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Sacred Conversation with Your Heart – #2

Apr 25, 2017 | My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom, Writing

Today features Part 2 in a 6-part series that’s all about Sacred Conversation – not with me, but with your heart. You can read Part 1 here. Each post offers a new aspect of the topic, the practice, and its signicance. and concludes with reflection questions and prompts to invite you into the most important (and ongoing) conversation you’ll ever have. Truly. 

*****

PART TWO – TENTATIVE LISTENING 

When I first began to consider it, the idea of listening to my heart scared me to death. Because deep inside, I already knew what I would hear. If I listened for long, I’d actually have to do something about the things my heart was trying to tell me. It was far easier to stop listening—or do so only half heartedly. 

Most of us have been discouraged from listening to our hearts. We’ve been told they can’t be trusted; that objective, reason-based mental processes are far more reliable. Understandably then, when our heart invites us, again and again, to an inner, subjective, emotion-based conversation, we convince ourselves that our head knows better. 

But your heart waits patiently because it knows that it knows better. And so, tentative listening is a very good place to start.

When you begin, you can expect to be confronted by thoughts and emotions that feel contrary to your existing circumstances, relationships, or responsibilities; things you may expend a lot of effort to not think about or feel. Not surprisingly, you are then far less-than inclined to quickly embrace and inculcate everything you hear. You hold back. You test the waters. You wait. You listen some more. Just like conversation with another person, yes? You make sure you can trust the source before you slowly, cautiously turn toward the whispering within; that still, small voice. 

Spoiler alert: you can trust the source; you can trust your heart. 

Yes, tentative listening is a very good place to start. Then, when you’re ready, ask yourself, “What if I listened fully instead of tentatively?” 

What if, indeed… 

REFLECT: 

  • What are the challenges you face in being able to hear your heart? Focus? Technique? Noise? Or is it the fear/awareness of what you might actually hear? 
  • Try tentative listening. Give kind, gentle attention to what comes up that feels opposed to your objective, reason-based mental processes. Can you kindly, gently allow the subjective, emotion-based thoughts to come to mind…to heart? 
  • Even if you listen half-heartedly, only a little, and maybe with great hesitation, what whispers do you hear? Every glimmer, fleeting thought, blurry image, and pang of emotion matters. Your heart is speaking. Can you hear it beating? What does it tell you? Keep listening. And write. Anything, everything…gently, gently. 

Pssssst. You can trust what you hear.

Sacred Conversation with Your Heart – #1

Apr 24, 2017 | My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom, Writing

Today starts a 6-part series that’s all about Sacred Conversation – not with me, but with your heart. Each post will offer another aspect of the topic, the practice, and its significance – along with reflection questions and prompts to invite you into the most important (and ongoing) conversation you’ll ever have. 

*****

We are surrounded by conversation all day, every day – at the very least, words and talk and verbal noise. At home and work, in the car and on the bus, in stores and on streets, on the web – on TV – in music – on blogs – in books, in neighborhoods and across the globe. Sometimes we engage. Sometimes we listen. Other times it’s just din. 

And then there are the conversations that take place endlessly, continuously within. In my experience they can be far harder to engage and sometimes seemingly impossible to hear. And – they long for both: your hearing, your engagement, your response. These are conversations with your heart. 

Did you know? Your heart speaks. It listens. It asks. It tells. It knows. It feels. It advises. It desires. It hurts. It hopes. It loves. 

Your heart invites you to ongoing, articulate, and beautiful sacred conversations with your deepest, truest self. 

And these are conversations worth having. 

So…let’s begin at the beginning. 

*****

PART ONE – INTRODUCTIONS 

Every conversation between two people begins with some kind of introduction, a greeting, a hello. For it to move past this point and take on meaning and value, we must want to hear more, want to know more; we  have to determine how the  other wants to be known, how much they are willing to share, how they speak, even  what they don’t say. If either party is reluctant to listen, to hear, to understand, to learn, the conversation ends before it’s even begun. 

