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.yiv3079202436mcnTextContent, #yiv3079202436 #yiv3079202436templateHeader .yiv3079202436mcnTextContent p{ font-size:16px !important;line-height:150% !important;} }@media only screen and (max-width:480px){ #yiv3079202436 #yiv3079202436templateBody .yiv3079202436mcnTextContent, #yiv3079202436 #yiv3079202436templateBody .yiv3079202436mcnTextContent p{ font-size:14px !important;line-height:150% !important;} }@media only screen and (max-width:480px){ #yiv3079202436 #yiv3079202436templateFooter .yiv3079202436mcnTextContent, #yiv3079202436 #yiv3079202436templateFooter .yiv3079202436mcnTextContent p{ font-size:12px !important;line-height:150% !important;} } Supremacy theology is sustained across all Christian traditions
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Breaking Free From Supremacy
Theology, Part One
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| Essay by Rev. Aurelia Dávila Pratt
March 12, 2020
Even though my current context is theologically progressive, I am entangled in supremacy theology. I need to break free. I define supremacy theology as any theological framework that is propped up by systems of oppression. These domination systems, such as (but not limited to) racism, sexism and homophobia all tend to thrive under the umbrella of white supremacy.
Supremacy theology is sustained across all Christian traditions through its doctrine and practices.
Liberation work is my antidote to supremacy theology. It is the work of freedom from oppressive power structures that have us bound. We name these structures, we confess our complicity in sustaining them, and we repent through their dismantling. My process for dismantling is called ambitious fasting. It is best understood through the definition of fasting God provides in Isaiah 58:1-12. At the heart of the Isaiah text is verse six, in which God says “Is not this the fast that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke?”
Ambitious fasting is a decisive shift away from doctrine-obsessed inaction and toward liberation, which is concerned with the here-and-now. As people of faith, Liberation work is our calling.
When referencing this shared responsibility, I often use terms such as Resurrection Work, Peace-making, One-ness Work, and Kin-dom work. These are all a part of the restorative work of Liberation. It is an often disruptive and highly uncomfortable job, but I have rolled up my sleeves, hunkered down, and am totally committed.
However, as a woman of color (WOC) faith leader, the perpetuation of a theological framework largely informed by white supremacy continues to cause me significant harm. Part one of this article will explore how supremacy theology holds me captive to its oppressive ideologies, even as I participate in the work of Liberation. Part two will name the specific messaging I seek to break free of, as well as offer a healing process for all of us.
While this article focuses on my experience, the ideas presented are relevant to anyone engaged in justice work. Our ministry, pastoral care, writing, coaching, preaching, teaching, consulting, advocating about Liberation is not sustainable as long as we are not active participants in our own inner work. Liberation absolutely must begin with self-reclamation.
We must each explore the question: What is keeping me bound? This is a prompt that is always with me, offering guidance as I seek to break free from the supremacy theology that has shaped much of my life.
Every week, I make sacred art with my faith community. I use a lot of language to describe the work I do: I’m a pastor. I’m a preacher. I’m a social worker. I’m a teacher. I’m a student. I’m a wanna-be mystic activist who has a hell of a lot to learn. But my favorite descriptor is I’m a paradigm shifter. I think this is most fitting because I spend most of my time and energy cultivating relationships, creating content and providing safe space so that necessary paradigms can shift. This is my beloved contribution to Liberation work.
In my small, but mighty community, we are shifting from spiritual observance to ambitious fasting. We are shifting from a history of exclusion toward an inclusive, centered-set ideology. We are shifting from the Church as a domination system and prioritizing healthy, equitable community instead. We are moving away from oppressive theological frameworks in favor of the prophetic wisdom tradition of Liberation Theology.
This shifting is a constant movement that considers all of creation and requires continuous effort. We are putting new wine into new wineskins. We are letting the church die so that it can be reborn. We are becoming the Transfigured Church, almost unrecognizable as we abandon our shackles. It’s tiring and difficult, yet valuable work. I am grateful to be a part of changing the narrative with an entire community of kindred souls.
