Cleaning house at Easter

To hear Brandi read this instead, click here: https://youtu.be/ATB818q76gU

Here we are, walking through Holy Week. I hope this week is full of long pauses as you contemplate all the ways our Maker has gathered you from far away places, held you in intense pain, and loved you when shame blocked you from seeing the good. Our God is better—I think—than we think God is. I pray this week you find yourself pondering that very good God, enjoying God’s presence, believing God’s large love for you.

There are lost of reasons not to believe any of it. Some of us have survived horrible pain, lived through unspeakable loss, and our suffering is so overwhelming that thoughts of God’s goodness feel mocking and thoughts of heaven’s healing feel too little, too late. If you are there then I am so sorry. I pray the pain lifts, that it doesn’t bare down in the same crushing way forever. But I hear you.

For others of us, the behavior of Christians and church folk has caused us the worst pain we have endured. We feel confused and baffled by the hate, the apathy or the selfishness of church leaders and their friends. We wonder how a religion based on forgiveness, on a God who responds to pain with compassion and with-ness, who creates a welcoming community for those overlooked and rejected by powerful people, turned into the churches that now line our streets. We wonder how we got here, so far from the words, ethical vision, social sacrifice and practical theology of Christ.

Here is the beautiful thing my friend Russ, a writer, reminded me of today: between Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday, Jesus confronted abusive hypocrites in the temple. In the week that would become Holy week, a few days before he died, Jesus brought his outrage to the public eye, telling religious abusers that they were blaspheming the name of God, and had no place in God’s kingdom. That reminder brings me profound comfort this week. I am not crazy. You are not alone. Jesus is also disgusted by the way religious folk often ignore the pain of others, or actively cause harm by blaming wounded people for their wounds. Jesus was for survivors, and rejected the abuse of oppressors. When his time was short and fleeting, he used part of it to name the status quo of the synagogue as evil, and reminded us instead that God’s church is meant to be a place of refuge, care and healing.

If you wonder inside the church, asking how much longer you should stay or be aligned with systems that protect those who wound, I see you. If you wonder outside the church, unable to go back because your body and soul tell you it isn’t safe, I see you. Jesus cleaned house back then, and I take comfort in knowing Jesus will again. In the meantime, I pray none of us will confuse our Messiah for those who seem uninterested in our stories. Jesus cares, gathers us, defends us, creates spaces of belonging for us. I pray you see that this week. Jesus goes into every place that harms you to make a place you can belong. Happy Easter.

Week Seven: God, restored in you

“Jesus is not some impossible horizon in the distance, far removed from the realm of possibility or your everyday life. He is very near. This is the nearness that union with Christ brings; you are in Christ and Christ is in you…Christ now set you free to be your true self: the self you are by grace, not the self you are by nature…Jesus came from heaven in order that the image of God might be restored in you.”                                                                                                         -Rankin Wilbourne

“When we walk with God, all things become new.”                 -Mary Wineinger

“There must always be remaining in every life, some place for the singing of angels, some place for that which in itself is breathless and beautiful.”                                -Howard Thurman

“Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is not meant to be a crumb.”    -Mary Oliver

4/13 Isaiah 54:1-8; Mark 12:10-11

4/14 Ps 18:25-36; 20

4/15 Isaiah 55:1-12

aim higher: jack sparrow as a life coach

For the last few months I have been thinking about the gaps between who we hope to be and who we prove to be. To be human is to be hypocritical, so there is a sense in which we could all shrug our shoulders, shake our heads, and say, “guilty, yes…whatever.” And yet. Surely we aren’t willing to settle for such laziness, such defeat. If we are to aim higher, we need to muster a little more concern for how our actions align with our stated values. If anything matters, then everything matters.

In the original Pirates of the Caribbean, a young and painfully brave Will Turner (played by Orlando Bloom), finds himself aiding and abetting a pirate (Jack Sparrow, played by Johnny Depp). Turner finds this despicable, even though he certainly tried to resist the coercion at every turn. Nevertheless and despite his conviction, Turner finds himself in a position he does not think he can live with: He is, in fact, the right hand man of a pirate. He loathes pirates, but here he is.

