Good White Men

Forty-six years ago yesterday eleven women were ordained into The Episcopal Church. Except it was a little bit "irregular." Ordination for women had not passed the General Convention. For six years they had been talking about it; for six years it failed. But 11 women persisted, and four men--3 resigned/retired Bishops and 1 active Bishop from Costa Rico, said enough talk--we're doing this.

Forty-six years ago I was six and my goal in life was to become the first woman President. (May I just say how glad I am God did not think that was a good idea?) I actually carried that dream well into my teen years--again so glad God knew better. But here's the thing, I believed it could happen. My parents didn't pat me on the head and talk about how cute I was. They supported my dream; they told people about my dream; they believed it could happen.

In 1997 I heard God calling me into ordained ministry. I had no idea 23 years before that would not have been a possibility. But 14 years later...

I was in the discernment process; I was juggling four children grades 3, 4, 5, and 7. We had just moved to Louisville, and that was way harder and more emotional than I realized it would be. But we pulled together as a family; I went to seminary; we moved 2 times; I graduated from seminary; and then....

I needed to do a year of Anglican Studies not in Louisville. Now the children were in grades 5, 6,7, and 9. I couldn't leave; I couldn't move the children. Everything came to a screeching halt. It was horrible and not because our family had sacrificed for me to go to seminary. It was horrible because I knew with every ounce of my being God was calling me into ordained ministry, and "the rules" were blocking me. I believed I had no choice but to withdraw from the process. (Seriously, God bless Ben Maas--he listened to me sob uncontrollably. I like to think I got him ready for his daughter's years of puberty...)

I wrote my letter to withdraw; I sent it to my Bishop. He called me and said, "Not accepting this. Give me a little time." Now I'm not going to say we broke the rules--but wouldn't that make a dramatic story? We didn't, but Bishop White believed I was so-called, and he wouldn't let it go. He found a way, and a year later I was ordained.

Yesterday as I was preaching I thought about these women and all the women before them. They had to bury a part of them--a part of themselves God created and called them to. Until yesterday I'm not sure I really understood the depth of their pain. But here's the other thing I think about and give thanks for--there were four men who said we will find a way and they did. In 2011 one man held space for me as I wept and another said, "We'll find a way." and we did.

Yes, there is patriarchy in the church and in the world; yes there are people who want to keep women, LGBTQ+, and other races down. But there are also really good white men who want to make the world a better, more equal, place. Let's not forget them.

I Win--Okay Not Me--God

So a couple of weeks ago a good friend sent me a text--it hurt and it made me angry. I didn't respond. 

I know this person. I love this person. And I know to the depths of my being this person would never try to hurt me, which didn't change how hurt I was. The next day I received an apology, and we talked. We're over it (seriously, I'm just using this as a springboard--we really are). I understood how it was meant, the person understood how I took it, and we're all good.

I thought I would use it someday in a sermon or a blog post as an example of why person to person communication is best. I thought I would use it as an example of how texts, emails, social media posts can all be misinterpreted. Apparently, God had other plans. Foiled again!

Let me back up a little. In 2004 another person said some really horrible things to me. I mean really horrible things. I was completely shaken. I walked (barely) into our parish and my good friend made the mistake of saying, "Hey," she's southern too, "How are you?" I burst into tears. We went into the stairwell where I could hide. She held me as I sobbed because what had been said shook me to my core. It attacked my identity. It attacked my deepest fears that I wasn't enough. It made me question my ability to be a wife and mother, the two things I wanted to be good at more than anything in the world. When I calmed down my friend took both my hands into hers and said these words which have served me well through the years, "Katherine, what she said was not true. IT'S. NOT. TRUE. But do this, think to yourself, is there even an ounce of truth somewhere in it or is there anything you can learn from it? Take that and leave the rest. Let it go." Now I know that is easier said than done--trust me. But several weeks ago I returned to that advice, and I knew there was some truth in what my friend had texted. Recognizing that has greatly helped me over the last few weeks.

But we're still not to the point of this post....

This morning I read two devotional emails as I do every morning. One is from the Center for Action and Contemplation written by Richard Rohr, and the other from the Henri Nouwen Society. Something that has been rolling around in my mind stopped rolling and took root. These are excerpts of what was written and why I am now writing.