However, I must turn inward and assess my own need for Liberation. I must do this with the same attention and loving-kindness in which I do it for my community. This inner work involves the same steps of Liberation as on the macro level, which I mentioned earlier: naming wounds, confessing complicity and repentance through dismantling. However, before I can truly begin this healing process, I must make some important acknowledgments.
First, I acknowledge my particular privileges. I am cisgender, heterosexual, and able-bodied. I am financially stable, young, and educationally privileged. As a pastor, I hold a position of power within my church and community.
I also acknowledge my intersections. My womanhood as well as my Chicana/Filipina experience predominantly shape my understanding of living within the confines of a patriarchal and white supremacist paradigm.
Finally, I acknowledge my perspective as both a limitation and a strength. I have much to unlearn and learn. But part of my education is listening to my inner voice and instincts and trusting that my own experience has value to add to the theological conversation.
I lend my voice to this particular conversation because I know my experience does not live in isolation. Women clergy will understand. Actually, many women who work in male dominated professions will understand me. Speaking specifically from within my field, being a woman pastor can feel like a hazing process that never ends. Fewer job opportunities, less pay, double standards or tokenism are to be expected.
If you are lucky enough to get the gig (that you are likely overqualified for), you have to work twice as hard as your male counterparts in order to a similar level of respect from colleagues, laypeople, and prospective members. Meanwhile, you will also have to navigate regular interaction with male clergy in your community, assuming you get included. And no matter how hard you work, you will still get asked where your husband is on a regular basis.
Even in a progressive context, people cannot fathom a woman pastor working independently. Many women pastors experience all this while also juggling the care of their family’s households, often as the primary caregiver to their children. And if they don’t, they often have to deal with the stereotypical assumptions that arise for daring to be identified outside the labels of “wife” or “mother”.
Personally, it’s no wonder I consistently go through a cycle of insecurity, agonizing, questioning and self-loathing before I can actually get to my work. I am strong and resilient so the work gets done, and I do it well. But not without first crossing over several mental and emotional hurdles threatening to keep me bound. It’s a time consuming and frustrating practice. This oppressive theological messaging comes at me regularly and with full force. It is so deeply rooted into my consciousness that it prevents me from stepping into the fullness of my Imago Dei.
It is during my sermon preparation when I take notice of this messaging most often. I have been writing sermons for nearly a decade. I have grown in both skill and confidence, and I believe I am a good preacher. Yet I continue to be overcome by a sense of incompetence and dread the process every time I prepare a sermon. For years I thought myself self-centered for agonizing about something that has little to do with me and should have everything to do with the Christ-agenda of radical love. It was only until very recently that I was able to verbalize what is taking place. Every time I write a sermon, I go through this process of breaking free from supremacy theology.
As a woman of color whose theological training took place primarily from and among white men, the best thing I ever did was put down the commentaries. While I still make use of them as needed and continue to value thoughtful biblical exegesis, waking up to my imago dei required putting them away. This forced me into the work of learning to trust the Spirit of God dwelling in me, which has made me a better preacher and pastor. And bonus: I am better positioned to name (and soundly reject!) the messaging that has previously kept me bound.
In part two of this article, I will name the specific microaggressions and messages I need to break free of as a WOC faith leader doing Liberation work. I believe this naming is an essential part of the healing process. Supremacy informed theology has ingrained in me the subconscious belief that I am less than, I should shrink, I don’t belong, I can’t be trusted, and my voice has nothing to contribute.
But my work as a paradigm shifter speaks against the lies of supremacy theology. Instead, it has its roots in Imago Dei theology, which suggests that each of us were made in God’s own image. Imago Dei is why we do the work, beginning with ourselves. It is why we ask the ongoing question “What is keeping me bound?”
Surviving is not good enough. But if we are going to thrive, we must be free of anything that keeps us from the good work of Liberation. This idea of breaking free is something each one of us ought to consider for the sake of our collective wholeness.
Our ability to thrive is limited when we are not fully living into the power of our Imago Dei. But the catch is: if one of us is bound, so is the other. You aren’t free until I’m free. And I will never be free until you know the fullness of Liberation. We are connected. We are in this gritty and beautiful work together.
