{The Vespers:: Sisters & Brothers}

{We gotta take care of each other}

Relationship over Rivalry

This is the eve of one of the greatest rivalry games in the South.  Tomorrow, the glorious Georgia Bulldogs take on the GT Jackets.

I am a UGA graduate, and therefore, a fan of the Georgia Bulldogs.  I love UGA and I really like cheering for the Dawgs.  And in that light, I have things to say about this day...

The first is this:  tomorrow is one of my least favorite days of the year.  Why, you might ask?  Because tomorrow, the talons come out, and people show their hide instead of their heart.  Tomorrow, people forget that we have all worked diligently to acquire collegiate degrees from esteemed universities and we reduce ourselves to spitting demeaning words over social media to spite each other.

I have lost friends over this day.  True, I could have risen above-- but one can only take so many remarks of how UGA graduates are dumb, end up in jail and work beneath GT graduates, or how UGA is the "cesspool of the South"  before the heart begins to hurt.  These people who knew me, claimed to love me, and yet, demeaned something that I worked incredibly hard for.  That's not right.  And that's not friendship.

Let me be clear:  I worked hard for my degree.  Did I have to take Biophysics or Advanced Calculus?  No.  Because my degree is in social sciences.  I wrote papers upon papers upon papers and read volume after volume after volume and I earned my degree. I'm proud of my degree.  And I know what it means to stay up all night studying, worrying, pouring over notes-- if you graduated with any degree of higher education-- I have nothing but respect for you!  I remember those long nights.  And I'm rooting for you to succeed!  Whether you're goal is a degree in Aerospace Engineering or Romance Languages or Communications Studies; whether you're an Owl, a Dawg, a Jacket, or a Panther-- I'm rooting for you!

Finally, let me set the record straight:  I work at a church.  I don't work for a GT graduate.  I work within the expertise of my degree-- and I encourage students whose desire is to go to Georgia, to Georgia Tech, to Georgia State, to Auburn, to Florida, to Valdosta State, to GCSU, to Berry College, to Elon, to Armstrong, to SCAD, to Furman, to Samford, to Kennesaw State... and I'm rooting for them!  And I hope that you, GT fans, would be willing to do the same in my position.

I'm not interested in "wrecking Tech."  I am, however, interested in being proud of my team-- the team that represents a place and community that I love and am proud to be a product of.  I'll proudly wear my red & black tomorrow, and I hope that you proudly wear your gold & white... and I hope that if we were sitting in a room together, we could congratulate each other on hard work done, and amicably root for our own team to bring home a win!  And since we know that there can be only one winning, I hope that we can win humbly, lose humbly, and humbly care for each other-- even in rivalry.

So tomorrow, I hope that we can put relationship over rivalry... and I hope that we can leave it at football.  Don't demean my degree or my character or my diligence simply because I don a different set of colors and went to school in a different city.  Be my friend first, and be a fan second.

And with that, I wish Georgia Tech well tomorrow, and I say:  Glory, Glory! Go Dawgs!

Be Brave.

It has been my experience that bravery is not subtle.  It is not quiet.  It is not always neat.

It shakes.  And it rattles-- and that is how bravery makes space.  Every person I know that embodies bravery is a shaker.  A rattler.  The kind of person who runs through freshly-made sandcastles, snow angels, and Lego towers.  The kind of person that disrupts things in order to create space for new things.  Bravery demands a certain kind of whimsy, a certain kind of confidence, a certain kind of honesty.  Bravery does not necessarily require a particular brand of person, but it does call upon a particular circumstance... out of which, a particular brand of person emerges. 

This week, I have to be brave.  I have to do something I don't want to do.  Pull my head out of the ostrich-sized hole in the sand and speak.  And I desperately want to be brave.  But I'm not sure that I am.  

However strange, though, this is how I know that the Lord is good.  But also quite funny.  See, I have a classroom-sized whiteboard in my office.  I don't use it.  I don't have much need for it-- I'm left-handed, and we all know how left-handed people are cursed with wet writing utensils.   So I basically leave it alone.

My students, though, they don't.  They write on it- leave me messages, notes of encouragement, reminders of their love... it's my favourite thing in my whole office.  And I have a lot of cool stuff in my office.  But as I was sitting here today, utterly stuck: stuck in my own mind, in my own fear, in my own desire to stick my head back in the sand and sleep until next week-- I looked to my whiteboard.  And they reminded me.

