The Power of Voice--

For the past week while running, I have been listening to Ta-Nehisi Coates' new book Between the World and Me.  It's not an easy book to listen to; in fact, I have restarted it numerous times because I need to hear and hear again what the author is saying.  It is powerful and emotional. I love hearing the book in the author's own voice, but I also realize I need to see it, so I've ordered it.

On Thanksgiving I was running, listening to it yet again. I guess because his book is a letter to his 15 year old son, I started thinking about my own 15 year old. My mind then jumped to comments I hear from others about her--"she is so funny," "she is kind", and even the criticism, "Why do you let her say the things she does?"(Does anyone who knows her really think I can control her?) "Why do you think she's funny?" (Because she is)"Do you find her disrespectful?" (Sometimes)

Perhaps I have to restart books because my mind goes all over the place connecting dots that no one (read no sane person) would ever connect...

Anyway, I went back to thinking about the book and how Coates talks about "body"--owning your own body, the control of others when it come to your body--remember I haven't read/listened very far because I keep starting over so I know there's more.  But what I do know he says (because I looked it up on kindle sample while waiting for my hard copy) is, "You must never look away from this. You must always remember that the sociology, the history, the economics, the graphs, the charts, the regressions all land, with great violence, upon the body." (location 101 of 107) Coates is teaching his son from his experience of the world.

And suddenly I had the answer to all those questions about Caroline.  I knew why I "let" her say the things she says. While you could even say I encourage her. Memories I had long forgotten came flooding, and I do mean flooding into my mind. I was overcome with emotion and tears sprang up and began flowing down my face. I had to slow down as I started shaking.  It wasn't memories about my body or body image (although there are plenty of those that aren't pleasant either), but rather about my voice.

Being reared in the deep south in the 70's and 80's, I learned early on you don't talk about religion, politics or money.  Those weren't appropriate--(and now my vocation drives me to talk about all three!)  I was taught that nice girls don't curse and to never question anyone in authority.  These lessons were part of my upbringing; they weren't new to me; they had become part of my DNA. But other memories  came into my mind with techno color vividness and I was unwillingly transported back in time...

First I thought of a night one fall, when I was 9.  I can remember exactly where I was standing and what I was wearing.  It was dusk and we had yet to turn on the kitchen light. My mother was getting butter out of the refrigerator; I could see her profile by the light of the open refrigerator door, and I asked her, "Why does that song say 'Screw me until the sun comes up?'" (Okay someone else please tell me they also misunderstood Fleetwood Mac's lyrics in "Say you Love Me.") Anyway, she looked at me with shock, her eyelids fluttered as they did when she was beyond angry, and she said, "That is disgusting.  Don't you ever talk like that again. Do not be a dirty girl." And in that moment I learned not to ask questions and specifically not to ask questions about relationships or sex. I learned it wasn't safe.

Memory flash forward--7th grade.  I had written an essay.  I don't remember it entirely except for it was about a weeping willow and how the tree expressed emotion. I remember writing it at the round, white kitchen table and reading it to my Daddy. I remember it was somewhat vulnerable.

During my study hall I was taking a vocabulary quiz in the English teacher's room and I heard him say, "This is the best essay I have ever read by a 7th grader. I'm giving it an A +++"  He began reading; I kept my head down as I realized it was mine. Suddenly he stopped; I could feel the heat in my face. He crumbled it and threw it on the ground.  I barely lifted my head but I could see how red his face was as he said, "Sentence fragment = F." And in that moment I learned what I had to say was only important if I could say it with exact precision.  I learned mechanics matter more than thoughts. And I learned one mistake made you a failure. I
learned never to be vulnerable.

