Will it hurt us to listen?
Yes, it will. Our ego will bleed as our narrative is shushed while the voices of the angry, exhausted, desperate and heart-broken become louder than our story that insists that our upbringing, our people, our intentions did not contribute to this problem.
Will it hurt us to listen?
Yes, it will. Listening inflicts pain- but it is a good pain. A pain that can carve out the place where pride has rested, firm and unwavering for God knows how long, leaving room for what is Holy to dwell in its place.
Will it hurt us to listen?
Yes, it will. But not nearly as much as the pain of not being heard. Is there a worse pain than that?
Let us be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry.
Wednesday, June 3, 2020
Sunday, May 31, 2020
God's Dream
Yesterday, I held my son on my lap. I looked at his beautiful eyes- blue, with yellow around the pupils- and stroked his yellow hair. I kissed his pink cheeks. And never once did I worry about his falling victim to a crime like the murder of George Floyd. Such is the privilege of having a blue-eyed, pink-skinned son.
Last night, I saw a friend's post on Facebook. It said "I am the mother of an African American male. My son matters." My heart is breaking for the mothers in our country who hold their sons on their laps, look at their beautiful eyes, stroke their dark hair and kiss their soft cheeks and do worry that their boy will become a victim of the injustice that wickedly lies in wait- even after so many generations of hard-working, self-sacrificing civil rights warriors. My chest literally aches that she needs to write that on Facebook- and she does need to write it on Facebook. Her son matters.
So, last night, I read my yellow-haired boy a book called God's Dream. Because, I don't have to fear him becoming a victim. But I do have to try to make sure he doesn't become a villain. So, into his little boy mind, I am painting pictures with all the beautiful colors God intended for humankind. And I will, with God's help, do everything in my power to erase this curse called racism.
Black lives matter. Brown lives matter. And the Gospel is for everyone.
Thursday, May 21, 2020
Reading Rachel
In 2019, I read two books by two different Rachels. In the fall, I read Girl, Wash Your Face by Rachel Hollis with our women's group at church. I was the one who suggested the book. I hadn't read it but it was all over social media that fall and I was curious to see if the book lived up to its hype.
For me, that book hyped me up, but not in the way that was intended. As a person who seriously struggles with finding my identity in productivity, that book was not much other than a burden. The main message, in my opinion, is to tell women to "dream big dreams, and then keep hustling until you get them." Rachel Hollis offers many examples of her big dreams and big achievements, just in case you're too dull or afraid to have your own. She does share, openly, from some of her own difficult life experiences that have helped shape who she's become, and I respect her for that, but, in the end, I threw that book in the trash.
Weeks after realizing that washing my face wasn't going to address any of my deep and unidentified spiritual needs, I was standing in the church hallway with a friend, while we waited for our children to go out into the sanctuary for some sort of children's choir event. All of us mommas leaned against the walls of the hallway, shushing and pulling on skirts and smoothing hair. It was early May. I turned to my friend, who I didn't know very well at the time, and mentioned something I'd read in the news. "I saw that Rachel Held Evans died this week," I said, with as much compassion as I could gather. I hadn't read this Rachel. But I knew my friend had, and I knew she liked her books. I had been "meaning to" read this other Rachel, but, to be honest, I was scared.
Rachel Hollis had felt safe. People I knew in my Christian community had read her book and liked it. It didn't feel risky to suggest that book for our women's group, although, in hindsight, I wish I hadn't. There are so many better books out there that actually say something about the Gospel. Rachel Held Evans did not feel safe. I'd only read articles about her books. They're the kind of books that make very conservative Christian people uneasy. Even though I haven't ever really identified as a "very conservative Christian" person, I certainly like being liked by them. And I didn't want to risk disapproval. More than that, I didn't want to read something that would put a burden of doubt on a faith that was already practically thread-bare. What if the strands connecting me to my Christianity snapped if I read this Rachel? What if she asked the questions I was too scared to ask, and the answers disconnected me from all that I had left?
In the hallway, my friend's face changed. Her eyes filled with tears, and she began to cry. And, in that moment, I knew- it was time for me to read this Rachel. And if my faith unraveled? Well, then, she and I would have something in common.
I started by reading Inspired, which I liked and helped me get the gist of who Rachel was as a writer, but what really connected me to Rachel was Faith Unraveled. This book is her personal story about her own evolving faith in Jesus.
Rachel died unexpectedly on May 4, 2019. This May her husband, and many of her friends and followers have written beautiful tributes to Rachel. Last May I could understand the common compassion you ought to feel for a young family torn unexpectedly apart, but when my friend started to cry in the hallway, she cried alone.
Then I read Rachel. And I was introduced to a new kind of freedom. Freedom to question, and listen and join with others. So I joined my friend from the hallway- in her honesty, her doubt, her journey. My life and faith blossomed in a new way after reading Rachel, a way I can't describe in this post.
A lot of beautiful things have been written about Rachel Held Evans, true woman of valor. And a lot of not beautiful things have been written about her too. But, for me, reading Rachel changed my life.
I don't have much time for writing these days. And when I do have time, I don't quite know what to say. I've processed a lot over the past two years, and I'm changing. Maybe one day I'll get to the point where I can talk about that journey. But not yet.
I still love God, and I love Jesus. I love Rachel Held Evans, and my friend from the church hallway. I love them all more now... better this May than last May. And because I read Rachel, now my friend isn't crying alone.
Tuesday, July 16, 2019
Team Forgiveness
I've written about a ton of things on this blog, but I've never talked about forgiveness. There's a reason for that. For a really long time, I've been well convinced that I am really bad at it. So me writing about forgiveness would be like a person who cannot carry a tune writing about how to score a solo in the choir. Or a person who eats donuts every day blogging about the keto diet.
Forgiveness is sketchy territory for me. It carries with it a ton of emotional baggage. But, in my journey with God, I find myself once again at the crossroads of anger, doubt and freedom, and, this time, things look different for me than they have before.
