To read McLaren’s article, click here (NOTE: you will be prompted to register in order to view it).

I’ve wanted to respond to McLaren’s essay for a while.

So when the March 2011 issue of Sojourners showed up in my mailbox, I determined it was time to slow down and reflect on his propositions and the nature of God as I understand it.

McLaren frames his essay in response to the notion that God is violent, as is reflected in the Old Testament narrative and which culminates in Christ’s crucifixion at Calvary.

It’s an idea that many Christians (and Jews, and Muslims) hold true, but McLaren identifies how this profoundly impacts how we interact with one another on multiple levels.

He references 9/11, Israel’s oppression of Palestinians, and Christian preachers calling for war on Islam—just to name a few (I’m sure we could quickly name a few more, both on the macro-scale—think Afghanistan, northern Ireland, the Sudan—and on a much smaller, interpersonal level).

It makes sense, doesn’t it?

Throughout the Old Testament, we journey through stories of homicide, infanticide, genocide…the narrative is, at times, a horrific bloodbath. Observed is a God who doesn’t just stand by and watch violence occur; we encounter a God that often actually enacts this violence.

So if we espouse to follow this God, it’s only logical that we would justify violence by our faith in a God that utilizes these actions and occurrences to achieve his will.

McLaren confesses that he long held this assumption.

Me too.

But there is another lens through which we can see God. McLaren cites the “plethora of verses that present God as kind, reconciling, and compassionate, and against favoritism and violence.” He suggests that we can observe a God who causes the lion to lay with the lamb, who sets the captives free, who turns the other cheek.

And this is where the dilemma comes in:

Do we follow a God who is violent, justifying violent means by the end—in this case, salvation, or redemption, or victory? Or, in response to this other lens, do we follow a God who is wholly opposed to violence?

I appreciate McLaren’s reply, and I think this is how many of us who call ourselves Anabaptist Christians would wish to respond:

[I]f I see a tension in scripture, rather than appealing to Augustine, Aquinas, Luther, Calvin, Scofield, or the pope to resolve it, I should first turn to Jesus. If Jesus truly was the highest and fullest revelation of God, if Jesus was truly the logos, the radiance of God’s glory, the exact representation of God’s nature, the fullness of the godhead in bodily form, and in very nature God, then his life and teaching mattered in tensions like this. And if the Bible was intended, as Jesus said, to bear witness to Christ, or as Martin Luther said, to be the manger on which Christ was presented to the world, then “when in doubt, consult Jesus” seemed like good advice.

In Jesus we find the way, the truth, and the life. We find a messiah that calls us out of darkness and into the light. We find a savior whose reign was not established by violence or force but rather by love and through humble service. We find a friend who forgives and does not condemn, who turns the other cheek, walks the extra mile, gives away the tunic.

As I continue turning from my long-held assumptions about God and violence to embrace the Anabaptist way of living, I recognize that I do so largely as a result of Jesus’ life and teaching, all of which seem to witness to peacemaking.

Jesus embodies the love and non-violent nature of God. And if we are to truly follow Christ, we must find creative ways to go and do likewise.

I realize this isn’t the way all followers of Jesus will live. And I do not wish to condemn those who reject this proposition (or place myself above them for my accepting it).

I don’t think McLaren would, either.

But the challenge for us as Christians is to view God—in McLaren’s words—as “first and foremost present with the Crucified one” rather than with the authorities and crowds on Good Friday. Because this radically changes our orientation toward the world, toward our enemies, toward those in need.

Then—and only then—are we able to participate fully in the Resurrection.

May it be so.

Brian Paff is Director of Communications at Laurelville Mennonite Church Center. This post originally appeared at BeyondLaurelville.org; Brian will be presenting an intergenerational workshop entitled “Confessions of a Converted Mennonite” addressing this and other ideas at Pittsburgh 2011, the Mennonite Church USA convention.

Before I begin, let me offer full disclosure: I have suffered from depression and anxiety on and off for more than five years. Granted, my illness falls fairly low on the spectrum, but the fact that I’ve left a couple jobs because of the overwhelming experiences of anxiety shows you that this has caused a serious and ongoing struggle in my life.

For me, there has been no life experience more isolating and terrifying than the severe, debilitating moments of a panic attack.

I have been fortunate enough in my journey to be comforted and supported by loved ones—my wife, family, friends, counselors—in the midst of despair, many of whom were also members of the faith community to which I belonged.

