If you’re a gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, or queer reader, I hope you already know you don’t need my affirmation to live whole and joyful lives, just as God made you. You are beloved children of God, and there is nothing I or any other Christian writer or church leader can say to alter that. I hope you know, deep in your bones, that there is no height or depth, no angel or demon, no denomination or church or pastor or parent who can separate you from the love of God in Jesus Christ. My heart grieves over the ways this truth has been obscured and denied by the Church, often in destructive and deadly ways, and I apologize for years of complicity in that.

I pray that in the years to come, churches of every denomination will join me in repenting of the ways our communities have marginalized those whom God loves, by what we have done and by what we have left undone, and I look to you for leadership moving forward. As long as there is a need for straight allies like me to speak up in your support, I’ll do it, but like many of you, I pray for a day when your humanity alone is enough, when posts like these just aren’t necessary anymore.

While you’re not the intended audience for this piece, I hope it honors you. I pray you have already reached a point in your own story where posts like these are unnecessary to your self-acceptance, and you can skip the paragraphs ahead knowing I’ve done my best to incorporate your testimonies, scholarship, and leadership into each one. I hope it avoids some of the trappings of ally-centered advocacy, though I suppose some of those are unavoidable. Thank you for all you have taught me about love, courage, faithfulness, and truth. Forgive me for all the ways I have been complicit in your marginalization. I am a better wife, mother, Christian, and person for having you in my life.

…

I’ve been sitting on this post for a couple years now, torn by the fact that the indisputably redemptive lives and testimonies of the LGBTQ Christians in my life make it seem unnecessary, and the reality that the exclusionary posture of many churches, denominations, and families would suggest that it still is. Recent events, the controversy around Jen Hatmaker’s public affirmation of same-sex relationships, and conversations with LGBTQ friends, have convinced me it’s important to explain to my readers how and why I moved from a more conservative posture that deems variations in gender and sexuality as sinful aberrations against God’s will to a posture that embraces these variations as part of God’s creation and that celebrates the healthy, loving, and Christlike relationships that emerge from them. I’ve shared this evolution in bits and pieces elsewhere, and I’ve been public about my position for quite some time, but I’ve never outlined my journey in a single post.

My aim is to show how such a change is possible—indeed, necessary—and to dispel some of the myths regarding those of us who hold an affirming position.

In short, I affirm LGBTQ people because they are human beings, created in the image of God. I affirm their sexual orientations and gender identities because they reflect the diversity of God’s good creation, where little fits into rigid binary categories.

I affirm their (healthy) relationships.

I affirm them because theology that refuses to accept their personhood is deadly.

I recently read an article that described LGBTQ people and those who love and affirm them as “wolves…prowling, and lions roaring…bold and proud of their heresy.”

That’s not true. That’s not who we are.

We are parents, compelled by unconditional love to embrace our children as God made them and to give them every chance to be healthy and whole.

We are pastors, compelled by Scripture, tradition, and our responsibility to God’s people to preach a gospel that is good news for all, especially for the marginalized and cast-out.

We are therapists and counselors, compelled by stories of trauma and heartache to point to a better way forward.

We are friends and neighbors, siblings and Sunday school teachers, aunts and uncles and Christian college professors spurred by truth and love to speak out. Many of us have paid a steep price for doing so, though never as steep as the LGBTQ people who face the brunt of discrimination every day. We don’t take this posture because it’s easy or popular or rebellious; we do it because we believe, with every fiber of our beings and with the conviction of the Holy Spirit, that it’s the right thing to do.

So, with all that said, this is my story…

I don’t speak from ignorance when I refer to what is often termed the “traditional view” of gender and sexuality; on the contrary, I was raised on it. For many years, it was all I knew.

I immersed myself in the apologetics movement of the 1990s, and early 2000s, memorizing all the Bible verses and familiarizing myself with the arguments around culture war issues like abortion and same sex marriage. Same sex relationships were indisputably regarded as sinful. If you’ve read any of my autobiographical books, you will not be surprised to learn that as a religious overachiever—(ENNEAGRAM THREES RULE!)—I knew the arguments against same-sex relationships backward and forward, and could handily win a proof-text debate against anyone who disagreed with what I believed was the “historic and biblical consensus” on gender, sex, and marriage. I held what many refer to as the “traditional view”—that God created men and women whose gender identities should correspond to the typically-male and typically-female physical features of their birth and whose sexual orientations and relationships must be heterosexual in order to be holy. Though I held these views without perceived malice, I have come to believe that they are inherently damaging and I grieve to think of the harm I might have done by perpetuating them, even for a short time in my late teens and early twenties.

Like a lot of folks raised in a conservative evangelical culture, I grew up believing that some people, in an act of rebellion against God, chose to pursue a “gay lifestyle” by identifying as gay, lesbian, or bisexual and by engaging in relationships with people of the same sex. Similarly, those who identified as transgender were rebelling against the gender God assigned to them via biology, and thus also living in sin. This was not something we talked about a lot in my home, which was always loving and grace-filled, but it’s something I learned about in church, at the conservative Christian college I attended, and in books and magazines I consumed voraciously as a teenager and young adult.

So what changed?

Things began to unravel in college, when the answers I’d memorized in apologetics class failed to satisfy my own nagging questions regarding conservative evangelical views on politics, science, religious pluralism, heaven and hell, sexuality and gender roles. This led to something of a crisis of faith, a story I’ve outlined in several of my books.

Even as I held the traditional view, I noticed how fellow Christians disproportionately targeted gay people.

Professors at my evangelical college argued against the legalization of same-sex marriage, but had no problem with remarriage after divorce remaining legal, despite biblical prohibitions against it. I never saw anyone kicked out of church for the “lifestyle sins” of greed or gluttony or gossip. We didn’t argue that bakers should be able to refuse service to cohabitating heterosexual couples.

Evangelicals seemed content to classify debates over women in ministry and methods of baptism as “secondary issues,” but turned LGBTQ acceptance into a doctrinal line in the sand.

It was like how, in Jesus’ day, everyone acknowledged themselves as sinners, and yet there remained a special classification for, you know, Sinners. Interestingly enough, Jesus preferred to associate with the latter.

It became clear to me that LGBTQ people were being singled out, marginalized, and rejected.

I heard stories from people like Justin Lee, whose life looked remarkably like my own—raised evangelical by loving and involved parents, deeply committed to his faith, known to his public school classmates as “God Boy” (I was “Bible Girl”), and committed to the “traditional view” that homosexuality was a sin—but with one important difference: Justin is gay. As he writes in his excellent book, Torn, Justin didn’t want to be gay. He didn’t choose to be gay. “Night after night, I cried myself to sleep,” he writes, “begging and pleading with God to take away my sexual attractions to other guys.”

Like so many other gay and lesbian Christians, Justin attempted conversion therapy through a (now defunct) organization promising “healing” and “deliverance” from homosexuality, complete with testimonies from “ex-gay” men and women that included pictures of them smiling with their families. Counselors at the organization tried to convince Justin that his same-sex attractions were the fault of his parents—“an overbearing mother and a distant father,” they said—but this simply didn’t fit with Justin’s lived experience. He was close to his father and had a healthy relationship with his mom. Justin eventually soured on conversion therapy when he saw just how much pain and guilt it instilled in himself and other LGBTQ Christians, and when high-profile “ex-gays” like Colin Cook, Michael Bussee, Gary Cooper, and John Paulk, whose testimonies helped fuel the ex-gay movement which crashed with scandals and broken families.

Several of those men later disavowed conversion therapy. Alan Chambers, the former president of Exodus International, apologized for the “pain and hurt” caused by Exodus.

It would be one thing if Justin’s story was an isolated one. But as I began traveling, speaking, and visiting with my readers in person, I heard similar stories over and over and over again.

Justin’s story was not the exception. It was the norm.

These people were not “broken.”

Far from being “unnatural,” homosexuality has been widely documented in the animal kingdom, and far from being a product of American culture, variations in gender and sexuality have been observed in hundreds of cultures around the world, from those that embrace variance in gender and sexuality (like the Navajo, or the Bugis of Indonesia), to those that make them punishable by death.

…

Rachel passed away before she had a chance to finish this article. She would reference it sometimes when we talked. She worked on it off and on for years. She started working on it again just before she got sick and was planning to post it earlier this year. This post is my best effort to show her intent. It’s based on writing and notes of hers that I found on her computer. I’ve posted it publically because I know how important this message is. It’s important enough to be public even though it’s imperfect and incomplete.

Silent allies with platforms, Clergy, Employers: It’s your turn to advocate for your LGBTQ family, friends, neighbors, and coworkers. It’s your turn to be public even if you’re imperfect and incomplete. -Dan

Related: The False Gospel of Gender Binaries

Evolving Faith 2019 is just around the corner.

Rachel worked hard on this year’s conference and the fact that she’s not here to experience it with us in person is devastating. At the same time I know all the effort she put into planning and curating it.

I know how much of her work will shine through.

I want to make sure anyone interested in attending Evolving Faith knows about it. It’s going to be an event like no other. For so many of us it’s bittersweet. It’s the last event over which Rachel had direct influence.

Yesterday I sent an email update to the RHE Newsletter email list. You can read it here.

You can find the live stream here: https://rachelheldevans.com/funeral

I haven’t yet planned much past this weekend. I’m not sure where life will take us from here. There have been press inquiries and tweets and posts and articles. But none of it changes the fact that Rachel is dead. This gaping raw wound in my life isn’t something I can fix. Sometimes things just hurt and there’s no avoiding it. Any attempt to do so, to move on too quickly, to outsmart it, to cover up the pain, will backfire. It will have to ease on its own with the passage of time.

This month of May 2019 has been a time of mourning for me and my family. But I hope to start piecing things back together after Rachel’s funeral; after a final official goodbye. I hope to start re-assembling my shattered imaginary future.

I haven’t lost what Rachel created. I’ve lost what was never mine to claim. I lost what I imagined I’d have, what I assumed would be there in the future: Her laugh, her words, her take on the latest thing. Was it reasonable to assume I’d have that? That at 38, 39, 40 she’d still be alive? Sure. Was that future owed to me? No.

Sometimes we just don’t get what we want.

But I have hope. The kind of stubborn hope that exists in the face of certain future tragedy. It’s a hope that’s aware of the past, the present, and the future possibilities. It’s a hope that’s fulfilled every time I remember I can still laugh at bad jokes, still be a friend to my friends, still love my children. It’s not a hope that requires life to turn out how I want. It’s not a hope that I have to wait for. It’s a hope that takes delight in all the things that are still good. It’s a hope I learned from Rachel.

