Beyond the Book Club: Anti-Racist Teaching & Preaching (on Building Faith)

Glad to share some learning in how to lead white antiracist work in spiritual communities through Building Faith. Click over to read the whole article!

The church is called to resist injustice and work against racism. As many churches and ministers have become more attentive to issues of racial justice and the movement for black lives, we look for next steps in addressing our institutional racism. Perhaps you’ve started parish book clubs or found guest speakers to boost awareness around racial justice. If we treat this work of justice like a one-off formation event, or only consider content, we will miss out on the transformative work of being anti-racist churches. These four principles move beyond content to our methods, and can orient our programs, formation, and worship toward antiracist practice…..

for the love of ultimate questions

My preschooler, like many small children, is a natural philosopher and theologian. He is endlessly fascinated by origins, death, meaning, God, and mystery, and never holds back his questions. 

Some recent wonderings include: 
Who made God? 
Who am I?
How is dead different than asleep, and do you wake up from dead?
What color is God’s skin?
Before I was an egg and a sperm, where was I? 
Am I a bad guy, or a good guy who makes bad choices?
And the classic quandary, if God is everywhere, is God with the poop in the potty?

As we field these consistently profound and occasionally silly inquiries, I’ve noticed a few things about the asking, lessons in the love of ultimate questions. 

First is the utter fearlessness of asking giant questions. The deepest, most impossible questions most often arise in adulthood during periods of anxiety, in the aftermath of loss or trauma, or in times of transition. We are often skittish of deep contemplation of our origins, death, morality, meaning, and God. This is vulnerable territory, and our association of questioning our being and meaning with times of change or suffering makes us hesitant to venture into reflective territory. But for young children, these questions emerge as easily and joyfully as other, more mundane curiosities, and generate playfulness and wonder. They’re unchecked, bubbling up from daily life, and completely free of judgment, foregone conclusion, fear or shame. 

Then there is the relentless repetition of all of these questions. Little kids are infamous for chirping, “Why? Why? Why?” to the point of irritation, but occasionally the repeated questions are less a reflex and more of a continual reflection. We’ll have a conversation full of deep pondering. Days or weeks will pass and suddenly, we’re rehashing the conversation with a new layer of application. A new story, toy, experience, song, or show will prompt him to revisit. When we recently had our first animal funeral, death itself was thoroughly re-examined and made much more complicated. He had some ideas about the thing from the stories of Good Friday and Easter, some awareness of deceased family members. But to grieve a lifeless rabbit brought home the idea in new ways, and spun us into countless conversations of connection and meaning making. 

As we revisit and re-evaluate and find more and complex ideas around these ultimate questions, it is also not unsurprising that some of conclusions and reflections would change. With more explanations than a conspiracy theory buff, origin stories of humanity and God and the world multiply. God has brown skin or perhaps no skin at all. And of course, my child is himself; he is Spider-Man; he is grown; he is a baby; he is a good guy and a bad guy and a priest like mama and an organizer like daddy. The answers change and converge and evolve with each iteration of questioning, again, with no judgment on his process. 

Joy and courage, repetition, complexity and evolution. 

In a conversation for adult formation recently, my friend, theologian Zac Settle looked at the classic Confessions for an example for asking ultimate questions. Augustine, he says, writes this volume of questions around identity, meaning, truth, morality, and the nature of God all in the form of prayer. Joyfully grounded in the grace of God’s knowledge and love, open ended and reflective, often inconclusive, at its best, prayer does not ask for arrival, but orients us toward connection with God, growth, and a deeper way of listening to the Spirit. The instincts and wisdom of young questioners is echoed in one of the greatest thinkers and saints of the tradition.

What would it be like to happily and confidently ask our biggest and strangest questions? Can we give ourselves permission to circle back to ask again, and to accept new and shifting answers? How might we live the questions as our prayers? 

thoughts on bread and wine

I last celebrated Eucharist on April 1, for an early recording of Easter Sunday. I cried and my voice and hands shook. Three others received bread. I drank the wine alone. Our clergy, staff, and choir raced through all the Holy Week services in two days to beat the citywide shelter in place. What a terrible April Fools joke, weeping through the last days of Lent, performing Easter hope.

My older boy likes to play priest with his stuffies, a little wood clinging cross, plastic cup and plate from his play kitchen. He still hasn’t learned how to sit in a pew, but knows the chants from my worried weekends of practicing proper prefaces. It occurred to me, near the beginning, watching his longing for the real thing, that we could have church at home, sacrament right here. I’m a priest, after all, and have a gifted chalice and patten right there displayed on a shelf in our home office. If my kid wants communion, I could say the words, make a ritual. But what would that be without my parish?
Is this Eucharist?

I’ve been baking more: sourdoughs, yeasted breads, muffins, cookies, cakes, cobblers. The starter expands. The yeast bubbles. Why not double the batch? Try something new? How about pies and tarts? Time to finally master buttermilk biscuits. Even failed efforts of under and over proofing make the house smell wonderful.  Neighbors up and down the street, colleagues, and friends passing through for socially distant porch conversations have all benefitted from the abundance. All four of us have new little bellies and curves to show for our effort. Bake and eat, these are our bodies. 

There’s a rhythm of drinking without all those late meetings out: a few times a week, an evening glass with my partner. He likes a whiskey and I like wine, my legs curled under me as we sit with books and sketchpads in our blue porch rocking chairs, breathing, sweating, watching the fireflies as the sun goes down, relieved of our sons. At the end of each day, my thoughts are numb and my body is jello. Every program, lesson, and sermon requires its secondary and tertiary contingency plans. I’m weary of holding my worry and others. I’m still breastfeeding, baby-wearing, and wrestling the puppy on his leash, and by dinner time my back aches and energy plummets. Poured out. 

A parishioner calls to ask if she can bring dinner. A card arrives in the mail. The empty lot down the street is full of blackberries and spearmint escapes its plot to creep across the yard. A friend drops off cinnamon rolls. “You were brave,” he says. “You should have some cinnamon rolls.” 
Is this Eucharist? 

loaves and fishes

Today’s gospel reading begins, “Now when Jesus heard this...”

What did he hear? Well we skipped that part of the story from last week til this. In between the parable and the miracle, Jesus learned some devastating news, that his cousin, John, the prophet, whose miraculous birth showed God’s presence, whose life was a challenge and witness for the community to turn to God and freedom, who had baptized Jesus and marked the start of his ministry... John who spoke the truth of God’s justice boldly to the corrupt power system and the truth of God’s presence and attention to those who suffered within it, John who was a light of God had been killed by Herod. 

Now King Herod was a puppet of the Roman Empire. He was caught up in his own family dramas and is presented in the gospels as a corrupt, cruel, manipulative person who lived in a place of constant paranoia around power and self preservation. And in a strange story of seduction and performance and revenge, his family finally killed John, who had long been speaking out against the corruption and abuses of the local government. They killed him and desecrated his body, putting his head on a platter and bringing it out to a dinner party. 

