How Do We Define Strength?

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Can we handle another opinion on Simone Biles? Spoiler—I follow gymnastics, having been a gym mom for years. My daughter follows it in extreme detail. We know all the sides. So I don’t come to this imbroglio as an armchair pundit, and I come with zero tolerance for criticism of this courageous woman. 

I do come, though, with a conviction that Ms. Biles, and the discussion following her decision to withdraw from competition, mirror a debate in our Christian culture over what strength is and who defines it. 

I posted this inquiry on twitter—one I didn’t expect to get so much discussion.

The answer appears to be circular. Boys don’t go into it because our culture holds up football as the ultimate goal for male fame. Basketball is good second option for popularity. 

Sports and Other Things

When boys don’t choose a sport, funds for it go down in the most important arenas of training. As kids don’t see any heroes emerge in those sports, fewer find them interesting. Especially when they’re as difficult as gymnastics with excruciatingly slow gains. And the cycle perpetuates itself. 

Even as we had the mild debate, some declared—“Boys just prefer contact sports. They’re wired for it.” Are they? Or is it that our culture refuses to value the things boys and men can do that don’t fall into the “manly” categories we’ve preassigned? This, obviously, doesn’t only apply to sports.

Is it coincidence that the people decrying Ms. Biles are mostly white men who want to replace her as GOAT with—other white men? Could there possibly be anything else going on there?

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The debate rages in the church, most importantly for my, and I’m guessing your, purposes. What makes a person strong? How do we define courage? A large contingent of popular teachers want to answer those questions in a very unhealthy way.

Strength in the Church

Strength, to this demographic, means domineering, winning, ignoring personal pain, and refusing to value compassion. It’s the John Wayne paradigm, as Dr. Kristin DuMez has so perfectly explained. It’s what many of us have been listening to in CT’s podcast about Mars Hill.

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This popular mindset in the church doesn’t only devalue a courageous gymnast. It’s more a symptom of a pervasive illness of which, sadly, conservative church men are usually the carriers. It devalues the Christlike perspective that gold medals and power and lack of self-examination don’t make you a whole human being. 

Choosing Whole

Whole, shalom humanity comes from an entirely different kind of strength. 

• The kind that says “no” to winning when it would destroy your soul (or your body, family, etc)
• The kind that chooses to walk away, when all of you wants to stay, if staying would violate who you are and what you need
• The kind of strength that offers the opportunity to shine to someone else, when you could hoard that chance to yourself
• The kind that chooses the good of the group over the glory for yourself
• Strength that is willing to take the boos of the crowd rather than violate your conscience 
• Strength that sends a message to others that you are worth more than what you do

As most overwhelmingly support Ms. Biles, there is that contingent. That group that demands—if you won’t dance to the tune we play, you don’t deserve our praise. If you won’t conform to our definitions, we will replace you with someone who will. (Not surprisingly, a black woman never will be able to meet their definitions.)

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As so many gratefully praise Simone for her courage, what if we do the same for our leaders in the church? What if we throw off those terrible, unhealthy definitions of strength, power, and courage, and embrace the path she has shown us? The path Christ showed us, long before this. 

What if we begin to value choosing to go small rather than big? Giving away our power? Holding enough of ourselves back for our mental and physical health, our families, and our souls? Declaring that we are more than what we do, and everyone gets a chance to do what they do best?

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Being the GOAT, in ministry or in sports, is’t worth as much as we imagine. Choosing whole is where the real strength is.

Mother’s Day

He was the first black teacher I had ever had–the first the seminary had ever hired. In his class, we read about various groups of people often misunderstood– and tried to formulate a Christian response to their experiences.

The Black Experience?

I read first all the material on the black experience. I didn’t get it. Anger jumped off the pages, and I couldn’t understand why. What made these people so angry? Why couldn’t they address their own issues? Why could they not address them in a kind, thoughtful, appropriate way?

The way I would address them. The way a white, middle class, mother of two felt things should be done.

The Experience of Women

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Then we began the section on women. I read of abuse, rape, assault, and oppression. Lack of job opportunities and lack of respect. And I got angry, Real, real angry. I knew sexual abuse. I knew cat calling and male “ownership,” demeaning social expectations, and even Christian pressure to shove myself into a mold I didn’t fit. I knew all this personally, not statistically.

I knew the fear of going out too early or staying out too late simply because of my gender. I knew the worry about looking in my back seat and carrying my keys to hurt an assailant. I knew about women who were blamed for their own assault because of what they were wearing–I knew some of them personally. I knew these things, and I knew men did not have any idea of them.

I did not feel kind or thoughtful about it all. I felt angry. Angry that I had to live with the background noise of fear because I was born a woman, and no other reason.

Lightbulbs

And then, as God does, He lit the 500 watt lightbulb above my head that I had completely missed. Was this the way those black men and women felt? That was my first moment of grasping the tiniest bit of what my sisters and brothers of color feel. I will never forget it.

I have not watched the video. You know the one I mean. The one where a black man, on a jog, is murdered by vigilante men who still believe, apparently, that they live in the wild west and they are required to enforce laws themselves, with shotguns, or we will all devolve into some lawless dystopia.

Side Note: We live in one of the safest countries in the world. We have precious little need to be the good guy with the gun. Statistically speaking, the odds of a robbery in your home are approximately twice as likely as getting struck by lightning in your lifetime. “So proportionally speaking, you should prepare for a home invasion twice as much as you prepare for being hit by lightning.” 

Further, more than half of all armed robberies are drug related. So, steer clear of doing or dealing drugs, and your lifetime need for concern is miniscule. Good news, right?

But Ahmaud Arbery wasn’t breaking into anyone’s home. He was running. He was guilty of running while black. And that earned him the death penalty.

Happy Mother’s Day

Today, as I write this, his mama is having to live through Mother’s Day without her child. This is not a thing we would ever, ever wish on anyone. Yet this is both the common nightmare and experience of black mamas around our country.

I know some of them. I also know a number of white mamas with black sons. They know this fear in ways that we can never know. Ways that I can understand, because I’m the mother of three daughters. I have taught them from an early age that this world is not safe for them, either. It makes me angry that I have to do so. No one has ever had to explain to a white son that this world is not made for or safe for them. So I do understand these mamas fear and anger.

