Welcome!
Meetinghouse is a gathered community where we seek – in our sharing, encouraging and listening together – how we might challenge the larger Friends (Quaker) movement to better engage the world on issues of authenticity, community, justice, equality, simplicity, nonviolence, and creation care.
When we first built our garden, it was small. A few raised beds, a hobby to connect my husband to his rural roots, a place to grow some flowers and maybe a little lettuce. One anonymous zoning complaint from an irritated neighbor, an unwitting permitting violation, and some spiteful gardening later, we had 15 beds and now we grow everything from brussels sprouts to zinnias.
It’s so much work. Sometimes I try to count up the many hours we spend planting, weeding, harvesting, and fertilizing. Not to mention our futile efforts to make it suburban-friendly. New cedar mulch every two years, Pinterest-worthy painted stepping stones, even a few trellises for the more adventurous flowers. I’m not sure if it’s worth it some days. Like when I’m kneeling in the rain, putting in hoses that will be needed in a month or so, but need to be set up now. Or when I can hear the kids fighting in the house while I’m trying to spread straw in the hot sun to prevent water loss. Or when everything smells like compost from my husband’s latest foray into natural recycling. I doubt my commitment.
by Sofia Lemons
“Do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God.”
(Micah 6:8)
I was recently asked what it means to live a Quaker lifestyle (which for me is a Christian lifestyle), and I felt a strong pull to reflect on it more than just the casual answer that I could have given. In that reflection, I kept hearing the guidance of Micah over and over again. And each time it came up I asked myself in what ways I was living these words. Here’s an account of some of the things that came to my mind.
My heart is pounding as I stare at my computer, hands hovered over the keyboard. I am nervous. Writing, like Twitter and the buzz my phone makes when I get an email, triggers me.
It has been more than two years since I felt compelled to write anything. After my last post on Quaker process, I gave it up. I was done with sacrificing myself for people who couldn’t listen to me or see me. I took a step back to heal.
Now 25, I look back on the year I came out—21-years-old and knowing no other ‘out’ folks in my community—and I finally feel compassion for myself. I didn’t say things nicely back then. I didn’t ask for respect; I begged for it. I screamed, and I wept, and I held my friends sobbing on the sidewalk, and then we got up and yelled some more. I lost relationships. I burned bridges.
I wish things would have gone down differently. I believe there was no other way for things to have gone down.
“How lovely is your dwelling place,
O Lord of hosts!
My soul longs, indeed it faints
for the courts of the Lord;
my heart and my flesh sing for joy
to the living God.”
Psalm 84:1-2
In this strange and scary time of quarantine, a lot of us Christians are struggling with being isolated not just from our family and friends, but from our church communities. While many churches have quickly adapted to live-streaming services on Facebook and YouTube, you may feel, as I do, that it just doesn’t feel the same as being physically present in church. So then, maybe this is a good time to set aside a spot for prayer at home if you’ve never done it before.
by Hye Sung
I am not white enough to be a Quaker.
But I cannot deny how Quakerism has informed my theology and my spirituality.
I was attracted to Quakerism because of the radical legacy of the first generation of Friends. As far as I can tell, being a Quaker used to mean something. Quakers were a threat to the state. They were jailed and tortured. In the first thirty-five years of Quaker history, one in three Friends experienced some form of state-sanctioned persecution. Entire meetings were imprisoned. But new meetings kept appearing. And growing.
State repression couldn't force these Friends to abandon their faith. They knew God experimentally, and they couldn't help but live into their vision for an ocean of light and love.
They were holy fools.
They indulged in Spirit-led performance art such as “going naked as a sign” or wearing sackcloth and ashes while proclaiming judgment on the rich and powerful. They sometimes marched into church services mid-homily and argued with the priests, declaring the churches apostate "steeplehouses." Friends wouldn't keep quiet about what they saw – the hypocritical destruction of empire and the complicity of religion. They believed their words were given them by the Spirit. They couldn't keep quiet.
Sometimes, people listened.
