Extraordinary Lutheran Ministries

CW: white person processing, mention of riots

I first heard Sweet Honey in the Rock perform this song at the inauguration of my college’s first black President, Dr. Ronald Crutcher. Sweet Honey in the Rock performed during the ceremony as did the college’s choir with which I sang. After we performed, I remember their smiles and encouragement as we returned to our seats which were right behind theirs. Then, it was their turn.

“Until the killing of black men, black mothers’ sons, Is as important as the killing of white men, white mothers’ sons.”

I remember feeling a dissonance in my gut as these lyrics rang through the stadium. “Wasn’t this a celebratory day and a celebratory event? Weren’t we celebrating that a black man was president, why did they pick to sing a song that brings up murder.”

This was not the first time, nor the last, when my privilege and whiteness would feel that dissonance as it encountered racism and white supremacy and its daily effect on the lives of my siblings of color. 

The election of Dr. Crutcher as our college’s president didn’t wash away the racism and white supremacy that permeated my beloved alma mater. Were Sweet Honey in the Rock trying to let me and my white siblings know that they knew this and were calling us to attention? Perhaps.

“We who believe in freedom cannot rest, We who believe in freedom cannot rest until it comes.”

The month of June is celebrated around the world as Pride month because it was in the early hours of June 28th, 1969 that queer folk — specifically queer folk of color like Marsha P Johnson and Stormé DeLarverie — took a stand against the New York Police Department who were raiding one of their sanctuaries — the Stonewall Inn, a gay bar — and arresting its patrons.

What followed was a week of riots, rebellion, confrontation, and destruction of property which gave life to the Gay Liberation Front and a movement for the rights of the LGBTQIA+ community in New York City and beyond.

My ability to live openly as a queer woman and to be legally married to my wife without losing my job and livelihood is due, in large part, to those first moments of riot, rebellion, confrontation, and destruction of property.

Pride today is celebrated with parades, rainbows, and often PRIDE worship services led by the very religious communities that once shut their doors to our community. It is a time of joy.

“Until the killing of black men, black mothers’ sons, Is as important as the killing of white men, white mothers’ sons.”

The dissonance experienced by these lyrics — is yet again — within me and our community. 

This year’s Pride is not a time of joy — it is a time of anger, mourning, and remembering that our community’s journey toward justice was ignited at the hands of our black LGBTQIA+ siblings who are, once again, rioting, rebelling, confronting, and destroying property to declare their lives matter.

Let not the Pride flag — with all its symbolism of “welcome” — be put to shame by being waved this month in ignorance of our siblings’ suffering. Let us acknowledge as Emma Lazarus, the Jewish-American poet, so poignantly wrote that “Until we all are free, we are none of us free.”

During the months of June and July, ELM has asked members of Proclaim to use our blog as a space for Pride Devotionals: songs that have inspired action, spiritual awakening, tied to an unforgettable moment, associated with captivity/freedom, Pride. We are specifically asking all of our writers to acknowledge the intersectionality of identities that remind us that seeking justice in a silo — a queer-only focus — ignores and dishonors the great diversity of bodies, minds, abilities, genders, and orientations with which God has blessed us.

Let us pray…

Oh great Mystery, whose Word sparked all things into being at the start of creation, bless the words and actions of our community. May your Spirit — who toppled towers when humanity thought itself too proud, and parted the seas to liberate your people from the death-dealing ways of empire — convict us to act on behalf of our neighbor for the sake of your Kin-dom. And, may we who believe in freedom not rest until it comes. Amen.

Amanda Gerken-Nelson (she/her/hers) believes black lives matter and is educating and training herself to dismantle the white supremacy and racism that has scared and paralyzed her in the past at the expense of her siblings of color who have experienced great harm. She seeks to be an ally and — in the words of long-time ELM supporter, Margaret Moreland — an accomplice in the movement to eradicate racism and white supremacy in ELM, the Church, and society.

Dear Beloved, I write you a day late and a dollar short turning in this blog post for this community, my community, on a day where white supremacy has been allowed to once again feed black bodies to the machine that is the so-called American Dream. I write this to you in deep and sincere love, but I have to beg the question, where are you? As I am losing my breath. As the corners from my eyes start to fill with darkness. As I take my last gasping breath of life and the imago dei fades out of my eyes over and over again on social media your silence is perhaps the loudest.

