the place of the Joshua story in the larger story the Bible presents us with. How does the Joshua story contribute to the Big Story that culminates in the life and teaching of the later “Joshua” (that is, Jesus)?

A political agenda

My Old Testament professor Millard Lind, in a class I took from him on based on his book, Yahweh is a Warrior: The Theology of Warfare in Ancient Israel, gave a useful framework for me to think about Joshua and other stories of divinely initiated violence. Lind focused on the understanding of politics in the Old Testament. He suggested that what was most interesting and revolutionary in ancient Israel was its attempt to create an alternative to the coercive, hierarchical politics of the empires and nations of the world, an alternative to what he called “power politics.”

We may think about the main elements of the Old Testament through this alternative politics lens: Creation and fall, the exodus and Torah (including the Ten Commandments, Torah’s spirit of empowerment, the concern for vulnerable people in the community, the sense of being over against Egypt, and the Sabbath regulations [day of rest, forgiveness of debts, anti-centralization and social stratification, and the jubilee provisions concerning land ownership]). Then we may think of Joshua, the Judges, the turn toward kingship, the prophets’ critique, and the impact of exile. Finally, we may turn to the New Testament picture of Jesus in the gospels and the apostolic witness in Paul and Revelation. All of these materials may be helpfully understood as presenting an alternative political orientation to the power politics of the nations.

Let’s focus on the Joshua story—the so-called “Conquest.” On the one hand, in this story we may see an emphasis on what Lind called “theo-politics” over against state-politics or power-politics. “Theo-politics” is a useful term for categorizing the alternative politics of the Bible. In the Joshua story, following on the heels of the exodus and Torah-revelation in the wilderness, we see a de-centering of human power structures. We also see that sustaining the Hebrews’ status in the land will be based on their faithfulness (or not) to Torah. So, in this story we have a reiteration of the countercultural politics introduced with the exodus.

On the other hand, in the Joshua story we also come face to face with overwhelming violence and its celebration. The Hebrews in the story may have been marginalized and recently liberated slaves and the “Canaanites” in the story may have mainly been kings and oppressors (see Norman Gottwald’s account in his famous book, The Tribes of Yahweh). Yet the story that was written and then retold became a story that kings and oppressors could and did use to justify their conquests during the era of Christendom—an utterly devastating story.

Reading Joshua as part of the bigger story

How do we understand the Joshua account to fit with the bigger biblical narrative? We may think in terms of something like what Walter Brueggemann has called the Bible’s “primal narrative”—the core story of God’s liberating acts that is repeatedly recounted throughout the Bible. We may read the primal narrative with what we could call a “theo-politics” lens. We start with God’s promise to Abraham and Sarah when they are first called to something new—their descendants will “bless all the families of the earth” (Genesis 12:3). This promise may be seen as the core element of the biblical story (I develop this point in my book, God’s Healing Strategy: An Introduction to the Bible’s Main Themes).

What follows in the story is the path, at times quite tortured, that God’s people take in trying to carry out the vocation implied in that promise. In the Christian Bible, this path leads ultimately to the New Jerusalem in Revelation 21–22 where the nations are healed by the leaves from the tree of life.

Abraham and Sarah’s immediate descendants face various adventures that culminate, by the end of Genesis, with them in Egypt. The settling in Egypt turns ominous in the book of Exodus. The Hebrews are enslaved. They have multiplied far beyond Abraham’s clan and have little sense of identity. They cry out, God hears, Moses arises, and they are delivered (without any generals or a king!). After their deliverance, God gives the people Torah as a gift to guide their common life as a counterculture in contrast with the ways of empire. Torah details a just and peaceable society with decentralized power and a sense of the value of each person (which involves a special focus on protecting the well-being of marginalized people in the community).

We are given the sense that to live out Torah, the people need a particular place where human flourishing may be embodied and practiced in the flesh in order to lead to the promised blessing. However, we are also given the sense that the only way to imagine such an embodiment of Torah would be in a territoried community, a geographical region with boundaries and sovereignty as a people. However, also, from the start we get the sense that this existence in a territoried community is contingent upon faithfully embodying Torah—the landedness is meant to serve the vocation, not to be an end in itself.

As it turns out, to be established in a particular land will require violence. People will be displaced, and the community will need coercive force to maintain its borders. There seems no way to have landedness (at least to the degree it requires sovereignty and boundaries) without also having violence. This seems the case even if from the story of the exodus it is clear that this necessary violence is not meant to be the monopoly of a centralized human power structure. Instead, at the beginning the necessary violence comes in the form of God’s direct intervention.

So, when Joshua leads the Hebrews into the promised land, the land of Canaan, inevitable violence takes place—on a large scale, as the story is told. The story makes it clear that this violence is God’s. At most, the human role is secondary. The on-going human leadership in the community is not based on gathered military might but on faithfulness to God’s commands.

The growing problem with territorial sovereignty

In Joshua as the people enter the land, in Judges as the people settle and establish their on-going community, and in the first part of 1 Samuel, the violence to maintain territorial sovereignty remains ad hoc and does not lead to permanent structures of power: no standing army, no collection of generals, no human king. However, the tension and sense of insecurity without such structures prove to be intolerable for Israel’s elders. These elders (and note in 1 Samuel 8 that the initial call for a king is not a popular demand from “the people” but a demand from the elite, the “elders”) make a decisive move to restructure Israel’s politics to “be like the nations.” According to the story, the main representative of God among the people, Samuel, argues vehemently against this restructuring, but he is ultimately told to accept it by God.

There is, earlier in the story, a brief account of how human kingship might work in harmony with Torah—Deuteronomy 17:14-20. This kind of king would be subordinate to Torah and would refuse to centralize military power and wealth in his and his main supporters’ hands.

As the story continues, though, it becomes clear early on that neither Samuel’s warnings nor the strictures from Deuteronomy 17 would be heeded. Kingship in Israel and Judah does indeed lead to centralized power, wealth accumulation in the hands of the few, disenfranchisement for the many, and a militarized society. The prophets make it clear that the on-going departure from Torah would have terrible consequences. And when their warnings are borne out, their words were remembered and provided a theological rationale for continued faith.

The disasters that befell Judah (destruction of kingdom and temple) did not mean God’s failure but vindicated God’s warnings. Because the long-forgotten books of the law were found during Josiah’s ill-fated kingship, the people had resources to sustain their sense of identity and the sense of the promise given to Abraham and Sarah. As a consequence of the failures and, at the same time, due to the sustenance of the core vision, the community was able to respond to the disasters with creativity and resilience. As it turned out, the loss of territory opens the possibility to revisit the initial tension between a community established with decentralized power dynamics and the need for territorial sovereignty. This time, the community was able move toward the decentralized power side of the tension instead of the territorial sovereignty side.

Beginning with Jeremiah 29 there is an embrace (or at least an explicit acknowledgement) of a vision to carry on the promise where scattered faith communities would “seek the peace of the city where they found themselves” rather than to hark back to a vision of a territorial kingdom as the necessary center for peoplehood sustenance and the vocation to bless the families of the earth. Though the story line that follows continues to be centered in the “holy land” with its rebuilt temple, it evinces little hope for re-establishing a territorial kingdom as the condition for the sustenance of the peoplehood. Though little noted in the biblical texts, the Judaism of this time continued to spread and solidified its existence as a scattered peoplehood outside of the “promised land.”

The politics of the second Joshua

When we get to the story of Jesus, we are introduced to a political vision that takes non-territoriality for granted. Jesus shares with his namesake, Joshua, a message that God saves (the meaning of the name). He brings a message about the kingdom of God and is ultimately seen to be a royal, messianic figure. But his message repudiates the coercion and centralization of power politics that a territorial kingdom requires. In that sense, he becomes a kind of anti-Joshua.

Jesus’s community embodied a politics of servanthood not domination, free forgiveness not the centralized control of access to God, and non-possessiveness not accumulated wealth. He set his notion of God’s rule over against the Pharisaic purity project, the centralized Temple, and brutal Roman hegemony. Rather than the eradication of the impure Other that we see in Joshua, with Jesus, we see him healing the impure. Rather than the sense that God intervenes violently on behalf of the promise that we see in Joshua, with Jesus we learn that God’s intervention on behalf of the promise is decidedly and necessarily nonviolent. Victory through self-giving love replaces victory through violent conquest. With Jesus, the promise does not need a state with justifiable violence that requires defending boundaries. In fact, what we learn from the second Joshua is that such a state is most likely to be hostile toward God—and in fact such a state (Rome) does execute God’s true human emissary. We must note, too, that Jesus seems to believe that this vision was present in his tradition from the start: “I came to fulfill Torah, not abolish it.”

