 Sometimes, you’ll tune into a podcast, a sermon, a song, a poem or a story, and you will be surprised by tears. And as those tears wet your tender cheeks, you will realize you’ve been sad, sad, sad, for so very long. When my son was battling cancer, I rarely cried. This is because I wanted to face the evil disease. I wanted to fight it. One day, when we were all at home resting between treatments, I read a Facebook post about another boy my son’s age passing away from the same type of cancer. My tears were instantaneous. I could cry for that little boy and his grieving mother, I could feel all the shock and horror, for her, but I had been scooping all the same feelings for myself to the side, out of range. I believe this was my body’s way of coping with a trauma powerful enough to break me. I’m grateful for that moment of grieving; like a mirror, it forced me to see all of me. I didn’t realize until a few weeks ago that I had been subconsciously-not-seeing heaps of personal grief over the breakdown of my former faith: I was listening to a message given by Sarah Bessey at the 2020 Evolving Faith conference and her words brought a sudden flow of tears. And it wasn’t just grief I’d been holding; it was also pain, and hurt. Realizing I’ve been grieving, well, I think that’s why I’ve felt so dead on the inside- because though I was grieving, I didn’t own it. I was living numb to my pain. Brene Brown says, “You can't numb those hard feelings without numbing the other affects, our emotions. You cannot selectively numb. So when we numb those, we numb joy, we numb gratitude, we numb happiness. And then we are miserable, and we are looking for purpose and meaning, and then we feel vulnerable, so then we have a couple of beers and a banana nut muffin. And it becomes this dangerous cycle.” As I’ve begun to allow grief, I’ve felt a lightness in my soul; there were just too many things hidden there, tucked away, haunting and taunting and clinging, little vampires suckling my soul. Like, I didn’t realize how hurt I was that the faith which had promised hope, sustenance and unconditional love to all had fallen short. You know Jesus? The one who hung out with sinners so much he was accused of all sorts of sordid behavior? Why had my faith painted that Jesus as some sort of ornate emblem of white male perfection? That Jesus really didn’t care about the hurting, the homeless, the rejected and the weak. He cared about being good and perfect and about being God’s son. He cared about WHAT we believed more than about HOW our belief worked itself out. He cared all about the FUTURE and the PAST, but not at all about the present. He cared about whether or not we believed the right things; nothing else mattered. (But wasn’t that sticklerishness for knowing all the things what Jesus was so pissed at the Pharisees about?) He separated people into “you’re in” and “you’re out”; he was the same as God but he also had to martyr his body to appease his angry father-God. Also, he hated queer people even though they loved him and wanted him to love them. That Jesus brought no hope or healing, held no love. I was deeply wounded by him. And quite frankly, I was pissed, at him. How could he say something like, that he did not come to condemn the world, but then turn around and condemn anyone who didn’t believe in Him, and, also, anyone who identified as LGBTQ+? That Jesus condemned hypocrisy whilst asking his own dear children not to be completely themselves. What a fucking liar! Jesus, God, love, embodied, condemning so many people to a literal living hell on earth. Yah, I was pissed, but really I was sad, and wounded too. I felt so disillusioned by a God who wanted me to agree to beliefs that didn’t concur with science. I was tired, oh so tired, of trying to follow circular arguments, battling evolution, round and round, same, same, never changing, never changed. Why did God hate science when God admitted to actively engaging in divine revelation? Heck, why was there so much truly bad science within the pages of that supposedly perfect book of god-words? Like, you know, how it asserts the world is made up of three layers when it isn't? Or, or, saying the sun actually stood still at one time when that would have had catastrophic consequences for the whole entire earth? Why had I needed to shut off my thinking in order to follow God? I didn’t want the wisdom of God, the one that didn’t make sense to the world, to be all about rejecting science, I wanted it to be about showing radical love. Deep down, I longed for a God who was pitted against the dark forces of greed, injustice and evil rather than a God pitted against science and anyone with bad doctrine. Again, that God, that Jesus I had believed in, wasn't actually about love, he was only about do's, don'ts and shouldn'ts. As I entered my late 30’s, I found myself grappling with a faith that was honestly fake and ignorant. And that made me lonely and churchless, and sad, deep down in my bones. Now, as I allow the grief, I find myself ever so grateful to those Israelites who wandered in the desert for so many years, alone and wishful. They never entered the Promised Land. They