I’m supposed to be writing about where I see queer leadership rising up in this time of crisis. But other than queer boots on the ground who are now forced to mop up the blood of my people, leaders who are now chaplains to the revolution whether they wanted it or not, what are we doing? Where is our organizing? Why aren’t we raising funds for bail money? Why aren’t we supplying leaders we know on the ground, right now, with everything organizers say they need? How many times have you called Minneapolis mayor or the chief of police and demand murder charges for all four officers? And if you are doing all this and more and find yourself indignant ask yourself as a white person why me asking you this upsets you? What have you done historically or literally to earn my trust?

What is this community willing to sacrifice to end white supremacy? Our calls? Our livelihoods? Our reputations?

Queer theology, frameworks of mutual trust, love, boundaries, joy, compersion, and accountability, waging peace in the face of war and death. These are the things that we can bring to this important struggle.

I’m telling you as a queer black man in America that I don’t think this community is committed to dismantling white supremacy within it or in the world. You don’t believe me? Ask other black queer members of this community if they feel you got their back when the tear gas starts flying. So, where do I see queer leadership rising up in this time where a global pandemic has laid bare what some of us have lived with since day one?

Where am I to find hope?

In you. Still in you beloved. Because I also know this community. This community is full of hope and proof the Kin-dom of God has come near. Because I see some of you also trying. We have a Bishop who responded to a lynching on his territory. He doesn’t know that I was almost killed in that same area at 14 years old by men who dragged me in a car and took me to the woods. He doesn’t know I barely escaped with my young life.

I have seen members of this community from the Twin Cities push through eight weeks of decision fatigue, and the malaise of existential loneliness, and jump right into action. Some of them have been doing this work since the Ferguson uprising and some are taking their first halting steps into direct action work. I see hope because I love your queer bodies so much even on a day where all I can do is look at the news and weep deep and mournful sobs and swallow trauma the way most of you gulp air after a good cry. Yet I still wrote you this evening. Because it is in this love and the frameworks of relationship and community that only queer souls can create, can we find a way to awaken this church and maybe even this country to the great task ahead of us. I love you even though you keep killing me and I’m a fool for that. I hope to see you on the front lines in the weeks and days ahead. A lot of folks are always asking me after I say something like this, what can I do? Start in your own backyard. Do the research to discover the history and current manifestation of systemic racism and white supremacy in your context. A great curriculum to start with is called White Homework. Click the link, do the work, and support the author!

Also, support our siblings on the ground in the Twin Cities who are providing Lutheran witness. Don’t second guess them, you aren’t there. Send them money and supplies for folks on the ground. Pray for them.

In the Name of the Parent, the Rebel, and the Spirit

The Rev. Lenny Duncan

Rev. Lenny Duncan (he/him) is a mission Developer in the #PNW and likes to think he is a writer.

Have you ever had the Spirit move you when you least expected it?

I am a candidate for ministry in Word and Sacrament in my final semester of seminary. I’ve been assigned to a synod, but have not yet been called to a parish. And I’ve been wondering what my life might look like after all this pandemic business ends (if it ever ends.) 

Will churches be able to afford a full-time pastor?

Will churches want to call a queer, transgender pastor?

These are questions I’ve asked myself already prior to COVID-19, but find myself asking them more nervously as we shelter in place on a global level.

I was having a cup of coffee with my partner one afternoon. She has three kids, two of which identify as queer. We were talking about how hard life would be if, during this time of lockdown, you were surrounded by folks that didn’t understand you, or, worse yet, did not accept you. This was a reality for some of her kids’ peers. 

I asked colleagues and friends if they knew of any spaces online for youth that intersected faith and queerness. 

They did not. 

I felt the Spirit calling me in the way she does sometimes when we least expect her to. Urgent. Poking your side. Loud. 

Watching the youth around me try to seek meaningful community in a pandemic is hard to watch. I knew I needed to answer the Spirit’s call. 