The biblical story concludes in Revelation with New Jerusalem, established not through the sword but through the self-giving witness of the Lamb and his followers. Babylon is overthrown by this witness, and the result is the healing of the nations, even the healing of kings of the earth. Politics are utterly transformed.

The role of the Joshua story

The Joshua story is crucial. It shows that territorial sovereignty is not possible without violence. As we read the trajectory of the biblical story, we get the sense that what Joshua sets up is a kind of experiment. Will it be possible to embody Torah in concrete life through controlling a particular territory that might be administered in just and peaceable ways? Doing so could indeed serve as a means to bless all the earth’s families. That Israel could envision a blessing through territoriality is seen in the vision recorded twice, in Isaiah 2 and Micah 4: People from all the earth come to Israel to beat their swords into plowshares and learn the ways of peace.

As the story proceeds, though, we see that the very means to establish Israel in the land carried with them the seeds of failure. Indeed, the land could not be secured without violence—and once the land is secured, the dynamics of violence do not disappear. The initial tension between a decentralized theo-politics on the one hand and territorial sovereignty on the other hand came to be resolved on the side of territoriality. That is, Israel could not be sustained apart from the centralized authority of kingship and its attendant power politics.

However, as Deuteronomy 17 and 1 Samuel 8 warn, such a politics of domination cannot help but undermine Torah. Such a politics cannot help but be corrupt and violate the very conditions of existence in the promised land—as the story tells us. In the end, after the Babylonian conquest, Israel again is presented with the tension between territoriality and theo-politics. This time, in tentative ways, the tension is resolved more on the side of theo-politics. Certainly, the strand of the biblical tradition that culminates in the ministry of Jesus clearly resolves the tension in this way.

When we reread Joshua in the light of these later developments, we will recognize that the violence there is stylized and exaggerated. In exaggerating that violence, Joshua helps show the inevitability of power politics being a dead end and the impossibility of the promise being channeled through the state. Joshua itself points toward countercultural politics by helping to clear away the illusion that theo-politics ultimately could find expression in a territorial kingdom.

“Biblical politics”

The story the Bible tells, then, becomes a story pointing toward a kind of countercultural politics—decentering the state (rejecting empire and the coercive maintenance of geographical boundaries) and advocating organizing for shalom apart from the state through decentralized communities of faith that are open to all comers.

“Biblical politics” is revolutionary in its own way. But it does not underwrite a focus on directly overthrowing the state and doing without any human authority—though even more certainly the Bible strongly repudiates the kind of obeisance toward the state all too characteristic of post-Constantine Christianity. The state, it seems, can be seen most of all in the biblical story as simply existing, for better and for worse. It should not set the agenda in either a positive or negative way for peace people. Theo-politics is about peace work is all its forms, generally independent of territorial kingdoms or modern nation-states. There can be some common ground; more often there will be tension and even conflict between peace people and the nations.

The main point, though, is to work for human flourishing in local communities and global connections of resistance wherever they may be enhanced. Perhaps this will lead to a whole new global order (we may hope; the current order is doomed). More importantly, is the much more modest affirmation of such work as the only way to embrace life in healthy and sustainable ways—or at least it’s the best we can hope to do.

—Ted Grimsrud, Harrisonburg, Virginia, is Senior Professor of Peace Theology at Eastern Mennonite University and was a pastor for ten years. He has written numerous books, including God’s Healing Strategy: An Introduction to the Bible’s Main Themes, revised edition (Cascadia, 2011) and, most recently, To Follow the Lamb: A Peaceable Reading of the Book of Revelation (Cascade Books, 2022). He blogs at Thinking Pacifism, where this essay was first published.

Anabaptist-Mennonite theology, God, Holy Spirit

A Pentecostal Theater Large Enough for This Marriage

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Kingsview & Co blog post barn imageFor a year I’ve been the Anabaptist-Mennonite contributor to a conversation on “Following Jesus” among writers from 12 different Christian traditions. Each month a writer made a main presentation on her or his tradition and the remaining writers offeredresponses. Here at Kingsview & Co I’ve been posting my contributions along with links to the larger conversation. As touched on below, this post completes my participation.

* * *

If I dare put it this way, I’m grateful to J. Terry Todd for offering, in “Following Jesus to the Altar: One Pentecostal’s Reflection,” a Pentecostalism large enough for my marriage. This marriage, of a former atheist and semi-former charismatic, has called for a large room–even, in Todd’s language, a theater. And in relation to the Pentecost-related matters Todd addresses, as much my marriage as my Anabaptist-Mennonite tradition has set the stage for my experiences and perspectives. The story:

As a teen, I attended a church camp. I had by then decided that adopting atheism was the most ambitious, dramatic way I could declare independence from traumatizing aspects of my Mennonite church community.

Intertwining with classic Anabaptist themes in my church experience were already evangelical and fundamentalist influences. Then yet another stream was added: the charismatic renewal movement. Abruptly all manner of settled ways of praying and worshiping and thinking were unraveled. It could be said that, to echo Todd’s memorable wording, a form of Pentecostalism was making its transgressive appearance.

It had taken over this church camp. So there I was, theoretically atheist. Yet underneath the atheism I was also, as Todd introduces his experience, “bearing the weight of a grief I couldn’t name.”

What happened next could be described almost word for word as Todd does:

Bearing the weight of a grief I couldn’t name, one Sunday I tarried at the altar, a classical Pentecostal phrase that involves praying mightily for a divine encounter with the Holy Spirit.  I stood, along with others, near the front of the worship space, my body enveloped by the band’s percussive rhythms and the praise team’s soaring vocals.  I, I’ve seen God do it, and I know / it’s working out for me. / It’s getting ready to happen. The entire assembly chanted the song’s refrain, again and again: It’s getting ready to happen, it’s getting ready to happen.  I wasn’t kneeling at a structure but standing, walking, rocking on my heels at the “altar,” a space that in most Pentecostal settings encompasses the center front of the church, stage left and stage right as well.

My moments of tarrying, or waiting expectantly, involved both the fervent hope for a divine encounter with the Holy Ghost, and a struggle with my willingness to surrender to the experience. And then it happened . . .

But precisely there our experiences sharply diverge. For me it most definitely did not happen. I felt crushed under the dreams of those praying over me, laying hands on me, issuing ecstatic utterances through which I grasped, though without understanding the words themselves, that they were entreating the Spirit to enter recalcitrant me.

“Just let go,” they pled. “Let your tongue go even if it makes no sense. Say nonsense words and then the Holy Spirit will come to fill them with meaning.”

So I did. And a sort of half feeling of sort of half being filled with something arrived but deep down I knew: I was doing my best to be filled with the Spirit but not managing actually to be filled by other than my own quest to be “good” for those who wanted me to be filled. Still I yielded. Eventually I eked out some nonsense words. Joy erupted. For several days I convinced myself It had happened: I had spoken in tongues; I had been baptized in the Spirit.

Only for a few days. Then as I noted no underlying transformation of my troubled self, I admitted the truth to myself: I had tried but failed to open myself. Whatever had happened had been my effort to go along with the expectations of the crowd.

Years later I was to find paths toward following Jesus and experiencing the Spirit. Part of what it took was concluding that what had befallen me back then was external coercion blending with my inner need. I had experienced true hunger but not necessarily for what I was being offered at that camp.

In mid-pilgrimage I met a woman. She was Joan, still a teenager, in her first year at Eastern Mennonite University, where we met when I was a senior. She had been raised American Baptist. She had found much to treasure in her tradition. But there were hungers not yet met in her teenage self. In her world too the charismatic movement made its transgressive appearance, undoing patterns and spiritualities that had long seemed settled. She was blessed. She still connects with friends from the days she sang in a traveling choir with her charismatic mentors and friends.

Eventually, of course, the former-but-sometimes-still-atheist and the charismatic decided that one thing amid their confusions was clear: They should marry. When they announced this oil-and-water merger to their respective friends, there was no joy in either camp. There was gnashing of teeth, rending of clothes, smearing of ashes on brows. This was a variant of Thelma and Louise rollicking their way off a cliff.

So here we are, forty-some years later. We have survived partly by becoming more like each other. What our friends couldn’t always see–nor actually could we ourselves, who realized we might have lost our minds–was that we would also, hoary though the concept is, complement each other. So I am often enough the skeptic but experience Joan as offering guard rails that keep me from, ultimately, plunging into the ditch of cynical disbelief.

