on church vans and the places they took us

One of my favorite bloggers, Addie Zierman, has a new book coming out today! It's called When We Were on Fire, and I'm really looking forward to reading it this week. I've never met Addie in person, but I think we'd have quite a bit to talk about over coffee. We church kids tend to have our stories about our years of certainty, our years of questions, our searching out of peace. There's no formula to it (many church kids are highly suspicious of formulas and for good reason) but a lot of us have experienced a similar trajectory with different details, and I find that fascinating and also comforting. This post is part of a synchroblog happening over at Addie's blog today, and my attempt to examine some of the areas surrounding my own on fire time.

I grew up in a small church with plenty of Pentecostal spice: no holds barred preaching, church twice on Sunday with a potluck often in between, women with big hair and heels and also women who didn't own a dress, testimony time, Campmeeting in the summer, songs about God on the mountain still being God in the valley. It wasn't an easy group to define by any means. I knew about community, and I knew about having a fire in my bones, how it felt to want to matter and make a difference in the world.

Many things have become harder for me to define now; I look back and see a mix of truly beautiful and special experiences, as well as ones that had unfortunate consequences.

Something I realize, looking back on my stories, is that many of them involve a church van. I'm thinking, too, that if you were a church kid in some variation, you may have a few church van stories of your own. Here are a few of mine.

Sunday School

My earliest memory of a church van (well to be specific, this particular one was a full-sized white school bus) was driving around with my parents, picking up kids for Sunday school. That my parents spent their Sunday mornings not sleeping in or even just making it in time for a service, but rather rising early to get the whole family ready for our bus route, is telling of their commitment level. It was to me at that young age (five? six?) and especially now as a parent of small children who sometimes finds it difficult to get everyone to church wearing shoes on both feet, or if I'm being honest, sometimes finds it difficult to get myself to church at all.

Surrounded

One of my favorite things about summer was our day at the river. We would load up early in the morning, in our Christian t-shirts and cut-off jean shorts, picnic lunches and coolers, towels and flip flops, drive off to a spot along the Gila River and swim the day away. When I was twelve, I decided I wanted to be baptized a second time in the river, because I felt I understood it all a bit better than I had at age seven. Several of us had made the decision to be baptized or re-baptized, and we all stood waist deep in a big circle as each of us took our turn.

I remember so well what it felt like to be surrounded by all that water, all those people, the tall canyon walls, to make a statement of faith and mean every word. Believe every word.

On the way home, a summer monsoon pounded down on the roof of the old van we affectionately called Rusty, and the inside part of the ceiling began to collapse down on us. We pushed our feet up against it, water dripping down onto our faces, laughing uncontrollably. To this day, when I think of summer, I think of that moment.

Safe

My youth group was returning home from a short mission trip. Our shiny new 18 passenger van had not only carried us to Mexico and back home, it also served as a place to sleep for all the girls on the trip (the boys made camp inside the cinder block church, their sleeping bags rolled out on the sanctuary floor.) We had painted faces, handed out food, shared our testimonies, worshiped with local believers, and of course the whole experience was peppered with teenage silliness and a bit of youth group drama. Tired, happy, and ready for our own beds and showers, we drove in the direction of home. In the last leg of our trip, those of us who were awake were deep into a theological discussion. There was a newcomer to our group, a tall lanky guy who had a lot of problems at home and sometimes got into trouble at school for things like flipping off the camera during the senior group picture and setting off smoke bombs in the hallway.  He seemed really smart, and also sad. I liked him. As the conversation went on, he shared some of his questions about God and pain with the group; the sorts of questions we must all face if we're honest with ourselves. As we pulled into a gas station, one of the adult chaperons scolded him for his questions that she felt were disrespectful to God. He mumbled a quiet response and most of the group climbed out of the van to stock up on snacks and hit the bathroom. 

He leaned forward, resting his crossed arms on the back of the seat in front of him, lay his head down, and sobbed quietly.  My friend and I sat there in the dark, watching his shoulders shake. I knew in that moment that bullies can have the best of intentions, that showing up for church is incredibly brave for some people.

I managed to say something that I hoped was comforting. I still hope it was.

Whether its struggling with another day at school or handing out bags of candy to kids in Mexico, we bump up against ourselves. Wherever you go, there you are. I suppose I was learning that too; I just didn't have his kind of pain in my life. I didn't know yet what it meant to not feel safe at church.

Sold Out

Every summer, we loaded into a church van and went to camp. Camp was another of my favorite things, and I looked forward to it all year. We spent the days playing sports and silly games, and the nights in lively church services. Animated speakers would encourage and challenge us to be radical in our faith, sold out, to do BIG things for God. We would linger around the altar, soaking up that feeling and praying for each other. It was incredibly intimate, I realize now. We weren't only praying for each other to have more faith or be more bold. We were praying over our deepest wounds and fears, too.

I remember feeling like there was something different in the air at camp. I would leave feeling excited to share my faith, connected to the people in my youth group as well as new kids we met, and just happy in general. A few weeks after returning home, though, I would feel the energy start to fade. It was hard to reconcile the intensity and energy of camp with the routines of high school life, but we weren't really supposed to compartmentalize these things. If you didn't bring Jesus into everything, you might be ashamed of him, and that seemed like pretty much the worst thing someone could be. 

Sting

Once, one of those church vans drove us all out to a country graveyard. On the first day of high school, full of the hopes and schemes of a fourteen year old, a much-loved girl in our youth group had died in a head on collision, and we'd all been processing her death together, as best we could. We formed a circle around her grave and read from Paul's letter to the Corinthian church: oh death, where is your sting? oh grave, where is your victory? The plot was decorated with silk flowers and teddy bears, photos and crosses, and a light that her parents had installed. A soft row of trees stood in the distance, lining the same river we had been baptized in.

The van carried us back home, where life went on. We learned about grief: what it meant to smile at school and come home to a bedroom for a good cry, about praying through pain and dancing when the pain lifted, about honoring the dead by carrying on. That's the only time in my life I've walked through a season of grief with a group of people like that. I think about all that raw, consuming sadness coupled with just being a teenager, and maybe the reason we didn't all go under is because we had each other.

Sky

There was a ladder on the side of one of the vans, and sometimes we would climb up there and talk, watching the sun sink lower into the horizon of the vast New Mexico sky. I didn't know at the time, sitting cross-legged on top of that tan rusty van, pinks and oranges swirling all around us, that I was in soul-therapy. That vulnerability wouldn't come so easy as an adult. That I would wish for something, anything, like that one day.