The final memory came in that same English class.  We had just taken a vocabulary quiz; as I turned to exchange papers to grade with a friend I said, "I'm not sure I got all the words right but I know I got the bonus." A week or so later I found myself with no friends (or so I thought).  I summoned the courage to ask one girl why everyone was mad at me.  I remember I was wearing a yellow button down and white knee socks that day, and we were standing in the stairwell of the odd building. To her credit she didn't lie. She said, "We think you're stuck up and brag too much." and she used the vocabulary quiz as an example. I was shocked. I hadn't meant for that to sound conceited; I thought I was just making a statement. And in that moment I learned to hide --I learned not to ever disclose intellect or knowledge.  Over time I learned to doubt my own intelligence.  I learned I could easily be misunderstood: I learned not to trust myself; I learned not to be authentic, I learned not to be myself--that it wasn't safe to be myself, that I would be misunderstood and it would cost me dearly.

I couldn't believe how vivid these memories were or how intense the emotions surrounding them. But I knew in an instant these memories and probably (absolutely) other experiences piled on over the years taught me not to use my voice, not to be myself, and not to trust I would be understood.  I thought about my CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education) final project which was entitled, "Does that Make Sense?" because every time I spoke in group I would finish a thought with, "Does that Make Sense?"

I thought about many times in public I would be sharing a story, an experience only to be interrupted by my mother to correct details (no you were wearing a yellow shirt not a red), and I learned the details, the facts were more important than the experience.  I learned not to trust myself and my memory and not to share anything unless it was 100% factually accurate. It has taken me a long time and a lot of faith to learn the difference between fact and truth.

I have spent years reclaiming my voice; I'm better at it now, but I still have lots of fear and insecurity. I still get details wrong, and I still feel shame and humiliation when it's pointed out to me. I still worry I'll be misunderstood to the point I lose friends and colleagues--therapy helps, writing helps. But it's been hard and painful. So, I guess I let Caroline say the things she does because I don't want her to have the same struggle. I don't want her to lose her voice, to lose who she is.  Is she inappropriate at times? yes  Is she disrespectful at times" yes, but I believe life and maturity will help curb those impulses.  But losing one's voice, losing the power of one's voice, just like losing the power of one's body is far worse.


Disclaimers: 
Seventh grade girls, myself included, are mean and insecure. I suspect there was more to that story...

I in no way want to equate my experience with Coates'.  His book was the launching of my story, that is all. We all have stories...

I don't think any of these incidents were meant to be cruel. Makes me recognize the power of experience...

When the Church Gets It Wrong

After posting a blog on Friday, (But What If the Church is Wrong?) I was running errands and mulling over (read obsessing over) whether I should have posted it.  I kept hearing my head the words from Bishop C. Andrew Doyle's new book, "nothing is more threatening to the life and mission of the Church than cynical and negative leadership." (p. 3) I wondered, "Is that how people will read it?" I don't think I'm a cynical and negative leader, but what if that's how people read it? I don't want to come across that way; I'm not that way, but what if people misunderstand?

I was worried about colleagues and friends in the church who might misunderstand what I was trying to say.  I was worried because I have been told before I don't accept my priestly authority. I was worried I would be seen as a troublemaker, a pot stirrer, an unhappy priest--none of which I consider myself because I'm not.  And let me be really honest, I'm in search (Episcopal code for looking for a job), and I certainly don't want any parish to think I'm not hopeful for the future, that I don't believe there is a place, a much needed place, for the mission and ministry of the Church in the world because I most certainly do, and I desperately want to be a part of it. But I also think we have to look very hard at who we are and how we are in the world.

Hear me (ok, read me), it wasn't that I didn't believe what I wrote.  It wasn't that I didn't and don't struggle constantly with the questions I posed, it was something else--I was struggling with how it would be received.  Was I too harsh? Too judgmental myself? Too holier than thou?  So as I was turning into my neighborhood I decided I would take it down.

I didn't--I didn't because when I opened my computer there were messages from colleagues and friends saying thank you.  Thank you for writing this. So I didn't take it down, but I continued struggling with the question--what if the church is wrong? If I'm really honest, the questions that reverberate from the post is why do I stay?  Why do any of us stay? And why do I so desperately want to be a part of it?