When we are hurt, we want to hurt back. When we are put down, we want to put down the opponent. This is our ego’s natural defense mechanism. We all move toward the ego, and we even solidify it as we get older if something doesn’t expose it for the lie that it is—not because it is bad, but because it thinks it is the whole and only thing! We change from inside—from the power position to the position of vulnerability and solidarity, which gradually changes everything.  Richard Rohr

It is amazing in my own life that true friendship and community became possible to the degree that I was able to share my weaknesses with others. Often I became aware of the fact that in the sharing of my weaknesses with others, the real depths of my human brokenness and weakness and sinfulness started to reveal themselves to me, not as a source of despair but as a source of hope. As long as I try to convince myself or others of my independence, a lot of my energy is invested in building up my own false self. But once I am able to truly confess my most profound dependence on others and on God, I can come in touch with my true self and real community can develop. Henri Nouwen

Some of you who haven't known me for more than a decade might call bull sh*t on this (just like when I announced I was a tomboy growing up in my sermon yesterday). But this is true. I spent years and years turning myself inside out trying to "be" something I thought my family and the world wanted me to be. I only let my "best" self be seen. I cared deeply about what people thought of me and tried to become whatever it was I thought would make sure people liked me. I pretended I had it all together when my world was falling apart. I grew so good at pretending I lost who I was. The start (but it took A LOT longer) to get there was during a phone call in Athens during the early 2000's --remember the glasshouse dream, Gillian?

Anyway, I worked hard. And I began to like myself--not everything about myself--but more than enough. I became open and vulnerable. I shared myself with others--not just my staged selfies (oh there are some of them) but my whole self--my fears, my insecurities, my doubts as well as my joys. And you know what happened? People liked me; people related to me; friends I didn't know how much I loved or needed returned to my life. I became part of a community of people who love me (or at least like me) despite or maybe because of my weakness and brokenness.

Okay, I'm getting to the point...

Sharing and being vulnerable became who I am--or rather I returned to who I was. Is it easy? HELL NO! I leave myself open to all kinds of hurt and exposure--and let's be honest I leave my family open as well. My friend from way up in the first paragraph--that person hit on one of my biggest insecurities--not being organized and efficient enough. Not doing enough, being enough. That's why the person apologized. Because that wasn't what was meant but the person knew after looking at it that's how I would take it because that person knows my triggers, my insecurities, my vulnerable self.

I also know that leaving myself wide open allows people who don't like me (and let's be honest we all know there are plenty of those and that's okay--I don't like everyone either) with LOTS of ammunition.

Shortly after I was named Rector of St. Thomas, I received an anonymous four-page typed letter actually addressed to St. Thomas, detailing in great detail why I wasn't worthy to be the Rector of this amazing community--how I was going to destroy this community. The person hit on almost EVERY ONE of my insecurities. I told very few people. My amazing Bishop told me to burn it and delete every single copy because we don't deal with "anonymous." I did--remember I'm a rule follower, but the truth is those words are burned into my memory. I'm not writing this because that coward got to me; I'm writing it because that coward made me stronger. I remembered the words of my friend all those years ago in Pittsburgh, and his (yep I'm pretty sure I know who it is) made me a BETTER priest, a BETTER friend, a BETTER mother; a BETTER wife, and you know why? Because I refused to stop being real, to stop being open, to stop being vulnerable, to stop loving no matter what. Do the words still hurt? Absolutely. Are there times I even believe them? Yep. But with the help of my husband, a few close friends, my senior warden, and my Bishop, I took that power back. In the words of Eliza Hamilton, "I'm erasing myself from the narrative." I'm living into these words.

"It is amazing in my own life that true friendship and community became possible to the degree that I was able to share my weaknesses with others. Often I became aware of the fact that in the sharing of my weaknesses with others, the real depths of my human brokenness and weakness and sinfulness started to reveal themselves to me, not as a source of despair but as a source of hope"

You (and read that generically not just for that one letter) can take my words, twist them, and use them against me. You can use my words to try to wound me.  But you don't get to decide whether I'm enough. You don't get to decide whether what I share is too much or not enough. You don't get to decide what I share or how I share it. I love my life; I love the people I've connected with and the people I will connect with; I love the stories people share with me; I love there are people who will struggle with me, challenge me and love me no matter what BECAUSE of my oversharing and vulnerability. I get to write myself back into the narrative of my life.

Yep I'll continue to hurt--I know that's true, but I'll take it. I hurt but I also get to see beauty. I get to share in other stories of pain and beauty. I get to finally be okay with who God intended me to be. I get to see the beauty of the world. So yeah, I win--well okay not me, well kind of me, but really, God, God wins. And always will.

*and I understand if you want to unfriend, unfollow, or block me. Everyone needs to live their own truth.