No one has ever had to explain to a straight, white son that this world is not made for or safe for them.

The deep need for a certain segment of men in this country to play vigilante self-appointed sheriff, living out their fantasy of chasing down the bad guys and making the collar, a mixture of all the John Wayne and Die Hard movies and cop shows they’ve digested, collides with something even more insidious to create the state we find ourselves in.

The belief, still, among some of those men that black bodies are theirs to do with what they like. The need to fly giant confederate flags is a symptom of this deeply embedded national sickness—some white men believe they should still have the right to be the masters over black men. They have not let this go. This is uncomfortable truth.

White Women–Listen Up, Please

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White women, I’m going to talk to you. You are a large portion of my audience. And you are powerful. Demographically, you are said to be one of the most potentially strong groups to swing elections. Here is what I need to say to you.

• It should not be deadly to run.
• It should not be deadly to sit in your living room.
• It should not be deadly to drive down a residential street.
• It should not be deadly to fit any description that only includes “black.”
• Existing while black is not a crime. It does not deserve death.
• No mama should have celebrated Mother’s Day yesterday without her child because he was born black and that got him killed. None.
• We can change this.

Photo by Omar Lopez on Unsplash

 

White women:

• We cannot continue to vote for candidates who mouth the words “pro life” yet remain unconcerned about the death, demeaning, and destruction of people of color.
• We cannot continue to rationalize and excuse and say “but not all” anyone. We need to see the truth that some, not all, need desperately to be talked about and dealt with.
• We cannot continue to be silent. We cannot continue to not know. We cannot continue to offer thoughts and prayers alone.We have to show up.

Go deep into your experience and tell me you don’t know what it’s like to fear simply because of your genetics, and then look at your black and Latinx brothers and sisters. Look, and listen. We are more alike than you believe.

It is the opposite of pro life to accept them as collateral damage in order to gain some semblance of “rights” we think we need. This will not end in gaining our rights but in losing our integrity and our humanity. What does it mean to gain the world and lose your soul, women? This is that intersection.

This will not end in gaining our rights but in losing our integrity and our humanity.

Here are some resources I’m learning from. Please offer some you know of. We can lean in, learn, and act together.

I’m Still Here: Austin Channing Brown

Just Mercy: Bryan Stevenson

White Fragility: Robin Diangelo

Pushing Grace

Hi. I’m Jill–writer, speaker, pastor, editor, and what my business card euphemistically refers to as a “grace pusher.” We all push something, and that’s my favorite thing.

I talk about a lot of things on my blog and in my books and articles. But usually, they focus on a few main topics. Breaking through fear (and using it). Doing faith with the next generation (and loving it!). Women as half the church. Kindness in the midst of an unkind world. Using the Bible for wisdom not warfare.  Justice. Freedom. Grace. Always grace.

I’m the kids who refused to step too far into the back yard after dark. The woman who slept with a nightlight when I was twenty. The person who would still rather face a rabid bobcat than walk up to a stranger and begin a conversation. Fear has been a close acquaintance of mine. After a few very rough years, however, I decided it wasn’t the boss of me. Fear has only the power you give it–and I wasn’t giving it anymore.

Yes–there is God, telling me to live “adventurously expectant.” To look at each day and ask, “What’s next?” Even on the days when I fear what might, in fact, be next.

“Fear not” may be the most common command in the Bible, but fear is also perhaps the most common human emotion. It’s certainly been driving a lot of our national conversation, too.

I don’t want to live life as a grave-tender, so wrapped in fear of what might be that I lose the time in between. Grave tenders may live safely–there isn’t much to fear when you’re keeping up a nice, neat backdrop for dead things. They don’t demand a lot of change. But living among dead things isn’t living at all. The abundant life Jesus promised isn’t safe, but it is an adventure, if we’re willing to leave dead things behind.

I want to live an adventure for God’s kingdom, and I want to do it with you. I want to know who I am, and I want you to know who you are, because of who He is.

I want us both to know the identity God planted in us when he chose to give humans his image. That imago dei, straight outta the garden, is still there. He hasn’t rescinded the deal. He made you and me his ambassadors–shining his image in difficult, dark places. Just like my scary old back yard, only sometimes darker.

I want to see you and hear you and know you–and I want you to know He already sees and hears and knows you. If you’re tending a grave, he wants to pull you out of there into life.

So, let’s join one another. I can’t wait to see what happens here.

PS– I’d love it if you want to hit the button to subscribe or be put on my mailing list!

*I also write occasionally for Christianity Today publications, MOPS, (in)courage, A Fine Parent, and others, as well as blog regularly for Theology Mix and The Glorious Table. If you would like to view recent articles, go to my Media page.

Exercising Attention

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The Atlantic recently ran an article called End the Phone-Based Childhood Now. The evidence continues to slap us in the face. Electronics use, in the amount it is consumed, harms our children on all the levels—physical, emotional, psychological, spiritual. Yes, there are benefits, but they don’t outweigh the devastation caused by the sheer quantity of time spent online rather than in person. It’s an important read.

I don’t think this is limited to our kids. A few years ago, I tested “moderately addicted” to electronics, and honestly, I’m not OK with that. I, too, am harmed when I spend my in-between minutes scrolling rather than interacting with my own life. (The in-between always stretches longer than planned.) It’s a reflex action to reach into my pocket to grab the phone at any idle moment. What am I missing when I do that? 

Boredom is the genesis of creativity. Our minds begin to wander. While journeying, they are demonstrably better at problem solving, brainstorming, and envisioning new options. None of this happens when I reflexively check Instagram for likes and like-mindedness. The fact that I no longer know how to simply sit and do nothing bothers me, as it should. 

Creativity also requires effort. Phone scrolling requires nothing but a thumb and downtime. Outlets for making art, reading difficult work, or even organizing a closet close down for me, as I consider the bargain between all the industry those activities will need from me versus sitting and staring. They need intentionality. We lose a great deal of that when we’re electronically connected all the time. 

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I get tired of 24/7 availability. As a pastor, it’s my life. As a writer, it’s a major distraction. While I type this, I can hear a “ding” that insists I check the latest email. I don’t, but I notice still, and that small disturbance matters.