When I first read about Friends, their fire felt familiar. Through their stories, I stumbled into a wider and deeper theological imagination that matched the God I'd already fallen in love with – the God who loves me. Apocalyptic. Pentecostal. Apostolic. Insurrectionary.
by H.L. Holder
Today my wife, Amy, read Scripture before a congregation for the first time right before our dear friend, Heather preached a pretty kickass sermon from Luke on the Lord’s Prayer and how it’s more tangible than spiritual. How we should be truly forgiving people’s debts and feeding those who are hungry and taking care of those in our community. All of this preceded my serving communion for the second time of my life alongside Kevin and being afraid I was going to flub the words and accidentally say, “The body of Christ shed for you” instead of “The blood of Christ shed for you.” And then, in the midst of that worry, Heather stood in line in front of me to receive communion.
Then Jesus was led by the Spirit into the wilderness to be tempted by the devil. After fasting forty days and forty nights, he was hungry. The tempter came to him and said, “If you are the Son of God, tell these stones to become bread.” Jesus answered, “It is written: ‘Man shall not live on bread alone, but on every word that comes from the mouth of God.’” Then the devil took him to the holy city and had him stand on the highest point of the temple. “If you are the Son of God,” he said, “throw yourself down. For it is written: “‘He will command his angels concerning you, and they will lift you up in their hands, so that you will not strike your foot against a stone.’” Jesus answered him, “It is also written: ‘Do not put the Lord your God to the test.’” Again, the devil took him to a very high mountain and showed him all the kingdoms of the world and their splendor. “All this I will give you,” he said, “if you will bow down and worship me.” Jesus said to him, “Away from me, Satan! For it is written: ‘Worship the Lord your God, and serve him only.’” Then the devil left him, and angels came and attended him. (Matthew 4:1-11)
I get bored often, but these days I do not usually feel the full weight of boredom. It’s easy for me to spend hours clicking through screens as I distract myself from boredom. I grow weary of the buffet of Internet options, but persist, believing yet another delight, laugh, outrage, sexual thrill, or even an interaction with a fellow digital nomad is just a click away.
I remember though a very different kind of boredom that existed before the Internet saturated society.
In academic circles broadly, and theological circles specifically, emotion has a bad reputation. There are efforts to shut down feelings so that pure, logical thought can prevail. Today I am saying, “Enough!”
People who study theology of the Christian faith base their foundational beliefs in the writings of faith bound together in the Bible. Scripture is full of feeling, both human and divine, and in no corner of the Holy text are we instructed to stop having emotion in order to be in right relationship with God.
From the first chapter of the first book in our scriptures we find God expressing great emotion as creation leaps to order at the Word of God. At every stage, God pronounces creation “good.” When God finishes on the sixth day, creation is pronounced “Very good!” This is not a mathematical statement. It is not a cold, reasoned proposition. It is the enthusiastic, joy-filled, emotional proclamation of our God who delights in what has been made!
by Josh Talbot
This last holiday season reminded me of something that happened to my little sister.
After I had moved out on my own, but my little sister was still a child. Something happened with my Aunt's family. My Aunt, her husband, and all 5 kids moved in with my parents. Suddenly, instead of 3 people living in a decently sized house (Mom, Stepfather, and one kid), it was 10 people under one roof that was way too small.
My cousins were loud and always yelling at each other. Picking on each other just short of bullying. They were used to just grabbing anything that the other sibling had that they wanted. Basically, a normal, slightly dysfunctional, large family.
For my little sister it was incredibly traumatizing. She was Home-schooled. Used to a quiet environment where the adults read, watched TV, and spent their days on the computer (my parents were early adopters). She hated every minute of it. Just wanted my cousins to stop taking her stuff and leave her alone. Resented every insult (they thought she was over sensitive when they picked on her). Basically, it became her version of a living Hell (mine is going through a retail store closing).
After my Aunt's family moved out. My sister refused to have anything to do with my cousins for a long time. Actually, it was only recently that she started talking to them...
by Alex Long
You question whether every breath
has meaning. But how can some breaths,
some moments, contain more God than
others? Isn’t there a world of
microbial life, dependent
on your every breath for theirs –
bounded by your skin? Don’t others –
skin-wrapped – yearn for your continuing?
