OneWord 2013

At the beginning of the year, I wrote an awkward post about how the word "weave" was going to be my word for 2013. I had a vague idea of how it was going to go: I would figure out how to put myself back together and I would write about it. I wasn't so naive to think I completely knew what I was doing, but I figured that was okay because I would work it out as I went.

I was wrong.

I managed to write about my word several times, but I did not figure out how to put myself back together. I have not figured out much of anything.  All I did was begin the year with a certain thought in mind and take a few steps I thought might support it. From the outside looking in, my life probably seems the same now as it was in January.

And yet, I feel as though nothing is the same at all.

I cannot possibly view the world, other people, or even myself. the way I did a year ago.  I've started grasping the hem of writings on incarnation and intersectionality and prayer and true self and peace and so much wisdom from those whose life experience is vastly different from mine, and yet still connected to mine through shared faith. At this point, I can offer you neither proof nor a coherent explanation of how this wisdom is weaving together in my life.  All I can offer is that my spirit feels different - both restless and at rest, both filled with doubts and grounded in truths, both tangled in questions and buoyed by hope.

I've found a home in the Episcopal Church. I've discovered that I better engage with the mystery of Christ through the seasons of the liturgy and I've found people with whom I feel an inexplicable kinship.  In many ways I feel like a refugee seeking solace in that tradition, yet I also feel like a person born in exile, who has finally been welcomed home.

I know I should be attempting to summarize my OneWord experience, but I simply cannot.  I feel this year has been a gift in ways I completely do not understand, but I hesitate to name it thus because I'm still trying to figure out how it has come about. I longed for these changes, but I did not know they were what I was longing for, nor did I cause them to happen. The weaving, the peace, the hope - it has happened and is happening as I read the words of monks and prophets and saints, and as I discover new insights that I am only beginning to comprehend.  I am at once thankful and in awe and humbled and borderline incredulous.

In one of my earlier posts about my OneWord, I wrote:

There was a time when.... I tried to believe that God was up there directing every detail of my life – from the grade I got on a test to finding a pair of shoes in my size on sale.  But I just don’t believe that now.  I do believe we are created in God’s image and I do believe that God is there, but I also think many things just happen. 

I still don't believe that God is directing every single detail of my life like some kind of cosmic puppeteer, but I can't deny that there seems to be no logical explanation for how how certain things have come together this year. I have to admit that in the past twelve months I've seen glimpses of what, despite all my doubts, I can only attribute to the Divine.

Considering my life as a weaving-together instead of an unraveling has made me more open to the ordering of what had previously been a tangled, unraveled mess.  It has caused me to look for connections where I never would have before. I know I'm not done. I can't wrap up this word and put it on a shelf on December 31st as though it were a completed project and all the pieces of my life are now woven into a finished product.

The weaving will continue at its own pace and in its own time. I have no idea how different or similar my life will look next year at this time, but right now, in this moment, I'm so very thankful for whatever or whomever promoted me choose the word weave.

It's been quite a year.

More than 'Just' Friends

Relationships between men and women that do not involve romance and sex are usually referred to as ‘just’ friend relationships… few people seem aware that ‘just’ friend relationships can blossom into relationships of dialogical love. Those of us who have experienced the abundant being that can come from a deep personal relationship with a person of the opposite sex would never speak of our relationship as ‘just.’  Calling these relationships ‘just’ is not only misleading; it trivializes the relationship in a way that seems sacrilege. – John Scudder and Anne Bishop quoted in Sacred Unions, Sacred Passions

Some of my dearest friends are women whom I deeply and intimately love.  Because of the deep bonds we have formed, I would never say these women are ‘just’ friends.  I also have several dear friends who are men.  Yes, I am committed to honoring the vows I've made to my husband – and my cross-gender friendships my be of varying levels of familiarity and physical proximity – but I could never with good conscience say they qualify as ‘just’ friends simply because these friends aren't women.  

Several years ago I reconnected on Facebook with someone from my high school years.  It was right at the beginning of all my unraveling, when my process looked ugly and angry and I often argued with people who still believed all the old things I was in the process of discarding.  Even though he is hundreds of miles away, he was a gracious and calming presence, never balking at my anger or turning away when I was far from gracious.  From his years of religious study, he generously shared his perspective in response to my theological questions when I asked.  He introduced me to Volf and Keating and kindled my love for theological reading.  He would gently rein me in when I was disregarding the value of another person's unique life-experience for the sake of winning an argument.   

There is an undeniable bond that forms when someone can look past your pain and ugliness while you burn down the framework of your life, and treat you as though you've already risen from the ashes.  A person who does that is not ‘just’ a friend.

Five years ago, over shared office observations and a similar sense of humor, I became friends with the guy who sat on the other side of my cubical wall.  We don’t sit near each other anymore, but we still chat with each other every work day.  We share stories of what is going on in our lives outside of work and try to add a little levity to the daily grind.  Sometimes we go to lunch and talk about our kids.  Sometimes we grab a beer after work and commiserate about our jobs.  We talk a lot about beliefs, which can be a challenge considering that we could not be more different from each other when it comes to faith and politics, but we navigate the conversations with a great deal of mutual respect. 

There is an undeniable bond that forms when someone becomes a witness to your daily life and allows you to be a witness to theirs.  A person who does that is not ‘just’ a friend.

I have an ongoing dialogue with a long-distance friend I met over social media.  He messaged me one day to say he’d read some of my posts and that my thoughts and unraveling process resonated with him. We have swapped stories about our similar youth experiences and navigating family relationships while straying from our upbringing.  We check in with each other regularly, discussing work and faith and posts we read online, and we frequently swap prayer requests and commit to praying for each other.

There is an undeniable bond that forms when one person is vulnerable enough to reach out to another person and say, “Yeah. Me too.” and the two of you commit to regularly praying for each other.  A person who does these things is not ‘just’ a friend.

The reason I’m sharing about my experience with cross-gender friendships is to bear witness to their significance in my life.  They aren't taking the place of my relationship with my husband, but they are extremely important to me.  If someone has looked close enough to see all of my messiness and chosen to live life with me anyway – that person is dear to my heart.  The appropriate response when I reflect on all my close friendships should be to readily acknowledge that she or he is a dear friend or a kindred spirit or even a person I love deeply.  Life is too fleeting to distance myself from people who mean so much to me because I’m clinging to a religious or cultural narrative that is preoccupied with sex and only allows me to see my friends as “men” or "women" rather than individuals with whom I've formed a relationship that is a vital part of my life.  

//

Several weeks ago, Natalie Trust wrote a blog series prompted by Dan Brennan's book Sacred Unions, Sacred Passions on the subject of cross-gender friendships.  This book was already on my to-read list and after reading Natalie’s posts (here, here, and here) I moved the book to the top of my reading stack.  I appreciate Natalie for inspiring me to read it sooner rather than later and I’m thankful to Dan Brennan for writing it. For most of my life, the most prominent narratives about relationships between men and women have been ones that are narrow, contradictory, and often promoted shame and confusion.  We are often cautioned against cross-gender friendships because attraction or closeness are equated with sex, even though the same type of relationship with someone of the same gender would be encouraged.

