On Gatekeeping

There's a lot of talk today.  A lot of talk about Syrian refugees, about France, about a lack of concern for Beirut... there's a lot to weigh in on, and there are a lot of us choosing to weigh:  do we see Jesus juxtaposed to these refugees seeking shelter?  Do we do our due diligence to keep our country safe?  Where is our information coming from and who will consider it credible?  Which statistics make us the most comfortable?  What Scripture can we use to back up our claim?  How harshly can we attack the opinion of our neighbor, colleague, coworker, friend? How can we feel most justified and most correct in our particular position?

There are one thousand different things to believe about today-- and let me be clear-- everyone is entitled to their beliefs.  I, just like everyone else, am trying to sort out mine.  And as I grapple and sort and sit in the tension, and lean to one side, I am faced with a deep and aching tragedy:  we are doing nothing together.  What is grounds for an argument in this case, does not apply to that one.  We claim that it's no easy task to determine who can enter the United States because we might unknowingly allow a terrorist into this country.  We are the gatekeepers of united safety.  We, therefore, must use caution and can't take Jesus overwhelmingly at his word to welcome the alien.  But, what about the terrorist already in our country?  What about judges who turn a blind eye to domestic violence?  What about government systems so bent on being unapologetic that police brutality goes unchecked?  What about young women who are raped and forced to carry their attacker's child because they are denied judicial bypass?  What about our own brokenness and our own failings?

Have we forgotten them?  Have we forgotten that before we were given liberty, that the majority of us come from a lineage of oppression, violence, and religious extremism?  How easily we exchange our own oppression for the opportunity to oppress others.   It is not as tidy as we wish it was... it may never be.

I have no salient point- other than, wherever you land- let's be cautious today and everyday that we are all gatekeeping.  We are all guarding a sacred set of beliefs.  We are all in the right and in the wrong and every possible position in-between.  There is no binary here.  We are a spectrum of truths and struggles and compassion and hope for our nation and our world...

{The Oh Hellos:: Exeunt}

{I am not the fool that I was when I was younger...}

On Leaving & Remaining.

[this post was written on Monday, July 27, 2015... but sometimes it takes courage to press publish]

I walked out for the last time yesterday.  Finished.  No fanfare.  No applause... just, walked out the door.  Slipped away.  Took a picture at my car door, and looked back-- but only for a second.  A part of me wished there had been a party... a few tears, maybe.  Some time to kiss all of my beloved students on the head just one last time.  A part of me is glad that there wasn't.  Glad that maybe we all recognized it was time.  Glad that maybe there was already a firm plan in place for all of us... maybe, in this next season, we'll all get better at being where we are with who's there.  Maybe we'll be better because we had each other.

There are 100 things I wish I could sit with you crosslegged on the floor in front of a campfire and talk about.  Things that were always easy to tell you... things that I never said because they were too hard.  Maybe there was grace enough that I never needed to say them... maybe there was grace enough that you always heard what you needed to.  But if there wasn't, I want you to know that you were for me the face of God-- the most beautiful parts of our Holy Mystery just wrapped up in your faces and in your struggles and in your laughter.  I saw Jesus in you every Wednesday, every Sunday... every Tuesday night soccer game, every Thursday night cross country race, every Friday night halftime show, every Saturday night theatre performance... every movie night, every game night, every day, every time-- Jesus is so evident in you.  So perfectly on display in who you are.  I hope that you never forget how beautiful you are.

I wish I knew how to say that when walked out yesterday, I shed my favorite part of myself:  the ability to call myself your pastor.  Your friend.  Your confidant.  No matter how many times I've done this walk, it never gets easier to leave you.  I hope that you know that.  I hope that you know that you were important.  I hope you know that you are important.  And I hope that you know that I didn't leave because of you; that I would keep you forever.  I will keep you forever.   I always considered it my highest honor to teach you and to love you and to know you... thank you for giving me that gift.

I know that in time, I will fade for you.  Someone else just as capable and just as wise will lace up their shoes and carry my keys and walk into that door.  And as much as it hurts, I hope that you will love them... but I hope that they will love you more.  You are so deserving of someone who will love you with every inch of their being.  And I hope that they teach you; teach you that Jesus is ineffable and beautiful and transcendant and present and kind and able and near.  I hope that they teach you that your words matter and that your being matters and that your passion matters-- I hope they teach you because they show you.  I hope they laugh with you.  And cry with you.  And watch Disney movies with you when you've had surgery.  I hope they cheer you on and affirm you and hope with you and dream big with you... I hope they will be your biggest fan.  I hope they will put their faith into action alongside you.

I walked out for the last time yesterday, but I only walked out of the building.  I hope you know that I didn't walk away from you.  Maybe I need to know that myself, or maybe you needed to hear it-- either way, know that I am for you... cheering you on... praying for you... and loving you wherever you are.  My stuff might've moved-- my name may no longer be on the door... but you remain in my heart; I carry you with me-- it is the most permanent place I know...

