Between God and Me and No One Else

A recent conversation with my husband, Ryan:

Me: "I have a hair appointment Thursday.  I'm going to have her cut my hair even shorter this time.  And dye it a little darker, too."
Ryan: "Okay."
Me: "It's kind of annoying having to go in for appointments more frequently to keep it shorter.  And always having to flat-iron it so it doesn't look weird.  I have honestly considered just shaving it off.  That would be way easier."
Ryan: "Haha.  Okay.  Your hair, your head."
Me: "Good answer, Babe."

And that is representative of how Ryan always responds in this type of conversation, not just regarding my hair.  My fitness level, my decision to have a permanent contraception procedure, my tattoos: I cannot think of anything having to do with my body – appearance or otherwise – that he has ever made me feel was anything other than my own decision.  And not out of indifference, either, but in a way that makes it clear that he will support whatever I decide.

It would simply never occur to my husband to think that I need his permission for any of these choices.  I'm only recently beginning to fully appreciate this about him.

When I was twelve, I wanted to start shaving my legs.  I tried to talk to my mom about it, but she told me I had to ask my dad.  My dad examined my shins (yes, really), said he didn't think they were that bad, so no shaving.  The discussion continued off-and-on for a few days, but he just didn't think it was necessary yet.  His mind was made up, the answer was no.

This is just one example of the many ways I was taught that choices about my body (or really any woman’s body) could not be made without the “wisdom” of a male authority.  In such teaching, the father is the intermediary until a girl is married, then her husband fills that role.  I still feel a twinge of humiliation about some of these things and still wrestle with the effects of being taught these (and other) distorted views about my body.  I know that my parents’ actions were a result of what they were taught in Evangelical/Homeschooling culture.  I know that they were not trying to humiliate me and they truly believed they were teaching me “Godly” principles.  I know I should be thankful that there are other areas where they did not adhere so strictly to the teachings from that culture. 

But still.

For years now, I have shaved my legs every single day.  Even during the cruel Midwestern winters when layers of warm clothing prevent so much as an ankle from peeking out.  Even when I was nine-months pregnant and unable to see my feet.  Even at times when Ryan and I are on completely opposite work schedules and don't see each other for days.  I shave my legs every single day for no other reason than I absolutely hate the way it feels not to have my legs shaved.  Read into that whatever else you will, but it’s my body and I’ll shave my legs if I want to.  I’ll also shave my head if I want to and get tattoos if I want to and never be pregnant again if I don’t want to.

I realize that will sound dangerously rebellious to some people; even as I wrote it, I could hear the teachings from my youth in the back of my mind trying to make me feel guilty for the boldness with which I am so publicly defying them.  But I've come to believe that much of what I was taught about bodies is a distortion of the truth.  Jesus was the Word made flesh, the mystery of the divine in physical, human form.  Why would God choose that if human bodies were something to be ashamed of?  Why would he give me a body if I couldn't even be trusted with the opportunity to make good choices with it?

I do not need to be ashamed of my body, nor do I need to look for the permission of some falsely-established human authority (father, husband, or otherwise) for the choices I make regarding it.  As long as I am not inflicting harm or dishonoring my commitments, no one else has a right to tell me what I should or should not do with the body God entrusted to me.

In fact, no one else has the right to make decisions for another person's body at all.  At my most basic, I am a person in a body – before I am a woman, a wife, or a mother.  A person’s body requires neither the approval nor the permission of another person. Maybe some of the choices I make (like my tattoos) are, at least in a way or in part, a physical symbol that I’m learning to embrace my body as a gift God gave to me and that I refuse to go back to a time when I was made to feel I couldn't be trusted to decide what is best for it.

And if I live more fully in my body with tattoos and shaved legs, that is between God and me and no one else.

"I do not recall ever being told that my flesh is good in church, 

or that God takes pleasure in it. 

Yet this is the central claim of the incarnation—

that God trusted flesh and blood to bring divine love to earth." - Barbara Brown Taylor

Speaking the Same Language

I was homeschooled beginning in forth grade until my senior year, when I enrolled in the local public high school. I went to classes there in the morning and took courses at community college in the afternoon. During that one year in public high school, I shared a table in study hall with two exchange students, Andre' and Maria. I know what you’re thinking and yes, that does tell you everything you need to know about how well I fit in that year. Lucky for me, Maria and Andre' are fun, friendly, welcoming people and became some of my dearest friends that year.