complained and cried out, and it was annoying. But, like me, they wondered allowed whether or not God was even with them or for them. And yet, there God always was. Only, God didn't look how they thought God would. God didn't act how they wanted God to. They were being beckoned to see God differently, to see themselves differently and most of all, to endure emptiness with hope, not hope for happy times, but hope that good, and love, existed, despite their circumstances. Maybe they wandered in the wilderness for the sake of all those future folks who would find themselves similarly wandering, lost, bored, hungry and thirsty. Those homeless, landless drifters, they remind me- it's okay to be in the wilderness. And, it's okay to be pissed and cry out. Because, even in the wilderness, God somehow still is. The wilderness has its place, and we may very well find our own place, in it.
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 Sometimes, when I post a photo of my family on Instagram, I consider being brutally honest and writing about all the chaotic “things” which happened before and after the peaceful pic was snapped. (You know, like how someone had just finished crying because of a stubbed toe or how someone subsequently got angry about something her sibling did…) #Keepingitreal, friends. One of my daughters has been suffering anxiety of late. She was enthusiastic about people and all things new, but in the past few weeks, she cries and begs not to go to places where there will be large crowds. My son just went through a year of cancer treatments, and while we are finally finished, there is no guarantee the cancer won’t return. At night, he breaks down. He wonders why life is so hard, and why the doctors’ appointments and surgeries never end and, and, what if he got sick tomorrow? And I feel as though I am always trying on new hats, looking into this career then that like a frenzied bird, never alighting to say, “Aha! This is me. Now I can simmer down.” Perhaps these struggles are common to most people, or maybe they are unique to my family. Who knows? I do believe that suffering and hardship are an integral part of the human experience. You know what makes everything harder than it should be? Fear. Fear’s messages sound something like this: Don’t ever… You should have… Why did you.... What’s wrong with your child?!... I could/would never have done that… Just trust God… Well, look on the bright side… At least it’s not xyz… Have you ever heard these mantras, friends? Have they been directed at you? Have you ever said them yourself? It's all right if you have. I know I've certainly said my share. On Why My Family Really Doesn’t Fit The Proverbial Mold... Have you heard the term “neurodiverse”? According to Google, neurodiverse means “displaying or characterized by autistic or other neurologically atypical patterns of thought or behavior; not neurotypical.” I love using this term because instead of labeling people whose brains are wired differently as “bad” or “disabled”, I get to use a descriptive term which implies that “normal” is a spectrum. The neurodiverse are just more “diverse” in how their minds work. Using “neurodiverse” also puts the onus on those of us who are more like the majority of people (neurotypical) to learn, learn, learn how the neurodiverse person thinks and moves through this world. Having a family with members who are neurodiverse will sometimes make you stand out like an annoying sore thumb, especially in the standard places where people gather to socialize. Like church. Church can be overwhelming for a child with sensory sensitivity: loud noises, crowds, weird smells, etc. This makes church extremely painful for neurodiverse kids. And most churches and church classes are structured to cater to neurotypical folks. I’ve read stories about moms with neurodiverse children being told their littles cannot attend Sunday School or being asked to leave a church service because their kiddos were being too noisy or “disruptive”. Then there are social groups, parties and functions. Parties are so so fun for most children, yet for some children, they are torturous. How This All Plays Out For Us In Everyday Situations For us parents of the neurodiverse, we are always “on call”. Our kids will appear to be clingy and whiny while your kids are skipping around and having fun. We may not really get to visit with you much, though we are longing to. We experience every stare and every question at 100% magnification. It is as though folks are standing on boulders screaming through megaphones into our ears. Yes, we know we seem strange. Yes, we know our kids aren’t enjoying themselves like most of the other children are. Yes, yes, yes, we wish our kids were having fun like yours. Of course we do. No, we are not more overprotective than the average parent. If our littles wanted to run and play and galavant, we would be thrilled. Yet, It’s All Really A Gift... Do you have an idiosyncrasy or quirk? Do you have any pet peeves no one really gets? Do you hide these things so as to “fit in”? Hiding is a luxury the neurodiverse do not have. Their struggles are always on display. In spite of the