Very good questions....

Tomorrow seated at our table will be all four of our children--all reared in the Episcopal Church. One continues to be very involved in the church--it has been said by more than one person on more than one occasion they believe she will one day be ordained.  A second wants nothing to do with church and in fact often says he doesn't believe at all.  The other two are somewhere in between. And yes, I do believe their feelings and beliefs do come from what they've experienced in the church.  I do believe the church they've witnessed bears some responsibility. We sometimes have heated debates; we sometimes have to drop the subject; we sometimes raise our voices. And yes, it's hard.  So the question remains--why?

I believe the answer comes not from focusing on the question what if the church is wrong, but rather what does the church do when it is wrong?

Presiding Bishop Michael Curry initiated a good bit of my former question with his All Saints Sermon.  Presiding Bishop Michael Curry who is African American--our first African American Presiding Bishop--the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, the church who for centuries supported slavery. On October 4, 2008, the Episcopal Church apologized for it's role (Episcopal Church Apologizes) and now we have an African American Presiding Bishop who leads us, challenges us, inspires us.

That's why I stay--because we have been and can be a place that takes responsibility, because when we are wrong we bear witness to a community that can extend love and mercy and forgiveness and grace.  When we are wrong and we admit we are wrong, we can model for the world what it means to take responsibility, to own our past, to learn from our mistakes and to move forward with love.

Bishop Doyle also asks in his book, "To adapt to the VUCA world, what must the Church give up? What must the Church take on?" (p. 18) (VUCA world = volatility, uncertainty, complexity, ambiguity). I believe the Church needs to give up it's absolute certainty in all matters and take on being a place to question, a place to bring our doubts, our fears, our anger and our joys, and our grief and our solace.  I believe it needs to continue to be a place where we can  practice grace, mercy, forgiveness and WHEN we get it wrong it is a place where we can start again.

I am not negative and cynical.  I claim my priestly authority. And I believe in the God "who is and who was and who is to come" (Revelation 1:4 NRSV) I believe the Church can and is an institution with faults but I believe it can and is an institution that at its best serves Jesus' cause--I also believe we have to be honest about who we are as individuals and as the church.

Here's how I honestly understand who I am...

I am not a negative and cynical leader in the church; I do accept and claim my priestly authority. I also claim I am a leader. (My therapist right now is high fiving herself for my ability to publicly say that...) I'll say it again; I am a leader, I am a leader, accepting my priestly authority and exercising it in my own way--in the way God created me to be.  I am a leader who leads expressing my uncertainty, admitting my vulnerability. For better or worse I am a clergy who lives out my vocation in a way Rachel Held Evans wonders about when she writes, "I often wonder if the role of the clergy in this age is not to dispense information or guard the prestige of their authority, but rather to go first, to volunteer the truth about their sins, their dreams, their failures, and their fears in order to free others to do the same." (p.112) 

I guess that blog on Friday was me going first--me going first admitting I question, I struggle, I hurt because of the hurt I know the church has caused.  But I also stay--

As I think about our children and where they are in their lives of faith, I could be angry at the role the church has played. But I'm not. I do wish it were different. But they're on their own journeys and I am honored to journey with them OR to let them journey alone. And I believe that just like we O'Doyles continue to love one another, accept one another, extend grace and mercy to one another--to gather around one table with our differences so can the church.

Tomorrow gathered in our home will be our family plus other families--families we have met and fallen in love with through the Church.  Families who have become our family. We will gather with our different nationalities, our different political views, our different theologies, our different beliefs--we might even talk about some of them.  But we'll also gather as people who love and accept--as people who try to practice mercy and forgiveness and grace.  As people who learned how to do that in the Church.

I stay because of what happens when the Church gets it wrong. I stay because we do get it wrong and by staying we get to start again and again and again--for as long as it takes.





Doyle, C.. Andrew; A Generous Community; Being the Church in a New Missionary Age. New York: Morehouse Publishing,        2015.