Spirit

I look back now, and what stands out to me as real and timeless aren't the catchy slogans or the challenges to be bold or the attempts to be relevant to youth culture. What's precious to me now are the relationships: the girls who cried with me at the altar, the boys who chased us around the parking lot and took us mud-bogging and four-wheeling, the kind ladies who faithfully took out the felt boards every Sunday and told us about Noah, Moses, Deborah and so many other complicated biblical figures, the children's church leader who captivated us with her stories and taught us how to sing in the Christmas pageant, the people who made themselves available to drive a bunch of teenagers around in church vans. The potlucks and Sunday night singing, my parents in that big white school bus. The Spirit, the sense of wonder. That's the church experience I would love to pass on to my children, although I might save some of those Bible stories for when they're older. 

I hope they have a youth group to be silly and sad and real with. I hope their questions are welcomed. I hope they get excited about their faith, and I hope they know it's okay to not be excited for a season, too, and that the small things are actually the big things. That what their friends who believe differently need most from them is a just a genuine friendship. That things like being radical and bold and on fire for God are temporary, and to place their faith in those things (like their mother did, for a while there) will end in disappointment, but that placing their faith in the God of all seasons will bring peace in surprising places. 

meditations for Easter

Love’s redeeming work is done, Alleluia!

Fought the fight, the battle won, Alleluia!

Lo! the Sun’s eclipse is over, Alleluia!

Lo! He sets in blood no more, Alleluia!

Vain the stone, the watch, the seal, Alleluia!

Christ hath burst the gates of hell, Alleluia!

Death in vain forbids His rise, Alleluia!

Christ hath opened paradise, Alleluia!

Christ the Lord is Risen Today, full lyrics here. 

But I'll still believe
though there's cracks you'll see
when I'm on my knees I'll still believe
and when I've hit the ground
neither lost nor found
If you'll believe in me
I'll still believe

Mumford & Sons, Holland Road

The other gods were strong; but thou wast weak;

They rode, but thou didst stumble to a throne;

But to our wounds only God's wounds can speak,

And not a God has wounds, but thou alone.

-Edward Shilito, Jesus of the Scars

And, if you’re lucky, someone in the car will recognize the bravery of the act. If you’re lucky, there will be a moment of holy silence before someone wonders out loud if such a question might put a damper on Easter brunch.

But if you’re not—if the question gets answered too quickly or if the silence goes on too long—please know you are not alone.

There are other people signing words to hymns they’re not sure they believe today, other people digging out dresses from the backs of their closets today, other people ruining Easter brunch today, other people just showing up today.

And sometimes, just showing up - burial spices in hand - is all it takes to witness a miracle.

-Rachel Held Evans, Holy Week for Doubters

               He told them another parable: “The kingdom of heaven is like yeast, which a woman took and hid in a bushel of wheat flour until the yeast had worked its way through all the dough.”

-Matthew 13:33, Common English Version

He speaks desperation. He dies his body. But he is pregnant

with mystery: he gathers the cosmic collection of every hopeless

sigh, every loss, every hatred formed against another,

every embittered soul, every unloved and unlover.

-Micha Boyett, Daughters of Jerusalem

O God, who made this most holy night to shine with the glory of the Lord’s resurrection: Stir up in your Church that Spirit of adoption which is given to us in Baptism, that we, being renewed both in body and mind, may worship you in sincerity and truth; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

-a Collect for Easter, Book of Common Prayer

Reading the Bible for Lent: Joshua

{I'm attempting to read the whole Bible during Lent this year, and blogging my way through it. The Bible is an old friend, but we fight sometimes. Ever hear of quitting something cold turkey? Well, this is my way of starting something cold turkey, if that makes sense. I'm facing it head on, with my eyes open, and a new way of reading. My hope is to read the entire text through the lens of Jesus (I'm figuring out what this means as I go along) and attempt a balance of honesty and charity, both of which I've lacked in the past. See also: The Pentateuch.}

I'm about halfway through the Historical Books, and things are still pretty bloody. I was going to write about Joshua, Judges and Ruth but the Joshua section is pretty long in itself, so here it is. Again, this is not comprehensive by any means, just what stood out to me.

Joshua was Moses' successor as leader of Israel. He led the Israelites across the Jordan River into the Promised Land. Joshua is an interesting character. He's an effective, energetic leader (and I would say the book of Joshua has a different energy to it than previous books, largely because of his character) and a person of great integrity within this cultural construct. He calls the people to be "strong and of good courage" repeatedly, stirring them up to take the land their ancestors were promised. In chapter six, they take the walled city of Jericho, sparing no one except Rahab the prostitute and her family and their possessions, as well as the "silver and gold, and the vessels of bronze and iron" which go into the LORD's treasury. Rahab and her relatives are spared because she had previously helped two Israelite spies by hiding them (we see Rahab again later in the genealogy of Christ.) We are told, "the LORD was with Joshua, and his fame spread throughout all the country." It's a fearsome fame; if the Israelites could take down Jericho, the other cities know they're not safe.

Joshua, like the books before it, emphasizes the importance of following the LORD's commands exactly. Like I mentioned earlier, within this cultural framework, this is what integrity looks like, and it often means killing everyone the LORD says to kill. (As a side note, this theme often used in sermons as a metaphor for living a life separate from the world, getting rid of anything in your life that's not pleasing to God, taking care who you spend your time with, etc. I would argue that Jesus modeled something very different, but that's another post altogether.) When the Israelites are defeated at Ai  in chapter seven, Joshua cries out to the LORD, wondering why He didn't protect them. The LORD tells him that someone among the Israelites kept some loot for himself, and that they will be cursed until they "take away the accursed thing from among you." They find out that a man named Achan kept a garment along with some silver and gold for himself, and then:

Then Joshua, and all of Israel with him, took Achan the son of Zerah, the silver, the garment, the wedge of gold, his sons, his daughters, his oxen, his donkeys, his sheep, his tent, and all that he had, and they brought them to the Valley of Achor. And Joshua said, "Why have you troubled us? The LORD will trouble you this day." So all Israel stoned him with stones, and they burned them with fire after they had stoned them with stones. Then they raised over him a great heap of stones, still there to this day. So the LORD turned from the fierceness of His anger. Therefore, the name of that place has been called the Valley of Achor (trouble) to this day." Joshua 7:24-26

We see again here that this LORD is not slow to anger. He's pretty much angry right away when someone disobeys His commands. Unfortunately, the punishment isn't only on Achan, but on his children and animals as well.

Israel's military success depends on them keeping up their part of the covenant with the LORD. As a warring society, this means they must destroy everything He tells them to. They fumble again when they make a treaty with the Gibeonites, other inhabitants of the land (chapter 9). The Gibeonites pretend to be from a far-off land, and ask to make a peace covenant with the Israelites, and they do, "but they did not ask counsel of the LORD." Joshua makes a covenant with them, but upon finding out who they really are, says "Why have you deceived us, saying, 'We are very far from you,' when you dwell near us? Now therefore you are cursed, and none of you shall be freed from being slaves--woodcutters and water carriers for the house of my God." (v. 23). Joshua can't break the covenant with them (kill them), so he makes them slaves.