Conversation with your heart is no different. 

Do you want to hear what your heart has to say? Do you want to know it well? Do you want to learn the unique ways in which it expresses itself? 

I’m speaking only for myself when I say that sometimes my answer is “no.” 

Sometimes it can be far easier to turn up the volume on other aspects of life than to listen to the heart’s quiet whisper, deep desires, and patient but persistent beating as it waits (and waits and waits) to be heard, acknowledged, trusted, and followed. 

Because here’s the thing: When you really listen and engage in conversation with your heart you find yourself face-to-face with powerful truth: words, sentences, and emotions that graciously ask for response and ongoing dialogue; powerful truth that compels honesty, risk, and change, that will not leave you unchanged. 

Knowing this, tell me true: Do you want to hear what your heart has to say – directly to you? I hope the answer is “yes.” 

REFLECT:

  • Imagine listening to your heart’s introduction of itself when you say, “hello.” How does it respond? Is it outgoing? Shy? Reticent? Enthusiastic? What can you learn of it already… even in these first few words? 
  • If, even for a moment, you could silence all the voices, pressures, demands, disappointments, and expectations that swirl within, what do you imagine you might hear – even in this introductory stage? Single words? Fragments of sentences? Any images that come to mind? 
  • Listen. What does your heart want you to know, to hear, to consider? Write any and everything that comes… 

Easter 2017

Apr 16, 2017 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality

I will not be attending Easter services today.

I will not witness the rows of shiny, white patent-leather shoes, frilly dresses, and uncomfortable neckties. I will not gasp when the black shroud is dramatically pulled down from the cross. I will not hear the Hallelujah Chorus. I will not see the lilies.

I will drink coffee. I will reflect. I will probably write. I will enjoy the Mason jars filled with orange tulips on my kitchen table. And later, I will decorate Easter eggs with my daughters. I might even open a bottle of champagne.

I’ve been pondering all of this; what it means and feels like to be disconnected from this Sunday’s tradition, but still umbilically tied to its rituals, its in-my-DNA tug and influence. I’ve pondered even more of how Easter is not exclusive to the church; how if it offers meaning, if it matters, then its value remains and must be made known in ways that are rich and relevant for me.

And oh, how rich and relevant it’s been.This whole week, has been rife with symbol and sign (as all weeks are, really). This Holy Week (as all weeks are, really) has called me to story; to death and darkness, to sadness and loss, to questions without answers, to a can’t-see-how-it’s-gonna-happen-but-still-I’m-gonna-trust kind of hope, to perseverance, to risk, to courage, to voice, to confidence, to places and people who call me to more. This whole and holy week has called me to life; to my life.

And isn’t this, above and beyond all else, what Easter is about – church, religion, or no?

“Why do you look for the living among the dead?” asked Jesus when he encountered Mary in the graveyard. Indeed.

My holy and whole life (and yours) is to be found and experienced where life dwells: in deep breaths and coursing blood, in muscle and bone, in earth and water, in conversation and silence, in laughter and tears, in  friends and foes, in facing fears and choosing love, in the sacred stuff of every day.

So breathe in and rise up. A new day dawns. Light gleams. Stones move. The earth quakes. Buried, silenced, and shrouded ends. Tombs are emptied. Veils are torn. Angels appear. Graveclothes are shed. Death does not have the final say. Song breaks forth. Miracles occur. And resurrection always comes.

[I first wrote this post for Easter of 2014. That’s astonishing to me. Seems just as, if not more relevant today.]