This murder of John is a loss to the community, of a religious leader and a community fixture and a son and cousin and friend. And this murder of John is also a cold and terrorizing reminder of what might happen to you if you tell the truth about or stand up to the evil going on around you.

Today’s story is happening in the shadow of violence, of helplessness against the cruelty and power of a king and the larger empire that are working to keep them down. This story happens in community grief, in the whiplash of getting the worst possible news, that trauma, the impact across the community, that feeling of brittleness, the verge of shattering that comes with shock. 

So Jesus “withdrew from there in a boat to a deserted place by himself.” He’s processing and pausing, and sitting with the horror of what has happened to his family.

 But when the crowds heard it, when the crowds heard what had happened to John,
they followed him on foot from the towns. The people want to know what Jesus has to say in this moment of hurt and fear. They want to be in the presence of love and healing. 

When [Jesus] went ashore, when he came back from the sea, having taken that time, I imagine, to process and grieve and pray, he saw a great crowd; and he had compassion for them and cured their sick. 

Had they come to him for this? Maybe in part. But the text says that they’re coming to Jesus in response to what happened to John. To a community tragedy. 

We know Jesus doesn’t raise John the Baptist from the dead. And while there will come a time for him to confront the powers of empire and escalate that tension we’ve been seeing through Matthew’s gospel, this is not that time. In his grief and in his compassion, Jesus starts caring for the need right in front of him. 

When it was evening, the disciples came to him and said, "This is a deserted place, and the hour is now late; send the crowds away so that they may go into the villages and buy food for themselves.”I wonder if the disciples were weary after that long day with people. I wonder if they had gotten time to reflect on this tragedy. 

But scholars note that in the rural context of this story, even if the people had been able to find a village with provisions, many people would not have had money and resources to purchase food for themselves.  Working class and poor folks in this society weren’t walking around Galilee with money to spare to pick up a sandwich.

The sickness and poverty in the community coming to Jesus is a reflection of the same social structures that John was speaking out against. The Roman Empire conquered, abused, and depleted people and their resources to benefit a very few.

Jesus was wise to this dynamic, understood that the disciples plan wouldn’t actually lead these people to usable resources. It’s like that whole teach a man to fish, thing, right? Except how can you send people to the pond when you know the poisoned water table has wiped out any catch? 

So instead of sending the people away hungry, Jesus said to [the disciples], "They need not go away; you give them something to eat.” 

Impossible! It’s not like the eclectic group of working class guys has the resources to feed the crowd! And They replied, "We have nothing here but five loaves and two fish.” That’s a snack for 13 people at best.  A few bites.

But Jesus said, "Bring them here to me.” Then he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, he looked up to heaven, and blessed and broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, and the disciples gave them to the crowds. And all ate and were filled.

More than a snack for a dozen. More than a few bites. They were filled. And what’s more, there were leftovers. The disciples took up what was left over of the broken pieces, twelve baskets full.

The food blessed and broken and given around kept on coming and coming. I want to imagine it like Lucy and Ethel on the chocolate line—where does this stuff keep on coming from! It’s enough for at least 20,000 people! And 12 big ole baskets to take home for later.

This story is about a physical sign of hope and abundance for people struggling with fear and scarcity. It is a snapshot of the Good News of Jesus in the image of thousands of people with their need met, and we need this sign today, too. 

As I studied and prayed over this gospel lesson, I was reminded of the poem “Loaves and Fishes” by David Whyte.

This is not
the age of information.

This is not
the age of information.

Forget the news,
and the radio,
and the blurred screen.

This is the time
of loaves
and fishes.

People are hungry
and one good word is bread
for a thousand.

In the midst of overload of frightening news, information overload, loss and uncertainty, the poet reminds us one good word is bread for a thousand. 

We are people of this story, people who love and listen to and retell this tale of God with us, understanding our sorrows, seeing our needs, having compassion on us, and filling our tummies. With all the comfort and hope of that promise, we can offer that good word to the people around us. 

But there’s a reason that this Jesus story in Matthew’s gospel isn’t handed down to us as a parable. It’s not meant to be a metaphor. 

Jesus struggled and suffered along with his community under a system of harm that was too big for any one person or even this particular gathering of a crowd to fix. But he worked faithfully and called his friends to join him in healing the places of hurt and meeting the needs that he could, that were right in front of him and within his power to help. 

People are hungry, and they need a good word. But they also need a good work. Even when we are drained and grieving, when the whole thing seems so overwhelming, we are called to follow Jesus into his holy work of healing and feeding wherever we are. We can give and serve. We can heal through listening well and offering small and large kindnesses. We can lend our voices and votes to make change in our community. We can commit ourselves to seeing abundance where others see scarcity, knowing that when we share our power and resources, there is always enough for everyone. We can speak a good word, and we can live a good word. And as we accept God’s invitation and take this risk to do what we can where we can, we might find ourselves fed and healed too. 

Tumor Conference

A few weeks ago, the clergy of the Episcopal Church in East Tennessee gathered for a day of discussing Christian formation. Our conversation was facilitated by the Rev. Steve Sexton, Director of Pastoral Care at the UT Medical Center in Knoxville, and he led us through the day with kindness and humor.

From his work in medical chaplaincy, Steve brought us one of the best guidelines for church dialogue I've ever seen. It's the facilitation guide for what he called "tumor conference," a regular gathering to trouble shoot particularly difficult medical cases with the full range of specialized staff.

This translates beautifully into the work of churches and communities navigating tough conversations that I wanted to share my summary of the tumor conference principles here.

• Every voice matters. From the seasoned expert to the newest intern, everyone's perspective is needed for the group to be strongest.

• There's a common objective. One case (or question, or topic, or issue) is deemed the focus for the gathering, and all are working and advising on that common goal.

• Confidentiality—what happens in this conversation stays in this conversation.

• And the space to speak freely. In our listening and honoring of every voice, this is an environment to name what needs to be named and share honestly.

• Stay open to critique, to challenge, and disagreement. At the end of the day, we remain colleagues. Respectful challenge in the context of a trusted relationship helps us to be excellent, to grow, and to think more deeply.

• Look at the problem from all the disciplines. Different stories, expertise, and skills in every community can offer us creative and multifaceted engagement with a task, problem, or question.

• Find a consensus. Articulate the composite wisdom of the room into a clear picture.

• But when it's all said and done, the "surgeon" (or pastor, facilitator, whomever brought the issue, task, or question) decides how the wisdom of the day and the strategy will be applied.

Aren't these excellent? I see some of them in play in my facilitation as well as the staff I'm currently working with, but this is such a great vision for community process that needs more attention. What's your "tumor conference"? Where can you use these ideas?

Naming Babies

I'm always curious about how babies get named. Maybe you are too. I acknowledge that this is my version, and my partner might have some different ideas, details, and values about naming these children. 