I write these words not because I always feel them. But because I hope they will someday make up enough of me to matter. I want to be just a bit more like the person I see reflected back in my edited self. The person Rachel saw in me. She made me better than I was before I met her. She left the world better than how she found it. For that I will always be grateful.

-Dan

Thank you to all of those that have showed support and sympathy for Rachel and our family.

April 19th, 2019 Announcement

During treatment for an infection Rachel began exhibiting unexpected symptoms. Doctors found that her brain was experiencing constant seizures. She is currently in the ICU. She is in a medically induced coma while the doctors work to determine the cause and solution.

April 22, 2019 Update

Rachel is still in a medically induced coma. Drs are working to balance her treatment in an attempt to avoid negative effects of the constant seizures but also avoid possible negative effects of any medications used to sedate her and control them.

April 23rd, 2019 Update

The news today is about the same as yesterday. Rachel is still in the ICU in a medically induced coma. Sarah Bessey, Jeff Chu, and Jim Chaffee started a GoFundMe campaign for us. With unknown financial obligations pending this is a great practical encouragement to our family. Thank you again to everyone who has donated their time and resources and offered their thoughts and prayers. Rachel would have a really beautiful way to say all of this.

April 26th, 2019 Update

Rachel is still in a medically induced coma to prevent continuous seizure activity. She is not being treated for an infection at this time. She is being treated for the seizure activity. At this point the best explanation I have received for the cause of her condition is “compounding factors.” Yesterday, due to Dr recommendation, Rachel was transferred by air to a different hospital. This is the third facility we’ve been to. To everyone who has risen up to walk this road with us in person, by phone, and online: My family can’t thank you enough. We are honored by your support and encouragement.

April 28th, 2019 Update

Rachel is still in the induced coma which aids in preventing seizures. However, coma is not a long term solution and there are risks associated with continuing to induce coma. There are still tests outstanding for which we don’t yet have results. Drs are working to find a combination of medications to allow them to wean her from the coma medication without seizures restarting.

April 30th, 2019 Update

The neurology team at the hospital is weaning Rachel off of the coma medication. This is a multi-day process that started a few days ago. This is not the first attempt at weaning but it is the first attempt at the current facility. Our hope is that she has had time to heal, the medications used are helpful, and the seizures won’t start again.

May 4th, 2019 Update

Rachel was slowly weaned from the coma medication. Her seizures returned but at a reduced rate. There were periods of time where she didn’t have seizures at all. Rachel did not return to an alert state during this process. The hospital team worked to diagnose the primary cause of her seizures and proactively treated for some known possible causes for which diagnostics were not immediately available due to physical limitations.

Early Thursday morning, May 2, Rachel experienced sudden and extreme changes in her vitals. The team at the hospital discovered extensive swelling of her brain and took emergency action to stabilize her. The team worked until Friday afternoon to the best of their ability to save her. This swelling event caused severe damage and ultimately was not survivable.

Rachel died early Saturday morning, May 4, 2019.

This entire experience is surreal. I keep hoping it’s a nightmare from which I’ll awake. I feel like I’m telling someone else’s story. I cannot express how much the support means to me and our kids. To everyone who has prayed, called, texted, driven, flown, given of themselves physically and financially to help ease this burden: Thank you. We are privileged. Rachel’s presence in this world was a gift to us all and her work will long survive her.

-Dan

“There are recovery programs for people grieving the loss of a parent, sibling, or spouse. You can buy books on how to cope with the death of a beloved pet or work through the anguish of a miscarriage. We speak openly with one another about the bereavement that can accompany a layoff, a move, a diagnosis, or a dream deferred. But no one really teaches you how to grieve the loss of your faith, or the loss of your faith as it once was. You’re on your own for that.” – Searching for Sunday

***

As the season of Lent commences, I am aware this year of all who find themselves in a season of frustration, grief, and lament over the church or their place in it. The evangelical embrace of Trumpism. The abuse scandals in the Roman Catholic Church and Southern Baptist Convention. The United Methodist Church’s divisions over LGBTQ inclusion. Not a day goes by that someone doesn’t reach out to me, in person or online, to tell me they feel betrayed by their family of faith—by what has been done, and by what has been left undone.

This path of lament is a well-worn one for me, so for the next forty days, I’ll be taking to social media—Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and here on the blog—to share quotes, music, books, podcast episodes, prayers, and other resources that have been especially helpful to me in acknowledging the wounding of the church (both personally and systemically) and working toward healing (both personally and systemically).

If you want to read along, I’ll be drawing most heavily from Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy, Forgive Us: Confessions of a Compromised Faith by Lisa Sharon Harper, Mae Elise Cannon, Troy Jackson, and Soong-Chan Rah, Learning to Walk in the Dark by Barbara Brown Taylor, and Searching for Sunday by Yours Truly. I hope the series will be helpful.

It strikes me today that the liturgy of Ash Wednesday teaches something that nearly everyone can agree on. Whether you are part of a church or not, whether you believe today or your doubt, whether you are a Christian or an atheist or an agnostic or a so-called “none” (whose faith experiences far transcend the limits of that label) you know this truth deep in your bones: “Remember that you are dust and to dust you will return.”

Death is a part of life.

My prayer for you this season is that you make time to celebrate that reality, and to grieve that reality, and that you will know you are not alone.

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.

“There is deliverance in the music, there is healing in the music, there is love—there is love—in the music.”

Tiffany Thomas had reached a crescendo. As the twenty-nine- year-old pastor concluded her riveting and rhythmic testimony about how the hymns of the black church drew her to Jesus, the nine hundred people crammed into Saint Mark’s Cathedral in Minneapolis rose to their feet and cheered.

That weekend, a dozen speakers, ranging from pastors to artists to teachers to scientists joined Tiffany in responding to the question, Why Christian? Why, with all the atrocities past and present committed in God’s name, amid all the divisions ripping apart the church, in spite of all their doubts and frustrations and fears about faith, are they still followers of Jesus? What makes them continue to believe?

My friend Nadia Bolz-Weber and I posed the question at our inaugural “Why Christian?” conference in 2015 because it’s a question that weighs on us every day and it’s a question Christians don’t ask one another often enough. As each speaker approached the microphone to share their stories—some with the practiced cadence of working preachers, others with a quiet vulnerability, and all with the conviction of people whose faith has been hard-won—it became clear that there simply remains no greater apologetic for the Christian faith than a life caught up in the story of Jesus.

“I am a Christian,” explained Episcopal priest Kerlin Richter, “because having a body wasn’t always good news for me, but then I met Good News that had a body. In Jesus, I met a God who spits and kisses, who yells and cries. I am a messy and embodied person, and this is a messy and embodied faith.”

“I am a Christian,” declared Austin Channing Brown, an author and activist whose work focuses on racial justice in the church, “because God knows my pain, not in an abstract way, but in a real, bloody, enfleshed way.”

“I am a Christian,” said Rachel Murr, a researcher and counselor, “because the gospel is good news for gay people too.”

“I am a Christian,” explained Baptist preacher and human rights activist Allyson Robinson, “because I don’t always know if this story is true, but I choose to live my life as if it were. I choose to live as if the things Jesus died for were worthy of God’s sacrifice and therefore worthy of mine.”

We were a diverse group: evangelical and Lutheran, Baptist and Episcopalian, Latina and black and white and Indian and Korean, high church and low church, Catholic and Protestant, Reformed and Methodist, straight and gay and bisexual and transgender, pastors and scholars, writers and activists, crunchy dreadlocked mamas, tattooed and foul-mouthed priests, sweet-talkin’ southerners, and stiletto-boasting fashionistas. Looking at us from the outside, you’d have no idea what we all had in common. While there were variations in the verses, our shared refrain remained unapologetically orthodox, undeniably Christian. We spoke of sin, repentance, baptism, confession, incarnation, resurrection, and Scripture. We proclaimed the great mystery of the faith—that Christ has died, Christ has risen, and Christ will come again. We served and received communion. We ran out of tissue.

When it came time for me to share, I spoke honestly about my doubts about the Bible and Christianity. I confessed my uncertain- ties about raising children in this broken and beloved community we call the church. I explained how gatherings like these help restore my faith because they pull me out of my head and into the lives of others, into the big, colorful, messy, and magical story of Jesus.

“I am a Christian,” I concluded, “because the story of Jesus is still the story I’m willing to risk being wrong about.”

I had forgotten the power of giving testimony, of publicly recounting our unique “gospels according to . . .” We can know a person for decades, share a pew with them in church every Sunday, without ever knowing their testimonies, without ever asking them, “Hey, why Christian?” We can spend a lifetime singing hymns and reading the Bible without honestly answering that question for ourselves.

Jesus invites us into a story that is bigger than ourselves, bigger than our culture, bigger even than our imaginations, and yet we get to tell that story with the scandalous particularity of our particular moment and place in time. We are storytelling creatures because we are fashioned in the image of a storytelling God.

May we never neglect the gift of that. May we never lose our love for telling the tale.

Read more in Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking On Water, and Loving the Bible Again.

The Bible teems with monsters.

From the sea dragon Leviathan, with its fearful scales and claws, to the rumbling Behemoth with brasslike bones and cedar-strong tail, to the mysterious giant fish of the Mediterranean Sea that swallowed Jonah whole, the creatures of our holy text practically roar and fulminate from the page.  

In a vision, Daniel encountered four great beasts—one like a lion with eagle’s wings, one like a bear with three ribs in its mouth, another like a leopard with four wings and four heads, and a fourth with iron teeth, bronze claws, and ten horns (Daniel 7). The book of Revelation combines these images into a description of a single monster rising from the sea, resembling a leopard, lion, and bear, with “seven heads and ten horns, and upon his horns ten crowns” (Revelation 13:1 kjv). The beast is joined by a fearsome consort, a fiery-red dragon, whose tail thrashes so widely it sweeps a third of the stars from the sky.

Biblical beasts can represent several things—the awe-inspiring mystery of the natural world, the fearful chaos of the unknown, the sovereignty of God over even the most powerful forces in the universe—but in the case of the mutant creatures of Daniel and Revelation, they represent the evils of oppressive empires.

It’s easy for modern-day readers to forget that much of the Bible was written by religious minorities living under the heels of powerful nation-states known for their extravagant wealth and violence. For the authors of the Old Testament, it was the Egyptian, Assyrian, Babylonian, Greek, and Persian Empires. For the authors of the New Testament, it was, of course, the massive Roman Empire. These various superpowers, which inflicted centuries of suffering upon the Jews and other conquered populations, became collectively known among the people of God as Babylon.

