Religion Does Not Own Marriage (Obviously)

This is in response to Rabbi Jeffrey Salkin from Religion News and his piece, "Why A Real Clergy Person Should Perform Your Wedding." You can probably tell from my title that I do not exactly agree with him, but since he offers a few good insights and his intentions seem genuine, I'll keep this friendly. I also wrote this before reading the comments to his post. Most of them are fairly-articulated critiques, so despite the usual wisdom of Thou Shalt Not Read The Comments, checking those out probably won't hurt. Salkin makes a lovely point about respecting the full range of professionalism, experience, and training of a Real Clergy Person (hereafter to be known as Clergy Person Ordained By Rigorous Denomination Process, or CPOBRDP). I appreciate the call to respect the profession for what it is -- all the facets that aren't as obvious as standing up at the altar. Plenty of worshipers truly underestimate what it takes to be a clergy person in general, let alone on this sort of special occasion. And I like the idea of what couples should expect out of their officiant beyond a single ritual.

And full disclosure: I haven't been fond of the methods for instant ordination and have thus far refrained from any such ordination myself. I have the same Master of Divinity degree and as much paid ministerial experience as just about any newly ordained pastor in the United Methodist Church, and after all those years of seminary and a prolonged internship at intern pay, the thought of my being ordained online in a less "real" way always unsettled me. I've imagined it would feel like taking an easier way out after all that preparation. But thank you, Jeffrey Salkin, because you made me realize I was wrong. When it comes down to it, it isn't online ordination that bothers me. And I probably wouldn't have known that without seeing your complaints. For me, the real problem is threefold: the murky lines between government and religion in regards to marriage, a limited number of respectable options for being a nonreligious or interreligious officiant, and an intra-religious lack of respect for lay ministry. Halfway through seminary, I realized how much I struggled with the very concept of ordination and denominational authority -- not as an inherent evil, but an inherent elite. No matter how much you lift up lay people to live into their ministry, no matter how humbly you serve, there is simply no way not to have privilege when ordination is treated as a privilege. Now I remember. This is why I'm a lay person in professional ministry in the first place; professionalism is as much privilege as I'm willing to take on. The Presbyterian Church (USA) where I work hired me because they considered me not only capable but called to the work I do. At least for what I must do right now, that is all the ordination I need.

But back to marriage. I think we can all agree that, no matter how sacred marriage is to us personally or to our own faith culture, religion does not own marriage. Obviously. As long as marriage remains an option (nay, socially and governmentally rewarded) for people regardless of religious affiliation, diminishing non-clergy officiants or non-CPOBRDP officiants as "fake ministers" is unnecessary and unfair. Why assume that a friend or family member, for instance, would not understand their part to be a matter of respecting the Whole Person rather than providing a one-day service? I respect the training and education and professional experience that clergy have to offer. (Seriously, seminary was challenging in just about every sense.) I love that the best of the CPOBRDP will ask strong questions in premarital counseling or remain committed to supporting the couple throughout their marriage. But don't you dare neglect to raise up the goodness of lay ministry, or claim presiding over marriage as solely the work of clergy, or -- need I say it -- suggest that nones who pursue marriage through any means other than yours are doing so only to take an easier or lazier or less legitimate way. (Relatedly, there is possibly no surer way to keep someone from joining your community than insulting their ways of meaning-making.) Look. Some people have a call to be ordained by a religion or denomination based on a rigorous process of training, interviews, and ceremonial rituals which endow authority. And some people have a call to represent and care for the specific people who trust them to do so. That is their ordination. I've been asked to officiate for friends. I have all of the theological and pastoral training that any newly ordained pastor might have, minus the bureaucratic stages. I've recommended secular therapy for premarital counseling, knowing that therapy in general would actually greatly benefit people who want to be not just healthy but optimal, but that it's usually only called upon when personal or relational health is diminished. I've already expressed far more interest in strengthening the marriage and preparing the ceremony which binds it than organizing a party (not my forte, unless they want parachute games -- I sure would). I know I am only one example of a non-CPOBRDP officiant, and maybe not all of them are as thorough as I aim to be, but I cannot believe this is any less of a ministry or a call just because it isn't the church's government that sent me to do it. By the way, when I officiate for nonreligious friends, I'm not doing so by powers vested in me by an instant online ordination. I'm obtaining permission to officiate from the state governor. This is apparently entirely acceptable and legal, and all I need is a statement of my connection to the couple and a letter of reference attesting to my character. Because, for better or for worse, marriage is still regulated by the state. And it's like a bad joke that my religion would want me to be approved by their governing body in an expensive and exhausting multi-year process, and meanwhile, the state government is the one to look directly at the content of my character and honor the agency of the people seeking to be married. I'm suddenly feeling patriotic.