And I think she would testify to the ways we mutually nurtured each other when at moments of severe distress in her circle of loved ones the charismatic word was sometimes a toxic pray harder, trust God more, get out of the Spirit’s way even if that forces you to lie to yourself about what is actually happening here. During one potentially fatal crisis, it was also not her charismatic mentors but that boring old-fashioned leader, an American Baptist pastor, who knew precisely the words of divinely inspired grace and wisdom to offer.

Within that journey we find ongoing blessings as we nurture children and grandchildren in a world turned wilder than many of us might have anticipated even a few years ago. We go to church. We engage Scripture. We do things good Christians and Mennonites do. We take seriously the Mennonite Church USA understandings of the Holy Spirit offered in the 1995 Confession of Faith in a Mennonite Perspective article 3, which concludes that–

The Holy Spirit enables our life in Christian community, comforts us in suffering, is present with us in time of persecution, intercedes for us in our weakness, guarantees the redemption of our bodies, and assures the future redemption of creation.

But buffeted by traditions we have long experienced as sources of both strength and shadows, we have not majored in jots and tittles of Holy Spirit doctrine. Nor have we found that the somewhat middle-of-the-road MC USA take on the Spirit exhausts the wildness of the wind and the tongues of fire that blow and alight where they will.

This means I take in Todd’s report more as testimony and inspiration than as theological tome–although I appreciate and affirm the theological nuances he offers us and the many ways they resonate with Joan’s and my lived experience. I particularly am moved by Todd’s ability to show us three things:

First “is the experience of worship as a theater of divine encounter, a space of intense emotion and intimacy where God meets us at the altar.”

Second is “transgressive space”:

As a theater of divine encounter, the Pentecostal (or renewalist) altar can be a “transgressive space,” a term Gastón Espinoza has used to describe the altars at Azusa Street, the 1906 Los Angeles revivals that helped put the Pentecostal movement on the Christian map.

Third is the “freakiness” that this can catalyze and empower. Todd documents an amazing array of Christians and peoples and experiences that can all, in their frequently contradictory ways, fit in the theater. As he describes matters, “The altar where I first experienced the baptism of the Holy Ghost is a transgressive space, which is why I use the provocative language of ‘flying the freak flag’ to unabashedly embrace Pentecostal ideas and (especially?) actions that might puzzle or even repel others.”

That grips my heart. That shows me what it can look like when Christians today behave as those first book-of-Acts Christians did, seemingly drunk but with Spirit not spirit. That fills me with appreciation for ways in our half-blind and fumbling ways Joan and I, one burned by one form of Pentecostalism, one healed by another form of it, then both of us discovering mutual inspiration and healing at the nexus of salvation and shadows, have found each other. And have been found by the Holy Spirit who turned even our marriage into a wing of that theater of divine encounter.

Yes, J. Terry Todd:

That prophecy makes me dance with joy at the altar, as I await this Third Pentecost, grateful for the radically relational pneumatology that undergirds it.

Somebody shout Hallelujah, please.

* * *

This post completes my contributions to the “Following Jesus” conversation. It has been a rewarding journey. Meanwhile “Following Jesus Is a Liquid Dance,” J. Terry Todd’s engagement with his respondents (which includes comments on my post above), provides an eloquent and heartfelt wrap-up to a valuable year of mutual learning for the twelve of us involved. Let Todd have the last word:

As embodied souls we are here for a time such as this. Some of the roadblocks to the flourishing of all God’s people are novel – a climate emergency on a global scale, the possibility of nuclear destruction, along with the usual human litany of greed, war, murder, inequality, and exploitation.

How do we sing the Lord’s song in such a strange land?  Well, it’s not all dependent on our singing, thank God since I can’t carry a tune in a bucket. Maybe it’s the Spirit that plays and sings through us. Glory! In a prophetic phrase attributed to Montanus, “Behold, the human being is like a lyre, and I [the Spirit] fly over them as a pick.”

—Michael A. King is blogger and editor, Kingsview & Co; and publisher, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. He has been a pastor and seminary dean and participated in Harold Heie’s Respectful Conversation project within which a version of this post was first published.

Anabaptist history, Anabaptist-Mennonite theology, Mennonite history

Pondering Across Two Traditions Both Shadowed and Hallowed

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Barn image, Michael A. King Kingsview & Co post For a year I’m the Anabaptist-Mennonite contributor to a conversation on “Following Jesus” among writers from 12 different Christian traditions. Each month a writer makes a main presentation on her or his tradition and the remaining writers offer responses. Here at Kingsview & Co I’m posting my contributions along with links to the larger conversation.

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Robert Millet’s winsome portrayal of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints took me first back to my growing-up years. As has been true in the case of many traditions I’ve responded to, my early formation in Anabaptist-Mennonite communities and theologies predisposed me to view the Mormons, as we then knew the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, with suspicion. I was taught by my tradition that Mormons were a cult. They based their views on the false foundation of the Book of Mormon claimed by then-New Yorker Joseph Smith to have been written on mental plates derived from an angel.

Mormons, it was said, falsely believed that they were the highest, most faithful version of Christianity due to their founding ultimately by Christ in New York  long after the other traditions. They believed in polygamy and tried to convert others to this lifestyle and problematic beliefs.

There are similarities here with Anabaptist-Mennonites. We often have seen ourselves as restoring the true church of Christ. We rescued the church from wrong directions taken from about the time of the Emperor Constantine and across the centuries of Catholicism and of Christendom (church and nation intertwined) expressions still partly maintained by the Reformers.

Mennonites also, it seems to me, have sometimes been careful to interpret our own history in ways that favor our preferred understandings of ourselves. This may be one reason some of us have favored a “monogenesis” view of having emerged largely from 1525 Zurich when Conrad Grebel rebaptized a number of other Anabaptist leaders. This can enable at least some carving away of the more shadowed historical details. In contrast, a “polygenesis” view that Anabaptists emerged from multiple streams and settings makes it harder to say well this is Anabaptism but that wrong turn is not.

For example, perhaps the most troubling dynamic in Anabaptist history emerged at Münster in Germany in the early 1530s. Anabaptists attempted to impose a theocracy on the city through what came to be known as the Münster rebellion. Jan Matthys was one of the noteworthy Anabaptist leaders until the bishop they had exiled besieged the city, killing Matthys and others. For a time the Anabaptist rebels still held considerable sway, as this paragraph from the Anabaptist encyclopedia GAMEO (Global Anabaptist Mennonite Encyclopedia Online) summarizes:

The 25-year-old John of Leiden was subsequently recognized as Matthys’ religious and political successor, justifying his authority and actions by claiming visions from heaven. His authority grew until eventually he proclaimed himself the successor of David and adopted royal regalia, honors, and absolute power in the new “Zion.” There were now in the town at least three times as many women of marriageable age as men, so he made polygamy compulsory,[3] and he himself took sixteen wives. (John is said to have beheaded Elisabeth Wandscherer in the marketplace for refusing to marry him, though this act might have been falsely attributed to him after his death.) Meanwhile, most of the residents of Münster were starving as a result of the year-long siege.

For centuries thereafter, Anabaptist-Mennonites have wrestled with this. Are Münster and its leaders part of Anabaptist history? Or an aberrance to be bracketed out?

I pay attention to this example because it illustrates the complexities of my own tradition’s history and because there are  striking overlaps with Mennonite takes on Mormonism. Perhaps finding a path that didn’t affirm Münster or other thought-to-be-mistaken Anabaptist streams contributed to what I experienced growing up: Certainly Mennonites were not prepared to cede the one-true-church or the highest-expression-of-the-church mantle to Mormonism. This contributed, I’d guess, to the Mennonite tendency to form in its members the often-stereotypical perceptions I’ve summarized.

Eventually I went to college and seminary. I learned more nuanced understandings of other traditions. However, I have less often encountered sensitive interpretations of Latter-day Saints history and beliefs. It has been a privilege then to participate in conversation with such a generous sharer of his tradition as Robert Millet. And I want to spend some more time in, precisely, affirming Millet’s interpretations rather than questioning them.

Before I proceed, however, I do wonder if Millet would be willing to comment on the common perceptions–or surely often misperceptions as Millet has in other responses movingly reported–of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. (When I invited Millet’s commentary he in fact responded generously and comprehensively.) Perhaps hinting at a kind of polygenesis of Mormonism, the Latter-day Saints offer, as I understand it, a preeminent (and non-polygamy-affirming) but not sole expression of Mormonism.