Writers aren’t immune to the 24/7 availability of the modern world. In fact, we may be more susceptible to the electronic siren song, since our livelihood relies on being social media savvy. I mean, I have to be on X/Twitter/Threads for professional reasons. I am absolutely not spending my time watching cat videos.

Having to be “on” all the time affects our mental health, our time management, even our brain function according to studies. Returning an email, answering a text, keeping up that snapchat streak, posting that photo of what I #amwriting—even though I’m not because, well, I’m on Instagram—it all has to be done immediately so we can feel that adrenaline rush of validation that someone, somewhere in cyberland, thinks we’re worthwhile.

In the book I’m currently reading, Buechner writes, 

“It seems to me almost before the Bible says anything else, it is saying that—how important it is to be alive and to pay attention to being alive, pay attention to each other, pay attention to God as he moves and as he speaks. Pay attention to where life or God has tried to take you.”

Buechner, Frederick. The Remarkable Ordinary: How to Stop, Look, and Listen to Life

We can’t pay attention when we’re harkening to all the red bubbles and beeps and bings. Attention happens when we lose ourselves for a moment. We get outside of our urgent lives to find that we’ve discovered our real lives. Our kairos lives. Am I, in some way, not really being alive when I’m not paying attention? 

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Animals are alert, wary, sensitive to every threat and friend. Only humans, though, can be aware of our place in time and the meaning of a moment. Paying attention makes us human. We only live as God intended when we live as intentional beings, not reactionary creatures. 

For now, I want to exercise my attention. I think the muscle memory is still there. We’ll see where life and God want to take me.

Invitations

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You know how people come up with a word for their new year and wave it around at us right away on January 1st, or even maybe in December? Overachievers. 

I need more time than that. Time to ease into a new year. Time to adjust and breathe. Time to let it tell me what it wants to be. What it wants me to be.

It’s the life of a strong introvert enneagram 5. I want to think things through. I really don’t want to get things wrong. This is how we walk through this life. 

So by now, a word has found me. Or rather, two words. As I pondered the first, I realized I truly need the second in order for the first to succeed.

The first—Courage.

It seemed obvious at the time. With events as they were at the beginning of the year, I knew 2024 was going to require courage of me beyond my normal capacity. I would have to do hard things I didn’t want to do. I would—will—need the grip of God and of others to get to what might be the mountain’s peak but could well be another valley to traverse before climbing again. 

This is the way of crossing a divide, isn’t it? I imagine early settlers coming to foothills and thinking—we just have to get past this big hill, right? Only to be confronted with endless valleys and more peaks beyond before the peace of the ocean or the prairie. Life does’t work like we imagine—one big rough patch and then we’re done. It’s more of this up and down series, and that takes fortitude we’re probably lucky we didn’t know we’d need. Right now, I really want that one Everest and then flat land. I know that’s not the future. Hence, courage for 2024.

But in the middle of that climb? I realized I need something else. For every rough spot, there is a stream of living, sparkling water daring me to laugh and play in its spray for at least a while. If we don’t accept that invitation for joy, we will also never manage the long stretch of valleys and peaks. Courage only gets us so far. We need gratitude and joy, too. We need to see those invitations to celebrate the joy right now and grab hold of them with both hands. 

Hence, the second word. Celebrate.

When the girls were little, we made a big deal of every event. DIY birthday parties with themes. They usually involved a wildly decorated cake, games, crafts, and a LOT of glitter. Birthdays were cause for celebration, and we celebrated!

Christmas and Easter, July 4th and Halloween and Thanksgiving—they all got the same treatment. I sewed costumes. We created massive gingerbread extravaganzas. We decorated bikes for the parade. The house glowed for Christmas in virtually every room. It all mattered. It was all a chance to celebrate and create joy together.

But you know what happens. Kids grow up. Parents get tired! And for me at least, I find myself easily taking a pass on things that used to call for a big deal. Sure, we’ll have a cake for your birthday when everyone’s available. We’re all busy. Easter’s important, but goodness, I’m so frazzled with church that family is a second thought. Just put a bowl of candy on the doorstep on October 31st and call it good. And Christmas on alternate years when the kids are with their other families? It hardly seems worth putting up the tree.  

No, I don’t think I need to put as much effort into it all as I did when I was younger. The Christmas decorations have been culled (there are still too many boxes). But I’m missing something when I choose to opt out of planning for celebration. I’m missing the joy. I have a suspicion, too, that I’ll regret that when the years have gone by far too quickly.

So this year, I’m celebrating. Do you have something I should celebrate? Suggestions? I’m here for it. For every win, every mountain crested, every year older, every mile marker reached, I’m going to find a way to celebrate it, big or small. I don’t want to squander those invitations to joy.

Simplicity as Survival

It is no bad thing to celebrate a simple life.

It’s no secret that my favorite time of year is Christmas, and also that closely following it, in both proximity and favor, is our annual New Year’s Eve watch of the Lord of the Rings trilogy. Extended editions, obviously. 

One of the primary conflicts of the books, and indeed of Tolkien’s writing and mindset, was finding the line where knowledge of the world was beneficial and where it went south. How much do we want to know? How innocent is too innocent, making one easily manipulated by powers one doesn’t understand? When does knowledge become cunning, making one too knowing? 

Knowledge is power, they say, and it can ensnare one in the role of manipulator as easily as the gullible are caught in manipulation. Gandalf knew—we might wish power for the good we could do, but in the end, we are all susceptible to its lure of supremacy. Control has been the human goal since the Garden of Eden.

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Recently I was discussing world events with someone, someone rightfully passionate about the disquiet that seems to be on every horizon. How could people simply continue to sing Christmas carols, put up decorations, and plan feasts knowing what we know? Why weren’t we more concerned? How could we discuss the number of Christmas glasses in the cabinet or if we had enough powdered sugar to build the gingerbread house when the world was headed to at least an armageddon, if not The Armageddon?

To return to Tolkien, it’s Merry staring at Treebeard, aghast, after the Ents have decided they have no part in the concerns of others, even as others are in danger of annihilation. “How can that be your decision? You’re part of this world. Aren’t you?” The Ents have chosen the extreme of not knowing. In their isolation, they have lost the ability to find balance between passionate, caring action and continuing on as if nothing outside their forest exists.