{Daughter:: Human}

{Underneath this skin there's a human... and despite everything I'm still human.}

But I tell you, love your enemies

I forget sometimes.  I forget that we are all human.  That we bleed.  That there are things that wound us far deeper than blades or falls or car crashes... I forget.  For that, I am guilty.  I forget that my enemies see through hearts just as broken, just as fallible, and just as tender as my own.  I forget that they want to be loved, too.  Seen, too.  Wanted, too.

It's easy to tear someone down, isn't it?  The right glance can say a thousand words of hatred.  The right words can lead to a thousand tears.  Making an enemy is easy.  Keeping an enemy?  Probably even easier... we are not built for forgiveness.  Which is what makes knowing Jesus so hard . It's hard to turn a cheek, walk an extra mile, dine with an enemy... pray for an enemy.  Forgiveness is a difficult yoke.  It is weighty.

But, fueling the fire might just be more costly.  And I am certainly guilty of fueling fires.  There are furnaces with my name on them.  Entire forests demolished because of my own cruelty.  There is a poison in my being that is nourished by the destruction of others-- not physically-- but perhaps far more damaging.  I am not built for forgiveness.  Which is what makes knowing Jesus so necessary.  It's hard to wash the feet of those who betray you... but dragging them through the mud simply makes us all dirty.

It is easier to forget, sometimes.  It is easier to spit on my enemies than it is to pray for them.  Easier to build up my wall of words, of slights, of imperfections against them... than it is to love them.  Love is vulnerable, gentle, close-- it doesn't belong in the hands of those who could so easily pervert it.  Which is what makes knowing Jesus so humbling-- because that is exactly where Jesus placed his love.  In the hands of the one who betrayed him.  I am not built for forgiveness, but Jesus embodied it.  And following Jesus means following all of who he was-- not just the parts I like the best, or the parts that make me look shiny... and to embrace Jesus, I must embrace forgiveness.  Being broken and having the self-control to let it happen.-- and then, do the unthinkable:  love in spite of all that has been said, or done, or both.

I am not built for forgiveness.  But I believe in the One who was.  And I ache to know what it means to follow him... perhaps it begins with praying for the people I would rather drag through the mud.

On rusting & breaking bread

Last week, I baked bread.   I nourished yeast and sugar together and floured my hands until what I had was dough.  And then I let the dough rise.  And misbehave.  And mature... because that's what you let dough do.  It's not as good if you don't allow the dough its process.  And its process can be messy...  there is such truth in the bread.

Last week, I was invited to join a panel of brilliant women at a national conference.  I backed myself into a corner and wanted to say no, because I was intimidated... instead, I floured my hands and kneaded anxiety, fear, and lies into the dough.  And then I let myself entertain the idea.  I let myself believe that maybe I am smart enough and good enough to get up in front of some people I don't know and say words worth remembering... or maybe, simply considering.

Last night, I couldn't sleep.  I fed my own demons in the dark-- my fear, my sadness, my doubt-- until all I had left was to shut my eyes.  There is a certain amount of courage that comes with facing what's locked away, but what led me to it wasn't bravery at all... it was fear.  Fear that floured my hands, fear that rose up in the darkness, and fear that misbehaved until the process was, in and of itself, a mess.

There are a lot of things that I am afraid of.  But there are deeper things that I dream about.  And my dreams are not always more powerful than my fear, but they are more rooted:  they come with hope.  A hope that begs that question, always:  what are we afraid of?  When everything seems dark, it is that hope that flours its hands, and refuses to let the darkness stick... and rather, coaxes a testimony out of it.

And this is the lesson that I have found in the bread... fear shouldn't coax us out of our foxholes with weapons and words for wounding.  If our hearts are made of such things, then we're all just rusting each other, really.  But if our hearts having living water in them... then the Holy work is to bring fear to the table-- to flour our hands, to work it out, to coax the process out of our fear.  To break bread.  Together.

Swords down

I'm competitive by nature.  I love to win.  I will fearlessly throw down with anyone who hates on the Georgia Bulldogs, the US Olympic athletes, or my favorite Food Network competitive chefs.  I have a fierce loyalty to the competitor of my choosing, and I will sit firmly at their side-- win or lose.

But there is a problem with this... see, sometimes I allow my competitive nature to bleed into my faith.  And all of the characteristics that make me an excellent fan are superimposed onto the things that I believe, and they make me an awful Christian.   Wow, even writing that hurt.  But, sadly, I believe that it is true.  And I believe that it is not only true for me, but true for many in the faith community.  We cling to what we believe like a cause-- and we will battle beneath our flag to the detriment of community, mutual respect and love.

I've seen this present in my sphere for a while, but it has become more evident with the passing of time... and so, I (reluctantly) am trying to release my flag.  Lay down my sword.  And embrace that it is not how I fight, but how I love that most represents my convictions.

I am tired. I want to believe for better. I want to hope for better. It feels better than winning.