Reclaiming the Goodness of Darkness

Each year, First Presbyterian Church of New Haven prints a Lenten Reflection booklet with contributions from the community, one 200-word reflection for each of the forty days of Lent. I agreed to write one and was assigned John 8:12-20.

Source

¹²Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life.” ¹³Then the Pharisees said to him, “You are testifying on your own behalf; your testimony is not valid.” ¹⁴Jesus answered, “Even if I testify on my own behalf, my testimony is valid because I know where I have come from and where I am going, but you do not know where I come from or where I am going. ¹⁵You judge by human standards; I judge no one. ¹⁶Yet even if I do judge, my judgment is valid; for it is not I alone who judge, but I and the Father who sent me. ¹⁷In your law it is written that the testimony of two witnesses is valid. ¹⁸I testify on my own behalf, and the Father who sent me testifies on my behalf.” ¹⁹Then they said to him, “Where is your Father?” Jesus answered, “You know neither me nor my Father. If you knew me, you would know my Father also.” ²⁰He spoke these words while he was teaching in the treasury of the temple, but no one arrested him, because his hour had not yet come. (John 8:12–20)

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With our sights set on Jesus, the Light of the World, have we fallen into a system of light supremacy? Is a language of light as salvific and life-giving as the intentions of Christ?

Bodies and souls cry out to us: It's time to reclaim the goodness of darkness.

To reclaim the good darkness of the body is to affirm that Black lives matter, not only denouncing acts of violence but confronting even prejudices which are so pervasive that they are silent and unconscious. Jesus embodies his rightful authority because divine justice overrules legal privilege. Black bodies are their own living testimonies and God is their witness.

And reclaiming the good darkness of the spirit beckons us to live into a spiritual life of seasons, affirming the dark night of the soul as a time of renewal and transformation in its own right. As you meditate on God's splendor, do you find the eyes of your soul squinting in the light? Find a dark place to rest. Don't be afraid. Splendor may appear inviting, but you are no less safe in the depths of mystery. The God of day is also God of night, and that is good.

An Open Letter to Paul from a Woman Prophet of First-Century Corinth

A letter written in response to 1 Corinthians 11 in the voice of a woman praying and prophesying in first-century Corinth (minus my footnotes and further references).

Greetings, Paul! Grace and peace to you. I pray that this finds you well, and that your presence and wisdom continue to bless others in Christ's name. We Corinthians give thanks to God for your guidance and loyalty. We are a raucous bunch, but you continue to care for us. We care for you, too.

By the way, I covered my head while composing this letter so that the thought of me speaking to the scribe would not be too distracting to you. I know you advised us in your letter not to eat meat offered to idols (even knowing that we are no better for either eating or abstaining) if it might cause someone else to stumble, so I imagine that you would appreciate that I veil myself as I author a letter to you, even though I'm not in the habit of doing so. I would never wish for you to stumble, Paul.

Now, I would like to respond to a particular passage of your letter. But it's not the meat thing I wanted to write to you about. I think we understand that one pretty well, and anyway, it's just meat, right? Indeed, the purpose of my letter is the topic of women speaking in the assembly, covering our heads, and your intriguing logical wordplay about women coming from men and men coming from women. All of this, possibly more than anything else in your letter at the moment, has certainly got everybody at the assembly talking—especially we women—so maybe you can help us think through it. We don't mean to be contentious for contention's sake, but rather speak amongst ourselves and write to you for the sake of understanding in the community.

For ease of reading and discussion amongst ourselves, we have divided your lengthy correspondence into different chapters and verses (for instance, the aforementioned advice regarding meat is Chapter 8). Don't worry; I've enclosed herein a duplicate of your letter, fully marked for your reference. Feel free to turn to Chapter 11 and follow along.