What Dan Brennan does in his book is provide historical, social, and spiritual reasons – ranging from an exploration of pre-Freud friendships to insights we can glean from teachings on chastity in the Catholic tradition – for why we should reevaluate how we think about cross-gender friendships and embrace a new narrative; he does this while providing a depth of insight to help establish that narrative.  Reading Sacred Unions, Sacred Passions and engaging in Natalie's discussions has been extremely valuable to me as I continue to unravel much of what I was taught about gender and relationships.  
 

I appreciated the analysis and criticism of the romantic myth an how it affects both our romantic and non-romantic relationships.  Dan explains, 

Idealizing romantic passion as the unique, one-and-only, exclusive form of love between a man and a woman has created a pervasive romantic myth in our contemporary world when it comes to male-female paired relationships…This is the fruit of romantic idealism, not romantic realism. The notion that one idealized relationship is the be-all, end-all for passion, intimacy, emotional commitment, friendship, happiness, fidelity, and depth, has a cluster of powerful myths supporting it…

The myths to which he is referring are found both in Christian culture (which tends to idolize marriage) and also in popular culture (with the idolization of romance and sex in movies, books, television, and music). I have seen personally the devastation the romantic myth can cause to marriages and the tainted light it can cast on friendships.  

I know that words like “passion” and “intimacy” have become synonyms for sex and can make some uncomfortable in the context of friendship, but the real synonyms for those words are actually: affection, fondness, love, familiarity, belonging, warm friendship, faithfulness, and loyalty.  In fact, the definition for the word 'intimate' includes phrases like: “belonging to or characterizing one’s deepest nature" and "marked by a warm friendship developing over a long association.”  Aren't those desirable characteristics in all close friendships? I think it is beneficial to examine the religious or cultural myths that might hinder intimate cross-gender friendships. 

While the criticism of the romantic myth can apply equally to any cross-gender friendship regardless of religious belief, one of the other points I've spent a lot of time reflecting on relates directly to my faith.  Brennan notes the “one-another’s” in scripture and how we often overlook the obvious inclusion of both genders when we read them:

Consider all the “one another’s” – none of which have a sex-segregated command embedded in them.  Here are just a few: “welcome one another” (Romans 15:7), “pray for one another” (James 5:16), “be kind to one another” (Ephesians 4:32), “greet one another with a holy kiss” (I Corinthians 16:20), “teach and admonish one another” (Colossians 3:16).  None of these contains transcultural  sex-segregated warnings to keep men and women from meeting privately or in public, or from avoiding the powerful intimacy that may grow because male and female friends seek to be obedient to these commands in their nonromantic relationship.

At least five times in the gospel of John, Jesus implores his audience to “love one another;” and other variations of this phrase can be found throughout the New Testament.  It strikes me that there are entire books centered around a very few scriptures that speak specifically to one gender or the other and that those verses dominate admonishments for the interactions of men and women.  In contrast, it seems these multiple “one another” verses are viewed in the abstract, as an almost sterile “love” for some mythical “other.” I had not previously dwelt on these “one another” verses as a call to deep friendship with other embodied people, regardless of gender, but now I can think of them in no other way.  I’m learning to embrace an understanding of cross-gender friendships that can be both encouraged and celebrated within my faith tradition. 

//

I know Christians are the intended audience of Sacred Unions, Sacred Passions, but there is a lot to learn from this conversation even if you don't view cross-gender friendships through a religious lens.  It could be invaluable to your emotional health to evaluate what narratives govern your relationships.  If shame or the romantic myth are keeping you from forming intimate connections in your life, it may be time to look at things from a new perspective.  

As a Christian, the book left me hopeful that we won’t always be trapped in a destructive narrative where we idolize romance and are taught we should avoid cross-gender friendships.  As Dan points out, “The mystery of incarnation is that God in Christ overcame the boundaries between heaven and earth, between the spirit and matter, between flesh and spirit, and between men and women.”  The example of Christ is deep friendships with both men and women, who he lived life with and embraced and loved.  I truly believe that through understanding a narrative based on Christ's example the Church can see the truth of how cross-gender friendships can be deep and intimate, as well as holy.

The Word Made Flesh

"Let us try to grasp the significance of the Word made flesh" - Thomas Keating

There are many topics being debated these days – self-image, modesty, purity, sexuality, relationships, rights, responsibilities, the circumstances of others, the autonomy of others, and so on. Even if we try not to get drawn into the debates, we are often forced to consider our own views on these matters and, if we are parents, will eventually have to discuss them with our children.  Our views on these topics are usually a result of the framework we use to evaluate and process life.  Increasingly I feel that if this framework is too narrow, too focused on one aspect of morality, it is easily distorted and leaves us ill-equipped to make determinations of how to respond when life doesn't fall neatly into our pre-defined criteria.
 
Over the past few years I’ve been in the process of dismantling much of what I was taught while growing up in Evangelical Homeschooling culture.  I’ve had to discard a lot of baggage associated with the popular “Godly” methods that were promoted by various groups over that time.  The framework for most “Godly child training” I encountered involved a focus on obedience – obedience for the sake of raising children who are obedient to their parents (and thus, to God) – in the ways defined by the specific methods of each group.

It is clear to me now that whether or not I am living my faith well or raising my children successfully is not determined by how we measure up to a trendy method established by some other person’s interpretation of “God’s Way.”  I understand that I need to replace that old, discarded thinking with something new, for my own faith and in raising my kids.  But rather than embracing a new “method,” what I’m attempting to define are the basic beliefs that provide a general framework for thoughts and behavior.

I’m increasingly drawn to the study of Incarnation and the way it so beautifully incorporates how I want to live and what I want to teach my children about everything from making wise choices for ourselves to how we treat others.  I don’t want to be ashamed of my body and I don’t want my kids to be ashamed of theirs, but I also want us to understand that the body is sacred.  I don’t want us to behave as though other people’s bodies exist for our judgment or pleasure.  I want us to care about the physical needs of others and make choices that are good for our bodies and our spirits.

I completely identify with Barbara Brown Taylor when she writes, "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." 

Incarnation is not something that was specifically discussed in my home or in my church growing up.  Of course I was taught that Jesus was God in human form, but I can think of no deep discussion of what that truly meant for humanity, other than Jesus coming to die for our sins.  I was never instilled with a sense of awe for what it means for “the Word,” present with God and one with God from the beginning of time, to be “made flesh.”  (I’m not even sure if anyone would have been okay with using the word “flesh,” because it has such scandalous connotations in those circles.) 