I note Millet has not mentioned the stereotypical takes on his tradition; I’d expect that’s intentional. Why focus on what may be misinterpretations when given the opportunity to write not so much a defense as a proactive statement of the visionary principles that guide the Latter-day Saints of today? Still, it would be informative to learn more of how Millet might address critiques of his or other Mormon branches. It would also be valuable to learn how Millet, who as highlighted below affirms Scripture, views Church of Jesus Christ specifics. For example, what is the role of the Book of Mormon, which I’d imagine few other traditions are prepared fully to embrace?

But turning beyond the shadows, I am struck that Millet helps me make sense of something of a turning point in my own impressions of the Latter-day Saints. Some years ago I was letting Spotify’s algorithms take me hither and yon. That particular night I was tempted to say the algorithm was Holy Spirit, but I doubt Spotify has itself achieved this though who can say how the Spirit may use Spotify!

At any rate, I was in something of a troubled mood and looking for the comforts of music. There were hints of this in various songs. But suddenly I stumbled across a version of “Brightly Beams Our Father’s Mercy,” by The Lower Lights, about whom I knew nothing. I got goosebumps. I turned up the sound. I let the music fill my home and soul. I looked for more Lower Lights music and found many gems.

Then I looked up the group’s background. I was startled to learn that they are . . . Latter-day Saints. That caught my attention. What a clash between what I had been taught and what I was experiencing. I don’t want to claim there was a major theological impact, though once I knew about the Latter-day roots I could hear Latter-day influences in some of the songs. What really tugged at me was that above or beneath whatever the theological overlaps or differences might be, The Lower Lights were blessing me. My heart opened as it rarely had before to paying attention to Latter-day Saints’ gifts.

Then came Millet, who helps us understand core Latter-day Saints commitments and helps my mind continue the journey The Lower Lights have already helped my heart make. I see much for Mennonites to honor in Millet’s “Walking in His Steps: How Latter-day Saints Seek to Follow Jesus” summary:

Millet emphasizes the Latter-day commitment to search the Scriptures daily. As Millet summarizes, “There is a power inherent in scripture, a power unlike anything else we may read or study.” Meanwhile, at our best (which we don’t always manage), Mennonites are committed to believing as we do because we take the Bible seriously as a guide to daily living. We emerged from visionary leaders and communities that sought to read the Bible for themselves. They became convinced that the Jesus they found in this Bible was to be followed even when teaching such radical precepts as adult baptism or that enemies are to be loved.

Mennonites are perhaps not as known for being a praying people as adherents of some traditions. In fact, when I looked for prayer in the 1995 Confession of Faith in a Mennonite Perspective, I couldn’t find an article on it. I did find prayer appearing in footnotes, for example in the article on the Holy Spirit, in a note summarizing that “the Spirit of Christ is in the midst of the church in its gathering for prayer and praise.” I see Millet as speaking well for Mennonites in his descriptions of how Latter-day Saints practice being a praying people.

Millet describes Latter-day commitment to serving and loving others as Jesus did. This is in effect a Latter-day variant of one of the five core commitments of Mennonites I summarized in my post on Mennonites.

Latter-day Saints are deeply committed to church attendance–and this includes emphasizing community. As Millet puts it, “Christianity entails more than prayer, fasting, and searching the scriptures–more than an individual effort to live the principles of the gospel of Jesus Christ. As vital as personal devotion and individual effort are, Christianity is fully lived out only in community.” In turn a core Anabaptist-Mennonite precept is that we are to live not primarily as individual Christians. We are to journey as followers of Jesus who through adult baptism commit ourselves to live as members of the body–or community–of Christ.

Many thanks, Robert Millet, for these valuable admonitions and for contributing to my own personal pilgrimage toward grasping the treasures in your tradition.

—Michael A. King is blogger and editor, Kingsview & Co; and publisher, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. He has been a pastor and seminary dean and is currently participating in Harold Heie’s Respectful Conversation project within which a version of this post was first published.

Anabaptist-Mennonite theology, justice

Jesus as Social Revolutionary: Engaging Farris Blount’s Prophetic Invitation

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Blog post from Kingsview & Co by Michael A. KingFor a year I’m the Anabaptist-Mennonite contributor to a conversation on “Following Jesus” among writers from 12 different Christian traditions. Each month a writer makes a main presentation on her or his tradition and the remaining writers offer responses. Here at Kingsview & Co I’m posting my contributions along with links to the larger conversation.

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Thank you, Farris Blount, for an accessible yet multi-layered overview of the Black Church in A Tale of Many Options: Following Jesus in the Black Church Tradition. The “many options” of your “tale” of the non-monolithic Black Church tradition captures well both central emphases and the many variations.

Your first words fit well with my own take on Anabaptist-Mennonitism and other traditions:

As many of my colleagues have noted during this series on following Jesus from diverse Christian traditions, there is no uniform structure or pattern to such a task. Following Jesus is primarily informed by the context of a people and the needs, desires, and goals of that people.

Rightly emphasized are ways denominational theologies, church models, and forms of following Jesus arise from particular geographical, cultural, and social locations. Amid much that overlaps with ways given situations have shaped my and my tradition’s forms of following Jesus, it’s vital to note your stress on the historical mistreatment and marginalization of the Black Church. Because so much rides on one of your core paragraphs, let me quote it in full:

The historical mistreatment and marginalization of African-Americans can explain how many Black Jesus followers have understood that to follow Jesus means working towards the liberation of all those who are oppressed, particularly Black people. Such a perspective has been molded first by our historical experiences. Our Black Christian forebearers could not understand how a loving and redeeming Savior, who sought to restore our relationship with God and free us from the penalty of sin through His crucifixion, could support the brutal institution of American slavery. Throughout history, African-American Jesus believers could not make sense of how some people could worship a God on Sunday that made humankind in God’s image and declared that this creation was good (Genesis 1) but then treat Black people like second-class citizens unworthy of rights and resources on Monday. Because of these realities, Black Christians have argued that the Jesus we serve laments with us as we process through the trauma that racism creates and fights alongside us as we work to create a world where all God’s creation can thrive. In Jesus, we see someone who is our kin, as He lived as a minority under Roman oppression under constant threat of retaliation, ultimately resulting in His death at the hands of the state.

I‘m a member of a tradition born amid persecution and death so significant that the massive classic, The Martyrs’ Mirror (assembled by Tieleman Van Braght in the 1600s), tells story after story of Anabaptists chased down, burned, drowned during the Reformation. I was ridiculed as a first-grader for not bearing toy guns in a school play because my peace-committed Mennonite parents forbade it. I feel in my bones the traumatic potential of mistreatments and marginalizations. I resonate with your statement that “In Jesus, we see someone who is our kin, as He lived as a minority under Roman oppression under constant threat of retaliation, ultimately resulting in His death at the hands of the state.”

However, precisely because for me and many in my tradition the age-old persecutions involved primarily beliefs, not race, I struggle fully to understand. I imagine beyond a certain point I can’t grasp the depths of trauma intertwined with slavery and racism persisting both in historical memory and still so often actively inflicted today.

Then add the complexity of how African-Americans have themselves, as you report, found their way through that history and present racisms:

However, despite the myriad ways in which the Black Church tradition echoes this commitment to justice in following Jesus, such a commitment does not reverberate through the halls of every Black congregation. In fact, the disagreement between how African-Americans should respond to discrimination can be explored through a polarity that Lincoln and Mamiya call “the communal and the privatistic.” If striving for equal and fair treatment of Black Americans in all areas of life is considered a “communal” approach to the Black Church tradition, then the privatistic approach is one in which there is a “withdrawal from the concerns of the larger community to a focus on meeting only the religious needs of its adherents.” While communal approach advocates echo that following Jesus involves active engagement against oppression, privatistic approach proponents contend that following Jesus is all about an individual public declaration of belief in Him and a resulting shift in behavior (i.e. no cheating, stealing, etc.). Communal believers see Jesus as a liberator that desires for us to experience some Heaven on Earth right now through just relationships and equitable policies, while privatistic believers see Jesus as someone who came chiefly to liberate us from sin and its penalty – eternal separation from God.[1]

It makes sense, as you describe Black Church diversities, that this polarity of the communal and the privatistic would name and form alternative expressions of Black Church experiences. The polarity is also strongly applicable to other traditions. I grew up in what I’d consider a privatistic form of church. I remember its members criticizing Martin Luther King Jr. for focusing on social justice rather than, as these Mennonites believed was more crucial, bringing about change through inviting Jesus into our hearts as personal savior.