This all leads into an interesting turn of events in chapter ten. The kings of five different tribes decide to attack the Gibeonites because they have made "peace" with the Israelites. Joshua receives word of this, and goes out to fight with his "mighty men of valor", having received assurance from the LORD that they will win. They fight, and the attackers flee, and the LORD drops hailstones on them (the text says that more die from the hailstones than are killed by the Israelites' swords.) Then, Joshua prays quite a prayer: he asks God to make the sun stand still. Then, we are told, the sun does not go down for about a whole day, and Joshua and the Israelites are able to finish killing their enemies. While I appreciate the bold nature of Joshua's prayer, I struggle with the reason for it. But it's in keeping with the commands that this LORD gives, so in this context, it makes perfect sense.

The book contains a few more conquests, along with a description of how the tribes of Israelites divide up the land. Joshua gives one more stirring speech before he dies:

Now, therefore, fear the LORD, serve Him in sincerity and in truth, and put away the gods which your fathers had served on the other side of the River in Egypt. Serve the LORD! And if it seems evil to you to serve the LORD, choose for yourselves this day whom you will serve, whether the gods which your fathers served that were on the other side of the River, or the gods of the Amorites, in whose land you dwell. But as for me and my house, we will serve the LORD." (24:14-15)

Again, we see the emphasis on separation. The Israelites will struggle with this choice, and in the books to come we'll see a scattering and coming together, over and over, as they attempt stability under different types of leaders: judges, prophets, and kings.

So where does Jesus come in? I think what all these events point to is the fickle nature of the human heart. We fail, a lot. There's a certain hopelessness to all our striving. We need a savior. The Israelites, in all their warring and rule-making, point to that, in a longing, hopeful and yet broken way. I feel a sense of connectedness to the Israelites, even though I abhor many of their actions, because of my own brokenness. In this admittedly questionable practice of speed-reading through complex texts, I'm making contact with some of own deep sorrow as I encounter all of this darkness in the Old Testament. I feel in a way like I'm crying out for us all to be delivered. If nothing else, theological issues aside, all of this points to my need for Jesus.

plans for Lent

Observing Lent is something I've wanted to do for several years. Here's what seems right and needful this year:

• letting go of Facebook and Twitter. It's fairly obvious I guess--I need more time in my day and I spend a lot of time mindlessly checking them. I love keeping up with friends and laughing at witty banter, but there's a darker side too. There's a temptation to see the worst in people, and I would really like to resist that. Not sure about long term solutions, but this is a start.  

• Reading just one blog post per day, and taking some time to reflect on it. I read a lot of blogs, and some of them are really quite profound, encouraging, and inspiring. For this season, I want to focus more on letting their messages really sink in, and maybe taking a little time to engage in conversation there, instead of just reading one after another. 

• Reading through the whole Bible. I'm following this plan. (Life may happen, I may not finish. But I will try.) Here's why: the Bible is an old friend, but because of various readings with various lenses, I've been pretty allergic to it in recent years. I've all but thrown it across the room at times. These days, I'm learning to look at everything through the wide and generous lens of Jesus, and oh, how that helps. If something doesn't line up with the character of God as revealed to us in Jesus then I get to question it. I've been tiptoeing into this freedom for years. This Lent, I want to dive into it; to read the entire Bible through the lens of Jesus, for the first time in my life. It's kind of a celebration of this new-found freedom, and rightly so, because it's been a big deal for me. (Maybe I'll have new or different thoughts about this when I'm done; we shall see.)

I was hoping to attend an Ash Wednesday service, but we'll be watching Little Miss' big sister and another sweet girl for the evening, so that will have to happen another year.

Here we go!

another way

Be careful when you fight the monsters, lest you become one. -F. Nietzsche

What exactly are we supposed to do with our anger? A good friend of mine once called it the healthiest emotion, which I think it certainly can be. Be angry and do not sin.

Feeling angry on a regular basis and not sinning is fairly exhausting in my own strength. Placing people into categories puts a band-aid on anger; making it easier to dismiss those with whom I disagree. Underneath, though, the wound festers.

Facebook, that great reveal-er of the human heart, helps us right along with this, doesn't it? So many broad proclamations; so many opportunities for subtle jabs. And so it goes: oh, you voted for President Obama? You must believe in abortion on demand and want to see churches stripped of their right to teach what they believe. You're a liberal elite. Obviously, you don't care about what the Bible has to say. Oh, you voted for Governor Romney? You must want all women to be barefoot and pregnant, with no agency of their own, and believe that everyone on Medicaid is lazy. You're a conservative, completely unaware of your own privilege in this society. Obviously, you don't care about the poor. (I've hyperbolized this a bit, but not too much, as you probably well know.)

My own personal Battle of the Categories has been largely internal. I feel compelled (Holy Spirit, is that you?) to let some light in. I want to see people for who they really are: a great many things.

I am thankful for the everyday prophets who call me out of the false dichotomies I have railed against and find myself slipping into. Categories make us feel safe, but they also kill any chance for relationship. In real life, people defy those categories. In real life, we have to find ways to champion justice and mercy. So many people talk about the straight and narrow road in terms of salvation, but these days I think of that phrase in terms of my interactions with other people. It is hard to be kind out in the open and in secret; not to think of anyone as ridiculous. (Because, if you hear their stories, you'll know they're not.)

My husband does something that I love: he wanders the halls at church, and talks to people. He's brave and curious enough to ask the good questions, and talk about the real things. Back when we first met, I used to think man, he makes a lot of eye contact. It's disconcerting to be noticed when you're trying to hide, but don't we all need that? He is a listener, in a world of people who just want to be heard.

Here's a thing: as I've moved from a place of struggling with the nature of God to a place of struggling with evangelical culture, as I've come closer to conclusions about questions I once didn't have answers for, I find it much easier to place people in categories. I find I've become less interested in the stories of people I don't agree with. Yikes. That needs to stop.

Here's another thing: I like having a few more answers these days. I like it that when I hear something that misrepresents who I've found God to be, a voice in my head firmly says no. There is so much more peace in my heart this way. But at the same time, I don't want to ever be comfortable with writing people off.

Something I love about Christianity, in its purest form, is that it offers another way. The only agenda we have to cling to is that of Jesus.

Hearing that Jesus had silenced the Sadducees, the Pharisees got together. One of them, an expert in the law, tested him with this question. "Teacher, which is the greatest commandment in the Law? Jesus replied: "'Love the Lord your God with all your heart and all your soul and with all your mind.' This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: 'Love your neighbor as yourself.' All the Law and the Prophets hang on these two commandments."