My students reminded me that I need this.  Because stretching myself makes space-- and growing is generally uncomfortable. But being brave means making space.  And if it means making space for them, then maybe I can do it... maybe I can be brave.  So here goes nothing.  And here's to shaking and rattling and being the person I want to be.  Here's to being brave.

{Penny & Sparrow:: Rattle}

{I don't want to rattle-- and I have no plans to let myself be tossed away}

Consider the lilies of the field... and the keepers of the law

Lately, I have been considering the Pharisees.  Members of an ancient Jewish sect who were particularly strict and particularly righteous.  In my experience, they are often dismissed with a wave of the hand in Christianity.  The Pharisees were... difficult.  And aggravating.  And pretentious, pious, and proud.  Most often, though, what we hear of the Pharisees is that they were legalistic:  careful followers of the Hebrew scriptures, and tough critics of one another and the people around them.

Lately, I have been considering the Pharisees, because I have been considering the lilies.  See, I'm a thinker.  Which means that I often let my brain dictate the battles between my heart and my head.  It means that I would rather think sound thoughts about Jesus than have the warm & fuzzies.  It means that when I consider, I do my fair share of considering.  And recently, I've been considering the words of Christ-- one of my favorite things that Jesus asks of the crowds is to "consider the lilies of the field, how they grow."  It may not sound earth-shattering, but recently, I have taken to believing that it was.  

In Jesus' time, in the Pharisee's time, adhering properly to the law was given a place of prominent importance.  The Pharisees spent their days dedicated to the proper implementation of the law of God.  And they were good at it.  Everyone knew this.  They did not stumble... and if they did, it was rarely, and likely understandable because the Law of God is difficult.  However, I believe that the piety of the Pharisees had become so great that they began to worship their ability to follow the law rather than rejoice in the Law.

And in comes Jesus, a country boy- by all accounts- whose father was a carpenter, who hailed from the small fishing town of Nazareth.  Who looked at the people.  And sat with the people.  And walked with the people... and he told them stories.  Stories filled with the gentleness of burdens shared, and the joy of the lost being found, and the promise that the small could, indeed, be mighty.  Jesus told stories, and the Pharisees gave boundaries.  Of course, the common people loved Jesus.  Of course, the Pharisees did not.  Jesus rejoiced in the Law.  He even said so (Matthew 5:17).

And in one of these moments, Jesus says to the gathering around him: don't worry (Luke 12:27).  The words that every person who has ever felt not-good-enough longs to hear.  The words that would've crushed the Pharisees and made the made them defensive.  Don't worry.  Can you imagine?  All that you have worked for, struggled for, and mastered completely dismissed by a country boy from the sticks?  It would've been outrageous to the Pharisees...

But Jesus continues, saying to the people: consider the lilies-- which, in Israel, grow like wildflowers.  Everywhere!  Consider the lilies.  In my mind, Jesus looked at the people and said: you don't have to climb the gym rope, hardly anyone can.  Instead, walk a lap, it'll be good enough.  You don't have to be the elite to be loved.  You don't need to worry yourself with the scrutiny of the Law to know the Father.

Even as I wrote those words, my shoulders relaxed.  And in my heart beat a hallelujah.  How beautiful is our God?  How delightful is our Jesus?  That we don't have to worry.  We don't have to stand against the doorjamb and straighten our spines and will ourselves to be tall enough.  We must simply stop... and consider the whimsy of the wildflowers.  And remember that we known, we are loved, we are enough.  We do not need to worry.

And now, the greatest of challenges:  we have to help others consider the lilies around them.  We have to take the hands of others and walk with them.  We can't receive our own measure of grace and not extend to others what has been extended to us.  We have to continuously shed the weight of the Pharisees and remember to consider the lilies.

{The Oh Hellos- I Have Made Mistakes}

{nothing is a waste if you learn from it}

When I am grateful for a house with many rooms

It's no secret to most of my closest friends that I'm pretty progressive.  I'm down with universal healthcare.  I voted for Obama- twice (and I don't regret it at all).  I'm an evolutionist-- I believe God made it, but it took a LONG TIME... and science, well, I believe that points to God.  I believe that women have the right to choose.  I believe in recognizing my privilege-- because it's there.  And I believe that in my acknowledgement, I can help work for race and gender equality to the betterment of the future.  I don't believe in perpetuating gender stereotypes--  I believe little girls can be strong and little boys can be beautiful, and vice versa.  I believe that everyone is allowed to cry when they're sad, yell when they're angry, and play with dolls AND legos.  I try my best to support the LGBTQ community-- and I love my young people who find themselves there.  Especially my young people.  They struggle because they have an understanding of their innate self that others will not accept.