One of the most important questions facing the people who gave us the Bible was: How do we resist Babylon, both as an exterior force that opposes the ways of God and an interior pull that tempts us with imitation and assimilation? They answered with volumes of stories, poems, prophecies, and admonitions grappling with their identity as an exiled people, their anger at the forces that scattered and oppressed them, God’s role in their exile and deliverance, and the ultimate hope that one day “Babylon, the jewel of kingdoms, the pride and glory of the Babylonians, will be overthrown by God” (Isaiah 13:19).

It is in this sense that much of Scripture qualifies as resistance literature. It defies the empire by subverting the notion that history will be written by the wealthy, powerful, and cruel, insisting instead that the God of the oppressed will have the final word…

...Throughout the Bible’s resistance stories, we encounter examples of apocalyptic literature. The word apocalypse means “unveiling” or “disclosing.” An apocalyptic event or vision, therefore, reveals things as they really are. It peels back the layers of pomp and pre- tense, fear and uncertainty, to expose the true forces at work in the world. Using highly symbolic, theologically charged language, the authors of Scripture employ apocalyptic literature to dramatize the work of the Resistance, to offer hope to those suffering under the weight of an empire that seems, on the surface, all-powerful and unassailable. So when the prophets Daniel and John envision the empires as vicious beasts, what they’re saying is, Beneath all the wealth, power, and excess of these dazzling empires lie grotesque monsters, trampling everyone and everything in their path. And when they depict God as tolerating, then restraining, and finally destroying these monsters, what they’re saying is, The story isn’t over; even the greatest empires are no match for goodness, righteousness, and justice. It might not look like it now, but the Resistance is winning.

The beasts of Daniel and Revelation need not be literal to be real. To the people who first read the Bible, they were as real as the imperial soldiers who marched down their streets, the royal edicts that threatened their homes and livelihoods, and the heavy fear that crept into every fitful dream, every visit to the market, every hushed conversation about what to do if the emperor demanded their worship or their death.

“The point of apocalyptic texts is not to predict the future,” explained biblical scholar Amy-Jill Levine in The Meaning of the Bible; “it is to provide comfort in the present. The Bible is not a book of teasers in which God has buried secrets only to be revealed three millennia later.” Rather, she argued, apocalyptic texts “proclaim that a guiding hand controls history, and assure that justice will be done.”

But a lot of Christians, especially American Christians, prefer instead, wild, futuristic stories about children vanishing out of their clothes, airplanes dropping from the sky, pestilence overtaking the earth, and a Democrat getting elected president—the stuff of paperbacks and Christian B movies. And I think that’s because Americans, particularly white Americans, have a hard time catching apocalyptic visions when they benefit too much from the status quo to want a peek behind the curtain. When you belong to the privileged class of the most powerful global military superpower in the world, it can be hard to relate to the oppressed minorities who wrote so much of the Bible. (And no, their oppression did not consist of getting wished “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas” at Target. That’s not actual persecution, folks.)

The fact is, the shadow under which most of the world trembles today belongs to America, and its beasts could be named any number of things— White Supremacy, Colonialism, the Prison Industrial Complex, the War Machine, Civil Religion, Materialism, Greed…

...America’s no ancient Babylon or Rome, I know that. But America’s no kingdom of God either.

If you doubt it, study an old diagram of a slave ship. Try to count the number of chained-up bodies drawn flatly in the cargo hold, and multiply that by hundreds of thousands, representing the nearly half a million Africans brought to America in the slave trade. Then remember that each of those bodies represents the very real life of a very real human being, created in the image of God, with memories and ideas and quirks and fears, and that those who survived the voyage across the Middle Passage were brutally enslaved by people who claimed to be Christians.

Or consider the Trail of Tears, and try to imagine what it would be like to be a Cherokee mother, driven out of your home by the US government, stripped of your belongings, and forced to walk thousands of miles with your small children, from Georgia to Oklahoma, without enough food or medical care—all because white men wanted the gold on your land. More than four thousand Cherokees, including many mothers and children, died from expo- sure, disease, and starvation while making that gruesome march. Imagine watching your toddler die of hunger in the snow.

Or google the history of child labor in the United States, or its treatment of the mentally ill in so-called “lunatic asylums,” or Japanese internment during World War II, or Jim Crow, or the nine hundred Jewish refugees aboard the St. Louis who were turned away from the United States and sent back to Europe to face the Holocaust. Or find out if the children of Flint, Michigan, have access to clean water yet.

The fact is, despite wistful nostalgia for the days when America was a supposedly “Christian nation,” the history of this country is littered with the bodies of innocent men, women, and children who were neglected, enslaved, dispossessed, and slaughtered so the privileged class could have more and more and more and more.

More land.
More money.
More power.
More status.

More furs, more guns, more profits, more amenities, more square footage, more security, more fame.

And these are not just ghosts of the past. Having been historically dispossessed and discriminated against, African American and indigenous communities continue to face higher rates of poverty and crime, and struggle disproportionately for access to quality education, healthy food, secure housing, and affordable health care. The United States has the highest incarceration rate in the world; and even though five times as many white people use drugs as African Americans, African Americans are sent to prison for drug offenses at ten times the rate of whites. While the ultrarich get richer, middle- and lower-income wages have stagnated so that the number of “working poor” in America continues to grow. In many states, you can still get fired from your job for simply being gay, but you can be a serial womanizer who brags about grabbing married women “by the pussy” and still get elected president.

There’s just no denying that the very things for which Israel was condemned by the prophets—gross income inequality, mistreatment of immigrants and refugees, carelessness toward life, the oppression of the poor and vulnerable, and the worship of money, sex, and violence—remain potent, prevalent sins in our culture. These sins are embedded in nearly every system of our society from education to law enforcement to entertainment to religion. We are all culpable, all responsible for working for change.

Yet rather than confessing our sins, and rather than dismantling the systems that perpetuate them, many Christians shrug it off as part of an irrelevant past or spin out religious-sounding rhetoric about peace and reconciliation without engaging in the hard work of repentance and restitution. Ever the quick-fix culture, we want oppressed people to “just get over it,” to move on and let the injustice go. I’ve heard many black preachers liken the church’s response to racism in America to the words of Jeremiah, who cried, “They dress the wound of my people as though it were not serious. ‘Peace, peace,’ they say, when there is no peace” (Jeremiah 6:14).

Saying we are a nation of peace doesn’t make it so—not for Trayvon Martin, not for Tamir Rice, not for the twenty kindergartners shot at Sandy Hook Elementary School, not for that Cherokee mama, not for the Iraqi villagers in the crosshairs of our drones.

Tensions around issues of injustice must not be avoided in the name of an easy peace and cheap grace, but rather passionately engaged, until justice rolls down like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream.

My friend Jonathan Martin, who is a third-generation Pentecostal preacher, described the election of Donald Trump as an apocalyptic event—not in the sense that it brought on the end of the world, but in the sense that it uncovered, or revealed, divides and contours in the American social landscape many of us did not want to face, deep rifts regarding race, religion, nationalism, gender, and fear. It was certainly apocalyptic for me in the way that it exposed, to my shame, my reluctance to resist certain injustices in this country until the resistance movement fit more conveniently with my political persuasions.

For too long, the white American church has chosen the promise of power over prophetic voice. We have allied ourselves with the empire and, rather than singing songs of hopeful defiance with the exiles, created more of them. We have, consciously and unconsciously, done the bidding of the Beast—not in every case, of course, but in far too many.

This is why it’s so important to follow the lead of modern-day prophets like Bree Newsome who, in scaling that flagpole, removing the Confederate flag, and declaring God’s reign over and above the tradition of prophetic protest. Her actions helped my generation visualize a better future. She simultaneously revealed things as they are and how they might be.

We must listen too to Rev. William Barber of North Carolina, who, though he struggles with a severe arthritic spinal condition and bursitis in his left knee, has marched and preached for decades on civil rights, pressing upon elected leaders and private citizens alike the moral imperative to “shock this nation with the power of love.”

I think also of my clergywomen friends, who, in the face of near-constant obstruction and all kinds of sexist double standards, preach the Word, run soup kitchens, anoint the sick, tend to the dying, sponsor refugees, get arrested at protests, and speak truth to power, day in and day out, with little thanks or praise.

I think of Jeremy Courtney of the Preemptive Love Coalition, whose work providing medical care for families in Iraq led him to advocate tirelessly on behalf of refugees and to challenge the complicity of American Christians in turning those refugees away.

And then there are the many prophets outside the United States, like the Coptic Christians of Egypt who, after terrorists bombed two churches on Palm Sunday 2017, showed up to church in unprecedented numbers seven days later to celebrate the risen Christ, their numbers literally spilling out the doors and onto the streets. Sometimes just showing up to the communion table is a way of looking straight into the eyes of the Beast and saying, “Not today.”

These are the people telling today’s resistance stories, drawing from the Bible’s deep well of prophetic examples for inspiration and strength. Though political, they avoid partisanship; though clear-eyed, they remain stubbornly hopeful…

...What I love about the Bible is that the story isn’t over. There are still prophets in our midst. There are still dragons and beasts. It might not look like it, but the Resistance is winning. The light is breaking through. So listen to the weirdos. Listen to the voices crying from the wilderness. They are pointing us to a new King and a better kingdom. As Jesus said, “Let those with ears, hear.”

Read the rest in Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking On Water, and Loving the Bible Again. 

“…The question of God’s character haunted every scene and every act and every drama of the Bible. It wasn’t just the story of Noah’s flood or Joshua’s conquests that unsettled me. The book of Judges recounts several horrific war stories in which women’s bodies are used as weapons, barter, or plunder, without so much as a peep of objection from the God in whose name these atrocities are committed. One woman, a concubine of a Levite man, is thrown to a mob, gang-raped, and dismembered as part of an intertribal dispute (Judges 19). Another young girl is ceremonially sacrificed to God after God grants a military victory to her father, Jephthah, who promised to offer as a burnt offering “whatever comes out of the door of my house to meet me when I return in triumph from the Ammonites” (Judges 11:31). Earlier, in the book of Numbers, God assists the Israelites in an attack against the Midianites, and tells the Israelites to kill every man, woman, and child from the community. They kill all except the young virgin girls whom the soldiers divide up as spoils of war. Feminist scholar Phyllis Trible aptly named these narratives “texts of terror.”

“If art imitates life,” she wrote, “scripture likewise reflects it in both holiness and horror.”

Rereading the texts of terror as a young woman, I kept anticipating some sort of postscript or epilogue chastising the major players for their sins, a sort of Arrested Development–style “lesson” to wrap it all up—“And that’s why you should always challenge the patriarchy!” But no such epilogue exists. While women are raped, killed, and divided as plunder, God stands by, mute as clay.

I waited for a word from God, but no word came.

