transformation is uncomfortable: thoughts on lent

To hear Dr. Kellett read this essay, click here: https://youtu.be/kN0vPK-npYc

My kids go to a school that shares a founding sentiment that a complete education must address the whole child in order to teach kids to thrive in a diverse world. They share my belief that our segregated city separates us, preventing our chance to learn from each other. Sharing spaces with different others might not happen often in Nashville, but finding comfort in diverse groups will happen if we regularly seek out those kinds of spaces. Learning to hold on to you when you feel alone in a place is hard work. It can be uncomfortable in lots of ways. But it is worth it.

Because their school knows how hard it can be, they believe that creating a place where lots of different kids interact is not enough. Kids have to be taught how to reach across lines of difference. They have to be taught how to notice their bodies when they feel threatened or defensive or isolated. They have to be taught how to notice and appreciate the differences in their habits and someone else’s normal. When we notice our response to difference, we begin expanding our comfort with discomfort. When we become comfortable with unease, we increase our ability to grow, to build durable relationships, and to collaborate with others to make meaning out of our experiences.

I think of Lent the way I think of entering a new place where I feel uneasy and alone. During Lent, what feels normal or even good begins to change, and I learn to imagine a different way of being in the world. I want to slow down in a world that forces me to move quickly. I want to be in a life that values those who do. I want to ponder in a world that celebrates production. I want to confess among people who cover up their faults. I feel uncomfortable as I notice the tension in my body, torn between different ways of ordering my steps.

Noticing my discomfort, sitting with my longings, and observing my awareness helps me realize I’ve created habits of living that crush me. It is not enough to notice the differences; I want and need to find new patterns of grace, new rhythms of listening to my Maker in my body.

When we learn to find comfort in the discomfort of diverse people, our eyes open to the wonder of transformative relationships. When we learn to notice our longing for differently paced internal lives, our bodies open up to the presence of God in spirit, teaching us new ways to be in the world. Give in to this work, appreciating the process of being transformed by God.

A week into Lent, a lot of us feel our hope diminishing. Our discipline might have failed us. Our focus has faltered. Fasting and sacrifice are hard. Limiting our desires and serving others is hard. Daily choosing stillness, solitude and silence are hard. Do not give up just because you feel discomfort. Increase your appetite for uncertainty, and lean in to these practices of stillness, silence and solitude even more. Change might happen slowly, and transformation requires discomfort as you release one way of being in order to embrace a different way of life. Rediscover the presence of your Maker in you, and you will find a greater capacity to embrace and care for yourself and others.

Readings for this week are below.

Week Two: Recovery and freedom are possible

“Silence and solitude are the recovery room for the soul weakened by busyness…In silence and solitude we regain our perspective, or more importantly, God’s perspective. Augustine described it as learning to ‘perform the rhythms of one’s life without getting entangled in them.’ Alone with God in prayerful quiet, the rhythms of life are untangled.”                                                     -Howard Baker 

 “When Jesus liberates the man, he also intends to liberate the community. He intends to set bodies free from suffering and violence…This represents the hopes of oppressed people all over and the hopes of the life of Jesus: freedom to be human, freedom to build life, freedom to love, freedom to work, freedom to create joy.”                                                                                         -Danté Stewart

 “Whatever may be the tensions and stresses of a particular day, there is always lurking close at hand the trailing beauty of forgotten joy or unremembered peace.”                        -Howard Thurman

3/9 Ps 120:1-2; 121:1-4

3/10 Zeph 3:14-18

3/11 Ps 107:1-9, 19-31

3/12 Daniel 6:25-28; Genesis 28:15

3/13 Matthew 7:24-8:3

3/14 Ecclesiastes 7:5-14

3/15 Ps 130

resistance baking

To hear Brandi read this week’s essay, click here: https://youtu.be/lhuCExhPHjw

I’ve been baking in a frenzy lately. Cookies, brownies, chewies, biscuits, waffles and pies. Sounds delicious, but baking for me is like church and therapy and confession and entering rehab all at once.

I like to think of myself as a self-aware person, but, alas, I am often late to the party when it comes to acknowledging deficits in my mental, emotional or physical health. To compensate for these blind spots, I look for familiar markers to help me recognize the moments when I am no longer crushing it. For instance, if I find myself screening calls or hiding from a knock on the front door, I usually—finally—realize that something is going on with my internal everything. It’s not rocket science. I’m even a little ashamed of it. How can I think I’m doing well when I’m clearly not?

