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Channeling Etta James

May 15, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power

It’s just before 7:00 on Friday night. I sit in the high school auditorium, about the fifth row from the front, and smack in the center. I am not all that thrilled to be here – the annual student talent show. Based on my attendance for three years prior, the word “talent” feels a bit of a stretch. But I will, as I have before, wince my way  through the next couple of hours.

And . . . I’ll give them credit – these brave souls. Teenagers who have seized a moment in the spotlight to sing pop hits that sounded far better in the shower than on stage.

I could do without the whole experience. (Well, except for Emma.)

The lights dim and I lean back in my chair, settling in for what’s ahead. Two girls, the emcees with printed scripts in hand, begin the painstaking process of introducing one act after another. “That was great, wasn’t it? How about another round of applause for __________!”

No. Not so great, but nice of you to say so. Keep it moving, will you? Let’s get to the real talent!

Finally. She walks on stage. Smiling and poised. How is it that she is so comfortable in her own skin, so at home? I watch as she tries to adjust the mic and jokes about it being way too short for her. She is nonplussed. How is that possible? Unable to raise it, she finally pulls it out of the stand and holds it loosely in her hand – as though it’s an everyday occurrence. Oh, her confidence! Where did that come from? She steps back, lets herself breathe, then looks up at the sound booth with a nod that says, “I’m ready” and the music starts.

She sways slightly as her eyes lock on her audience. Then one, slow, deep breath and then:

“At . . . last . . . ”

The first two notes are more than enough to know that this girl deserves to be here. Perfect pitch. Perfect vibrato. Perfect presence. The cheers erupt before even her
first measures are complete.

“. . . my love has come along.”

Indeed.

Emma Joy channels Etta James.

I want to stand up and cheer, but need to hold my phone still – the video recorder capturing every moment. I feel the tears brim behind my eyes, but know she’s only getting started and that I dare not. And I am inundated with flash-backs: an infant, a toddler, an adolescent, and now this strangely-unfamiliar young woman – my daughter. Electrifying. Captivating. Stunning. Perfection. Then, all-too quickly, I hear the last lines:

“You smiled, you smiled. Oh, and then the spell was cast. And here we are in heaven, for you are mine . . . ”

And her final notes – held even longer and stronger than the first:

“At . . . last.”

As she places the mic gently back into the stand, she grins slyly, steps back, and takes in the well-deserved applause. I turn off the camera and wipe away my tears.

 

************

Moments of personal power and strength are the closest we ever get to God. For in these moments we are most fully ourselves. And though my theology has too-often convinced me of just the opposite (acknowledge your lack, your sin, your need) the truth is this: when we are most fully ourselves we are reflecting the very image of God. Genesis 1. It is good.

I have spent a lifetime trying to be good enough, to make the mark, to meet expectations and, in the process, have missed God because I’ve not been myself.

How much more of God might we know, incorporate, and feel if we were just ourselves – unapologetic, glorious, wild, dangerous, bold, and (pitch)perfect. If we were in families, relationships, jobs, circumstances, situations that consistently allowed and encouraged our on-stage selves. If we sang out unrestrained truth with conviction, no 2nd guessing, and not a hint of doubt. If crowds went wild. And if tears flowed in response to the rapture and beauty of it all.

Those 2+ minutes of Emma Joy singing Etta James was God made-manifest. I’m certain of it.

No trying. No striving. No question of her ability, her right, her value, her worth, her deservingness. And no holding back. She was power. She was strength. So very good. She was (and is) the Divine enfleshed and dwelling among us. Impossible to miss.

And if in and through her, this 18-year-old girl-turning-woman; so too you . . . and me.

Emma sang and God said, “At . . . last . . . ”

I’m horribly biased, but she IS amazing. You can watch and listen here.

Easter and Eve

Apr 4, 2015 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality

What if Easter was about Eve? What would it be like if the entire “Christian” world celebrated the day that Eve ate the fruit and exited the Garden? What if we painted eggs to symbolize the embryo of all women yet to-come, her “birthing” of a new world, her breaking free? What if we covered the ham with apple slices instead of pineapple? What if we wore snakeskin shoes instead of patent leather? What if we wore hats adorned with  fig leaves?

