echoes

echo:

a repetition of sound produced by the reflection of sound waves from a wall, mountain, or other obstructing surface.

any repetition or close imitation, as of the ideas or opinions of another.

I generally think of echoes as the first definition above. I’m in a place, a bird sings, someone yells, waves crash, and there is a reverberation of that sound a short time later. Sometimes you have to strain to hear it.  But yesterday, I experienced the latter. I had coffee with a woman I met recently. That doesn’t sound terribly momentous, does it? Lots of people chat over coffee and the world remains the same when you walk outdoors again. But as we spoke a bit of our stories, something shifted, because I heard echoes of my story in her. As we spoke of church and good times and hard ones, there was an acknowledgement that something was shared.

Something shared. No, it wasn’t that we grew up in Southern California, or that we had both lived in the Bay Area for some time. It was something deeper inside. It was the faith that shapes our lives and actions. We both chose to engage in ways God called us–and it wasn’t always easy. There were push-backs, questions, and times of isolation, feeling like you are swimming upstream in a place that shouldn’t require it. So you make hard choices, not without prayers, tears, and reservations.

In those times of feeling alone, this echo feels precious. It reminds me that while the details are different, I have company. There is a great band of believers around me. And I repeat this to myself: faithfulness is not about achieving a certain outcome, but doing what you are called to do.

I am thankful for echoes that reverberate deeply in my soul, and thankful to a God whose timing for them is perfect.

reconciled to God and each other

I have a bit of sermonizing to do today. Feel free to listen in.

Here’s what I believe the gospel is: We are fallen people, stuck in the muck of sin. While created in God’s image, we are mired in our imperfection, which separates us from God. If the story ended here, us covered with the filth of selfishness, greed, pride, and more, it’d read as the greatest of tragedy of all time. But there’s more, there’s hope because God’s love compelled him to send Jesus to earth. On earth, Jesus showed us more of God’s character, showed us how to live, how to love, what following God means. After all that, he died for you, for me, for all of us, to be the perfect sacrifice, washing us clean of the tar of sin, starting all things new again. Because of Jesus, God reconciles us to himself and to each other. Yes, I said to each other, too. As God makes all things new in Jesus, we get this amazing opportunity to be reconciled to the one who made and loves us and to those around us, also created and loved by God.

There are few Christians among us who would disagree with this…in theory. I bet if I asked 100 pastors that at least 99 of them would say that through Jesus, broken relationships can be healed. We have an example in the early church (see Acts 2), where Jews and Gentiles worshiped and sacrificed for each other, because Jesus had dramatically changed their perspectives and priorities. That’s exciting, isn’t it? We reflect God’s transforming power when we love those who were once our enemies. It’s incredible. But let’s be honest enough to say that the practice of reconciling relationships is messy and hard and needs to take the long road. We must humble ourselves to admit that we need to fully rely on Jesus to work through the sins of our culture and the distrust sown over centuries. It’s one that takes intentionality, because that swamp monster of sin longs to creep back and divide us once more.

A bit more theology: I believe that God made all of us, different cultures, different ethnicities, different perspectives. I believe that when we share that diversity with each other we gain a fuller picture of who God is. I believe that one day people of every tribe, tongue, and nation will worship God together. Why would I not want to get a glimpse of heaven now? Why would I not want to see God’s power supersede the messiness of life? Why would I not want to see God get glory for doing His work, here and now?

I went to a new church this morning. There were things I loved: the sermon was one of the best I’ve heard in years, exegeting scripture, following the text, teaching and applying it to our lives. The music was good. There was slave-free coffee. But all, and I repeat all, the people standing at any point in the service–from music to preaching to leading communion–were white males. I was a bit taken aback. They recently studied Acts and decided to physically meet the needs of others in their congregation because of what they studied. Awesome. Perhaps they do care about reconciling all people to each other; I hope so. But, as I told a friend later today, the proof is in the pudding. There was nothing showing me that this was even on their radar, and it made me sad. Because if God has broken down the dividing wall for His glory, may I never, ever place a brick back in its place.  O Lord, hear my prayer.

getting educated

When I wrote in the last post that we should listen, I was speaking to myself as well as you, dear reader. I know that emotions run high, that we instinctively move into flight or fight responses, that spaces exist when it’s hard to listen. But for many of us, the heightened awareness surrounding Ferguson and Eric Garner  is gone, or at least my Facebook feed is far more interested in discussing the whys and wherefores of the last play by the Seahawks in the 2015 Superbowl than commenting about race relations in the USA. So maybe, just maybe, on this gray afternoon (at least in Washington) we can put on some slippers, grab a cup of tea, and settle into some reading.