My Left-Hand Side

Mar 27, 2017 | My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

I did a quick mapping of my body the other day. Here’s what I discovered – from top to
bottom:

  • Many mornings, I wake up with my left eye puffy. Not enough water, too much wine, too many tears, and for some reason, always when sleeping in hotels.
  • My left ear is higher than my right. This causes me to constantly adjust my glasses so that they are straight over the bridge of my nose.
  • I had the left side of my nose pierced.
  • My left shoulder must be slightly higher than my right. Just like my glasses, I am constantly adjusting a sleeve or neckline to symmetry.
  • I wear 10 bracelets on my left arm – always, every day. It would never occur to me to put them on the other arm.
  • Two fingers on my left hand bear the memory of accidental knife cuts in the kitchen.
  • My left thigh still shows the long, white line where I sliced my leg open in the bathtub – shaving my legs against my mother’s wishes.
  • My left knee is scarred from falling from my bike and on to gravel-filled roads – multiple times.
  • My left knee hit the gym floor with a thud every time I did jump splits – thousands of
    times during four years of high school drill team. And if I pulled a hamstring in a kick-line, it was the left one – not quite as limber.
  • I have ice on my left knee right now, even as I type – strained from a new exercise
    regimen.
  • My left calf got shut in a truck door nearly 40 years ago, its spidery veins extending,
    remaining, reminding.
  • My left ankle is dented, mangled, misshapen from falling down the church stairs some 15 years ago. I was on my way to pick up the girls from Sunday School. No subtle slip, I tumbled – head over heels – a mess. Emergency room. Lots of ice. Even crutches for a day or two. “Nothing broken. Nothing to be done,” I was told. Still, it swells by the end of every day and leaves me resistant to wearing a dress and heels.
  • I have a mole on the top of my left foot that I fervently tried to hide when younger.
  • And this just noticed: when I look at my profile in the mirror, it’s my left side that’s turned toward the glass.

Reiki practitioners, chakra experts, those who hold an integrative view of the body, say that the left side represents the feminine and the right side the masculine. I am none of these, but still, I can venture this guess: my feminine side keeps getting hurt. It is unprotected marred, marked by suffering and pain – past, even present.

But my right side, the masculine side? Sure, an occasional bump or scrape; that ache in my shoulder when I’ve spent too much time at the computer. Oh, and what must have been my subconscious attempt at equanimity: the tattoo on my right wrist.

But this is not about equanimity, nor even my left and right sides. This is about my heart, my emotions, my intuition, my very self. This is about how everything would be different if the feminine within (and without) was trusted – not harmed, expressed – not wounded, sacred – not scarred.

Still… Though I am aware of such, my mind is awhirl with a plethora of associations, insights, and thoughts. Think of the ramifications and implications of this awareness, of the recognition of just how slighted the feminine within me has been! Think of what this has looked like in relationships, professionally, creatively, emotionally – or lack thereof! Think, indeed.

That’s the problem, the issue, the point!

All my thinking-thinking-thinking has got to stop. Which, of course, is completely impossible. At the least, I long for it to become subservient then – to my feelings, to my heart.

I long for the masculine to bow to the feminine – in deference, in diligence, in determined respect and honor.

But oh, how I struggle with this! Even as I write (and think and think and think), I perpetuate the issue in and of itself. My masculine, rational, effcient, and ever-thinking-thinking-thinking brain is hard at work to make sense, make meaning, and along the way, hijack my heart. The masculine within me (and without) wants me to keep writing – pithy, interesting, engaging sentences; concepts and ideas that elucidate this further. Say more! Reason it out! Ruminate. Ponder. Pontificate. Think harder. Think more. Think, period!

But that is NOT the left, NOT the feminine, NOT my heart. Not really.

It’s a battle. No wonder my left side loses, given how exercised and strong my right!

Limber, conditioned, and used to getting its way, it knows all the tricks – and employs as many of them as absolutely possible. I stop short. I find a distraction or fifty. I come up with a million-and-one reasons why I need to be cleaning the pantry or heading to Costco or answering an email or checking Facebook or seeing how many documents I could possibly delete off my hard-drive by organizing them in reverse-chronological order (you do that, right?) or considering redecorating options once Abby has left for college or looking at my bank account balance and wondering when I’ll finally get my shit together or wondering if today will be the day in which I won’t eat chips in front of the television set or pour a second glass of wine or maybe watch television at all as I look at the clock on my computer and wonder about how much longer I need to stay here before I can legitimately get out the chips and the wine and turn on the TV. Netflix is so much easier that this!

