Preaching in the Midst of Enmity by Scott Clark

As I sat with the theme for this series – “Preaching Across the Divide(s)” – I let the metaphor at the heart of it become a vision. In that vision, I see a church with a broad and spacious aisle splitting the sanctuary. On the right, we see those who are, well, on the right – those who are politically and/or religiously conservative, in different degree and manner. On the left, we have, well, those on the left. We preach to each other… across the aisle, across the divide. Those on the left preach to – or at – those on the right. Those on the right return the favor, each side doing our level best to offer our most articulate and heartfelt good news. No matter how many times I conjure this image it always descends into a verbal brawl.

Like every good metaphor, this theme – “Preaching Across the Divide(s)” – offers a glimpse of something that is AND of something that is not. This vision, in one sense, is who we are. We are a nation divided, a church divided, a community divided. You can substitute pretty much any collective noun; we are divided. We tend to stay on our own side of the aisle. We tend to preach at the other (tend to, not always).

AND, at the very same time, this is not who we are – this is not really what real life looks like. Rarely are the sides so well-defined and maintained, even in fairly polarized and segregated churches. In the whole of life, we are more often all mixed up with each other – right next to left next to left, then right right right left right left left – with shades and degrees of right and left throughout. More often, we are in the midst of each other – with all this differing opinion, differently articulated values (perhaps contradictory values), and disagreement, swirling around. More often, we stand in the midst of each other.

So how do we preach there? In the midst?

In the first iteration of this vision, I stand on the left side of the aisle. I am a gay, progressive, Presbyterian, Democrat, activist and preacher, living in the San Francisco Bay Area. I am white, cis-male, and middle-class. I serve as Chaplain and Associate Dean of Student Life at San Francisco Theological Seminary, a seminary that leans progressive and that is part of an ecumenical consortium of seminaries. I preach in our seminary chapel worship services (where the congregation tends progressive), and also in local Bay Area churches (where the congregations vary). As part of my ministry, I also advocate for the full inclusion and rights of LGBTQI people and our families in the life of the church and the world, and for other progressive justice issues. And, at the same time, I am from Alabama; I have two degrees from the University of Alabama; I love pulled-pork barbecue; and I watch Alabama football every autumn Saturday. Everyone else in my family – excepting my husband and three cousins – is Republican. We agree on some things, and we disagree on others. And, we are ever in the midst of each other.

The 2016 election hit me hard. With the inauguration of this President, I see many of the things that I value most in deadly peril – the rights and freedom of LGBTQI people and our families; protections for transgender people; work toward undoing America’s 400-year-long plague of white supremacy and racism; welcoming the stranger in our midst; inclusion; justice; peace. For much of my adult life, I have been in the midst of disagreement, but never before like this. Not long after the election, I stopped short when I realized that I could not find a way to pray for our President. For someone who professes and advocates the dignity of all people, that was an integrity-challenging debility.

About the same time, the lectionary rolled around with this Gospel text: “You have heard it said, “Love your neighbor, and hate your enemy. But I say to you, ‘Love your enemy, and pray for those who persecute you.’” And so, I took on the challenge of that text – that Jesus command – in my day-to-day walk and (perhaps sooner than I was ready) in my preaching. As I did, my first discovery was that I had enemies – or at least that I finally recognized that I did. For the first sermon I preached, I floated a definition of enemy as “someone who stands in opposition to the well-being of another,” and I used three categories to frame my thinking. For the purposes of this topic and blog post, we could just as easily use the definition, “someone who is opposed to another.”

Here’s my topology: First, there are those we identify as enemy, whether they know it or not, whether they intend it or not. These are folks who get under my skin, or whom I have named as opposition – whether or not they have ever thought of me, or done anything to harm me. In my mind and heart, I place us on opposite sides of the divide. The next two categories break along lines of power and privilege. Second, there are those who oppose us, whether we know it or not, whether we intend it or not. I began the ordination process at a time when the PCUSA did not openly allow the ordination of openly gay ministers. There were those who opposed my ordination – and my marriage – without me engaging them at all – and they had power and privilege to do so. And then third, if we are honest, there are all the ways that we stand in opposition to others, whether we intend it or not. We need to acknowledge all the ways that we are enemy to others. For me, this makes me acknowledge and inventory all the ways that I am complicit in systems of oppression – the ways, for example, that I participate in American systems infected by white supremacy. Whether I intend it or not, I am standing in opposition to the well-being of another.