For me
Hope is found in the tearful and tender confession of “I don’t know”.
I don’t know how to be a friend,
how to make the world
not end.
I don’t know how to stay above sadness
Or how to make love.
But I believe that
hope is found in bowing to our deepest “yes”,
whether silent in resolve,
a shy admission,
or thrown about joyously like confetti.
I've loved Jesus since I was a little girl. My mother raised me by herself for many years and taught me by example what it means to trust God for provision. Church was one of my favorite places to be. I loved singing worship songs. I was a "star student" at Sunday School and VBS, and had what's often called "childlike faith". I was told that God loved me and nothing would ever change that. For my self conscious, socially awkward self who often felt rejected by peers, this brought a sense of security.
I felt atypical throughout childhood and adolescence. The "girly girl" mold never never really fit. I never could name or pinpoint why I felt different, though. There was always the general expectation that girls should hang out with girls, and guys with guys. My experience was the total opposite. I didn't have much interest in doing "girl things" and felt more comfortable hanging out with the guys.
Looking back, I see that I started "noticing" girls AND guys in 8th grade. I'd develop crushes on guys and try awkwardly flirting with them. But I'd also catch myself admiring the beauty and personalities of female classmates in ways that I now know were crushes.
I knew that attractions to guys were normal, as I'd been given the purity/abstinence/hormones talk by my youth pastors. I proudly wore my purity ring and committed to saving sex for marriage. I wasn’t alarmed by my attractions to girls, as they seemed to just arise naturally. I think all the internalized teachings against homosexuality prevented me from recognizing them as crushes.
However, I was eventually confronted with my sexuality during freshman year of high school.
by H.L. Holder
“The animals, the animals trap, trap, trapped ’til the cage is full. The cage is full, the day is new. And everyone is waiting, waiting on you. And you’ve got time. And you’ve got time. Think of all the roads, think of all their crossings. Taking steps is easy, standing still is hard. Remember all their faces, remember all their voices. Everything is different the second time around.” ~ You’ve Got Time, Regina Spektor
“Seasons pass us by
And we think that we’ve got time
But here we are
At the end
It’s hard to let you go
I’ll miss you more than you know
And I won’t forget
How you made me feel” ~ Danielle Brooks (aka Taystee from OITNB), Seasons
There’s a period of the church calendar known as “ordinary time” and I suck at ordinary time. I’ve never been good at waiting for things to happen and remaining in the present when something else lies ahead of me that I’d rather be doing.
While I’m expecting inspiration to hit me upside the head I could be doing something with the time I’m currently in. But I’ve never known what to do with ordinary time. It feels like being stuck in the in between so what do I do with this “ordinary” time.
I know a thing or two about denial. I am gay, very happily gay, but I spent seventeen years denying this reality. At age 17 I confessed to Pastor McAndrews, “I am struggling with homosexuality.” He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “In Christ you are a new creation!” I felt relieved. He then added, “Besides there is no such thing as a homosexual. All homosexuals are actually heterosexuals who are misbehaving.” I clung to his words. I was not gay. Sure I indulged in gay sex and my sexual fantasies were exclusively about men, but in my truest self, I wasn’t what I desired.
Over the next five years, in spite of the vast and ever growing evidence that I was indeed gay, I doubled-down on my denial, yet I repeatedly ran right back to gay sex and all male sexual fantasies. In an Uptown Manhattan store-front church, cluttered with books and gospel tracts, another minister, Pastor Willy, offered his theory as to why my spirit was willing but my flesh was super gay. “You are possessed by evil spirits of homosexuality.” He explained the demons must have entered me through a variety of possible doorways. “It might be a generational curse,” he suggested “An ancestor behaved badly, perhaps a great-great uncle who was a sailor. He may have had sex with men then picked up a demon. This demon got passed down through the bloodline.”