It was as though I lived suspended in the tension of two apparently competing convictions: that every human being is of infinite worth and value, and that the Bible is the infallible Word of God. These beliefs pulled at me with the gravitational forces of large planets. I couldn’t get rid of them, and yet I couldn’t seem to resolve them either. The tension was compounded by a growing confluence of mis- givings I had about the absence of women in leadership in my church, the shaming of young women perceived to be immodest or “impure,” and the insistence that God is most pleased when women are submissive and quiet. My home had always been a place of refuge, where the voices of women were valued and honored, but as I graduated from high school and entered college, I began to wonder if the same was true for the broader Christian community to which I belonged.

When I turned to pastors and professors for help, they urged me to set aside my objections, to simply trust that God is good and that the Bible’s war stories happened as told, for reasons beyond my comprehension.

“God’s ways are higher than our ways,” they insisted. “Stop trying to know the mind of God.”

It’s an understandable approach. Human beings are finite and fallible, prone to self-delusion and sentimentality. If we rely exclusively on our feelings to guide us to truth, we are bound to get lost.

When asked in 2010 about Joshua’s conquest of Canaan, Reformed pastor and theologian John Piper declared, without hesitation, “It’s right for God to slaughter women and children anytime he pleases. God gives life and he takes life. Everybody who dies, dies because God wills that they die.” Piper’s dispassionate acceptance represented pure, committed faith, I was told, while mine had been infected by humanism and emotion—“a good example of why women should be kept from church leadership,” one acquaintance said.

And for a moment, I believed it. For a moment, I felt silly for responding so emotionally to a bunch of old war stories that left the rest of the faithful seemingly unfazed. But this is the deleterious snare of fundamentalism: It claims that the heart is so corrupted by sin, it simply cannot be trusted to sort right from wrong, good from evil, divine from depraved. Instinct, intuition, conscience, critical thinking—these impulses must be set aside whenever they appear to contradict the biblical text, because the good Christian never questions the “clear teachings of Scripture”; the good Christian listens to God, not her gut.

I’ve watched people get so entangled in this snare they contort into shapes unrecognizable. When you can’t trust your own God- given conscience to tell you what’s right, or your own God-given mind to tell you what’s true, you lose the capacity to engage the world in any meaningful, authentic way, and you become an easy target for authoritarian movements eager to exploit that vacuity for their gain. I tried reading Scripture with my conscience and curiosity suspended, and I felt, quite literally, disintegrated. I felt fractured and fake.

Brené Brown warned us we can’t selectively numb our emotions, and no doubt this applies to the emotions we have about our faith.

If the slaughter of Canaanite children elicits only a shrug, then why not the slaughter of Pequots? Of Syrians? Of Jews? If we train ourselves not to ask hard questions about the Bible, and to emotionally distance ourselves from any potential conflicts or doubts, then where will we find the courage to challenge interpretations that justify injustice? How will we know when we’ve got it wrong?

“Belief in a cruel god makes a cruel man,” Thomas Paine said.  If the Bible teaches that God is love, and love can look like genocide and violence and rape, then love can look like . . . anything. It’s as much an invitation to moral relativism as you’ll find anywhere.

I figured if God was real, then God didn’t want the empty devotion of some shadow version of Rachel, but rather my whole, integrated self. So I decided to face the Bible’s war stories head-on, mind and heart fully engaged, willing to risk the loss of faith if that’s where the search led…

Read the rest in Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking On Water, and Loving the Bible Again. 

This week marks the official release of my new book,  Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking on Water, and Loving the Bible Again. You can pick it up at a local bookstore or order online, but before you do, there are a few things you should know:

1. It’s a little weird. One chapter includes a sonnet I wrote to the beast of Revelation 13. Another features an original short screenplay that renders the story of Job into a dramatic conversation between colleagues in a college cafeteria. Between chapters 6 and 7 you get to choose your own adventure. So in addition to the personal, memoir-style reflections you’ve come to expect from me, Inspired includes some ventures into new genres—poetry, fiction, soliloquies, and vignettes—all while integrating into the narrative biblical scholarship that I hope will help you read and engage the Bible better. I wrote WAY out of my comfort zone with this one, and I think…I hope…it works.  

2. I’m far more insecure about #1 than I’m letting on.

3. It’s not for everyone. If you routinely use words like “clear,” “straightforward,” or “plain,” to describe the Bible, if you remain unbothered by the Bible’s most violent stories and troubling instructions, if you use the term “biblical manhood” un-ironically, you probably won’t like it.  But if you’re eager to encounter the Bible in a way that engages your skepticism, imagination, hopes, and doubts, and if you’re willing to confront the Bible’s most difficult passages head-on without relying on simplistic explanations, then I wrote this book for you.

4. For those keeping tally, this book includes one Arrested Development reference, which I believe brings the grand total for all my books to six.

5. I researched the heck out of this book. I’m not a Bible scholar, but I’m the kind of person who likes nothing more than to spend a Saturday night in my pajamas curled up with a good Bible commentary. What I wanted to do with Inspired was share some of the most interesting, paradigm-shifting, and life-changing scholarship I’ve encountered over the last few years in a way that is accessible and personal. What does it mean that Genesis 1 is better understood as an ancient Near Eastern creation narrative meant to stand in contrast to other popular Babylonian creation narratives encountered by the Jews in exile? How in the world does that information impact our day-to-day lives?

That was my challenge in writing this book, and I had an absolute ball doing it. I was also hyper-vigilant about crediting my sources, and I ran this manuscript by more people than any previous manuscript, including Old Testament and New Testament scholars. I don’t expect every reader to agree with every word—not by a long shot—but I did my homework. (If you’re interested, the most influential scholars for this project were Walter Brueggemann, Peter Enns, Delores Williams and other womanist scholars like Wil Gafney and Nyasha Junior, John Walton, Ellen Davis, Amy-Jill Levine, Phyllis Trible, N.T. Wright. Timothy Beal, James Come, Eugene Boring, and James Brownson. I also rely heavily on what I’ve learned in recent years from Jewish midrash and Ignatian spirituality.)

6. I really hope you will consider reading this one with a group. More than any other book I’ve written, Inspired is intended to be read, wrestled with, discussed, debated, and creatively engaged in the context of community, precisely because I believe the Bible invites us to do those things. Over the course of the next few weeks I’ll be sharing additional resources, including a 40-page reading guide, for those of you who choose to read Inspired for a book club, in Sunday school, as a class project, or with your small group. So keep an eye out for that.

7. This will always be my “baby book.” I started writing “Inspired” shortly after the birth of my son in 2016, and we are publishing just three weeks after the birth of my daughter in May of 2018. This is the book I wrote in between nursing sessions and on just a few hours of sleep. It’s the one that required hauling my exhausted ass to libraries and coffee shops for just a few moments of quiet to crank out 300 words here and 1,000 words there. It’s the book I was writing when the corners of my world both expanded to encompass reaches of love previously unknown and contracted to attend to the daily tasks of waking, feeding, diapering, and laundering. Every book takes a village, but this one took a veritable city of friends, family, agents, and editors, willing to give of their time and work at odd hours to ensure I could continue writing. I am so, so grateful.

8.  I need your help getting the word out. With a new baby at home, I’m not able to do a book tour or many media interviews, so I’m relying heavily on my readers and on social media to generate sales. One of the most effective things you can do to help is to take a picture of your favorite quote from the book and share it with your friends. Use #InspiredBook for that. Posting reviews to Amazon and Goodreads is also appreciated.

As always, thanks for your readership and support. It never fails to humble and move me that you would want to spend time in the company of my words. May they challenge you to see the Bible, and the world it illuminates, in ways that inspire. 

Get your copy of Inspired
 

“The story isn’t over. There are still prophets in our midst.  There are still dragons and beasts. It might not look like it, but the Resistance is winning. The light is breaking through.”
– from “Resistance Stories,” in Inspired

UPDATE June 12, 2018: The Pre-order offer has ended but the life of the book has just begun. Thank you for your interest!

We’re still a few weeks away from the release of my new book, Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking on Water, and Loving the Bible Again, but today I wanted to let you know about a generous pre-order incentive offered by my publisher.

If you pre-order Inspired before June 11, and submit proof of purchase, you will receive:

- The 40-page Inspired Reading Guide (PDF), written entirely by me, which includes questions for reflection and discussion, ideas for creative engagement with the relevant biblical texts, and loads of additional resources. (If you’re considering reading this book with a group, I wrote this with you in mind.)

- Two audio chapters from Inspired (MP3), including a creative reflection imagined from the perspective Hagar, an important female figure in the book of Genesis.

- Three GORGEOUS prints created by Connie Gabbert (PDF), the artist who designed the cover of Inspired. The prints feature two quotes from the book and also my “life verse,” Proverbs 27:14—“If anyone loudly blesses their neighbor early in the morning, it will be taken as a curse.”

In addition to all of this, Barnes & Noble sweetened the deal by offering an exclusive, limited run of autographed copies, available for pre-order.

All it takes is two steps:

1.   Pre-order.

2.   Submit proof of purchase to redeem the offer.

I confess I’m really eager to see how you respond to this book. It’s unlike any other I’ve written, for in addition to memoir, it includes original poetry, short stories, soliloquies, and even a short screenplay, all aimed at engaging your questions, doubts, ideas, and imagination as you wrestle with the Bible along with me.

So read with an open and curious mind.

Read with your skepticism and your imagination engaged.

Read expecting dragons.

Today I was asked by a reporter for a brief quote in response to John Piper’s recent article and interview entitled, “Sex Abuse Allegations and the Egalitarian Myth.” My quote turned out a little….long. So I decided to post my thoughts here. 

***

In his teaching and preaching, Pastor John Piper promotes a complementarian view of gender, which essentially holds that patriarchy is God’s will for male and female relationships. Men are to be the leaders in their homes, the church, and (to varying degrees) society, while women are to hold subordinate roles in those spheres. In this interview, Piper’s response to the sexual harassment and abuse highlighted by the #MeToo movement is to call for a return to patriarchy, wherein men rule over and “protect” women who in turn “submit” to men. This is a dangerously misguided response for a few reasons.

First, it assumes sexual assault, harassment, and abuse are recent phenomena, products of egalitarian views on gender that grant women equality in the home, church, and culture. But abuses like these have been around for centuries. In fact, Piper can read about some of them in his Bible in the stories of women like Hagar, Tamar, Lot’s daughters, and Bathsheba, all of whom lived in highly patriarchal cultures. The #MeToo movement does not reflect some sudden increase in the abuse of women; rather, it reflects a growing awareness of those abuses, and a mounting, collective fervor to confront them. It’s a movement led by and for women, women who aren’t asking for some sort of paternalistic “protection” because they are fragile females, but rather to be treated with the dignity and respect they deserve simply because they are human beings. As Cameron Baumgartner noted on Twitter, Piper mischaracterizes egalitarianism by "repeating multiple times that it teaches men they don't owe women care and protection. He's twisting egalitarianism's rejection of paternalistic oppression to mean an abdication of care towards our fellow humans."