I differ from some of my nearest and dearest friends in these ways-- for both political and religious reasons.  But, before we necessarily knew that about each other, we loved each other.  I've bonded with friends over hours of Friends episodes, over mutual love of pomegranate frozen yogurt, over obsessions with anything/everything cable-knit, over a fascination with spoken word poetry, over an unfortunate addiction to Netflix, over a deep and steady love for the Lord... these are the things that cause my heart to swell when I speak of those I love.  Their hearts are close to mine.  Their humanity is plain to me- and it stands at the forefront.  There is grace between us.

And this is what arises when we speak to one another over these things in which our disagreement lies.  Not fear, not hate... sometimes disappointment... sometimes frustration... but always, always grace.  It is a grace that I extend, and a grace that has been extended (and overextended) to me.

In this grace-- in this space-- between my friends and I, the veil has been lifted.  And in my heart, I believe that I have seen the Kingdom of God.  The Father's House, which has many rooms.  The space in which Heaven has kissed the Earth-- it has been kissed with grace.  With kindness.  With the love that not only stands in the gap, but the love that fills the gaps up,  and gives us abundance.  An olive branch that I believe only the Holy Spirit could extend.

And this... this is why my heart aches:  because I have seen this beautiful space.  The Father's House, which has many rooms.  The Father's House, which has space for you and space for me and space for all of our baggage and all of our wounds and all of our triumphs and all of our hopes and all of our fears and all of our joy and all of our criticisms, the Father's House is not a piece of land that one of us can put a stake in and claim for ourselves exclusively.  The Father's House belongs to my traditional friends, my conservative friends, my progressive friends, my liberal friends... the Father's House belongs to the Father.  And all who believe.  And all who dare to believe that His grace is sufficient.  And all who believe that we have received the fullness of Jesus Christ, in whom we have all received grace upon grace (Jn. 1:16).

And I cannot help but be grateful for this house.  For this love that reaches me and reaches you; and reaches us in our valleys and finds us on our mountaintops.  And, occasionally, when I find people beneath the Cross that see Jesus' house very differently than I do, I simply remind myself that indeed, the Father's House has many rooms... and that the love of Jesus has found us in different rooms... separated by long hallways.

But regardless, I am grateful.  Grateful that I share this house with beautiful friends-- who agree and disagree with me on a multitude of things-- beneath the banner of Love, and constantly surrounded by grace.

On speaking life

I'm a youth pastor.

Okay, technically, my title is Director of Student Ministry.  But that's a mouth-full.  And it makes me sound pretentious when I introduce myself to my students' friends, or their parents to say, "Hi, I'm Jess!  I'm so-and-so's Director of Student Ministry."

Ew.  I hate sounding pretentious.  Even more than I hate mushrooms.  And I loathe mushrooms.

So, today, in this space, I am a youth pastor.  And my job is sometimes hard-- because adolescence is COMPLICATED.   I have only been removed from teenagerdom for 6 years, and HOLY CUSS WORDS, BATMAN, adolescence is complicated.  My students-- my kids, my babes, my people, etc-- struggle with stuff.

I mean, we all struggle with our stuff, but when you have feelingsX1000, on top of coming into your own, abiding by everyone else's rules and rarely your own, and feeling rarely in control, struggling with stuff becomes the understatement of the century.  And when you have feelingsX1000, holding onto yourself feels just as impossible as climbing that cursed rope in gym class.  It feels like holding up a world that is dead-set on crumbling around you. While everyone else watches, points, and laughs.

I remember that.  Sometimes, I still feel that way.  And since I can't scoop all of them up and hold onto them until they all turn 20 and the world starts to level out again, I shepherd them.  To the best of my ability- with all that I have.  With all that I can hold.  With all that I can't.   With fear.  With joy.  With abandon.  With timidity.  With every ounce of bravery that I have... I shepherd them.