For me, as I dig the wreaths out of boxes and search for the ever elusive wreath hangers (never in the same box), the answer lies in understanding that Tolkienesque human conflict. We have to find the balance between knowing and actively crossing swords with evil and continuing in our common lives. We know, we fight, but we also bake pies and light candles. We know, but it cannot overtake us. 

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The truth is, it’s in those small, simple things of life that we find the ability to continue with the knowing. The certainty that Christmas will come, and we will do the things we have always done. The calmness of baking cookies with the same recipe grandma gave us, on an index card with bent corners and stained with vanilla, because we will never throw away that card. The sweetness of hanging the ornaments our kids made when innocence was still their commonality as little ones with trusting souls. The steadiness of stashing an orange, a jar of olives, and a can of grape juice in the bottom of each stocking, as if people will find it a surprise and not a given that is always there, year after year. We don’t know why this is my husband’s family’s stocking gift tradition, but we carry it on, because the simple things that never change are the things that keep us anchored when all others do. 

Our ability to know and do utterly depends on our skill at setting aside and resting. It depends on our understanding of the things we can’t let go in order to grab hold of the things we must.

It is no bad thing to celebrate a simple life. In truth, it’s survival. The simplicity of going on with our normal is the only way to manage the foreboding. It’s not, as we might assume, given the hobbits’ way of life, blindness and ignorance. The hobbits, as you know if you read the books and don’t rely solely on the movies, are not unable to defend their beloved Shire. Like the shepherd David, watching his flock on the hillside in pastoral peace, all the while prepared to slingshot a bear, they follow Merry into battle and rout their oppressors when roused. Then they rebuild and return to the lives they knew, planting, harvesting, eating, and drinking, all at the steady pace they’ve established for centuries. A simple life keeps us grounded when life is everything but simple. 

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This year, we will celebrate Christmas as the steadiest, calmest, simplest, most profound event we remember year after year. We will go to church and light the candle of hope. Above all things, we will do this, no matter what other fires may burn. We will remember that the Light has come into the world, and the darkness cannot overcome it (John 1.5).

Lipizzans, Deborahs, and Theology Conferences

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In October, I went to a theology conference. Most conferences I attend lean heavily on the sides of practice rather than theory, but I’m trying too recapture the things I enjoyed in earlier days, so academic conferences are becoming more of a thing for me. Also, the conference focused on theology and preaching, which was the center of my dissertation work. So, I thought I’d feel at home and learn some interesting things.

I definitely learned some things.

The faculty was wonderfully diverse and spoke well. I could tell the organizers had attempted to make the space welcoming to anyone in the (generally) evangelical tradition. I also recognize the progress that has probably been made there. Yet there were still some experiences that, as a woman in the space, felt stifling.

So one has to ask the question—what are we missing when we think we’re being inclusive? Or, what don’t we know that we don’t know?

Example One: After each presentation, the speaker opened up the floor to a Q&A time. Now, about this Q&A time. A couple things to note. 

The white, male pastors who stepped up to the mic during question time almost never actually had questions. I am not the only one to notice this. Two other women I spoke with noticed it independently. Rather, they spent 2-3 minutes giving their thoughts on the subject the speaker had just covered, their interpretation of some point therein, and then (perhaps but not always) asked ingeniously, “What do you think?” This made it all an actual question, not their own mini-TEDTalk, right? 

This was so common that one woman speaker said after her talk, “Questions or comments? I much prefer questions.” She saw it, too. Nevertheless, the first person to the mic said, “Well, I have a comment.” The audacity was obvious to the women and, curiously, not the men. They weren’t rude or condescending. They valued what the women speakers had to say. They simply appeared clueless about the dynamics.

As the same speaker lamented that afternoon, “I didn’t realize the conference would be so testosterone-heavy.” Heaviness was indeed the feeling that followed us around and hung over us, sometimes barely noticeable and sometimes draped over our shoulders like a weighted blanket.

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When a woman went to the mic, which was rare, something different happened. A question. An invitation to dialog rather than a speech.

But that didn’t always go well. Earlier, I had sat in a workshop on the theology of preaching and preacher. The speaker presented with intelligence and excellent speaking skill. He was, after all, a professor of preaching and a preacher. When question time came, I surprised myself by raising my hand. I asked my piece, and he responded with an answer I would have expected had I been a Bible college sophomore. I am not a Bible college sophomore, in case there was any doubt. In fact, a vital part of my dissertation was the theology of preaching and preacher, and I’d hoped I could get better clarity on his understanding of the words. Instead, I got a (very sincere) “Did I answer your question?” and, while the look on my face said absolutely not, we were out of time.

There was a disconnect between the fact that talented, educated, brilliant women keynoted parts of the conference and the assumption that the women who sat in the seats had little knowledge of the week’s subject matter. They were add ons. Wives. Junior faculty. Pastors (associate, of course) who were wannabe theologians but didn’t have the chops for it. The women in front of them garnered some respect, but the women beside them were of a different type.

Which made the women in front exceptions.

Do you see what that does? Intellectual women who can go toe-to-toe with men on church theology are the odd specimens, the Lipizzans dancing in a pasture among draft horses, the Deborahs in a nation of unnamed, “normal” women. The exceptions to the rule, not the rule itself. The rule remains that the average woman cannot challenge their right to the microphone.

What does this behavior tell us? What it does not tell us is that all white male pastors are ill-mannered boors with massive ego issues. I’ve no doubt there was a share of those things, but to conclude that shows poor deduction skills and an unwarranted bias. They were polite, inquisitive, enjoyable company. I’ve no intention of leading anyone into an “all men” fallacy. (So please don’t “not all men” me.) Plenty of women can hog a mic.

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What it tells me is that white male pastors are used to hearing themselves give their opinions and display their knowledge without challenge or surprise. They learn early in their careers (and before) that they have a stage inherent to their existence in the church space. They aren’t necessarily showing off in front of that microphone. Rather, they’re participating naturally in the only world they know—people will listen to me when I’m given a mic. Everywhere is a space to use my voice. Pastors are trained to assume they have and should use authority. (More on that assumption another day.)