In contrast, some Anabaptist-Mennonites have emphasized communal approaches. I’d understand Mennonite Church USA to be trending in this direction in its statements and resources on “Undoing Racism” introduced with these sentences: “Racism, antipathy and alienation stand in the way of Christ’s kingdom of love, justice and peace. As missional communities we will seek to dismantle individual and systemic racism in our church.”

Crucial to my own quest to follow Jesus was Vincent Harding, whose journey included speech writing for Martin Luther King Jr. (such as King’s historic “Beyond Vietnam: A Time to Break Silence“) and significant involvement with Mennonites. He increasingly became a critic of Mennonites (for reasons likely related to the privatistic side of the church) yet also at one point with first spouse Rosemarie directed a Mennonite service unit in Atlanta. In the 1970s he changed my and my wife Joan’s life when in a presentation at Eastern Mennonite University, our alma mater, he urged Mennonites, so often agrarian, to become more meaningfully involved in cities and communal concerns. His invitation catalyzed our spending some 14 years training, working, and living in Philadelphia.

I’d see the privatistic/communal pendulum going back and forth in Anabaptist-Mennonite circles depending on era, given congregations, denominational variations, and so forth. Interestingly, this might be illustrated through how our Following Jesus conversations have been received. I’ve been sharing my posts on Facebook and elsewhere. When I posted my response to Pietist Christopher Gehrz, one FB commentator observed that “I too have heard Mennonite leaders opine about how Pietist sentiments can lead to a me-and-Jesus instead of an us-and-Jesus mentality. I find those comments suspect. It ignores, suppresses and denies the reality that each of us is an individual with an irreducible inwardness. . . .”

Another commentator hoped that valuing the inward, privatistic aspects of Pietism as I had summarized them was not an either/or. This person stressed what Blount is calling the communal, wondering, “Is the Bible primarily addressed to whole communities of God’s covenanted people or is it primarily intended for our personal devotions?” The commentator answered that we pray not “My” but “Our” Father in the Lord’s prayer. This is in contrast to, say, coming “to the garden alone” or walking the Jericho Road as “just Jesus and me” (as two songs put it). 

I said that “As I understood the Pietist summary to which I was responding, indeed both/and not either/or!” Your own answer, Farris, is that

I am not condemning such an approach to following Jesus. On the one hand, there are spiritual practices, such as prayer and scripture reading, that should undergird the life of a believer, no matter what one believes it means to follow Jesus. These practices give us the strength to keep serving and following Jesus amid life’s difficulties. On the other hand, Black Christians who have dedicated themselves to fighting for justice have sometimes done so at tremendous personal sacrifice.

Well said, and a nudge to any of us—personally or at the level of our traditions who may be tempted to overinvest in the privatistic at the expense of the communal. Many thanks for making the stakes clear.

The week this was first published we confronted yet again the violence shredding our culture, too often on behalf of White supremacy, and Black shoppers dying simply for being in a Buffalo grocery store when a teenager, incited by hate-filled ideologies he had no trouble finding and feeding on in today’s political and media contexts, set out to kill as many as he could. Amid such horrors, you issue an invitation that ultimately has implications for all of us:

However, I do not believe we can avoid the fact that Jesus was a social revolutionary if we look at the scriptures and His engagement in His world. And if that is the case, we in the Black Church tradition who call ourselves Christians and attempt to model the life of Jesus, must ask ourselves – what am I willing to sacrifice and give up to follow the Jesus that came to give humanity life and life more abundantly right here and right now?

—Michael A. King is blogger and editor, Kingsview & Co; and publisher, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. He has been a pastor and seminary dean and is currently participating in Harold Heie’s Respectful Conversation project within which a version of this post was first published.

Anabaptist-Mennonite theology, LGBTQ

Celebrating Wesleyan Treasures and Rooting for United Methodists to Continue Offering Them

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For a year I’m the Anabaptist-Mennonite contributor to a conversation on “Following Jesus” among writers from 12 different Christian traditions. Each month a writer makes a main presentation on her or his tradition and the remaining writers offer responses. Here at Kingsview & Co I’m posting my contributions along with links to the larger conversation.

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Reading Sarah Lancaster’s insightful overview of Wesleyanism and keeping in mind its United Methodist denominational expressions took me back to when it was my responsibility to articulate overlaps between Mennonite and United Methodist teachings and values. The United Methodist University Senate oversees UM higher education, including in non-UM institutions it approves to teach UM students. To maintain the Eastern Mennonite Seminary UM Senate approval for further quadrennials, as seminary dean I needed to validate, on behalf of our students and faculty, that EMS adequately understood United Methodism and was prepared to teach and form UM students accordingly.

I was struck at the time, and now in reading Lancaster, that there are indeed significant commonalities. A key one is the overlap between the Anabaptist-Mennonite emphasis on discipleship and the Wesleyan emphasis on scriptural holiness along with the growth in holiness summarized through sanctification. There are variations in the details (particularly the Anabaptist grounding in believers baptism versus the Methodist affirmation of infant baptism), yet discipleship and sanctification both involve living faithfully for Jesus and not simply articulating doctrines or believing this or that.

This is communally expressed for both traditions. As Lancaster puts it, “Following Jesus to grow in holiness, then, was not finally individualistic and private, but rather took place in community.” And if holiness is not individualistic but public, this in turn leads to what Lancaster calls “social holiness.” In founder John Wesley’s 1700s as in our times, this can lead to opposing slavery, racism, oppression, alcohol production that leads to grain shortages for the poor, and so forth.

As I learned during my seminary dean days, it has also led to the “Social Principles” of the United Methodist Church. The fact that UM student numbers at EMS were second only to Mennonites made sense as I learned, for example, that both the United Methodists and Mennonites are committed to peacebuilding and principles of social justice. Both traditions take seriously the way of peace taught in the Sermon on the Mount by Jesus who stressed love of enemies.

As the UM 2016 version of the UM Book of Discipline affirms in relation to Social Principles: The World Community,

We believe war is incompatible with the teachings and example of Christ. We therefore reject war as an instrument of national foreign policy. We oppose unilateral first/preemptive strike actions and strategies on the part of any government. As disciples of Christ, we are called to love our enemies, seek justice, and serve as reconcilers of conflict

Throughout my reading of the Social Principles, I’m struck that again and again Mennonites would say amen to the UM social principles related to the natural world, the nurturing community, the social community, the economic community, the political community, the world community. This includes resonating with the UM position on the separation of church and state, a principle dear to many Anabaptist-Mennonites, and affirming, with the UM Social Principle on the Political Community,  “the diversity of religious expressions and the freedom to worship God according to each person’s conscience.”

If amid occasional differences in details and emphasis, many Anabaptist-Mennonites will resonate with the UM Social Creed and its celebrations of God, Jesus Christ, Holy Spirit, natural world as God’s handiwork, the rights of all, the rights and duties of workers amid “elimination of economic and social distress,” and more. Affirmations in response to Lancaster and such principles could go on and on. If anything as a Mennonite I feel a hint of chastening as I encounter the sheer comprehensiveness with which United Methodists address social issues and UM faith commitments.

Yet that does not exhaust United Methodism. Lancaster also highlights effectively the suppleness of a Wesleyan ethos that can catalyze such significant social thought yet also encompass “seeking emotional experiences of God in prayer and worship.” She helps us integrate social principles with John Wesley’s famous and memorable journal testimony that as he was listening to a reading of Luther’s Preface to the epistle to the Romans,

About a quarter before nine, while he was describing the change which God works in the heart through faith in Christ, I felt my heart strangely warmed. I felt I did trust in Christ, Christ alone, for salvation; and an assurance was given me that He had taken away my sins. . . .

This also overlaps with Christopher Gehrz’s thoughts on the Pietist influence across multiple traditions.

There was one area in which I wished for Lawrence’s fuller exploration. She does observe that “There have been divisions over various matters, such as race and slavery, lay rights, women’s ordination, etc. (and we face division now over LGBTQ+ issues), but none of these ‘various views’ are distinctive to Wesleyans.”

There she lets things rest, perhaps understandably and deliberately so. To wade into such matters is to find all too little rest and perhaps often to muddy core convictions. It can be a challenge indeed, for example, to maintain communal commitments as polarizations related to “LGBTQ+ issues” threaten to shred community, at least at the formal denominational level. And Lancaster is understandably aiming to speak not only for United Methodism but also more broadly for a Wesleyanism expressed in but not limited to the UM denominational manifestions.