The day I took my first positive pregnancy test was the same day my husband was mugged at gunpoint. I have never felt less in control. My whole world was a thinly stretched spider web, all vulnerability and uncertainty as we figured out how to finish our masters programs and find jobs and discern priesthood and become parents. We knew his middle name would be James—it's a nod to my late grandfather, the Greek form of Jacob who struggled and fought with God, and most of all, for James Baldwin, whose writings shaped us both tremendously. Baldwin’s words on courage and resistance, his incisive clarity on white supremacy, his beautiful but never naive belief in love and community have been our compasses. When we found ourselves looking at a different life than we’d expected, preparing to love this new little stranger, how fitting it was to return to the passage that helped me articulate courage for lifelong commitment to Austin in the first place: “Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within. I use the word love here not merely in a personal sense but as a state of being, or a state of grace — not in the infantile American sense of being made happy but in the tough and universal sense of quest and daring and growth.” (The Fire Next Time) We stumbled across Sylvan by accident. It’s the masculine version of the name of a French author and sociologist, Sylvie, assigned in one of Austin’s seminars. Her book was good (not life changing) but we thought the name was just lovely. “Of the forest.” A name that is simple and beautiful, reason enough. Little one, may you be full of tough and universal love, a state of grace. May you have a life of simplicity and beauty in the midst of struggle and courage.

Amos is named for the biblical prophet who poetically proclaimed one of God’s essential hard truths: we are all responsible to each other, and our identity as God’s children is wrapped up in our treatment of each other. And he is named for Dorothy Day, the activist and journalist who co-founded the Catholic Worker movement. Her story and work has also moved and shaped us both, particularly in her vision of common life for Austin, and an activism rooted in sacraments and gospel for me. This babe has arrived in a season of more stability than we’ve ever had as a family, and we receive this steadiness with gratitude, not guilt. But Day’s voice keeps us accountable and engaged, looking beyond false political polarity and false comfortable faith, calling for vigilant resistance and for peaceful flourishing without giving up either. “Even when they admit it is bad, they say, “What can we do?” And the result is palliatives, taking care of the wrecks of the social order, rather than changing it so that there would not be quite so many broken homes, orphaned children, delinquents, industrial accidents, so much destitution in general. Palliatives, when what we need is a revolution, beginning now. Each one of us can help start it... If we don’t do something about it, the world may well say, “Why bring children into the world, the world being what it is?” We bring them into it and start giving them a vision of an integrated life so that they too can start fighting.” (“All the Way to Heaven is Heaven,” 1948) Little one, may you see the beauty and responsibility of our connectedness. May you hold onto peace and vision as you heal the world around you. 

This Life That Is Ours

I’m rolling into my third Mothers’ Day 9 months pregnant, with frustration and tiredness to match my girth. I waddle after my willful toddler, less and less physically able to keep up. I’m less and less patient with him, too, as the muggy Tennessee summer sets in and these back aches and Braxton Hicks seem stronger than they used to be. I prep for the new guy, with much more peace of mind than the first time around, but it's still feeling like a lot to keep track of midwife and chiropractor appointments, check-lists and kegels. I’m refreshing myself on Bradley birthing and tracking down numbers to call for insurance and daycare and medical leave after he arrives.

And all the while I’m still priesting and writing as hard as I can, trying to pre-plan and delegate 3 months of ministry into trello boards, fielding last minute requests from my book editor, and checking off revision requests from my thesis advisors.

So when Lauren Burdette’s little book of bite sized stories, wisdom, and prayer showed up in my mailbox a few weeks ago, it was like she had shown up in my living room in the flesh with a big hug and the reminder to breathe. This Life That Is Ours: Motherhood As Spiritual Practice has been inviting me to consider that the struggle and hustle and round ligament pain and potty training might hold more grace and power of Spirit than I can comprehend at this moment. "If God desires to meet us within our parenting," she writes, "how can we experience that?" 

Lauren’s call and gift as a spiritual director is all over this book, as she draws out holy encounter from the most ordinary moments. Her snapshots of daily life as mom of three, observations about the body changes after child birthing, and struggle to understand herself apart from the ever-expanding work of mothering had me chuckling and nodding along in understanding. But the questions and wisdom Lauren pulls out of this ubiquitous experience pushed me to see the mundane a little differently. She knows time for reflection and prayer is limited, so each reading is brief, but potent, with questions that point toward God's heart and God’s presence in my own story.

Lauren gives her reader the practice of noticing (which she summarizes in instructions for the spiritual practice of Examen of Motherhood): noticing God, noticing myself, noticing my family. And the best part of that practice—of taking pause to really see what this life is doing, who these folks are, how God’s grace is saturating it even when, and especially when, we can’t feel it—the best part is that noticing begets loving. To journey through This Life That Is Ours, to wonder with Lauren what it means to see and meet God in the sweet and hard chaos of parenthood, is to fall in love with God a little bit more. It’s falling in love with our kids and partners a little bit more. It might even let us fall in love with ourselves a little bit more, too.

Go in Peace

The stories of Mark 5:21-43 may be familiar to you. The dying girl and the hemorrhaging woman are two profound examples of God’s love, mashed together in one powerful chapter of God’s attention to healing and to the plight of women and children.

First I want to acknowledge that while they end in miraculous restoration, these stories are difficult. They are painful. They are painful and they are familiar.

If we pause for even one moment, offer the text one smidge of empathy, we can see ourselves here. We know these stories.

Our community has lost children too soon. Our community struggles with and cares for those who struggle with chronic illness. We have felt the desperation of Jairus,  advocating for his child. Like the woman, we know what it is to be sick and tired of being sick and tired.

And we have also seen that death and disease, grief and exhaustion, the depletion of our financial and emotional stores, is not the end of the story. They are not the end of our stories. We have seen that God doesn’t ration out God’s power and love, but that it is surprisingly abundant, plenty for us all.

I want us to focus this morning on the hemorrhaging woman who interrupts Jesus. This woman had suffered from ongoing menstruation for twelve years. Twelve years! We know that women’s reproductive health concerns aren’t always taken seriously in our own day and age, particularly for poor women and women of color. We can only imagine the struggle to be heard and treated with the limited medical knowledge and access of her time, no sonograms or blood tests to give clarity. When the problem first began, maybe she went to her local healer, but his treatment didn’t work. She was referred to another, and then another, and another physician. Their remedies ranged from harmlessly ineffective to miserable, some gave her other symptoms, worse than the sickness in the first place. We know that story. And without proper treatment, what would become any dream she might have had of a baby? We know that story, too.

In the culture and time of this gospel, there were guidelines for cleanliness and purity that pertained to women’s cycles. With bleeding that never stopped, she would have been continuously restricted in her religious participation with her community. She would have had to maintain a stringent hygiene regimen, going above and beyond with every interaction, every household chore, to avoid sharing her impure state with others. Modern medicine tells us that side effects of this type of condition would include dizziness and fainting, irregular heart rate, low energy, and, likely, continual physical pain. For 12 years.