I Hate This Blog--God Forgive Me

Going to say this upfront--I have no idea where this post is going. I have no answers or neat little tie-ups--truth, I just have more questions, more doubts, more concerns I'm getting things wrong, and definitely truly worried I will offend someone with the post. I beg your forgiveness in advance.

Last week while preparing for my sermon I read a commentary on the Gospel reading by Holly Hearon posted on workingpreacher.org. (Read full commentary)  She concludes her commentary with these words. "Justice denied can give way to a rage that burns like a furnace of fire. It can cause us to wither and cease to bear fruit. It can even lead us to become bitter enemies of one another and of God." I can't stop thinking about those words. I can't stop thinking about the words my daughter has used as we debate the vandalism, the property damage that has occurred during the protests. I have held firmly to destruction solves nothing; she has held firmly to no one listened until there was action. I still think we're both right (and I look forward to our conversation when she reads this. I cannot begin to express how grateful I am for my children and all that I have learned from them--always but particularly during this time.) And I can't stop thinking about something that happened when Caroline was in sixth grade.....

Caroline had a good friend she talked about all the time. Sitting here right now, I can't remember her name which is another part of the story I find problematic--okay a part of the story that brings me shame--but I'm trying not to make this about me. Caroline asked if the young lady could spend the night. I tried to talk to a parent or guardian prior to the weekend, but it wasn't to be--I have no idea why. All I know is the message delivered to me was the young lady could only come if a) I picked her up and b) she could stay for the whole weekend. I didn't have a problem with either--I still was very judgemental about the parent/guardian not wanting to talk to the person who would be hosting for the weekend.

Caroline got the address and I entered it into the GPS. As with GPS, the directions were not entirely accurate. I was frustrated and not being the most kind to Caroline. (I deposited into her therapy account.) Why was I frustrated? Because we were all going over to my in-laws for dinner and swimming, I didn't want to be late. We were in the parking lot of a subsidized housing unit, and I for the life of me could not figure out how to get to the exact apartment. I told Caroline I would walk over to the apartment still hoping to meet the parent/guardian. Instead, the young lady came running over to our car.

I thought we were being the most hospitable people in the world. The young lady didn't come with a bathing suit. Truth, she didn't have any change of clothes. Now let me set the stage--we were ALL there. Grandparents, all the brothers, their wives, and all the grandchildren plus a few extra friends. I'm also going to own here--we're a lot to take by anyone. Anyway, we all sprung into action and found a swimsuit for her. My mother-in-law even said, "Go ahead and keep it. It doesn't fit any of us anymore." We all thought we were being so kind and generous. It's truly what we would do with anyone. Next, we ordered dinner. My extremely generous father in law told our guest to order whatever she wanted. We were having a great time.

The next day we went on several excursions. I can't remember exactly what. I do know we wanted our guest to have a great time. I made a big breakfast of pancakes as I always did when we had overnight friends, we rented movies, we went out for ice cream, we did lots of stuff.

Late Saturday afternoon/early evening Caroline came to me in tears. "I want her to go home," she said. At first, I didn't listen to her, or rather didn't really hear her. I said, "It's just a few more hours. We'll take her home after church tomorrow." Caroline kept saying, "No, please now." I didn't understand this. Caroline is my the more the merrier, how many people can I fit into my room kid. I kept pressing and finally got this out of her. "She jumps out at me from behind corners and she has a knife." I would like to say I was stunned, but Caroline is also my very dramatic child (right Ms. K?), so I inquired further somewhat disbelieving. "She brought a knife to our house?" "No," Caroline said, "She got one out of our kitchen." Y'all seriously, I couldn't get my head around this, so I just said, "She'll be gone tomorrow."

Yep, you read that right. I did NOTHING!

The next day the young lady joined the family at church. She came to the communion rail and I served her. She joined in Sunday School and coffee hour, and then I took her home.

Caroline never mentioned her again.

Okay, here's where it possibly gets offensive, and I definitely start making assumptions. That weekend has haunted me over the years. I have thought about how I failed as a parent. I doubted Caroline or rather the intensity of the story. All these years I think about how I failed Caroline, how I didn't do anything to make her feel safe, how I let my desire to not create a "problem" keep me from being the person I want to be. Should I have taken her home immediately and demanded to talk with her parent/guardian? Should I have I sat down with the young lady and had a conversation? What did I miss?

Today I think, "How did we play a part of that weekend? In our attempt to be hospitable in the way we upper middle class, white people do, did we create a situation where she felt uncomfortable, out of place, defensive and less than? What experience did she bring into our world that had inner rage boil to the surface? What did I miss? What could I have done differently?"