Women, on the other hand, have always had to fight for that space. We’ve never made the assumption that our voice will be heard, even when amplified by a microphone. We know each new space in a church/theological setting will have different nuances, uncertain tensions, and unspoken lines not to be crossed. To use an old board game analogy, when men step on that square tile on the church floor in front of the mic, they see “Free Parking” written on it. Women see “Chance” that might lead to “Go Directly To Jail.” We come prepared for landmines, not open mics.

Let me make this very, very clear. The people behind this conference were not sexist, to my knowledge. The speaker in my room didn’t appear to be. What they were was unaware of how their actions either perpetuated sexist ideas or failed to address structures that made it difficult for women to feel they were in a safe, equal space. With good intentions, they didn’t know what they didn’t know.

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What we seem unable to do in discussions of these situations is differentiate between being a person who is sexist (or any other ‘ist’) and a person who says or does something harmful to women. We love our dichotomies too much to accept that humans aren’t easily divided into two neat groups. I also attended a live event with Beth Moore this week where she lamented how much she wanted to mark people good or bad, clearly separated, but the world simply doesn’t work that way. She’s right.

Sexism isn’t something only bad people do. Acts of sexism don’t make a person bad. A person who says or does something sexist need not act defensively to prove he’s not sexist. He just has to accept that he’s human! The assumptions infiltrate all of our dealings with people, because they’re the assumptions we were born into. We have to be willing to examine our own assumptions and put the water we swim in under a microscope if we’re truly serious about making women and men welcome and equal in church spaces.

In a few months, I’m presenting a workshop for male church leaders on how to prepare a church for a woman to lead, long before one comes. Why? Because with information that questions assumptions and gives concrete ways we can change structures, we can help people see how they unknowingly cause harm. And how to repair it.

It’s the kind of information the conference planners could have used. Inviting brilliant women to speak and thinking you’re finished with inclusivity is naive. The women in front might feel included, but the women beside might not.

When God created woman, ezer kenegdo, by definition of those words she was meant to stand toe-to-toe with men—all of us, not just the Lipizzans and Deborahs. Together, the words give the meaning of someone who stands eye to eye, face to face, two people coming together as an alliance of equals, two strengths perfectly suited to one another. We just don’t have good English words for this, so we use suitable, perfect, meet. How hollow. Deborahs aren’t the exception—they’re the rule. 

The Thing that Wasn’t Good

Photo by nina lindgren on Unsplash

Recently I asked the congregation what the first thing was that God called not good.

“Cain killing his brother.”

“Adam and Eve eating the fruit.”

“Maybe the whole flood thing?”

No, no, and no. I continued to shake my head at the responses. Finally, I surprised them by saying that the first thing God labeled “ not good” happened before the first sin. We’ve no idea how long before. God looked around at a very good creation, looked over at the befuddled and bedazzled lone human standing there, and said, 

“It’s not good for that human to be alone.”

Before evil even entered our consciousness, something wasn’t perfect. We were alone.

American Christianity has happily interpreted that verse and what follows as the mandate for marriage and the nuclear family. It isn’t. (If that first nuclear family was our model, we are in a vast deal of trouble here, folks.) The answer to the conundrum of something being imperfect was to create co-regents—two humans who companioned one another, supported one another, and carried out God’s mission together.

The answer to not aloneness wasn’t marriage—despite twitter/X theobros lukewarm takes. It was companionship.

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This is good news for single, widowed, and estranged people. It’s not good news for most of America. 

Photo by Tijs van Leur on Unsplash

That’s because, as you undoubtedly know, we are in the midst of what’s been termed a loneliness epidemic, with its attendant mental and physical health struggles. Science has clued us in that those who regularly attend faith communities are far more immune to those struggles. But bad news again—the number of people attending those at all is dwindling. And regularly? Hardly any, it feels like. 

Our congregation discussed a recent article in The Atlantic a few weeks ago called “Why So Many Americans Have Stopped Going to Church.” In it, they quote the findings of a new book, The Great DeChurching. I’d already pre-ordered it, so the piece was even more intriguing.

Deconstructionists point to the obvious hypocrisy of the American church for the last 8 years. (We all know the seeds were sewn long before that, thanks to Kristen Kobes Du Mez, among others.) They remind us, as if we could forget, of clergy sexual abuse, not-even-veiled racism, power binges, and more. The authors of this book, though, weave a tale less disturbing yet equally concerning—we simply have gotten out of the habit of church and don’t see the need in our over-scheduled lives.

It’s not only church. When we discussed this in our service, people mentioned that most organizations are having a difficult time recruiting new members. We’d all prefer to stay home with Netflix. We protest, “Hey, I have better community at ‘X’ than I ever had at church,” but this is usually a lie. We’re not at ‘X.’ We’re at home. 

We don’t need community. It’s fine to be alone. (The GBBO is back on as of this newsletter, after all.)

Except the medical records would say otherwise. On the recent Netflix series Live to 100: Secrets of the Blue Zones, the most common predictor of longevity wasn’t diet or exercise but community. It seems science is trying to tell us what God told us long ago.

It isn’t good for humans to be alone.

Photo by Sasha Freemind on Unsplash

In previous years, whenever I looked at those surveys that asked why people went to church, I always got a little self-righteously miffed. The most common answer was always the same—to be with the people there. The purist (and the theologian) in me thought everyone should respond with only one answer—to worship and be in the presence of God. 

I was wrong.

The first human was in the presence of God continually. Yet something was still not good! So why should I presume that God would be insulted if later humans, products of a broken world all, might find community even more valuable to their souls than meeting with God? Or maybe, the reality is that when both happen in the same place and time, our souls can’t tell the difference. We’re back in the Garden where those souls were meant to be.

I’m captured by the Atlantic article’s assertion toward the end. “Some Americans are rewriting the rules for what an intentional or spiritual life can look like.” If some people are doing it, why can’t some churches do it?

This is the hour, perhaps, when the church, with nothing else to lose, can put it all on the table and jettison anything that isn’t serving the mission. ALL on the table, when it comes to our practices, roles, plans, and human endeavors. As Rich Mullins, whose death we recently remembered, wrote, maybe we need to shake it all out until “everything that could be shaken (is) shaken, and all that remains is all (we) ever really had.” 