Forgiveness has been sketchy territory for me because it's not only been hard to practice, it's been hard to figure out. There are different schools of thought out there about forgiveness. For some people, forgiveness means not ever talking about what happened- just, "letting love cover over a multitude of sins." Others think that forgiveness means choosing to forget what happened. "Yes, it happened, but, love doesn't record wrongs, so, never ever mention it again." And others think that forgiveness equals reconciliation. You forgive me, therefore we are now totally okay. Still others will tell you that you can't forgive anyone until you forgive yourself. And then there's also the notion that forgiveness cuts my chains to the wrongs that have been done to me, thereby releasing me and giving me freedom.
My counselor in Austin taught me the difference between forgiveness, reunion and reconciliation. Forgiveness, he said, is a command. If we want to be obedient to Christ, it's something we're obligated to do. Reunion, on the other hand, is a choice. It's what a lot of us do when things are weird with someone we used to share fellowship with, but we still get together with them every now and again anyway. We can be with them, for the sake of keeping the peace, or for the kids or for any number of pure or impure reasons. Reconciliation, on the other hand, is the sweet stuff. It's what happens when all of the cards are laid out on the table, and everyone involved in the hurtful situation picks theirs up and says, "This one is mine. I am so sorry. Forgive me, and I will ask God to help me change."
I've been in on reunion and reconciliation before. Reconciliation feels fantastic. And, ironically, some of my sweetest relationships have developed with people that I've been reconciled to. I could write a blog about reconciliation. I can tell you about a hug I had in a school hallway that melted away months of mounting misunderstanding, or a conversation that I had in an office that brought unity and power, or the phone conversation I had when I finally felt seen and loved. Those are good stories. And each occasion involved forgiveness. But it was the kind of forgiveness where you could kind of sniff the mercy as it was on its way. Where there was a "humility tell" in the other person that let me know that they were starting to see all the cards, and their hands were twitching to pick up some of them. That's JV forgiveness. It's still sweet and great, and I wish it for you and yours. But sometimes it's not that easy.
I can make the JV forgiveness team, but Varsity? I sometimes feel like I got cut from that roster. Part of the reason I feel that way is because I've been told that. I have been told that I am unforgiving. And, like so many things in life, there have been times that I have lived into the identity that was given to me.
This past Sunday, my pastor talked about Stephen being stoned. He mentioned the many parallels between Stephen's death and Jesus's death, which I had never paid attention to before. Both men were killed by angry mobs of religious men who were enraged at the prospect that Jesus Christ could ever be considered the Son of God. And both men used their dying breaths to ask for forgiveness for the very people whose hatred robbed them of their lives. That's Varsity level forgiveness. When the person or people whom you are forgiving are so convinced that they are right and you are wrong that they actually feel super holy about the thing they're doing that is killing you.
One of the reasons I'm able to write about this today is that over the past year, my view of myself has shifted. One of the outcomes of that shift is I now realize that, no matter what has been said about me, I've never been cut from that Varsity forgiveness roster. My counselor was right. Forgiveness is a command. And because I am 100%, by grace through faith, Team Son of God- I am called to be like Jesus and Stephen and forgive, even if humility and mercy are nowhere to be seen.
Maybe one of the reasons I've been so bad at this is because I have a history of being a pretty terrible team player. I remember well when I was a kid playing sports that if my team lost, but I played a good game, I didn't feel bummed out. Likewise, when my team won, if I didn't play well, or I felt like I got slighted on playing time, I was secretly and selfishly disappointed. As I watched the US Women's soccer team win the World Cup this summer, I thought about the old me. The one who would secretly sulk on the bench instead of cheering for my teammates from my heart. From what I could tell, none of the players on the US Women's team have that problem. When they won, every player rushed the field in what appeared to be genuine, selfless joy.
I think that's what has been missing from my forgiveness. The identity that I am on this team. And grace is what we do. For me, that's what it means to forgive as Jesus forgives. It means to be so excited with being picked for his team, that I rush the field with self-denying grace because he has demonstrated it perfectly time and time and time again. I can see my own situation as just an opportunity to display who's team I'm on, rather than sulking about all that is messed up in my situation. It's interesting to think about the final match of the World Cup. It was a good game against a skilled opponent, which made the victory sweeter. When I feel sorry for myself because Jesus has asked me to forgive in uncertain and difficult circumstances, I am not remembering that the tougher the opponent, the sweeter the victory.
There are a lot of things that I have doubted over the past few years- basically everything. And, probably, doubt will come again. And along with it (God willing), the strength to endure. But, one thing seems to have finally crystallized out of all of that doubt and pain and spiritual suffering. Grace wins. Not behavior modification. Not morality. Not religion. Not secularism. Not conservatism. Not Democracy. Not anger. Not judgement. Not pride. Grace. The same grace that has come to find me in my darkest hours, in the places so shameful I barely want to remember them. That same grace is what will win. And Jesus Christ is calling me to be on his team. To play again and again and again at grace. Sometimes, I'll do well. Other times, I'll fail. But what matters most is that I always remember that I'm on this team of Forgiven People who are moving grace forward into this world- a world that hates it and rejects it or tries to earn it or treats you like garbage or like your simple and stupid for offering it. It's certainly not easy. And there are still things that I am not certain about, but I'm excited to no longer feel like I don't belong on this team. Not because I've suddenly gotten good at it, but because the Person I belong to is, and he's calling me to come and play.
Forgiveness is sketchy territory for me. It carries with it a ton of emotional baggage. But, in my journey with God, I find myself once again at the crossroads of anger, doubt and freedom, and, this time, things look different for me than they have before.
Forgiveness has been sketchy territory for me because it's not only been hard to practice, it's been hard to figure out. There are different schools of thought out there about forgiveness. For some people, forgiveness means not ever talking about what happened- just, "letting love cover over a multitude of sins." Others think that forgiveness means choosing to forget what happened. "Yes, it happened, but, love doesn't record wrongs, so, never ever mention it again." And others think that forgiveness equals reconciliation. You forgive me, therefore we are now totally okay. Still others will tell you that you can't forgive anyone until you forgive yourself. And then there's also the notion that forgiveness cuts my chains to the wrongs that have been done to me, thereby releasing me and giving me freedom.