When epithets flew I asked a black friend of mine what I could do. Her response?  Simply: “Get educated.” I think it’s sometimes easy to rush headlong into something (anything) that we feel passionate about, whether or not we actually understand the issues. I remember when Darfur hit the news and I sported a green plastic wristband printed with “Safe Darfur”. In a supermarket one day someone asked me about the details of the conflict…and I’m mortified to admit that I had no idea. The bandwagon looked good and people were dying, so, by golly, I jumped. But I would have made a bigger impact, would have been a better ally, had I taken the time and learned what was at hand, why things were at such a tipping point. Sometimes the best action is not to do, but to humbly learn. By sitting to hear someone else’s story we enlarge our own. Later if we have the opportunity to act, we will have ties to another reality not our own. We will, God willing, have the grace to act in someone else’s best interest, and to use the power we have for justice and righteousness.

Friends, we could all use some education. But for those of you that are my brothers and sisters in Christ, I humbly submit that if we are seeking to live as Jesus did, we don’t have an option to turn a blind eye. We are called to love our neighbor as ourself. If we learn about injustice, we must call it out, for we serve a God of justice. If Jesus really did break down the walls dividing Jews and Greeks, males and females, slaves and free and made us all one in Him, we must care about the resurrected barriers that divide us.

Ok, enough sermonizing. I repeat: I’m preaching to myself. Sometimes I need a good kick in the pants. But if for no other reason, because I care about Tioni I’m reading and learning. Won’t you come along?

I get that it’s sometimes hard to know where to start, so I’m linking some articles from folks I respect. I’ve read a chunk of them, but not all. 

Come with me, friends. It’s worth the journey.

can we humble ourselves?

Anyone who knows me at all knows that I’m a moderate. I’ve yet to find a politician for whom I’m excited to vote, and I’m fairly confident that I frustrate my conservative and liberal friends alike with my extremely mixed views.  I like nuance, dislike soundbites, and nearly always feel there are two sides to every story, both with truth in them. As such, I rarely enter the foray of politics on this blog or elsewhere in internet-land. I generally feel that the best discussions are not held in cyberspace, but in person, in relationship. This is still true. But I’ve come to realize that I live in a virtual age, and that the conversations I’d love to have don’t always come to fruition. More importantly, I’m moved to share some voices that are not always heard.

I want to start with a fact: I will never know with certainty exactly what happened in Ferguson, Missouri, on August 9, 2014. Let me repeat: I will never know with certainty exactly what happened in Ferguson, Missouri, on August 9, 2014. But regardless of what occurred that day, can we take a step back and look at the bigger picture? People are not reacting solely because of the lack of indictment of Officer Wilson. Yes, yes, that’s a part of it. But if we only focus on that, we’ve missed something vital. People are protesting because they see a pattern repeated over and over and over, not just in this generation, but over centuries. It may look different from slavery, than being considered part of a person when counting votes, than having different restaurants or drinking fountains or schools. People are mourning because interactions don’t reflect  equal value. People are angry because their voices are belittled or dismissed.

I’m a white woman. I don’t pretend to understand an experience that is not my own. But what I do know, as a Christian, is that I am called to humility. I am called to be quick to listen, slow to speak, and slow to anger. Can we quiet our hearts long enough to listen?

I started this blog post before Thanksgiving. I asked black friends if they’d be willing to write something for this blog. A few said they would. But in the meantime, I’ve read about Eric Garner. I sit here not even sure what to say. I’m sad. All I know is that my voice feels weak, but that maybe, just maybe, if all weak voices band together maybe we can be loud enough to help enact change. God, give us grace, courage, and your heart for justice and for the oppressed. May we reflect Your compassion.

As an introduction, here are a few Facebook posts from some black friends:

My head hurts. My heart hurts. Taking a FB break to get it together. Email, text or call if you need me.

 

If anyone is surprised this evening, you haven’t been paying attention.

 

I’m exhausted.
Right about now I’d be penning an “Open Letter”, but I’m exhausted.