Yet fragmentation is affecting so many of our traditions, very much including Anabaptist-Mennonite as I earlier touched on. In addition, the UM battles related to LGBTQ+ denominational positions seem to involve significant intertwining with Wesleyan emphases on holiness, perfection, social creeds. When such core teachings confront the acids of controversies in which alternative views of sin and right living are in play, how do they fare? It would be valuable to learn more about how Lancaster sees United Methodists continuing to offer the treasures of Wesleyanism while confronting intense denominational factionalisms.

During my days as seminary dean, such denominational dynamics were omnipresent for both Mennonites involved in Mennonite Church USA and for United Methodists. Several times UM leaders provided resources to the EMS community based on UM dynamics that were not identical to Mennonite ones, given polity variations, yet involved overlapping complexities and sufferings still working their way through both denominations.

Mennonite Church USA is in the final stages of preparing for a May 2022 special delegate session that could “retire” or embrace several resolutions affecting LGBTQ-related denominational positions.  And as of this spring, even such a general-audience, non-theological source as USA Today was stirred to report, for instance, that a new Global Methodist Church would split from the UM Church by May and that

The new denomination announced its plans on the same day the UMC postponed its General Conference for the third time, this time until 2024. Delegates were expected to vote on proposals regarding the creation of a new denomination at the General Conference on Aug. 29-Sept. 6 in Minneapolis.

I certainly don’t propose that such developments invalidate Lancaster’s overview. But as an Anabaptist-Mennonite who has experienced the challenges of maintaining communal commitments when divisions erode denominations’ ability to gather around core understandings and practices, I will continue to watch with interest and concern how the United Methodist Church navigates such shoals.

And I’ll be rooting, Sarah Lancaster, for the various wings of the United Methodist Church, whether still officially part of one “United” denomination or fragments of what once was, to continue to offer us what you summarize in your memorable conclusion:

In the Wesleyan tradition, following Jesus means being a child of God and living appropriately in that relationship. However differently holiness may be conceived, it is a common conviction that God empowers us to live in the power of the Holy Spirit so that we may work with God in God’s intention to restore the world to what God created us to be.

—Michael A. King is blogger and editor, Kingsview & Co; and publisher, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. He has been a pastor and seminary dean and is currently participating in Harold Heie’s Respectful Conversation project within which a version of this post was first published.

Anabaptist-Mennonite theology, God, inspiration, love of God, Pietism

Stirred by Tender Pietism

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For a year I’m the Anabaptist-Mennonite contributor to a conversation on “Following Jesus” among writers from 12 different Christian traditions. Each month a writer makes a main presentation on her or his tradition and the remaining writers offer responses. Here at Kingsview & Co I’m posting my contributions along with links to the larger conversation.

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In his stirring rendition of “A Week in the Life of a Pietist,” Christopher Gehrz illumined for me the reality that a fair amount of what I’ve experienced as just part of my heritage is indebted to Pietism. I needed barely to  read more than that one of my favorite hymns, “Children of the Heavenly Father,” has Pietist roots to grasp this.

This intrigued me enough that I pursued Gehrz’s fuller comments on the song writer, Carolina Sandell, learned that she is his favorite hymn writer, that she engaged in bride (of Christ) mysticism, and that

Still more controversially, she inherited the Radical Pietist and Moravian interest in the divine feminine. The first draft of “Thy Holy Wings” asked God to spread “warm mother’s wings,” and a hymn inspired by the martyrdom of Swedish missionaries in Ethiopia implored God to “tenderly hover” over Christ’s witnesses on Earth, “Embracing their cares like a mother.”

Reading this took me to my childhood as an often-lost missionary kid trying to survive both the beauties and bafflements of life in Cuba and Mexico. By the time I was 12 the crosscurrents of the missionary experience and my escape into secular inspirations like science fiction had me flirting with atheism. Yet repeatedly a backdrop of hymns and gospel music playing most bedtimes on a Wollensak reel-to-reel tape recorder brought comfort amid pain.

Many a troubled night I’d listen to songs like George Beverly Shea singing “Tenderly He Watches.” Here the controversy of feminine images for God is dialed back. This is done perhaps intentionally and as Sandell herself sometimes seems to do (not least as in “Heavenly Father” children safely to God’s “bosom” are gathered). God remains in such renderings a male who watches over me not as but “like” a mother, a “mother watching o’er her babies.” Still the tenderness is explicitly and implicitly palpable, and it strikes me how often Pietist-flavored hymns leaven the sternness of traditionally patriarchal faith expressions.

When I aged into a culture-shocked teenager trying to make sense of college in the U.S. after leaving Mexico just months before, key to my surviving the tough days was lying many an evening on the couch watching the reels turn on what was now my more advanced stereo Dokorder tape recorder. I would put on the most tender hymns I knew. Shades of Sandell.

Which then takes my heart and memories back to the scores of hymns offering God’s tender care that healed my wounds way back then, bless me still today, and surrounded the bed of my dying mother-in-law Mildred. As she faded, her daughter and my wife Joan, along with our three daughters, sat by her bed singing such hymns. We accompanied the tracks playing on an old Ipod I had loaded with hundreds of hymns and gospel songs for Mildred to go to sleep to in her retirement community much as I had as a boy.

Many of the songs,  in fact, were precisely the same ones I had listened to in Cuba and Mexico, plenty of them with that Pietist flavor. I had resurrected them by buying lost vinyl records on Ebay and laboriously transferring them to the MP3s that eventually ended up on my and Mildred’s Ipods.

All of which is to say this: I certainly have long loved such hymns. But it was Gehrz who helped me more fully understand that through them I was experiencing aspects of a Pietism that did indeed help save my life.

I need to rethink some of my own personal history and my Anabaptist-Mennonite heritage in light of Gehrz. I’ve under-credited Pietism. I’ve long been reasonably aware that strands of piety did heavily influence the communities within which I was most primally shaped. I’ve been less aware that these pieties were not just floating in the Anabaptist-Mennonite air but were a gift from sources such as Sandell and the many others Gehrz identifies, including Philipp Jakob Spener, August Hermann Franck, and more.

Citing Roger Olson, Gehrz observes that “if there is no Pietist movement, we might nonetheless discover what Olson calls ‘the Pietist ethos’ in Lutheran, Wesleyan, Baptist, Anabaptist, Reformed, and other churches represented by other participants in this conversation.” Indeed.

Gehrz himself names what I might otherwise worry a tad about from within Anabaptist commitments to social ethics. This is the possibility that piety can so turn inward as to forsake the outward. I’ve heard Mennonite preachers worry, precisely, that the more Pietistic hymns can generate a me-and-God as opposed to us-and-God or God-and the-world Christianity.

Gehrz, however, makes the case that as with “Francke (1663-1727), personal conversion to Jesus Christ sparked social action.” And my own experience suggests that the tenderness that watches o’er the troubled ones of us safely in God’s bosom gathering can be a key source of returning to the world healed enough to care for it.

Thank you, Christopher, for this tender report, on behalf not only of your own tradition but our many traditions enriched by it, of a week in a Pietist’s life.

—Michael A. King is blogger and editor, Kingsview & Co; and publisher, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. He has been a pastor and seminary dean and is currently participating in Harold Heie’s Respectful Conversation project within which a version of this post was first published.

Anabaptist-Mennonite theology, and the church, Evangelicalism

Feeding the Hunger He Couldn’t Name

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For a year I’m the Anabaptist-Mennonite contributor to a conversation on “Following Jesus” among writers from 12 different Christian traditions. Each month a writer makes a main presentation on her or his tradition and the remaining writers offer responses. Here at Kingsview & Co I’m posting my contributions along with links to the larger conversation.

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What a poignant, moving story of pursuing something he doesn’t know how to name David Gushee offers us in “One Account of a Baptist Way of Following Jesus.” Yet one thing becomes clear to his younger self once raised Catholic as he tries out a Sunday morning service, a Sunday evening service, a Monday night Bible study at a Southern Baptist church: In this paradigm young David is not a Christian. So he does what needs to be done, all the way through full-immersion baptism, and it “takes.” His life is changed.

This is a simple, compelling, almost archetypal report on a classic evangelical conversion experience. This is much the same paradigm even I, raised Mennonite, encountered growing up. It’s what I longed for. Except as reported earlier, in my case it didn’t take. If it had, I might well be writing now more as an evangelical than an Anabaptist-Mennonite. But it didn’t.