My counselor in Austin taught me the difference between forgiveness, reunion and reconciliation. Forgiveness, he said, is a command. If we want to be obedient to Christ, it's something we're obligated to do. Reunion, on the other hand, is a choice. It's what a lot of us do when things are weird with someone we used to share fellowship with, but we still get together with them every now and again anyway. We can be with them, for the sake of keeping the peace, or for the kids or for any number of pure or impure reasons. Reconciliation, on the other hand, is the sweet stuff. It's what happens when all of the cards are laid out on the table, and everyone involved in the hurtful situation picks theirs up and says, "This one is mine. I am so sorry. Forgive me, and I will ask God to help me change."
I've been in on reunion and reconciliation before. Reconciliation feels fantastic. And, ironically, some of my sweetest relationships have developed with people that I've been reconciled to. I could write a blog about reconciliation. I can tell you about a hug I had in a school hallway that melted away months of mounting misunderstanding, or a conversation that I had in an office that brought unity and power, or the phone conversation I had when I finally felt seen and loved. Those are good stories. And each occasion involved forgiveness. But it was the kind of forgiveness where you could kind of sniff the mercy as it was on its way. Where there was a "humility tell" in the other person that let me know that they were starting to see all the cards, and their hands were twitching to pick up some of them. That's JV forgiveness. It's still sweet and great, and I wish it for you and yours. But sometimes it's not that easy.
I can make the JV forgiveness team, but Varsity? I sometimes feel like I got cut from that roster. Part of the reason I feel that way is because I've been told that. I have been told that I am unforgiving. And, like so many things in life, there have been times that I have lived into the identity that was given to me.
This past Sunday, my pastor talked about Stephen being stoned. He mentioned the many parallels between Stephen's death and Jesus's death, which I had never paid attention to before. Both men were killed by angry mobs of religious men who were enraged at the prospect that Jesus Christ could ever be considered the Son of God. And both men used their dying breaths to ask for forgiveness for the very people whose hatred robbed them of their lives. That's Varsity level forgiveness. When the person or people whom you are forgiving are so convinced that they are right and you are wrong that they actually feel super holy about the thing they're doing that is killing you.
One of the reasons I'm able to write about this today is that over the past year, my view of myself has shifted. One of the outcomes of that shift is I now realize that, no matter what has been said about me, I've never been cut from that Varsity forgiveness roster. My counselor was right. Forgiveness is a command. And because I am 100%, by grace through faith, Team Son of God- I am called to be like Jesus and Stephen and forgive, even if humility and mercy are nowhere to be seen.
Maybe one of the reasons I've been so bad at this is because I have a history of being a pretty terrible team player. I remember well when I was a kid playing sports that if my team lost, but I played a good game, I didn't feel bummed out. Likewise, when my team won, if I didn't play well, or I felt like I got slighted on playing time, I was secretly and selfishly disappointed. As I watched the US Women's soccer team win the World Cup this summer, I thought about the old me. The one who would secretly sulk on the bench instead of cheering for my teammates from my heart. From what I could tell, none of the players on the US Women's team have that problem. When they won, every player rushed the field in what appeared to be genuine, selfless joy.
I think that's what has been missing from my forgiveness. The identity that I am on this team. And grace is what we do. For me, that's what it means to forgive as Jesus forgives. It means to be so excited with being picked for his team, that I rush the field with self-denying grace because he has demonstrated it perfectly time and time and time again. I can see my own situation as just an opportunity to display who's team I'm on, rather than sulking about all that is messed up in my situation. It's interesting to think about the final match of the World Cup. It was a good game against a skilled opponent, which made the victory sweeter. When I feel sorry for myself because Jesus has asked me to forgive in uncertain and difficult circumstances, I am not remembering that the tougher the opponent, the sweeter the victory.
There are a lot of things that I have doubted over the past few years- basically everything. And, probably, doubt will come again. And along with it (God willing), the strength to endure. But, one thing seems to have finally crystallized out of all of that doubt and pain and spiritual suffering. Grace wins. Not behavior modification. Not morality. Not religion. Not secularism. Not conservatism. Not Democracy. Not anger. Not judgement. Not pride. Grace. The same grace that has come to find me in my darkest hours, in the places so shameful I barely want to remember them. That same grace is what will win. And Jesus Christ is calling me to be on his team. To play again and again and again at grace. Sometimes, I'll do well. Other times, I'll fail. But what matters most is that I always remember that I'm on this team of Forgiven People who are moving grace forward into this world- a world that hates it and rejects it or tries to earn it or treats you like garbage or like your simple and stupid for offering it. It's certainly not easy. And there are still things that I am not certain about, but I'm excited to no longer feel like I don't belong on this team. Not because I've suddenly gotten good at it, but because the Person I belong to is, and he's calling me to come and play.
Tuesday, June 25, 2019
Green Means Go
This past Sunday, during the time for children at our worship service, our pastor explained the change of the color of the stole that covers the pulpit. Having not grown up in a Presbyterian church, the whole liturgical calendar thing is new to me, so I'm always appreciative of an explanation for these changes, too.
"What color do you see?" Pastor Howard Dudley asked.
"Green!!" replied the little girls with bows in their hair.
Green, he explained, marks what the Presbyterian Church calls "ordinary time." And for our church, it accompanies a shift from hearing about the life of Christ from the pulpit to the life of the church, as we begin a series of sermons based on the book of Acts. As he talked, one little girl shouted, "GREEN MEANS GO!"
"Yes! Exactly. Green means go. Because we should go with the love of God." His enthusiastic response was more gracious than anything I could have come up with in that moment. Even as he spoke, I could feel little flutters of anxiety in my chest.
Sometimes I imagine being on-scene in John 16, when Jesus is telling his disciples that it's good for him to go away. I'm 100% certain that if I were there, I would have my arms crossed over my chest and a fully disgruntled look on my face. In my mind, I'd be thinking, "So you just leave us here and it gets better? I don't think so."
Because how does it get better than Jesus? How does it get better than a man who walks on water and calms seas? How does it get better than a Person so unafraid of public opinion that he speaks his mind with total, unadulterated freedom? How does it get better than a human being whose spit heals blindness and whose touch heals lepers? How can it ever get better than someone who intentionally obliterates social and religious walls of separation with a wrecking ball of grace?
When I read about Jesus, no matter what's going on with me or in the world, I am always pierced by an arrow of hope. But I cannot say that the same thing is true when I read about the work of his people.