It is in this critical moment that Jack Sparrow reveals to Turner that he is also, in fact, the son of a pirate. Will Turner’s father was called Bootstrap Bill, and, according to Sparrow, was, “A good man. A great Pirate.” Turner simply cannot accept this idea. His entire being is invested in his rejection of pirate codes and the like. Foolishly, rather than face the truth about his own heritage, he pulls a sword on the Captain. 

Swiftly knocked off his feet by his brilliant would-be victim, Turner finds himself dangling off a sail mast (maybe? I have far exceeded my knowledge of pirate and sailing-adjacent trivia, and heretofore will make up names in order to get through this story), hanging precariously over the ocean below. It is then that Sparrow offers this savvy advice:

“Now as long as you’re just hanging there, pay attention. The only rules that really matter are these: What a man can do, and what a man can’t do. For instance, you can either accept that your father was a pirate AND a good man, or you can’t. But pirate is in your blood boy, so you’ll have to square with that one day.”

Sparrow speaks as a man unwilling to surrender to his own unexamined hypocrisy. He knows the paralysis that comes when a person claims to be one thing but lives as another. He knows that Turner can try to outrun the conflicting identities of his past, but he also knows that eventually, he will have to face them.

We all need a moment where we come face to face with the wisdom of Captain Jack Sparrow. Rather than live as if our hypocrisies are not as egregious as their hypocrisies, why don’t we change our patterns? Each of us is a compilation of the patterns that reveal our priorities. Its true that most of us think our values determine our habits, but for the majority it works the other way round. Our patterns, our habits, our unacknowledged liturgies and rituals—these are the things that reveal who we are and what we care about.

If we want to avoid being diminished by our unacknowledged hypocrisies, we might consider beginning a new pattern of observation. When we begin a daily practice of observing our own behaviors without judgment, we equip ourselves to notice the places where our behaviors and beliefs are out of alignment. Paying attention to ourselves—the way we approach others, not just our own desires and needs—is hard work. It can be exhausting, but the practice of attentive observation allows us to see the gaps between who we hope to be and who we prove to be.

When confronted with our hypocrisies, many of us experience a vague sense of shame. Living under shame is soul-crushing, made even worse when we refuse to look into the source of the shame or to explore possible pathways out of it. Still, many of us stew in this broth of awful. We are neither free enough to align our actions with who we hope to be nor miserable enough to change our daily patterns. Instead, we complain about the toxic state of politics while we disparage acquaintances who disagree with us. We lament the lack of civic engagement while we forget to vote. We decry lackluster work ethics while we bail our kids out of consequences. We worry about the environment while driving giant gas guzzlers in 5 mile loops around our temp-regulated houses. We shake our heads at sex trafficking while we dabble in porn. We roll our eyes at trophies for every kid while we chronically celebrate our dazzlingly exceptional children. We long for meaningful community while we ignore our neighbors. We vilify the fracturing impact of technology while becoming increasingly addicted to its perks.

If we want to aim higher then we must answer Sparrow’s challenge: What can we do and what can’t we do? When observing the world, it is sometimes tempting to either commit to radical change or to completely shut down, convinced nothing can be done to improve. Rather than start a non-profit or move off the grid, I suggest a milder, and much more impactful approach: Have a conversation with yourself about what you can do and what you can’t do.

Do what you can.

Stop living as you can’t.

Everything matters.  

Will we be brave enough to observe our own hypocrisies? Will we commit to paying attention so our actions support the things we value? Or will we continue to dangle out over the ocean, thrown off balance because we refuse to notice the truth of how we live, unaware of the choice before us?

on stoning: glass houses, arguing badly and hypocritical living

As a novice participant in the Twittisphere, I am new, and frankly overwhelmed by, the manic nature of the thing.   Having spent a lifetime in which completing tasks gives me great joy, Twitter might be my new Kryptonite.  You can’t finish.  It’s never done.  You check and get caught up, and then 10 seconds later there is more, so much more.  Your eyes burn, your brain is constantly in what feels like the-hour-before-a-headache-starts, and your attention span has suddenly always just done a line of coke, unable to focus and jittery as hell.  As I said.  Manic.