Matthew 22:34-40

(Oh, Jesus. I love you. You cut right through all the noise.)

Loving God with all my heart means I stay vulnerable, sensitive, open to the idea that I may be wrong.

Loving God with all my soul means I keep a sacred space for Him to work on me, with me, through me. It means I'm careful about what ideas about Him I let in.

Loving God with all my mind means I get to ponder, deconstruct, find the holes, imagine, and rejoice when He reveals new things to me. It means I get to grow at my own speed.

And loving my neighbor as myself? That means other people get to grow at their own speed. It means they get to protect their treasures from the harsh light, too. It means I should strive to create a safe space for them to be vulnerable. 

There's a beautiful line from one of my favorite poems: I Ask the Impossible by Ana Castillo:

...love me as you always have:
not as admirer or judge, but with
the compassion you save for yourself in your solitude.

Admiration isn't necessary; neither is judgment. There is another way.

point the way

I would like to point the way to a God I am still seeking out, still trying to understand fully.
I would like to point the way to real hope, instead of more of the same.

Lining up to buy a chicken sandwich to prove a point? More of the same.

Demanding that stressed employees tell us Merry Christmas and fostering a culture of fear toward anyone who doesn't do things our way? More of the same.

Blaming a senseless tragedy on a lack of forced prayer in schools, never considering that we would not want our own children to have to pray a certain way against their will, or even more that God cannot be kept out of anything by humans? More of the same.

Counting ourselves as recipients of wild, ridiculously generous grace and then withholding it, or measuring it out cautiously, not wanting to overdo it? More of the same.

In my own heart, being so frustrated with these things that I run the risk of overlooking my own great sin? More of the same.

I am hopeful, and I am sad.

I want to point the way to something better, something I am seeking and finding in places I would not have looked ten years ago. This has been a year of speaking out for me. A year that began with tearing down, and progressed into a hard season of refining and shaping. My paradigm has shifted, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say it shifted some time ago, but this year I've been able to acknowledge and work with this shift. Something beautiful has happened: I can see the beauty of God once again. It is good news, and I would share it gladly. That "more of the same" gospel that I was trying to hold on to, thought I needed to fight for--it was death to my soul.

Now, I can whisper to my God, and I don't feel anger from Him, or disappointment. Just overwhelming love and grace, and when I fail, a sense that He believes I can do better, that He is cheering me on. Love, not fear. It is a delicate, precious thing and I will fight for it. I will fight to not misunderstand Him again.

It's not a way of easy answers (or any answers, at times). Sometimes giving an answer, an explanation, is the cruelest thing you can do to another human being who is in sorrow. It takes bravery to just sit, and be.

He has rescued me from my own perceptions. I believe change is coming, and I am hopeful because I see it everywhere. God is bigger than all of this, though. I will continue to be surprised by Him, to shift my perceptions.

              And we are put on earth a little space,

              That we may learn to bear the beams of love.

              -William Blake

on rough edges

Three years ago, during our east coast summer, I read this book by Anne Lamott called Grace (Eventually) and kind of hated it. I had a really hard time relating to her, and can I say something honest and ugly and completely unflattering? I had a hard time thinking of her as a Christian. She didn't seem victorious at all over her issues, and that bothered me. (I know, that says a lot more about where I was at the time than it does about Anne Lamott. She's a brave soul.)

This weekend I read it again and pretty much loved it. I found the pockets of grace easily, amidst the political rambling and the lack of traditional Christian tidiness. I found good news there.

Here's the thing about her: she's rough around the edges, and she doesn't polish her image for her books. It was upsetting the first time around, this lack of polish. This time it was a relief.

What I get now, and I'm not sure why I didn't then, is that you can't possibly begin to talk about grace until you talk about the ugly stuff. Without one, the other doesn't exist. There's a startling beauty that begins to unfold when a person is vulnerable; truly vulnerable, not in the "I used to be this way but look, God helped me and I'm so much better now" way that we're all so fond of. She has a way of capturing the beauty of the human condition without airbrushing it, without leaving out the f word and the angry hot tears, and the confusion.

I'm definitely over myself more these days. I've prayed a lot of "why do I suck so much; please help me" prayers. I've apologized without any real idea of what I'm going to do to fix it. I've gone to bed bone tired just from being with myself all day. I'm in over my head and it turns out, much to my disappointment, that I'm not strong after all. I'm actually pretty ridiculous. I'm the proverbial old man grumbling "get off my lawn" and the optimistic kid saying "will you play with me?" at the same time. I read once that you grow up the day you look in the mirror and have a good, long laugh at yourself. Well.

But grace allows me to rest. Grace says, go to sleep and try again tomorrow, knowing full well that tomorrow might actually be worse. Grace teaches me continually to be kinder to myself even when I know that might be a mistake, because I might take advantage of it.

That's me, trying to make any progress at all with family, in work, relationships, self-image: scootch, scootch, stall; scootch, stall, catastrophic reversal; bog, bog, scootch. I wish grace and healing were more abracadabra kinds of things; also, that delicate silver bells would ring to announce grace's arrival. But no, it's clog and slog and scootch, on the floor, in silence, in the dark. 

I suppose that if you were snatched out of the mess, you'd miss the lesson; the lesson is the slog (p. 93) 

It speaks to me. I've become a student of the slog.

Silas came up to me just now, face covered in yogurt and said "Hey. Mommy. Owp." Too often I approach prayer like it's some kind of favor I'm doing. That's so not the case, ever. I just need help.

I'm making peace with the human condition (or you know, trying to). Opportunities abound for being taken up with our less pleasant qualities. It will always be tempting to say snarky things, to react, to judge. Especially in response to people who say careless, mean things....and oh, they are so much more up in our faces nowadays (or does it just seems that way to me?) I read today that the best way to be friends with people who you disagree with is to say "tell me why this is important to you", and then just listen. That pretty much sounds like the best and hardest thing ever. It is hard to have a conversation. It is hard to really listen and not just wait for your turn to talk some more.

All the ugly things that I bump up against and want to react to are inside of me too. I keep running into them. So I'm free to let others off the hook. Theoretically. Hopefully.

We are such fragile people, it's amazing we can experience love at all.

today's things are for today

faith-full or faithless

numb or still

kind or angry-to-my-core

and I am always tunneling, toward or away

contradiction-

grace the biggest one of all:

every day i need

you to step in and save

me

from myself

today's things are for today,

they will expire

but I still try to stack them up in a closet, so

tomorrow I can just be needless

but

I am here, and so, still is my anger

my not-enough feelings

my humanity

and the grace-filled moments look

different that I thought they would

Still learning.....

still, learning.

We don't do this alone.