Yet as I've studied the writing of Barbara Brown Taylor, along with Richard Beck, Thomas Keating, Brian Zahnd, and others who write of Incarnation, I'm struck by how their understanding of it is woven through their work, even when they are addressing other topics.  The way they view humanity and their belief that God cares for our physical bodies has transformed the way I understand my faith.  I have no delusions that I have new insight to offer the world on Incarnation and I realize I do not fully comprehend it, but I can feel it continuing to transform my thinking and the way I view humanity.  I’m still trying to grasp the full significance of passages like this:

The lost beauty of God’s good creation is what is recovered in the Incarnation. The beauty of the image of God marred in man through the Fall is what the Incarnation redeems. By a deep appreciation of the human vocation to bear the image of God, we realize that the value of a human being is in no way determined by what he can do—this is the sin of objectification (treating humans as objects). Human value is derived from the image all humans bear—the Imago Dei.  It is the image of God deformed in humanity that Christ recovers through his Incarnation. - Brian Zahnd

Or this:

In Christian teaching, followers of Jesus are called to honor the bodies of our neighbors as we honor our own. In his expanded teaching by example, this includes leper bodies, possessed bodies, widow and orphan bodies, as well as foreign bodies and hostile bodies—none of which he shied away from. Read from the perspective of the body, his ministry was about encountering those whose flesh was discounted by the world in which they lived. - Barbara Brown Taylor

When I read and meditate on these words, I cannot help but be convinced that I was getting it wrong by attempting to adhere to a faith framework based strictly on morality or obedience.  Not that morality and obedience are wrong in themselves, but by using those things as the lens to view myself and others, I was focusing on how well we measured up to those standards, rather than beginning with an understanding that we are all human beings created in the image of God.

When I think of my own self-worth and teach my children about theirs, the belief that Jesus loves and redeemed our humanness must influence that.  When I consider my interactions with other people and how I teach my children to treat others, my belief that God loves and values not only the inner life, but also the physical existence of both ourselves and others will necessarily be part of that.  Drawing again from Taylor, "One of the truer things about bodies is that it is just about impossible to increase the reverence I show mine without also increasing the reverence I show yours."

Internalizing a sense of reverence for the human body allows me to see the human form of everyone else as a gift God gave to that person.  I can never view their body as an object, as something that exists to please me or meet my personal expectations or preferences.  They may be any shape or size.  They may be considered attractive or not.  They may use their bodies to practice the rituals of a religion different from mine.  They may have different anatomy than I have or experience their sexuality differently than I experience mine.  They may love their own body or they may feel they were born in the wrong body.  But each person I encounter has a body and I cannot love that person in some abstract way as though his or her body were an afterthought or is somehow subject to my approval. 

And when I teach this sense of reverence to my kids, when I tell them the stories of Jesus in close fellowship with the marginalized of society, when I tell them of the woman washing his feet with her hair, I can remind them that Jesus was just as human as they are and that he was the example of how we should value and respect the humanness of others.  Jesus didn't see our flesh as dirty or wrong, but as something beautiful and in the process of being redeemed.  As Brian Zahnd has written, "In the Incarnation Jesus makes beautiful all that it means to be human."

What I am now attempting to discern is how to continue to apply the insight and wisdom others have shared about Incarnation.  One of my favorite passages from Thomas Keating reads, "Once God takes upon himself the human condition, everyone is potentially divine. Through the Incarnation of his Son, God floods the whole human family -- past, present, and to come -- with his majesty, dignity, and grace.”  Our bodies are the basic component of the human condition, and therefore we must learn to respect and honor our own bodies as well as the bodies of other people.  Truly grasping this undermines the temptation to dismiss others, to objectify others, or to turn a blind eye to their physical needs.

I have only scratched the surface of all there is to learn about Incarnation, but I keep coming back to how it reminds me that I’m connected to God as well as to others and how that connectedness should influence every aspect of my life.  As Zahnd points out, Incarnation shows us “what God is like and how to be human,” and Barbara Brown Taylor reminds us, “wearing skin… is what we have most in common with one another.”  My hope is that rather than focusing too narrowly on current trends or hot topics, I can live my faith in a way that exhibits a deepening understanding of the way my human flesh connects me to God and to other people.  And I hope living this out will help my kids understand and see the beauty there as well.





Note: Thomas Keating quotes are from The Mystery of Christ, Barbara Brown Taylor quotes are from An Altar in the World, and Brian Zahnd quotes are from Beauty Will Save the World

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

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.

Shattered

"The price of recognizing Jesus is always the same: our idea of him, of the church, of the spiritual journey, of God himself has to be shattered. To see with the eyes of faith we must be free of our culturally-conditioned mindsets. When we let go of our private and limited vision, he who has been hidden from us by our pre-packaged values and preconceived ideas causes the scales to fall from our eyes. He was there all the time. Now at last we perceive his Presence." - Thomas Keating

I've immersed myself in theology as of late. I do have some non-theology books on my to-read list, but this is where I am right now, still mulling over the wisdom and experience of others to help me figure out where I am and what I believe. I've noticed several themes over and over again in the various books I'm reading and one of them is "shattered."  Whether it is a shattered view of life or shattered ideas as mentioned above, I keep finding this thought as I read.

Here is the thing about something that has been shattered: it cannot be un-shattered.  Even if you tried to painstakingly fit every shard back into the whole, it would never be as pristine and smooth as before it was broken.  If something is merely chipped, cracked, or broken into a few pieces, you can attempt to put it back together.  However, if it is really shattered into hundreds slivers, you can a) choose to use the pieces to make something else (just look on Pinterest -- people make a surprising number of things out of broken glass) or b) you can replace the shattered item with a new one.  Regardless of what you choose, you cannot put it back together to be exactly as it was before. 

I didn't realize it at the time, but this shattered experience had a lot to do with my break from church. I really could not continue to go to church week after week, trying to appear that I was okay when my idea of God had been shattered and I felt betrayed (at least in a way) by my own beliefs. The truth seemed too messy and made me feel too exposed and I wasn't in a place where I felt safe sharing any of those things out loud or face-to-face with anyone other than a few close friends.  I felt too broken and confused and lonely -- and maybe even scared -- when I went to church.  With my previous framework in shambles, I needed to take the time to become a student of my faith and sort out what I believe about God.

So, a lot of that is still true.  I am broken.  Any illusion of certainty I had before is shattered and has been for quite some time. The way I see it now is that I will either begin to perceive God's presence as something new among the shattered pieces or I will replace the pieces with something new.

This past weekend, I read the following passage regarding the way our preconceived ideas about God can keep our faith from maturing:

The means that we needed in the early part of our spiritual journey (but which we may have come to depend on too much) are gradually removed... Family, ethnic, and religious values are important and may support us for a certain time and to a certain place in the spiritual journey, but not to the place of total freedom that is God's ambition for each of us. - Thomas Keating

I may be broken, but I'm not scared anymore. I realize now that this is simply my journey. If I'm going the wrong direction, I will figure it out eventually. If no one else I know is going this way, that is okay. The more I read and learn and think about the beliefs of people I'll never meet and the generations of believers before me -- with all their passion and hunger for truth and differences and brokenness -- the less lonely I am.