I want to lean into Jesus in John 16 and whisper from the wisdom of my 2019 vantage point, "You know they're going to mess this up, right?"
Instead of loving one another, they're going to promote themselves. Instead of setting captives free, they're going to enslave. Instead of healing, they're going to wound. Instead of spreading a message of hope, they're going to promote fear. Instead of purity, there will be abuse. Instead of listening, they're going to shout, and email, and, God help us all... tweet. And the world isn't going to know them for their love, they're going to fear them as closed people who are obsessed with their own opinions, policies and moral standards. And the Earth isn't going to be renewed, it's going to be ravaged.
We in the church like to think that sin, and people who do not believe in Jesus are responsible for such atrocities. But, reality and history tell a different story. The people of God are culpable for much of the world's hurt and shame and anxiety today. Thus, my heart's fluttery response at that green color on the pulpit on an otherwise beautiful, sunlit Sunday morning. "Why, Jesus? Why can't you just stay here and show how it's actually done? Make sure it's done right? People just seem to find more and more reasons to argue with one another about who you are and what you would do. Why not just stay here and get things done yourself?"
But how can I argue with a God who stoops from his position above all of the universe and clothes himself in human flesh? Can I even understand the depth of his obsession with mankind? Isaiah 55: 9 says, "as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts higher than your thoughts." Indeed they are. I would never think of looking to people to continue to express God's perfect love. People are far too inconsistent. Too weak, fickle, selfish and mean. Why in the universe would you entrust a message of grace and love to them?
The only answer I can think of is that we are the objects of that grace and love. We look at the Bible and think of it as God's Word, and indeed it is, but its also so very human. Written by humans and for humans and filled with human stories, about our failures and our victories and our pain and lamentation and rejoicing. The only God we know of is a God intertwines himself with human life, and expresses himself through our flesh and bones and blood. First as One of us, then as One with us.
This makes me think of my work as a teacher. It's no secret that teachers can sometimes get caught up in the act of teaching. We can obsess over mastery over content, presentation style, and meeting certain professional goals. But, um... our entire existence is only justified by the students. And, especially as a science teacher, there needs to come a time when I step away from the lab table and say, "Read the lab manual, and do it yourselves." Because that's what teaching really is about. It isn't selfish, even though I sometimes make it that way. It's not about my performance and how well I can do the experiment. It's about giving the students something that they don't yet have. It's a complete transfer, and that transfer is only legitimized by my stepping completely away and entrusting them to use what I have tried to give them.
I think that's what Jesus did. And, even though my inner cynic doesn't like it, I can't argue that it is best practice. Without people, who would he have saved? We identify Christ as our Savior, but you can't be a Savior if there's nothing there to save. His saving work was meant for people, mean, fickle, disobedient, rebellious people. That grace was fully transferred to us, and then, he left us with the Spirit to help us continue the work that he started. So even though there's a part of me that wants to say, "Don't go,we're not going to handle this well." I can understand why he did go. It's an act of love. An act of trust. And a chance for us to see if we've actually received what's been freely given.
I wonder if only people who have been wounded by other Christian people or who are wary of the animosity they see between different factions of the church would respond the way I did to the green? I tried for a long time to just pin my woundedness and wariness on sin, not sinners. Christians say that all the time. But for me, it doesn't work. I've been told that I should take comfort in the reality that my struggle is not against flesh and blood but against the powers of the dark world and the evil in the heavens above. But just as Love poured out in flesh and blood for my life, so evil corrupts flesh and blood which leads to death. The struggle might be ongoing in the heavens, but it's definitely breaking hearts and bodies and minds down here. I'm not sure that the two can or should be separated. No, woundedness comes from people. Sometimes it comes from Christian people. The same people he was talking about when he said, "It's good for me to go away, because I will send them the Advocate."
I'm beginning to see that if I could go back to John 16, and stand there cross-armed and give Jesus my two cents, that he would look back and me and say, "I know they brought you pain, Meredith. But do you not see? They are also bringing your healing. "
And so, this very idea that caused my anxiety to spring forth- this reality that the church is now the representation of Christ on Earth- how can I deny that this is also the way that he is healing me? Over the past few weeks, I've been more intentional than ever before about sharing what burdens me. As I have emailed or texted people I love and trust, the weight of my thoughts becomes lighter as I type the words. Every day, I am reminded through phone calls, emails, post cards, texts- that I am not alone. I am being prayed for. I am understood. Last night, I went to yoga class. The lady who teaches it goes to my church. When she ends class, she comes around to each person and touches oil to their temples and forehead. That physical touch is another reminder that I am not alone. Even in the care of my physical body, something that seems so private and personal, there is someone there to help. Today, after making slime with kids at VBS all morning, I was momentarily buried under a pile of preschoolers during the closing assembly. Those soft, sticky, sweaty, small arms and legs remind me that I have purpose. There's another generation coming along after me, and surely the people of God will wound them. But maybe, by his grace and power, we will heal them, too.
I can see the beauty in this. And the necessity of it. How can we really be Jesus' people, if we don't have the chance to take all that he has given to us, and put it into action. Are we going to fail? Of course. And sometimes the consequences of that failure are heavier and deeper than I can express in words. Our failure is serious. But, so is our victory. And it's through our victory that we shoot arrows of hope into the world. Hope for ears that listen and hands that serve. Hope for hearts that will break with the wounds of the world, rather than contributing to them. Hope for justice and mercy. Hope for freedom and God's glory, not our own. I need this chance to go. Because I probably carry more personal failures to live up to who Christ really is, than victories. For today, anyway. But green means go.
So, tomorrow, I'll get up and I'll go. I'll go on sharing what is too heavy for me to carry alone. I'll go on receiving help from others who are willing to give it. And I'll go on serving those who are willing to receive what I have to give. I'll go with compassion, the way my Lord did. And, as much as I am able, I'll go without fear. (That's the hardest one for me) And I wonder... Maybe, in the end, "ordinary time" will end up bringing extraordinary change to my life.
"What color do you see?" Pastor Howard Dudley asked.
"Green!!" replied the little girls with bows in their hair.
