This episode. This one’s all me guys. Let’s talk about guns. 

Welcome to Series 2 of The Hearthside. If you joined us for our Lenten Series, then you may feel Brian’s absence. Not to worry though. He’ll be back now and then. These episodes will mostly be my own. We’ll take a look at some heavy hitters; topics that just seem too big to tackle, especially from the pulpit.  And frankly, I’ve avoided this particular conversation for a long time. 

I’ve been too quiet about guns. 

And this is why: 

I grew up in rural Kansas and became a gun owner at 16. It was a Christmas gift from my parents and a proud moment on my timeline. The message was; my parents found me responsible enough to have my own gun in our home. With it came lots of rules; all wise and good rules. And I have fond memories of pheasant hunting with dad and target shooting was a Thanksgiving tradition. My mom is a really good shot and I’ve always been proud of her.  Cleaning my gun was something special too. Something about the weight of it. The smell of oil and dirty rags. The softness of the cloth. The time dad took to teach me. Check the barrels. Clean them. Oil them. Close it up and turn it in for the night.

I get it ya’ll. Guns are mesmerizing. And when we get into family heirlooms and things that tend to be precious to people, they can even seem romantic. 

And. Uncle Sam can have mine. 

I have the important stuff. I have memories of accomplishment. Of having fun. Of eating what I killed. Of my parent’s blessing. 

But let’s be real. I don’t need it. Especially not at this great of a cost. And if surrendering it or melting it down meant 19 children would still be alive, I’d take that deal faster than you can say “draw.”

Once upon a time, maybe I was a gun owner. Now I have kids. And even though we don’t live anywhere near Uvalde, Texas, yesterday’s shooting took place nowhere other than the elementary school my children attend. The Uvalde classroom was my daughter’s classroom. The students were her friends. The teachers. The administration. The children. The parents. They were all mine. 

I am done being quiet. My personal right to bear arms is not worth all this. And in the case of home invasion, I can do what I need to do with a taser. 

Which means it’s time to start having difficult conversations with people I respect. 

Now, when discussing gun control with gun owners, there are rules. And pastors are perfectly poised to live up to those rules. Rule #1: it’s gotta be one on one so that each can think for themselves without interference from any camp. Rule #2:  one should stay curious. Ask more questions than not. And Rule #3, most importantly, both parties, at least in the moment - in this conversation right here - they have to feel emotionally safe. Disarmed, if you will. Otherwise, neither will learn from the other. I have typically followed those rules and I respect them. 

But in your next discussion on gun control, look out for this one: You say “guns.” They say “mental health.” 

Nope. Sorry. 

As a hospital chaplain, I spent an enormous amount of time on the behavioral health floor listening to an array of patients. Everyone from the woman talking to her imaginary friend to the grieving widower. From the postpartum mom to the guy who lost his shit after losing his job. You guys. We are all up there on that floor. I saw you there. It could be a lost pet. It could be a mass suicide. We’re all just one bad day away from being admitted.

And this is where pastors can really be prophetic: 

Our individual bridges to insanity are closer and better disguised than we think. Mental Health is mute here; so we need to stop posting in the wrong thread. When we overhear, “That shooter was unstable,” The answer is, well yeah.  As are you. As am I. Level playing field.  

So they say “mental health” You call bullshit. You and I both know that the mental health crisis in the United States is going no where fast. Where better to hide the gun talk? How about under a giant pile of problems with no solution. 

Snarkiness aside, It’s the “othering” that really scares me. No matter which side we choose, we cannot distance ourselves from a shooter with mental-health talking points. I see your juke. It’s a clever one. But you’re also avoiding the questions. Ask. Ask yourself the questions:

What if I feel this?

What if the details touch me?

What if I start to care?  

What if I find something in common with the shooter?

Would that mean I, too, could potentially misuse a gun? 

And what does one want with a semi-automatic, anyway? Is it a trophy? Is it like the one they used during active service and it’s just what they know?  

Or even my beautiful side-by-side? What is that about? Is it fear? Is it the memories? Is it the way it feels against my shoulder? Is having that feeling - against my shoulder - worth it? Worth all those kids.

It’s time to check the barrels. Mine tell me I gotta own this one. Out Loud. I own my role in the Uvalde massacre because, as a faith leader, I couldn’t just admit that I don’t think guns belong here.   

Forget COVID. Denial is the Great American Pandemic. It’s a beautiful thing, denial. Something about the weight of it ... it all just floats away. But I smell oil burning. I smell dirty rags. There are no signs here of accomplishment. America does not have time to get it’s head around it’s mental health crisis BEFORE addressing it’s other little problem. We are dragging our feet on both issues and we cannot have it both ways.

© Summer Kemp-Schlemmer, May 25, 2022              © HearthsideTheology.com