And my brain is so happy, so occupied, so busy, so productive, so strong! I can see it in my minds eye: the masculine, right hand side of me smiles, flexes a bicep, winks at me, then moves out smartly while my feminine, left hand side leans, lists, and limps.

How do I articulate through left-brain language in a left-brain world the deeper wisdom of the left-hand side, the feminine?

What am I to do? Wait! No more “doing.” What am I to feel, to allow, to invite? How do I bypass this brain of mine – even if only for a while – and listen to that know-that-I-know-that-I-know voice within?

I don’t have any answers. And that is a very good start. Answers – at least the Excel spreadsheet, completely balanced, pro and con type – are NOT what I am looking for here.

Questions – open-ended, deeply provocative, impossible to answer – are what I need more of, along with the willingness and patience and grace to stay with them, to swim in their swirly depths, to take a deep breath and be willing to go under without guarantee of when or if I’ll resurface, to breathe underwater…

One question in particular keeps drawing me ever-deeper into its tidal pull. I allow myself to ask it again and again:

How do I feel? How do I feel? How do I feel?
I feel wobbly. I list toward silence. I don’t know how to make sense of this, what to say, what to write, how to be.

How do I feel? How do I feel? How do I feel?
Frustrated and afraid and angry and small and backed into a corner and threatened and weak and silly and over-reactive and pathetic and stupid and whiny.

How do I feel? How do I feel? How do I feel?
Sad. Full of grief. So many feelings unexpressed for my mind’s efficient compartmentalizing, justification, and desire for closure.

How do I feel? How do I feel? How do I feel?
Tender. Aware. (I’m breathing a bit more slowly.)

How do I feel? How do I feel? How do I feel?
Soft. Pliable. Limber. Strong, even.

How do I feel? How do I feel? How do I feel?
Now that I’m here? Grateful. Like myself. Whole and home.

I had to ask myself that series of questions six times before feeling like I’d dropped into its fullness, its truth, my fullest, truest self.

And, because my brain is chomping at the bit to make sense of all this, this:

The feminine is more likely recognized and revealed when I tell my truth, when I acknowledge my frustration, and yes, always, forevermore, when I grieve. It shows up underneath the anger and certainly underneath the self-contempt – where the sadness and tenderness and awareness reside, where my breathing slows and my strength returns and gratitude floats.

And it takes so much work to get there. Not striving, masculine work, but trusting, slow, ever-releasing, feminine work. Maybe not “work,” but “labor.” Labor that strengthens my knowing, my intuition, my heart. Labor that allows even my memory-body to heal. Labor that releases aches and pains and spider veins. Labor that  welcomes me home. Labor that births me anew and is older than time. Worth every push and cry and swollen ankle.

As I type, the ice pack on my left knee has melted and warmed. My neck is tight. I have the beginning of a headache. It’s just slightly more intense on my right-hand side.

That’s good, I think. Wait. No. That’s good, I feel.

Somewhere between Kali and Jesus

Mar 1, 2017 | My sort-of Sermons, Sovereignty, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power

I am Kali Ma.
I stick my tongue out of my once silent lips.
These eyes, no longer mild,
Are furious daggers of fire.
~ a portion of a poem by Tanya Geisler

These words do not describe me. At least not as much as I wish they did and want them to.

My tongue is restrained behind my lower front teeth, afraid to breathe in too quickly for fear of the icy-cold pain that hits nerve endings and makes me wish I’d never opened my mouth. And my eyes? I wouldn’t say they are mild, particularly. I watch. I observe. I see – a lot. But fire? No. Any furious daggers thrown would more likely be at me than at you, others, or this world. In other words, I’m no Kali Ma.