Andre' was from Brazil and spoke Portuguese and Maria was from Spain and spoke Spanish.  I am not a linguist, so forgive me if I don’t explain this well, but apparently the more Cuban dialect of Spanish that Maria spoke was enough similar to the Portuguese Andre' spoke, that they could have conversations with each other in their own native languages and almost completely understand each other. They weren't speaking the same language, but their own knowledge of words and phrases, along with context and possibly some English thrown in from time to time, allowed them to communicate with each other more effectively that way than in English.  It was fascinating to observe their interactions when they did this.

Several weeks ago, while discussing my new church with a friend, he asked me why I feel it is so important to go to church when I can clearly maintain my faith without attending church (as I have been doing for almost a year), through reading and personal study. He then admitted that it has always surprised him that I identify as “Christian,” because I don’t put off a “Christian vibe.” 

Back in my youth group days, a comment like that (especially from a "non-Christian") would have sent me into some sort of existential crisis, but I knew exactly what he meant. He and I have always been able to communicate well and discuss various topics even though we have some fundamental differences on faith and politics and social issues.

Something about this reminded me of Maria and Andre'.

I realized that the most meaningful conversations I have about my faith tend to be with people who do not share it. I think the reason I connect so well with my non-faith friends when we talk belief is that these friends care about the process by which we arrive at our beliefs in the same way I do. We may not have arrived at the same conclusions or share the same faith, but we understand each other because my sick-soul, messy, uncertain faith-process quite similarly mirrors the journey that led them to choose not to believe. Parallel journeys with different conclusions, similar enough that we can understand each other even if we haven't arrived at the same place.

Different languages, but with dialects that allow for connection and understanding and community. It is beautiful, and I would argue, holy, even if they would not use that same word.

I know. None of that explains why I need church.

As much as I care about and need my Atheist/Agnostic/Other friends, I've come to see that I also need to be part of a community where I can discuss my faith without the necessity of translating our dialects back-and-forth between faith and non-faith language. I have found a few of these people via blogging and social media and I don't mean to downplay how much I appreciate those connections, but I need some of those in-person connections as well.

I do have people in my life with whom I have Christianity in common. I have my family and I have friends from previous church communities. Yet even though we share the language of faith, our dialects are so drastically different it can be difficult to communicate without misunderstanding each other. We may try to have discussions, but we’re often left gazing at each other over a seemingly untraversable chasm of theological differences. I may have a close enough relationship with some of them that we can talk to each other without shouting angrily over the chasm, but our attempts can leave us exhausted from the effort required to make sure we are questioning thoughts and belief rather than attacking each other. It is often easier to find a common, non-faith-related topic to discuss to avoid making too much of our differences.

I need to be in community with people of faith who speak the same faith language and dialect that I speak. This is not to say that I do not love those who speak their faith differently or will stop trying to connect with them over our differences This is not to say that I no longer need my non-faith friends, because I do need them, and I love and appreciate them more than they could know. Yet I am also longing to sit at a table and hold hands in prayer and break bread and make eye contact with at least a few people who speak faith with the same dialect, accent, and syntax I use. I know we won't agree on everything, but we will be able to speak freely without translation required.

And that is why I need church.

Come September

I am falling in love.

I did not intend for this to happen.  If I’m honest, I did not think it was possible.

When I said I was going to play the field, it was grudgingly and because it seemed like a requirement, not because it was really what I wanted to do.  I honestly felt like it was hopeless.  

I know it's only been a couple of months, so I'm constantly reminding myself not to be overly optimistic.  I know the happy, fluttery feelings go away after a while and you start to see the flaws and the shortcomings. That's how the falling-in-love thing goes: After the initial starry-eyed euphoria, you're left trying to figure out if the good outweighs the less-than-perfect reality and if there is enough substance to sustain the relationship after the infatuation fades.

Only… falling in love with a church isn’t exactly like falling in love with a person.

It wasn’t as though there was any flirtation or wooing that took place before I gave it a shot.  I just showed up that first day, unannounced and without any kind of advance notice that would allow the dirty laundry to be hidden before I arrived.  The imperfections I've noticed to this point seem insignificant in light of the love and acceptance I've been experiencing.

