When You Cling to the Rising

Today on SheLoves I am writing when I am in the middle of something. Really just at the very beginning. It is probably better and prudent to wait until the whole thing pans out so I can either never speak of it, or speak of it often to the glory of God. But I am not doing that. Instead I am clinging to the rising of hope. I am publicly Hoping that this thing just might work. 

“But how? How are we going to accomplish that, God? How is this going to happen?” It was one of those chicken and egg problems. I needed a space to generate the art to get the funds, but I needed the funds to get the space where I could put the artist. I really needed an artist, but I didn’t have the funds or the space for that either.

I had been dreaming with my pastor about the intersection of art and justice. If God is a creative God who creates all people to create, what does that say about the lack of opportunity for our brothers and sisters who are experiencing homelessness, who do not have access to ways of creation? No laptop for writing, no instruments, no paint and brushes and easels. How can we facilitate all people to create in the image of our creator? These were the questions we were asking, but we hadn’t even begun articulating an answer, when an artist showed up to eat breakfast with us.

You can read the rest here.

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Evangelical Church: In the wake of banning refugees, what do you believe?

If you spent your teens years in an evangelical youth group, you know about the 10/40 window. As I have very poor spacial awareness, maps and globes never meant much to me, but I knew that the box between 10 and 40 degrees north of the equator with huge amounts of poverty and no access to Jesus. At least, that is what I learned when I was being implored to pray for these people. And I did pray for these people.

In stadiums full of other kids learning about Jesus and just how sold out we had to be for him, I learned about muslim countries and how going there for Jesus might just be the death of us. I learned we should do it anyway. I was told that the gospel was worth my life, that Jesus may call me into dangerous places. I was told that I should follow Jesus no matter the cost. I pledged that I would and I meant it.

I went to college and majored in English education so that I would have a skill to rely on and a good cover to get into countries closed to christians. I joined bible studies that also had a 10/40 bent. I heard stories of people praying on the sly in restaurants while pretending they were commenting on the pictures on the walls. I read emails and updates where everyone’s names had been changed to the names of candy bars and I spent weeks and months faithfully praying for “Kit Kat” and “Reese Cup” to know the grace of God.

I was told that God could and would change the hearts of these people, if we were only willing to follow Jesus no matter the cost, God promised that it would be worth it. God would make a way when there seeme to be  no way.  I believed it. I still do.

The same churches that taught me to love my global muslim neighbors as myself, before myself, are the same churches who categorically voted for a president who has made good on the campaign promise of a muslim ban. He said he would ban muslims from entering this country and he has. Many who sent me to my knees, weeping on behalf of the 10/40 window are complicit in sending those same people to die in the very places we begged God for access to.

The muslim people that we knew only God could reach are in our airports, and the church is complicit in turning them away. You asked me to give my life. You told me it would be worth it eternally, and now you cry SAFETRY FIRST to mostly women and children who are desperately looking for safety.

The same church that told me that people were dying eternally damned because no one was willing to risk their life to tell these people about Jesus, is the same church that is telling me it isn’t safe for these women and children to be in our neighborhoods. I thought following Jesus was worth the risk.

You wonder why the millenials, even those raised in your churches, are exiting your pews en masse. It isn’t because we didn’t believe what you were saying. It is because we did. We believed you. You said, go do something dangerous for God and we said YES! But when it was your turn to welcome these people you said it was too  dangerous. We still want a Jesus who is worth following no matter the cost.

The evangelical church told us that souls were on the line, that eternal life was at stake. But the evangelical church was willing to elect a president who staked his claim on banning muslims. The church voted for that. You with your big T Truth and your make Godly choices, you decided that refugee banning was worth it.

My theology has moved quite a bit since those days. I am now a proud member of a mainline liberal congregation. I go to a liberal seminary and find my current beliefs well represented there.

But I will never forget my theological mother tongue. I know the evangelical message well. It introduced me to God and the power of Jesus Christ, and for that I will always be grateful.

As a daughter of the evangelical church I am asking: What do you really believe? If you really believe that anyone who hasn’t accepted Jesus Christ as their savior is eternally damned, wouldn’t you demand that any muslim who wants to can come in? Wouldn’t it be worth whatever risk there may be for the chance to introduce this muslim to Jesus?  This is what you told me. I believed it. My question now is, do you?

 

 

 

 

Not My Business

I talk about this instance a lot. Like, a lot. The one time I preached, I talked about it and that is the piece of the sermon that most often people tell me stuck with them. That not my business is such a hard lesson for me to learn.

“Mommy, that not you business.”

I think this was the most important thing anyone has ever said to me. It was said to me by a child who could not yet use the potty on her own. It was said to me from a five-point harness I had to buckle, because her tiny thumbs didn’t work well.

“Mommy, that not you business.”