The church that holds the legacy of the Garden, the knowledge of that first “not good” thing, the Deep Magic of real community, is the thing that can recreate it, if we’re willing. 

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The first churches cobbled together rich and poor, slaves and their enslavers, women and men, and threw them all together as equals for the first time. For extra spice, the empire added a sprinkle of persecution. These were very imperfect people learning to become the restoration and reconciliation force of a new world, without a real instruction manual as of yet. Luke records its infancy in Acts 2 and includes these words, “All the believers were united and shared everything.” The word shared comes up several times, and its meaning is something we might guess at. It’s the root word for community. 

The undivided first church, however short-lived, knew how to create community that drew people like an open fire hydrant in a Texas summer. They didn’t have any of the things we’ve got sitting on that table we think we can’t do without. Having weathered now the traditional, mega, seeker sensitive, emerging, contemporary, and every other church model in between, I can say wholeheartedly, I’m ready to jettison. I want to travel lightly in my last years as a pastor. I want to see where God can take us if we aren’t too heavy to prod in a new direction. Maybe we’ll become the place people are looking for.

We Are Here

I spent over ten years in community theater, and I played a lot of roles I loved. I don’t think I’ve ever dreamed of playing a role more though than I do of portraying Beverley Bass. I’ve memorized much of the soundtrack from Come from Away, and of course I played it leading up to, during, and after our trip this summer to Newfoundland. In a moment I couldn’t orchestrate, we even drove up to the Dover Fault this July just as the song of that title began to play. (My family might tell you I’ve played it entirely too many times. Not possible.)

We didn’t go to Newfoundland strictly because I love the musical. I also happen to love the Canadian Maritimes, and this province has been sleeping on my list for a while. We did, however, spend time in Gander, visiting the signposts they’ve erected in front of buildings mentioned in the show—places where the people of the area showed thousands of “plane people” their unsurpassed brand of hospitality on 9/11/01.

The show is about that hospitality, but it’s about more, too. Deeper still, it’s about presence. The line that runs through it and is emblazoned on its promo material is only three short words—“You are here.”

What does it mean, in the face of unimaginable tragedy, to be here? How does pain force us to be present in the moment? How can uncertainty cause us to take stock, as if this moment might be the only one granted us? When the trauma is over, will we choose to continue to be here, present, living as if we know the miraculous reality is the person in front of us rather than whatever place we were flying off to next?

The reason the Ganderites could be so welcoming was that they had been practicing the art of presence their whole lives. Living in harsh conditions requires it. They were always prepared for the plane people. They were always here, wherever “here” was.

I’m haunted, in a good way, by the practice of paying attention to what’s in front of me right now. Would my nice, quiet, suburban world have what it takes to open our hearts and homes to 7,000 strangers on a morning’s notice? I submit that we probably wouldn’t. We’d assume someone else would do the job. We’d trust these strangers would have cell phones and options. We’d keep flying by, myself included. We wouldn’t be here, even though we’d be in our quiet, safe living rooms, laughing at the latest Hulu comedy, in our bodies but not present.

Being here requires the knowledge of how to live together in dependence and trust. We no longer seem to have that knowledge, covid having obliterated what traces remained.

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Studies now show that, having not been present with one another for three years, we trust less, skepticism higher than when we knew our fellows face to face daily.

Being here can’t happen in isolation. It’s a communal reckoning of proximity. 

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Churches, we can be here. We must be here. We have the Holy Spirit’s virtuosity at presence, if we will let it lead us where the road has become weedy and bumpy with disuse. What kind of a countercultural presence could we be if we chose to see those in front of us? “Stop flying by and look down,” as Diane sings. 

For two weeks, we saw stunning beauty and kind people. And I did not write a newsletter or so much as an email. I got to be there. 

I want to play Beverley Bass, because she’s a tough, strong woman with a complex personality and a killer song. But more, I want to learn the lesson of the show, one with an ensemble cast for a reason. There are no stars. They’re all supporting actors. They’re all there. Present. Singing their hearts out as if there isn’t a moment afterward. Having been on the stage, I know this is true. You only get one take in live theater. You’re there, and that’s your shot. 

Church, let’s make it a good take. We are here.

Our Stories Matter

I’ll let you in on the sweet old truths,
Stories we heard from our fathers,
counsel we learned at our mother’s knee.
We’re not keeping this to ourselves,
we’re passing it along to the next generation—
God’s fame and fortune,
the marvelous things God has done.

Psalm 78:2-4 MSG

It will soon be May, the month in which my husband and I annually remember the day we said “I do.” Thirty-seven years, plus the four we knew one another before marriage, seems both an epic reel of memories and a brief snapshot of time.

May tags along after the annual reminder of losing our parents—both our mothers in April and dad just a year ago in March. Those reminders force the recognition that, though we’re not exactly old, there is more in the rear view mirror for us than the windshield. We think of our own mortality far more often than we used to.

We are born of ashes, dust, and the breath of God, and to them we will all one day return.

Photo by Kunj Parekh on Unsplash

Our daughter is an archivist. She deals daily in the metaphorical ashes that are left when people are gone. She identifies, sorts, and catalogues what we leave behind. She’s occasionally been prodded by her occupation to ask for an oral history of the Hutchinson-Richardson family shenanigans. Though I love public speaking, I hate having a microphone shoved in my face. Somewhere in that act I forget every story I ever knew. Yet I know stories matter. I know because I wish I had them.

My parents left me with far more questions than answers. Their history is mostly blank, and I have little more than unidentified black and white photographs to sleuth out whatever I can piece together. I committed to scrapbooking my kids’ lives with us so that they would never have that taped over line banning entry into their past. Though they never met my parents, I want to gift them with that link, however fragile it might be.They think I’ve overdone it a bit, and they’re likely correct. I hope one day they’ll have the years of experience to know why.

Stories matter. I remember elementary-school-me bicycling to my library to check out a thick blue book called A Biography of Helen Keller. I read it over and over—I’m sure my name was inscribed on that yellow card the most. Helen inspired me, a small, youngest child, to think I could learn anything and help others with what I learned.