I can't prove that what my faith is becoming now is what it is ultimately supposed to be.  I can tell you that even if it feels like God is so very different from who I'd previously thought, letting go of those preconceived ideas and acknowledging that I'm working with shattered pieces feels so much more like freedom than pretending at certainty ever did.

Nothing to Offer

I thought I’d unraveled to the point I could start putting it all back together, but that was an illusion.  Apparently there is more.  I’m okay.  I’m getting by.  But I’m still unraveling and I hadn't planned for that to be the case and it is messy.  I feel that I have nothing to offer anyone right now, but actually writing it out loud is something.  I was going to say that writing it out loud helps, but it actually just means that the three people who read my blog know about it now. Some things are what they are and have to be dealt with over time and I have to learn to keep going.  I am learning to keep going. 

Oh, and one place I'm going is back to church.

Over a month ago, I started reading the book The Mystery of Christ: The Liturgy as Spiritual Experience by Thomas Keating.  I got up one Sunday morning with plans to visit a local community church, but after reading several sections from Keating's book with my coffee, I changed my mind and decided to visit a church that keeps to the liturgical tradition.

I Googled one I've frequently driven past to find out when their late service started and I went.  I sat in an old pew and I noticed the way the light filters in through the stained glass and I chanted scripture from a prayer book for the first time ever and I listened to the priest blessing, individually, members of the congregation who were celebrating birthdays that week and my eyes welled up with tears.  As new and different as much of it was for me, I felt what I can only describe as a sense of home.  And I experienced a tiny stir of what I think was hope.  I had a fleeting thought that maybe, somehow, I will find a place where I can start putting some things back together and stop feeling so alone in my faith experience.  Maybe.  Somehow.

I still have much to learn and far to go.  At the moment I'm still feeling like I'm empty, like I have nothing to offer.  I honestly have no idea yet if this church is the place for me, but I've gone three of the past four Sundays anyway.  I have no idea how long it will take before I know if I’m doing the right thing, but I’m doing it until I figure out if I am.   

I hate feeling like this and I hate feeling empty and I hate not having anything good to write about or talk about or give... but I think that is the way life is sometimes.  I think, sometimes, the dry spells teach us just as much as the abundance.  I think I need to stop thinking so much and just keep going.

Reckless Bravery

Last Saturday, I went out to dinner near downtown with some friends and I was late due to a ridiculous series of circumstances.  By the time I arrived, the parking garage was pretty full and I had to park in the basement level.  I backed into a space as close to the stairwell as possible, knowing that was probably the safest idea since I was alone. 

My friends and I had some delicious sushi and a great visit.  We talked about going somewhere else for a drink, but it was St. Patrick’s Day weekend and none of us felt like being around a bunch of drunks.  We said good-bye on the second level of the parking garage where they'd parked and I made my way down the several flights of stairs to my car.  It was getting late and I could see as I made it to the landing there weren't many cars remaining in the vicinity.

I heard them before I saw them, eight or nine guys on motorcycles, engines revving at an ear-piercing volume.  Shit.  They were occupying the three parking spaces adjacent the driver's side of my car, as well as part of the aisle in front of where I'd parked.

I know not to judge a book by its cover.  Just because a few of them were wearing ski masks and at least one was heavily tattooed on his face and neck, doesn't mean they were intending to be menacing.  Maybe they were just some suburban soccer-dads out blowing off steam after a long, hard week in the trenches.  Maybe.

But I saw them there and I got pissed that I didn't feel safe.  I got pissed that my initial reaction was to be scared.  I got pissed and I squared my shoulders and clenched my jaw and looked straight ahead and walked confidently over to my car.  I met the gaze of the guy closest to my car and did that half-nod acknowledgement thing as I approached.  I didn't even lock the door once I got inside the car, because I didn't want to seem scared.  I started the engine and pulled out of my parking spot, giving myself a mental pat-on-the-back for having backed in when I parked because that allowed me to easily navigate around the guys who were partially blocking the aisle.

The two in the ski masks followed me all the way to the exit floor of the garage, revving their bike engines behind me at every stop sign, before finally circling back around to a lower level as I made my exit.  It wasn't until I'd left the garage that I let myself think, "What the hell did you just do?  You didn't even check to see if anyone else was around!  No one would have heard you scream over all that noise.  There MIGHT have been security cameras, but what are the chances they are being watched that closely?  What is wrong with you?"

This is not the first time I've done something like that, the getting pissed that I feel like I need to be scared when I have a right to feel safe, and then doing something that in hindsight was probably unwise.  Why is it that I can be recklessly brave when it comes to my physical safety, but when it comes to trusting my heart and my head, I let other people get to me?  I’ve been thinking about this for days, and I realized something:

I'm done.

Remember the post where I wrote that growing up I learned to doubt so many things about myself? How I learned to doubt my heart and my mind and my thoughts and what I knew to be true? And remember how I said I didn't want to go back there?

I realized I have not truly left that behind and that I still let people make me doubt myself, even when I know I'm right.  I let people tell me to be careful with my line of thinking and then I begin to wonder if I have the ability to really understand what I learn.  I let people make me feel that I’ve misunderstood something when, no matter how many ways I look at it, I know that I haven’t.  I let the words of other people make me scared to trust myself. 

And now that I’ve been thinking about it, that pisses me off just as much as when I feel scared for my safety.

I’m pissed that when I say something true, I can be made to doubt it because the person I say it to doesn’t like the way it sounds. I am mad because I let the way other people question me turn me back into that 15 year old who knew with all her heart that something was wrong, but whose voice was silenced for being a girl and daring to speak up and rock the proverbial boat.  And I don’t want to be that girl who gives in and doubts what she knows to be true, because being that girl pisses me off.

I'm pissed and I'm done.

I know I've stated that learning to listen is a priority for me.  But I realized today that there is a difference between listening to someone else for the purpose of understanding them and listening to the point of being silenced.  I do need to listen to others and strive to understand, but I need to listen to me too.  When it comes to what I know and what I can tell is true, I've got to be recklessly brave about owning it.  I’ve got to be recklessly brave in the right ways and about the right things, other people’s fears and baggage be damned.

I'm done buying into the bullshit that my mind and heart need someone else to tell them what to think and what to feel.  I'm done giving too much time to anyone who tells me that my heart and mind can't be trusted when I know they are in the right place.  And I've decided I'd rather stick to my guns and be wrong and later have to admit I was wrong than to buy into bullshit and regret it.

I may need to be a little more careful about my physical safety, but I've got the reckless bravery thing down.  It's time I put it to good use.

Truth

I have learned a lot in the past few weeks.  If that sounds unpleasant, I assure you it has been much more painful than I am making it sound.  It seems as though every time I turn around I've messed something up or misunderstood someone or realized I've gotten off track or discovered something that hurts.