At that time, I was worried about the state of someone else’s heart. I was worried about the ways I was being perceived. I was worried about everything except for me and what I was feeling and thinking and choosing. I was worried about everything, except the thing that was actually my business.

Now this tiny prophet is just a little bit bigger. She comes home every once in a while with reports she didn’t get her work done.  When I ask her why, she shrugs. “I didn’t want to. I was bored with it. Everyone else at the table was doing something I did want to do.”

You can read the rest at She Loves. I just love that place. 

When it is still Christmas, and Christmas is Inconvenient.

I met a friend at Target the day after Christmas. Specifically we met at the Starbucks in the Target. There is also a Starbucks in the Kroger, and in the Barnes and Noble . The Edgewood shopping center is convenient like that. You can get your coffee fix wherever you already are. No extra stop necessary.

I needed a planner. As we finished our drinks we wandered around the Target, my friend and I on a totally predictable and also perfect mom date I couldn’t seem to settle on one, but I did find an awesome Christmas tablecloth on clearance. Apparently, the Target clearance bins are not subject to the liturgical calendar. On the 26th of December Christmas has to go. By the time I checked out all the planners at Barnes and Noble and decided what I really needed at Target were some brush markers, the dollar spot had been completely cleared of Christmas, and Valentines day was securely in place.

Didn’t anyone tell Target there were twelve days of Christmas and we were only on number two? No time for lingering on the virgin birth of God in the flesh, we have the next thing to sell! The next to anticipate! Christmas trees are dropping their needles and we need to MOVE ON ALREADY. Those decorations are beautiful but we are tired of bumping our heads on the hanging garland and the tree is taking up too much room in the living area. We need more free space so we can embrace our NEW lives in our NEW year. Get that stuff put away.

This last day of Christmas I have to admit that I have been obsessed with Mary in a way that I haven’t been since I was great with child on Christmas Eve. Her life got totally jacked up. What dreams died to her the moment she said YES to God? What was she sacrificing? Did she ever grieve it, the way she thought things would go?

I wonder a lot about Mary, if people thought she was completely insane her entire life. If she ever looked God dead in the face and said “this is not what I signed up for.” I wonder if she ever felt like it wasn’t worth it, and sometimes I wonder if she was the first person the angel came to. I wonder sometimes if she wasn’t number three, two others too scared to be blessed by God. I don’t think this actually happened, but I don’t know that I would blame those ladies if it did.

I am wondering a lot about Mary, and the ways that saying a bold YES to God permanently inconvenienced her life, an unexpected pregnancy, a swift and terrified detour to Egypt, years without introducing Baby Jesus to her mom. I am sure, that it was awful watching Jesus on the cross, and I am sure that she had a unique and beautiful joy when she embraced the miracle of the resurrection. Only a mother’s love, you know?

I am 33 and could have retired as a teacher at 52. But instead I am in seminary, surrounded by mostly 20 somethings and wondering what the heck I am doing. Where will I be when this all ends? I have no idea. Church? maybe. Chaplaincy? Maybe. With a writing career that is helped by MDiv. beside my name? I don’t know. I know that this decision isn’t the safest financially. I look at the expression on my husbands face as the budget gets tighter and dream of a home where neither of us are in school. My kids will be 10 and 9 at my graduation. They don’t know a life where one of us isn’t in school. Going back to school was kind of inconvenient, it wasn’t what I planned.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the inconvenience of Jesus coming as a baby, for really all parties involved. Babies are a lot of things, but not exactly paradigms of efficiency. They come when they want, they sleep when they want, they spit and poop on whatever they want. Plans with a new born need to be flexible whether or not you plan them that way. I wonder if it also wasn’t inconvenient for God, to be cold and have no way to tell anyone to pull up his blanket a little, to become a human and not even have control over his bowels. I wonder if God also didn’t wish a little to move on already.

I have been thinking a lot, about how inconvenient twelve whole days of Christmas is. I think maybe God isn’t really interested in our convenience. I think maybe our need to move on already is exactly what needs interrupted. Twelve days of Christmas is terribly inconvenient, and being pregnant unexpectedly while still being a virgin is terribly inconvenient, and being a baby is inconvenient. I think perhaps that is exactly where we meet God.

 

Where There is Smoke

The mountains have been burning. I live in Atlanta, and for days and days just north of here there has been a forest fire. The mountains that I can get to in just a short car ride are burning. Someone told me this was happening. There was one lone voice on my Facebook feed who had been shouting for months that there was a drought. She showed pictures of scrawny cows. She had grave concerns that this was going to land us in a fire situation. I mean, I guess I believed her. I knew that I should probably be praying for rain. When I thought about it I guess I realized that the dog park was a lot dustier than usual. Mostly, I didn’t think about it, mostly it wasn’t affecting me.