We can’t know exactly how her community has responded to her sickness. People may have been offering her all the support and compassion they could, making meal trains and going to appointments. Or people may have been tired of offering her support, and offer only resentment or avoidance — the text doesn’t say. We do know that she had hit her limit. In spite of her overwhelming fear, in spite of all the social boundaries that said she should not, she was going to advocate for her healing, go straight to the best option for freedom.

She is sick and tired, and she’s had enough.

Now, the gospel of Mark is a rapid fire story, the comic book equivalent of the gospels. Everything happens quickly, and Jesus is on the move, the man of action. But in this portion of the text, he takes a passive and objective role as the bleeding woman takes center stage as our protagonist. This is her story. She is the one on the move, and this reversal of the script, so different than what we expect, fits with the way that she crosses boundaries and our expectations of what a Jesus-healing looks like.

She thinks, “If I can just get close enough, if I can just touch him, I’ll be ok.”

Can you see it? Close your eyes with me and imagine.

Imagine being tired, more tired than you’ve ever been in your life, and walking out into a bunch of people in the street. It’s a big crowd of people. You spot him in the center, but you’re on the edge of the group. You duck and move and squeeze between bodies, some of them strangers and some of them folks you’ve known your whole life, trying not to lose sight of him, trying not to lose your pace with the group. Your toes got stepped on, now you’re practically in this guys armpit over here, someone notices you and says hello, tries to draw you into conversation — but no, you won’t be distracted.

And then, just like that, he’s right in front of you. You grab the hem of his clothes, just a little brush, a moment, one finger skimming over fabric, and. . . .relief. You feel blood pressure stabilize, fuzzy thoughts clear and focus, strength surging through legs and trunk. Can you imagine it?

She went where she wasn’t supposed to go. She broke the rules. She crossed all kinds of boundaries to claim healing and flourishing. And when Jesus realizes what has happened, realizes that his power has gone, his boundary crossed.... he greets her with love.
He knows his own abundance — he goes on to raise the little girl, after all — he knew the admonition of the Apostle Paul to the church at Corinth, that "The one who had much did not have too much, and the one who had little did not have too little.”
From the abundance of his own power and resources, Christ affirms her transgression, and greets her with love.

She broke the rules for the sake of safety and healing, to claim a future for herself, a connection to her family and community. Her self-advocacy and faith for her wholeness was the right thing! And Jesus honors her courage. “Your faith has made you well; go in peace.”

-----------

Our church has the tradition of reading the letters of apostles, such as Paul, in worship. This morning I would like to conclude with a letter from one of our modern-day apostles, Presiding Bishop, Michael Curry, published last week.

Right now our church and country has a chance to model ourselves after Jesus in this story. We have thousands of people crossing boundaries at great risk in hope of flourishing, safety, healing. As you listen, I invite you to hold in your heart and mind, our sister, the hemorrhaging woman, and her courage to seek a better life. I invite you to you to hold in your heart and mind, the assurance that the power of God, the compassion of God, the family of God, is far bigger and more abundant than we could imagine, more than enough for any human need.

From Bishop Michael:
“The screams of children being taken from their mothers and fathers at our border, under our flag, haunts the nation. Across political and religious divides, the nation – and the world – is aghast and Americans are refusing complicity in all the ways they can. Millions of people are crying, protesting and praying in our houses of worship and in the public square. In a moment of national shame, huge swaths of people are acting in love.

The families making treacherous and often dangerous journeys to seek refuge in the US are desperate. They face extreme violence, persecution and poverty in their home countries. You cannot deter people who are fleeing for their lives, even with policies as cruel as taking children away from their parents. People who come to our borders only hope to give their children a chance. We should be meeting these people with compassion.

Christians have recoiled against the notion that ripping children from their parents – euphemistically called “family separation” – in any way comports with the teachings of Jesus Christ. Jesus of Nazareth, his mother, Mary, and Joseph were refugees who fled persecution and emigrated to Egypt. Love thy neighbor is the Christian way. There is no biblical mandate or warrant for what is occurring on our borders. Christianity must never be confused with cruelty.
While the president has rightly declared families will no longer be separated at the border, he wrongly continues to promote a hurtful immigration policy greatly devoid of human compassion. Even with the new executive order, immigration officers will keep families who are legally seeking asylum in detention.

The agony of migrant parents at our border is immense. Every parent has feared the unthinkable: my child is gone. For me, it was a flash of dread in an everyday experience while shopping with my two young children in a department store. My oldest daughter wandered away and for the 10 seconds before I found her nestled between hanging clothes I felt a panic I had never before imagined.

Those remain the longest 10 seconds of my life and are seared in my memory. I can still taste the fear and I relive that sick feeling in my body remembering what it was like to be physically shaken by the fear that I had lost my daughter and would not be able to find her. Imagine those seconds multiplied by days and weeks and months.
Today, there remain thousands of children scattered in foster homes and child prison camps with no system in place for reunification. Each of these children needs our prayers, our voices of outrage and our help to reunite them with their families and heal from this terror. And the children who came before them, those who have crossed the border as children alone and some who were remanded to youth prisons that are under scrutiny for abusive practices – these children also need our intervention.

The rhetoric from our government leaders, which casts “the other” – in this case, families seeking refuge – as dangerous, inhumanely violates the Christian tradition. Selfishness is a sin. We cannot live up to our country’s ideals if we embrace only our own desires and put our needs above all others – even above God. Being a US citizen does not make us more human than people on the other side of our border.
We are in the midst of a global migration crisis, where millions of families have been separated after fleeing their homelands due to violence, conflict and persecution.

This crisis touches almost every continent in the world. The US is on track to resettle the fewest refugees since the refugee resettlement programme began in 1980. God does not condone our attack on immigrants. Jesus says: “Love your neighbour.” Jesus says: “Love your enemy.” Jesus says: “Welcome the stranger.”

What is the Christian way to manage borders? Strength does not require cruelty. Indeed, cruelty is a response rooted in weakness. Jesus was clear about what true strength is and it always is driven by love. There may be many policy prescriptions, but the prism through which we view them should be the same: does the policy treat people with love, acknowledging our common humanity? If the answer is no, it is not a Christian solution. Detaining and separating families – children and their parents – is not just happening at the border. Some immigrant parents and care-givers who have lived in the US for decades – and have children who are US citizens – are being rounded up and deported, leaving a trail of countless children in this country without their parents.

President Trump’s executive order has not quieted the cries of the children still separated from their parents. It has not comforted the parents still panicked because they cannot see their babies. It does nothing to stop the heartless deportations of immigrants who are longtime neighbors and members of our communities.

All of those families weep. And so we must respond to the weeping by working to help America to live out one of its core ideals, enshrined in words on the Statue of Liberty.Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me. I lift my lamp beside the golden door."

This Is My Body

Have I got a recommendation for y'all.

A few weeks ago I was given the opportunity to read an upcoming book from Upper Room Books, This Is My Body: Embracing The Messiness of Faith and Motherhood by Hannah E. Shanks.

Oh my goodness. That's only all I ever seem to talk about.