You incline, and hear my cry

every day I call out, in some way

every day you answer, in some way

I just stand and watch my babies, amazed by

all that hope running around

little rib-cages, arms reaching up

the weight slowly settles on our shoulders;

you reach down and lift it off

every day, glory.

*Psalm 40 inspired

how to be

The question keeps me up at night lately: how to be a Christian? How to really follow Christ? So many all around me are acting like it's an easy thing, with a clear path to follow. I don't know. What would He do? That statement, less a popular bracelet and more a wrestling of the soul, keeps me up at night.

Church sometimes smothers His voice, but sometimes I still hear it there.

Numbness is a short-term solution, but then I return to the Good News, like a magnet drawn back. Where else would I go?

These culture wars make me want to chuck away all the obvious stuff, all the church going and right-stuff saying--communes start to look mighty good. Running away, always so appealing.

Maybe I'll just set up a stand, with a sign that says "Free Listening. No Advice, Promise." We could even bow our knees together, in need and gratitude.

Can any change come from the inside? Or do I need to find others who think like I do? A cause I can really get behind, body and soul? An end to the exhaustion, the constant fight against criticism....

I don't know.

igniting passion

I'm blogging through Kathy Escobar's fantastic series, Rebuilding after Deconstructing, in an effort to clarify some things for myself, to share my story, and to encourage forward motion. This is so not about whining or placing blame, or picking on any person or institution.  Just the story of God and me, up to now... abridged. 

See also Deconstruction, the wall and the journey inward: part I, the wall and the journey inward: part II, loss, what remains, what works, and celebrating the past

Lately I've been thinking quite a bit about how to transition from the journey inward to the journey outward. It's so easy for me (probably for anyone) to get stuck in a place of constant self-examination and evolve toward narcissism rather than personal growth and giving back. I think I've been where I needed to be, and up until very recently, where I needed to be was on that inward journey. From what I can tell, the important thing is to pay attention to the stirrings in my soul--and for a little while now the stirrings have been calling me outward. I'm actually really excited about it--this is the fun part, right? I've had to dig through a lot of junk to get to this point, but I do believe I am finally getting somewhere. Whew.

I dream of a life where my passions and daily routines are intertwined. In some ways, I already have that. I've learned to be passionate about my family; to see my mothering as a ministry. I've learned to commune with God throughout my day, in the mundane, the exciting, the sweet, the tiresome. I'm learning to stop clutching onto my life; that to engage in the moment seems to create more time, but to cling to minutes and to-do lists (my default) is to lose the day swiftly and have nothing of substance to show for it. I'm learning to approach life more openly. All of those things are good, and I want more of the same.

There are some things I dream about, most of which I've been dreaming about for a long time:

• seeing my kids grow up in a spiritually, physically, and emotionally healthy home; setting an example of that myself
• midwifery, when the time is right
• giving comfort and quality care as a nurse
• growing our family through foster care and adoption
• cultivating a healthy marriage
• finding a way to translate personal growth into ministry (finding my niche in the church? or something outside of it? I don't know yet.)

The word "healthy" is in there a lot. For so much of my life, I haven't been internally healthy. I've been trying and failing to play a part that wasn't even super well-defined in my head; trying to understand a God I had placed in a box (and who was placed in a box for me.) So I absolutely had to deconstruct. It's funny, looking back on it now--of course I had to. Something had to change.

This part is about laying groundwork while maintaining the basics. For me the basics are prayer, honesty, evaluation and re-evaluation, kindness to self and others (basic is not synonymous with easy.) I feel a lot of potential energy, welling up and waiting for the right time to spring into action. I'm figuring out that I won't ever have it all together, but that's no reason to not pursue things I care about or to stop working on myself. Both matter, both are needed.

Each dream has it's time, but I can honestly say that everything on that list has a foundation in my life right now, to varying degrees. My marriage has gotten so much better over the last few years, because of some difficult conversations, some beautiful experiences, shared sorrow and joy, simple kindness, and a lot of intention from both of us. It's an ongoing process, and an amazing one! I see my kids growing up without un-necessary stress (so far) and fiercely want to preserve that. I hope our home remains a haven for them, always. Nursing is a small part of my week (just one day) but I try to give it 100% of my energy when I am there. Midwifery feels a way off still, but I did recently join a study group with an experienced midwife who is a wealth of knowledge, to, as she put it, "keep the dream alive." Foster care and adoption is right in front of us; the process could begin at any moment. The hows and whens are unknown, but it feels like the time for that dream is now. I really hope so. I feel "expectant" :)

And as far as ministry things go, that is pretty cloudy to me at this point. All I know is, I feel passionately that Christians need to be talking about their journeys in a way that is real, honest, and spacious. Having some sort of framework for this process has been so helpful for me. I would love to give people a safe space to ask their questions and share their hopes out loud (shaky voices and all), or even just have a way to be in the church if the songs or crowds or sermons are daunting because of where they are in their spiritual journey. If going to service is too much, maybe they could have a place to go that's a little safer, where someone is waiting to listen. Maybe it's a small group thing, maybe a Sunday morning thing, maybe even a blog thing-- I'm not sure. I would just like to cultivate that vision, to be there for my brothers and sisters that are wounded--not so much to offer my own wisdom although I'll gladly share my journey. Just to let them know they're not alone; that maybe God really is all they hope he is.

I like the idea of adding new passions to long-standing ones, as life happens. As I learn.

celebrating the past

I'm blogging through Kathy Escobar's fantastic series, Rebuilding after Deconstructing, in an effort to clarify some things for myself, to share my story, and to encourage forward motion. This is so not about whining or placing blame, or picking on any person or institution.  Just the story of God and me, up to now... abridged. 

See also Deconstruction, the wall and the journey inward: part I, the wall and the journey inward: part II, loss, what remains and what works.

Next up is Celebrating What Was and honestly, I've been stuck on this part for over a week, because I'm having a hard time writing about some things in my past without sounding like I'm bashing people. That's certainly not the point of this exercise. So, here we go again. Maybe I can say it right this time.

This part is all about looking at seasons of one's life that caused feelings of hurt, shame or maybe just embarrassment, and finding something to celebrate about each season. It's hard, because people are complicated and life is messy. I think the place to start is looking at my own progression. There are things I've said and done over the course of my life that are just plain embarrassing, but they're a reflection of where I was at the time and not my essential self.

The truth I keep coming back to is this: when I'm gentle with myself, I can be more gentle with others (insert whatever word necessary: patient, kind, etc....) I've been able to let go of a ton of burdensome, poisonous, grudgy junk because of that truth.

So I look back over my entire journey, and ask--how does God see it? I think he sees the big picture. Where I've been, where I'm headed. Just that thought covers everything with peace and takes my anxiety away. I don't know if everything happens for a reason, but I do believe that God redeems.