~ Rev. Aurelia Dávila Pratt
Read online here
About the Author
Aurelia Dávila Pratt is the Lead Pastor at Peace of Christ Church and is a licensed Master of Social Work. Her sermons and writings steer the listener toward contemplation while also boldly tackling social issues of the day. She prioritizes the work of Peace, believing it to be both a vertical and horizontal process that is disruptive and uncomfortable, but mystically healing. As a pastor, she promotes safe and creative space for all to participate in this work.
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Question & Answer
Q: By Kimberly,
How does a Christian who thinks she is on the Spiritual/ Interfaith path – evolving, becoming, opening evermore – deal with the death of a loved one rooted in “traditional” Christian ideas about The Afterlife? I find myself desperately hoping there is a physical Heaven – a childhood concept that I thought I had moved beyond- because I want to hold Dad’s hand again someday, and I want to believe he is with my cousin and dear friends who have died. It suddenly feels more secure and yet non-existent. I am surprised, saddened, and grieving (thank goodness).
A: By Rev. Fran Pratt
Dear Kimberly,
I hear and acknowledge your grief, surprise, and sadness. Hopefully something I can say will be helpful. But if not, I'm sending you love from afar.
I'm fond of the saying, "we are spiritual beings having a human (embodied) experience," which is a quote from the Catholic theologian, Pierre Teilhard de Chardin. For me this offers particular comfort, even though I too have deconstructed my ideas about the afterlife, and let go much of traditional Christian afterlife mythology. Perhaps you can resonate with the idea that we are, at our core, in our truest selves, spiritual beings which transcend physicality and 3-dimensional reality. Like me, maybe you can find comfort in the idea that when our time of being inside this physical reality is over, we return to Spirit, and to our truest and most brilliant selves. This concept is supported in scripture, particularly in the writings of St. Paul. Consider 1 Corinthians 15:44; and Colossians 3:3 - "You have died and your life is now hidden with Christ in God."
If your journey has taken you even further afield than this, I offer some more ideas. You've said that you are a Christian, so I'll assume that something about the Christ and his representation of the Divine as Love is compelling to you. I'm comforted by that understanding of the Divine as Love; the ground of our being is love. For me the idea of returning, or of my loved ones returning, to the Ground of Being that is Love is comforting - that after death there is the essence of all life, the Source from which life came, which is Love, our home.
My opinion is, if there's a physical heaven, it's going to be here on earth. I get this idea from Christ's often-repeated words: "The kingdom of heaven is near!" But honestly I've come to a place where I don't need or want heaven to be anything other than here on earth. I don't need heaven to be some alternative 3D reality. So thinking of the afterlife as returning back to my original life, the one I have as a spiritual being created in the imagination of The Divine/Love, feels positive to me. I think of this sometimes in terms of video games. My kid plays minecraft, which is a world-building game, but it's contained within this world we actually live in. I like to think that this 3D reality is as to Spiritual Reality as Minecraft is to current-day 3D life on earth. A world within a world, with these temporary bodies as free-willed avatars. We've been home all along, as have all our transitioned loved ones.
Beyond these thoughts, my suggestion is this: let yourself grieve. Give it all the time and space it requires to do it properly and authentically. It's non-linear, not a "one and done" deal. You'll have to feel your feelings and no one can tell you how to do that. I wish you the best on that very personal journey.
~ Rev. Fran Pratt
Read and share online here
About the Author
Rev. Fran Pratt is a pastor, writer, musician, and mystic. Making meaningful and beautiful liturgy to be spoken, practiced, and sung, is at the heart of her creative drive. Fran authored a book of congregational litanies, and regularly creates and shares modern liturgy on her website and Patreon. Her prayers are prayed in churches of various sizes and traditions across the globe. She writes, speaks, and consults on melding ancient and new liturgical streams in faith and worship. Fran is Pastor of Worship and Liturgy at Peace of Christ Church in Round Rock, Texas.