Even now, after a couple of months, I feel more welcome each week.  No one is rude when I'm fumbling with the Prayer Book to find The Collect of the Day because I forgot to mark the page after the Opening Sentences.  No one gives me a weird look for needing to read along as we say the Nicene Creed or the Prayer of Confession, even though they all know these things by heart from years of hearing them.  People I've met in the previous weeks go out of their way to hug me when it's time for The Peace, even if I'm not sitting directly near them. 

I had no expectations.  I wasn't even entirely sure of what I was looking for.  I was not planning on this happening and yet I don't think I could stop it if I wanted to.

In attempt to reign in my enthusiasm, I've given myself six months.  I will not say out loud to anyone that I want to become a member of St. Patrick's Episcopal Church.  I will not allow myself to be impulsive, but it is so, so difficult.  I want to throw caution to the wind and commit.  I can hardly explain how unlike me all of this is.

I am not that person.  I am the eternal realist.  I am not the kind who turns a blind eye to any potential risks and runs headlong into the unknown.  I am not the person who assumes it is all going to turn out okay.  I am the person who is rarely surprised by disappointment because I'm usually anticipating it.  I know that many things never work out.  No one would ever seriously describe me as romantic or optimistic or perky.

Only… I can't stop thinking about St. Patrick's Episcopal Church.  I find that I am bummed if I have to miss a single Sunday, even if it is because I am out of town doing something fun.  I find myself thinking about the sermon for days.  I find myself fondly remembering conversations I had with people while I was there.

I grew up in church.  I've spent months of Sundays in a sanctuary, dutifully participating in worship services, but I was never in love The Church.  I never "got it" when people said they couldn't wait till Sunday.  I never understood why anyone would look forward to the end of the weekend.

Now I get it.

I guess falling in love with a church is a little like falling in love with a person. 

Falling in love with a church has helped me see that, even when so many other “little c” churches were a large part of what made me so cynical about the whole church thing, that doesn't mean there is nothing for me in The Church.  Finding St. Patrick's has helped me realize that it's not that there wasn't a church out there for me, it's just that I wasn't looking in the right places for where I fit in.

Come September, I expect I will be a member of a church for the first time ever.  Come September, I expect I'll be officially part of a church that is beautifully flawed and wonderfully perfect for me -- a place that I've already fallen in love with and is, already, unofficially, my home. 

I honestly never thought this would happen. 

"Real Men"

"Look at you, helping your mom like real men!"

Yes.  Someone said that to my boys this past weekend when they were helping me carry our luggage.

Oh, how I grow weary of this “real men” talk.

"You mean they are helping me because that is what we do… right?  We help each other.  And they are really good helpers."

Yes.  That was my response. 

Oh, the looks I receive for my gentle corrections of “real men” talk.

And no, this is not in the general public.  I do not fight those battles.  If some stranger makes a comment in passing that is especially bothersome to me and I know the boys hear it, we discuss it later, privately.  I only attempt these corrections with people who spend a lot of time around my kids.

I simply do not understand why it is so upsetting to some people that I refuse to raise my sons to think they should offer help or courtesy to others on the basis of gender.  I cannot understand why it bothers some people that I refuse to teach my sons that in order to be “real men” they should do things for women because women are somehow weaker and need them.  (I am apparently also harming their real manhood by my refusal to glorify guns and war and certain “manly” types of violence, but that is another post.)

Yes, I am a feminist and that does influence the way I raise my kids.  But I'm not trying to use my kids, who happen to be boys, as some kind of political or social statement.  I don't force them to read feminist literature or tell them negative things about men or try to make them “girly” or whatever else it is that people scared by feminism think that feminists do.  All I'm trying to do is raise my kids with values that promote equality, mutual respect, and healthy views of gender.

So when friends or family say things to my sons about being men in a context that makes it seem that the way we treat others hinges on gender instead of shared humanity, I am going to say something.  Not because I am trying to be difficult or because I am angry, but because it is contrary to the values I am trying to teach them.  I want my boys to know that showing kindness and courtesy to others – regardless of who they are – is part of how we value the image of God in others and in ourselves. 

I want my boys to be good men because they are good people who happen to be male, not because they fit a certain social or religious stereotype. 

I'm not trying to turn my kids into feminist activists, harm their sense of manhood, or teach them women are better than men; I'm trying to raise kids who truly understand equality. 

Yes, I am teaching them to hold doors open and help carry luggage and lots of other things many may consider chivalry, but not because those are things “real men” are supposed to do.  I'm teaching them these things because those are just a few of the countless ways to show we understand the inherent value of every other person.  And if someone doesn’t want the help they offer, that is okay as well.