Because of hard times in my life, I have gained

• insight into human nature 
• a backbone (I'm a little more aware of manipulative techniques now I think)
• knowledge about myself, how I respond to different situations, what my "deal-breakers" are, what my true joys are
• the ability to put up needed boundaries
• gratefulness for genuine friendship
• an ability to be myself and let go of the constant need for approval (a work in progress)
• the ability to say NO

Those are the biggies I think. Letting go is beautiful and so freeing. On to better things, carrying the lessons of the past with me like the treasures that they are.

what works

I'm blogging through Kathy Escobar's fantastic series, Rebuilding after Deconstructing, in an effort to clarify some things for myself, to share my story, and to encourage forward motion. This is so not about whining or placing blame, or picking on any person or institution.  Just the story of God and me, up to now... abridged. 

See also Deconstruction, the wall and the journey inward: part I, the wall and the journey inward: part II, loss, and what remains.

An important part of this journey for me has been finding ways to run to God instead of from God, even when I'm not too sure what's what. Like I mentioned before, I truly believe this process has been mostly about re-defining who God is to a soul that's become sad and cynical over time (yup, that's me.) One of my favorite verses in the Bible is Psalm 27:13--I would have lost heart, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

In order to have an authentic belief in God as a good being; I've needed to somehow disconnect Him from some negative associations. I've found that this sort of thing takes a lot of time, intention, and space.

Ann Voskamp's book One Thousand Gifts has been hugely influential for me. The beauty of her prose, the raw-ness of her story, and her desire to be well all resonated with me. I found comfort and inspiration in her words. I started keeping my own gratitude lists; noticing the beauty right in front of me. The thing that's really special about what Ann proposes though, is choosing to see all of the beautiful little details as gifts from God. It's brave, really, to choose to see a sunset or an unexpected surprise or the expression on your child's face while he sleeps as gifts from a loving God--it's brave when you're torn apart about whether or not He's good, anyway. It's a bold declaration of faith in what you're not quite sure of.

So that has really helped. My thank-you's began as tentative whispers, but I can see now how thanking God for the small things has made Him bigger in my life. He's in the bedtime stories, the garden planting, the momentarily clean kitchen, the coffee outside in the morning, the much-needed conversation. He's here; and I'm starting to like him again. He's starting to feel like a friend again. It's actually a little weird to say again, because in a way this all feels pretty new.

What else worked/works?

• giving up dutiful Bible reading (the kind that stems from obligation, not love)
• practicing stillness, being quiet, listening
• getting honest on this blog; being braver in my conversations
• books about spirituality
• day to day things with my kids--I've found space in my days for prayer and contemplation, for meeting with God while I go about my routines. Also, the times when I feel overwhelmed as a parent have become points of connection with God. I'm asking for help more, and trusting that he will help me more. 
• my job--because it's mentally and physically challenging, and I miss my family when I'm gone, and I often see my children in my patients. Because it gets me out of my head. Because it helps me to remember Jesus, the least of these, and what this is all about.
• working through some issues in my marriage
• pursuing the dream of foster adoption (another step of faith)
• honoring the creative spark, making space for it

Those are the big things that come to mind. Everything is spiritual; I believe that. A healthy mind, marriage, home atmosphere, nurturing of dreams, silliness, laughter--all of those things are spiritual, so putting those things in order help me to be in tune with the divine. I feel a new steadiness because of it.

what remains

I'm blogging through Kathy Escobar's fantastic series, Rebuilding after Deconstructing, in an effort to clarify some things for myself, to share my story, and to encourage forward motion. This is so not about whining or placing blame, or picking on any person or institution.  Just the story of God and me, up to now... abridged. 

See also Deconstruction, the wall and the journey inward: part I, the wall and the journey inward: part II, and loss

I talk more about what I don't know than what I know. You know? :) Honestly, it's a lot easier to tear down than to build up. This is where the building up begins.

Today, I'm thinking about what I do know; what I haven't lost. Here's what I think remains for me:

• prayer. I can't imagine a day without it. Not really a structured kind, more of a meditative, talk-to-your-heart, listen, breathe kind of thing. Some of the prayers I say often are I will not live with anger in my heart, I will not be afraid of what people think of me, I will not hide my face from you, Oh God, and most recently just I am here. God is here. And then just naming who God is to me, who I know him to be. He brings clarity. He comforts. He understands. He is freshness and light and newness. I'm less likely to give him credit for the bad stuff these days. I'm redefining to my fickle, distrusting, wounded heart who my God really is. That's actually what I think my whole process of deconstruction has been about.

• words. This one just occurred to me. I still have the gift of words. I have beautiful old songs that speak to me, and poetry, and there are passages of Scripture that don't make my heart hurt. (One day I hope that none of them will, we'll see.) But I have a huge collection of words that soothe, heal and inspire.

• community. I have dear people in my life that I can be real with. That is no small thing.

• a sense of awe. It's not gone. When I hear stories of restoration, when I see beautiful things, when I talk about my experience with the divine and see that spark of recognition in another person's eyes--I am full of awe. God is bigger than I can make sense of.

• Jesus. I have had moments where I'm full of doubt and fear, where I go to church and feel like I don't speak the language anymore and what was once familiar is now bizarre, but I love Jesus, and I continue to feel his kindness. I get to hold onto that.

often, we think it’s all gone because it feels that way.  but if we dig down deep, we discover that there are remnants of our faith left.  parts that still are alive.  parts that can’t be taken away.

-Kathy Escobar 

loss

I'm blogging through Kathy Escobar's fantastic series, Rebuilding after Deconstructing, in an effort to clarify some things for myself, to share my story, and to encourage forward motion. This is so not about whining or placing blame, or picking on any person or institution.  Just the story of God and me, up to now... abridged. 

See also Deconstruction, the wall and the journey inward: part I, the wall and the journey inward: part II.

Next up in the series is acknowledging and grieving losses. This is a new way of thinking for me. Of course, because my journey involved the death of a loved one, I acknowledged that loss and have done some work to intentionally grieve in a healthy way (it took me a while, as I mentioned in the last post). But I hadn't thought about the rest of it in terms of loss. It's true though--when you grow and shift and change, loss inevitably occurs.

When I think about it, I've lost:

• some trust. I don't know exactly when I started thinking of groups of people as "safe" or "not safe", but it did happen at some point. I discovered the seriousness of it one day when we were in a group discussion at church and Ricky shared some things about our parenting style, family habits, and such and I totally flipped out. He was just being his usual transparent self, which I usually appreciate, but this time I felt threatened and invaded (poor guy, trying to figure out why his wife was freaking out over a fairly harmless conversation).  I guess I developed some fears in the aftermath of a few bad experiences, and whether they are rational or not, they are very real in my head and have caused some serious distress.