Green, he explained, marks what the Presbyterian Church calls "ordinary time." And for our church, it accompanies a shift from hearing about the life of Christ from the pulpit to the life of the church, as we begin a series of sermons based on the book of Acts. As he talked, one little girl shouted, "GREEN MEANS GO!"
"Yes! Exactly. Green means go. Because we should go with the love of God." His enthusiastic response was more gracious than anything I could have come up with in that moment. Even as he spoke, I could feel little flutters of anxiety in my chest.
Sometimes I imagine being on-scene in John 16, when Jesus is telling his disciples that it's good for him to go away. I'm 100% certain that if I were there, I would have my arms crossed over my chest and a fully disgruntled look on my face. In my mind, I'd be thinking, "So you just leave us here and it gets better? I don't think so."
Because how does it get better than Jesus? How does it get better than a man who walks on water and calms seas? How does it get better than a Person so unafraid of public opinion that he speaks his mind with total, unadulterated freedom? How does it get better than a human being whose spit heals blindness and whose touch heals lepers? How can it ever get better than someone who intentionally obliterates social and religious walls of separation with a wrecking ball of grace?
When I read about Jesus, no matter what's going on with me or in the world, I am always pierced by an arrow of hope. But I cannot say that the same thing is true when I read about the work of his people.
I want to lean into Jesus in John 16 and whisper from the wisdom of my 2019 vantage point, "You know they're going to mess this up, right?"
Instead of loving one another, they're going to promote themselves. Instead of setting captives free, they're going to enslave. Instead of healing, they're going to wound. Instead of spreading a message of hope, they're going to promote fear. Instead of purity, there will be abuse. Instead of listening, they're going to shout, and email, and, God help us all... tweet. And the world isn't going to know them for their love, they're going to fear them as closed people who are obsessed with their own opinions, policies and moral standards. And the Earth isn't going to be renewed, it's going to be ravaged.
We in the church like to think that sin, and people who do not believe in Jesus are responsible for such atrocities. But, reality and history tell a different story. The people of God are culpable for much of the world's hurt and shame and anxiety today. Thus, my heart's fluttery response at that green color on the pulpit on an otherwise beautiful, sunlit Sunday morning. "Why, Jesus? Why can't you just stay here and show how it's actually done? Make sure it's done right? People just seem to find more and more reasons to argue with one another about who you are and what you would do. Why not just stay here and get things done yourself?"
But how can I argue with a God who stoops from his position above all of the universe and clothes himself in human flesh? Can I even understand the depth of his obsession with mankind? Isaiah 55: 9 says, "as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways, and my thoughts higher than your thoughts." Indeed they are. I would never think of looking to people to continue to express God's perfect love. People are far too inconsistent. Too weak, fickle, selfish and mean. Why in the universe would you entrust a message of grace and love to them?
The only answer I can think of is that we are the objects of that grace and love. We look at the Bible and think of it as God's Word, and indeed it is, but its also so very human. Written by humans and for humans and filled with human stories, about our failures and our victories and our pain and lamentation and rejoicing. The only God we know of is a God intertwines himself with human life, and expresses himself through our flesh and bones and blood. First as One of us, then as One with us.
This makes me think of my work as a teacher. It's no secret that teachers can sometimes get caught up in the act of teaching. We can obsess over mastery over content, presentation style, and meeting certain professional goals. But, um... our entire existence is only justified by the students. And, especially as a science teacher, there needs to come a time when I step away from the lab table and say, "Read the lab manual, and do it yourselves." Because that's what teaching really is about. It isn't selfish, even though I sometimes make it that way. It's not about my performance and how well I can do the experiment. It's about giving the students something that they don't yet have. It's a complete transfer, and that transfer is only legitimized by my stepping completely away and entrusting them to use what I have tried to give them.
I think that's what Jesus did. And, even though my inner cynic doesn't like it, I can't argue that it is best practice. Without people, who would he have saved? We identify Christ as our Savior, but you can't be a Savior if there's nothing there to save. His saving work was meant for people, mean, fickle, disobedient, rebellious people. That grace was fully transferred to us, and then, he left us with the Spirit to help us continue the work that he started. So even though there's a part of me that wants to say, "Don't go,we're not going to handle this well." I can understand why he did go. It's an act of love. An act of trust. And a chance for us to see if we've actually received what's been freely given.
I wonder if only people who have been wounded by other Christian people or who are wary of the animosity they see between different factions of the church would respond the way I did to the green? I tried for a long time to just pin my woundedness and wariness on sin, not sinners. Christians say that all the time. But for me, it doesn't work. I've been told that I should take comfort in the reality that my struggle is not against flesh and blood but against the powers of the dark world and the evil in the heavens above. But just as Love poured out in flesh and blood for my life, so evil corrupts flesh and blood which leads to death. The struggle might be ongoing in the heavens, but it's definitely breaking hearts and bodies and minds down here. I'm not sure that the two can or should be separated. No, woundedness comes from people. Sometimes it comes from Christian people. The same people he was talking about when he said, "It's good for me to go away, because I will send them the Advocate."
I'm beginning to see that if I could go back to John 16, and stand there cross-armed and give Jesus my two cents, that he would look back and me and say, "I know they brought you pain, Meredith. But do you not see? They are also bringing your healing. "
And so, this very idea that caused my anxiety to spring forth- this reality that the church is now the representation of Christ on Earth- how can I deny that this is also the way that he is healing me? Over the past few weeks, I've been more intentional than ever before about sharing what burdens me. As I have emailed or texted people I love and trust, the weight of my thoughts becomes lighter as I type the words. Every day, I am reminded through phone calls, emails, post cards, texts- that I am not alone. I am being prayed for. I am understood. Last night, I went to yoga class. The lady who teaches it goes to my church. When she ends class, she comes around to each person and touches oil to their temples and forehead. That physical touch is another reminder that I am not alone. Even in the care of my physical body, something that seems so private and personal, there is someone there to help. Today, after making slime with kids at VBS all morning, I was momentarily buried under a pile of preschoolers during the closing assembly. Those soft, sticky, sweaty, small arms and legs remind me that I have purpose. There's another generation coming along after me, and surely the people of God will wound them. But maybe, by his grace and power, we will heal them, too.