So I was curious indeed to see how Gushee, whose writings and communications suggest ample overlap with Anabaptism and other more-social-justice-than-evangelical influences, journeyed from then to now. Before leaving “then,” Gushee offers this compelling summary:

Thus the way of Jesus in this first primitive introduction involved both gift and task — the gift of a staggering sacrifice to atone and forgive me for my sins (I was aware that they were abundant), and the task of learning how to become a faithful servant of a new Lord — no longer my wretched self-curved-in-on-itself, but Jesus Christ. This latter project, it was soon clear, was demanding, open-ended, and lifelong — one never arrived, one was always on the way, there was always more to learn, more growing to do, more sin to repent, more Bible to read and (better and better) understand, more people to (better and better) love, more millions to evangelize… and of course more Sunday School classes, church services, youth choirs, Bible studies, and mission seminars to attend.

I would not hesitate to put forward this basic paradigm of what it means to follow Jesus as foundational for me and far preferable to many available alternatives even today. Christianity as receiving the ultimate gift (of God’s saving love in Christ) and undertaking the ultimate task (of reorienting one’s life to serve Christ with everything). If one wants as close to a near-consensus Baptist vision of discipleship as might exist, I think that is it. I think it tracks with centuries of Baptist history, would be recognizable in most parts of the global Baptist world, and still deeply inspires the vision of many Baptist churches and Christians today.

But of course Gushee is not done. He names complexities, such as that

The conversionist paradigm fits badly with a developmental-staged faith that often better reflects people’s life experiences. Personal discipleship training needs to watch out for perfectionism and guilt-mongering. A social, ethical, political vision is needed and not just a personal one. Theology matters and not just a few scripture nuggets and lots of personal-experiential religion.

And he names changes in the Southern Baptist tradition since his joining days that leave him more drawn to the global Baptist expressions. The Southern variant, he reports, “became part of the Religious Right from the 1980s forward and a huge part of what became #MAGATrumpvangelicalChristianity, which has little if any family resemblance to the serious Jesus-as-Savior-and-Lord Baptist Christianity that I cut my teeth on in 1978.”

So here he and we now are, yearning for what no longer is, imagining Baptists returning “to that long-ago message. God’s love to human beings has been expressed in Jesus Christ. The best possible human life is to serve him as Lord.”

As I said, Gushee’s story is a moving one. His trajectory is a meaningful and powerful one. And I suspect he may be deliberately using the often-minimalist rhetoric of someone like Jesus, who offered cryptic parables and sayings combined with the stark “Follow me” invitations that changed lives.

I’m actually not sure if I wish for Gushee to have offered more. Every effort these days to “answer” the riddles Christianity is mired in seems to create more riddles and rage, not resolution.

Still I keep wondering how David the Christian leader who emerged from the lost boy envisions both honoring the historical emphases he values and dreaming onward, including, as he observes, toward a ” social, ethical, political vision.”

I‘m thinking here of the likelihood that countless Baptists could name salvation experiences similar to Gushee’s and affirm with him God’s love expressed in Jesus whom they serve as Lord. But, as he notes, it’s complicated. I don’t know their Christian brand, but I happened to notice while biking, as I ruminated on this response, a lawn sign that named a local politician while citing John 8:36 and celebrating freedom. Another sign along my bike route promised no hate in that home. It wouldn’t surprise me if both sign posters would affirm God’s love as expressed through Jesus Christ their Lord.

Based on signals coded into many public expressions these days, such that championing freedom tends to take one in this political direction and repudiating hate in that direction, it also wouldn’t surprise me if the signs involve commitments to different visions of living for Jesus.

I’d imagine Gushee, whom I first became aware of as he called Christians not to support torture as a tool in the “war on terror,” has passionate views on how God’s love is operationalized. He hints at this in proposing that much of the Religious Right has lost family resemblance to the Baptist Christianity he joined in 1978.

I’d love for him to say more, including about how the upheaval within and across Christian denominations and traditions both in the U.S. and globally is confounding assumptions and values once seemingly more settled. How often these days I myself wonder, and how often I hear others articulate it, if I’m still a Christian when what multitudes now see that entailing seems for so many so disconnected from historic understandings of serving Jesus as Lord.

In my own Mennonite context, I’m struck that until recent years the Anabaptist conviction that the body of Christ and its visionaries offers alternatives to the earthly principalities and powers made eminent sense to me. I believed that God’s people might be trusted to prophetically challenge the often unjust structures, institutions, ideologies, elemental spirits, or socioeconomic patterns of our day, to echo the Apostle Paul or more recently such a scholar as Hendrikus Berkhof (writing on Christ and the Powers, 1953).

Now I wonder more than I once did. Sometimes these earthly powers seem to enact enough goodness to make sense of Berkhof’s proposal that though fallen they can be dikes against chaos. Sometimes they challenge evil perpetrated explicitly in the name of Christ.

Other times the powers remain as evil as ever, in need of ongoing confrontation in, precisely, the name of Christ. Yet growing numbers of us who cry Lord, Lord (Matt. 7:21-23) seem more interested in being allied with the powers or even constructing ourselves into powers. Meanwhile others who cry Lord Lord advocate for alternative communities of love and justice that can seem evanescent indeed when we too are riven by competing visions of what the Lord is calling us toward.

Within such dynamics, including the worry of some that civil war lies ahead, I still believe much of what I and some (not all) in my Anabaptist-Mennonite community have long believed. Yet I wonder more than I once did how we Christians, whatever our tradition, are getting it wrong as well as getting it right. I wonder what that may mean in this tumultuous era and the turbulence likely yet to come.

I hope you’ll continue speaking to us about such matters, David even as I’m thankful indeed for all the speaking you’ve already been doing.

—Michael A. King is blogger and editor, Kingsview & Co; and publisher, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. He has been a pastor and seminary dean and is currently participating in Harold Heie’s Respectful Conversation project within which a version of this post was first published.

Anabaptist-Mennonite theology, baptism, Evangelicalism, grace, Mennonite, salvation

Collaborating with Grace, the Gift from Beyond

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For a year I’m the Anabaptist-Mennonite contributor to a conversation on “Following Jesus” among writers from 12 different Christian traditions. Each month a writer makes a main presentation on her or his tradition and the remaining writers offer responses. Here at Kingsview & Co I’m posting my contributions along with links to the larger conversation.

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It’s interesting to note that Wesley Granberg-Michaelson joins the significant number of “Respectful Conversation” partners reporting having made some sort of journey beyond or at least through evangelicalism as part of embracing their current tradition. I’d count myself among such. Though I was born into the Mennonite church and raised by Anabaptist-Mennonite parents, whether what we believed in was Anabaptism or an evangelicalism tinged with fundamentalism was often unclear.

I resonate, then, with Granberg-Michaelson’s report that he started out evangelical, going back to a conversation in the kitchen with his mother when he was just four. There is indeed appeal in accepting Jesus before going to the dentist to make sure to be saved in case Jesus returns more quickly than young Wesley returns from the dentist.

I made the same move as Wesley except oh, maybe 100 times, and it just never seemed to take. I never seemed to become unqualifiedly saved. I remember when I was maybe 12 overhearing my mom say to my dad something along the lines of “If he doesn’t do it by the time he’s 16 he never will.” To this day I’m not sure if “it” was accepting Jesus, but I think it was. That only added to the pressure and caused maybe another 50 efforts to become saved.

But thoughts and feelings that seemed not to belong to saved people would always return shortly after a few days of the sainthood that would validate that Jesus was now in my heart. For me the solution, if such it was, to the quandary came from choosing in my twenties to try out whatever it meant to follow Jesus. I’d aim to follow Jesus whether or not I always believed there was a Jesus to follow and whether or not I had any confidence that Jesus was in my heart.

In light of that, I feel almost a twinge of envy that Granberg-Michaelson can report that the Reformed tradition “chose me.” There is gift here, the gift of feeling that Someone has chosen you which is moving and affirming in a different way than if it was primarily you who did the choosing. As Granberg-Michaelson summarizes, “Grace comes solely as God’s initiative, as pure gift. Faith is never an achievement or personal accomplishment.”

I mostly concur. And I think we Mennonites influenced by the individualism often linked to evangelical influences can be reminded by Granberg-Michaelson of our tradition’s from-the-start convictions that the walk toward and with Jesus happens as we become members of Christ’s body.

Each of our traditions can also find gifts in the summary of the Reformed tradition as confessional, covenantal, committed to the conviction that the world belongs to God, aware that sin is real indeed yet so is the journey from “guilt to grace to gratitude,” and ecumenical.