Behavior matters, but so do the attitudes and thoughts behind that behavior. I am trying to teach my boys that the behavior they exhibit toward other people should come from the desire to show respect, kindness, empathy, and love, rather than teaching them attitudes that assign worth to others based on gender or how well a person fits into certain roles. 

So really, there is no need for eye rolling or concerned looks when I politely dispute the “real men” comments directed at my boys.  It is fine to complement their kindness and helpfulness or to tell them it is appreciated when they do something nice without being asked, but there is no reason to use their positive behavior to create differences where none need to exist. 

I may not be out there on the front lines, fighting the good fight against patriarchy, sexism, male privilege and the like.  I may not be able to single-handedly eradicate from this earth all the attitudes and views that are harmful to both women and men.  But I will speak up when people say things to me or to my children that promote and reinforce them. 

And I hope my sons are learning to do the same.

Go Do

I work in IT.  That is not to say that I am an IT person, because I am not.  I simply work for an IT company, writing reports about things that go wrong and tracking identified actions to completion.  As part of the training I’ve received in this role, I finished course work and two projects to receive a certification for Lean Six Sigma Green Belt. 

Stay with me here, I promise the entire post is not about this. 

Lean Six Sigma projects are quite detailed with specific steps of data gathering and planning and risk analysis and result measuring and progress reporting.  If you manage a Lean Six Sigma project, you will likely be involved for months, possibly years, completing all the steps and requirements before achieving the desired outcome.  In the course of planning a project, however, if you identify what is called a “go do,” you can simply get the people you need and go do it, without all of the following of steps required for a full project.

I’ve been thinking that for quite some time my blogging has been similar to a drawn-out Lean Six Sigma project.  I’ve spent a lot of time researching and analyzing and writing, mainly regarding my faith, but without identifying or completing any go do items.   Not that I haven't been doing anything.  I work full time and have kids.  What I mean is that I haven't completed go do items resulting from all of this unraveling and listening and reading and weaving I've been writing about.

It is not necessarily bad that I’ve spent so much time writing in this way.  Sometimes writing is the only way I can organize my thoughts and figure out the how and why behind my feelings.  I type and type and type until things start to make sense or until I get to the root questions and then I can go back and cut and paste it into some kind of meaningful thought.  Writing is very important to me.  I don’t intend to stop writing.

What I do need to figure out is what direction my writing needs to take.  I have been moved or inspired or infuriated by news stories or other blog posts I’ve read and have started writing responses to many of them.  I have numerous drafts sitting in my dashboard hashing out my thoughts on everything from gun control to abortion to modesty culture to motherhood.  Some of these drafts are even completed and edited, but I always hesitate to click "publish" and almost always talk myself out of it  I’m simply not sure that is the direction I should be taking at this point. 

There are some truly amazing bloggers out there who have a calling to delve into these topics and turn them over with their words to expose the hurt and truth and complexities.  I appreciate those writers and reading their perspectives is extremely beneficial to me as I wrestle with where I stand.  But I also read books and listen to sermons and have conversations with people, often stopping just short of certainty or complete agreement on any of the seemingly urgent topics of the day.  It seems to me that if I’m unable to come up with an explanation that does justice to the complexity of how I arrived where I am with my beliefs, I’m not sure it is helpful for me to write in a way that is anything other than trying to make sense of my personal struggles.

So instead of writing to convince others to think what I think or to criticize what others are saying/doing/believing, I need to focus my writing on what allows me to work out where I should be going and what I should be doing.  And then I need to go.  And do.  Again, I love to read what is written by the people I respect and admire and I love to write.  But more and more I've realized that I need to focus on doing.  Not that writing isn’t doing anything, but I can't only read and think and write without it producing action on my part. 

Now that I think of it, it’s not entirely accurate what I wrote earlier about not finding a single go do in all this time.  I did identify one: find a church.  And I did it.  And it feels awesome to have stopped obsessing over the whole church thing and to actually have done something about it.  Now I just have to figure out what is my next go do and go do it.

Enough

Enough: occurring in such quantity, quality, or scope as to fully meet demands, needs, or expectations
1: in or to a degree or quantity that satisfies or that is sufficient or necessary for satisfaction
2: fully, quite
3: in a tolerable degree


In most instances, I like the word “enough.”  "Enough" is an improvement from "adequate," but doesn't indicate "excess."  The demands or requirements are met, but I haven't gone overboard.  The word "enough" can be such a calming word.  It makes me think of phrases like:

You don’t have to keep worrying.
You don't have to keep struggling.
You have what you need.
You've done what you can.
You ARE enough.