And yet, with a few exceptions, these efforts to challenge abuse are not coming from the evangelical church for which Piper is a leader, but rather from the broader culture, which Piper routinely maligns for its increasing gender equity. The hypocrisy here is staggering, for as everyone knows, white evangelicals overwhelmingly support President Trump, a man who has been accused by more than twenty women of sexual assault, who is on record bragging about those assaults, and who was recently found in a Christianity Today poll to be evangelicals’ “most trusted celebrity.”  If Piper really wants to protect women, he might start by confronting some of America’s most vocal abuse apologists these days: evangelical Christians.

But what’s most dangerous about this posture is that Piper seems to assume that because evangelicals aren’t confronting sexual assault and abuse the way that Hollywood is, then those things must not be happening in their churches, that abuse only occurs in egalitarian communities where women have more power and influence. I would posit that, based on the many stories I hear from women who have left evangelical churches, it’s far more likely that abuse is flourishing in patriarchal homes and churches where women are given little voice and little recourse; it's just getting swept under the rug rather than named and confronted. After all, Piper has said in the past that a woman in an abusive relationship should “endure verbal abuse for a season” and “perhaps being smacked one night,” before seeking help—not from authorities, but from her (male-led) church. As we have seen in the unfolding story of Sovereign Grace Ministries, in highly patriarchal churches where women have no power and where abuse claims are typically handled “in house” by the men in leadership, abuse runs rampant.

That’s because contrary to Piper’s argument, patriarchy isn’t about protecting women; it’s about protecting men. It's about preserving male rule over the home, church, and society, often at the expense of women. 

In addition to mishandling his analysis of the #MeToo movement by blaming sexual assault on egalitarianism, Piper grossly mishandles Scripture in an attempt to proof-text his claims. For example, he points to the story of Adam and Eve from Genesis to suggest that an order of authority was established at creation wherein men are designed to lead and protect women, and women are designed to defer to and follow men. The Fall, as Christians sometimes like to call it, was the result of Adam’s failure to live into the masculine role of leading and protecting his wife. This is an…innovative….reading of the text for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that the Hebrew word used in Genesis 2 to describe Eve, (typically translated “helper”), is formed from the Hebrew word ezer.  Far from connoting helplessness or subordination, the word ezer is employed elsewhere in Scripture to describe God, the consummate intervener—the helper of the fatherless (Psalm 10:14), King David’s strong defender and deliverer (Psalm 70:5), Israel’s shield and helper (Deuteronomy 33:29). Ironically, in Genesis, the woman is literally the “strong protector” of the man!

Another staggering mishandling of Scripture occurs when Piper claims that the household codes of the New Testament, wherein the biblical writers urge wives to submit to their husbands and husbands to love their wives, are unique to the Bible and that “there’s nothing like it in any culture in the world.” This is categorically untrue. In fact, the authors of those New Testament texts were undoubtedly drawing from very similar instructions written by Aristotle, Philo and Josephus, known well throughout the Greco-Roman world.  What makes the household codes of the New Testament different is not that they reinforce the patriarchal ordering of a household, but that they point to the humility of Jesus as the model for every relationship, inviting the first Christians—a strange mix of Jews and gentiles, masters and slaves, husbands and wives and widows and orphans—to look beyond cultural status to a better Kingdom in which “there is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). 

(I’ve written extensively about the household codes of the New Testament in this blog post,  in this series, and in three of my books, including the soon-to-be-released Inspired.) 

In conclusion—

Banning women from the pulpit and silencing their voices in the church doesn’t protect women; it harms them.

Instructing women to submit to their husbands by “enduring abuse” doesn’t protect women; it harms them.

Handling abuse and assault allegations “in house” by reporting them to the male elders of a church instead of to the police doesn’t protect women; it harms them.

Misusing Scripture to reinforce gender stereotypes based more on white, American, post-World War II cultural ideals than biblical truth doesn’t protect women; it harms them.

Calling for a return to patriarchy doesn't protect women; it harms them. 

Patriarchy is not counter-cultural. It has for centuries been the norm. What’s truly counter-cultural is imitating Jesus, who, “being in very nature God,” surrendered his power and privilege to become a human—one birthed, nursed, protected, befriended, and BELIEVED by women. 

I had to cut my spring speaking schedule short this year because we have a baby girl joining our family in May, (and I prefer not to travel more than 30-feet during my third trimester!), but if you live in Texas, Florida, or North Carolina, you may have the chance to say hello before I hole up for the rest of the season.

Upcoming events include:

February 23-24
Highland Park United Methodist Church Women’s Retreat
Dallas, Texas
I’ll be speaking about sisterhood, with talks entitled, “Sisters of Valor,” “Sisters in the Wilderness,” and “Sisters at the Table.”
Learn more, and register, here.

March 3-4
The Church of Bethesda-By-The-Sea Lenten Retreat
Palm Beach, Florida
On Saturday, I’ll be leading a sort of “Vacation Bible School for Adults,” where we learn to engage familiar Bible stories in new and creative ways. On Sunday, I’ll deliver a (very) short homily at the 8:00 a.m. & 11 a.m. services.
Learn more, and register, here.

March 16-17
The Why Christian? Conference
Duke Chapel, Durham, North Carolina
There are only a few dozen tickets left for this event, hosted by myself and Nadia Bolz-Weber, and featuring eight amazing and diverse speakers who will all respond to the question, “Why are you a Christian?” Learn more, and register, here.

Hope to see you soon! 

So begins the first pages of my next literary endeavor, Inspired: Slaying Giants, Walking on Water, and Loving the Bible Again, available now for pre-order and officially releasing June 12, 2018.

This is a book about the Bible. And it’s unlike any other book I’ve ever written, for in addition to the memoir, it includes original poetry, short stories, soliloquies, and even a short screenplay—all aimed at capturing the wonder and beauty of Scripture, while honoring the best in biblical scholarship and acknowledging the challenges of its most difficult passages.

My hope is that this book will rekindle in you a childlike love for the stories of the Bible, but in a way that engages the heart and mind, your faith and your doubts.

I’ve been hinting about the book on social media, but today I get to reveal the title and cover, both of which I love. Thanks to my editor, Jenny Baumgartner, for helping me land on the title (after hours of discussion and a bunch of polls, to which many of you contributed), and to the cover’s designer, Connie Gabbert, and the art director from Thomas Nelson, Belinda Bass. This was a team effort and I’m thrilled with the results.

I’ll be revealing more about the content and vision for Inspired in the weeks and months ahead. But in the meantime, if you jump over to Twitter and re-tweet my announcement there, you’ll be entered to win a FREE ADVANCED COPY!

Or you can pre-order here.

As always, thanks for your readership and support. It never fails to humble and move me that you would want to spend time in the company of my words. What an honor that is.

It’s an unconventional birth announcement.

Defiant.

Prophetic.

Unsentimental.

We like to paint Mary in the softer hues—her robes clean, hair combed and covered, body poised in prayerful surrender—but this young woman was a fierce one, full of strength and fury. When she accepts the dangerous charge before her, (every birth was risky in those days, this one especially so), rather than reciting a maternal blessing, Mary offers a prophecy:

My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.
Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;
for the Mighty One has done great things for me,    
and holy is his name.

His mercy is for those who fear him    
from generation to generation.
He has shown strength with his arm;    
he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.
He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,    
and lifted up the lowly; he has filled the hungry with good things,    
and sent the rich away empty.

He has helped his servant Israel,    
in remembrance of his mercy, according to the promise he made to our ancestors,    
to Abraham and to his descendants forever. 

When sung in a warm, candlelit church at Advent, it can be easy to blunt these words, to imagine them as symbolic, non-specific, comforting.

But I’m not feeling sentimental this Advent. I’m feeling angry, restless. 

And so in this season, I hear Mary’s Magnificat shouted, not sung: 

In the halls of the Capitol Building…. 

"He has filled the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty.”

In the corridors of the West Wing…

“He has brought down the powerful from their thrones, and lifted up the lowly.”

In the streets of Charlottesville…

“He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.”

Among women who have survived assault, harassment, and rape...

“He has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant. Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed.”

Among the poor, the refugees, the victims of gun violence, and the faithful ministers of the gospel who at great cost are speaking out against the false religions of nationalism and white supremacy…

“His mercy is for those who fear him, from generation to generation.”

With the Magnificat, Mary not only announces a birth, she announces the inauguration of a new kingdom, one that stands in stark contrast to every other kingdom—past, present, and future—that relies on violence and exploitation to achieve “greatness.” With the Magnificat, Mary declares that God has indeed chosen sides.

And it’s not with the powerful, but the humble.

It’s not with the rich, but with the poor.

It’s not with the occupying force, but with people on the margins.  

It’s not with narcissistic kings, but with an un-wed, un-believed teenage girl entrusted with the holy task of birthing, nursing, and nurturing God.

This is the stunning claim of the incarnation: God has made a home among the very people the world casts aside. And in her defiant prayer, Mary—a dark-skinned woman, a refugee, a religious minority in an occupied land—names this reality.  

“God is with us. And if God is with us, who can stand against us?”

I hear a lot of professed Christians right now suggesting that it’s okay if powerful men resort to a little lying, bigotry, abuse, and misogyny as long as Americans “get to say Merry Christmas again.” Besides the fact that virtually no one in this country has ever been prohibited from saying “Merry Christmas” in the first place, such a sentiment stands in blasphemous contradiction to the very doctrine of incarnation we are meant to embrace this time of year.

God did not wrap himself up in flesh, humbling himself to the point of birth in a stable and death on a cross, eating, laughing, weeping, and suffering as one of us, so that I can complain to management when a barista at Starbucks wishes me “Happy Holidays” instead of “Merry Christmas.” The incarnation isn’t about desperately grasping at the threads of power and privilege. It’s not about making some civic holiday “bigger and better.” It’s about surrendering power, setting aside privilege, and finding God in the smallness and vulnerability of a baby in a womb.

To claim that the lighting of a national Christmas tree each year makes this country “a Christian nation,” while its powerful systematically oppress the poor, turn away refugees, incite violence against religious and ethnic minorities, molest and harass women and girls and call them liars when they dare to speak up, is, in the words of the prophet Amos, sickening to God.

“I hate, I despise your festivals,” God says in Amos 5, “and I take no delight in your solemn assemblies… Take away from me the noise of your songs; I will not listen to the melody of your harps. But let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.”

We cannot claim to embrace the Holy Family while withholding justice from those who would most identify with them. We cannot talk of “making Christmas great again” while taking the side of powerful and violent over the vulnerable. 