I can see the beauty in this. And the necessity of it. How can we really be Jesus' people, if we don't have the chance to take all that he has given to us, and put it into action. Are we going to fail? Of course. And sometimes the consequences of that failure are heavier and deeper than I can express in words. Our failure is serious. But, so is our victory. And it's through our victory that we shoot arrows of hope into the world. Hope for ears that listen and hands that serve. Hope for hearts that will break with the wounds of the world, rather than contributing to them. Hope for justice and mercy. Hope for freedom and God's glory, not our own. I need this chance to go. Because I probably carry more personal failures to live up to who Christ really is, than victories. For today, anyway. But green means go.
So, tomorrow, I'll get up and I'll go. I'll go on sharing what is too heavy for me to carry alone. I'll go on receiving help from others who are willing to give it. And I'll go on serving those who are willing to receive what I have to give. I'll go with compassion, the way my Lord did. And, as much as I am able, I'll go without fear. (That's the hardest one for me) And I wonder... Maybe, in the end, "ordinary time" will end up bringing extraordinary change to my life.
Saturday, June 22, 2019
Baby Shark
Like other stay-at-home Moms, my world revolves around play-dates. On these hot summer days, I live for trips to the pool, splash pad or (shady) playground with other moms of preschoolers and toddlers. This week, we met up with my friend Gaia and her daughter Mary at Bravery Kids Gym in Fayetteville.
Bravery is one of these indoor play gyms, where you pay to let your littles run around and jump and swing about while you try to have a conversation with another mom. Your conversation inevitably fails because your child falls down on the padded floor, or needs a strong reminder that we share and take turns or has go to the potty. But, you're still happy to have an hour of conversation in the sweet air conditioning that is not centered around Nick Jr. characters.
Gaia and I were sitting on one side of the room, watching the girls interact with a little guy who looked to be about three. We noticed that he was a little bit rough. We witnessed him throwing some plastic cones about, and we commented that the women with him didn't seem to be his mother. She seemed a little too timid when correcting him. Most mommas would grab their child and make a quick correction at the cone-throwing, but this woman seemed a bit like a fish out of water. We said she looked like a grandmother or a babysitter, but she was definitely trying.
This boy and our two girls were up on a wooden platform. Below the platform is a pit filled with super soft, foam blocks. I'm not sure what exactly happened, but I saw Story fall from the platform into the blocks and the little guy jumped in right on top of her. I had just risen from my chair when I heard her screaming. I ran to her, and the boy's grandmother ran over too. It was a blur for a moment, and then I realized what my red-faced child was screaming about. Her arm was red and blue and white from the worst bite mark I've ever seen. The boy's grandmother picked him up, and Gaia told me later that he was trying to bite and kick at his grandmother while I stared at my screaming little girl and tried to think.
Something kind of primal takes over for a second when you realize that someone has hurt your child. That boy might have just been three years old, but I was ready to drop-kick him into the parking lot for a moment. But peace rushed in and calmed that instinct too quickly for more damage to be done. There was no need for more screaming. Everyone was already plenty upset.
But, I did look at the woman, holding the boy, who was now crying. And said, "Is he your grandson?" She said, "Yes." And I said, "He's a little out of control." And then I walked back to the seating area with a still crying and shaking Story.
As the staff responded to the situation with an ice pack and some gummy snacks, the boy's story unfolded. His grandmother was mortified and devastated by what happened. Through tears (real tears, not histrionics) she told us that he was a drug baby, and his mother is in rehab. Though his grandmother was falling apart, the boy seemed to not care whatsoever about anything that was happening. Once Story calmed down, I asked his grandmother if I could talk to him, and she said yes. I said, "I want you to know that you hurt my little girl. She is crying because of what you did to her." He just stared at me blankly. Shortly after that, Gaia and I took our kids to the reading room, so they could completely calm down.
After a while, the grandmother appeared at the door of the reading room to let us know that she had filled out the incident report with the staff and left her number. She said to call if we needed anything. She was still crying and apologizing. She hugged Story and, with tears still streaming down her cheeks said to me, "I don't want her to be traumatized." I told her, "We will be fine. It sounds like you have a really difficult situation. We want you to go in peace." During these interactions, her grandson continued to try to kick and hit her. Gaia offered tender admonishment to the boy, "Don't hit your grandmother," she said in her Italian accent, "she loves you so much." But I could see from my seat on the reading room sofa that the broken parts of that boy's life had so filled him up that he had nothing else to pour out at that moment but slaps and kicks. As they turned to go their own way, my heart broke for them because I knew that Story's wound would be so much easier to heal.
After about fifteen minutes, my baby girl was back out to play. I sat cross-legged on the floor building blocks with Grey and looked across the room at her. "Baby Shark" came on through the speakers and I watched her move her little body to the music and I thought, "Wow, that girl is fierce." Later, in the car, she wanted to call her daddy and tell him about the bite. She said, "That boy had a sad heart. He didn't know how to act." And, then, I cried.
God of grace, thank you for giving us peace in our moment of pain. Thank you for giving us the power to speak truth to those who hurt us. Thank you for giving us the resilience to dance, even after we've been knocked off our feet. Jesus, thank you for weeping with the wounded. We ask you for peace for this boy who wounded Story and great healing for him and his family.
Bravery is one of these indoor play gyms, where you pay to let your littles run around and jump and swing about while you try to have a conversation with another mom. Your conversation inevitably fails because your child falls down on the padded floor, or needs a strong reminder that we share and take turns or has go to the potty. But, you're still happy to have an hour of conversation in the sweet air conditioning that is not centered around Nick Jr. characters.
Gaia and I were sitting on one side of the room, watching the girls interact with a little guy who looked to be about three. We noticed that he was a little bit rough. We witnessed him throwing some plastic cones about, and we commented that the women with him didn't seem to be his mother. She seemed a little too timid when correcting him. Most mommas would grab their child and make a quick correction at the cone-throwing, but this woman seemed a bit like a fish out of water. We said she looked like a grandmother or a babysitter, but she was definitely trying.
This boy and our two girls were up on a wooden platform. Below the platform is a pit filled with super soft, foam blocks. I'm not sure what exactly happened, but I saw Story fall from the platform into the blocks and the little guy jumped in right on top of her. I had just risen from my chair when I heard her screaming. I ran to her, and the boy's grandmother ran over too. It was a blur for a moment, and then I realized what my red-faced child was screaming about. Her arm was red and blue and white from the worst bite mark I've ever seen. The boy's grandmother picked him up, and Gaia told me later that he was trying to bite and kick at his grandmother while I stared at my screaming little girl and tried to think.