One of the many things I've learned is that the truth can be especially painful when I realize how far it is from my true feelings; The truth of a situation is not changed by how I truly feel about it.  This is probably something I knew once, had learned before, yet lost sight of.  Sometimes the lessons you have to re-learn are the most painful because in addition to what they re-teach you is the sting felt from knowing you’d let yourself forget.

Especially when you are dealing with the truth.

I'll use my job as an example of what I've learned about truth:  One truth about my job is that I need it.  We rely on the income I make from my job to help pay for things like food and a place to live.  Another truth about my job is that it is actually pretty great, all things considered.  I work from home four days a week, which allows me to see my family a lot more than if I was required to work in the office all five days and had to spend an hour each day commuting.  I'm also able to be home during some of the time Ryan is at work, which means one of us is here every day to get the boys off the bus instead of having to hire a sitter to do that.  Those things are truth.

However, when you factor in my true feelings about my job, well, that is a different story.  I don’t hate the actual function of my job, but there are many process and political things I deal with daily that make it quite unpleasant much of the time.  So, the truth is that I have a great job and I should be thankful for it, but my true feelings about it do not always reflect that truth.

I've long believed that a person cannot change his or her feelings simply by desiring to feel a different way.  I have written about this multiple times.  I feel how I feel.  Of course, how I behave from those feelings and the choices I make about them are my responsibility.  I have a say in what I choose and how I act.  However, I can tell myself a million times to feel a certain way or not feel a certain way, but that does not, in reality, change my feelings. 

Feelings are feelings and feelings are true.  They are true because they are the way the heart and mind process life.  Yet just because my feelings about something are true, does not automatically make them truth.  Truth exists, in reality, regardless of how I feel about it. Truth is not dependent on my feelings either way.  Nothing can be truth without also being true, but my feelings can be true without being truth.  And if I screw up and let the true-ness of my feelings get the better of me and allow myself to lose sight of the truth, I am at fault. 

My feelings do not change truth. 

I can want with all my heart for what I feel to be true, but it doesn't change the possibility of it being truth if it isn't; it is either truth or it is not. Sometimes the truth is better than I'd expected.  Sometimes the truth is difficult to face. Sometimes I may not even know what the truth is, only that it is different from what I'd thought. Sometimes the truth is a happy realization, but sometimes the truth breaks my heart.  Regardless, what is true in the way I feel is not necessarily the truth.

There are my true feelings.

And there is truth.

I would be wise to not confuse the former for the latter.

Ugly and Scary and Stubborn

In his book, The Authenticity of Faith: The Varieties and Illusions of Religious Experience, Richard Beck uses Sigmund Freud’s assertions about religious belief in Future of an Illusion and William James’ observations in The Varieties of Religious Experience as the framework for analyzing religious experience.  He utilizes James' "healthy-mind" and "sick-soul" worldviews throughout the book as he explores and tests various dynamics of faith.  While James includes multiple religions in his work, Beck chooses to focus on how these descriptions apply to the Christian faith.  There is no way that in a single blog post I can do justice to the full content of The Authenticity of Faith and all the details, data, and insight it provides; I will, however, attempt to delve into how reading this book has given me a deeper understand of my own religious experience.

For the sake of expedience and context, I'll quickly explain that according to James, healthy-mind believers are able to find meaning in their lives by focusing on good and their faith is comforting to them because they believe it can overcome evil and suffering.  They embrace their faith wholeheartedly and rarely, if ever, entertain thoughts that it could be misplaced.  When bad things happen in the present, they seek consolation in their beliefs and in the promise of a joyous afterlife.

In contrast to the healthy-mind worldview, the sick-soul believers are those for whom their faith does not create a constant sense of well-being and for whom the promise of a wonderful afterlife is not a consolation in the face of existential discomfort.  Beck describes the sick-souls as those who "exist in the murky middle between belief and disbelief, between faith and unfaith."  These are believers who, despite doubts and uncertainty, continue to choose the realm of faith.  Beck goes on to explain:

I think the sick soul is willing to live in between faith and unfaith, belief and disbelief, because this is the only way they can remain truthful to their lived experience. The pieces of life and the life of faith are not so easily fit together. There are gaps, there are missing pieces... life is experienced as broken glass. Life is experienced as shattered... And as we handle the pieces, we are often cut and wounded. Life resists our attempts at putting the pieces together, intellectually and emotionally.  As a result the sick soul lingers, perhaps for a lifetime, in this ambiguous location, holding onto pieces, God among them, that don't quite fit together.

I've been trying for days to work out how to explain what this has shown me about my own experience.  I am still new enough to the study of both theology and psychology that I have no delusions I fully understand everything Beck explains or everything about the sick soul; I also know that reading one book on a subject does not made me an expert.  However, it is compelling to me to know that the sick-soul is something that has been identified and studied by people who do have a lot of experience in theology and psychology.  Again, I'm not an expert, but based on what I know so far I can say that I identify very much with the sick-soul experience of faith.

Growing up in an environment where it seemed, at least to me, that behaving in a healthy-minded way was the measure of a healthy faith, I always felt like something was wrong with me. I would hear people talking about their own experiences with God and feel like an outsider.  It has been a somewhat emotional experience to read about the sick-soul and realize that is how I experience my faith.  I have spent years trying and trying and trying and try, try, trying to figure out and explain why I simply do not identify with much of what other people have told me about their faith.  It is the oddest sense of relief to learn that someone has studied and can explain my experience based on real studies and data.  It also helps me justify how I can feel the way I do about my faith without abandoning it.

I've certainly considered giving up my faith, but that choice has never been right for me.  On some level, I feel in my bones and in my soul that God IS, even if I'm not completely convinced that my religion has it one-hundred percent right in what we say about God.  I know that there is something to my faith that is real, something intangible I can't deny, even though that knowledge is not necessarily comforting to me. I am also not consoled in the here and now by the thought of heaven or some better future existence.  I never experience or hear of a real-life horror and think "Yes, that's awful now, but it's going to be okay because someday we will all be in heaven" in the way that healthy-minded faith has a tendency to do.  I have learned to embrace my faith this way, despite all the sharp pieces that don't completely make sense or fit together.

I know this post is getting extremely long and perhaps I haven't explained enough of the background for this to make sense to anyone else, but I’ve tried to include the main points that have been rattling around in my head and heart for days now.  I don't want to give the impression that being a sick-soul is a negative thing, because Beck argues the opposite and discusses several of its virtues; I simply haven't highlighted them here because I know that I often fall far, far short of those virtues.  I'm not trying to present myself as an example of an ideal sick soul, I'm merely attempting to explain how identifying with that faith lens has given me hope. Imperfect as I am, knowing the potential virtues of the sick soul gives me something to aspire to.

As I've been evaluating all that I've learned about the healthy mind and sick soul faith experiences, I've frequently gone back and re-read entire sections of the book.  I'm still trying to wrap my thoughts around the various aspects of both worldviews and I have been thinking a lot about what is truth in my faith.  There are multiple verses in the Bible that give examples of either the healthy-mind or the sick-soul, but I keep coming back to Micah 6:8, which could really apply to either: "The LORD has told you what is good, and this is what he requires of you: to do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God."