• the emotional high I used to experience during worship songs. I'm often so pre-occupied with lyrics that don't ring true that I can't focus on anything else. There is one song that everyone seems to love--to me it makes God sound like an abusive boyfriend. It likens him to a hurricane that will blow us away or an ocean that we'll drown in. Then the chorus is about how much he loves us. Seriously, all I can think about is the cycle of abuse when I hear that song. I used to try to sing along with songs that bothered me, because maybe I liked certain parts of them, or maybe I thought I was just over-analyzing. Now I see how damaging that has been to my soul. It's very important for me to protect the good things I know about God. He's not the hurricane, he's the shelter. He's not drowning me, he's pulling me to safety.

• the ability to pray a certain way. This bothers me, because while I don't want to treat God like Santa Claus, I do want to approach him like a loving parent. 

• the feeling of being part of the club, the inner circle, whatever. I don't feel like I've been rejected by anyone; I just know that if I speak my mind (which feels more and more necessary these days) I'm simply not going to fit in. I'm coming to terms with that.

• having the right answer, or feeling that someone will have the right answer at least. Now I think maybe, maybe not.

• my certainty about the Bible. It's been used as a weapon a few too many times for me to feel super comfortable with it.

So there they are. Some of these have been good things to lose; some very painful and unfortunate, but they all came about when I started picking apart a system that just wasn't working anymore. 

the wall and the journey inward: part II

I'm blogging through Kathy Escobar's fantastic series, Rebuilding after Deconstructing, in an effort to clarify some things for myself, to share my story, and to encourage forward motion. This is so not about whining or placing blame, or picking on any person or institution.  Just the story of God and me, up to now... abridged. 

See also Deconstruction and the wall and the journey inward: part I

I didn't wake up that Sunday thinking I would reach a new low. It was actually a celebratory day; a service dedicated to testimony. People shared their struggles and victories from the previous year, and I sat in my chair, feeling their joy and sorrow, laughing and crying. It was so, so good. But then people started sharing about physical healing. Ever since my Dad's death I had felt fragile about that topic. I took a deep breath, asked God to help me, and and I was okay for a while. But it continued. A woman healed of a degenerative disease ran across the stage. A few others shared. I kept doing my deep breathing. Then a young woman talked about how she had a food allergy, and prayed to be healed from it, and guess what? She was! To the point where she binged out on the food she couldn't have and look! She was fine. Just like that, all is well.

I felt my heart shut down; tried to give myself a little pep talk, told myself just be happy for her. Don't make this about you.... but it was too late. I felt a dam break inside of me, and I panicked. I have to get out of here, NOW, I thought. Because sometimes people die, sometimes prayers are not answered the way we'd hoped and nobody was acknowledging that. I don't know if it was a panic attack, but that's what it felt like to me. I've never been so full of anxiety, sadness, and frustration. I managed to pick up my kids and drove home, shaking. I railed at the heavens, I asked God if he was really that cruel, I cried for hours.  And then, when I was done, I realized I had to take some sort of action to help myself. I couldn't remain here forever.

I did a therapeutic exercise that afternoon called The Chair. My friend had told me about it months before, and I had been avoiding it, but I wanted to do something to get better, anything. I imagined my Dad was sitting across from me, and I said everything I had needed to say when he was dying. I started off wrily with "I know you probably wouldn't approve of this, but...." And I chose to believe he could hear me.

Exhausted, I opened my computer and started reading a blog I had been following for a few months, rachelheldevans.com. I had already found solace in her writing, but that day (I don't remember how exactly) I stumbled upon links to a few other blogs, sarahbessey.com (then called Emerging Mummy) and elizabethesther.com. All three of these women were asking some of the same questions I was. All three were struggling to find a home at church again. Maybe, I thought cautiously, maybe this is a gift. That day, for the first time in a long time, it dawned on me He might just be taking care of me. I began to feel hope for better things in our relationship. I wrote a post about a month later called bread crumbs to mark the beginning of a new season.

I realized many important things in the months following that day. One is that my faith doesn't need to look like anyone else's. I gave myself permission to be a misfit, to be perceived as undisciplined, lazy, liberal, lukewarm, or whatever else. There will always be people who talk about easy fixes and overnight miracles--and I don't want to judge their experiences as not valid either. But that has never been my experience. Christianity, for me, has mostly been about putting one foot in front of the other. About seeking and waiting and learning to be content. Believing that I really do have what I need, right here and now. Persevering. Choosing to be a recipient of grace, humbling as it is.

And I hope that the more comfortable I feel in my own faith, the less I will freak out when it looks different for other people. There is still a bit of dread when it comes to church things; that has not gone away. Sometimes I'm not sure that it will. But I'm trying to be gentle with my soul, because God is.

I also decided to fight against having multiple selves--my church self, home self, work self.....wow, that is so exhausting. This is a hard thing for those of us who grow up in evangelical culture I think. We get so used to the happy Sunday morning identity that it's hard to take off. I still struggle to be real on Sunday morning, or in any church setting really. Blogging has really helped with that. I find that if I can summon the courage to say something on my blog first, then I can bring it up in a conversation later.

So that was the beginning of my journey inward. One very dramatic day followed by a lot of quiet reflection, a year of re-shaping my perception of God by noting all the things, big and small, that I have to be grateful for (hats off to another amazing blogger, Ann Voskamp, for writing an incredible book and opening my eyes to the power of saying thank you), and many conversations with my husband, whose experience has paralleled mine in many ways. I'll write more about finding new spiritual practices a little later.

It can take a lot of hard work and a lot of time for God to heal our hearts; to reshape our perceptions of Him. I believe more strongly now than ever before that He wants to. I will honor this process.

the wall & the journey inward: part I

I'm blogging through Kathy Escobar's fantastic series, Rebuilding after Deconstructing, in an effort to clarify some things for myself, to share my story, and to encourage forward motion. This is so not about whining or placing blame, or picking on any person or institution.  Just the story of God and me, up to now... abridged. 

This post is dedicated to working through the issues discussed in Part I: Honoring the Process. I highly recommend reading it for some context, but the idea in a nutshell is that there are stages to the Christian life. They are:

• recognition of God
•  life of discipleship 
• the productive life 
• hitting The Wall 
• the journey inward 
• the journey outward 
• a life of love 

Last year my church went through a series called Emotionally Healthy Spirituality that, as I remember, pretty much uses the same model, so the idea of stages is not completely new. Going through the series with a small group got me thinking about my journey so far, but I've still never written it all out. Looking at my own life objectively (as much as that is possible) I believe that I was at The Wall for some time, and more recently began the journey inward.

The first time I can remember questioning God was when I was eight. I was having a conversation with my parents about free will, and they were trying to help me understand why God leaves some choices up to us. "He didn't want us to be robots", they explained gently, "he wants us to choose him because it's what we want; because we love him." I cried dramatically and said that he should have made us "robots", without free will, because then no one could make the wrong choice.