But I have begun with a digression.  Twitter has confirmed for me that many people feel under siege.  There is a sense that the sky is falling constantly.  I get it, and I feel it too.  The clarity that arises with 280 characters, combined with the ability to do simple fact checking, can lead one to feel like some of our nation’s leaders are really petty, mean, liars.  And yet, here is my problem: Twitter can be, at times, a metaphorical arena for a brutal stoning.  A target arises who has said or done something wrong, and people quickly gather, rock in hand, and fire away.  I am not that interested in our capacity to be mean to each other. This is not new. What is worth thinking about, however, is the lack of context we bring to the stoning.  How do we, either through attacking a person or even by our collective outcry of “Wrong!”, not realize that we are contributing to the problem?  Not to mention glass houses and all that.

I want to argue that we might temper our engagement in macrodiscussions with an awareness of ourselves in the micro context.  Many of us loathe the extremist and hyperbolic views we hear spouted on tv and social media.  We feel outrage when we hear people tell half-truths or give junk analysis of a situation.  We are angry when a person’s character or judgment is maligned.  We lament the cowards who do not speak up for, or write policies for, the vulnerable among us.

I am all for outrage.  I am all for resistance.  Our status quo is criminally unfair for the poor and for people of color.  To quote Jesus tho, “Let he who has not sinned throw the first stone.”  If we really care about helping each other find our most compassionate, honest selves, can we justify screaming at others for being unkind?  As we engage in this macro battle for our country, can we also wage war in our own micro realities?  Can I see all the terrible out there while also acknowledging all the terrible in here?  As much as it stings to say out loud, I have come to the conclusion that the “Washington swamp” is a perfect reflection of all of us.  I say that with great reservation.  I spent the last year trying to understand how “they” could be so terrible.  How all of “them” voted for “that.”  The truth though, is that the level and manner of discourse out there is not that far removed from my own ways of communicating.  We tend to believe the end justifies the means, but in this case, the end happens in the first place because our means are so dysfunctional.

How often do we talk to people with whom we disagree?  Do we take the cowardly way out and assume it is “bad manners” to engage in subjects that make us uncomfortable?  Many of us talk freely as long as we know no one will disagree or challenge our perspectives.  This kind of hiveminded thinking leads to confirmation bias, strengthening our particular arguments without actually exploring other angles.  And yet this is what we accuse our leaders of doing. 

How often do we weigh in on issues we don’t fully understand, demonizing one position with a drastic oversimplification of the issue?  How often do you double down on your point of view when someone challenges you, discrediting or dismissing your conversant instead of listening with curiosity and responding with humble conviction?  We rarely take the time to inform ourselves and simply dismiss anyone who disagrees by calling them a name or placing them inside a well known extremist tribe.  And yet this is what we accuse our leaders of doing.

How often do we speak up for vulnerable people in a way that brings understanding?  Regularly we either remain silent in the face of passive racism or ignorant stereotyping, or we attack the speaker in a way that shames them and ends the conversation.  Have you ever tried the hard awkward work of firmly, with kindness, challenging passive racism in another?  Of helping someone see their privilege or subtle bigotry in a way that might help them never do it again?  Changing an unjust status quo is exhausting work, but societal reconciliation and economic equity will require all of us; we will never work together if we don't learn to speak to each other without accusation.  And yet this is what we accuse our leaders of not doing.

It is hard work, but the necessary path.  I am not arguing that we should ignore the macro until we get the micro right.  I am not arguing we have to be perfect in order to earn the right to speak up.  I am arguing, however, that many of us regularly contribute to the toxic and mean spirited environment that we now decry.  We have easily identified the guardrails here.  We know it is cowardly to stay silent and brash to publicly destroy people for their inappropriate views.  What about all the options in between?  Before you “stone” someone on Twitter or face to face for being close-minded, extreme or bigoted, explore all the options available to you in the way you interact. 

There are so many ways for us to be a part of the solution. The first is simply to acknowledge that we are part of the problem. It is not just out there. It’s in here. Let’s hold ourselves to the elusive standard we pretend is possible when we criticize our leaders. Could we inform ourselves, pursue collaborative conversations with people whose perspectives differ, and find ways to engage others with compassionate curiosity?  This, although perhaps not instinctive, is, especially in our given context, a bold rejection of the status quo and a major act of resistance. If we the people start acting like we the people, then maybe our leaders will begin to represent us well. Civil discourse doesn't happen on the public stage because it doesn't happen at our kitchen tables or social media feeds.  Right now I am afraid our leaders are the perfect representatives of our bad behavior.