First, my own greatest uncertainty: I don't understand your explanation that man was not "created for the sake of woman, but woman for the sake of man" (v. 9), if we are also to acknowledge that each is made from the other (v. 12). Humanity was not made for hearts, but hearts for human bodies; and yet without functioning hearts, bodies would fail and humanity would cease. What's more, if either men or women were to cease to be created—or, perhaps, were all female children actually put to death before maturity —it would be the cessation of the other. Only the ultimate Creator, the God who could miraculously restore life to a body without a beating heart, could also create new life without both a male and a female parent. A boy-child who would serve as Lord and Savior to male and female both entered the world by way of a woman's womb, like you and I, Paul. Yet some think that Jesus' Mother, Mary, conceived him solely by the Spirit; if this is true, it means more than one woman's purity maintained: it also raises the importance of woman in the salvation of humanity and reminds us that we, females and males, are quite interdependent indeed, even in spirit. Therefore, I pose to you that your argument of male authority by way of nature is weak if you must rely on the concept that man preceded woman in the beginning and yet understand the cyclical nature of our human creation, let alone our salvation. I do agree with you, though, that "all things come from God" (v. 12) and that neither sex is "independent" of the other (v. 11). Your argument about origins substantiates that much.

Speaking of origins, what makes you conclude that man "is the image and reflection of God; but woman is the reflection of man" (v. 7)? There are certain anatomical differences between females and males—from our facial features and builds to the genitals that most simply differentiate us at birth. Do we believe that God has genitals? A large nose; a tall frame? If woman is a "reflection of man," the "image and reflection of God," why are these features still different? Even ripples in the stream do not cause such discrepancies in the reflections we see. I have not seen the face of God, but I wonder if my face bears closer resemblance to the Creator in whose image all humanity was made than it does to that of a man—even my own father and brother. I suppose I cannot know.

Now I would specifically like to address the matter of covering one's head, an act which you have clearly set aside for women, lest a man disgrace himself. I'm concerned because I've heard that Jesus was crowned with thorns before his crucifixion. Did Jesus disgrace his head when he prayed to God on the cross, or when he prophesied to the criminal beside him? If he was disgraced, surely it was for the thorns given in derision; not for praying while crowned. Yet you say: "Any man who prays or prophesies with something on his head disgraces his head" (v. 4). Logically, Jesus was indeed a man and a mortal one at that point, or else we may need to reconsider our understanding of his death and resurrection. Should Jesus have removed the thorns when he wished to speak (provided that his hands had been free to do so)? Should he have simply refrained from audible prayer and prophecy so as not to be disgraced? Paul, what would you have had Jesus do? What does it really mean to be disgraced, and are there not exceptions in which a disgrace by human measure may be instead a sign of glory for the Lord?

I have decided to listen to you, Paul, when you instruct us to judge for ourselves on the matter of whether or not it is "proper for a woman to pray to God with her head unveiled" (v. 13). You reason that nature has given my long hair to me as a covering; that it is my glory. I can think of nothing more sound than to offer such glory openly to God. Furthermore, nature itself teaches me that I was created with vocal cords, but not with a veil. When I pray and prophesy, I typically choose to use only the former to invoke our Creator.

However, out of respect for the men in the room, lest they be distracted from God even as I speak solely of God, I will continue to remain clothed—and, if they are particularly weak men, I may even cover my head. Because we are so interdependent, so influential over one another, I realize that this may not simply be about my identity as a woman, but also about preventing man from being distracted by what you call the "reflection of man." (I hear that an unhealthy preoccupation with a reflection didn't work out so well for Narcissus.) Thank you for your insights into the limitations of men in our civilization and what we women might do in order to keep them safe and pure.

Before I forget, Paul, please send my love to your Mother. It's been so very long since we were together in Tarsus. Why, I think you were just a little boy still learning to talk. We had such a good time teaching you the power of words. Your Mother must be so pleased to see how eloquently you write today! No matter how much your life has changed in Christ, every time I read a letter from you, to this day, I swear I hear your dear Mother's voice.