It’s My Turn.


I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.  -Walt Whitman

My heart broke yesterday. My heart splintered off into dozens of shards, like waffle cone dropping to the sidewalk from an unwieldy toddler’s hand. And my reaction was the same, staring in disbelief at the wreckage of my goodness and weeping without consolation over the splattered disaster before me.

Donald Trump’s words of vile debasement about me, and worse, about my daughter, my sisters, niece, and mothers, were not surprising. He has revealed his character to Americans over and over and over again. He has decimated the dignity of a disabled reporter, of Muslims, refugees, immigrants. He has offended veterans returning from war – something few of us can fathom. He has threatened Mexican Americans, African Americans and beauty queens, the list continues and will continue to do so. He has hitched his wagon to hatred. There is no shred of remorse or concern for anyone but himself and his own ends. And now he has attacked me, my daughter, my people, in words I have never once heard uttered from the mouths of men. I have never once been in the company of such despicable language, around the boisterous snickering and guffaws, reducing my gender to parts and pieces, numbers and letters. Trump’s language about me, about my people, the other beautiful, courageous, remarkable women was sickening. He splayed each and every one of us upon a platter before the ogling eyes of his kind, critiquing us like slabs of beef at a backyard barbecue.

For years now I have sought to learn love through empathy. I have practiced the painstaking work of trying to build a compassionate base, focused upon individuals with different stories than mine. I have had conversations, I have been in relationship, I have asked questions and wrestled for answers. I’ll admit, I have a privileged life. I have men who will defend me, but generally they just stand by, at the ready, while I fight for myself, because I’m able. I am white. I have resources. I am healthy. I’ve got it all – which is a liability when you try to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes.

Except now, I have a greater understanding.

You see, when Trump called Mexican Immigrants murderers and rapists, I was mortified and angry but I did not understand.

You see, when he called for the sequestering of Muslim Americans, I was reviled and shocked but I did not understand.

You see, when he criticized veterans for their inability to withstand the rigors of war and combat upon return to The States, I again, was angered, but I did not understand.

And now, it’s my turn, it’s my daughter’s turn. He flung our bodies out on the chopping block, naked and afraid. Donald Trump is nothing new for women, minorities, disabled. He is just one more bully in a long string who get their kicks from belittling the underdog, enlivening the basest of humanity, procuring a cheer from those who have no credibility or admirers, but think they do.

And now I must speak directly to Mr. Trump:

Mr. Trump, you surprised me, I see more clearly now.  I get a truer sense of the fear and loneliness and longing others have felt. I understand now when bodies are not cherished, when the stereotyped color and gender and nationality are the shoddy representatives of personhood, rather than beauty, humanity, and beloved-ness as children of God.

Mr. Trump, you have provided me with greater empathy, a greater capacity to grieve and celebrate alongside my fellow humans. Your intentions ring loud and certain and I am rocked to my core. I am speechless and quaking, not by your words, those were to be expected, but at the silence of your followers, your supporters. I am devastated by the profession of Christian faith and the defense of you by Christian leaders. And lest you believe me to be overreacting, I know to my center, I could never trust you as the leader of this nation to be alone in a room with my child.

Mr. Trump, you have revealed the hearts of fear that surround me. You have uncovered the hatred masked in ignorance and blindness. Your words have awakened me to the realities of the majority of the citizens of this land.

Mr. Trump, you have uncovered the greatest reason why many are leaving the church – hypocrisy. The support of your candidacy by many seems to be a forced choice, a quiet “yes” with a resigned shoulder shrug and accompanying eyebrow raise. These same Christians say they love Jesus, and strive to live a holy life, yet the disregard for our oppressed through choosing to vote for you, choosing to support you, is deafening. As the Holocaust survivor, Elie Wiesel reminds us, “The opposite of love is not hate, it is indifference.”

Mr. Trump, I love better today because of you. I may be more pained, as my naivete plummets headlong toward the flames, but this is good. This needed to happen in order to live my life in greater love – loving God, loving my neighbor, loving myself.