I may be a misfit in some religious circles and faith discussions. I may still be working all of this out in my head.  I may still wish at times I could be a healthy minded person because that would solve many of my struggles, but my mind doesn't work that way.  I may be a sick soul, but my faith is still real to me.  It may be a murky faith, even ugly and scary to some people, but I refuse to pretend it is anything else.  For me, my faith looks like caring about justice, it looks like loving mercy, and it looks like walking with God in the most humble way I can – as imperfectly as I may be managing any of those things right now. 

And my faith also looks like love – murky, flawed, imperfect, broken, stubborn love that perseveres despite all my doubts.





Note: I apologize that I have woefully oversimplified some of Richard Beck's very thorough analysis of religious experience and highly suggest that if you are interested at all in theology or psychology, you read his book. 

Bandwagons

In trying to figure out what to do about church, I've been giving a lot of thought to the bandwagon-type movements that seem to cycle through American Christian culture.  It seems so often a person feels led to follow a specific path, and the next thing we know they are organizing conferences, printing slogans on t-shirts and bracelets, selling glossy teaching kits, and trying to convince everyone that what they came up with is the "Christian" thing to do. 

I often wonder if these people ever pause to ask if it was supposed to be something to try to sell to the Church or if their revelation was instead meant for their own heart, a decision for their own life.  I wonder if the people jumping on the bandwagon with them ever take the time to examine if it is really what is best for their own life.  Many things sound like a great idea at first, but unless we ask ourselves a lot of questions before following along, we may eventually look around and see we’ve gotten our own journey off-track.

As well-meaning and based in scripture as some of these bandwagon movements may be, I think there is a real possibility that things like kissing dating goodbye or a specific money-management system or fill-in-the-blank wasn’t intended to be sold to the church as the model for all of Christianity.  This isn't to say that the reasoning behind these things are bad or that they aren't right for some people; It's just that when we attempt to paint all Christians with the broad strokes of these movements, we run the risk of missing a different point-of-view that is just as God-inspired and may be better for others.  

I’m not saying we shouldn’t tell others what we've learned or share our insights, but I worry about these things morphing from our personal convictions into a litmus test for the spiritual health or integrity of others. 

Certainly there are some things that are supposed to be universal to all Christians, but these slogans and pledges and movements can distract us from BEING the Church.  If we are all exactly the same, doing everything in the exact same way, there will be a lot of places we won’t go and a lot of people we won’t know.  It is not my place to tell others that their bandwagons and teaching kits and t-shirts aren't the right way for them, because I am not them.  But my life may not lead me to buy in to all of those things because, even if the scripture behind it is something I have to live out, the way the movement does it may be a wrong fit for my life. 

No one else is the wife of my husband, the mother of my children, the eldest daughter of my parents, the friend of every single one of my friends, the co-worker of everyone I interact with at work, and so on.  Even if other people are part of one of those environments, none of them have the exact same relationship to those people I have. 

I want to have the grace to listen to the people on the bandwagon and work on hearing their heart, but I also want to have the strength and discernment to opt out when my life and my faith takes me places the bandwagon isn't going.  Just as it would be wrong for me jump on for the sake of fitting in, it would be equally wrong for me to automatically dismiss the heart behind these things just because I'm uncomfortable with packaging of the source.  Listening without joining is okay.

I may not agree that when a person feels led in a certain way they should look immediately for how to leverage it into an idea to market to the church.  I may not feel comfortable defining my faith in a teaching kit, confining it to a bumper sticker, or proclaiming it on a bracelet, but I can't say if others should or shouldn't.  Faith is complex and I have to wrestle with mine in the best way I can.  I have to be able to embrace all the aspects of my faith and work it out in my own life with the people I am in relationship with. 

I know that for me, this is not something I can do on a bandwagon, wearing a one-size-fits-all t-shirt.

T-shirts and Roller Skates

When I was seven I spent the entire summer wearing a light blue T-shirt that had a rainbow on it, cut-offs, and roller skates. I don’t know what it was about that shirt that made it my favorite, but I know it made me mad when I wasn’t allowed to wear it.  The skates had been a birthday gift and I wore them as much as possible, whether or not it was practical. (Have you ever tried roller skating in grass or on carpet? I don’t recommend it.)  I wore that shirt and those skates until they were far too small.  My mom finally had to intervene and hand them down to my sisters, and that was one of the few times I remember from grade school when I wasn’t happy to be growing.

When it meant handing down a favorite shirt or something as fabulous as red-wheeled roller skates, growing-up could be a pain.  But for the most part, getting bigger was fun.  I loved measuring how tall I was in comparison to my dad or older cousins.  It was exciting to get new gym shoes, to graduate to the next grade, and to achieve various milestones like learning to tie my own shoes or blow bubbles with bubble gum.  When I could finally reach something around the house that my little sisters were still too short to reach, I felt so grown up.  (Of course, they both grew to be taller than me, so that was short-lived. Pun intended.)

I think most of us probably liked the finally getting taller or finally getting to the next thing parts of growing-up.  At some point, though, we’re done getting taller. After that, growing becomes less about physical growth or milestones and morphs into something more difficult to navigate.  There are times we are more in control of this and can grow with purpose, investing in ourselves by pursuing education or life experiences or new opportunities.  Other times, the growing is more chaotic and out of our control, like when the unplanned happens or when are forced to adapt to the results of other people’s choices. 

Whether positive and deliberate or difficult and circumstantial, post-growing-up growing is rarely as fun as getting taller was – especially when it leads us to the realization that we’ve outgrown something.  Be it a relationship, a job, a belief, a practice, or anything else, it can be traumatic to realize that something that has been a part of our lives for years doesn’t fit anymore. Things that used to make us feel comfortable or grounded become constricting or impossible to keep up. We have to start rearranging our lives to accommodate the changes and it can be disorienting and distressing. 

Had I been an especially crafty kid, I probably could have turned that rainbow t-shirt into some kind of keepsake or fashioned it into a practical and functional item.  We don’t always have to get rid of things we grow out of, not if we can figure out how to make them work with where we’ve grown.  Relationships, jobs, beliefs, practices – some of these can be transformed into something worth keeping, in one capacity or another.  A very few of these things are even valuable enough (far more valuable than an outgrown t-shirt, obviously) that we should invest whatever effort is required to keep incorporating them as we grow, albeit in new and revised ways.

But old roller skates?  Sure, when they used to fit there was nothing more fun than zipping around in them, laughing and feeling the breeze in your face.  Yet when you can’t wear them anymore, they are useless.  I suppose you could have them bronzed so you’ll always have them around, unusable and taking up space.  Or I guess you could disassemble them and use all the parts to make some other kind of wheeled contraption, but it really is better to just get rid of them.  Some things would require infinitely more effort and resources than we have at our disposal to transform them, and even if we did, the results would be heavy and impractical.  This is when it’s important to realize there are things you have to stop trying to lug around.  Get rid of those things and stop allowing them weigh you down when you have other growing to do. 