Those of us who are grandparents, as am I six times over, may also find blessing in Granberg-Michaelson’s testimony that “When I sit with my two grandchildren on my lap, my Reformed theology gets undone.”

My Mennonite theology gets undone too, though this did send me down a side-trail that may nevertheless deserve a touch of exploration:  wondering how any of us help next generations see gifts in our traditions as religions and denominations and traditions are in so many ways coming undone.

Some of my grandchildren are being raised in ways connected to Christianity, even sometimes Mennonite-flavored. Others less so. In-laws range all over the faith–or lack thereof–map. When we get together, we can’t assume that, say, Mennonite is our common understanding.

Even so, how surprising, and moving it has sometimes been to learn that even grandchildren as young as two pay attention for example to prayer at meals and regardless of their particular background will often propose or even personally initiate prayer. This includes the youngest, whose heart has somehow instructed her to put her two index fingers together and close her eyes as a gesture of prayer.

I suspect at least two factors come into view here. One is that indeed the communal emphases of our traditions hold insight. We are formed together, not simply apart and not entirely by larger cultural influences even as traditions increasingly atomize.

The other is that we do need somehow to take into account Granberg-Michaelson’s testimony to not only chasing grace ourselves but also being chosen and blessed by it whether or not we’re fully capable of understanding it. This takes me back to his thoughts on covenant.

On the one hand, I remain a committed enough Anabaptist-Mennonite that I don’t fully embrace his conviction that covenant includes infant baptism.

When an infant is baptized in a Reformed (or other) congregation, theological critics will complain that he or she has no choice in the matter. But that is precisely the point. Christian faith is carried communally; it’s personal but not individualistic.

I see the power of this understanding and in that sense am drawn to it. Still I’d prefer to look for ways the communal carrying of Christian faith Granberg-Michaelson rightly emphasizes does not preclude reserving baptism for the adult or at least adult-in-training believer consciously committing to the journey with Jesus.

Here I see some analogy with my marriage commitments. I could not have become the married person I am apart from community and “covenantal relationships of love.” And I respect that marriage arrangements vary across cultures in enriching ways. Yet I’m grateful to have had the privilege of intentionally–though certainly not in full understanding of what I was doing!–committing myself to another through sickness and in health until death does us part.

On the other hand, and as I ponder through the prism of my grandchildren, I see much to celebrate in Granberg-Michaelson’s report:

So, I don’t regard my prayer in the kitchen as an autonomous, individual act of free will, but as part of a mysterious movement of grace transmitted imperfectly but certainly through covenantal relationships of love. Believing and belonging are intertwined, and not always sequential.

Amen. Maybe the Mennonite in me can see adult baptism as collaborating with the grace which comes as gift from Beyond. Many thanks, Wesley, for leading us so meaningfully from guilt to grace to gratitude.

—Michael A. King is blogger and editor, Kingsview & Co; and publisher, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. He has been a pastor and seminary dean and is currently participating in Harold Heie’s Respectful Conversation project within which a version of this post was first published.

Anabaptist-Mennonite theology

Drawn with Randall Balmer and Episcopalianism Toward That Enchanted Universe

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For a year I’m the Anabaptist-Mennonite contributor to a conversation on “Following Jesus” among writers from 12 different Christian traditions. Each month a writer makes a main presentation on her or his tradition and the remaining writers offer responses. Here at Kingsview & Co I’m posting my contributions along with links to the larger conversation.

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Reading Randall Balmer’s post on why he left evangelicalism to become Episcopalian reminded me that way back when, as a young Christian committed to my Anabaptist-Mennonite tradition, I was also experiencing a hunger for spiritual resources I wasn’t fully finding (perhaps partly due to my own blindnesses) in my own communities of faith and worship. Though I wouldn’t today support everything I encountered back then, it was a gift to experience a number of “Aha, there is more!” explosions caused by such resources as these:

My late and beloved professor of pastoral care at Eastern Baptist (now Palmer) Theological Seminary, Vince DeGregoris, introduced me to Carl Jung through Jung-inspired courses on “The Psychodynamics of the Gospels” and “Psychodynamics of the Old Testament” also shaped by such texts as Walter Wink’s The Bible in Human Transformation: Towards a New Paradigm for Biblical Study (Augsburg Fortress, 1980) and Transforming Bible Study: A Leader’s Guide (Abingdon, 1980). Though I didn’t entirely embrace her Gnostic-trending view of Christianity, this also took me to June Singer and her Boundaries of the Soul: The Practice of Jung’s Psychology (Knopf, 1972).

Frederick Buechner showed me in The Magnificent Defeat (Seabury, 1966), Telling the Truth: The Gospel as Tragedy, Comedy, and Fairy Tale (Harper & Row, 1977), and many other books that there are ways to preach the heights and depths and poetry of the Bible in ways not dreamed of–at least as of my experience back then–in my tradition. Lord, Teach Us to Pray: Christian Zen and the Inner Eye of Love (HarperCollins, 1991), by William Johnston, offered fresh visions of prayer.

Amid the swirl of such influences, I found a book by Morton Kelsey, The Other Side of Silence: A Guide to Christian Meditation (Paulist, 1976). Although to my knowledge only Kelsey, an Episcopalian priest, belonged to Randall Balmer’s current tradition, Kelsey symbolizes for me the fact that such resources powerfully complemented ways I had, if only due to my own limits, experienced absences in my tradition. A form of Christianity based on if Jesus said it, then do it, can be drawn toward primarily literal, practical, ethics-focused expressions of faith.

There is considerable power in such expressions which continues to inform and inspire me. Yet humans are complicated indeed. I longed for ways better to understand my inner dynamics and the depths of the human condition, to make sense of clashes between the practicalities and disciplines my communities of faith called for and and my own lived realities.

Through the resources from traditions more oriented toward this, including those leaning “high church” and not least Episcopalian, I found some of my longings met. Rather than leaving Mennonites behind, such materials allowed me to embrace what seemed to me to work while drawing on complementary voices from beyond.

My early years were also shaped nearly as much by evangelicalism and fundamentalism as they were by my own tradition. In that sense some of the factors that led Balmer to leave evangelicalism contributed to my aches for something more than my heritage was giving me.

So my story is a variant on what Balmer reports, as he tells us of formally departing his “evangelical subculture” within which his own father had long been a pastor to become an Episcopalian and to feel “as though I had come home.” Amid differences in our journeying, I do see much to appreciate here. And I experience Balmer as yet one more voice articulating some of my own hungers as he speaks of finding at Trinity Church something he wasn’t sure of, but it “seemed sacred to me and very much unlike the cavernous and (yes, I’ll say it) soulless spaces all too typical of evangelicalism.”

And so, reports Balmer, even as he honors his father’s ministry and memory and is “on the whole . . . grateful for my upbringing,” he’s come to

love the cadences of the Book of Common Prayer, the reverence of the liturgy, the soaring descants of the Anglican musical tradition and prayers that typically do not include the phrase, “Lord, we jus’ wanna.” I’ve come to regard the Episcopal Church, along with museums, symphonies and the natural world, as one of the few remaining repositories of beauty in this life.

I remain enough of an Anabaptist-Mennonite shaped by an emphasis on signs pointing beyond themselves, but not quite to the point of sacraments that might be seen as including the beyond within themselves, that I don’t feel as strong a pull toward Balmer’s sacramental view. Yet I’ve glimpsed its power in settings like his and value his descriptions of it.

Balmer’s references to the mysteries of faith intertwine with treasures I gleaned from the writers I mentioned at the outset. There is quite the appeal to his decision that “I elect to live in an enchanted universe where there are forces at play that I cannot begin to understand, much less explain—not least of which is the mystery of the real presence of Christ in the Eucharist.”

Perhaps also due partly to my Mennonite formation with its view of the church as the community of believers rather than a reality founded on, say, Peter the Rock, I confess to smiling along with Balmer’s take that Matthew 16, with its report of a Jesus founding a church on a particularly frail human, is a rare New Testament attempt at humor or at least irony. Yet I also share with Balmer the concern to respect those, such as Roman Catholics, who might view matters quite differently.

Thank you, Randall Balmer, for helping us experience with you the pull of following “Jesus along the Canterbury Trail.”

—Michael A. King is blogger and editor, Kingsview & Co; and publisher, Cascadia Publishing House LLC. He has been a pastor and seminary dean and is currently a participant in Harold Heie’s Respectful Conversation project within which a version of this post was first published.