And with this sorting and naming, what I came to see was this intricate web of broken relationships – all the ways that we oppose (collectively and individually) the well-being of each other, all the ways that we oppose God’s desire for the well-being of everyone – through our participation in systems of oppression, through our complicity, through our own daily action, through our silence. And all the ways that others do that to us. In terms of preaching, we could all very well be in the same congregation together in any given preaching moment.

How do we preach –or even live – in the midst of that?

In my first attempt at a love-your-enemy sermon (and in my early self-work this year), I could muster three timid suggestions – what I called “the least we can do.” First, following a pair of Buddhist thinkers: If we aren’t quite ready to love our enemy, perhaps we can begin by just not hating.[i] Second, in terms of “praying for those who persecute you,” the very least we can do is pray for their humanity – that today they will have food and shelter and love and dignity. And third, we don’t stop praying – and proclaiming – justice, and/but we can broaden that prayer to pray that God will show us both/all how to engage and move the world toward justice, freedom, and peace (acknowledging our own responsibility to move forward together).

But this is a piece on preaching. So in the months that follow (and with this writing assignment), here is how I have translated this into additional exegetical and homiletic steps in my preaching and writing – some thoughts for preaching in the midst of enmity:

• What is the core message that is arising out of this Scripture, and how am I proclaiming this clearly and courageously, without shirking away? That for me is the starting place. Even in a context that is fraught and in the midst of enmity and division, it’s not an option to sit down and shut up. As a gay man, I have sat in far too many sermons or rooms where someone shirked away from proclaiming clearly that gay people are fully human and loved by God because they were too concerned about offending or stirring up this great divide. Those sermons dehumanized me. In my preaching, I need discipline not to do that to others – not to shirk away from saying truths that might help liberate marginalized people in the room, or in the world.
• With that commitment in place, what am I then doing to also create space for someone who might disagree to listen, to see themselves in the story, and to engage and perhaps change? What am I doing to engage them in conversation, rather than preaching at or to them – across the divide? This, for me, is related to the commitment to – at the very least – recognize the dignity of those with whom I disagree. As I’ve explored that this year, at times I have just named the disagreement – without necessarily creating moral equivalency if I don’t think there is such, but at the very least candidly naming the divide(s). In one sermon, when engaging the President’s order temporarily banning refugees, I named our constitutional right to vote in different ways, and then distinguished the clarity and unanimity across Scripture of the command to welcome the stranger. No matter how someone had voted, I hoped to offer room to get on board with welcoming the stranger.
• What am I doing to honor the dignity of the other, the opponent, the one who may be across the divide(s)? Among other things, for me, this involves the discipline of watching my rhetoric to avoid name-calling. In a recent sermon on our responsibility to hold power accountable, in my next-to-last draft, I finally deleted the word “henchmen” in reference to certain public officials. What is sobering for me is that it survived to the next-to-last draft. I can’t do that (let my rhetoric range toward personal attack) if I am honoring the practice of praying for the humanity of the other – praying that, today, they will experience dignity.
• How am I inviting myself and others (all others) to engage in the work of the gospel of Jesus Christ – the work of compassion, healing, justice, and peace? J. Alfred Smith, Sr., says that a sermon isn’t finished until we’ve given people “something to do.” As I try to create space for us both/all to listen, am I also offering concrete actions that anyone can take, wherever they fall along the divide(s)? Is there a shared work we can join in?
• And, perhaps most effectively for me, I imagine my family in the room. Remember when I said that everyone (but 5 of us) in my family is Republican? I imagine them in the congregation. I love them. Do I think they would be able to hear what I am saying? Am I honoring their humanity? Am I being faithful to the religious convictions that they know I have – and that they have come to expect in me? Would we be able to continue in conversation after the worship service? This final question and practice, for me, embodies the task and the question and the challenge and makes it real. And I think, that after a lot of words, in this last bullet point, I have found my point and my practice: In the midst of enmity and divide(s), what are we doing to make sure that we are preaching in love?

[i] Interview of Sharon Salzburg and Robert Thurman, On Being podcast, December 15, 2016.

The Rev. Scott Clark serves as Chaplain and Associate Dean of Student Life at San Francisco Theological Seminary (SFTS). Scott is a graduate of SFTS, and also has worked with the seminary’s Program in Christian Spirituality. Before attending seminary, Scott practiced law for twelve years in Birmingham, Alabama, where he worked mainly on cases involving employment discrimination and constitutional law. In addition to his ministry at the seminary, Scott preaches frequently in Bay Area churches. Scott’s ministry in the broader church includes advocacy for the full inclusion of all people – including those who are lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and queer – in the full life of the church. Scott serves on the board of More Light Presbyterians.