Evans, Rachel Held; Searching for Sunday. Nashville, Tenn: Nelson Books, 2015.

But What if the Church is Wrong?

Ugh!  Okay, here's the problem.  I've been delaying (read hiding,

avoiding running in the opposite direction as quickly as I can--I even considered running this morning in 28 degree weather to avoid this--now that's serious avoidance!) I've been avoiding writing this blog.  I don't want to write this; I don't want to; I don't want to; I don't want to! (Insert toddler tantrum complete with foot stomping) But last night as I lay in bed trying to sleep, I knew that I had to do it.  I didn't want to, but I had to. The weeks of avoiding had to come to an end, but gosh darn I don't want to....

Last month as I was reading Morning Prayer (I'll be honest that day it was in the afternoon...) I read Psalm 40.  I planned to read quickly and move on--so much for planning.  I got to verse 10 and froze--seriously my brain, my body everything came to a screeching halt.  It read, "I proclaimed righteousness in the great congregations, behold, I did not restrain my lips; and that, O Lord, you know."  And my mind started screaming, but what if it's not righteousness we're proclaiming in our congregations?  What if it's self-righteousness?

See why I don't want to write this?  I am a priest in the Episcopal Church; I don't want to believe that I or anyone intentionally or unintentionally uses the pulpit for their own agenda. "Stop," I told myself knowing these thoughts were certainly not going to make me popular among some of my colleagues, "Stop. You're reading this out of context.  That's not the gist of this psalm. It's not what it's saying and you're doing what you're thinking some others do--using scripture inappropriately, out of context or for your own agenda. And I was right--in it's totality that's not what the psalmist was saying, and yet I couldn't move on. So I did what all slightly neurotic people do.  I began to research the actual meaning of "righteousness" (okay, I'll admit it; I became obsessed.  I tried to figure out a way to not hear what I was hearing.  I googled; I read every translation of the Bible I could get my hands on (and as a priest I have many). What I discovered can be summarized in this one sentence by N. T. Wright, "It thus donates not so much the abstract idea of justice or virtue, as right standing and consequent right behaviour within a community."N.T. Wright

It didn't help--in fact, it made it worse. Now I have to think about who gets to decide what's right behavior?  If it's the Church and more specifically those of us ordained to preach the Gospel, what if we're wrong?  There I've said it.  WHAT. IF. WE'RE. WRONG? And further what if we are so darn self righteous (defined as having or characterized by a certainty, especially an unfounded one, that one is totally correct or morally superior.) that we can't see it?

Over the past few weeks there have been many "signs" I have ignored speaking just to this topic or perhaps speaking to me--prodding me to actually reflect on this which means writing on this--reflecting and writing on the possibility, and sometimes the probability, that we can be wrong, misinformed, self-righteous or whatever word we want to use.  

One "sign" came to me in the Presiding Bishop's sermon on All Saints Sunday.  He said, "The truly liberating truth is that Jesus didn't come into this world to found a religion, though religious faith is important. Nor did he establish a religious intuition or organization, though institutions and organizations can serve his cause. You will not find an organizational table in the New Testament. Jesus came to continue a movement.  Actually, Jesus picked up and took the movement of John the Baptist to a new level. John was part of the movement born out of prophets like Amos and Isaiah and Jeremiah. And prophetic movement was rooted in Moses, who went up to the mountaintop. Jesus crystallized and catalyzed the movement that was serving God's mission in this world.  God has a passionate dream for this world. Jesus came to show us the way.  Out of the darkness into the dream."(Presiding Bishop Michael Curry's Sermon)

I keep returning to those words "institutions and organizations can serve his cause," and I also hear, "or can serve their own". I want to belong to an institution, to be part of an institution that serves his cause. I think in order to do that, I have to look critically, along with others, at that very institution.