I can still clearly picture various pieces of art that hung on the walls of rooms I frequented – my bedroom, throughout our home, at church. Two come to mind – both of Jesus. In the first he is holding a small lamb in his arms. In the second, he is standing on a flowered hillside, surrounded by small children – all different skin colors, shapes, and sizes. (Red, brown, yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight, went the accompanying song.) Both images are gentle. Both show the weak cared for by the Divine, the Divine as male.

And both intentionally served to remind me who I was – the lost sheep, the doting child; to remind me of my place in the scheme of things – silent lips, mild eyes. Hardly Kali Ma.

As I’ve reminisced, I’ve added more images to the queue – not framed and hung, but planted firmly in my mind. Yes, Jesus gentle-and-mild, but also women relegated to the shadows, who “belonged” on the margins, who were subservient and obedient and shamed if not. Added to these, the 60’s and 70’s plethora of happy moms, twig-thin models, and doting secretaries on billboards, in magazines, on TV. Unexposed to Gloria Steinem and 1st-wave feminism (not to mention goddesses of any kind), this infant, then girl-adolescent-young woman didn’t see much – if anything or anyone – who embodied or even considered Kali-like strength. Her antithesis, in many ways, has been my learned ideal.

Along with the pictures were stories told – almost all of Jesus. I rarely think of them these days, but they remain deeply embedded in my psyche. Sometimes for good, to be sure; but often in ways that have kept me sheep-like, childlike, beholding, and in need. In need of a God, a shepherd, a man. After all, he’s the one with the strength; he’s the one with the voice, the knowing, the wisdom; he’s the one with power. Not me. I need to be found, loved, embraced, and saved. (I don’t believe this anymore – the sheep, the child, the need – but that doesn’t mean the roots of such don’t remain and even reveal themselves in ways I’d rather they did not. In ways that are shockingly un-Kali-like – even now, even today, even all these years later.)

I sometimes wonder what it would have been like, what I would be like, if a picture of Kali Ma had hung on those same walls, if hers was the tale I was told.

What if hers was the image I displayed in my college dorm room then in first and subsequent apartments? What if she was the painting I’d kept ever-present in my many homes throughout the years? What if she was the face my daughters grew up seeing, asking me to tell them her story until they knew it by heart, until she was the one who dwelled within theirs?

What if, indeed.

Kali Ma conjures something far different than what I saw modeled, what I was taught.

Aggressive and unapologetic, her eyes gleam and spark. Her red tongue protrudes – ready to hungrily lick anyone who dares to draw near. The skulls that hang around her neck are hardly comforting, but reveal her fearlessness, even of death. All illusion is sliced away. Any wish for greener pastures or nurturing companionship is erased. Though a fierce, mother-like goddess, she does not abide a childlike state. Instead, she compels my strength. She demands my voice, my knowing, my wisdom. She exudes power and insists that it is mine.

She calls me to find, love, embrace, and save myself – and my world.

Oh, that I would.

And of course, I do. But not as much as I wish and want. Especially right now. It feels as though there is no time to lose, no time to waste, seemingly no time at all. As I ponder and muse about my past, all hell breaks loose in my present.

Xenophobia, violence, greed, racism and evil run rampant. Contempt and complete
disregard seem to reign. We desperately need Kali Ma. We desperately need Kali-like women.

Even so, something in me holds back – uncertain, unsure, unable to rise up and speak out.

Maybe the why of it doesn’t matter. Maybe all my attempts to unpack and unravel and understand are distractions from doing and choosing and acting. Maybe there’s nothing to inculcate or imbibe where Kali Ma is concerned. Maybe all I need do is live as if she is already inherent within me. Trusting until I believe. Having faith.

I’ve heard that before.

