Sacred Tears

Conference is over. I had the opportunity this past week/end to join thousands of fellow United Methodists in this specially called session of General Conference which centered around finding a way forward as a denomination; it was an intense weekend filled with tears, disappointment, protest, some amount of sickness on my end, and (unfortunately surprisingly) a few genuine encounters with the Holy Spirit.

Be assured these encounters didn’t come through any of the official programming of the conference, worship services which ranged from “let’s utterly ignore the topic of why we’re here” to “let’s pray for unity while ignoring why we’re here,” (though I’ll say more on this in a later post as it deserves its own carefully worded response); no the encounters with the Spirit came through the moments of extemporaneous prayer, through some of the outbursts, through impassioned speeches and appeals to conscience and justice, and perhaps most through those grief-filled moments I found in the hallway of the conference center.

For myself the most profound moments, the moments when the Spirit was most clear was strangely enough in the moments in the hall, when things always seemed at the worst. These were moments of shared humanity, of shared grief, pain and lament, and for me, they were holy. These were chance encounters, acts of love and charity, moments of kindness shared among people who did not know each other and yet who were still able to see the face of God reflected.

I joined with many of my LGBTQ+ brothers and sisters in the shedding of tears many times this week and I still feel like an emotional wreck, in light of this I cannot imagine how others are feeling and should you feel like this white cisgender heteronormative man is speaking from a place of privilege on things he doesn’t understand, I pray you might forgive me. Tears came when the One Church Plan failed to reach plenary, and when it failed to escape the Minority Report, and again when the Traditionalist Plan passed and two opposing circles of song broke out on the floor revealing the depths of our division and how broken and un-united a church we are.

But as noted my comfort came in the quiet moments when I would step aside, when I would find myself in conversation or in a random hug from a stranger, or in the looking down at my hand when joined in a prayer circle only to realize I was standing side-by-side with Bishop Karen Oliveto, or when an older gentleman came to me to confess and process, in tears, his own feelings of grief at the knowledge that he’d have to break the news to his gay clergy son at home in Texas on the news of the vote.

I’m not happy with the events of the weekend and no one really should be, not even the traditionalists got what they wanted and when the plan is likely ruled unconstitutional in April I can see nothing but the continued decline of our denomination as it causes me to continue to wonder:

what if the most faithful option is to close?

Sacred Tears

We’ve forgotten how to lament as a society. We’ve forgotten how to mourn. Being able to take time, to be in silence, to weep, to cry, to be alone, to care for oneself, these are important acts, vital even. We are often shamed for doing these things, especially should these things last too long past the point of “acceptability.” But no, these acts allow us space to grieve, to heal, and, when we are ready, to move forward.

I cannot speak as to where we will go from here. We have a long walk ahead of us. But for this day, for this moment at least. I’m allowing for grief.

Lord, we cry out to you. Hear us. Heal us. Look on our tears. Be with us. Remind us that you are with us. Allow us our grief, allow us our pain, and lead us towards greater healing. Amen.