We began to dream about creating a safe place for LGBTQ+ youth to foster community, hear from LGBTQ+ leaders, and have some fun. 

One verse in the Hebrew texts that’s stuck out to me in the last few months is הנה אנ׳, “Here am I.” 

I think this is a way of saying, “Okay, Lord. I believe you are limitless. Give me the strength to do this and I will go and do your work.” 

Queeranteen Camp was born. It was born in community conversations with the youth that surrounded me. 

Queeranteen Camp is a free, online, interfaith camp for LGBTQ+ youth ages 13-19. Originally we thought we’d make a fun flier and maybe 20 youth would sign up.

As of April 22nd, there are 153 campers, cabin counselors, and helpers registered from around the world!  

I recognized immediately that this would require a community to work. 

I was reminded that God is a God of community and that possibilities are realized among all of us working together.

People from all over the country have reached out to me, offering their help and resources. I asked in the Proclaim Facebook page and was immediately met with a handful of emails from friends and colleagues offering assistance. 

Proclaim! A word of declaration. A place where new things are breathed into being, a place where community gathers to embrace the way the Spirit is moving. 

 How am I handling COVID-19? I’m scared. I’m tired. I’m uncertain.

How am I handling a rapidly growing response to a new ministry? I’m scared. I’m tired. I’m uncertain. 

Yet, in both, I am sure of one thing. That God has not left me, that God’s Spirit is moving, and I am being called to a new time and space. 

It is now, perhaps more than in the last month, that I am seeing that I am not alone. 

I am relying heavily on people I have recently met online, folks who have been doing this work for years, and those I have known for years. 

I am relying heavily, vulnerably on my community. 

At the end of the day, that’s all we really have, right?

I have my community. I have God. Through both of those, we can do amazing, shocking, beautiful things.

Drew Stever (they/he) is in his final semester of his Master of Divinity studies at Luther Seminary. Originally from St. Paul, MN, he is currently located in Southern California. Two of the greatest purchases he has ever made in an attempt to deal with COVID-19 is rice pudding and a pink onesie. 

by Rev. Susan Halvor

In the years I spent as a Newborn Intensive Care Unit (NICU) chaplain, I was struck by how when I looked at NICU parents, I saw amazing individuals who were learning and doing things they never could have imagined – changing the diaper of a baby that weighs less than 2 pounds. Navigating complicated medical terminology. Learning the subtle cues of a micropreemie. Spending hours at a hospital bedside, and still somehow managing to accomplish other daily life tasks – bills, parenting other children, household responsibilities, jobs. They are my heroes. And yet often all they saw in themselves was a terrified new parent, unable to fully protect the little one under their care from the dangers of life outside the womb.

I’ve been thinking about those NICU parents as I’ve tried to navigate what it means to be a leader – specifically, the manager of a hospital spiritual care department – in a pandemic. In the early days of March, I simply felt overwhelmed. I was trying to make sure my chaplains were safe and were able to provide desperately needed care, while also trying to support other leaders and hospital caregivers, manage the intense flow of rapidly changing information, and, because life is what it is, watching my beloved elderly dog Jack let me know that he was nearing the end of his days. The weight of my decisions was heavy. The world felt dangerous and unpredictable.

Now, today, there are still plenty of overwhelming moments. But I hope I’m remembering what I learned about those NICU parents. That the small steps I take make a difference. Advocating for reflections at the beginning of every hospital meeting, because people are hungry for meaning-making, and to be reminded that they aren’t alone in feeling scared or overwhelmed. The lessons I learned coming out as a queer leader in the church still hold true – that my vulnerability is a strength, not a weakness. That my loving is the heart of what keeps me connected to others, and those connections that bond us will help sustain us. That I am not alone, in so, so many ways, and neither are you. Endless virtual meetings have never been what bring me joy, but holding space in a virtual debrief for suffering nurses or in a check-in for our peer support team reminds me that even if we’re not “in person,” we can still connect and be recognized and loved. When I can be gentle with my own vulnerable moments, it makes it easier for my chaplains and other colleagues to be open about their own tender places.