I guess one of the biggest challenges of growing after you’re grown up is figuring out which outgrown things are the t-shirts and which are the roller skates.

Not Less or More

I have started many drafts about my church issues.  Almost all of these drafts detail stories about youth group or courtship or leadership or homeschooling or secular music or gender roles or authority.  Most of these drafts start off coherent, but then descend into jumbled thoughts in run-on sentences and emotional ramblings because all the things listed above were completely intertwined during the same period of my life.

Along with those unfinished stories are multiple attempts to write about how those intertwined things have affected me since that time.  I've done a lot of writing about things I've sorted through, from thoughts about why in college I let guys talk over me in class without calling them out on it, to listing out words I didn't mean yet said anyway because I believed they were words I was expected to say because I was a girl.  I've spent a lot of time trying to put into words all the questions and doubts that I learned from a patriarchal view of religion that became part of who I was back then.  I've spent a lot of time trying to explain how I eventually realized that I'd learned to question things I should not question and that I'd learned to avoid questioning things I should.

I’d learned to question my right to speak.

I’d learned to question my right to disagree.

I’d learned to question my heart.

I’d learned not to question contradictions.

I’d learned not to question when someone else “heard God” for me.

I'd learned not to question the notion that I was somehow less because I am a girl.

As much as all of those things still bother me at times, there is no reason for me to share those stories in any more detail than what I've shared in the past and what I've written above.  The details of the stories don't matter anymore.  I’m no longer involved in that community.  I’m not going to try to go back and talk to those people about what happened.  It’s all still there in my back story, but continuing to hash out the details is only going to distract me.   

What I need to focus on now is figuring out what to do about church.  What I'm currently doing with staying home on Sundays is fine for now, but I can’t stay away from community with God’s people because I had some bad experiences years ago.  I can’t keep avoiding it because my more recent (admittedly half-hearted) attempts to find a place to serve with other Christians have been dismal failures.  I can’t keep hiding because I’m afraid of being overwhelmed with my baggage and damaging my kids with it.

I realize communities are comprised of people and therefore no community is perfect.  I’m not looking for perfection.  I am not perfect and would not fit in any community where perfection is the goal.  I know I need to be willing to listen to people with whom I disagree.  I know there will be times my heart or thoughts will be wrong and I need to be willing to admit that and seek forgiveness if necessary.  I know I should always be striving to be a better version of myself and to learn and stretch and grow. And I know now that I need to find a place where all of those things are possible and encouraged.

Yet it must also be a place where my faith questions won’t be met with hostility and where my self-doubts won’t be fanned back to life.  I need to find a place where the way community is lived-out reinforces, to me and to my sons, that my heart is not less because it beats in a female chest.  That my words are not less because they are spoken with a female mouth.  That I am not less.  I refuse to raise the boys in a Church community where they are taught that having a Y chromosome makes them more or better or gives them the right to control anyone else.  We need to be in a place where it is understood that we can all serve and learn and grow together, with all our differences and despite disagreements.  I need to keep looking until I find that community – flawed and imperfect as it may be – where no one is taught they are less.

For you are all children of God through faith in Christ Jesus.

And all who have been united with Christ in baptism have put on Christ, like putting on new clothes. There is no longer Jew or Gentile, slave or free, male or female.

For you are all one in Christ Jesus.

-  Galatians 3:26-28

untitled

I catch my breath when
I find these spaces,
the ones opened
in my soul by
all the ways in which
I am irrevocably flawed.

They no longer frighten me
as they did when I
pursued perfect,
yet I’m careful not to dwell
too long.

I pause
to take notice of the contrast
between all that’s there
and all that others see
and all I want to be.

Then I exhale
and resume the search
for truths that
transform imperfections
and illuminate the way.

Willing to be Wrong

I know homosexuality can be a divisive topic. I'm sure I'm not the only one who has found that the differences in the way we approach the subject and differences in what we base our views on can make conversations about it heated and painful.  Words like "right" and "wrong" and "condone" and "agree with" and "choice" and "biology" are thrown around and often the discussion ends in frustration... or worse.

I've finally realized that for me, there is no sense in arguing.  From a scriptural perspective, there is so much debate over things like cultural context or which interpretation of what word was chosen over another and then how that was translated that I don't believe I can determine with one-hundred percent certainty what is "right" in regards to whether or not a person should be able to marry another person of the same gender.

And it makes no sense for me to argue over it because I've decided this is something about which I am willing to be wrong.

I believe in God’s grace.  I believe there are things the Church has gotten wrong in the past and that as difficult and disturbing as it is for me to wrap my mind around sometimes, His grace somehow covers even those things. I believe that if it turns out that I am wrong about homosexuality, God’s grace can cover that too.

I believe that telling an LGBT person that I don't agree with part of who they are would be like someone telling me that they realize I am a woman but they just can't accept that part of me.  I believe that telling an LGBT person that they should try to stop being LGBT would be similar to someone telling me that I should stop being a woman. I believe that if being "right" means advocating for or allowing discrimination and exclusion of LGBT persons, I will err on the side of love and inclusion.

I'm not trying to set myself as an example of what other Christians should believe.  That is something they have to prayerfully work out between their own heart and God.  I am simply saying that when I try to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ and when I try to make it real in me that His love surpasses all knowledge, this is one of many things that kind of love looks like to me: it looks like treating my homosexual brothers and sisters the same way I would treat those who are heterosexual.

It means supporting the right of two consenting adults to marry. It means acknowledging and opposing discrimination whenever and wherever I encounter it.  It means showing love and working to gain understanding.  It means realizing that even if there are things that I may not fully be able to explain, I'm going to keep working to shift the balance to love and strive for understanding.

Of course, the other part of making this real is that it also means love for the people who disagree with me -- and not just the ones who respectfully disagree.  It means that I must make every effort to show the same respect and the same love to the people who say things that to me sound nothing like God's love or who advocate a position I think is wrong.  It isn't okay for me to err on the side of love for only one group or one school of thought and then behave as though God's love doesn't apply to the others.

My heart must cling to grace for every one of us and pray that regardless of which side is right, His love will cover over it all.

3 AM and Proverbs 4

I know I wrote recently about words and learning to use them well and speak from my heart.  That is important.  I want be able to honestly express what I think and feel.  I want to be understood.  I think many of us would agree that when we feel deep down that another person understands us, it is beautiful and we can feel the balance shift just a little in the right direction.

Here on this blog, it is okay if I focus on explaining the things in my head and heart.  That is a large part of why I started it.  I appreciate the effort of trying to work things out in written words and I love to connect with other people who do the same.  It is appropriate for the point of this space to be where I try to explain what I think and what I mean and what I believe. 

But at about three o’clock this morning, as I was thinking over several things I wanted to explain, I realized that I need to balance my pursuit of expressing myself with discernment for the times I need to check my desire to explain.  Outside of this blog, there will frequently be times when it’s not about people “getting” me, not about telling people what I think. 