Mr Trump, you have awakened me alongside an entire people group to the reality of what so many face each and every minute of their existence. I hope you are resting well, for you have a long journey ahead. I hope you find your peace. And for the remainder of us, well, it’s going to be a long road, but it is a good and worthy road for  “..the arc of the moral universe is long but it bends toward justice” (Martin Luther King). Fortunately, you and your kind are just a sorry, horrible blip in this remarkable, hopeful human narrative.

As for me, I choose goodness, I choose hope, I choose beauty and I choose what is right.

Who’s Calling Now?


If God gives you something you can do, why in God’s name wouldn’t you do it?

-Stephen King

I tend to throw around the word call a fair amount. There were times I believed I was called to a relationship or to eating more vegetables or to slowing down my social media intake. I have experience the call to hike or spend some time gaining perspective or to deny my adult self and play trucks or dolls on the floor. I can say I’ve heard a call to reign in my spending and be more intentional with how I occupy my time. I have also believed I was called to stay home with my kids. I consider these calls each wonderful opportunities to better myself, to regain perspective focusing on the important things.

However, these little “c” calls of mine, while beneficial and welcome and often harmless, cannot hold a candle to the Big “C” Calls. The Big “C” Calls will take your life and flip it upside down and question all the stuff you thought you knew. These Calls will take your comfort and send it flying. They will take your location and make you reexamine your neighborhood and your community and town and state. They will make you reconsider your personal relationships and entitlements and privilege and make you see things that you don’t wanna see.

A Call such as this could take hours of meditation and writing and prayer and hiking and swimming and conversations and tears to tease the whole thing out. This Call will carry implications requiring you to do no less than pick up your mat and walk, in search of your next clue. And sometimes the next clue is a fork in the road, demanding another bout of prayer and discernment and vulnerability to determine the best course. These Calls don’t let up, they pester and poke and prod at ungodly, inconvenient hours. They will not be ignored until something is done to scratch the itch, to appease the urging and relentless voice. Until we find the one next thing, and then the next and the next, like a trail of breadcrumbs on the forest floor, the Call will call and call and call.

Two years ago, I uttered the words aloud, I need to start a church. Two years ago, I uttered the words aloud, I need to start a blog. Two years ago, I uttered the words aloud, I can’t do this anymore, I cannot keep attending churches that don’t get it, that don’t love, that don’t talk about the pressing issues of injustice.

At the time, I’ll be honest, I had no idea what this meant. I just knew something had to change. I just knew I could not keep going to church every Sunday, sucking up my frustration and heartbreak for the souls who could not be safe. I knew I had to leave. I was called. Seemed a bit odd and treacherous, considering how I was raised with church attendance as a non-negotiable. Only fevers, barfing and chicken pox were satisfactory reasons, otherwise, we were present participants.

I am part of planting a church. Tomorrow I get on a plane to Indianapolis, attending the OPEN conference. Tomorrow I’ll take the next step, picking up and examining the next breadcrumb. I am closer to discovering the beauty of the bigger picture, the completed product. I consider this Call one of my greatest desires and finest opportunities for terror and risk and divine partnership, inviting me to trust and suspend assumptions. This Call will not let me go. This Call needs me, I need it.

Answering a Call is not for the weary. This Call thing messes with us, questioning all of our worthiness and talent and commitment and comfort. It pecks away at the assumptions we make, at the comfort we claim, the expectations we hold. This Call thing demands change. It demands we take inventory of our existence, of the carefully crafted lives we love, the ones that have humming refrigerators and multiple televisions and fast internet and feather pillows and warm water. This Call says: Will you trust me? Do you know that I love you? Are you aware of my generosity and abundance? I will provide. 

The Call offers a choice.

Do I trust enough in the soul’s quickening to release control of my present circumstances?

Do I trust God to provide, to nurture?

Do I trust the work Eric and I have done in our marriage, in our parenting, to embark on this journey, knowing my absence and distraction will not harm, but will offer new life and opportunity for the whole family?

Do I trust myself, believing my perceived lack is a benefit, an avenue for learning and for greater trust and surrender?

I am thrilled to have this opportunity, considering this Call to plant a Just and Generous church one of my life’s greatest joys. I want to be at the forefront of bringing relief to the world’s weary travelers, to offer life and hope and communion to all. I’m grateful the Call did not quiet and shrink away, for in this work I get to discover the beauty and glory of a life lived seeking, questioning, hoping, waiting, realizing.