And there are sacred moments all over – taking a break to laugh and play ping pong with my team, listening to an overwhelmed parent, and taking the space for my own heart – stillness, writing, walking, connecting with my partner. The more I am connected to those sacred moments, the more able I am to lead from my heart. And then I can see myself beyond the overwhelmed and scared individual with little control – I can see the woman who is vulnerable and loves and grieves and needs rest, and laughs and leads, connecting others and holding space for hope and healing to grow.

Rev. Susan Halvor (she/her/hers) has lived in Anchorage, Alaska for 20 years, after being raised in the Pacific Northwest. She will celebrate the 20^th anniversary of her ordination to Word and Sacrament ministry in August. Her heart is most alive in the holy moments of hospital chaplaincy. She currently manages the spiritual care department at Providence Alaska Medical Center, and spent 11 years as the Children’s Hospital Chaplain. She and her partner Holly look forward to the days they can travel again, and in the meantime, are grateful to live in a place where they can look forward to hiking, fishing and backpacking this summer.

By Atticus Zavaletta

One of the shadow gifts of this pandemic has been the urgency that has galvanized energies and brought out leadership where it had been lying fallow. North Ave Mission, which I founded just a month ago together with the homeless and formerly homeless people among whom I minister in Baltimore—and the leaders in it—is one of those gifts.

As a trans person, wherever I am, I am always inevitably called to the margins. If you drop me in the center somewhere, it doesn’t matter where, I will find the edges and quick. Part of it is that I find myself in these places that the world has disregarded, because that’s who I was/am as a Queer and transgender person who grew up in a church that saw me as an abomination. I so desperately needed a theology and a spiritual community that saw in my difference the origins of my beauty and my worth as God’s child, and I had to live through many years of self-destruction, drawing nearer and nearer to death, because of those deep, deep wounds. When I uplift the beauty and dignity of people on the underside of power, I am also healing a part of my self. It is powerful for me to reflect that God uses exactly that part of me that was so broken to facilitate healing in the world.

I am lucky enough to have a Bishop who supports and honors not just my identity but also my calling: in January, I was called by my Bishop to be a street minister on North Avenue in Baltimore, an area home to many street homeless and food and housing insecure people. I began by walking the blocks, getting to know people, and listening to their stories and what needs there were in the neighborhood. One of my first days out, I met PeeWee, who identifies as pansexual, and her husband Nine, who identifies as bisexual. That day, PeeWee, who is like the mayor of the neighborhood, took me around the entire block and introduced me to every single person—elders, dealers on the corners, pizza store guys, and all her friends. PeeWee and Nine are both formerly homeless and they told me of their passion to be there for those going through what they had gone through. Often, PeeWee looks back on that day and says, “If you had never come that day, all of this would never have happened.” I join her in wonder and always reply that the Holy Spirit brought us together.

I started having a weekly presence at a vacant lot, which is a hangout zone for many on the streets. Soon enough, Thursdays became a time when we would gather there for prayer, food and friendship, and to hear updates, listen to concerns, assess needs, and do street outreach by passing out food and essential items on the street together.

Early on, I identified leaders: we started with Street Shepherds, and then added the role of Guardians. Street Shepherds check on everyone on the street and communicate needs back to me, then we reach out to the wider community when appropriate. They offer support, friendship, and care, and remind us that we are a family. Our Guardian is a supporting, protecting, defending presence, offering wisdom and counsel as we navigate the streets and ministry. The act of drawing in and building up leaders from the margins is a gift of my Queerness–which apprehends value where the world doesn’t always. Queerness has eyes to see, from the margins and from its own experience of alienation, the difference between a theology of glory, which calls things what they aren’t—calling the good bad, and the bad good—and a theology of the cross, which calls things what they really are. As a Queer transgender Christian, I am witness to a theology of the cross.

When COVID-19 hit, our “fellowship” decided to organize as North Ave Mission because we wanted to walk together through the storm. We successfully fundraised over $8500 to provide free groceries and hygiene and essential items to people. On Maundy Thursday, for instance, we distributed 7,500 lbs of fresh produce.