And I take every opportunity to throw my arms around their necks and tell them that they are loved.  To kiss them on the head and remind them that they are wanted.  To bump their fist and remind them that they are seen.  To speak life into their hearts and into their minds.  Because I love them. I want them.  I see them all.  And I believe in the deepest reaches of myself that Jesus loves them, wants them, and sees them.  There are too many things around us that speak worry, doubt, fear, anxiety, and exclusion to who my young people are.  But they are none of those things.  I see them as they truly are:  as beloved.  And I see them right where they are:  as beloved.

Put all the titles on it that you want, my job is to speak life.  To give life.  To see life and call it forth in all of the young people that I shepherd.  Until they see themselves the way that I know Jesus sees them:  as beloved.

To my students, on their first day of school

You got up before me this morning-- maybe you wondered what you should wear, what you needed to take with you.  Maybe, like me, you wrestled with your hair.  Maybe you're nervous.  Maybe you're excited.  Maybe those feelings have been mixed so deeply, you're not sure where one begins and the other ends.

It's your first day back to school.

For some of you, you're starting middle school-- a time of reinvention.  For some of you, you're starting high school-- a time of reinvention.  Again.  For some of you, you're back where you were last year, a little older, a little wiser, a little bit ready for the routine of it all, and simultaneously dreading the homework, and the school politics, and the early wake-up time.

You woke up, and you made your way back into brick buildings filled with individuals who are ready to instruct you, to teach you, to help you grow.  Filled with individuals who are ready to befriend you, love you, and model themselves after you.  And I woke up, wrestled with my hair, and hit the coffee shop where I write my messages.

We both began again today.  We started somewhere new, somewhere familiar, somewhere bigger than we're used to, somewhere that already feels too small to hold us.  And we began- again.  I sit here, with a cup of coffee and my headphones on, and I begin to believe that there is something wonderful in store for you.  Something deeply indescribable- something wonderful- the cusp of a great adventure.

And so today, on your first day of school, I have many hopes for you... but one I will carry in my heart for each of you this year:  be brave. Refuse to be sharpened by that which does not help your being.  Arm yourselves with love.  Learn from your mistakes.  Be 100% you.

Because who you are... you're enough.  You're wonderful.  You are the face of God wherever you are-- so wear it well.  Wear it like it fits you- because it does.  It fits you perfectly and exactly.  Wear it bravely.  It is not always easy to follow Jesus- so make the decision every.single.day.

Above all, know that you are brave, that you are fought for, and that you are loved.  In the familiar, and in the adventure.

On choosing.

I'm pretty charismatic.

You might be thinking, what does that even mean?

It means I believe in the presence of God.  In healing.  In the prophetic.  In miracles.  In radical experiences of the Holy when the veil is lifted, and we behold the Glory of the God that I believe is here with us right now.

These are the things I needed to remind myself of... especially lately.  With Jesus standing in the crossfires of Christian Culture wars.  I found myself needing reminders.  Why I work where I work.  Why I choose to mix my faith with my profession.  Why I fight.  Why I believe.  Why I don't walk away...

Because I find Jesus here.  In me.  In you.  In this room.  In that coffee shop.  In the upstairs room of a bar.  On Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights... but also on Monday mornings when the newness of God has once again been washed away with my makeup the night before.  I find Jesus in blog posts dripping with disdain, and blog posts thirsty for hope.  In all of it, I find Jesus...

Whether I agree with everyone who stands beneath the cross of Christ or not, I find Him.  And I cling to Him.  To His love.  To His grace.  To His mercy.  And I let everything else fall away.

Because more than anything, I need to see Jesus in the excavation of it all.  In the stripping away.  In the unveiling.  In the uncertainty of where I'll find Him.  In the certainty that He is there somewhere.  In the small, calculated brush strokes that reveal the smallest of parts... and in the places that reveal grand, sweeping truths.

I needed to remind myself that I'm just digging.  That we are all digging the bones of Christ up... in our own bones.  Finding His flesh mingled with our own.  Discovering His heart intertwined with ours.  And we uncover Him a little bit... and sometimes, we uncover Him a lot.

But the one thing in all of this that I find to be true is that I find Him... And now I only see Him in part, but then I will fully know.

And until then, I will continue to seek after Him.  To find Him.  To cling to Him.  To believe in Him.

To remind myself why I fight.  Why I believe.


Why I won't walk away...

On finding myself on my knees

I found out yesterday that a darling young lady that I used to coach has brain cancer.  I found out on Facebook, of all places, and I found out that her surgery was scheduled for this morning.