In her book, Big Magic, Liz Gilbert shares her theory on Creativity, who comes along and taps you on the shoulder with an idea. If you won’t or can’t give life to the idea, Creativity moves along to another soul who is willing or able to make the Creative Idea come into the world. When I read This Is My Body, I thought of this theory immediately, as Hannah Shanks has put to the page so many of the prayers and conversations my mama friends and I have been having. This Is My Body is the absolute book of my heart, and of so many other mama/theologian hearts. It’s the story of my past two and a half years, of so much of coming into motherhood. It's a book as universal and exceptional as the experience of motherhood itself.

Hannah is a brave theologian. She wades into nitty-gritty, concrete, gross and glorious embodiment. Incarnational theology, ironically, is so often approached as an abstraction. But grounded in the minutia of physical changes in pregnancy and birth, this Christology can’t help but keep its skin and blood, its placenta and colostrum and sweat and mucus. This courage reminds me to muster my own, to remember that I, too--my life and motherhood and ministry and theological reflection--I am united with Jesus in all my bodiliness. Her theology roams beyond the initial topic of motherhood, dealing with fundamental feminist questions of belonging and equality, asking, “How, in a religion where God incarnate was physically borne, supported, and raised by a woman, did we come to a place where women were seen as secondary to men in carrying the gospel?”

And Hannah is a brave mama. She names conflicting emotions and the gut-wrenching mind/body connection of pregnancy pains and fears, postpartum struggles, and the mind-numbing exhaustion of life with a newborn. This courage reminds me that I, too, felt those things and hid them, worried about my solitude in my worry and ambivalence. The connections between pregnancy and postpartum with prayer practice and faith also connected with my experience. To be sure, breastfeeding all night felt like a vigil of hours, but that prayer was offered with unapologetic tiredness and sometimes, frustration. Hannah describes with so much grace and honesty how all of these feelings and experiences are bound up together.

Reading this, I found myself thrown into body memories, brought to tears and belly aches in recollection of the body immediacy of pregnancy, of labor and delivery, of nursing. My body was just so loud to me then, so demanding and strong. What’s more, as I read, I suddenly became aware of what I no longer know about God, aware of insights about Eucharist, even about myself and my son that are no longer known and lived in my flesh. That knowledge of “this is my body,” so acute, so sacred and earthy and bloody, has faded. I knew because my body knew. Now, “this is my body” means something else. The book left me with an invitation to discern what this life stage and embodiment, so different that the last, might have to teach me about God with us.

Thoughtful of her audience, Hannah Shanks acknowledges her social location and particularity as a cisgendered and reproductively able-bodied woman. She acknowledges the limits of her story. But a story told well, in its particularity, is a story that points beyond its teller to connect with many. She writes, “The parts of myself that I don’t want to reconcile aren’t left out of God’s radical work...Turns out, being made one with Christ means being made one with ourselves, too.” This good, hard news of grace and bodiliness and integration into God is good, hard news for us all, not just for the mamas. This book casts a vision for all of us to have space to say, “This is my body.”

The book will be out from Upper Room in May (preorder here) and I'll be clamoring about it on facebook and instagram with links to buy. Get it for yourselves, for baby shower gifts, for your midwife, for anyone who likes to talk about bodies. There's even a discussion guide in the back if you decide to go wild and make it a book club. Hmm... that's a thought.

Having kids and selling out

This week I've been listening to "How to Survive the End of the World," a podcast by Autumn Brown and adrienne maree brown. It's fantastic. Check it out.

In listening to their conversations, particularly about child- birthing and loss and raising, I realized that I've been struggling with my identity as a mom and someone who cares about and works for justice in the world.

Having S. corresponded with a shift in my work and life. I was starting seminary with a hefty commute, my partner's organizing job was getting way more demanding, and a baby adds a new level of financial and emotional need. I had finished my time at Vanderbilt, where opportunities to plug into social movements abound, and where, as a student, I had the flexibility to give time and attention to those movements.

The emotionally intensive facilitation work I really got into before and during pregnancy went to the back burner. For the most part, we can only afford to have childcare for hours during which we are working or at school, for me).

Social movement spaces aren't always conducive to young families -- it's a lot of long days and evening meetings for a baby or toddler -- and I regularly choose consistent nap time and slow evenings and dinners for my son over, well, just about any other option. Especially at the beginning, his sleeping and eating was so easily throw off track, and a bad afternoon nap meant lots of night waking, lots of exhaustion.

But is that just a list of excuses? Have I sold out?

There's obviously part of me that thinks so, or I wouldn't be writing this. But Autumn and adrienne have been reminding me that the small stabilities and consistencies for my kid are also a form of movement work. I chose the part time hourly cubicle job that pays the bills and frees up my heart and mind, so I can replenish those emotional resources to respond to a toddler with patience and re-read that bell hooks picture book 17 times. That is the work of dismantling the patriarchy, for him and also in myself.

I've internalized the devaluation of (traditionally women's) labor that focuses on the home and child, even within a framework that explicitly values the feminized and vulnerable, that claims liberation for folks to be able to do exactly this work: raise a child with peace and connection, take time to tend emotional intelligence and body and family.

The movement work will go on. There will still be groups to facilitate. There will be books to write. There will be gardens to plant and protests to join and classes to teach and hospital visits to make -- all those works I have loved to do and will love to do again. Not now doesn't mean never.

And now I can choose to remember and recenter the truth that this little guy -- and the small moments like this morning, drawing circles and singing "peace like a river" while putting on his shoes -- he is my daily work of justice and freedom.

Eek!

In my graduate studies and practice as a minister, I teach spiritual practices that connect the Christian tradition of scripture, prayer, and worship to emotional intelligence, embodiment, and mindfulness. As a mom, I hope to ground my young son’s faith in this as well.

Eek! Said Amy by L.J. Zimmerman and Charles Long is one of the best tools I have found for this. The story explores body and emotions with a boy named Devon and Amy, his amygdala. They’re a great team, most of the time, but Amy sometimes gets in “red alert!” and Devon struggles with very big fear at some small things like a little bug, social anxiety, or stepping on a sidewalk crack. These worries are relatable for children, and so are the hopeful practices offered: a talk with mom, a simple breathing meditation, and some Bible verses to memorize and remember when things are scary.

I read this with my son who’s 20 months old, and while it’s aimed at older children, he was engaged with the book. He requested, “Amy?” “Emotions?” long after we put the book away. My five year old nephew connected more deeply, wondering if he has an amygdala, too, and practicing deep breaths full of God’s love along with Devon. This is a book to grow into, with layers of emotional intelligence, body awareness, and prayer for different developmental stages.

Also, it’s funny. The pictures and dialogue are clever, and I didn’t hate reading it five times in a row for a toddler. And let’s be real, mamas -- that matters, too.

You can order Eek! Said Amy on Amazon or from Abingdon Press this week! I will definitely be buying a few copies for friends and family, and keep on revisiting it with my child. With the terrible twos around the corner, we can probably both use some deep breaths of God’s love and a gentle reminder that God can help us be brave through big emotions.