Stories matter. What is our Scripture but God’s compilation of stories to guide, comfort, and inspire us, but more than all those, to connect us? If not for the story of Hagar, would we comprehend the awe of being seen? Without all the Marys, would we have the courage to resolutely do what frightens us? Absent Abigail, might some have missed out on the comfort of knowing other women have married abusive men and survived?

Photo by Timothy Eberly on Unsplash

Many of us have been molded more than we know by the stories of these women and others. They forge a connection between people long ago whom we might write off as unattainably heroic and make them human, like us. A single strong cord extends from Genesis to us, made up of stories of other fallible human beings and God’s love for them. For those of us without a past, maybe those stories can be a lifeline to a family we can claim. It’s made up of quite a crew, but then, so are most of our clans.

Our stories matter, too. Someone in the future might need to hear about our worst moments, our thriving (or surviving) after a health scare, or our joy at welcoming them into our world. They might be inspired by us facing our fears or planting our seeds of hope. I know I’ve believed I had all the time in the world to pass my stories on and not leave my kids without that anchor of identity, but reality says otherwise when I look in the mirror.

Maybe the idea of writing down stories exhausts you. I’m a writer, and I get that. Maybe the ghosts of English teachers past have crushed you into believing you can’t write a grocery list, let alone a story. (I used to be an English teacher, and I get that, too.) Might I suggest that if you don’t think you’re good at stories, think in photos.

Think about moments in time, and take a picture in your mind. Tell that story. If you’re crafty, scrapbook it, draw or paint a picture of it, make a paper collage—whatever. Write a few sentences that evoke the feelings—how did that moment smell, sound, feel? What were you thinking or hoping or grieving? Dictate your stories as audio files. Write them in a journal. Scrapbook them digitally or on paper. It’s the stories that matter—not the medium.*

Jesus said to a healed man—“Return home and tell how much God has done for you.” (Luke 8:38 NIV). Our stories matter because they tell of God’s eternal story intermingled with our finite one. They continue the cycle that the Psalmist writes about when he says that “generation after generation stands in awe of your work; each one tells stories of your mighty acts” (Ps 145:4 MSG). Keep the story going.

Photo by S O C I A L . C U T on Unsplash

*That archivist, however has a few suggestions:

• Make sure you save writing in a pdf and have them stored at least twice in two separate areas (computer, flash drive, etc)
• If audio, save in a WAV or AVI file
• If artwork, make acid-free copies and keep them somewhere safe from fire and water

It’s Going To Stink

“I do believe; help me overcome my unbelief!” Mark 9.24

Photo by Pisit Heng on Unsplash

There is an ongoing struggle in our house. My husband sincerely believes that the garbage needs to go out on Thursday night, the night before the garbage truck comes. This is logical to him, and he likes logic and, more than logic, he likes to know when things are going to happen. He is a total creature of habit. (Also a flaming enneagram 6)

I, on the other hand, have a different viewpoint on when the garbage needs to head outside. When it’s full. Or, worse, when it stinks.

During the summer especially, it can really stink.

I like my schedules, but if something stinks, it needs to go, regardless of whether the city has scheduled its demise that day or not. 

He has habits; I have reactions.

In this month of resurrection celebration, I often return to the beautiful story of Mary, Martha, and Lazarus and Jesus’ love for them, especially in the sisters’ time of devastating loss. Beautiful? Yes. But first, it’s really stinky.

Jesus hears that his dear friend Lazarus is sick, and the man’s sisters beg him to come. He waits a couple days, then tells his disciples he’s going to “wake Lazarus up.” His disciples protest, and since euphemisms are clearly lost on them, Jesus explains that Lazarus is, in fact, dead by this time. He’s not making this dangerous trip to raise his friend from an afternoon nap.

“When Jesus arrived at Bethany, he was told that Lazarus had already been in his grave for four days. When Martha got word that Jesus was coming, she went to meet him. But Mary stayed in the house.Martha said to Jesus, “Lord, if only you had been here, my brother would not have died.But even now I know that God will give you whatever you ask.”

Jesus told her, “Your brother will rise again.” “Yes,” Martha said, “he will rise when everyone else rises, at the last day.”

Jesus told her, “I am the resurrection and the life. Anyone who believes in me will live, even after dying. Everyone who lives in me and believes in me will never ever die. Do you believe this, Martha?” “Yes, Lord,” she told him. “I have always believed you are the Messiah, the Son of God, the one who has come into the world from God.”

John 11.17-27

Photo by Mads Schmidt Rasmussen on Unsplash

Martha has already lost her parents, we presume, since this home belongs to the three siblings and she is its mistress. Now she has also lost her brother, and with him, all the security these sisters have in the world. Two women alone in her culture did not have the options women have now. Lazarus wasn’t only a dear brother—he was their source of income and protection. This loss strikes the core of everything she fears most in life, and justifiably so. She looks at her future with eyes filled with fear, and Jesus comes down the road asking her a different question than the ones preying on her heart and mind.

I am resurrection and life. Do you believe this?

Notice Jesus’ timing—he’s not asking Martha if she believes in something she’s already seen. Lazarus is still in the grave. Her brother is still dead. She has zero evidence that this circumstance will change. 

Jesus’ question cuts to the hardest thing she will ever be asked—Has she known him enough, followed him deeply enough, understood his heart and his identity enough, to believe he is what he says he is, regardless of the evidence in her life and in her family’s tomb?

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In a display of faith perhaps greater than any in Scripture, both she and her sister affirm that they do. “Yes, Lord. Even now I believe.”

Even now. Even when we can’t see through Good Friday to Easter for all the tears and grief and fear, we believe. Then Jesus takes her even one step farther and tells her to have the stone taken from in front of the grave. This time, Martha protests. It will stink something awful. The man’s been dead and behind that rock for four days. In an Israeli climate, that body’s going to reek.

I wonder at times if this is our sticking point as well. We agree that Jesus can resurrect our pain and grief. We know he can bring life from death. We’ve seen it. But we falter when it comes to letting him bring out what we’ve buried. 

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Photo by Priscilla Du Preez on Unsplash

We’ve carefully hidden away that childhood abuse, not wanting to revisit it. We know he can transform it, but we don’t want to smell the stench beforehand.

We’ve put the resentment on a cold stone shelf, smothered it in grave clothes, and we don’t want Jesus to examine it too closely and remind us of the stink.