constant hand-wringing and book-reading involved in the parenting of the neurodiverse, I am so incredibly grateful for my children. They are truly a gift. They are a gift because they have handed me empathy and compassion on a platter. When I see another mother whose child is "unreasonably" clingy or who is having to rush home earlier than all the other moms, my heart goes out to her. I know how she feels. When I read why many parents of neurodiverse children do not attend church, I get it. My babes are a gift because they have taught me that true freedom is not found in “fitting in”; it is found in loving what I have been given. They have taught me to look inward when I feel pangs of envy upon seeing families easily enjoying themselves in this world. What does my sudden jealousy reveal about me? My children have taught me that it is okay to dance to the proverbial beat of a different drum. My decision-making thought-process often goes something like this: “Everyone says we should be like xyz; but so what? We’re not everyone”. My diverse family has given me the gift of stopping and resting when I have wanted to go, go, go. The Myth Of The Lonely Sufferer As you know, I’ve been reading The Universal Christ by Richard Rohr. I feel as though I am having an ongoing dialogue with everything in the book. In one chapter, Rohr points out the universality of grief: all grief is really one grief. Like, you know when you are sad about something and it builds up to a breaking point? And then, while you are crying, you think of more and more and more sad shit and the floodgates open? And soon you are weeping about the problems of the whole wide world? I used to think it was wrong to weep that way. Like, come on lady, you’re being too dramatic. But now I see that weeping for the weight of the world is my participation in universal suffering. And this connects me with Christ. Grief and pain and heartache, loneliness and isolation and being misunderstood are opportunities to experience Christ's suffering, which in turn is an opportunity to connect with all of humanity’s suffering throughout all of history. I still say, fuck cancer and fuck mental illness. All this needless suffering is devastating and shitty, and we should not paint it pretty. There’s a reason God wept at the tomb of her friend. So what is my point? My point is that wherever you park while reading this post, however you are currently feeling, I hope you know that when you most taste your brokenness, you are indeed less alone than you've ever been. You are in the sweaty grimy company of the hurting multitudes. You are in the blood gushing, nail-pierced, rejected and scorned company of the Suffering Christ. “A Crucified God is the dramatic symbol of the one suffering that God fully enters into with us— much more than just for us [...].” (The Universal Christ, 162) And so, dear one, Weep all you need. Do you hear the multitudes weeping with you? Then,on the next clear star-studded night, drive out into some open field . Turn off your car so's you can step, step, pitter-patter, naked-feet-to-spongy-soil, kiss, kiss. Pause. Listen to the chirruping crickets and the breeze that's tousling that tall grass, snap, crackle, pop. Let the glorious night air gulp up your exhale: out, out, out. Do you hear it? That rhythm, that beat, that cacaphonous melody of your one and only, uniquely-you drum? Go ahead, crank up that beautiful music, dear, dance all crazy-like. And when you pause to choke up some air, open your eyes. You might glimpse me there, cavorting, snorting holy-night-air, caught up in my own hullabaloo, me being me... Can you see it? The truth? You're always, always, free to be you.  "God is always bigger than the boxes we build for God, so we should not waste too much time protecting the boxes." -Richard Rohr I used to worry that if I asked too many questions about my faith, God would punish me. I grew up hearing how illness in a Christian was God’s discipline: depending on a person’s “walk with God”, illness was either punishment for wrongdoing or a trial-like test of faith. How can we know whether our suffering is a punishment or a trial, I wondered? My son was born premature and had to remain in the hospital for six weeks. One night, the doctors were concerned about him. Not to be dramatic, but we spent that night terrified our son was going to die. I searched my heart. Was I not trusting God enough? Had I sinned in a big way recently? How could I know which types of behavior constituted punishment and what sort of faith warranted trial? I heard many cautionary tales over the years: so and so was gay, and they died in a car wreck; someone was filled with faith-questions, and they were diagnosed with cancer; such and such a city was carnal, didn't care about God, and was hit with a hurricane. I was taught fear was a good thing: First, because fear of hell forced me to see I needed a savior. Fear was an excellent tactic for rescuing people. Second, because fear kept me on the “straight and narrow”. It encouraged me to obey God without question. What the people who instilled a healthy faith-fear in me failed to realize was that fear gave me a skewed