How about you? Where are you feeling called or Called? Please know you’re in good company.

The Reluctant Feminist

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I confess. I am a reluctant feminist.

As a young girl, I remember angry women on the TV screen picketing, faces filled with outrage, signs held high in protest against something.

I, from a line of male pastors, had strong women in my life. My mother and grandmother served as their husbands’ musical backbone, skirting the keys of piano and organ, leading with a raised eyebrow or head nod. A great-grandmother was a pastor. My other mother organized everything at church. We are not a fragile bunch.

I didn’t know I needed a female pastor. Usually there was a woman in the role of Children’s Pastor and Women’s Pastor, women I admired and felt like I had a kinship toward, women who seemed to know Scripture as fluently as the men, serving and loving well in the roles they were destined to play. I didn’t have a nagging sense of needing a woman to preach from the pulpit. I didn’t know what I was missing.

Until now.

Many churches still cling to the interpretation of Scripture that women are called and required to submit and be subordinate to male leadership. Women cannot and will not be entrusted the opportunity or responsibility to lead men.

So where does this leave women who believe they are called by God to preach and teach in a church setting? And, if we are each created in God’s image, men and women alike, what is the church missing?

Sarah Bessey, in her book Jesus Feminist  offers this definition of feminism:

At the core, feminism simply consists of the radical notion that women are people, too. Feminism only means we champion the dignity, rights, responsibilities, and glories of women as equal in importance – not greater than, but certainly not less than – to those of men, and we refuse discrimination against women.

Feminism is not bra-burning rage with picket signs held high. Feminism is the crucial belief that women have an equal place at the table of men, with a beautiful and life-giving offering. Typical female characteristics are not seen as weak or lesser, but as an essential expression of the complexity and grace of God. As a woman, my softness and tenderness, my empathy and compassion, my feels and tears are not things to be mocked or made light of. My contribution offers the heart of God and does not demand I submit to the priesthood of men.

I have held this notion that to participate in the world of men, I must adopt masculine characteristics. That somehow I’m not enough as I am. But I now realize, women need to be women, fully ourselves. There has been this narrative that women must fight, lean in, be strong and forceful, fighting for equal rights and equal air time. I owe these women my allegiance and gratitude, for they have moved mountains and paved inroads for us all.

However, many of us are not interested in operating with force and fight, we are designed to be soft, nurturing, sustaining. There is this whole side of God that is valued as less. This side of God that resembles me. I’m at my best when I can listen, weep and mourn with another, preferring to bear burdens without the need to fix and change or have answers.

I believe the church has missed this mark, and Christians are so tired. The mothers and fathers are worn out. People are battle weary and terrified with all the rules and shoulds, the fear. We need people who will speak grace and kindness and rest.

I want our churches to be led by both women and men in equal measure, together. I want our churches to manifest tenderness, sparing water for the road weary traveler, providing food and clothing to the destitute, rendering grace and mercy to the sinner, lending a listening ear and gentle word to the tormented, healing the wounded.

In a world where people are clamoring to posture, the church must empower her women. Maternal love sees, knows and nurtures. Maternal love carries the overwhelming thrumming heart of God. Maternal love bears the weight and burden, gathering her precious children to her breast, providing sustenance and relief. Maternal love is the surrogate heart, belly and bosom of God, the source of life and renewal.

Will you let me join you? I so want to. I so want to be seen and known as God’s faithful child, bearing light and love to all my world. I want to lead with men, to be heard and respected, to be given a place at the table. I might fight you for the spot, but I’d rather be offered for I’m not that person. I just need you to know you’re missing out on a valuable resource, on a remarkable opportunity. Don’t include me because you have pity on me. Include me because you want me there, because you know you need to hear what I have to say, because you believe I offer half of God’s expression in this world.

Please do not silence our female voices in the church. Invite us in. You need us. You need our fierce tenderness, our loyalty and generosity, our accountability. You need our loving embrace of grace. Together we can manifest the wholeness of God’s heart to the hurting world. We can partner in our offering to another.

You need us and we need you.