The season of Advent is meant to be a time of waiting.

 In years past, I lit candles, sang “O Come Emmanuel,” and pondered in stillness the joy of Christ’s first coming and the hope of his second.  

But this year I cannot be still. This year, hope is hard, belief is hard.

And so I’m waiting with the angst of the prophets, with the restlessness of the psalmist who cried “How long, oh Lord, will You hide your face forever?” and with the stubborn, unsentimental hope of a woman so convinced the baby inside her would change everything, she proclaimed in present tense that the great reversal has already arrived—

The powerful have already been humbled.

The vulnerable have already been lifted up.

For God has made a home among the people.

God has made a home with us.

“So you’re a mommy blogger?”

When I started blogging a decade ago, I got this question a lot, and at times I responded with a touch of antipathy. Childless and independent, with far more interest in the latest political and theological debates than trends in cloth diapering, I, like so many others, dismissed “mommy blogging” as trivial, jejune.

It didn’t help that, back then, women writers of faith were such an underrepresented group online, several advertisers and publishers literally had no category for women like me, so they labeled me a “mommy blogger,” whether the term fit my work or not.

“I do have a blog,” I’d respond defensively, “but I’m definitely not a mommy blogger. I don’t even have kids.”

But my attitude toward “mommy blogs” changed once I actually started reading them. In between the photo dumps and product placements were some of the most honest, considered, and powerful essays I’d ever read, essays about things that really mattered: faith, doubt, feminism, race, mental health, addiction, community, friendship, mindfulness, grace and the unique joys and challenges of raising children in our highly-connected, yet increasingly isolating culture. 

The women behind these blogs wrote with uncommon humor, courage and insight, often posting multiple entries a week—a schedule that would make the most seasoned professional columnist sweat. As I subscribed to more and more of their feeds, I came to realize the term “mommy blog” was insufficient to describe the breadth and depth of what these women were writing about online.

Sarah Bessey’s reflections on faith and feminism and Osheta Moore’s practical guidance on justice and peace challenged me to live as a more faithful follower of Jesus in those quiet, unpublicized moments when faithfulness really matters.

Denene Millner’s posts about parenting black boys as a black mother did far more to wake me up to realities of racial injustice in this country than my subscription to The New York Times, and Kristen Howerton’s “Rage Against the Minivan” blog introduced me to the concept of white privilege in a way that made sense and inspired change. 

Bunmi Laditan, Jenny Lawson, and Jen Hatmaker routinely had me in stitches at my laptop. Nish Weiseth basically made me a democrat. Mihee Kim-Kort became one of my pastors. 

Glennon Melton, of course, used her disarming humor and candor to invite readers to get real about everything from addiction, to perfectionism, to bullying, to the futility of trying desperately to “seize the day” amidst the fog of parenting young children. (Glennon’s gone on to write two bestselling books and raise millions of dollars for vulnerable women and children. The term “mommy blogger” doesn’t exactly cut it.)

Though my life looked very different from the lives of these women, their work gave me permission to exhale, to relax into the spirit of “me too” that pervaded the comment sections. They taught me too that our biggest questions, our deepest desires and fears and joys, often meet us in the quotidian challenges of marriage, parenting and home life—at the 3 a.m. feeding, in the tantrum at Costco, amidst piles of dirty laundry, at the community playground, in the bouquet of weeds left carefully on your pillow.

When I clicked through images of the largest protest in U.S. history to see millions of women—old and young, married and single, parents and non-parents—marching peacefully through the streets of every major city in the U.S., I couldn’t help but smile and think, “Look: mommy bloggers.”  

Never underestimate what women can do together.

Eighteen months ago, I became a mother myself.  So far, parenting has been a lot like driving without a GPS. We bought the parenting books of course, and we can turn to friends and family for help and advice, but when things get especially hairy, I often find myself conjuring the wisdom of mommy bloggers, past and present, whose words guide me the way a local gives an out-of-towner directions: “Turn left at the big red barn. Go down that road a few miles, maybe three. You’ll see a tree that’s been struck by lightening. Make a right there. Watch your speed because the sheriff’s always out this time of day.”

This terrain is new, yet familiar.

The emotional ups and downs are intense, but not surprising.  The hard days are hard, but not unexpected. The beautiful moments are everything they said they would be….and so much more.

Thanks to all those “mommy blogs,” I knew ahead of time that feeling guilty, exhausted, and even angry didn’t make me a bad mom, that it’s okay to ask for help, to say you’re not okay. Thanks to the courage of other moms, I knew ahead of time that pregnancy after a miscarriage would be scary, that just because breastfeeding is “natural” doesn’t mean it’s easy, that my marriage and  body and worldview would inevitably change, that "sometimes you feel two feelings at the same time, and that's okay."

...Okay, so that last one is from Daniel Tiger...I can't help it; that cat's in my head. 

I wanted to write about this because the other day, my son decided to turn another diaper change into a wrestling match, and in my exhaustion, I got so frazzled and frustrated, I started shaking. I felt out of control, and that scared me.  Then, from somewhere in the past, I heard the voice of a mommy blogger: Put him in his crib with some toys where he’ll be safe, and give yourself three minutes in the bathroom to cry it out. It's better for you both if you take the time to regain your calm.

I have no idea where I read that advice, but it saved my day.

So, to all the mommy bloggers—

Thanks.

Thanks for being brave with your words and with your lives. Thanks for telling the truth. Thanks for pushing through all the condescension and sexism and trivialization to share your point-of-view. Thanks for hitting “publish" even when it was hard. 

I’m a better mom, a better Christian, and a better person because of you.

As the Church enters the season of Pentecost, I offer this reflection on the Holy Spirit from Searching for Sunday: Loving, Leaving, and Finding Church. (Note: The ebook is just $1.99 for the month of May!)

***

The Spirit is like breath, as close as the lungs, the chest, the lips, the fogged canvas where little fingers draw hearts, the tide that rises and falls twenty-three thousand times a day in a rhythm so intimate we forget to notice until it enervates or until a supine yogi says pay attention and its fragile power awes again. Inhale. Exhale. Expand. Release. In the beginning, God breathed. And the dust breathed back enough oxygen, water, and carbon dioxide to make an atmosphere, to make a man. Job knew life as “the breath of God in my nostrils,” given and taken away. With breath, the Creator kindled the stars, parted a sea, woke a valley of dry bones, inspired a sacred text. So, too, the Spirit, inhaled and exhaled in a million quotidian ways, animates, revives, nourishes, sustains, speaks. It is as near as the nose and as everywhere as the air, so pay attention.

The Spirit is like fire, deceptively polite in its dance atop the wax and wick of our church candles, but wild and mercurial as a storm when unleashed. Fire holds no single shape, no single form. It can roar through a forest or fulminate in a cannon. It can glow in hot coals or flit about in embers. But it cannot be held. The living know it indirectly—through heat, through light, through tendrils of smoke snaking through the sky, through the scent of burning wood, through the itch of ash in the eye. Fire consumes. It creates in its destroying and destroys in its creating. The furnace that smelts the ore drives off slag, and the flame that refines the metal purifies the gold. The fire that torches a centuries-old tree can crack open her cones and spill out their seeds. When God led his people through the wilderness, the Spirit blazed in a fire that rested over the tabernacle each night. And when God made the church, the Spirit blazed in little fires that rested over his people’s heads. “Quench not the Spirit,” the apostle wrote. It is as necessary and as dangerous as fire, so stay alert; pay attention.

The Spirit is like a seal, an emblem bearing the family crest, a promise of belonging, protection, favor. Like a signet ring to soft wax, the Spirit impresses the supple heart with the power and prestige of God, and no one—not kings, not presidents, not the wealthy, nor the magisterium—can take that identity away. The bond of God is made of viscous stuff. He has put his seal on us, wrote the apostle, and given us his Spirit in our hearts as a guarantee (1 Corinthians 1:22). In the rite of confirmation, which acknowledges the presence of the Spirit in a believer’s life, a thumb to the forehead reminds God’s children of their mark: the seal of the gift of the Holy Spirit. It’s as invisible as your breath but as certain as your skin, so pay attention; don’t forget who you are.

The Spirit is like wind, earth’s oldest sojourner, which in one place readies a sail, in another whittles a rock, in another commands the trees to bow, in another gently lifts a bridal veil. Wind knows no perimeter. The wildest of all wild things, it travels to every corner of a cornerless world and amplifies the atmosphere. It smells like honeysuckle, curry, smoke, sea. It feels like a kiss, a breath, a burn, a sting. It can whisper or whistle or roar, bend and break and inflate. It can be harnessed, but never stopped or contained; its effects observed while its essence remains unseen. To chase the wind is folly, they say, to try and tame it the very definition of futility. “The wind blows wherever it pleases,” Jesus said. “You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit” (John 3:8). We are born into a windy world, where the Spirit is steady as a breeze and as strong as a hurricane. There is no city, no village, no wilderness where you cannot find it, so pay attention.

The Spirit is like a bird, fragile alloy of heaven and earth, where wind and feather and flight meets breath and blood and bones. The rabbis imagined her as a pigeon, the Celts a wild goose. Like a dove, she glided over the primordial waters, hovered above Mary’s womb, and descended onto Jesus’ dripping wet head. She protected Israel like an eagle, and like a hen, brooded over her chicks. “Hide me in the shadow of your wings,” the poet king wrote. “Because you are my help, I sing in the shadow of your wings” (Psalm 17:8, 63:7). The Spirit is as common as a cooing pigeon and transcendent as a high-flying eagle. So look up and sing back, catch the light of God in a diaphanous scrim of wing. Pay attention.

The Spirit is like a womb, from which the living are born again. We emerge—lashes still wet from the water, eyes unadjusted to the light—into a reanimated and freshly charged world. There are so many new things to see, so many gifts to give and receive, so many miracles to baffle and amaze, if only we pay attention, if only we let the Spirit surprise and God catch our breath.

***

Read more in Searching for Sunday: Loving, Leaving and Finding the Church.

I’m in the final throes of finishing the next book and will be largely offline for the next few weeks, but I wanted to share a book that came across my desk that I loved and think you will too.

 In Faithful Families: Creating Sacred Moments at Home, Rev. Traci Smith, a Presbyterian pastor and mama of three, offers super-practical, creative ideas for developing spiritual practices as a family.

As a new mom asking big questions about how we want to raise our son in the faith, I found this book incredibly helpful, because it starts so small. It doesn't tell me what to teach my kid about death and resurrection, but it gives me some meaningful, age-appropriate ideas for how to celebrate Easter. 