What is a spiritual practice?

In the Keep Watch With Me Advent Reader, a project I’m co-curating with my friend Michael, I’ve been creating a unique spiritual practice to accompany each contributor’s reflection. And I’ve heard the question, “What is spiritual practice?”

Spiritual practice, spiritual discipline, and prayer practice are all phrases I use interchangeably to talk about ways we connect to God.

Wiser saints who’ve come before me use that language of practice or discipline because a life of faith and prayer, and for that matter, a relationship, are not things that are mastered or completed as a one-off. We practice like a musician or an athlete, growing more at ease with the task yet never reaching a place of completion or arrival.

In her book, The Spiritual Activist, Claudia Horwitz says that a spiritual practice has three characteristics: 1) It connects us to the presence of the sacred, 2) It is something we do regularly, and 3) It grounds us in the present moment.

Spiritual practice is not a one-size-fits-all affair. It’s not even one-size-fits-you-forever. Different personalities and seasons of life call for different forms of connecting to God, and a practice might have different patterns or duration. The long walks I took with my son when he was a newborn, cradled in a wrap on my chest, don’t fly for a busy toddler who wants to get out of the stroller after 10 minutes. The appeal of daily scripture reading fades for the seminarian taking multiple biblical studies classes. Silence and solitude may be draining, not refreshing, for those who work alone, when you might be better nourished by meaningful conversation.

If you decide to try a new practice, but feels too uncomfortable or simply doesn’t resonate for you, you can feel free to let it go. It may not be for you, or you might revisit it later with surprising connection. Creative spiritual practice can be approached with confidence in the presence of God’s spirit and openness to the myriad ways that God loves and leads us to peace, as well as a good sense of humor and openness about the ways that we may or may not encounter God in a particular way.

Hopefully that’s a helpful intro, or offers you some new language and ideas to consider prayer and spirituality.

What kinds of things are you practicing these days? What regularly connects you to God and keeps you present and grounded?

If you've been enjoying the spiritual practices included in Keep Watch With Me or are looking for new opportunities to grow, experiment, and seek God in community, I invite you to join An Epiphany in the World, a Facebook-based book club and spiritual practice group I'll be facilitating in this upcoming liturgical season of Epiphany. You can join the group and learn more here.

weaned

Last year I had the joy of hearing Rowan Williams speak at my seminary. My partner had introduced me to his work years ago, and it was incredible to hear him in person, lecturing on Bonhoeffer's Christology. After the first lecture, a listener posed a question to Williams about the sadism of the incarnation, God sending God's child to pain, and how we can contend with the portrayal of divine willingness to suffer. Williams owned that this was a weak place in his theology, and moved on to address other questions. I was sitting with S slung on my chest, next to a friend and mentor who is a priest and mama. I grabbed her arm tight and whispered, "A mother can answer that question!"

What else could I do but split my mind, spirit, and body wide open and send him out into the world? What else could I do but feed him, again and again, sometimes easily and sometimes painfully? What else could I have done? And I would--and God willing, hope to--do it again in an instant.

How much more must our Mother in Heaven know that nothing else could be done but to send a piece of herself out into the world, to nourish and watch him grow, to then feed us, her people, in Christ, again and again?

The oils used at the very end of pregnancy to support healthy labor and delivery are the same ones that can be used to slow milk supply. Over the last couple of months I would lay on my side at night, soaked in peppermint and clary sage. Drifting off to sleep I would remember the discomfort of those last heavy pregnancy days and feel empty and light as the herbs slowly work to untether our last bodily lifeline.

We were lucky. Nursing was good for us. After a rough first few weeks and a tongue-tie procedure we were on track. S was a good eater and I had good supply. I nourished him and we bonded easily, deeply. I was only apart from him one or two days a week in his first year. The connection was the same and different each time. It changed from the early weeks where I did so much of the work, to the end where the toothy toddler would crawl over and sign for milk, pulling on the hem of my shirt, practically helping himself. First every two hours, then three, then four, then morning and evening, then once in the afternoon when we reunited from work and daycare.

We were lucky, too, that weaning was good for us. We were both ready. He wasn't distressed, and I wasn't engorged or infected. Nursing just faded away.

I'm a firm believer that some knowledge is embodied--cellular, behavioral, and elusively unspeakable. Those wild pregnancy cravings that were supplying nuanced nutrients to grow a body; the milk coming in and letting down on its own accord when it was time for S to eat; and those first days, nursing through lingering contractions as my womb worked to resume its size and place in the pelvis; my body waking up, feet hitting the floor and moving to his crib before he had finished the first cry. All unconscious, unarticulated. A growing and refining but fundamentally innate knowing.

What have I been knowing in my body about the heart of God, about incarnation, about Eucharist, that is now unknown?

home

Thanks to my friend Michael for inviting me to share a story at the Tenx9 event at Wild Goose Festival last weekend. This particular story has been mulling around in me, looking to be told for the last 7 years. 

I had just finished exams, may of my junior year of college, and was living in those sweet days when the work is done but no one has left for summer break. We all played, enjoying all the best things of being 19. I was going on lots of late night drives to the mountains for star-gazing and late morning coffees with my best friend, lots of dancing and movie watching and philosophizing over secret beers. And here’s the best part. As part of my major in theology and ministry, studying community and small group models, I was getting ready for a trip to England—solo!—to go stay at a Christian intentional community. I had my passport, a fat reading list, and a marked up train schedule I printed off the national rail website. This cluster of people in the English countryside had some secret to what it meant to live together in Christ, something different and deeper than a Sunday morning church service. And I was going to go over there and see it for myself.

Then I got the call.

Granny, my mother’s mother, had been fighting cancer, making it through the brutality of chemo and radiation with the help of her quirky humor, her faith, and a whole lot of vodka. But just then she suddenly collapsed, and after my grandfather, known as Buddy Bob, got her to the hospital, the doctors told her that it had spread so rapidly—just since that last set of scans!—that her organs were shutting down.

My plans changed. Instead of playing for a month before England, I chose to go with Mom down to Eutawville, South Carolina and help take care of Granny.

That’s right, Eutawville. Population 350. You just drive right up there and get of 95 at Santee and hang a right. You can’t miss it. We bump down off the Old #6 Hwy onto a dirt, no, a sand road into the veil of Spanish moss hanging from live oaks. Hospice had beaten us there, replacing Granny’s pretty four poster with the automatic hospital bed. That smell of home health was there, too, that mix of antiseptic and sick, and it competed with bacon grease and magnolia blossoms and the enduring stale cigarette smoke that had caked into the wallpaper before Granny finally made Buddy Bob quit lighting up at the kitchen table ten years earlier.

So we kept the busy vigil of the dying-but-not-dead, trying not to see how quickly her tiredness was taking over, trying not to wonder about the new bulges we saw on her back and sides, trying not to consider whether the nonsensical talk was from the cancer or the pain meds.