In my early 20s I began attending a weekly support group for men and women who wanted to “leave the homosexual lifestyle.” We gathered each Saturday night in Midtown Manhattan, first for a spaghetti dinner, then for an evening of Gospel singing, testimonies, and sermons. I left jazzed up for Jesus and heterosexuality, but the rest of the week I walked around the city feeling lusty for other men. I asked Joanne, the leader of the ex-gay group, for a private consultation, so she invited me up to her apartment.
by Ryan Cagle
Can I come out and say it? Sometimes resurrection takes too damn long.
In my current season of life, I can not help but identify with Martha, the sister of Lazarus. You know the one who ran to meet Jesus when he decided it would be a good idea to show up four days after the death of his friend? The Martha who confronts Jesus on the outskirts of the city to ask him “where the hell have you been?” and to remind him (on the off chance he may have forgotten) he was the Messiah. Lazarus would still be alive if he had come when they sent for him. Her brother would still be alive if he had come when they sent for him.
Easter is long gone and Lent even further in the past. We are weeks past Golgotha, the cross, and the death of God. We have passed from there to the empty tomb, to the resurrection, to the hope of new life on the other side of Good Friday. But If I am being honest, It feels like I keep showing up to an occupied tomb.
The stone still in place.
The guards still keeping their post.
No angelic messengers waiting to speak the good news of the risen Christ.
by H.L. Holder
I accidentally wrote something more poetic for a theological reflection paper for my Life of Prayer class. I decided to share it because this reflection surprised me in many ways. Thankful for a seminary that helps me process in this way.
As a small child, I understood God to be like a seed planted in fertile soil. As I grew in my understanding of the Divine, so the Divine’s presence in my life grew up like a flower reaching to the sky for sunlight. Maybe God is a flower.
As a young adult in college, I understood God to be an overbearing, abusive parent, always telling me what to do and where to go, and if I did not do something right, I would be punished. Sometimes, bad things would happen just because God willed those things to happen and humanity simply had to deal with it. Maybe god is an ogre waiting to smite me?
by: Jordan Magill
On the last day of June 2018, I celebrated Pride month by coming out to the world as bisexual via social media post, and the aftermath of that decision has shaped the last year of my life, for better and for worse. Indeed, it's been a year full of encouragement, hope, trauma, pain and confusion, often all at the same time. Almost everyone in my life has been so tender with me, so affirming and lovely. But not quite everyone. In certain circumstances, certain circles, I met resistance. Fear. Shame. And it’s really messed with me.
In fact, a question has plagued me in the time since I’ve come out, sparked by hard conversations and suddenly-strained relationships: is God’s love still for me? Am I still included in His family?
To quote gay Christian writer Jeff Chu: "Does Jesus really love me?"
My gut says yes. The first idea I ever learned about God was that He loved me, that I was unconditionally, radically, holistically embraced by the Source of all love and light in the universe.
*taps mic*
Hi. Is this on?
Ok.
I’m gonna say a thing.
It’s a theology thing.
It’s a theology and women’s bodies thing.
It’s both a public and intensely personal thing.
Christians believe in the Incarnation – that is, God, in an abundant act of love for humankind, took on a body like ours to walk among us. To be nurtured, live, teach, suffer and die among us. And (I believe) did so to prove that we NEVER stop belonging to God, and to demonstrated how much God longs to be with us. In fact, this human is known in scripture as Immanuel, “God-with-Us.”
by Hye Sung
We meet in silence. Sometimes we have a reading to draw us in, and we often pray and speak what the Spirit provokes, but the ground of our worship is silence. The silence makes space for God’s presence within us and among us.
For me, the silence is confrontational. The first twenty to thirty minutes, and sometimes longer, feels like I am wrestling God. The immediate pleasantness of silence wears off within five minutes, and anxiety usually begins to roll up my chest, into my throat. I struggle to sink into myself, and hush myself before God. I start thinking about work, what I forgot to do today, and I have to counsel myself back into the silence. Sometimes, especially in the beginning, I have to bring each of these thoughts before God, and God lets me reason it out to the best of my ability, before I ultimately don’t care. It becomes easy to let these thoughts fall off when I just want to be with God.
I am a pastor.
