Kristin Stoneking

While the rest of the country may know Nashville as Music City, for the 10 million of us descended spiritually from John Wesley, Nashville is Methodist City. HQ. The center of the Methodist universe. And though there are other cities (New York, Evanston) that have pieces of our national machine, the heart of it all lies in Nashville, and the struggle for the soul and future of Methodism is played out here every day, if only bureaucratically.

I’m here as one of six presenting a working paper on the theology and promise of campus ministry. We’ve been meeting here since last October, this small working group from around the country, give or take one or two each time. And now it’s time to pay the bills. Produce something of substance. No more sitting around the table delighting ourselves with our insights and cleverness. We’ll listen to each other’s comments, go back and revise our essays, and then submit them again in some more polished form. We’ll come up with something useful about new ways of understanding the church and engaging young adults (I’m especially sure of it now that Russell Richey is in our group). I’ve written my ideas passionately, as have my colleagues, and I pray that what we recommend could be a way forward.

There’s much at stake. If we believe that the message of Jesus has anything in it to give life to the world, we must find a way to share this message compellingly, breaking down the negative connotations that Christianity has picked up for many in the last four decades.We have a unique opportunity, situated as we are at the center of a pluralistic frontier, to assist the church in recovering what is core about Christianity, and then to share this vision of hospitality, forgiveness and a God who more than anything desires relationship with humanity and all of creation.

I didn’t immediately notice the blue diamond nose ring, but it confirmed my first impression of the mother carrying a baby in a pack on her front, while she wheeled two suitcases with a cloth bag over her shoulder. Her hair was dark, graying, and wavy, her glasses and clothes hip. I sat down across from her on the economy shuttle bus and wondered if she had had this baby, well, really more of a young toddler, by herself. No one else was around to help them lug all their stuff onto the bus, but she seemed used to handling it all. The baby was clearly attached to her, holding on to her sweater, and content, a product of Dr. Sears and attachment parenting. The mother pointed out the shapes in the seats’ upholstery and named the colors for her child as we drove.

I assumed a host of progressive political and social beliefs were at play. This child would be raised with organic, local food and award winning educational products in an environment that hopefully wasn’t off-gassing anything. A variety of religious beliefs and practices would be introduced, with meditation and yoga definitely on the menu. There were probably still Obama signs in the yard. And then I saw it. My Little Pony. The baby was holding a My Little Pony. And that’s just it. Regardless of our best attempts to instill our children with our liberal orthodoxy, the My Little Ponies creep in. And we let them. And not just because we don’t want to fight. In spite of the glossy white mane and the big blue eye-lashed eyes, My Little Pony reminds us that, as Gibran said, our children come through us, but they are not us. We can try to give them our ideas, but they have their own ideas. And finally, they will grow up in a world over which we will have precious little influence.

Having children has been, perhaps, the biggest humility lesson of my life. For a person who has been always engaged in deep thought about the value of each step in life’s journey, who has enjoyed the freedom and autonomy to chart a course, the unmalleable aspects of parenting are constantly hitting me in the face. Why won’t they wear what I want them to wear? Why does it always have to be such a battle to comb Paloma’s hair? Why doesn’t John have a killer instinct and natural game sense in sports like I did? Why do I have to say things eleven times with escalating volume before they hear me? Am I really here? But then My Little Pony shows up and basically says, while batting those ridiculous eyelashes, “Give up. This isn’t your fight.” And I realize that my fight is only to love them with the courage and abandon that would allow them to be whoever they were created to be. I don’t know that person yet, the person each one is becoming. I can only wonder, and listen, and laugh with them. And make sure their teeth get brushed most of the time.

Flowerbelle