We’ve set those unmet dreams and goals way up in the tomb, out of reach of prying resurrection artists who will remind us of them and the decay we’re allowing to set in.

Letting Jesus roll the stones out from in front of our messy marriage will stink, and we know it. What if we open up something that vomits all over us and never, ever goes back into its safe can?

Learning to live with physical limitations stinks. Learning to make changes to mitigate those limits stinks, too. Rolling a stone in front of them allows me to pretend one more day.

We know He’s calling us to something more, higher, deeper—in faith, in work, in calling, in hope. But taking the steps toward that means burying what is for the dream of what might be. 

It takes courage to let Jesus roll away the stones we’ve carefully placed in front of the smelly messes of our lives.

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Oh, but look what can come walking out of the tomb if we let him.

Resurrection. Life. Renewal. Restoration.

If Jesus is going to resurrect it, it’s probably going to get smelly and messy before it gets good. If he’s going to create new life out of our old hidden things, we’ll have to listen and obey as he calls us out of that dark place, unwinding our grave clothes of sorrow, denial, and neglect, telling us to blink hard in the sunshine of completeness. 

Martha looks him in the eye. She knows it’s going to stink. She’s never experienced an actual resurrection before. It’s got to be frightening. She buckles in, nods her head, and says, “Yes, Lord. I believe.”

Blessed is she who has not seen and yet believes.

One Link To Rule them All–April

BLISSFUL THINKING: WHEN IT COMES TO FINDING HAPPINESS, ‘YOUR DREAMS ARE LIARS’–

https://hbswk.hbs.edu/item/blissful-thinking-when-it-comes-to-happiness-your-dreams-are-liars

ANGER’S ALLURE: ARE YOU ADDICTED TO ANGER?–

https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/culture-shrink/201508/angers-allure-are-you-addicted-anger

GENDER STUDY FINDS 90% OF PEOPLE ARE BIASED AGAINST WOMEN–

https://www.bbc.com/news/world-51751915

IMPLICIT BIAS AGAINST WOMEN; MEN MORE LIKELY THAN WOMEN TO BE SEEN AS BRILLIANT–

https://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2020/07/200702100533.htm

WHY EMPLOYERS FAVOR MEN–

https://hbswk.hbs.edu/item/why-employers-favor-men

WHY MEN DON’T BELIEVE THE DATA ON GENDER BIAS IN SCIENCE–

https://www.wired.com/story/why-men-dont-believe-the-data-on-gender-bias-in-science/

CHURCH BLOGMATICS–https://bethfelkerjones.substack.com/

FREEDOM ROAD PODCAST: JAMILA HODGE: A NEW VISION FOR PUBLIC SAFETY–https://freedomroad.us/2023/03/jamila-hodge-a-new-vision-for-public-safety/

THE CHURCH LOBBY: HOW EXCELLENCE LOOKS DIFFERENT IN SMALL CHURCHES, WITH ERIK REED (EP 040)–https://karlvaters.com/erik-reed-ep-040/

AirBnb Experiences: https://www.airbnb.com/experiences/

Baguette Baking class here

Jesus and the Grey Whales

I’ve been baptized with whale snot. You don’t imagine that’s the sort of thing you’d feel jealous over, but when others in the front of the boat had a whale spout on them and I didn’t, I felt the sting of cetacean exclusion. I needn’t have worried. The spouts came with amply-distributed inclusivity later on.

We spent a bit of February in Baja California Sur—a place where I was assured I could see a personal holy grail—blue whales. As a child, I devoured a book my brother gave me about endangered animals. I had those pages memorized, along with all the stats on all the animals. Blue whales, the largest animal ever created, were on the list.

After the blue whales, we flew to a remote camp at San Ignacio Lagoon to visit with another species—grey whales. This experience proved far different.

Not long ago, whale hunters dubbed grey whales “devil fish.” Whaling boats found them highly unwilling victims of the harpoon. The whales would put up a mammoth fight, intentionally swimming under and overturning boats. They proved so dangerous they were among the last to be hunted, but they were finally driven near extinction, like most other whales. Their survival reaction to danger made them a feared species n the shallow coasts where they traveled.

So these San Ignacio whales we visited are a bit of a miracle. Not only are they not dangerous, they’re considered the most friendly whales on earth. They swim to tourist boats, bringing their babies in tow, seemingly begging for a scratch and back rub. The huge mammals appear as curious about humans as the humans are about them. They rise our of the water alongside the boat, and we were privileged to interact with God’s creatures in a way I imagine God always intended. The bruises on my knees as I scrambled to kneel first on one side of the boat then the other, rocking and reaching out to touch their rubbery skin, testify to the wonder.

Yes, my husband is petting whales

And believe it or not, it reminds me of church. Most things can, when you’re a pastor. Occupational hazard. San Ignacio is the only place in the world you can touch grey whales. It’s safe there, and the whales know it. They come to the boats only there because they know they’re protected. How do they know? I have no idea. Neither do conservationists. They say we just don’t know why the San Ignacio whales are friendly, but I think it’s this. They know this is a place they don’t need to fear human nearness.

It’s also a place where they have agency to choose their level of interaction. Boat drivers at the preserve don’t chase them. They motor safely and slowly toward a group or individual, letting them know they’re there for an interaction, then they sit and wait for a whale to come to them.  

And I am petting a whale

Is your church a lagoon? Is it a place where those who have felt the harpoon of abuse pierce their skin can come for safe human touch? Can those who have been hunted by gaslighting and harmful counsel in church find a place of healing there? Can women and BIPOC come and be respected for their strength rather than called shrill, angry, and dangerous? What if my church came to be known as the one place hurt people don’t have to fear being close? What if, no matter what happened out in the wide world where they had to survive in other seasons, our small lagoon proved a shelter where fear dissipated into curiosity, play, and mutual delight?

I desperately want there to be places where hurt people can swim and trust they will never feel a harpoon in their back. Where they know the people there with them in that place want their best and want to see their joy. Where they can choose their level of freedom, intimacy, and privacy, with no one determining for them where they go and with whom they stay. 

Grey whales didn’t act like devil fish out of their nature—they behaved like devil fish in response to the way they were treated. In a place where they’re granted both agency and safety, they’re miraculous.