I need to pay attention for the times in life that are more about gaining understanding, than giving it. 

And there is a lot I do not understand.

I realized that I have to work to be present in a place of trying to gain understanding.  Conversations are not simply about launching into what I think or how I disagree or what I'd like others to understand that I mean.  When I engage in a dialogue with someone, it needs to be from a place that shows that what I think or want to explain is not my main goal.  Many times, setting aside those things for the sake of listening and really hearing the other person should be my priority.  And that means listinging and thinking about what is being expressed without being preoccupied with what point I want to make next.  It means focusing on the other person.

Even if that means listening to the hard stuff. 

Even if that means listening to words that seem like criticism of me and what I think and how I feel. 

Yes.  I know there will be times it is right for me to state my case.  There will be times to stand up and disagree.  There will be times to walk away from a conversation.  There will be times to say that a response was unwarranted or inappropriate.  There will be a time when I won't gain understanding no matter how earnestly I try. 

But I have to begin by not jumping in with my responses before I've listened.  I have to begin by working, with humility and a sincere heart, to gain understanding. I realize that sometimes this will mean not being able to explain myself.  I realize that may mean foregoing the opportunity to state my case.

But that is okay. 

It's the listening and the understanding I need to be working on anyway.




Though it cost you all you have, get understanding. – Proverbs 4:7

Sidenotes and Ramblings

When I was writing yesterday's post, I did a search for scripture verses about helping.  I had some vague impressions of old Sunday School memory verses I was trying to locate, but nothing was what I was looking for.  I kept coming back to the 1 John verse.  I've been thinking about that one A LOT as I've been sorting ever-so-tediously through my unravelings.  Even though it doesn't include the word "help," I think that many of us would agree that Jesus did a lot of helping in his life on earth.  I went with it.

Work has been insane lately.  I can't catch up.  I've been stressed.  I've lost weight.  My already strange sleep patterns are messed up in a different way now than they were a few weeks ago.  I know it goes in cycles and I just have to get through this absurd patch, but right now I can barely keep track of my assignments.  It doesn't help that I'm preoccupied with all the stuff my brain is trying to sort out, but I'm trying to manage and trying to learn to switch back and forth.

An hour into the official work day, but already into my second hour of conference calls today, I checked the YouVersion Bible app on my iPod.  This is the verse of the day: 

"God is not unjust; he will not forget your work and the love you have shown him as you have helped his people and continue to help them." - Hebrews 6:10

No joke. 

Sometimes I look for something and can't find it to save my life.  Sometimes I'm not even looking and it finds me.  Life is funny like that.

I have a feeling "helping others" is going to be a vital component of my One Word this year.

Please Help Your Brother

Whoever claims to live in him must live as Jesus did. – 1 John 2:6


This weekend I was bemoaning to myself how many times a day I have to say "please help your brother" to the boys.  I usually have to follow this with some sort of reason – He is too short to reach it. He is already doing something else. He has his hands full. He is scared. You helped make the mess. I need you to help him because I can't help him right now because my hands are covered in noodle dough (can’t you see that!?), etc., etc., etc.

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, PLEASE! JUST HELP YOUR BROTHER BEFORE I LOSE MY MIND!

Gah. So frustrating. When will they learn to help each other without my intervention!? 

Nothing like a good internal rant about the shortcomings of others to get a kick in the ass about your own behavior. My very next thought was something like this:

Trischa. How often do you step in and help your brother?

Oh. Um.

I am not one to say "God told me..."  Phrases like that are thrown around far too often and can do a lot of damage when people say they are acting on God’s directive and end up in the wrong place.  I do not feel that I am qualified to discern with one-hundred percent certainty where thoughts come from.  I do, however, think that some whispers and realizations come to us from outside ourselves.  Considering that I have no male siblings, I don't think that thought above came from my own brain.  Who am I helping? 

I do try to be a generally helpful person.  I try not to inconvenience people.  I take advantage of the opportunities to help that are so obvious it would honestly be bad manners to not help.  There is nothing wrong with this.  Good manners are… good.  But when was the last time that I inconvenienced myself to offer real and necessary help to someone who needs it?   

It’s been a while.  And that has to change.

To be continued....



PS. For the record, my kids can be surprisingly helpful to each other and to others.  We just had a rough weekend.

When Words Are All I Have

There are times in life when words fail me.  Sometimes they fail my heart.  Sometimes they fail my mind.

When it comes to interactions with others, it could be for any number of reasons – from physical distance to overwhelming circumstances.  Whatever the reason, I often feel that letters and syllables cannot possibly encompass all that my heart wants to express.

If I’m lucky, life allows for alternate methods of communication, like physical presence or standing in or helping out.  A way to show, instead of say. A way to shift the balance to hope, to life, to good with action instead of words.  These opportunities should not be wasted.  I know from experience the regret of letting such an opportunity go by without seizing it.

Yet, sometimes, I can’t be there and there is nothing I can do, no matter how much I care. This is more reality than a matter of missed opportunity.  Life and circumstances can be too messy or too limiting or too distancing to allow for action or presence; all I have to offer are words, when words seem useless to my heart.

I'm learning, however, these are the times to stop trying so damn hard to find exactly the right thing to say and let my heart figure out the words.  Yes, it is incredibly frightening to be vulnerable and to risk saying the wrong thing.  I do worry that the words will come out wrong or be taken in a way I don't intend or ultimately won't communicate what I actually feel.  Yet I'm striving to discern the times when keeping the words in my heart to myself is another form of missing an opportunity to shift the balance.  I'm trying to make myself let my heart speak despite my uncertainty.

Words can also fail me when I try to explain what's in my head and come up short. This can happen when I'm trying to explain something to someone else, but also when I'm trying to work something out in my own thoughts to gain that elusive prize of understanding – a deeper understanding that can be defined and set to words instead of remaining a half-formed gut-feeling I don't fully comprehend.

Considering my limitations when it comes to words, I realized that as I figure out what to weave, words have to be my partner as I sort and separate.  Once I begin to weave, words will help me avoid relying too heavily on emotions I can’t articulate and which can be easily swayed or disturbingly fickle. Focusing on getting the words right will help me stay present and focused.  Of course, I can't entirely ignore the words from my heart, the ones I need to sustain my hope of shifting the balance.  What I weave must come from my heart as well as my mind and it will come to life in letters and syllables and sentences.

I'm still not sure I will be able to live up to these expectations I've placed on myself.  I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to strike the right balance and find the right words.  My baggage, my unraveled mess – I don’t know if I can make them make sense to me, let alone to anyone else.  But I think that if words are all I have to work with, they have to be enough.  I have to keep trying.



cast aside
the filters
and the synonyms
to let the
words
tumble
out
as they form.
discard
facades and
string together sentiments
from where they exist
carefully guarded.
erase
the space between
with honesty
and fragile thoughts.
when
words are all you have,
you must speak your heart.
uncensored.