Margie Quinn
It was about eight months into my previous ministry gig when I received my first scathing email from a congregant. I was sitting in my office the day after our youth had done a demonstration outside of the church honoring George Floyd when someone’s name popped up in my inbox. It was the parent of a kid. He wrote that he strongly disapproved of the action and was shocked by the fact that we had tried to make church political.
A few months later, after having a transgender pastor from Vanderbilt Divinity speak at youth group, I received phone calls from several parents about the ways in which hosting such a pastor was inappropriate and that those conversations should be “saved for the doctor’s office.”
In May of 2022, after preaching at Confirmation Sunday, the emails flooded in. “I couldn’t have left more disappointed in my church of 40 plus years,” one woman wrote. “Church is the one place where we should be frees of anything political and focus on worship.” The next email described my sermon as “galling, inappropriate, and narcissistic.” “Shame on you for grandstanding during the middle of a very special day…” it said. And one more: “Punctuated by a rainbow stole, it seemed to me that she was presenting a political statement under the pretense of all-inclusive love.”
I was gutted. Up until that point, I had not had any conflict with members in the church. I felt encouraged by them and affirmed in my energetic, authentic approach to community. Yet, as anyone who is married knows, the honeymoon phase only lasts so long, and my bright bubble of comfort and smiles had…popped.
Our text this morning in the lectionary rotation jumps from Jesus talking to his disciples about taking up their cross and following him to an instructional offering about how to deal with conflict in the life of the church. We skip over some of the flashier stories like the Transfiguration and Jesus curing a boy with a Demon to go right to the nitty gritty of doing community together. Right before this passage, Jesus has just told the parable of the lost sheep, which in some ways might be setting up the disciples to think about what it looks like to care for EVERY member in Christ’s flock, especially the ones who have gone astray.
“If another member of the church sins against you,” he says, “go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone.” Okay, seems easy enough. “If the member listens to you, you have regained that one. BUT, if you are not listened to, take one or two others along with you, so that every word may be confirmed by the evidence of those two or three witnesses. If the member refuses to listen to them, tell it to the church; and if the offender refuses to listen even to the church, let such a one be to you as a Gentile or tax collector.”
This passage can be hard to conceptualize in our Western, individualized context because we are not living in communities of 50 people, attending house churches together and relying on each other financially or communally in the same way. In our day and age, perhaps our hurts may be dealt with by leaving the church altogether and finding another church home. That certainly happened to me after another parent did not agree with the way our youth group was heading. After a particularly difficult committee meeting, she took her family elsewhere the next week before we had the chance to reconcile. She may not have handled it perfectly, but I can assure you that I didn’t either, speaking ill of her behind her back instead of meeting with her.
What does it look like to try and reclaim a relationship with someone who has hurt us? And then to welcome a few others to listen and witness to the pain with immense trust? And perhaps, even painfully so, to share that hurt with the church, a concept I’ll be honest I’m still wrestling with and trying to make sense of.
I want to add nuance to this text, too. I think about how many of my female colleagues in ministry have experienced sexual harassment by other congregants or fellow pastors. We know that the statistics on church leaders taking advantage of vulnerable members like children or more marginalized identity groups reveal the systemic pain in our congregations. In those cases, it seems as though the church does deserve to know those painful acts. Perhaps in those cases, the healthiest thing to do as a community is to “treat that person as a Gentile and a tax collector,” which doesn’t mean to excommunicate them with harsh, unforgiving bitterness. But maybe to release them to do their own healing away from those they’ve taken advantage of, knowing that Jesus still loves them and invites them to his table in a different way.
I do think, in the cases of conflict where harsh words are thrown around, or feelings are hurt in a meeting, or a painful thing is said from the pulpit or in a Sunday school class or on a service trip, there is power in practicing how to “fight well.” Fighting well is some relationship advice I got from a friend years ago. “Make sure that whoever you partner with, that you fight well.” Perhaps that should be on our sign out front: “Vine Street Christian Church--Where We Fight Well!” Church--where we first have the courage to reach out to someone who has hurt us and ask them to coffee, or to have a phone call, and in doing so, we trust that God’s presence will be among us when we speak our truth, even if our voice shakes.
Not only does it take courage to reach out but it takes a lot of humility to listen. Looking back, I wish that the people behind those emails had come to me in person. When I invited a few of them to coffee to talk about it more, I got…crickets. Perhaps in our virtual communities too, whether it be over email, social media, or text, when we are poised to type something cruel, we have a responsibility that consider that Jesus is among us there, too.
In essence, what makes us Christian is not whether or not we fight, disagree or wound each other (because let’s face it, showing up for years to a community of familiar faces means we are BOUND to get annoyed by the varying personalities and perspectives), but by how we go about addressing and resolving these issues when they come up…even if it looks pretty clunky. As one pastor said, “Church isn’t perfect, it’s practice.” It’s practicing how to pick up our cross and follow Jesus around. Because he is around, even in this.
When Jesus asks the Disciples, “Who do YOU say that I am?,” maybe he wants them to consider that he is God AMONG us, even in or especially during the midst of conflict.
Charles Hambrick-Stowe asks the question, “If we in church do not forgive and heal, who on earth is going to do it?” If we do not try to overcome our differences and risk relationship with people outside of our gender, age, socioeconomic status, in this place and conform to the individualism or comfort of an echo chamber, then what makes us Christian? Unfortunately for us, we are not free from each other; we are free in each other.”
I always thought the verse, “Where two or three are gathered in my name, there I am among them,” meant that Jesus is among us when we show up for each other, like when Larry served communion to me and my boyfriend Collin after having lunch at his place, knowing that if there’s more than one, we get to celebrate communion with each other. It’s a meal that cannot be done alone. In context, though, this verse situates itself as guideline for holy practice (not perfect) in a church setting. Holy, clunky practice; like picking up the phone, with shaking hands, and having the courage to address the hard stuff. Like sitting down for coffee after praying hurried prayers for peace and guidance, before looking someone in the eye and naming the hurt; or gathering a group together in the chapel or a classroom to work through a misunderstanding; practicing healing and forgiveness because we believe in inter-dependence with each other, not independence from each other.
When that parent left our church, I almost picked up my phone to call her so many times. Since leaving that church, I’ve often thought about writing her a letter as a good place to start. But I don’t know if I’m ready to set aside my bitterness and try to forgive and be forgiven and heal. I don’t know if I’m ready believe that Jesus is among me as I stumble my way through conflict. But I want to be there. Maybe by preaching about it, I’ll actually practice it.
Being a community of faith is so hard when we start to devolve into the sad and hurtful places. It is so tempting to walk away; but this morning, I want to encourage you (and myself) to think about what it means to walk toward, to take that first step in acknowledging “where it hurts,” as civil activist Ruby Sales writes, knowing that Jesus is right there walking alongside us. Where does it hurt, church? Let’s practice here—not to be perfect, but to be persistent in our commitment to Jesus, who is among us and always has been, in our clunkiness and in our courage. Where can we meet each other and be balm for the wound, as Jeremiah says?
Will you pick up your pen with me? Or your phone? Will you meet me for coffee? I’ll try to listen to you, and maybe you’ll try to listen to me. We won’t be perfect, but we’ll practice.