Sursum Corda

Hearts are still lifted

Shortly after I was ordained, I got a tattoo across my chest that says “Sursum Corda.” It’s the Latin phrase for the part of the communion prayer that starts - “Lift up your hearts.” When I got the tattoo I expected to be saying those words, as a priest, for the rest of my life. I thought when I got that tattoo that I knew what my work was. And now, here I am, with my heart lifted up-  towards what, I am still discovering.

my tattoo when it was just the outline

I feel the need to clarify something- I never expected the church to say “Oh polyamory, cool, no biggie.” I did expect a conversation. I expected a chance to discuss in ethical and theological language what the church’s expectations are for human relationships and how we support one another in a shifting world. I expected to talk about what justice looks like in private. I did not expect to be treated like a criminal for the shape of my family. I did not expect my heart to come crashing down leaving me to pick up the shards.

And now I am trying to figure out if this is still a conversation I can have with the church. I am trying to discern if this is work my heart can handle and stay lifted. There are enough people who consider even a conversation about non-dyadic human love to be too far outside an ethical and holy life to be worth mentioning. Some people are deeply convinced that my family is sin. I do not know if it is my work to justify my life to them.

This newsletter is not going to be an endless list of ways the church has hurt me, or to paint myself as a victim. I am a grown-ass woman with a lot of agency and a lot of support. The point of this newsletter is to tell my truth. And yes, a piece of my truth is that I am heartbroken, and grief is not linear or clean. The truth is that some days my heart is too heavy to lift. The truth is I am sad for the church, and I miss it- and I miss what I thought was my work.

The truth is also that I am dreaming and healing. I am playing and enjoying life. We have picnics to attend and splash pads to play in. As Oregon slips into summer, the kids are out of school, and the figs are ripening on the trees. I want to tell you, my dear ones, that the church has by no means ruined my life. I am getting ready to go camping over the fourth of July with much of my family, messy and large as it is these days. I have been working on my memoir and have just started writing a picture book (if anyone knows a good literary agent can you hook me up?) In between weeding thistle in the backyard (endless), tidying up after a toddler (also endless), and slowly reassembling my sense of faith and self (hopefully not endless)- I am asking myself-What is my work now?

I know that hetero-normative monogamy is by no means the only healthy way to live and love. I know in my bones that the shape of my family should not prevent my engagement with God or care for God’s people. But I do not know if it is my work to convince the church of these things. I do not know if I want to argue with those whose sense of moral outrage at my very existence gives them permission to lash out and call me ugly names. I do not know if it is my work to defend my own humanity.

And so- Sursum Corda- I will keep lifting my heart. I will keep offering my bruised and hopeful heart to Love. I will keep asking my heart - What is our work to do now? I will practice actually pausing and listening for the answer. Some days it is heavy work to lift this weary heart, and the muscles of my soul tremble under its weight. On those days Sursum Corda feels like work enough for a lifetime. But on other days my heart lifts up all on its own. On those days my heart is carried up on a breeze pulling me towards hope, and I know my work is just beginning.