I have an iron will that pushes me to keep going no matter what, and that will tends to bully my mental and emotional need for restoration. I insist things are all good, even if another part of my soul and body know they aren’t. My problem is that those parts don’t communicate super well, so part of me thinks I’m great while the other part of me is barely hanging on.

As an educator married to a physician with 4 school-aged children, the impact of the pandemic is everywhere. My students struggle to function and learn, my husband faces impossible life or death situations more frequently, both of us can’t find the joy that used to come easy, and my children don’t remember what if feels like to learn collaboratively in environments where they are safe, known and celebrated. The pandemic has taken a lot, and with the rise of Omicron, we all fear it will continue to do so.

Amidst this mess, I felt bombarded by updates from the cases of Kyle Rittenhouse and the killers of Ahmaud Arbery. Then a fifteen year old in Michigan got a gun for Christmas, openly fantasized about shooting up his school, and then did so.

Suddenly, I felt a rising need to bake.

The weekend after a man killed children at Sandy Hook Elementary School, I made homemade cinnamon rolls for the first time. After George Floyd was killed, I perfected scones and waffles. When my psyche feels overwhelmed by terrifying grief that defies easy processing, that undermines my trust in the world, I feel a weird desire to bake or cook complicated, intimidating recipes. I don’t really understand it, but I’ve learned to trust it.

When I’m baking I am not conscious of the battles that rage within me. I don’t realize that I am searching for a way to ground myself, to trust that the center will hold even as evil swirls around my family. Still, somehow, baking becomes my creative act of resistance against the evil of this world. A biscuit becomes my mark of defiance against the dark. A scone bears witness to the fact that I believe God cares deeply about the injustice we face, that Christ laments alongside us, that God brings healing and restoration to ruined people and places.

Advent reminds us that God comes toward us. Jesus knows all is not well, and brings miraculous justice to speak good news over bad realities. Advent is an invitation to reflect on the parts of us that need hope and healing. “For those who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” These are words for people covered in flour, trying to work out their salvation with fear and trembling in the kitchen.

Wherever you go to find the ground beneath your feet when the world throws you, I pray you will lift your eyes to the God who sees and knows you. I pray your broken heart would feel bound up by your Maker, that you would find some freedom from your captivity. In the community of God, a rolling pin and a pastry cutter can be sacraments, blessed to bring healing to a weary world. In this Advent season, I hope you begin to recognize your need to push back against the dark and make room for the light. Give yourself fully to those traditions, and enjoy a God who can heal you through ridiculous routines.

don't give up, part 3: get out of your own way

To watch or listen to Dr. Kellett read this essay, visit the Expand Your Us YouTube Channel here: https://youtu.be/gk0SH0kSKSc

In 1967, President Lyndon Johnson established a National Commission on Civil Disorders, asking the Governor of Illinois to lead the effort to explain why the US Government’s intention to recognize and ensure Civil Rights was neither trusted nor considered enough by the people in the streets.

When Governor Kerner submitted the commission’s report, “the President refused to acknowledge it,” according to Dr. Jill Lepore, in a June 22 article in The New Yorker. Like a lot of us, Johnson believed his intentions guaranteed the outcome he desired. When the Voting Rights Act and the Civil Rights Act did not restore the country to immediate peace, Johnson was baffled. At the very least, he expected passive appreciation for his attempt to transform the entire US Government, it’s habits, ways of being and approach to its citizenry. When the outcome of his efforts was not immediate, and when many protestors seemed ungrateful, Johnson decided that he had been brave, taken risks, and tried to help, and that was enough.

Despite forming a commission to help him understand why some Americans felt left out of their government, when Kerner shared valid and historically grounded reasons for the continued tension, Johnson was not interested in what protestors had to say. Presumably, he wanted them to take the win, say thank you, and let the country return to its status quo. Lepore explains that according to his chief speechwriter, Johnson was intensely bothered by the Kerner Report’s findings because, “It hurt his pride.” When his effort and intention was not praised and appreciated, he could not and would not care anymore.

The cultural norms of America make white folks welcome, but demand proof of good faith from Black and Brown people. This is the norm in nearly every place and institution in our country, and it takes a great deal of courage to name that bias and the challenge such power. President Johnson took courageous steps to expose our American racial hierarchy by legitimizing people like Dr. King. He then spent enormous capital to pass meaningfully reforming legislation to guarantee not just legal rights, but civil ones too. He worked so hard, and went so far out on a limb, that he felt betrayed when protests continued.