Now, I've known too many people with cancer.  Too many stories of chemotherapy, radiation, surgery.  Repeat.  Caringbridge, Facebook, hospital waiting rooms.

It's too much.  It hurts too many people.

And it makes me wonder very often why we fight so many battles instead of simply fighting for each other.  Wonder why it's so easy to pick up a cause-- and so hard to put it down.  Wonder why we push so hard; why we are so unyielding... But those are conversations best reserved for my head and my heart in the middle of the night.

Because I found myself on my knees last night.  Again this morning.  Again in the middle of writing this.

Praying for a young lady who I haven't seen or spoken with in years.  Praying for her doctors, for her family, for her healing.  Because despite the battles I fight, hers seems more important than all of them today.

And it makes me wonder if I need to find myself on my knees even more often-- because I have a lot of perspective there:  what matters, what doesn't, what is worth it, what isn't.  What is worth surrendering and what is worth fighting for.

And she is worth fighting for.

On writing about things I'm afraid to say.

I'm a silver-lining thinker.

I think that's what marries the thinker in me with the feeler in me.  I think and think and think and think... but regardless of the gloomy depths that my brainwaves take me, I always seem to grasp at the straws of a happy ending, or snuggle the warm-fuzzy, or lasso a gleaming bit of gold out of the bottom of the barrel.  I do the same thing with people.  I try to find the redeeming qualities, excuse the rough edges, and embrace a version of someone that may- or may not- exist.

But why?

It's not like everything in life has to have a happy ending.  In fact, in my experience, it doesn't always have a happy ending.  What life does have, more often than happy endings, are thrown-in towels, paused boxing matches, and blurry lines confusing what looks like resolve and what resolve actually is.  And I fear I've come to a nasty and depressing conclusion:  I find the silver lining because I'm afraid to deal with the dark cloud.

Crap.

I shove myself into a box of tacit assent and conformity because the people I desperately want to love me and respect me don't want to hear me talk about privilege, the fact that I HATE it when people use the word retarded and I think less of them for it, the fact that I hate myself for sitting on a throne of judgement leering at people who use words like 'gay' and 'retarded' and 'rape' and 'bitch' to describe things that actually have nothing to do with sexual orientation, brain development, actual rape culture, or sexism; greed, racism, double-standards, generational poverty, environmentalism, feminist theory, among so so many others.  There are very, very few people that I personally know who would enjoy any of the above conversations (at the risk of disagreeing, and being forced to really think) because it makes people uncomfortable.

And I don't like to be uncomfortable.  Because when I feel uncomfortable, I feel alone.  When I talk about uncomfortable things, I usually discover that I differ from people I formerly considered like-minded.  Or, I feel justified in my feelings, and find that I am in agreeance with others.  It's a gamble to talk about uncomfortable things-- so at the risk of feeling alone, rejected, or being seen in a different (read: unfavorable) light, I try to gloss over the tough stuff with a silver-lining frame of mind.

But why?

In college I took a class were on the first day we read an article that boldly stated that people are uncomfortable with ambiguity of any kind.  That's why small children sometimes ask embarrassing questions:  "is that a girl or a boy?" or  "why is he in a wheelchair?" or "why is she sleeping on that bench?"  We don't like what we don't know-- and we learn early on that we should be embarrassed or afraid to dialogue openly about it. We create a behind-closed-doors culture, which we call being "polite" and "discrete."  We insinuate that this is the only space in which those questions are allowed, and even then they are given cut and dry answers as we hurry to move on to less uncomfortable matters.  Intentional or not, we grow up in an environment where knowing about things is absolutely different from understanding or respecting them-- and worlds away from being comfortable with them.

See, I grew up in a home with a disabled brother, so I learned early on how to patiently wait on an answer to a question, how to interact with different-ableness, and I learned early on how to ask if he needs help-- not just assume he is incapable and needs a rescuer.  I also learned early on that using the word "retarded" does nothing but demean my intelligence and insult people that I care about; it carries no humorous weight and no grinding quality to anyone but the one who is using it.  I learned the same goes for words like "gay" and "rape,"  just because you can use it doesn't mean you should. Embrace the sacredness of the experiences of others, have a little dignity, pull out a dictionary and learn a proper insult.  Additionally, I learned that nobody has it all together, regardless of what they display on the outside-- we're all a little different-- and we all need each other in bonds of love and respect if we expect to glean anything good from community.