Here’s more from my foreword to the book:

“So we know what we don’t want to teach him about God,” I said to my husband, Dan, as I collapsed onto the park bench, rubbing my pregnant belly. “But we haven’t decided what we do want to teach him.”

It was quiet between us for a moment, save for my labored breathing. A mile around our favorite walking track wasn’t as easy as it used to be, but then neither was anything else in those days leading up to and following our first baby’s birth.

Dan and I were both raised in loving, grace-filled homes, but in a fundamentalist religious culture that required total acquiescence to a strict set of theological beliefs and left little room for mystery. After years of doubt and deconstruction, we’d made peace with the meandering nature of our own faith journeys, but raising our little boy to do the same seemed daunting. We had no models for that, no roadmap. We knew what teachings we wanted to avoid, but were flummoxed about what to present as an alternative.

“Well I guess it’s like everything else with parenting,” Dan finally said. “We’ll just have to figure it out as we go.”

Indeed, parenting, like faith, can only be learned in the doing. So in this first year of being this little boy’s parents, we’ve been taking it a day at a time, praying for wisdom, and getting help from those ahead of us on the path—good friends and good guides.

Traci Smith is one of those guides. From the moment I met her, I knew Traci was the kind of mom I wanted to be: playful, empathetic, and deliberate about integrating spiritual practices into her family’s everyday life. We met at a Christian women’s conference in Texas, and throughout the first day of sessions, Traci insisted on wearing a rather loud, colorful pin her young son had crafted for her to remember him while they were apart. He’d have never known if she’d simply left it in her suitcase, but Traci wore that little pin proudly, and I loved how her eyes twinkled when she talked about her kids.

Traci brings that same joy to the book you now hold in your hands. Faithful Families is a thoughtful, practical guide to teaching by doing—to integrating prayer, tradition, Scripture, and ritual into the routines of a normal, busy family. What I love about this book, and about Traci’s work, is how it illuminates the sacred in the everyday, how it invites us to turn a lazy Saturday morning breakfast, a long car ride, the death of a pet, or the end of a stressful day into an opportunity to look for God, hiding in plain sight. “We believe in mystery,” she encourages us to tell our kids...and ourselves.

After reading Faithful Families (and dog-earing nearly every page for Dan), I felt relieved—relieved I didn’t have to understand theodicy before praying a simple blessing over my son’s bed at night, relieved I didn’t have to know all the answers before staring in awe into a starry sky, relieved I didn’t have to be free of doubt to be full of gratitude at our family’s “gratitude café.” For the first time since becoming a mother, I was thinking less about how I didn’t want to parent and more about how I did want to parent, particularly as it concerned my child’s spiritual formation.

It’s as true for children as it is for adults: faith must be practiced. We can teach, certainly, and instruct and inform. But what will be remembered are those tangible, in-the-flesh actions that get God out of our heads and into our hands. What will be remembered is the scent of a bubbling hot casserole for a family in need, the whoosh of a “Pentecost kite” whipping through the air, the feeling of prayer beads pressed against fingers, the dance of flame atop Advent candles.

As a new parent, I’m often overwhelmed at the prospect of raising a kind and happy son. With this book, Traci reminds us we aren’t called to be perfect; we’re called to be faithful. All we can do is attend to the present moment. All we can do is take it one step at a time.

Check out Faithful Families: Creating Sacred Moments at Home.

It’s springtime!

I’m kicking off a relatively quiet spring schedule tonight (April 11) with an event at my home church, St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, in Cleveland Tennessee. The event, food, and childcare are all free, so join us! Starts at 6 p.m. There’s a covered dish BBQ.  (More Info)

Then, next week, April 21-22, I’m headed to Wichita, Kansas and College Hill United Methodist Church for their Richard D. Greene Memorial Lecture Series. I’ll speak on “Keep the Church Weird” on Friday, April 21, at 7 p.m., then on “Keep the Bible Weird” on Saturday, April 22, at 9 a.m. and 11 a.m. (In that last session, I’ll be reading from my un-finished, un-published new book!) Both days will include a Q&A and lots of hangout/book signing time. Cost is $20 for each session, or $50 for all 3, but be sure to ask about scholarships/discounts.  (More Info)

May 1-3, I’ll be speaking at the Episcopal Diocese of Virginia Bishop’s Conference for Lay Professionals, Clergy, and Spouses in Orkney Springs, Virginia. (More Info)

This is followed by a really wonderful writer’s workshop put on by Writing for Your Life and hosted by Western Theological Seminary and Hope College in Holland, Michigan, May 16-17. This event provides lots of one-on-one time with its speakers and representatives from the Christian publishing industry. Headline speakers include myself and Barbara Brown Taylor.  (!!) You’ll also hear from Isaac Anderson (author), Sarah Arthur (author), Dwight Baker (Baker Publishing Group), Rachelle Gardner (literary agent), Brian Keepers (pastor), Ami McConnell (publishing industry veteran), Elizabeth Palmer (Christian Century), Patricia Raybon (author), Jana Riess (author), Stephanie Smith (Zondervan), and Marijke Strong (pastor). For writers who hope to work in the Christian publishing industry, I really can’t recommend this event enough. (More Info) Note: There’s a similar event in Nashville, July 18-19, featuring myself, Barbara Brown Taylor, Jeff Chu, Margot Starbuck, and a bunch of other cool people, so check that out if it’s closer for you.

Finally, on June 3, I’ll be in Little Rock Arkansas at Trinity Episcopal Cathedral. (More info.)

You can see the rest of my 2017 schedule here. Hope we get the chance to chat in person!

Although I’m working furiously to finish Book #4, I’ve made some time this month to head to the East Coast for events in Haddonfield, New Jersey, and Greenwich Connecticut.

This weekend, March 10-11, I’ll be speaking (along with Tony Campolo) at Lutheran Church of Our Savior in Haddonfield, New Jersey, for their Faith and Life Weekend.  My lecture, "Keep the Church Weird," is on Friday night at 7 p.m. The event is free and open to the public. Details here.

March 25-26 will bring me to Christ Church in Greenwich, Connecticut for their fantastic Courage & Faith Series. On Friday night at 7 p.m., I’ll lecture on millennials, church, and Searching for Sunday, and on Sunday morning, I’ll offer a homily at 9:15 a.m., and a sneak peek at my new book during the Sunday school hour at 10:10 a.m. Tickets for Friday night’s lecture are $20 (although organizers tell me they have a “super-liberal scholarship program” and to contact them at info@courageandfaith.org if you’re interested.) Details here. 

Hope to see you there!

Be sure to check out my full 2018 schedule. 

What’s happening in America right now is not normal.  This is not the routine ebb and flow of liberal and conservative shifts in power. It’s not merely the heated aftermath of a contentious election. What we’re facing in this country is an administration characterized by unprecedented levels of authoritarianism, dishonesty, incompetence, and corruption, and a legislative branch unwilling to hold the president accountable.  

Influenced by advisors whose white nationalists views are well known, the president has waged a propaganda war against ethnic and religious minorities, stoking fear and hate by lying about crime rates, terrorist attacks, and voter fraud and by issuing executive orders that have already hurt many thousands of people around the world, including desperate refugee families. Muslims, including lifelong U.S. citizens, are being detained at airports for no other reason than their faith, and law enforcement officials report a surge in hate crimes against them. When challenged by the facts or with the law, the administration responds with attempts to undermine the free press and the judiciary, even going so far as to call the free press "an enemy of the people." 

To make matters worse, with some important exceptions, the white conservative Church has largely supported the president, shrugging off his rampant dishonesty, self-aggrandizement, racism, misogyny, and bullying. My inbox is filled with messages from young evangelicals who feel angered and betrayed as they watch their religious community align itself with values they don’t recognize.

It’s been hard for me write about all this, I confess. For one thing, I have what the parenting books refer to as an “active toddler”—a little hurricane of distraction, full of joy and fury and stale Cheerios. I’m also finishing up my fourth book, which like every other book I’ve written, is proving the hardest EVER.  But most of all, like many other writers and artists with whom I’ve spoken, I’m struggling a bit to process what’s happening. When every day brings with it another startling act of authoritarianism or oppression, it’s hard to catch your breath long enough to think of something worthwhile to say. These times call for good words, certainly, but more importantly they call for creative, concrete action.

So, since many of you have asked me what sort of practical steps you can take to combat the abuses of this administration and help those most affected by it, I thought I’d share my own personal plan of action in hopes it might prove useful to others. I’m the kind of person who tends to get passionate about something, overcommit, and then burn out, so I purposefully made these plans manageable. This is not a weeks-long protest; this is a years-long counter-movement that has to be sustainable to be effective.  So with that in mind, here are six ideas:

1. Identify where you have the most influence locally and nationally, and lead there.

Knowing I have something of a national platform, I’ve been thinking a lot about how to use it more effectively—perhaps by focusing my best op-ed writing on one or two and using the rest of my influence to amplify those church leaders, activists, and artists doing the good work of justice all around the world. (More on that below.)  I’ve also been freshly convicted about the importance of strengthening my relationships with schools, nonprofits, and community organizations here in East Tennessee, and am considering new ways to volunteer/contribute that will work for our family over the long haul.

Perhaps you’re on the PTA at your kids’ school. What might you do to help encourage and equip teachers to combat what’s been called the “Trump effect”—an increase in bullying, particularly against children of color and religious minorities? What questions can you ask to ensure your school is teaching kids how to think critically about media and discern the truth amidst competing sources? It might be a good time to follow through on that longtime desire to volunteer as a coach or tutor and to familiarize yourself with federal laws protecting the rights of students with disabilities so you can speak up if they are threatened. Have the parents of vulnerable kids in your community organized? How can you lend your support?

Or maybe you lead a small group at church. What about introducing some justice-themed books into your weekly or monthly discussions? They don’t have to be overtly political; something like The Myth of a Christian Nation by Greg Boyd or Forgive Us by Lisa Sharon Harper, Troy Jackson, Mae Elise Cannon, and Soong-Chan Rah might be a good start.  If you’re an elder, or deacon, or on the vestry, consider proposing that your church sponsor a refugee family through a local resettlement organization, or partner with a local mosque or synagogue to engage in interfaith conversations and activities that are mutually supportive. Incorporate lament and confession into your worship and confront the sins of racism and white supremacy with boldness. Don’t be afraid your actions will be considered “political.” Remember, silence in this climate is a political statement too.

Maybe you’re just good at getting friends together and planning social events. How about rallying the troops for a weekend protest, or organizing an informal fundraiser for World Relief? Or maybe you’re the quiet, steady one your friends respect and come to for advice. Speaking up on behalf of immigrants or LGBT kids will mean a lot coming from you, so have courage and say something when the Spirit nudges. Don’t let a racist, homophobic, or misogynistic comment slide. For too long white folks have tolerated that nonsense and it’s one reason we have the president we do.