Something kind of primal takes over for a second when you realize that someone has hurt your child. That boy might have just been three years old, but I was ready to drop-kick him into the parking lot for a moment. But peace rushed in and calmed that instinct too quickly for more damage to be done. There was no need for more screaming. Everyone was already plenty upset.
But, I did look at the woman, holding the boy, who was now crying. And said, "Is he your grandson?" She said, "Yes." And I said, "He's a little out of control." And then I walked back to the seating area with a still crying and shaking Story.
As the staff responded to the situation with an ice pack and some gummy snacks, the boy's story unfolded. His grandmother was mortified and devastated by what happened. Through tears (real tears, not histrionics) she told us that he was a drug baby, and his mother is in rehab. Though his grandmother was falling apart, the boy seemed to not care whatsoever about anything that was happening. Once Story calmed down, I asked his grandmother if I could talk to him, and she said yes. I said, "I want you to know that you hurt my little girl. She is crying because of what you did to her." He just stared at me blankly. Shortly after that, Gaia and I took our kids to the reading room, so they could completely calm down.
After a while, the grandmother appeared at the door of the reading room to let us know that she had filled out the incident report with the staff and left her number. She said to call if we needed anything. She was still crying and apologizing. She hugged Story and, with tears still streaming down her cheeks said to me, "I don't want her to be traumatized." I told her, "We will be fine. It sounds like you have a really difficult situation. We want you to go in peace." During these interactions, her grandson continued to try to kick and hit her. Gaia offered tender admonishment to the boy, "Don't hit your grandmother," she said in her Italian accent, "she loves you so much." But I could see from my seat on the reading room sofa that the broken parts of that boy's life had so filled him up that he had nothing else to pour out at that moment but slaps and kicks. As they turned to go their own way, my heart broke for them because I knew that Story's wound would be so much easier to heal.
After about fifteen minutes, my baby girl was back out to play. I sat cross-legged on the floor building blocks with Grey and looked across the room at her. "Baby Shark" came on through the speakers and I watched her move her little body to the music and I thought, "Wow, that girl is fierce." Later, in the car, she wanted to call her daddy and tell him about the bite. She said, "That boy had a sad heart. He didn't know how to act." And, then, I cried.
God of grace, thank you for giving us peace in our moment of pain. Thank you for giving us the power to speak truth to those who hurt us. Thank you for giving us the resilience to dance, even after we've been knocked off our feet. Jesus, thank you for weeping with the wounded. We ask you for peace for this boy who wounded Story and great healing for him and his family.
Saturday, February 23, 2019
That's Southern
Thursdays are our at-home days. We spend the rest of the week driving back and forth to preschool and Bible Study and playdates, but Thursdays, we have no agenda. We can just stay home. This past Thursday, I bundled the kids up and placed them in the double jogging stroller, a blanket on top of their little legs, and we walked to the library.
I love my neighborhood. Is it as rare as I think it is to walk through your neighborhood, on the way to the library, no less, and rattle off your neighbor's names as you pass their houses? As we walked by gardens just waking up from winter and homes with gigantic white columns and wrap-around porches, I decided to strike up a conversation with Story.
"Do you know what 'Southern' means?" I asked.
"No," she replies.
It has only just occurred to me, as we pass by a tremendous magnolia, that she is, in fact, a child of the South. Born in Austin, and with a daddy who will always seem more Colorado than Carolina, she seems, somehow, not quite of this place.
"What's 'Southern' means?" she asks.
Well, I think to myself, that's going to take some time to try to answer.
My Mom gave me Reese Witherspoon's book, Whiskey in a Teacup for Christmas. As I sat reading it one afternoon on the sofa in my living room, it dawned on me that I don't need to be ashamed of being Southern. I was raised on sweet tea and Jesus like any other Southern girl, but along the way, I met a lot of people from a lot of places. Such is life in Fayetteville, North Carolina, home to Ft. Bragg.
A lot of people who come to Ft. Bragg can't help but talk about how they can't stand the South. It used to really bother me, and I felt defensive, but then somewhere in time, I think I went vanilla about the whole thing. It's hard to keep on caring. Especially because most of those people who complain so much will leave in a few years anyway. People come to Ft. Bragg from everywhere in the world, and most of them have their own well-developed sense of what home ought to look and feel like. I've learned not to begrudge them that, even if in reality, home is likely to be more a state of mind than a state of the nation. Even so, there are some memories that I cannot shake. A former boyfriend who incessantly insulted my mother's wallpaper, and who got viscerally angry over the fact that my mother had an African American housekeeper named Katie. And the girl at my bridal shower who poked fun at me for wearing black swiss dot panty-hose with my forest green dress, and who could not get over the fact that I'd had bridal portraits taken (she had never heard of such a thing!) I reckon that, over the years, I developed a feeling that, at the very least, I ought to be sort of ashamed of being Southern. I felt like other people were utterly convinced that the South was filled with nothing but ignorance, humidity and mosquitoes, and though I've honestly never felt this way myself, I couldn't muster the strength or desire to go on defending it.
I know there are some people who are on the complete opposite end of the spectrum of thought. Who would ever feel embarrassed of being Southern? Pour them some sweet tea in a monogramed glass and sing them Dixie- this is the South and they're proud of it. I don't begrudge them either. I suppose everyone is entitled to their home state of mind.
I guess that I'm not so worried about what those people said about my panty-hose or my mother's wallpaper anymore, nor am I going to monogram everything that doesn't move (sorry Reese), but I am beginning to see that it's important for me to start to tell my little ones about the South- and here's one reason why...
On my run today, I ran back through my sweet neighborhood to the museum that stands just on the other side of the train track from the library. I stopped and took a couple of pictures of the statue out front. It's a statue of the General William C. Lee, a renowned General from Dunn who served bravely in the 101st Airborne during World Wars I and II, and it was set ablaze a few nights ago. The museum curator was on the news earlier this week explaining that he supposes some "jerks" (his word, not mine) set it on fire, thinking it was a statute of the other General Lee.