But I am at the same time painfully aware that many who have walked the same journey through depression and other mental and emotional ailments have not experienced the same level of grace within their congregation.

While most haven’t been outright rejected, a common experience for many of us with mental illnesses is to feel marginalized, judged—or, worst of all, avoided—as if our ailments fall low on the priority list of concerns, they are a result of a lack of faith or selfish ignorance of the obvious blessings in our lives, or they create too much uncertainty, discomfort or risk to address.

The latter results when people are afraid of that which they cannot control. In other words, we are all painfully aware that a pat on the back and “I’ll pray for you” typically don’t heal a person with mental illnesses, but we lack the psychiatric knowledge and therapeutic experience to help people in these circumstances.

Let it be known: depression and mental illness are real things.

They are not coping mechanisms or reality escapes, nor are they the result of not focusing on the bright side and counting our blessings. They don’t plague only people of little faith or those who have made “bad” choices. Sometimes they are circumstantial; frequently, however, they are rather indiscriminatory and plague people across age, gender, ethnic and economic lines.

Churches—especially, sorry to say, Protestant Evangelical churches—fail people with mental illnesses when they perpetuate what we’ll call here the “happy gospel”.

This happy gospel distorts what it means to follow Jesus and distances those of us with mental illness from the healing presence of God and the comfort of community.

It causes churches to read the Jesus’ Beatitudes and omit his litany of woes. It encourages us to focus on triumphs—David over Goliath, the Israelites over Canaan, Jesus over death—and neglect to dwell in the deep agony of defeat, betrayal, loss, and despair. It inspires us to write fluffy contemporary praise songs that overlook the suffering and pain around us. It communicates to many of us that if we can’t bring a beaming smile to church, we are somehow missing the message of Jesus and left out of the body of Christ.

During the recent Envision Access webinar, ADNet program associate Christine Guth urged participants to throw people with mental illnesses a lifeline. The line she suggested was to worship with the Psalms of lament, which stands in opposition to the happy gospel mentality I introduced above.

But there are countless others, including fostering authentic community where experiences can be shared, integrating external mental health resources with the life and ministry of the church, and providing space for open and honest dialogue.

Church needs to be a place where people who are mentally ill can openly express their inner struggles and be met with grace, acceptance, embrace, healing. Let us strive to make it so.

Note: This post originally appeared at Beyond Laurelville, an online space for continuing conversation hosted by Laurelville Mennonite Church Center.

Yesterday I was running on the Coal & Coke Trail outside Mount Pleasant when I found myself in the midst of hunting season in Western PA. Orange-clad hunters with rifles patrolled the woods on either side of the trail.

This isn’t abnormal this time of year…after all, the PA hunting season is short and the interest, strong (i.e. supply and demand sends hunters and the hunting-inclined out in droves), and I’ve certainly seen hunters out and about during my daily runs.

But I felt particularly vulnerable this time around.

Yeah, I was wearing bright red and running in a b-line down a wide jogging trail, and I realize that hunters for the most part are very careful with their rifles. Most of the hunters I saw even acknowledged me with a hand wave or a tip of the cap.

Still, if former Vice President Dick Cheney can accidentally cap his friend while hunting in the woods, what’s to stop one of these hunters from taking me out in err?

But as much as I was uncomfortable with the situation (and believe me, I won’t run on the CCT—off limits to hunters and firearms as it is—until hunting season is over), I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like to daily run through life’s trails in fear.

What is it like for children in Palestine, who must walk to and from school with peace activist accompaniment through hostile Israeli settlement zones?

What is it like for young girls in the Afar tribe of Ethiopia, who must approach adolescence and the violating practice of female circumcision?

What is it like for Ugandan boys at risk of being abducted and forced into military service?

What is it like for girls in India, Thailand, the Philippines and elsewhere who are forcibly trafficked into brothels as prostitutes?

What is it like for people living their daily lives in war-ravaged and poverty-stricken places like Iraq, Afghanistan, the Democratic Republic of the Congo, the Sudan, and Colombia?

But lest we think these lives lived in fear aren’t lived close to home, take a look at our own situation here in North America:

What is it like for students who are gay and lesbian, fearful of bullying words and actions that can hurt or, worse yet, kill?