As I said at the beginning, I have no answers. I know I failed my daughter (something that has been part of my nightmares for years), but I also failed that young lady. Maybe she really was just a psychotic young lady and it was going to be that way no matter what, or maybe we put her into a position where justice denied to her over the weeks, months, and years gave way to a rage she couldn't control, and I not only failed to see it, but I also helped to, unknowingly, ignite it.

What I do know--I failed two little girls that weekend. Caroline, I can make it up to. But the other girl, whose name I can't even remember, she was just a little girl, and after that weekend, we, I, just erased her from our lives.  God forgive me.

I Can't Put Myself in the Shoes of My Black and Brown Friends

This morning, as we do most Saturday mornings, Chris and I walked up to the farmer's market. As we approached the entrance Chris said, "I don't have my mask." Me, "Are you kidding me?" (I really thought he was because last time we walked up here neither of us brought our wallets...) Alas, he was not.

Fear not! Caroline was a block away getting an oil change (a whole other story which I'll post on Growing Up Doyle). I called her SURE she would have an extra in the car and we could scoot over and get it. Dadgumit, my problem-solving effort was foiled! Chris looked up and said, "Maybe the Dollar General will have masks or at least a bandana." I hate when he's the better problem-solver, but I also didn't want to walk around the farmer's market by myself. So I donned my mask, took his wallet (at least there was that), and went in search.

It was a quick find, and I lined up to check-out. I could see Chris standing under the trees in the parking lot. Apparently, others could too.

A customer three in front of me exited into the parking lot. She and Chris began to have a conversation. He walked closer to her but still kept the appropriate distance. Suddenly I heard the cashier call for security. "There's a man in the parking lot who looks like he's harassing people." I looked back out the window wondering what was going on. It quickly dawned on me--they meant Chris!!

"M'am," I said, "That's my husband. He's just waiting on me to buy these bandanas so we can go to the farmer's market." I was laughing hysterically as I said it. My husband is the kindest, most gentle person in the world. I couldn't wait to text the children and tell them someone thought he was a threat. It was a big joke to me--until it wasn't.

The cashier immediately apologized to me and canceled the security call. "Sometimes we get crazy people out there," she explained. "Oh I'm sure," I answered not wanting her to feel uncomfortable, "I think it's good you're paying attention." I checked out and came outside still laughing. I relayed the story to Chris. "I was just talking to her about homegrown tomatoes," he responded, "Look there she is going to the farmer's market. We're buddies." (FYI-Chris thinks everyone is his buddy--and he's probably right. See above.) We both laughed some more, and then I said, "I bet this is what happens to African Americans all the time." We stopped laughing. "You're right," Chris agreed. Suddenly it didn't seem quite so funny--or funny at all.

I can't stop thinking about it. I wonder if Chris had been African American if they would have so quickly canceled security? I wonder if I was African American instead of a white woman wearing pearls, a fashionable (at least I think so) hat, and a Kentucky Colonels mask, if they would have believed me and canceled security? But mostly I think this. I said to myself, "For a brief moment I understood what it felt like to be an African American minding his/her own business and others thinking you were up to no good." Except I didn't.

Is he less scary like this?

I thought I could use it as an example of how I now understood. I was already thinking about how to work it into my sermon tomorrow. But see I don't really understand because ultimately, it was a joke for us or at least for me. (I try not to speak for Chris.) I thought it would make a funny post, a funny story. I imagined calling the children and all of us laughing at the UNUSUAL assumption made about Chris.

I think about my friends who are African American and how they would have responded. It wouldn't be a funny post; it would be yet another example to add to the thousands of examples of when they had been misidentified, questioned, and made to feel less than. There would be absolutely nothing funny about it. I wonder what would have happened if security had gone out there and how it might be different.

I learned something very important today, and it wasn't that for a brief moment I could put myself in the shoes of black and brown people. I learned I can never do that. But that doesn't mean I can't do something. That doesn't mean I can't recognize the injustice, the difference in treatment, and the different lenses I have had the privilege of using all of my life.

It taught me, I can walk alongside, but I can never truly put on the shoes of a black or brown person, I can only try to help to make sure their shoes are used for progress, for moving forward, for equity, and not for running from injustice they don't deserve.

That Darn Holy Spirit

I was all set to write a really fun Thursday letter today. I was going to tell y’all all about Cousins and Sibling Weekend and how much fun we had and how much fun we are. (Just ask us and we’ll tell you—we are SUPER fun!) But the Holy Spirit seemed to have other ideas…

I didn’t like her ideas so I went running. Guess what? You can’t outrun the Holy Spirit.