We asked what else could do in the face of this crisis, and everyone agreed: our priority was to house our street homeless members. So we set up Red Shed Village, where 5 people stay in a beautiful community garden lot in tents. Neighbors and community members immediately stepped up in beautiful ways, for instance by ensuring the Villagers have nutritious meals every day! Interestingly, but not surprisingly, a great majority of the people who leapt out to support the Villagers with food, bedding, masks, toiletries, and other forms of support- are members of the LGBTQ+ community. I believe that is because we in the Queer community know how to recognize the things of hidden but inestimable worth.  

Atticus Zavaletta (he/they) is a Street Minister at North Ave Mission and Vicar at Amazing Grace Lutheran Church in Baltimore, MD. 

by Pastor Mark Erson

Alleluia!  Christ is risen!

Upon opening my eyes and while still lying in bed on the morning of Monday, March 16, my mind started to race.  Isolating and Social distancing were becoming new words in our vocabulary.  Restrictions were just beginning to unfold.  And with that unfolding, lots of questions began to join that racing of my mind. How far would they go in changing our daily lives?  How long would they be in place? This is Lent, Holy Week/Easter are nearing, will this all be done so that we can celebrate “normally”? 

Obviously, I was not alone in my questions.  Perhaps, different sections of the country asked them on different days.  But we are definitely in this together.  We are all discerning and exploring how to be church, the body of Christ, at a time when the body of Christ cannot physically come together in worship, study, mutual support, consolation, and of course, those all-important meetings.

One of the needs that I saw in myself, and assumed for others, was a sense of structure to these days of upheaval that laid ahead.  Also, I anticipated a need to keep kindling the hope that is ours in God’s abiding presence.  So, I decided to start live streaming morning (9 AM) and evening (4:30 PM) prayer, Monday – Saturday.  I have engaged a variety of resources to give a little diversity.  It has certainly helped me to start and finish my day in this way.  And, from the comments of others, I see that it has been welcomed by others way beyond the members of our parish.  It has also reconnected me with folks from various chapters in life.  As one who struggled to enjoy online courses at seminary, I have been surprised how connected I feel when I see folks attending the live stream.  And then of course, there are many who view as they have time.

Something else that has been very heartening, comforting, and inspiring has been the collaboration that has been going on among colleagues.  And, no surprise, it is within our beloved Proclaim cohort that I have seen the most, the best, the most creative, and supportive expressions of collaboration in creating and sharing resources and spiritual support.  I am so thankful for this community.

One of my favorite Easter symbols is the butterfly.  This year, even while we are celebrating our butterfly-ness through the risen Christ, we also have the opportunity to benefit from gaining a deeper understanding of our cocoon days. I pray that we will hold onto the lessons learned, the collaboration bridges built, the new means of connecting engaged, for the sake of proclaiming the gospel and serving the world as the body of Christ.

Blessings, as you make the most of these cocoon days.

Mark Erson – (he/him/his) serves St. John’s Lutheran Church in Greenwich Village, Manhattan, NY, as pastor.  He is also a theatre artist and award-winning playwright.  He is most excited and looking forward to working with Reed Noel on their internship in the coming year.

By Rev. Carla Christopher Wilson

Until Jesus completes his journey fully, Earthly adventures abound. Easter ends Lent, but it is not the end. We remain students, learning how to recognize Jesus in a shifting landscape of face coverings and curfews. We seek community, affirmation, and practice what self-care we can to empower our faltering nerves and exited stumblings. Through it all, the Savior is ever-present, known and unknown, leaving signs for when we are ready to receive them. Beginning with Easter, not ending, we go boldly into the new and unknown, as seekers and receivers. We know we will most certainly miss the face of Jesus when we are grieving or scared, confused or lonely. Jesus will still be there. We will still be loved. God will still, without fail, be working.

The Rev. Carla Christopher Wilson (she /her/hers) is a redevelopment pastor serving a congregation in Lancaster, PA. Also the co-chair of Lower Susquehanna Synod’s Racial Justice Task Force, Carla is a queer femme Black (and a little Latinx) warrior for justice and equity. A former Poet Laureate of York, PA and a published writer, Carla is passing her quarantine time writing Triduum poetry and cuddling her puppies.