There was also sweetness to it. We gave her pedicures and looked through every photo album. We turned away nosy church ladies and welcomed the true old friends, gatekeepers for the queen. I climbed the most precarious branches of that old magnolia in the side yard to keep the blossoms fresh on her bedside table. Each day I rubbed lotion on her hands and helped her take small sips of cold water.

One day Granny got a craving for pineapple. You’d better believe I was lickety split in two minutes driving down to the Piggly Wiggly for a pineapple. You want a bloody mary for breakfast? You got it! (Although, let’s be honest, that had been a time honored tradition in Eutawville) On another afternoon Buddy Bob got in his head that a good steak might help her energy, give her some strength, so he sent me running off with $100 cash to the steak man, who worked from the back of a convenience store/butcher shop. Four of the best filets you can imagine, grilled rare and served up with tomatoes and corn from the garden and her own pound cake recipe.

But so soon she could no longer manage steak, much less sit at the table for a meal, and would doze off by dinnertime.

One day I sat next to Granny, reading while she napped, when I heard, “Booop. Boop boop boop boop!” I looked over. She was awake, smiling at me, wiggling her fingers overhead. “Hey Granny, what’s that?” She laughed. “These are my antennae.” “Oooooh, you're antennae. Ok.” She closed her eyes again. Man, those meds… After several minutes of silence Granny said, “Listen.” Ok. I’m listening. “There are so many wonderful, beautiful things in this world. And if you don’t have your antennae up, you just might miss them.”

Granny died only a few weeks after I got the call, and we buried her in the holly hill cemetery, just like she’d wanted. Her church lady friend sang, “I Can Only Imagine,” just like she’d wanted. Back at the house we ate poundcake and strawberries, just like she’d wanted.

And a few days later I went to England. It didn’t occur to me not to. After all, I was 19 years old and I had an adventure to find, the heart of Christian community living to discover. I hopped on a plane for London, then a train for beautiful green Hampshire, to the manor house turned dormitory, down the little road from the quaint village—they say Jane Austen did some writing there. For two weeks I spent my mornings reading Henri Nouwen and drinking PG Tips. I spent my afternoons doing farm chores, cooking simple food for 50 people, and talking about God and life and art with all the other strange stragglers who’d shown up to this community for a few days or a longer sabbatical. England in June has 15 hours of sunlight each day, all the beauty and time you could hope for. I was ready with case study questions, ponderings that had come up during my college studies, and carried them around in a little notebook. With eagerness I attended every lecture in the great hall, morning prayer in the little worn chapel with hay bale pews. I was at every church service and lunch dialogue. I interviewed the full time community members, watched everything and jotted notes obsessively. I soaked in as much as I could, trying to understand, analyze, and qualify: what does it mean to be a person of faith living in community? I watched and listened. I tried to be a part of the common life, but really, I was there to study it. I never really talked to the others all that much about Granny and all that I’d just seen and lived. It didn’t occur to me to.

One evening I went to hear a talk by one of the full time community members. Prior to working in the community, he had worked in palliative care—a hospice doctor. He spoke about Jesus’ incarnation and what it might mean for Christians in community to be God incarnate all over again. He said that the world is full of wonderful, beautiful things-pay attention! They are signs of God at work around us. And doggone. You know what? That doctor said that most of all, we meet Jesus and we are Jesus any time we live into his teaching, any time we practice the beatitudes, any time we give someone so much as a sip of cold water.

The next morning I walked to the village. I went straight to the phone booth around the corner from the pub. I shoveled pence out of my pocket and into the slot, dialed international, and heard myself say, “Mama? I think I have to come back home.”

Faithful

A few years ago, I started to recognize and work on my perfectionist and achievement tendencies, thanks in no small part to encountering the Enneagram and learning about the gifts and troubles of my 3 type (you can learn more here and here). I read and meditated on being honest about my failures and limits, of working to be “faithful” instead of perfect. The idea here is that I can be faithful in my work and habits, plugging away and doing my best with grace for myself, open to the possibility that life can be good without being The Best. It’s the freedom to respond to one more invitation to responsibility with a “no,” when a “yes” for perfect’s sake would throw off balance, or rob emotional and spiritual well being.

Of course, if you adopt an idea and fail to re-examine it for a few years, guess what? “Faithful” is just a new name for “perfect,” a word well intended now hijacked by that addiction to have my shit together all the time and with excellence.

Suddenly this week I found myself in that manic frame of mind, thinking that a job change, moving into a new home, being our child’s primary caretaker, and adding a full-time summer intensive at Sewanee would be fine.

But it’s not fine. I’m a human being and need to do things like eat and sleep and play with my baby and talk to my partner. If this formation to be priest is going to be more than just hammering out course credits, there needs to be adequate space to actually learn, not just regurgitate.

What dramatic life shift have I chosen, you wonder?

I’m just going to take one class instead of two, and try to remember to drink more water. That’s pretty much it. Because, frankly, I don’t trust myself to keep a good heart with a lofty goal plan—it's too easy to slip into measuring and grading how well I’m doing... on letting go of accomplishment. And for someone whose identity is wrapped up in being turbo all the time, it’s harder than you’d think to say “no” to efficient, to closer graduation dates, to career advancement. Instead, this summer I’m going to say “yes” to a glass of wine in the evening with A., “yes” to good sleep, “yes” to painting my new bathroom and meeting our neighbors, “yes” to actually reading for class. Maybe even “yes” to potting herbs on the balcony or doing more little yoga videos.

How about you? What are you saying “no” to this summer? What gets a resounding “yes”?

Spirit is a She

Last weekend, I preached 3 back-to-back services in a congregation where I'd never preached before. S. and I had gone to stay with my parents in Georgia and he refused to sleep more than 45 minutes at a time for two nights in a row.

On Saturday night I had a weepy meltdown—maybe the system is just too hard. It would be easier not to do this work, not to keep fighting over and over for space for myself as a mother, to justify the beauty of my embodied roles that weave into my priestly roles.

Sunday morning after the first round of my sermon (Father Óscar Romero as one who, like the man born blind in John 9, had his physical and spiritual vision transformed and followed a risk taking God into costly grace—Amen?), I stood dutifully by the door of the church between the priest and deacon, shaking hands. "Thank you, beautiful day, happy to be here." A woman, probably in her 70's, grasped my shoulders and leaned to my ear. My stomach plummeted in the half second of waiting. What on earth had I said to warrant this? Am I in trouble?

"Did I hear you say that the Holy Spirit is a 'she'"? she asked in a loud whisper. "Yes ma'am you did," I whispered back. And she hugged me tight then let me go again to clap her hands and exclaim, now loudly, "I always thought so too!"

We chatted a bit more and I told her what I'll tell you: This isn't some shock value contribution, a sneaky added pronoun to ruffle feathers. The female Spirit is part of the Christian tradition, moving from Lady Wisdom in Proverbs to a God experiencing labor pains in bringing new life in and from the world in Galatians. It matters that Spirit is comforter and counselor, roles of feminized association. That which is debased as women's work is the divine person and work of God. And that matters a lot.