Community.  We all seek after communities of people were we can align ourselves systemically to a belief, group of beliefs, or way of life.  And once we ingratiate ourselves into a community, we come into this false assumption that everyone around us thinks and does exactly how we think and do.  This is not true.  Therefore, it is always a good idea to invite a conversation with someone in your community about any of the aforementioned topics and beyond before you openly hate, bash, stereotype, judge, or generally do or say anything else that would stick your foot so far down your throat it would emerge from your own ass again (trust me-- I've done it plenty of times, and it is no fun).  It's time to get a little uncomfortable in community-- because community should be a place for honesty and growth.

All of that being said:  I'm still a silver-lining thinker.  I love that about myself.  I love seeing the good, finding the positive, digging for the hope in everything.  But I've also come to the conclusion that no one lives a life worth remembering in this space.  No one lives a life that changes the world without rocking the boat a little. And I want to live a life that I am proud of.  A life that I believe reflects the Jesus that I know and love.

Therefore, it's time.  Time to start with the silver-lining and work my way in.  Time to write about the things I'm afraid to write about.  Say the things I'm afraid to talk about.  And stand for the things that, in my heart, I already believe in.

Here goes nothing.

{oh I'm worn by the war in me}

On reading well

I heard someone not long ago say that you can learn a lot about someone by their bookshelf.  I thought that was kind of odd, until I got home and I began to look at my own bookshelf.  And as I looked at book after book, volume after volume, I began to see myself.  Biblical scholarship, feminist scholarship, autobiographies, poetry, comedy, music.  Favorite authors; favorite books with worn spines and pages; favorite notes and pictures tucked into those pages.

And I find it to be true.  My character has been shaped and molded and challenged by the books that I read.  I have discovered that the foundation of my faith is the only thing that matters, and that the house that I build upon it is simply an expressive response to what I believe.  I have discovered that Jesus is bigger than I could possibly imagine-- and ever dream to fit into my brainbox or my hands or even, my vocabulary.  I have discovered that I love wisdom more than correctness, and freedom more than rightness, and righteousness more than division.  I have discovered that I love big words, and people who write about their own experiences, and thoughtfulness that inspires me to do good and to love well with my hands, my head, and my heart. And I have discovered that I am proud to display a quirky self through my bookshelf.  So if ever you find yourself at my house-- feel free to take a look, pick up a book, and thumb through the pages.  You may see me-- or maybe even you-- in what you find.

Here's to the books that change us, teach us, and love us well through their pages and their words.

Here's to the voices & lives that spur us on to betterness.  Grateful for the life of this man.  

{You and I were held in the arms of good intentions}

On Piety

I love words.  I always have.  There is so much that we can do with language-- so much that can be accomplished when we use our words thoughtfully and well.  And in contrast, we can afflict much pain and heartache when our words are used too quickly or with harsh intent.  There is a duality with language, and we choose which side of the wall we fall on: the side that draws us close to our neighbors, or the side that simply puts the wall between us and them.

Today, I've been munching on a word that you may be familiar with... I've been thinking about piety.  There's been a lot floating around the internet newsstand in recent days that has given me pause.  So many stories of social inequality, national and international disaster, and tragedy that I can hardly think straight.  And for some reason this made me think of piety.

Now, as a Christian person, I know a lot of pious people.  But as you read that, did you hear that as an upstanding statement, or a degrading slam against my own family of believers?  Truth is, it can be read both ways.  Pious, by it's very definition, stinks of duality.  On the one hand, it is reverence for God.  A beautiful definition of what it means to follow Christ.  And on the other, it stands for hypocritical concern with the aforementioned virtue.

So, which did you hear?  If I'm being honest I heard hypocrisy, degradation, and blatant disregard for the sanctity of devotion. And in most vocabularies, I would be in good company.  There are very few times when piety denotes reverence.  And my honest question is: who made it so?