I'm going to be honest--even as a priest in The Episcopal Church--I wanted to suppress the message from our Presiding Bishop--or at least the message I was hearing. (And believe me I have a very high regard for the authority of Bishops and I personally love this man.) But two things have forced my hand.  The first was yesterday reading Bishop Andy Doyle's (no relation to me, gosh darn it I wish he was) new book A Generous Community: Being the Church in a New Missionary Age. He writes, "As we ponder what the disciples are doing, it becomes clear that they are invested in a closed system. They want to control how Jesus is used, how Jesus relates, with whom Jesus spends time, and who has access to Jesus. Who they think should have access to God is impacted by their desire for control." (p.5-6) Bishop Doyle is talking about Jesus' disciples, but I suspect he could be talking about us--the Church, the ordained and lay leaders of the Church--today.

The second is the faces---the week after reading Psalm 40 and hearing Presiding Bishop Curry's sermon, Louisville Collegiate Schools presented The Laramie Project. It was the story of Laramie Wyoming the year following the murder of Matthew Shepherd. (The Laramie Project) It was powerful, emotional, and incredibly well done.  After every show there was an opportunity for a talk back session with the cast and audience.  Each night a different "professional" was asked to lead the talk back.  I had the distinct honor to be asked to lead the talk back about religious institutions response.

I sat on the stage with these young people as they processed--as they talked about the religious institutions responses then to this event and now to others.  I was so impressed by their courage, their candor, their passion, and I have been haunted by their exhausted, pained, courageous faces and their words.  Here's what I heard...

A senior who is articulate and mature said in a very respectful and serious tone, "I'm an atheist so I have to admit I don't totally get your perspective.  But what I really don't understand is how Christians can just blindly believe what a person in a pulpit tells them is right or wrong regardless of, well regardless of just about anything. How can you not question?"

Tears streamed down one young woman's face as she said, "What continues to haunt me--what I can't get over--what I hate hearing every night-- is the words of the Baptist preacher. 'I certainly hope before he slipped into a coma Matthew had a moment to repent of who he was'.  She looked at me her eyes imploring me to fix this for her as she continued, "How can someone really believe that--really believe that if that didn't happen Matthew Shepherd is in hell?"

The young man who played the Baptist minister said, "Those were my hardest lines.  Because I don't believe them at all.  I feel contaminated every time I say them."

Another young man said, "I am a Christian; I believe in God; but I don't go to church anymore. I don't believe in the Church. It hurts too many people."

And another said, "I think the church needs to change.  Why won't it change?"

I felt so helpless that night, so inadequate, but I had to say somethings, so here's what I did say.  "Sometimes we the Church do get it wrong. Sometimes we think we're right and we're not. But it takes people like you--it takes people who have the strength to question, to think--to help us.  Because here's the other thing--I'm a priest in the Episcopal Church.  I love being a priest in the Episcopal Church; I love proclaiming the Gospel, but I am not "The Church".  You all--all of you are the Church and your voices need to be heard. You are part of what can bring change. I don't have all the answers; you don't have all the answers; together maybe we can move forward to find answers. But we need to have conversations.  Y'all putting on this show started a conversation, and I suspect no one who has seen or will see y'all's work will leave this theater the same."  

And then I reminded them of other lines in the play--the Catholic priest who led the first vigil and said, "I know I probably should have asked my Bishop before I planned it, but I didn't.  I didn't ask because I knew it was the right thing to do. Why should you have to ask to do the right thing?" And the mormon pastor who said about one of the defendants, "The mormon church excommunicated him.  But me, well I'm going to continue to visit that young man. I've known him his whole life and I'm not turning my back on him."

So now I've done it--now I've tried to be as courageous as those students--now maybe I can sleep better, stop thinking about it; now I've blogged my thoughts about Psalm 40:10 and it's impact on me. Now maybe I can move on; now maybe it can be finished.

Or now maybe it can start a conversation.....