I’m allowed to be sad, I don’t care if he was wearing a hoodie and a mean mug. I don’t care what he did moments before his death. I’m allowed to be pissed off that he is gone. I’m allowed to be worried that my boyfriend doesn’t wear a hat when he drives to avoid the flashing lights, and that my dad avoids certain areas in his nice car because why would he be driving something that swaggy anyway?

I’m exhausted because my little cousins have so much more to fear if they choose to wear a hoodie one night over a button up and boat shoes.

Two years ago I was told I couldn’t be angry about Trayvon Martin and how dare I compare him to Emmett Till, but it’s still death by force and by fear.

I’m exhausted just wrapping my brain around it all.

 

*These are my friends. You are welcome to comment on this post, but only, and I repeat only, if you remain civil. Asking questions, wanting clarification, even disagreeing is fine, but remember that the whole point of this post is to pause and listen, so please consider that before you speak.*

cleaning up the yard

My cat is a killer. About once a month she manages to fell a bird, for the guts or glory, I’m still unclear. But she clearly thrives on her instincts. Then I usually hear from one of my children that there’s a dead bird in the yard and I go to dispose of it.

This time I was really slow. There were two birds awaiting their funeral. When I reached them they were skeletons with a few scattered feathers. There were leg bones, but what got me were the beaks. These dainty beaks bare pecked at my soul. The bones were so narrow, so light. The intricate design was jaw dropping. And suddenly what I was doing was no longer clearing out debris from the front yard, but giving them a proper burial. The mundane made holy.

when you ache discouraged

The impersonal internet struck again. The dreams started about a job, only to be dashed by black and white print: Not Selected. As much as I knew that end was likely (they wanted someone with more availability and I was surprised they brought me in to interview), I was hurt. As much as I knew that it was a rational decision on their end, even if I was great, it felt like personal rejection. Tears formed; tears shed. But worst of all the heaviness settled on me. The heaviness: self-doubt coupled with feeling unworthy topped with a healthy dose of failure. I moved slower and the world felt dark. I avoided people and texted my husband, requesting a virtual hug. The serpent wrapped himself around me and whispered lie upon lie.

Just as I was about to crawl into my self-made hole, I remembered words of hope. Words uttered before true darkness and fear gripped men of old, words promising light in the midst of an unknown future:

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let them be afraid.

I repeated these words over and over. I wrote them on my mirror. Slowly, and not without a fight, the serpent and heaviness slithered away. It was still a hard day, and there’s still unfulfilled longing. But there’s hope. Better yet, there’s Hope, and that Hope will not disappoint. Amen.

friends and heaven

I’ve seen a glimpse of heaven, although I didn’t realize it at the time. It came via five women, all flesh and blood and broken like me. There were shared memories of vegan food and failed cooking experiments (my twenty-five year old self didn’t realize you couldn’t substitute balsamic vinegar for apple cider vinegar in a recipe), there was laughter and late nights, there were tears, and fears, crosswords, and online dating. There were gospel choirs and ethnically diverse churches, there were bikes on trails (and getting locked out from the house). There were even arguments over the air conditioner and if we should give each other set chores. But most of all, there was love and sharing of heart longings and passions and what-God-was-up-to in our lives. We made space and time to be with one another, and we shared guts and glory. God used each of us to shape us more into His likeness. I got to be part of a slice of heaven for three years.

I moved away to pursue professional dreams, we started getting married and moving out, and the intense shared time faded. The ties that bound us stretched as we entered new stages of life in new geographic locations. It shocks me to say that it’s been almost thirteen years since I left Baltimore. I’ve made good friends since then, but it looks different, especially in Washington. And I’ve found myself unsettled, longing for something deeper, with an intensity that I once knew. More rational people have informed me that “it’s a stage of life thing” and that with young children I can’t hope to equal that again. More patient people have informed that it just.takes.time–and that my free-wheeling days offered me freedom and time that allowed for deep relationships quickly. In my more self-aware moments, I know they are right. But I also can’t quite capitulate. I believe that God can do it, and that He is not limited by my stage of life or my relative lack of free time. It will look different, but I’m convinced it can be rich. So I’m jumping into this pool of people here, because I’ve seen heaven. And it’s glorious.

(On Valentine’s day, it seems especially appropriate for this post, and to send a shout-out to Holly, Laura, Jenna, Kim, and Rachel. Thank you, thank you, girls! Where are we meeting this year?)