view of God which kept me from fully experiencing God’s love and acceptance. It also gave me a judgmental stance toward “others” who weren’t "walking with God". Then I had children. I vividly remember when my oldest child, a son, reached 18 months of age, the prescribed spanking age a la Focus on the Family. I recall gazing into that little boy's clear blue eyes and imagining the pain, betrayal and hurt I’d see there if I spanked him. I stepped into his little world and pictured life from his point of view. Here was his mommy, who he ran to when he was in pain, or hungry, or tired, or anxious. His safety net. What if one day, Mommy hit his hand because he became curious or distracted and touched something mommy said not to touch. He would snap to attention, smarting, stung, and look into mommy’s eyes, wondering why she hurt him, wouldn’t he? He would still love mommy, but he would feel a teensy bit scared of her. Over time, and multiple repetitions, he would either become terrified of accidentally not hearing his mommy’s commands and therefore getting punished, or angry and vicious and ready to fight in his own defense. Fight, flight, freeze would become the rhythm of his childhood. And though perhaps his mommy would tell him she always loved him, unconditionally, he would know experientially that unconditional love did not, could not, in fact, exist in the face of Perfect Justice. Therefore, he would never feel 100% safe with mommy. He would never fully rest. Additionally, when he messed up, he would wonder if he needed to be punished first (or even punish himself??) in order to be welcomed back to his mother’s arms. While I pondered my son’s emotional reaction to corporal punishment, a verse went ‘round and ‘round my head, a veritable ping pong ball spouting truth: “There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.” (1 John 4: 18) So I chose not to spank my son. Over the years, I was touched again and again by the vast profundity and power of God’s love as I parented my children without wielding fear as a parenting tool. But some things still confused me. Though I believed God’s grace was wrapped around me tightly and that God loved me unconditionally, God still scared me: You see, I believed in a punitive God who demanded death as payment for my sins. Yes, I believed Jesus paid for those sins by offering his life on my behalf, and that I was forgiven. It's just that some things didn't add up. Why did Jesus have to hide me from God? As I understood it, if Jesus ever so much as stepped out of the way, God’s wrath would be pouring like hot lava all over me, right? This is the reason we sang songs every Sunday thanking and thanking and thanking God for saving us, wretched wriggling bottom-feeding worms that we were. I couldn't wrap my mind around a Trinity seemingly at odds with itself, wrapped in a vortex of wrath and appeasement, bloodthirst and forgiveness. Why were God and Jesus so different in their attitudes towards people? The Punisher and The Martyr. I felt as though I was in the middle of some ancient Greek myth. Must I, should I, ought I be afraid of God? When I was repentant and weary, I ran to the forgiving arms of Jesus, while simultaneously wondering where the punishing blow would land. Was God really this punitive and bloodthirsty? Did God demand my death in recompense for my sins? Some scriptures seemed pretty clear on this subject. Yet. Yet, what about this verse (John 3:17): “For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but to save the world through him?” This verse sounded like God and Jesus were about doing the same thing: saving the world, not condemning it. In fact, if God was about redemption, renewal and restoration, and not about insatiable wrath, then I needn’t fear. But how could I reconcile God’s wrath, which never stopped pouring out, with God’s redemption? Not that long ago, I discovered there were multiple theories of atonement (aka why did Jesus die?). The theory which I had always held to was called Penal Substitution, but that was not the oldest theory. As it turns out, there were several other theories which were even older than Penal Substitution. The most ancient theory is called Christus Victor. This theory depicts Jesus and God working together to defeat the powers of Satan, sin and death. Here is a brief summary of the main atonement theories across the history of the church: https://www.churchtimes.co.uk/articles/2018/29-march/features/features/is-there-one-doctrine-of-the-atonement-ransom-substitute-scapegoat-god. I urge you to study these theories and ask these questions (as well as others): How were these theories influenced by the culture of their times? What do they have to offer? What do they tell us about God? What do they say about us as humans? What are their drawbacks? When all is said and done and the dust of your queries settles, what is left? For me, what was left was this: Jesus crucified and risen; the Godhead working to redeem me from sin, evil and death. The more I read those New Testament books, the more convinced I became that the focus ought to be on resurrection, not death, on peace, not wrath, and on restoration, not