It’s a label I try and run from. When asked in bars or on planes what I did, I would respond, “I’m a community organizer” or something like that anything to avoid a label that carries so much gravitas and so much baggage. But looking at my life and reflecting on what I believe I’m called to do, only “pastor” adequately reflects who I am. Even in my law school applications, all I could do was preach to the admissions committees.
On December 23rd, 2018 I was checked into a hospital for people struggling with mental health issues. I didn’t go voluntarily at all, I went to the emergency room escorted by my pastor and a concerned lay person. I thought I would be a quick stop, the doctors and nurses would realize I’m fine, keep me for a few hours and then let me leave, but instead they transferred me from the emergency room to another hospital where I stayed for six days.
I have a love-hate relationship with silence.
I enjoy the peace that comes with it, the stillness that settles into my bones when I sit quietly somewhere. I love the calm of early morning, broken momentarily by a passing car, but only for a moment. I am most productive when I go to the library on campus and sit in the “quiet zone,” which is peaceful until students conduct full-on conversations in whispers and I contemplate shushing them (further ruining the silence).
Yet I also hate silence for one major reason — it often makes me feel alone. When I’m at home by myself, I often have to have music playing or the TV on just for background noise — partially because I’m uncomfortable being alone, partially because I’m superstitious and afraid of ghosts. But I digress.
On a more serious note, when I’m depressed, I need sensory stimulation because otherwise my mind will fill the silence with all kinds of negative thoughts. My mind will dredge up all kinds of pain and uncomfortable things for me to relive. That’s when silence hurts the most.
One place where silence doesn’t make feel alone, where silence is healing, is church.
Rage against the personality tool.
When I originally wrote that line, they were the title of a poem. A long, messy and cheesy, but frustrated poem.
I want an easy way to explain why
I want to spill my guts
and gather them all at the same time
Maybe, leave each of my friends with
little pieces of my intestines
like a nice souvenir,
so they know the feeling’s real
I’ve used tools such Myer-Briggs, astrology and the Enneagram over the past couple of years to try to understand myself and why I am the way I am: the shyness, the bursts of unforeseen energy, the constant need to self-protect, my impatience with small-talk, and my love of love (both love with a lowercase and uppercase). The first time I was introduced to the Enneagram, I was 20 years old working on a farm. All of my teammates at the farm were raving about it, eagerly learning and discussing their types. The online test that I took described me as a Type Four, but not only was I assigned a Four, the particular test I took described me as an unhealthy Four. I responded by bursting into tears. The label of “unhealthy” slapped me in the face. I didn’t want to be reminded that I wasn’t well, especially after being sent home from a service year program because they couldn’t provide the mental health support that I needed, despite their best attempts.
by John Hampton
Nearly two years ago, I wrote a blog post about how my church split, and it pissed off a lot of people. People I knew were reading what I wrote and talking about it on Facebook. Many of my friends were supportive of what I had to say, and that kind of validation was an amazing thing to experience. But not everyone was supportive. Lots of people didn’t like the way I talked about my experience.
They said I was angry.
They said I was looking for things to complain about.
They said I was just imagining things.
Not too long ago, I learned about Muted Group Theory, and something clicked. First developed by Edwin and Shirley Ardener in 1975 to show how white men create the dominant culture and in turn subjugate women through the use of language, this theory also accounts for the ways that dominant culture mutes people of color, disabled people, LGBTQ+ people, and so many others.
by Hye Sung
Sometimes I feel alone. Like there’s something wrong with me. Like I’m a bad person, a misfit – not fit for friendship. I feel that way tonight. I feel bad.
I think it’s because I’m remembering.
I grew up in the Unification Church. We believed that the Reverend Sun Myung Moon was the second coming of Christ. We were called Moonies.
My parents dedicated their lives to the cause of Rev. Moon – a man I called True Father. Their lives were directed and commanded by leaders in the church, and their marriage was arranged by Moon. Our church community was tight-knit, and even though my life was mostly normal, my identity as a Moonie was central.