As I grew up, I was of course confronted with some big questions--I saw injustice in the world, the exclusivity of the Gospel as I learned it, the struggle of Jesus followers to actually act like Jesus, the arrogance and ignorance often found within church culture. I also experienced a lot of wonderful things--compassion, generosity, community, the way the Holy Spirit changes people, and so many second chances. I struggled with doubt, but I had a connection, a friendship, with God that steadied me. It seemed un-shakeable to me, especially as a zealous teenager.  I felt I was part of something bigger than myself: a counter-cultural movement (teenagers tend to like that sort of thing, no?)

My questions grew during the college years. Being an English major opened up a new world of thought. I gained an ability to craft an argument, an appreciation for the power of words, and awareness of the different types of writing that influence thought and culture and vice versa, or "literary theory". And so I learned to try on different lenses, to attempt to understand different perspectives. During this time I felt less and less at home in conservative evangelical culture, and more acutely aware of church culture's discomfort with postmodern thought. Unfortunately, there were also a few hurtful church experiences involving legalism and misinformation, and I developed a guarded attitude toward church leadership in general. Still, the connection with God remained, even as I felt less sure about what I believed.

At age 22, I was married to my college sweetheart, finishing my degree, and processing a surprise pregnancy just a few months into the marriage (my  Nickyboy is five now, and remains full of surprises.)I wasn't sure what I wanted to do with an English degree (is anyone?) and I got a little tired of being in my head all the time. I was overcome with a strong desire to learn a skill, to do something with my hands. So I went back to school to study nursing, and learned how to be a mother, how to be married, how to live on a tight budget--all at the same time it seemed. That was a season of pretty intense learning, of highs and lows, of growth. In many ways it was a sweet time.

When Nicky was two months old, my Dad was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. We were all devastated. My parents both had a strong belief that he would survive, and they amazed me with their faith and perseverance. He was with us for nine months after the diagnosis. Thin, tired, and unable to speak above a whisper, a few days after starting hospice care, he passed on. It was a relief to know he was not suffering anymore, but it was unbearably sad too. He was only 58; we certainly wanted him around longer than that.

There is so much more I could say about his dying process, but I think it's a little too personal for others in my family for me to share here. He was a precious person to all of us, and at his funeral people talked for hours about all the ways he had enriched their lives; all his years of service, his corny jokes, the freshness of his faith. I miss him every day. I wish my kids could have known him.

After his death, going to church was so difficult. I couldn't get through a worship song without crying or feeling disillusioned by the lyrics. I tried picturing him in heaven, without pain, stress-free, and that helped a little. I felt the closeness of God at times, but I was keeping my distance. I found myself scared; I went to church and felt like I didn't speak the language anymore. I hadn't felt like I fit in with the culture for years, but it felt magnified now. I volunteered for kids ministry, hoping to do some good and avoid focusing solely on my own problems. That was helpful, and I loved being with the kids. My church community was full of kind, down to earth people, but hearing phrases like "stand on the promises of God", and "prayer changes things" only seemed to increase my sorrow. I think this was the beginning of my Wall. The relationship that had been central to my life ever since I could remember was in trouble, and it scared me to think I could lose it.

I stayed busy with nursing school and home life, and we were part of a small group with an atmosphere of honesty and acceptance. It really was a healing environment. I think sometimes people didn't know what to say or do around me when I would talk about my issues, but they let me anyway, and they prayed for me. I'm so grateful for that. My deep un-settledness about God and church culture continued, but I got by. Life marched on as it does. We both finished school, got jobs, bought a house, and had our second baby, Silas. I loved my life but when it came to spiritual things, and especially when it came to church things, I often felt like I was just playing a part. One summer day in 2011, it all came to a breaking point.

deconstruction.

one thing that makes me the most sad about “church” is how few places we have for deconstruction.  the mystics and desert mothers & fathers knew that seeking something deeper was a natural part of spiritual growth.  they weren’t afraid of questions & doubts and trusted the guiding, faithful work of the Holy Spirit to keep showing sojourners the way.  we, however, have built systems, buildings, and organizations upon certainty, right belief, and a clear path that makes us feel comfortable.

-Kathy Escobar

So, I've been reading through and processing this series of posts by Kathy Escobar, a pastor from Denver, Colorado who I discovered earlier this year. I think one of these days I just need to drive up to Denver, find her church and give her a hug (and maybe ugly cry) because her writing has been a Godsend.

It makes me think of the line from the movie Shadowlands, where one of C.S. Lewis' students tells him "we read to know we're not alone." That has stayed with me over the years, and I am so grateful to have found kindred spirits both on the internet and in person. And I am grateful for people who forge paths, and give us language that is useful for figuring this stuff out. She describes deconstruction as a time where:

...much of what we believe shifts.
where things we once held dear unravel.
where the number of questions begin to overtake all of our past certainties.
where we find ourselves saying “uh oh, our faith might be in big trouble.”
where we lose the safety of familiar communities because we’ve changed.

Sounds incredibly familiar to me. So I'm going to blog through this series, and at least get this whole process straight in my head. I've been writing about this stuff here for a while now, but not in such a structured way. Structure just might be helpful....

This is in no way an attack on any person or institution. It's really just about me and God, and my hope for better things. This has been a looooonnnng process, and it's still going on, and it may continue for quite some time. Only God knows I guess. So if this frustrates you, that is so okay. Trust me, I get plenty frustrated with myself. But if it resonates with you too, know that you are not alone. And I hope that sharing my story here is helpful in some way. And if you feel compelled, you can share your story here too, or head over to Kathy's blog and join the conversation there. Let's get this stuff out in the open.

thoughts on Palm Sunday

Out of all the special days in the church calendar, I think Palm Sunday might speak the most deeply to me. It's such a paradox: a sobering reminder of how fickle and showy we humans can be and at the same time a joyful celebration of the goodness of God. We wave palm branches, we sing or cry out Hosanna! and we know the betrayal, the crucifixion, is coming. It happens in the story; it happens in our hearts. We love him so much. We fall so hard. Hosanna captures the paradox; crying out for help and declaring praise in the same breath.

image: http://fineartamerica.com/featured/palm-sunday-benedict-olorunnisomo.html

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

How did you set your face like a flint toward Jerusalem, knowing our nature? Knowing we would hide away and protect our own interests? Knowing our capacity to understand and then somehow forget?

I love these stories in part because they continue to happen; they tell us so much about ourselves and more importantly they tell us who he is.

I am Peter, seeking to promote myself. I am Judas, looking for fast comfort and coming up empty. Sometimes, in my better moments, I set what is precious to me at your feet and simply worship. I want more of those moments. I want to live there.