A few days ago the smoke finally reached my city. You go outside and it smells like a camp fire, but also like factory smoke. You stay outside and your lungs burn. I heard on the radio today that the air quality has been rated “unhealthy for everyone.” You come back inside and your clothes and hair smell like they did some late nights in college. You didn’t smoke but most of your friends on the speech team, and that cute boy you liked did. So you went outside when they needed a cigarette and you came back into your dorm room reeking as if you had lit up yourself. Everything smells like smoke. My lungs burn. Didn’t my friend tell me that the mountains were on fire?

I knew that the mountains were on fire, but I didn’t really know. I didn’t get it. I read somewhere that it is very very hard for the human brain to understand suffering we don’t see, that it is difficult to understand experiences that we have only heard about. I saw the skinny cows. I knew there was a drought. I knew this could lead to fire. I knew, I mean, I had heard, that the smoke was coming. I didn’t really understand until my lungs were burning.

I think I could say the same about Brexit. Some of my closest friends live across the pond. They were shocked and horrified that their country voted to exit the EU. They were stunned that people they knew and loved voted on the fear of immigrants and people who did not look like them. My British friends were looking at the rise of Donald Trump. They began telling me it was possible in America, that the same conditions, the drought of racially charged hate and fear, and brushing away of “it isn’t that bad” may very well lead to a fire. I shrugged. This couldn’t possibly be happening.

My friends of color tried to tell me of the fires they had seen in their own life. They tried to tell me that the mostly safe America with the occasionally bad racist person was not the America they knew. They tried to tell me that I knew more people who were going to vote for Donald Trump then I thought I did. They tried to tell me that their were more people than I thought who would ignore and explain away the racist vitriol as ‘just talk.’ I guess I knew that they maybe had a different perspective than I did. I saw maybe pictures of their reality, but I didn’t really understand. They told me how things were getting uglier and uglier. They had seen the fire, I still had not smelled the smoke.

The days following the election, I could finally smell the smoke in the air. I thought of my daughter’s kindergarten teacher who wears a hijab. I worried about my black friends in mostly white classrooms. I saw the terrified faces of my classmates. I hugged my LGBTQ friends. I processed my own feelings of betrayal. I opened my eyes to how many people in America were still totally unwilling to have a woman in the office, no matter who she was running against.

Because of my position in society I still do not see the fire very often, just moments of it here or there. But I can smell the smoke now. The breathing of it burns my lungs. I can smell the smoke and I am committed to not shutting myself indoors and hoping it will go away. I am committed to watching closely and better understanding. I am committed to praying for rain.

When this is a Plea for Compassionate Conservatism

I grew up in an evangelical church, and one of the biggest gifts it gave me was the gift of learning how to do my part. We had special offerings for the heifer project through Sunday school and VBS, spent youth group Saturdays painting homeless shelters for women and children. The church I grew up in taught me about sharing what I had, giving joyfully so that everyone would have enough, being lead by compassion to make the world right. Whether it was raking leaves for widows, or making blankets for foster kids, I learned early and often that I was the hands and feet of Jesus.

I never really understood the rolling of the eyes when my liberal college friends talked about compassionate conservatives. That wasn’t an oxymoron as far as I was concerned, that was the truth of the people who raised me. They were conservative, yes, but they were the most caring compassionate people I have ever met.

As I grew older, my views became more liberal. My story is the opposite of the crazy liberal in college, move more conservative in my thirties trope. But still I believed in the compassionate conservative. My relatives, the people in my church, my friends from high school all wanted the same things I did, good schools, good jobs for people, families able to take care of themselves, accessible health care, we just disagreed on the best ways to go about those things. They were conservative, these friends of mine, but only because they honestly believed that was the best way for all of America to flourish.

I was shocked when Trump won the election because I didn’t recognize any of my republican friends and relatives in the things that he said. I assumed they weren’t voting for him. I thought they were as horrified as I was. I grew up in the Ohio and Michigan area. I went to college in Indiana where I  met and married a Hoosier from a very small town. The people I am talking about, the ones who raised me, I know statistically many of them did vote for Trump, and I am struggling mightily to understand how that could be true.

81 percent of white evangelicals voted for Trump. This statistic is cited often in my house, as we look astonished at the results of the election. I do not understand how the people who taught my Sunday school classes and told me to love my enemies would vote for a man who led chants of “lock her up” and “build a wall.”

I wrestle with the idea that very many of the people who taught me to be kind and good and loving voted for Trump, I am hoping that the same people who taught me how to be compassionate, will demand from this president a compassionate conservatism. I am hoping that the people who taught me to use my words to love others will call out the hateful speech of the men the President elect is surrounding himself with. I am praying that the silence I am hearing is just them rounding up the troops to demand a better way.

I still want to believe in compassionate conservatism. I still want to work with my conservative friends, but I need them to speak out against the very things they taught me to abhor.