Do not misunderstand. I am angry. I am resolute and firm on so much that is just not acceptable. I am hardly docile, meek, or mild when it comes to my opinions about the destruction that is imminent, if not already at hand. Still, I feel more like sheep than wolf, girl than goddess, patriarchal-bound woman than pussy-hat wearing siren and seer. I unwittingly reside in this middle place – between contradictory beliefs and ideals, between conflicting principles and values, between faith and doubt, between hope and despair, between keeping my tongue tucked tightly behind my teeth or sticking it out and swallowing whole the ignorance and evil that pervades.

Stuck here, at least for now, I have no eloquent ending or tight conclusion to this piece. No passionate benediction that rallies the troops and calls us to arms. Not even some deeper self-awareness that offers me solace or strength. Which feels right somehow, though uncomfortable.

Kind of like faith.

So even if I can’t come up with a catchy ending, I can keep working on sticking out my tongue and letting my eyes be furious daggers of fire and opening my arms and protecting the weak and loving the children and believing in justice and somehow, somehow holding on to hope – that words will come and courage will sustain and love will conquer all.

In the meantime, I gaze at the pictures that now hang in my home.

Afraid yet fearless. Wise yet playful. Brave yet tender. Imperfect yet loved.
~ Kellie Rae Roberts

It is in the midst of misery that so much becomes clear. The one who said nothing good came of this, is not yet listening.
~ Clarissa Pinkola Estes

When I dare to be powerful, to use my strength in the service of my vision, then it becomes less and less important whether I am afraid.
~ Audre Lorde

Maybe the message is getting through…

And there’s still plenty of wall space – and time – to find and display a print of Kali Ma; maybe even Jesus.

Nevertheless, we persist!

Feb 25, 2017 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

On Tuesday, February 7, 2017, Senator Elizabeth Warren began to read a letter Coretta Scott King wrote in 1986 that criticized Jeff Sessions record on civil rights – the nominee for attorney general. The majority leader, Senator Mitch McConnell interrupted Ms. Warren with an objection, claiming that she was “impugning the motives and conduct of our colleague from Alabama.”

Ms. Warren asked to continue her remarks, but Mr. McConnell objected.

“Objection is heard,” said Senator Steve Daines, Republican of Montana. “The senator will take her seat.”

In a party-line vote of 49 to 43, senators upheld Mr. Daine’s decision, forcing Ms. Warren into silence – at least on the Senate floor. On Wednesday, February 8, 2017, Senator Jeff Sessions was confirmed as President Trump’s attorney general.

This story is shocking, untenable, and almost impossible to believe – so rife with patriarchy, misogyny, and harm.

And…we’ve been here before.

There is an old, old story told of man who led his tribe against a seemingly undefeatable foe. Before he headed into battle he prayed to his god: “If you give me this victory, whatever comes out of the door of my house to meet me when I return in triumph will be the Lord’s and I will sacrifice it as a burnt offering.”

It was inconceivable that he would win, but he did!

His daughter, an only child, heard the news of her father’s success. Thrilled to see him again and join in his celebration, she flew out the door and danced her way down the street. And as the story goes, she was the first thing he saw.

He cried out, “Oh, my daughter, what have you done? You have brought me low. You have brought me such trouble. I have made a vow to my god that I cannot break!”

As the story is told, she consoles him, saying that he must honor his vow. All she asks is that she be allowed eight weeks with her friends to grieve the fact that she will never marry. So, she and her companions head into the mountains to weep over all that she will never know, all that is lost to her, all that is lost to them.

Her story ends with this line: It was a custom that the women gathered to grieve the daughter of Jephthah for four days every year. We might even say, “Nevertheless, she persists…”

Her story is shocking, untenable, and almost impossible to believe – so rife with patriarchy, misogyny, and harm.

And unlike the one of Ms. Warren, few of have heard it. Understandably, given that it has not made the rounds of MSNBC, Twitter, or Facebook. In truth, it is rarely told even in places where its larger context is read and respected. No, she is quickly skipped over (and silenced) – again and again.

That sounds familiar.

Mitch McConnell, the Senator who led the objection against Ms. Warren explained afterward that “She was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted…”

Exactly.