judgment. When all was said and done, what did the risen Jesus mean for this whole wide universe? What did God want, ultimately? I'm still pondering this one. Sometimes, while I was wondering about God, asking if there were things I had gotten wrong, I would have the strangest experience. I would be thinking, and my muscles would all tense in anxiety. My stomach would ache. Fear would grip me so tightly, I’d lose my breath. What was I so afraid of? I could not put my finger on it. I was talking about this fear with my husband one day when he said, “If God does not allow God’s people to question God, then God is a fearful God and not really all that powerful in the end. God should be able to handle our questioning.” Time passed. I sat with the questions. I began to embrace the inevitable mystery that comes with “I don’t know” answers. Meanwhile, I imagined God, holding all those answers. I let go. It was not my job to know everything, to have it all fit neatly into a box. After all, if God could be perfectly explained, why should I pursue knowing her? Why should I ask her hard questions? Didn’t God invite and encourage a yearning after him? “As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, O God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God.” The truth was, I yearned after God more when I was questioning then when I was holding on to a God I could explain. I realized my version of God had become a sort of idol. For so long, I stood at the ready, armed with arguments to defend this god in case anyone tried to attack it. I had forgotten that the true God was so much bigger than me. God didn’t need my apologetics. God needed me. I decided it was time to let go of the god I had fashioned from my own limited understanding: the god who threatened me and scared me, the god who would be out for my blood if I went too far off the beaten path. If God said God was love, it was time for me to embrace that. If the Bible seemed to be wrestling with an issue, it was time to acknowledge that, to realize that faith involves struggle and dissonance, that there aren't always easy answers, but that the questions can lead us to wisdom. There is this story about Jacob, who received a blessing and a new name after he struggled with God. “Your name will no longer be Jacob, but Israel, because you have struggled with God and with humans and have overcome.” What if God didn’t ever want to be fully defined, other than with the fullness alluded to in the phrase, “I am who I am”? What if God wanted endless quest, endless wonder, endless relationship-desire? I had to let my version of god die. Then I stepped back and gazed in awe at the shadow, the enigma, the great loving mystery before me. Of late, I have been reading The Universal Christ by Richard Rohr. I have been in awe of the many ways God steps into our world to be known by us: “Most of us understandably start the journey assuming that God is “up there,” and our job is to transcend this world to find ‘him’. We spend so much time trying to get “up there,” we miss that God’s big leap in Jesus was to come ‘down here’. So much of our worship and religious effort is the spiritual equivalent of trying to go up what has become the down escalator. I suspect that the 'up there’ mentality is the way most people’s spiritual search has to start. But once the real inner journey begins—once you come to know that in Christ, God is forever overcoming the gap between human and divine—the Christian path becomes less about climbing and performance, and more about descending, letting go, and unlearning. Knowing and loving Jesus is largely about becoming fully human, wounds and all, instead of ascending spiritually or thinking we can remain unwounded.” One day soon, I will write a post about everything this book is teaching me, but for now, that is an excellent intro. I no longer live in fear of what God will do to me because of all the faith-questions I have. I do not worry that if I’m wrong about something I believe, God will strike me with some sort of punishment. God’s love has to be love in its purest form if it is really love. And I believe it is. Breathe in, breathe out, Focus on your breath as it enters and leaves Allow distraction to flow past you like water I am in a barren brown-dirt land Sitting cross-legged, A peace rests in me and around me, It sits in the air, Mouth-watering and tangible I watch as Leafless gray vines knit a dome over me Leaving gaps for the light I feel warm, So safe and secure, My body tingles in anticipation Then I hear it, A voice— It knows. It knows, All my secrets, My fears, All the hidden doubt and insecurity, And the myriad things I haven’t yet discovered The voice speaks. Is it deep? Yes, yes, It is a well filled with water… Is it soft? Oh yes, yes it is, Tender on my ears, Mother with newborn babe, Intelligible The voice, It says, “I know you, I know everything about you,” And though I understand The Voice sees my awful ugly And all the hurt I’ve ever caused I feel no shame I swim in the ecstasy of Being Known, And I know something too: This is what Love tastes like. |
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