2. Identify the organizations, artists, and leaders from marginalized communities working for justice and support them/ follow their lead.

Many thousands of citizens, including many Christians, have been working for social justice for years—through nonprofit organizations, community organizing efforts, and justice-oriented churches. As tempting as it may be to try and start something new on your own, it is far wiser to identify these groups, at the local and national level, and lend your support.  

For example, most cities have refugee resettlement organizations that assist families fleeing war-torn countries with housing, education, and employment. Ours in Chattanooga/Knoxville is called Bridge Refugee Services. Attend a fundraiser, volunteer a little time each week to help newcomers with errands, or partner with some friends to furnish a family’s home.

If voting rights are a concern to you, (and they should be, especially if you live in North Carolina), consider connecting with Rev. William J Barber II of the North Carolina NAACP as he leads protests and organizing efforts around voting rights and other important causes.  Find out if your community has a local chapter of Black Lives Matter or attend the next Gay Christian Network conference or Reformation Project gathering. If you’re unsure of where to start, you can find a long list of faith-based community organizations through the PICO network.

Nationally, this is a good time to donate to the ACLU, the National Immigration Law Center, and organizations that protect reporters and a free press.  If you’re like me, you’ve probably already “rage subscribed” to every newspaper or magazine the administration deems “an enemy of the people” for reporting the facts. Keep speaking up for a free press, and be sure and offer an encouraging word to any journalists you know.  

Of course, there are many, many more that could be mentioned, which is why, through the 40 days of Lent, I’ll be using my social media feeds to offer “40 Days of Support” featuring 40 individuals, organizations, and initiatives whose work is crucial during these times. Be sure to look for that on Facebook and Twitter, where I’ll list specific ways you can help.  

The important thing here is to follow the lead of those people who have been working within marginalized communities for years. They don’t need you to be their voice. They just need you to listen, to learn, and to offer support.

3.  Get Political. 

This president cannot continue to abuse his power at the expense of the vulnerable without the support of congress, which means it is our duty to hold them accountable and demand change. I know some Christians are uncomfortable with that, preferring not to “mix” faith and politics, (as if we can compartmentalize), but as Aaron Niequist put it the other day, “if we want to love our neighbor, we will naturally get involved in building the systems that lead to flourishing, and fighting to change the unjust systems that target the poor, weak, and marginalized. We can't pretend to love our neighbor while we ignore the realities that hurt them.”

The gospel may not be partisan, but it is certainly political, and it’s as appropriate as ever for Christians to ask that the people who represent them represent the concerns of the poor, the sick, the marginalized, and the strangers whom Jesus loves. It’s appropriate, too, to expect Republicans in congress to hold this administration accountable to basic ethical standards, and to vote them out of office if they refuse to do so out of party loyalty.

Everyone I know who works in Washington tells me that calling your representatives is one of the most effective strategies for waging public protest. This year I added the phone numbers of my representatives to the contact list in my phone, and I try to call at least three times a week. (It might help to set an alarm on your phone if you’re busy or forgetful.) As one who struggles with a touch of phone phobia, I’ve benefited from scripts you can find online, which I adjust to reflect my own personal concerns. It also helps to ask questions—“Has Senator Corker spoken against Steve Bannon’s position on the National Security Council? Is he aware of Bannon’s white nationalist views?” And since all of my representatives claim to be Christians, I usually try to appeal to Christian values to find some common ground.  Here’s how I see it:  In the time it takes me to scroll angrily through Twitter for five minutes, I can write a script and make a call.

In addition to calling your representatives, consider attending a town hall, writing letters the editor of your local paper, connecting with the local Democratic Party to help with voter registration efforts and to challenge voter suppression/gerrymandering, and (because it’s becoming painfully obvious that progressives have ceded local politics to the extreme right for too long), running for office or helping a better candidate get the job.  If, like me, you live in what seems like a hopelessly red district, you might want to check out Swing Left, which helps you locate the  closest “Swing District” that will decide the majority in congress and join a team working to elect democrats, who won't give this president a free pass,  to those seats.

4. Ground yourself in community and contemplation.

I had the privilege a few years ago of meeting Dr. Cornel West, a man who has been engaged in activism and justice work for decades. As others will certainly tell you, the most immediate impression you get of Dr. West when in his presence is that this is a person of deep, seemingly limitless joy. Dr. West is no fool. He hasn’t got his head in the sand. Few people are as aware of the inequities that persist in our nation and as committed to prophetically calling them out. And yet Dr. West brings such a sense of hope and peace to his work, it’s contagious. “I cannot be an optimist,” he says, “but I am a prisoner of hope.”

These are trying times, and sometimes just keeping up with the latest news tempts one to despair. Dr. West reminds us that the only way to work for justice in a sustainable way is to be rooted in the nourishing soil of contemplation and community.

By contemplation, I mean spiritual practices of rest, prayer, and devotion that connect us to God in a way that unburdens. For some, this means beginning and ending each day in prayer and mediation. For others, it means taking a Sabbath away from all the noise of social media to hike or cook or read. For extroverts I suppose it means finding some friends with whom to verbally process…like, at a bar…or something? (Sorry. I don’t really understand your world.)  

Christena Cleveland offers some really helpful ideas for both action and healing in her post “Wellness in the Age of Trump and Terror,” as well as some excellent reading suggests in “15 Books for Fighting for Justice in the Trump Era.” Ed Cyzewski writes one of my favorite blogs for contemplatives, and Lisa Sharon Harper’s The Very Good Gospel strikes me as an especially timely read at this moment. I’ve personally enjoyed returning to the work of Madeleine L’Engle and to the psalms in Scripture, and I stay in a much better state of mind when I take every chance to take my little guy to the park to blow bubbles and soak in the sunshine. (See also: “How to Stay Outraged Without Losing Your Mind” by Mirah Curzer.)

It’s also important to stay connected with community.  I know a lot of folks want nothing to do with the church right now, and I get that. If your faith community is actively working to support the systems of white supremacy and patriarchy that are enabling this administration, you may need to take a break, or leave. (There are plenty of other churches actively working in the other direction, believe me!) But whether you go to church on Sunday mornings or not, try to stay tethered to a larger community in which you have an investment and which has an investment in you—maybe it’s a small group that gets together for pizza and conversations on Thursday nights, or maybe it’s the local chapter of a community organization, or maybe it’s the people in your neighborhood. Community keeps us accountable and compassionate. It prevents us from thinking too highly of ourselves and taking too much on. It reminds us that we need one another, that we’re not alone, and that we have a great cloud of witnesses spanning thousands of years and hundreds of cultures from which to draw strength.

 5.  Create opportunities for meaningful (but not necessarily “polite”) dialog.

Probably the most common question I’m asked on the road these days is, “how can I talk to family, friends, and fellow churchgoers with whom I disagree politically?” I feel a bit hypocritical admonishing my readers toward kindness and understanding when I too have been avoiding such conversations like the plague, but I do think healthy, constructive dialog is possible, and that it’s best tackled around a shared table, over steaming plates of mashed potatoes and green beans, amidst the laughter and grace that emerges organically from deep, trusted relationships.

That said, we shouldn’t avoid talking about injustice because we’re afraid of making things uncomfortable or offending someone. Having lived down South my whole life I know exactly what it feels like to smile through racism and xenophobia in order to maintain that false, sticky-sweet sense of decorum. But this enlightening article from a German writer about how Americans are far too timid when confronting prejudice—“at the dinner table, I’ve noticed, what Germans call a discussion, Americans call an argument”—reminds us that this fear of confrontation is exactly what preserves the status quo, often with disastrous consequences.  Now’s not the time to play it safe. If someone in your Bible study repeats a lie about Muslims, call it out. If your Grandma makes a racist remark, tell her it’s not okay. We’re stuck with this president in large part because white people are so worried about hurting other white people’s feelings we won’t name the sin racism.

(Here it’s important to note that telling oppressed people they need gracefully engage their oppressors is unhelpful. Let them make the call on how, and with whom, they engage.)

As far as creating opportunities for dialog within your faith communities, I’d recommend starting with a book club, perhaps around a book like Trouble I’ve Seen by Drew Hart, or The New Jim Crow by Michelle Alexander, or Assimilate or Go Home by Danielle Mayfield, or Forgive Us by the authors mentioned above—something that’s not directly about this election or this presidency, but that addresses issues related to justice. (If your conversation partners are more conservative, you can take turns picking the title.) This creates the opportunity for conversation without setting it up as a debate.  

6.  Plant onions.

As I mentioned in my post, “2016 and the Risk of Birth,” in revisiting Madeleine L’Engle’s Genesis Trilogy, I’ve been struck by how forthcoming the author is about her own fears around raising children during the Cold War. She writes of one particularly worrisome season: “Planting onions that spring was an act of faith in the future, for I was very fearful for our planet.”

“Planting onions” has come to signify for me the importance of remaining committed to those slow-growing, long-term investments in my family, my community, and the world, no matter what happens over the next four years.  Right now it may seem like an afternoon of changing diapers and wiping noses has little to do with “the resistance,” but raising decent, compassionate kids, and being faithful to the call to love them exactly as they are in exactly this moment, is the good work of the Kingdom, in any age. There have been times when I’ve wondered if all the hours I’m pouring into this next book, a book about the Bible, will be relevant when all anyone’s talking about these days is politics, but then I remember that this is the creative ground I’ve been called to cultivate, so I will trust my Maker with the yield.

Those after-school tutoring sessions may strike you as low-impact when you survey the great needs of the world, but the investment of your time and care may alter the trajectory of a kid’s life forever. Pastors, I know many of you are struggling with how to shepherd a politically diverse community through these tumultuous times, but please know those relationships you’re navigating one visit, one meal, and one awkward coffee hour at a time matter more than any political speech delivered by a celebrity.

We are bound to get discouraged, certainly, but we won't become useless until we abandon our onion patches, those little pieces of earth where we cultivate our greatest hopes and dreams for the world.

So, resist. Speak out. Call your representatives and get behind the people and organizations working for change. But don’t neglect your gardens—both of the literal and metaphorical type. Plant like the rain will come.

***

Follow me on Facebook and Twitter for #40DaysSupport.  Some other articles and resources I’ve found helpful include:

“How to Stay Outraged Without Losing Your Mind” by Mirah Curzer

“The Time For Welcome is Now: Ten Ideas” by D.L. Mayfield

“Resistance Is Patriotic — and Christian: A 6-Point Strategy" by Jim Wallis

“Call the Halls” by Emily Ellsworth

This Vox interview with Garry Kasparov, a top Putin critic, on how to oppose Trump