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Bishop John Shelby Spong Revisited
The Origins of the Bible, Part XXII:
Malachi and the Dawn of Universalism
Essay by Bishop John Shelby Spong
March 19, 2009
Malachi is the last book in the Old Testament as Christians organize the scriptures and it is the last voice to be heard in the Book of the Twelve as the Jews organize the scriptures. It will also be the last of the prophets to whom I will give major attention in this series. Of the twelve so-called “minor prophets” we have examined Hosea, Amos, Micah, Jonah, Zechariah and now Malachi. This means that I have chosen not to treat Joel, Obadiah, Nahum, Habakkuk, Zephaniah and Haggai. Of course, that is a value judgement, but I have determined that they are not worthy of much time. That may offend those who think that every word of the Bible is the inerrant word of God, which makes a dismissal of any of its content border on blasphemy. This attitude always amazes me and more so when I ask these critics what the message of Obadiah or Nahum is and watch them sputter. These books are little read; they do not reach any heights of spirituality and they are filled with images of a vengeful deity who hates the enemies of the Jews. To make this series complete, however, let me say a few words about each of the omitted books.
Joel is the most quoted of the books I will not cover. Joel 1:14 is regularly read on Ash Wednesday in liturgical churches: “Sanctify a fast, call a solemn assembly”. Joel 2:22 forms a familiar Lenten theme of repentance: “Rend your hearts and not your garments”. Joel 2:28 is quoted by Luke in Peter’s Pentecost sermon (Acts 2): “I will pour out my spirit on all flesh; your sons and daughters will prophesy, your old men will dream dreams and your young men will see visions”. Beyond these three verses, however, Joel is little more than a cultic prophet.
Obadiah consists of a series of oracles against Israel’s enemies, none of which are profound. Nahum is a tribal hymn of praise at the destruction of Nineveh, assuming that since he hates the Assyrians, God must also. Habakkuk contents himself to pronounce woes on wicked nations, apparently not able to hear the universal themes of God’s unbounded love. Zephaniah is the work of a Jewish puritan and like “puritans” in all religious traditions, he is more self-righteous than helpful. Haggai, a contemporary of Zechariah, had only one song to sing and that was that the Temple must be rebuilt. If all of these omitted books were lost and for all practical purposes they have always been ignored, the world would not be much poorer for it.
Malachi, however, is different and as such he is a worthy figure to round out our study of the prophets because he helped move the consciousness of the Jews out of their tribal mentality and opened the doors that allowed their religion to grow to levels of universal understanding. The first thing that must be noted is that Malachi is not the name of the author of this little book. The name comes from the first verse of the third chapter, where we find the words, “Behold, I send my messenger to prepare the way before me and the Lord whom you will seek will suddenly come to his Temple, the messenger of the covenant in whom you delight, behold he is coming, says the Lord of Hosts”. The Hebrew word for “my messenger” is “mal’akhi” (not dissimilar from the name of the current Prime Minister of Iraq) and that is the name by which the book came to be known. It seems to have been the second anonymous work that was copied onto the scroll of Zechariah and thus might be called III Zechariah. Dating this book is easier than most since it refers to events in history that we can date fairly accurately from other sources. Jerusalem is under the rule of a governor, but both the political and religious life of the nation is at a low ebb. It seems not to be aware of the priestly code that was added to the Torah in the late 5th Century BC (BCE). It refers to the priests as sons of Levi, rather than sons of Aaron, as the priestly code does and it mentions that the Edomites, their hated foes, have been conquered by the Nabataean Arabs. These things all point to a time before the great reforming governor Nehemiah came into power in 444 BC, so Malachi is dated somewhere around 450 BC.
The situation is far enough after the Exile for a strong sense of disillusionment to have set in among the people. They had clearly believed their own propaganda that the return from exile would usher in a glorious messianic age. Hopes had skyrocketed, as they tend to do with a change of circumstances or government, but none of these hopes seemed to find fulfillment. Instead, only a small number of Jews actually returned to their homeland and they soon discovered not the messianic age, but a difficult and dangerous life. There were no walls behind which to seek protection from either enemies or robbers. Despair was heavy and people asked why they should bother to continue to worship, when clearly the God of the Jews did not appear to be concerned with the welfare of God’s chosen. This little book was thus designed to give hope to these discouraged people. In the process, however, Malachi’s message broke the traditional boundaries of Jewish tribal thinking and quite literally redefined the God of the Jews. That is what makes this book so strong and so powerful.
