In the early morning hours of November 9, 2016, I lay distraught and wrestling in that place between sleep and wake where nightmares haunt, on a twin bed in a cold stone monastery in Hyde Park, NY. A place that was supposed to provide silence and rest became the spiritual tomb of the religion I deeply loved and once held as truth. It seemed that in that one moment it all became lucid … a pinpoint clarity … the knot of supposed truth of all I had once argued for, unraveled. The suppressive, patriarchal confines that I grew up with came crashing down and crumbled onto that tiled floor.
Looking back now, I know it did not begin there in that room on that post-election morning. I was knocked off my Pharisaical horse sometime around my second year in seminary—the blinders ripped from my eyes by professors and pastors who loved The Word too much to let it be abused. The first stirrings of hesitation came when I began to understand the blatant misuse of the text for power mongering and gender oppression—where those who had no problem preaching a God of love while holding the Bible as a vicious weapon to silence any and all who disagreed with their literalist interpretation.
I had spent months, if not years, grappling with the safe, predictable religion of my youth, which said grace was enough—one that preached of purity, acceptance, and love, but was infected with hypocrisy, hate, and exclusion. And I was left to wrestle while an enigmatic and mysterious faith began to emerge, one that was comfortable in paradox and mystery. A faith that was awakening to context and nuance and subtext, one that didn’t need to defend God or protect God’s reputation, because God was quite capable of handling any doubts that I had and any shade one could throw. A faith that was comfortable being right and contented being wrong.
Somehow, in that moment, post-election morn … it all became clear and I saw it … I awoke to the hateful injustice toward the marginalized coyly couched in the “poor will always be with you” to justify a bootstrap mentality. I saw how it didn’t really matter what you said and what you did as long as you could recite the equation of the Romans Road and you voted in the right party … you were in the club. I saw that people who claimed to know and love Jesus could just toss out the teachings of Christ like yesterday’s trash and fully disregard his call to love neighbor, welcome the stranger, heal the sick, and help the hurting. I finally saw the weeping sores of the great cancer of evangelical consumerism and power.
In the early morning hours at Holy Cross, the reality sunk in: the country and church I had loved my whole life betrayed me in the most unimaginable way. The scales fell from my eyes, and it all became clear. I could not unsee, unfeel, or unknow the truths I had witnessed, and then and there I knew I must come out and say NOT ME … I will not be a part of this … if this is what and who the Evangelical church stands behind … count me out!
I choose to accept…
I choose to include…
I choose tolerance…
I choose truth…
I choose LOVE.
God have mercy on us all.
About Ami Vielehr
Ami Vielehr has been in ministry for the past twenty-five years as a pastor, teacher, hospice chaplain, writer, speaker and retreat leader. Ami is currently on sabbatical from full time ministry to pursue writing her first book about grieving the losses of sacred community. She is the founder and director of Sabbath Place: a community of believers on a journey of discovery and spiritual growth, engaging with God and each other to develop and nurture personal and corporate relationships. As a blogger and poet, Ami, explores spiritual themes in creation, community and family. Seeking truth and authenticity through messy spirituality, she is willing to get her hands dirty in the process of getting to know God.