Here’s the thing. I am one of those people who remember things vividly. Dates, times, places, what people were wearing, what music was playing, sounds, the whole nine yards. It is both a blessing and a curse. I get to relive in my mind some of the most wonderful memories, and I “get” to re-experience things I would rather bury deep deep down. Oh, and it also settles physically in my body—great fun! (said very sarcastically)

I ran; I argued; the Holy Spirit won. Reluctantly, here’s what She says I need to write.

Many of you know about our family’s journey with addiction and recovery. I am pretty transparent about most things, including this, but I can also say, very few people (possibly none) know all the details of what can only be described as the nightmare we lived for 5 years. We, I, pretended and pretended pretty well. Compartmentalizing became such a part of my life, I had to redecorate all the rooms over and over. Some of the stories I may never share. Unfortunately, I have the pleasure of remembering them in vivid detail. Sometimes I know the memories are coming…it’s like standing on a train track, knowing the train is coming and being frozen. You know it’s going to hit you, so you just brace yourself and get ready for the impact.  Today was one of those days.

July 16, 2019,  I was serving as chaplain for Junior High camp. Beginning at around 4 pm, I started receiving multiple calls from my son as well as other people. Things were falling apart in Louisville faster than a 14 story jenga puzzle. I was in Leitchfield, Ky trying to be present to the staff and campers while at the same time feeling like I was descending into hell. I snuck away to make and answer phone calls. Around 7:30 pm, while the campers and staff were getting ready for messy games, I was hiding in a building talking to my son. When we hung up, I knew with 100% certainty there was a very real possibility it might be the last conversation I had with him for a very long time, possibly forever. I felt both strong and resolute, and also completely broken. My heart was shattering into thousands of pieces, but I had to go outside. I had to be present for those to whom I was ministering, and I had to be strong for The Babies who were there on staff. And let’s be honest, I had to find a way to distract myself.

 

I walked out of the building, looked across the field, and saw a teensy tiny rainbow. I took a picture and posted it on FaceBook. This morning scrolling through my FaceBook memories I saw it, and I gave thanks to God for being present with me through those five years, on that night, and today. I gave thanks for my son who is still sleeping upstairs in our home. I remembered holding onto the smallest shred of hope. And I realized, again God is so much bigger and more powerful than we are. And it again gave me hope.

It gave me hope not just for my son, me, and our family. It gave me hope because it reminded me that God is ALWAYS present. God is present in this pandemic; God is present in this political divisiveness; God is present in the protests; God is present in hospitals; God is present in our homes full of isolation and pain; God is present in our joys and in our heartbreaks. God is present. Our faith, our faith which is defined as “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” (Hebrews 11:1) is what we can cling to as we navigate the days, weeks, and months ahead.

That phone call could very well have been the last with my son, and I know there are many people who have had that last phone call with a loved one, and it truly was the last. I can’t answer the why of that, but I know with all my heart, God is present in all of it.

I kept scrolling through FaceBook memories and saw that on this day 8 years ago, the Junior High campers and staff gave me the name Mama Doyle. My son was at camp that week…coincidence? Hmmm….

What Makes Someone Real?

Several weeks ago someone asked me, “Was that uncle of yours who died your real uncle?” I thought the person was asking whether he was my family uncle or a close friend we call “uncle”, so I answered yes. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” the person continued, “Was he your mother’s brother or your father’s brother?” “No,” I answered still not catching on, “he was my mother’s sister’s husband.” “So not your real uncle,” the person concluded.

That stung. And it stung more this weekend. As I went running the first morning after arriving at Cousins Weekend, I couldn’t get those words out of my head. And I started thinking about what makes someone or rather a relationship “real?” (And yes, The Velveteen Rabbit did come to mind.)

Real is when a person’s eyes light up when you walk into a room and so do yours.

Real is when you ask about each other’s lives and really listen and care about the answers.

Real is when days, weeks or even months go by without seeing each other, and when you’re back together it’s like no time has passed.

Real is when you know the good, the bad, and the ugly and you love anyway.

Real is when you are disappointed by the other, and you disappoint the other, and you love anyway.

Real is when you disagree, sometimes even on big issues, and you love anyway.

Real is when you don’t understand why someone does or says something, and you love anyway.

Real is when you share your darkest days, fears, and failures, and you are loved anyway.

Real is when your world is just a little dimmer when someone dies, but you know the person wants you to continue to live, and to laugh, and to love.

So yeah, he was my “real” Uncle, and I think I was his “real” niece.

And this picture—this is me and two of my real cousins. Couldn’t do life without either!