We can feel that way too. When a powerful white person awakens to racial injustice, it is very easy to burst on the scene and want to take over. Accustomed to efficient, tidy problem solving with clear results, we throw time and money and resources at the problem of racial injustice, certain we will fix it. When our energy and power and resources fail—as they often do—to radically correct systems and patterns of injustice, we experience fatigue, frustration, and exasperation. Like Johnson, our pride can get wounded.

“After all I did, nothing changed!”

“I gave so much, and you don’t even appreciate my effort?”

“I don’t know what else you expect from me. Everything I’ve done came at great expense, and I have nothing left to give.”

Knowing how hard transformative change around racialized thinking can be, our responses, like President Johnson’s response, make a certain amount of sense.

However, his wounded pride and frustration existed in tension with another, more compassionate response: Empathy that led to understanding and solidarity. When President Johnson took a step back and moved his gaze from his own effort, comfort, and insufficient solutions, focusing instead on the lived experience and daily realities of African Americans, he discovered new wells of compassion and understanding. He admitted that despite his best effort to move and improve the lives of Black people, they were “still nowhere. He knows it. That’s why [he is] out in the streets. Hell, I’d be there too.”

When Johnson focused solely on the nobility of his intention, he denied others the right to be dissatisfied with the outcome of his effort. On the other hand, when he allowed himself to observe the disappointing or even hurtful outcome of Civil Rights Legislation, his empathy drove him to forget about his wonderful intention for a moment, and instead find new, creative, energy and resolve to try to make America a more just and perfect union.

President Johnson’s divided responses hold lessons for us, no matter where we stand in relation to social justice and activism.

First, we must allow ourselves to have conflicting responses. We feel like the status quo is too powerful to change and we feel inspired to try. We feel heroic for getting involved and impotent for failing to reform stubborn systems. We feel like generous allies and we continue to benefit from white privilege. We feel pride at changes we’ve made and frustrated when our efforts aren’t recognized. These tensions exist. Recognize them, wrestle with them, but don’t give them the power to make you walk away.

Second, we cannot engage compassion or empathy, nor can we affect meaningful change, when our comfort is our biggest need. Transforming centuries of injustice, and helping generations of white people relax their exclusive grip on power and wealth is wildly uncomfortable. Rocking the boat makes people seasick. We must understand that right action might feel uncomfortable, new, extreme and even wrong if we are to take right action. Notice your discomfort, and decide to commit anyway.

Third, we must know there can be a wide gap between our intentions and the outcomes they produce. Johnson’s intention was to bring about equality and offer hope to every American. The early outcomes had mixed reviews. When our intentions don’t magically transform, guaranteeing perfect outcomes, it is easy to blame others or get defensive. You might show up to help an organization and end up making someone else uncomfortable. You might try to move into a community to help them and get your hand slapped. You might invest in an impoverished person and realize 6 months later that they are still unemployed. Keep your eye on the outcomes, rather than your beautiful intentions, and view these experiences as feedback that can change and improve your approach. Your intentions can be noble, but if we really want to bring change then we must allow outcomes to inform our actions and investments.

Be encouraged that a LOT is happening. Laws have passed, leaders have stepped down or up, concern has been shown, escalation has been exposed, statues have been moved, businesses have divested, mission statements have changed and new policies enforced aimed at equity and inclusion. Yet, I can feel the fatigue of the country, of my city, of friends and family. Johnson demonstrated our penchant for leaning in for a brief time, taking the concerns of vulnerable others seriously, responding with action, and then, importantly, shrugging our shoulders as if to say, “If you aren’t satisfied with all I’ve done, that’s on you. I’m tired of your need to disruptively ask us to change our habits. When you remind us that we treat you with suspicion, project criminality and laziness on to you, refuse to hire or rent to you, and try to keep you out of our spaces, it makes us feel guilty, then annoyed, and finally angry that you won’t just go back inside and trust the system.”

 We have to do better. This work is long and hard. Don’t give up. Look to history, and realize your own compassion and effectiveness might not be trustworthy long-term motivators. Take the time to hear a person’s story whose life is continually diminished because of the gap between who we hope to be and what our habits prove us to be. Hear her story as an invitation to keep acknowledging the tension, decentering your comfort, and paying more attention to outcomes than to your intentions. It will take all of us be a better America. Don’t give up now.