Growing up, every morning started with a full bow to a picture of Moon and his wife. I would read his words. When Moon was in the States, we’d go to his mansion in New York and listen to him speak. To make space for all the members to fit in the room and to be as close to Father as possible, I’d sit seiza-style, legs folded under the thighs. I made several pilgrimages to Korea, the Fatherland. These trips cost thousands of dollars. I believed they were worth it. Someday, my parents would arrange my marriage to another member born into the church. Together, my wife and I would join in the work of building God's kingdom on earth.
At least, that was the plan.
I cut myself off from the church when I was 16.
In competitive fighting games, the words respect and disrespect have odd connotations.
To play respectfully is to play conservatively – you respect your opponent’s ability, and thus are focused above all on avoiding their traps and gambits.
Respect in fighting games is passive and reactive. When taken too far, it results in a playstyle based entirely out of a fear of adversity and failure, fear that your own commitments will be your downfall.
Disrespect, though, is pure confidence. You don’t respect the idea that your opponent has the ability to counter you. It is a complete trust in your decision-making, trust that your plans – whether meticulously crafted or entirely instinctual – will win out no matter what your opponent throws at you.
When a player is playing disrespectfully, they’re either going to crash and burn spectacularly or put on one of the best shows that fans have ever seen.
When David was the king of Israel, there was a terrible, terrible drought. The ground cracked and pleaded for water. The people were hungry and the sun was hot.
David asked god why.
God said it was because when Israel was under the rule of Saul, Israel had unjustly slain the Gibeonites. The earth was breaking open, crying out against this unjust slaughter.
by Rachael Ward
Collectively, I’ve spent my twenties brushing off abuse from family dynamics and religious institutions which formed my upbringing. Through these words, thoughts and actions of such abuse, I have carefully crafted a narrative to aim at my own being.
It is self-hatred. It is shame and it is deadly.
I am tired of living into the narrative someone else programmed me to believe into and asked of me to lift for my own. I am exhausted with living disconnected from my mind and body out of continued internalized homophobia and regret of my existence.
Who wouldn’t be tired of such a subconscious and conscious assault upon your person?
This is where my mind lives these days. Battling between the illuminated truth and the false narrative of disparage of who I am as a human.
But, there is a new shift here for me in this struggle. I have found the on switch to my body, the on switch to the origin and the on switch to being able to call this treatment abuse.
Today my eight year old son heard a different story. All along we’ve told our child the story of how his grandpa Griffith was a great animal doctor who loved taking care of people’s pets. This is true. We told our son that his grandpa died before he was born, and that grandpa was a good person and would be very proud of his grandson. This is also true.
It is important for me as a mother that my child first hears the story of the blessing of his genetic inheritance from his maternal grandfather: love of creation, love of learning, love of healing, love of life.
Today it was time for my son to hear a different story. Today, just as causally as you’d talk about what happened at school, I told the story of his grandpa’s illness. I told the story of when grandpa’s brain got a sickness and how it changed all of our lives.
It is perhaps fitting that the season of Lent each year begins as Japanese Americans commemorate Day of Remembrance, recalling the day the President of the United States signed an executive order that saw our lives forever overturned. Only in recent memory have many of these stories begun to be shared out of silence: my uncle Lenny’s dad was a successful businessman before the war. Like so many, he “lost everything” when the camps were raised. Shortly after his release he drank himself to death. My auntie Sasaki was born in one of the open-air prisons. She still suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder, more than seventy years after being born in a place she can’t even remember.
$15
illustrated by Joey Hartmann-Dow
Transgressing Gender in the Bible
$20
A Path Toward Transformative Faith and Inclusive Community
$20
by Enrique Cintrón
It doesn’t take much to imagine that John the Baptist was probably a “controversial” figure. He did, after all, live in the desert, eat bugs, and call the religious authorities of his day a “brood of vipers” (Mt 3:7) to their faces. But it was more so because he told people the Kingdom of God was coming and they needed to change their ways – and it was for this reason that he was ultimately beheaded. We’re told in the Gospel of Luke that crowds of people came to John while he was alive to be baptized – but we can assume that just as many crowds saw John, didn’t like what he had to say or the way he looked, and ignored him. Jesus was treated in much the same way. He was maligned by the religious and political authorities of his day so much that he had nowhere to truly lay his head.