Those are good thoughts. I like those phrases.

I know settling for “enough” in all aspects of life is not right.  There are places that call for continued investment or for not saying that where I am is enough.  Important relationships, learning, certain goals – those are a few areas where settling for "meets expectations" doesn't work. Those are areas that deserve my best efforts.

Yet, in places where "enough" is acceptable, I need to let it be just that: enough.  I know I have a tendency to obsess a bit about things.  Even after I've realized that more is not going to produce a better outcome or provide additional clarity or create a more desirable situation, I'll keep going back to it in my mind and over-thinking it.  Or over-doing it.  Or I'll keep going back to it and writing about it again and again from different perspectives.

Enough is enough, as they say.  The first place I need to accept this is in writing about how shattered and broken my faith and beliefs have been.  It's not that it doesn't matter anymore, it's just that to keep going back to it is splitting my focus.  It's time for me to turn my attention in a new direction.  It's time for me to approach new topics in my writing.  It's time for me to move on.

I've written about it enough. 

I Think I Found a Church

Yesterday, when I sat in the old, worn pew in the back of the sanctuary and we chatted, I have to admit I began a bit guarded.  When I'd called the church office to ask about newcomer classes, she suggested that rather than waiting for them to arrange another session, I come in and meet with her, the parish priest.  I know I'd readily agreed to it, but I was still a little nervous.

The rectory office was in the midst of a re-organization effort and the common area was busily being rearranged for an upcoming activity, so the sanctuary was the only free space when I arrived at our agreed time.  It was mostly quiet, save for the kids from the free preschool they run listening to a lesson up on the stage.  It's not an enormous church, but the last pew is far enough back that we couldn't hear them. 

She asked about my church background and what brought me to St. Patrick's.  In a few quick minutes I explained growing up in church and then trying to find the right place after the boys were born and then becoming a church drop-out to study my faith and try to figure out where I belonged.  I tried very hard not to ramble.  I think I did okay.

We talked about what I've been reading -- Richard Beck, Rachael Held Evans, Thomas Keating, Barbara Brown Taylor, Miroslav Volf.  She is a good listener.  Sunlight was streaming in through the windows and it felt like a holy moment, even though I'm not sure I believe there is such a thing.

Looking me in the eyes, she said, "You are so young and that is quite a journey.  You are brave to keep trying.  A lot of people give up."  I detected no hint of condescension or insincerity or flattery in her voice.  I kept my composure and asked about her journey, but my heart was breaking open in the most excruciating and beautiful of ways.   

When she considered her words and said that she knew there were some things she may be wrong about, but that she kept praying and seeking understanding and grace, I felt hopeful. 

When she said that I would find people in the congregation who held opposing political and social views, she stretched her arms out wide to demonstrate the full reach of those differences.  But when she assured me that the congregation strongly believes we are one in Christ and are called to share the table even with those differences, I felt like I was hearing the church I've been listening for. 

When she said that they aren't always perfect at it, that they are a place comprised of people which means they will never be perfect, I laughed and told her that if she'd tried to convince me her church was perfect I would have known it was not the place for me.  I told her that her congregation was the most welcoming I'd ever experienced and that each Sunday at least two people I hadn't met yet made a point of chatting with me, and she said she was very glad to hear I'd been made welcome.

She didn't try to pressure me to continue attending or for any kind of commitment, she simply said that based on our conversation, she thinks the Episcopal church seems like a good fit for me.  She encouraged me to call her if I have any questions and agreed to come up with some books for me to read to learn more about their traditions and beliefs.  And then she gave me a big hug and said she enjoyed talking with me. 

I waited till I got to my car to let the tears fall.

At the beginning of this year I didn't know if I would ever feel at home in a church again.  Four months later -- after only six Sunday mornings there -- and I can't imagine finding anywhere else that feels more like home.

They are having a dinner/fund-raiser Saturday night to benefit the local interfaith homeless ministry.  She'd seen that I signed up to attend and as we discussed it, she mentioned that she is going to speak for a few minutes beforehand.  The topic?  Weaving the Fabric of Life.

Maybe there is the slightest possibility I do believe in holy moments after all.