What is it like for undocumented immigrants who must live in the shadows, knowing that at any moment they may be separated from their family, community, and livelihood?

What is it like for high school youth to watch their classmates gunned down at school and in their neighborhood streets?

I’m not interested in debating politics or ethics here, and I’m certainly not writing this to call out hunters (honestly, their presence on the CCT seems suddenly insignificant).

But let’s pause for a moment and consider what we allow—and sometimes, create—to plague the lives of our fellow brothers and sisters around the world. Because we need to respond with love and creativity…and with urgency.

They shouldn’t have to run in fear.

NOTE: Visit the links to organizations embedded here to learn about ways you can respond in specific ways to the needs of people mentioned in this post.

“As a church have we forgotten how to go to the lengths of cutting open a roof and lowering our disabled friend in through the ceiling just so they could meet Jesus?”

- Julie Clawson, from “Americans with Disabilities and the Church”, a July 2010 entry on her blog, One Hand Clapping

In church circles we often plaster phrases like “everyone is welcome” and “come as you are” across lawn marquees and in Sunday morning bulletins. But how often do we back that language up with authentic, Christlike inclusion?

More specifically, what are some ways we fail to remove barriers and obstacles to worship for our brothers and sisters who bring disabilities (or different cultural gender experiences, role, or sexual orientation) with them into the sanctuary on Sunday morning?

Julie Clawson—herself disabled, having been born missing her left arm up to the elbow—poses some valid questions when she challenges the Church to ante up on its promise to love everyone. Because there is a gaping chasm between “tolerating” or “dealing with” people and really welcoming them unto the very throne of God to worship with people—both disabled and able—together as one.

This is a matter of compassion, but also one of justice. How can we who are able-bodied followers of Jesus allow our brothers and sisters who live with disabilities to feel left out, marginalized, or denied access?

Fortunately, Clawson’s candid and honest challenge to the Church isn’t a lone voice in the wilderness. There are many people who are calling for inclusion and access:

• Jean Vanier, founder of the L’Arche International movement, set out on a pilgrimage in 1970 that gave birth to Faith and Light communities of worship.

• Paul Leichty, Christine Guth and others in The Anabaptist Disabilities Network formed a Congregational Accessibility Network aimed at providing churches with resources and support to more fully welcome people with disabilities and their families.

• William Gaventa at the Elizabeth M. Boggs Center works to empower pastors and community members to create better access to people with disabilities in worship and daily life.

• Tim Nafziger and Mark Van Steenwyk and their cohorts here at Young Anabaptist Radicals made an appeal to people in places of power and privilege to seek ways to become an ally of those who are marginalized, following the vision of Ann Bishop.

They are among a cloud of witnesses who are passionate about creating access and loving others, just as they are. They are calling boldly with love for justice and acceptance.

Problem is, many of us aren’t listening. Myself included.

But recently I’ve heard Clawson’s voice as a call to do something. So I worked with ADNet, Laurelville Mennonite Church Center, and others in the disabilities community to create something I hope will spur us all on in love, birthing new and stronger worship communities to provide .

Last Wednesday, Envision Access collected and amplified these and other voices for a free hour-long webinar around accessible worship for people with disabilities. Participants were able to ideas and stories shared by people like Clawson, Vanier, Leichty, Guth, Gaventa, Nafziger—as well as many others in various roles, including pastors, parents, practitioners, friends.

There was also a live chat and a panel discussion for further dialogue and resource exchange. If you missed the webinar, simply visit the Envision Access homepage to listen in, gather resources, and envision new, creative ways you can strive for access and welcome for all in your midst.

I realize this one hour didn’t—nor will it—change everything we know and do around accessibility for people with disabilities. But hopefully it will spur on the attention and creativity—and, dare I say, love—of people who are followers of Jesus, and lead to further conversation and action to create more welcoming, inclusive communities of worship.

Author’s Note: Brian Paff is a converted Anabaptist who lives and works at Laurelville Mennonite Church Center in Western Pennsylvania with his wife, Maria. There they are actively engaged in the life of Scottdale Mennonite Church and in the local ministry of The Table Coffee Shop, a community-oriented cafe owned and operated by Peter and Deb Haddad and Phillip Haddad.

Brian is a runner, writer, and idea-conceiver whose justice interests include (but are certainly not limited to) human rights, poverty, war and immigration. He blogs at Beyond Laurelville.