Using a question and answer format, this prophet points first to the same issue that we will discover in the Book of Job. If you are suffering you must deserve it, you must have acted in a way that precipitated God’s wrath or that at least caused God to abandon God’s people. Searching for an answer, this writer points to their cultic sins and offers those as the reasons for God’s punishment. Yet he continues to struggle against the limitations of this kind of tribal thinking, asserting that the God of the Jews is still in control. As evidence of God’s continuing presence he cites the destruction of the Edomites, suggesting that this was God’s punishment of their traditional enemies because the Edomites had celebrated the sack of Jerusalem by the Babylonians. He continues to insist that the “Day of the Lord” will come, which meant to the Jews that God will yet intervene at the end of history and vindicate the chosen people. It was tribal religion at its tribal best.
As this unknown messenger wrestled with these realities of history, however, a crack began to appear in his tribal mentality. Modern readers need to realize that the world seemed very small to ancient people. Most of them had never been to the sea. They had no idea what lay beyond their coasts or the boundaries formed by mighty rivers or even mountain ranges. They were certain that the earth was the center of the universe, that the sun rotated around the earth and that the God who lived above the sky had the chosen people in the center of the divine gaze. They believed that this God controlled the weather, their sicknesses and the plight of the chosen people in history. They had no understanding of either the size of this planet or the vastness of the universe. They viewed life from the center of their limited self-consciousness. The whole world revolved around their lives and they believed that all of their behavior, whether it was liturgical and ethical, was judged only on how it pleased God and how God responded to it.
When Malachi finally broke open this mindset, he walked into a stunning new understanding of both God and the world. It began when he observed that all worship, even that of those he called “heathens”, was offered to God. If that is so, he concluded, then God must be thought of as a heavenly parent with all people being God’s children. In this patriarchal world, he articulated this as the “brotherhood” of the human family under the “fatherhood” of God. The Hebrew Scriptures had hinted at this earlier with its explanations of the origins of the other nations of whom the Jews were aware. Jewish mythology had suggested that the Edomites were the descendants of Esau, Jacob’s twin brother, from whom Jacob stole the birthright. The Ammonites and Moabites were the grandchildren of Lot, who was Abraham’s nephew. The Arabs were the descendants of Ishmael, Abraham’s son. There was indeed a sense of kinship that permeated the region; indeed, a common DNA permeated them all. This insight is what finally caused Malachi to say: “Have we not all one father, has not God created us all?” As he thought about these things, Malachi appears to have stepped into a new human awareness and when he did, a majestic monotheistic God suddenly came into view and universality finally broke through the tribal minds of the Jewish people. It was then that Malachi could write: “From the rising of the sun to its setting God’s name shall be great among the Gentiles”. He did not realize how wide an arc the sweep of the sun created. He did not know that Europe, China or the Western hemisphere existed, but his mind was expanding. He then went on to say, “And in every nation incense shall be offered to God’s name”. A new realization about the oneness of God had dawned. Tribal thinking was beginning to die.
Some people say today that God is evolving. I do not think that is accurate. Whatever and whoever God is, surely God is the same yesterday, today and forever. The fact is, however, that the human perception of God is always evolving. We have gone from a multi, spirit-filled, animistic world, first to identifying God with nature’s cycles of fertility, then to the warrior deities of tribal life and ultimately to a sense of the oneness and universality of God. The biblical story moves from a God who hates the Egyptians so much that God sends multiple plagues on them and even closes the Red Sea so that the Egyptians drown and a God who hates the Amorites so much that God stops the sun in the sky to allow more daylight in which Joshua’s army can slaughter them, to a place where through the eyes of Malachi the Jews begin to see the human family as one. Without Malachi’s searing insight it would not have been possible for Jesus to take the next step as he did when he enjoined us even to “Love our enemies”. Malachi, the unnamed voice, is thus a major person in the evolving definition of the Jewish God and through the Jews in human development itself. He thus becomes a fitting close to that section of the Bible we call the prophets. We will next look at the protest literature of the Bible and at its wisdom writings.
~ John Shelby Spong
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