On Thursday, I walked and pointed out things to Story- "See that camellia, that's Southern. So many beautiful colors! Let's see how many colors we can collect. And that magnolia tree? That's Southern too. It has the sweetest smell in high summer. Those letters on your jacket? That's your monogram. That's very Southern."
We returned from the library with The Story of Ruby Bridges, and I explained, to the best of my ability, how people in the South used to be really mean to black people. (Well, first I had to explain what "black" and "white" meant because it was impossible to understand the plot without that backstory) Story was incredulous and asked, appropriately, time and again, "Why? Why?"And I had to tell her the truth- that it was sin, and a sin that surely grew riper in this Southern soil than in other places in our country.
I told Story on our walk that as she learns about the South there will be things she likes, and things she doesn't. There are things that are silly, and some that are so pretty they'll take your breath away. Others are ugly and unfair and some unspeakably sad. It seems more clear than ever that I should tell her the truth about this place, even as I continue to discover it. Confusion and ignorance fuels the fire of bitterness. But there is still time for truth, and with it, I hope, empathy, humility and peace.
When some people think of this place, they might think it ignorant and unpleasant, but, to me, this place will always be home. And it's up to people just like me to ensure that nothing is forgotten or swept under the rug. Because if people from the South don't invest in our own story, then what will be told about it from the outside? There's a lot to learn and a lot of ways to keep on growing. There's a lot of soil that needs kindness planted where hatred once was. So I'll keep planting empathy and truth. Because, to me, that's Southern.
I love my neighborhood. Is it as rare as I think it is to walk through your neighborhood, on the way to the library, no less, and rattle off your neighbor's names as you pass their houses? As we walked by gardens just waking up from winter and homes with gigantic white columns and wrap-around porches, I decided to strike up a conversation with Story.
"Do you know what 'Southern' means?" I asked.
"No," she replies.
It has only just occurred to me, as we pass by a tremendous magnolia, that she is, in fact, a child of the South. Born in Austin, and with a daddy who will always seem more Colorado than Carolina, she seems, somehow, not quite of this place.
"What's 'Southern' means?" she asks.
Well, I think to myself, that's going to take some time to try to answer.
My Mom gave me Reese Witherspoon's book, Whiskey in a Teacup for Christmas. As I sat reading it one afternoon on the sofa in my living room, it dawned on me that I don't need to be ashamed of being Southern. I was raised on sweet tea and Jesus like any other Southern girl, but along the way, I met a lot of people from a lot of places. Such is life in Fayetteville, North Carolina, home to Ft. Bragg.
A lot of people who come to Ft. Bragg can't help but talk about how they can't stand the South. It used to really bother me, and I felt defensive, but then somewhere in time, I think I went vanilla about the whole thing. It's hard to keep on caring. Especially because most of those people who complain so much will leave in a few years anyway. People come to Ft. Bragg from everywhere in the world, and most of them have their own well-developed sense of what home ought to look and feel like. I've learned not to begrudge them that, even if in reality, home is likely to be more a state of mind than a state of the nation. Even so, there are some memories that I cannot shake. A former boyfriend who incessantly insulted my mother's wallpaper, and who got viscerally angry over the fact that my mother had an African American housekeeper named Katie. And the girl at my bridal shower who poked fun at me for wearing black swiss dot panty-hose with my forest green dress, and who could not get over the fact that I'd had bridal portraits taken (she had never heard of such a thing!) I reckon that, over the years, I developed a feeling that, at the very least, I ought to be sort of ashamed of being Southern. I felt like other people were utterly convinced that the South was filled with nothing but ignorance, humidity and mosquitoes, and though I've honestly never felt this way myself, I couldn't muster the strength or desire to go on defending it.
I know there are some people who are on the complete opposite end of the spectrum of thought. Who would ever feel embarrassed of being Southern? Pour them some sweet tea in a monogramed glass and sing them Dixie- this is the South and they're proud of it. I don't begrudge them either. I suppose everyone is entitled to their home state of mind.
I guess that I'm not so worried about what those people said about my panty-hose or my mother's wallpaper anymore, nor am I going to monogram everything that doesn't move (sorry Reese), but I am beginning to see that it's important for me to start to tell my little ones about the South- and here's one reason why...
On my run today, I ran back through my sweet neighborhood to the museum that stands just on the other side of the train track from the library. I stopped and took a couple of pictures of the statue out front. It's a statue of the General William C. Lee, a renowned General from Dunn who served bravely in the 101st Airborne during World Wars I and II, and it was set ablaze a few nights ago. The museum curator was on the news earlier this week explaining that he supposes some "jerks" (his word, not mine) set it on fire, thinking it was a statute of the other General Lee.
On Thursday, I walked and pointed out things to Story- "See that camellia, that's Southern. So many beautiful colors! Let's see how many colors we can collect. And that magnolia tree? That's Southern too. It has the sweetest smell in high summer. Those letters on your jacket? That's your monogram. That's very Southern."
We returned from the library with The Story of Ruby Bridges, and I explained, to the best of my ability, how people in the South used to be really mean to black people. (Well, first I had to explain what "black" and "white" meant because it was impossible to understand the plot without that backstory) Story was incredulous and asked, appropriately, time and again, "Why? Why?"And I had to tell her the truth- that it was sin, and a sin that surely grew riper in this Southern soil than in other places in our country.
I told Story on our walk that as she learns about the South there will be things she likes, and things she doesn't. There are things that are silly, and some that are so pretty they'll take your breath away. Others are ugly and unfair and some unspeakably sad. It seems more clear than ever that I should tell her the truth about this place, even as I continue to discover it. Confusion and ignorance fuels the fire of bitterness. But there is still time for truth, and with it, I hope, empathy, humility and peace.
When some people think of this place, they might think it ignorant and unpleasant, but, to me, this place will always be home. And it's up to people just like me to ensure that nothing is forgotten or swept under the rug. Because if people from the South don't invest in our own story, then what will be told about it from the outside? There's a lot to learn and a lot of ways to keep on growing. There's a lot of soil that needs kindness planted where hatred once was. So I'll keep planting empathy and truth. Because, to me, that's Southern.
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