Compassionate conservatism would speak out against Steve Bannon. If you don’t know who he is, who the alt right is, then go ahead and Google it. Or you could hear it from Kristen, who was harassed by the Breitbart crew in way that are horrendous and inhumane. The man said he was down with being Dark like Satan. Where are my compassionate conservatives calling this out?

Compassionate conservatism would have serious reservations about Jeff Sessions. They would be horrified at the idea of an attorney general joking about the KKK and using the N word. They would say that this is completely unacceptable.

Compassionate conservatism would love refugees, especially Syrian refugees. I spent so much of my youth being told to pray for the 10/40 window, to pray for God to make a way for the muslim stronghold to be introduced to Jesus. It is unfathomable to me that the same people who had me on my face crying out for the souls of the world, now want those souls to return home. This is the chance for us to show them who Jesus is, to let them experience the love and welcoming of Christ.

Compassionate conservatism makes room for other people’s fear, even if they do not agree that there is a need to be afraid. My dad called me after the election. He had heard from my sister that I was crying a lot. He just wanted to tell me it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was. I told him I was afraid because Steve Bannon was being pegged as the chief strategist. I told him of sometimes getting emails that tell me that someone hopes my kids get raped. I told him of how much worse it is for other people. He didn’t laugh and tell me I was over reacting. He told me he loved me. He told me he was praying for me. He told me he would try to protect me.

Compassionate conservatism would be seriously concerned that people with disabilities are worried about the repealing of the Affordable Care Act. I know the act isn’t perfect. I know there is a lot wrong with it. I know it is against a lot of conservative ideals. But compassionate conservatism would want to make sure that the access to health care the ACA granted is maintained to everyone who needs it. Compassionate conservatism would want to make sure that everyone has access to health care. It would find a fiscally conservative way to do that.

Compassionate conservatism would be loudly against hate crimes and derogatory names. Compassionate conservatism would not answer my real fear that my LGBTQ friends, my kids teachers, my friends of color, are being harassed with a “you know Trump supporters are being yelled at too.” They would hear the fear, they would sit with people they do not agree with and hear them out. I know because I have seen them do it a hundred times over.

I learned about loving my enemy and praying for those who persecute me from the compassionate conservative community that raised me. I learned about speaking up for what is right and making sure that everyone in the room is being taken care of. I learned from my compassionately conservative tribe how to love and care for all, even when you disagree or don’t understand.

I am grateful for those lessons, lessons about turning the other cheek and being the hands and feet of Jesus. They have shaped my heart in ways I treasure. I am grateful that love and making things right was taught to me from the beginning.

But I am wondering where that voice is now? I have been calling my congress people to voice my concerns about hate and anger and the people who Trump is surrounding himself with. But I am aware that my voice may not hold much clout. I am a left-wing lady at a liberal seminary, who lives in the heart of a blue bubble in a red state. I don’t really identify as evangelical anymore.

With 81 percent of the Evangelical vote going to Trump, I believe that my old tribe is in a unique place to maybe make a difference. I am asking you to hold the line for compassionate conservatism. I am asking you to practice what I have always heard you preach.

On Letting Go

I have a friend at church who likes to smile at me when I tell her I don’t want to study. Two years ago, on Sunday evening, she usually sat next to me at Bible Study and she watched me ugly cry all over myself as I realized I could not teach any longer. She watched me howl as I realized I was going to have to do it one more year. She looks at me on Sundays now and asks me if seminary is sweet for me. She tells me how sweet it is for her, to watch me move into something new, something that does not make me cry in despair on Sundays.

Those Sundays I was crying it wasn’t just about that I did not want to go back to work. It was that I did  not want teaching to die for me. I didn’t want it to die. I did not know who I was or what I was going to do if it died. I was a teacher, I was good at it, people needed me. What would happen if I didn’t do it any more? But I couldn’t do it anymore.

And I said goodbye for a whole year. I tried to slip out. I tried to avoid my goodbyes. I tried to not have to deal with the leaving, the dying, the letting go. Last year was hard, but it was a total gift to me. I walked out knowing that this was the end of the road. I loved my students well and hard, but we didn’t abandon each other. We looked at each other and told the truth. I needed to let go on purpose.

And I said hello this fall. To a new thing, to a new situation. I know for many people the first year in seminary is hard, it is a letting go of a lot of things. It is crying and begging God to show you who you are. I am not experiencing that. I am experiencing a mentor who tears up when he tells me he has been praying that me and my peers would come for a long time. He says he has been waiting for us. I am undone by this. I am undone by the thought that even as I was afraid. Even as I did not want to let go. Even as I wanted to leave without letting go, God was preparing a place for me.

If you are in a season of letting go, please know I am praying for you. But more than that, please know that the space you have right now is not the only space ever for you. If you are being called to leave, you are also being called into a place that God has for you.