Sometimes persistence is all we have.

And persist we must in the telling of Jephthah’s daughter – again and again. Nothing skipped over. Everything seen. All told. Her voice heard. And truth vs. alternative facts proclaimed.

Her story is a brutal reminder of what gets overlooked, silenced, and indefinitely perpetuated when stories are told with the patriarch as protagonist – which, of course, has happened throughout all of history and yes, even and still today.

Unbelievably, predominant interpretations of this particular text honor the father’s faithfulness and determination no
matter the cost, his unswerving loyalty to his principles and sacred vows.

That sounds a little like what Senator Dan Sullivan, a Republican from Alaska, said during the debate on Wednesday afternoon: “Everybody in this body knows Senator Sessions well, knows that he is a man of integrity, a man of principle.”

I completely reject this – the commentary, Senator Sullivan, all of it. There is nothing
honorable in the sacrifice of his daughter, nothing credible about beliefs that affirm or perpetuate the harm of another, nothing within his actions to which we should ever aspire.

And yes, this includes Senator Sessions.

The story of Jephthah’s daughter’s story is a painful reminder of what happens when we do not think to ask how any and every story would be told differently when the woman, the victim, the harmed one is not silenced. What have we not considered? What have we not seen? What have we not heard? Did she willingly comply with his vow? Did she mildly and calmly plan a getaway with her girlfriends? Did she become a burnt offering without protest? Or did she, as we might expect, find herself without volition and agency in her own story and, sadly, even in its telling throughout time? With this telling we no longer overlook and explain away the violence and misogyny. With this telling we spontaneously and unanimously rise up and scream, “No!” so that no such thing ever happens again.

Except that it has. Except that it does. Even this week with Elizabeth Warren…And just a few weeks back on November 8, 2016.

We are re-living the story of Jephthah’s daughter as we witness a man in power who chooses his ideals over the value of a life, who makes and fulfills promises that perpetuate harm, who does not actually believe that others – especially women or vulnerable populations – have agency or will of any kind, who uses his role as protagonist to perpetuate the worst of patriarchy, the worst of humanity.

What are we to do but head to the hills and weep?

Exactly! This is the wisdom and hope that Jephthah’s daughter still and always offers us today. Her story is a clear reminder that we must gather together as women to grieve, to wail against injustice, to stand in solidarity alongside one another; nevertheless, to persist.

It is true, the story of Jephthah’s daughter is a tragic and traumatic tale, but not without hope. Hers is the only sacred story (within this particular text) that tells of women gathering together, that names and honors its necessary continuance throughout time. When these smallest of distinctions – deeply embedded within a patriarchal text, culture, and reality – are found, they strike me as nothing other than the undeniable evidence of grace and goodness that nevertheless persists despite all that threatens to destroy. Then…and now.

The hope and grace and goodness in Elizabeth Warren’s story? Within hours of being shut down on the Senate floor, says the NY Times, Ms. Warren read the letter from Mrs. King on Facebook, attracting more than two million views – an audience she would have been unlikely to match on C-Span, if she had been permitted to continue speaking in the chamber.

Nevertheless, she persists.

Jephthah’s daughter, Elizabeth Warren, you, and me. And nevertheless, hope does.

Hope that darkness and death don’t have the last word. Hope that stories can be redeemed, that they can be rewritten and retold, that new endings and even new beginnings are still and always possible. Hope that despite it all, women still gather. Hope that when we do, we will be able – again and again – to hear Jephthah’s daughter speak into our hearts and on our behalf. Hardly silenced, instead allowed, amplified, and affirmed.

“Fear and silence are neither your birthright nor your curse,” she says. “And my fate is not to be yours. Go out the dangerous door and dance in the streets. Gather the women, climb the mountain, and wail. You will be seen. You will be heard. You will be honored and strengthened and healed. You are never alone. And nevertheless, no matter what, you must persist. How can you do anything other? You are my daughter, my lineage, my kin.”