While God is beyond the social construction of gender, we have so far to go on our anthropologies and theologies of gender before that can be practically  meaningful. As long as I have to retreat to my car to pump breastmilk between services, separated from my breast baby for hours in order to preach the gospel, we need to name and highlight the "she-ness" of God. As long as a guest can still assume that the two full-time women priests on staff at the chapel must be filling in for their part-time male counterpart like some sort of spiritual understudies, we need to name and highlight the "she-ness" of God. My little nieces and nephews and my son need Her, comforting and counseling. The seventy-some-year-old church ladies need Her, seeing themselves made in God's image in their particularity. God knows, when I'm crying because I don't know how to shoulder through one more sleepless night, doing the work that my female body must do, I need Her, nourishing and tirelessly keeping watch with me.

Yes ma'am, Spirit is a She!

Bitch, a meditation

In Nashville last weekend, there was a Friday inauguration day march, explicitly intersectional and put together by a conglomeration of groups whose concerns and members will be negatively affecting by the new president. Renters’ rights, refugee and immigration protection, and LGBT advocacy to name a few. S and I were running late (first we nap, then march) but caught up to the march as they walked across the downtown pedestrian bridge with signs, chants, drums, and even a small brass section. We were peaceful and law-abiding, with a significant number of marchers in reflective vests working to keep things moving and signal vehicles. We sang, “We Shall Overcome” and “Which Side Are You On?” We laughed and looked out for each other.

How many times that night was I called “bitch,” walking in my city with my baby, singing and chatting? Two times? Ten?

How many times have I been called “bitch?” From those first murmurs in junior high when I came back at a boy who touched me to now, leading meetings and challenging colleagues… how many times have I been called “bitch?” And why that, in particular? That word originally meant to describe a dog, used now to dismiss and dehumanize, to reduce me to animal property.

This week I came across this beautiful essay about the difference between a “nice girl” and a “kind woman.” This author was too gracious to offer the other term for a strong, kind woman: “bitch.”

Consider the (not unproblematic) white feminist embrace of “Nasty Woman,” our new president’s verbal attack on his debate opponent. I was not a wholehearted Clinton supporter, but this slur was not directed at a political rival, a debate opponent. It was an attempt to verbally diminish her right to be there. It was a slight to any woman with the nerve to question, resist, stand up, formulate independent thought, do the homework, and assert herself.

“Bitch” is for a woman with the gall to march and sing through the evening, bringing her baby and her anointing oils, all her vocations, into the public realm. “Bitch.” That one jarring, harsh syllable so discordant with the snaking line of determined and joyful people moving through the city like a stream, so wrong for a healer, so untrue of mother, partner, and friend.

"Bitch." It would be laughable if it weren’t so dangerous.

Prayer for a White Mother and Son

God, the loving Mother of all,

Thank you for this little incarnate grace entrusted to my care.

Grant me grace to show my boy deep tenderness, that he might show it to others in turn.

Sustain calmness and radical mindfulness in our home, that he might resist the temptation to prove himself by busyness and accomplishment.

Grant me the discipline and discernment to care for him and grant his desires without catering to his every whim, that he might appropriately deny his more destructive desires of body and power.

Bring clarity in my identity and persistence in my calling, that he would witness and respect the power and personhood of women.

Grant me empathy, that I might remember that he is but one beloved child among millions, all equally precious and deserving, and humility to recognize that even his precarious moments occur in privilege and safety.

Strengthen my resolve and attention in his formation, that we would both grow in the knowledge and practice of justice that takes place in the details.

Remind me that Jesus, your son, a brown skinned refugee child, killed by the state, calls me to divest myself of power and work for change, and raise this white son to do the same.

Amen.

the child sleeping in the night

Last advent, I was a few months pregnant and consistently a weepy mess about anticipating birth and the fine line (if there is a line at all) between the immanent and transcendent.

This year, the wonder of my sweet babe at Christmastime has been undercut by the anguish of teething, final exams and papers, and one head cold after another cycling around the family. Between shopping for gifts, work gatherings, and our diocesan clergy conference, the spirit of Advent has been elusive, hiding behind the irritation and mundane.

Then this past Sunday, S. got to be the baby Jesus for the St. Augustine’s Christmas pageant. He was the fattest snaggle tooth Christ child you ever did see. I wept with pride and I will hunt down every single picture that was snapped of the precious scene. Poor pastor’s kid.

But the real magic of it all happened on Saturday, when we headed over to pageant rehearsal. We were running late, and when we got to the chapel, the full nativity scene was on display, sans costumes, and the narrators were running lines from the lecterns. As we walked down the center aisle, one of the directors said, “Look everybody, baby Jesus is here!” And all those kids stopped and turned with audible “Oooooh”s and a few “Hooray”s. Mary and Joseph held out their arms for him and marveled over his toes, his fuzzy head, his Santa jammies. After the run through, there was a short line of 9 or 10 year olds who wanted turns holding him. The smaller kids wanted to see and touch him too, with the parental admonishments of “Gentle!” or “Just one finger!” “Don’t touch his face!”

In childhood, there's a beautiful blurring of factual and mythical. The different kinds of true and real that we more efficiently categorize as adults are somehow spun together without contradiction. Suddenly S. is not just Miss Claire’s baby that we see every week (although, of course, he is). He is the baby Jesus (although, of course, he isn’t). And this incarnation stops them in their tracks, trumping the glamour of the King Herod costume and the hilarity of the three-person camel suit.

The complete awe and focused attention of a stage full of children snapped me back to attention. Not attention to my own child, really, but to the icon of Christ he can be. S. points to all the complicated mess of incarnation in all the sweetness and frustration of babyhood. Jesus arrives in ice storms and head colds, with diaper rash and reflux and sore gums, calling our attention to the presence of God in the inconvenient. 

In Passing

I recognized you right away when we passed each other. And there’s your sister; I recognized her too. You glanced at me and away again, no sign of recognition in return.

As a novice chaplain, I held your hand and waited for news, and blessed your baby before they withdrew life support.  I witnessed you and your partner talking so gently and honestly with your other children about what was happening. I heard from the nurses that you chose organ donation and went back to the office to cry about the beauty and horror of that decision.

We passed near the coffee bar at Whole Foods, that mecca for us middle class moms who will buy our organic, free range, grass fed dinners for our families after drinking our fair trade almond milk lattes. S. was strapped to my chest, chubby legs sticking out of the ergo, neck wonky to one side as he slept.

The rules of the trade and general respect for your privacy require that if I was your chaplain, I can’t initiate further contact. If you recognize me and sought conversation, I can engage, but it is not mine to start.

But if I could speak to you, I would say, “I remember and grieve.”

“I think about you and pray for your heart and healing, for your marriage, for your children.”

I would gesture to the perfect little body I carry and say, “I don’t take it for granted. I know that there is no guarantee.”

And, “How are you? How are you really?”