If I'm being really honest, I think I have an answer for that question:  we did.  And by we, I mean the church.  Those whose legacy began with Christ himself, but was implemented by everyone who came after Him.  We crusaded in the High Middle Age, we hung women in the 17th century, we enslaved human beings based on race too long after we knew better, we denied (and continue to deny) women a voice in the church.  And I say "we" because we should all claim responsibility for where we come from.  And we should all work to better the legacy we leave from here on out.  Now, not everything in Christianity's rearview is negative.  In fact, Christianity has been responsible for some of the most amazing, world-changing movements led by Christ-centered, Christ-devoted people:  Mother Teresa, John Wesley, Martin Luther King Jr., Joan of Arc, the newly-inaugurated Pope Francis (among SO many others).  But we can't just sweep the bad under the rug and display the good in the trophy case.  Eventually, the ugly under the rug starts to stink and overshadow all that we've worked hard to keep shiny with pride. That's how Christians get the reputation of being hypocrites; how we get reputations that overshadow the amazing works of our Savior-- through the hands and feet of who He made us.

I hurt to think that people look at me and think of me as pious because I represent religion to them-- hypocrisy, degradation, total disregard for the sanctity of devotion.  But I'm sure that it happens. I hope that I can represent Christ to people as a flawed, definitely-don't-have-my-shit-together human being, who believes in the beauty of Jesus, the intimacy of the Holy Spirit, and the inexplicable love of the Creator.  And in some quiet, small way, I dearly hope that some see in me a reverence for God.  And I hope that they see that same reverence, grace, and life in my church, my family, and my Jesus.

Thunder Clatter

{You spoke like broken thunder, deep into the center of me}

The tree of Deborah

In the book of Judges, there's a woman called Deborah.  If you're a lover of the Old Testament (like I am), or you grew up in/around a church, you may know who I am referring to.  If not, a brief history: after the death of Joshua- the successor of Moses, who led the Israelites out of captivity in Egypt and through the desert- the people fell away from the Lord; worshiping idols and doing what was dishonoring in the sight of the Lord.  Because the Israelites- like all people, I think- struggled to be obedient to the Lord in the absence of a strong leader.

So, because our God is a faithful God, He raised up Judges in that time to judge Israel.  During the lifetime of the judges, the people were faithful to God, but once the  judge died, the people rebelled again.  I don't know about you, but to me it strikes me as the life cycle of all of us who succeed in being strong followers-- but fail to be strong leaders.  Does this ring true to anyone else?!

Anyway, so there was one female judge mentioned in the book of Judges, the judge Deborah.  And Deborah judged Israel from beneath a tree on a hill in the land of the tribe of Ephraim.  The book of Judges tells us that the Israelite people would come to Deborah for judgement.  And in this time, because of the unfaithfulness of the people, there was war in the land.  So one day Deborah summons a military leader named Barak and tells him that she has heard from the Lord, and that soon, the Lord would delivery the commander of the enemy army into his hands.

An interesting conversation follows this proclamation-- Barak informs Deborah that he will not go unless she goes also.  I don't know what it is about that, but I always feel like Barak is letting Deborah in on his own weakness, his own fear.  I have always loved that.  It's a sentiment that rings true for me, because more often than not, I want to know that my weakness and my insecurity is welcomed with open arms that are not ready to fix my problems, but rather are ready to walk with me through the battles to discovering my own strength.  And Deborah agrees to go.  She also tells Barak that while he may lead the army, he will not be the one who claims the victory.  That honor ultimately goes to a woman named Jael, who kills Sisera (the opposing army's leader) by gruesomely driving a tent peg through his head while he slept.

Sometimes, we focus on the death of Sisera as the climax of the story, but I would like to offer an alternative.  I believe that the climax of this story is when Barak asks Deborah to go with him- to walk with him, to lead him, and ultimately, to give the glory to someone else.  That is powerful.  The fact that sometimes we simply get to be a part of someone else's victory.  Sometimes our story isn't our story at all-- but borrowed from someone else.  And not in a plageristic way, but in a way that is real, and deep, and true.  To me, the story of Barak is not a story of his heroism, but rather, a story of his willingness to admit weakness.  The story of Deborah is not really about judging Israel from beneath a tree, but rather a story of the compassion of the LORD, whose prophet is compelled from beneath her judgement seat to walk with the people in their battles. And the story of Jael is not about whom she was married to or who she killed, it's a story of bravery.

But my favorite part of this whole story, is Deborah's tree.  Because, to me, it seems so symbolic of the presence of the LORD.  There is a sturdiness that we can see in the character of God, there is a height to His Glory that is far above the heights of man.  But there is also a depth to His mercy and wisdom that are far beyond our reach-- but the more we know Him, the more we walk with Him, the more we uncover the depth as well as learn to stand in awe of the height.

This is widely accepted as the Tree of Deborah in the Holy Land.