Lice and Addiction--The Equalizers

I remember that call from my sister like it was yesterday instead of almost 9 years ago.  My niece, my precious beautiful 8 year old niece, came home crying because one of her "besties" told her, "My mom says I can't sit by you on the bus because you had lice." (I would like to make sure you see the emphasis on "had") Sadly the mom passing on this information to her child was also one of my sister's "friends."  So as good sisters do when one has been slighted, I expressed my sympathy, my horror, my outrage and verbalized that I wished not only for that child to get lice but for there to descend upon that house every kind of plague imaginable.  I am a very good sister! And then my exceptionally wise, older (had to throw that adjective in) sister said, "You know here's the thing.  Lice equalizes the "social" and economic playing field. Anyone can get it."

I've thought about that a great deal over the years.  I'm not sure I know a single family who hasn't had to deal with lice. Still when I hear about an outbreak I get squeamish (and itchy--even as I write this I'm scratching) and I give a silent prayer of thanks that it's not us--this time.  See those little boogers don't care if you live on a country club golf course, in a million dollar home, or in public housing. They don't care how many diplomas you have on your wall, where they are from, or whether your walls are covered with newspaper to keep the cold out. They don't care if you wash your hair once a day or once a week.  They don't care what your last name is or who you know. If you're exposed, you stand the chance of getting them. And you can be exposed easily--sharing a hat, a headband, or a brush, and it only takes one time.

You can get them effortlessly, but (and I speak from experience) the effort of getting rid of them is intense. It is hard, and it can be painful.  I remember the hours I spent combing out long beautiful hair as my girls gritted their teeth, tears rolling down their faces, trying not to scream when it seemed I pulled too hard.  I remember when I was that girl with my mother combing my hair out yanking and tugging trying to get rid of every last interloper--every last piece of evidence that we'd been infected. I remember the hours I spent washing pillows, sheets, stuffed animals--the hours spent dealing with "the problem". I remember thinking, "I've got it all done." only to have a resurgence a few days later as unfound eggs hatched.  I remember the hours spent focusing on the task at hand, and the other things in life that were neglected or ignored during the "crisis"--even other family members.

I remember the lectures I gave the children as they left for school, ballet, sports practices and most importantly camp, about sharing pillows, brushes, headbands and hats.  Yet, even when they'd seen the difficulty of getting rid of them, even when they'd heard the sobs of their siblings who were going through the decontamination process, even when they'd been the one they still at times did not heed my advice.

The other thing I remember about lice outbreaks is the notes that came home from the schools--both public and private--when a student was found to be infected. I remember hearing people, I remember being one of the people, who speculated on "the culprit", who smugly passed judgement on the family, and who silently or not, gave thanks it wasn't our family.  And I remember the shame that came when it was.

Sadly I remember telling my children, "Don't tell anyone why _________ isn't at school today." I convinced myself it was because I didn't want my children to be scorned, to be ridiculed, to be judged, to be ostracized.  But I know it was just as much about me. So along with lice came secrecy, and I believe there are very few times secrets benefit anyone...

Recently I've begun to realize that lice and addiction have a great deal in common; lice and addiction are "besties".  They both can strike anyone; neither cares, who you are, who you know or how much money you have.  They both are hard to beat--it takes endless amounts of time, effort and even pain.  They both can reappear/relapse when you least expect it. They both can attack with one exposure or you can roll the dice many times before they appear, and there are some who will never have to suffer with either even if participating in risky behavior. They both become a family problem. They both rob us of time spent with those we love, doing those things we love. And they both come with fear and secrecy and shame.

The thing about lice is it's typically an elementary school problem.  Addiction, for most, surfaces later. Which makes me wonder...perhaps if we could learn to be more open, honest, and transparent about lice; perhaps if we shared our experiences, our challenges, and our successes; perhaps if we learned to work together, instead of judging one another, perhaps if we focused on what it would take to contain lice, to eradicate lice, to educate our children and others about lice instead of just giving thanks it had yet to permeate our own family's life--perhaps, just perhaps the lice "epidemic" would release it's hold on society, and it would take addiction with it.