Does all this seem scandalous, sacrilegious, shocking? I’ll admit it does (a bit) to me, too. But here’s the thing:

You get to decide what you imbue with meaning and significance. You get to decide the symbols that hold sway. You get to decide the stories that speak. You get to define the Sacred – for you!

To have it prescribed, decreed, or demanded never works out all that well.

Believe me: this is not to decry the beauty and mystery inherent in the resurrection story. Not at all. Nor am I arguing that centuries of religious tradition should be abandoned.

What I am saying is that were we to hear and embrace other stories, especially those of women, we might just have a different affnity for the Sacred – both within and without.

This is what I most want for you: an experience and understanding of the Sacred that is unbound and imaginative and extraordinary.

 

  • Perhaps that comes through remembering the empty tomb, Jesus’ resurrection, and the glorious singing of Handel’s Messiah.
  • Perhaps that comes through painted eggs and chocolate bunnies and family ’round the table.
  • Perhaps that comes through a morning of incense and yoga or a cup of coffee and the New York Times.
  • Perhaps that comes through a walk in the sun and the spotting of Spring’s return.
  • Perhaps that comes through holding close the story of a woman who was created in the image of the gods and infinitely loved by the same; who risked everything for the life she imagined was just on the other side of boundary and border and rules; who made dangerous and bold choices; who trusted the know-that-I-know-that-I-know voice within; who survived and persevered and labored and birthed and lived outside Eden; from whom we all descend – her daughter, her lineage, her kin.
  • Perhaps that comes by believing that it is possible to be freed from all that binds (like the darkness of a tomb) through stories and symbols and all-things Sacred; that maybe impossible-to-explain faith somehow endures (like a resurrection).

Ultimately, that is what Easter and the Sacred and Life are about: being loosened from the grip of hopelessness and despair and ushered into the profound awareness that life and joy and miracle not only await, but actually exist.

May it be so.

In the midst . . .

Mar 16, 2015 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

Here is what I know about you:

Right now, in the midst, you embody the Feminine. Right now, in the midst, you inhale and exhale Sophia (wisdom as She). Right now, in the midst, you birth and behold the Sacred. Not someday. Not when your story is satisfying and happy. Right now. This story. This day. This you!

The proclivity to want a story – a life – that is satisfying and happy is high. Western culture all but demands it while simultaneously reminding us that we don’t have it…yet. But if we will only get this, buy this, do this, achieve this, then our desires will be fulfilled. Then, but not now.

What is the balance between reality and hope, between acceptance and desire, between the present and the longed-for future?

I don’t have answers. What I do have, however, is stories. Lots of them. And they are what save me.

Admittedly, it’s a paradox: most of the stories I retell, reimagine, and redeem are painful. Women who are often the victims of violence and power, excruciating cultural norms, and silencing and invisibility that haunts. But in the midst, they are beautiful, strong, and deserving of honor. And that, from my perspective and experience, is the key:

It is in the midst that our story, our very selves, demonstrate beauty, strength, and honor beyond compare. Not someday. Not then. Not ‘if only.’ Right now.

What if we didn’t work so hard to elude the parts of our story we’re not all that crazy about?

What if we didn’t work ourselves into a frenzy to somehow get out of our current circumstances and into the ones we want?

What if we learned to stay, to abide, to dwell in the midst – exactly where we are?

Beauty, strength, and honor would be (and is) ours in the midst.

An example:

Bathsheba. In going about her life, just living and being, she gets thrust into a story in which her body was dishonored, her shame prolific, her grief visceral, and her will rarely considered. It’s not an easy story. And she is beautiful. She is strong. She brings forth life. She promulgates wisdom beyond compare. In the midst.

Though I could speak endlessly of the injustice and ache within her story, this is what speaks to me: Bathsheba’s was and is a story of beauty in the midst of ugliness, strength in the midst of struggle, life in the midst of death, wisdom in the midst of foolishness, and honor in the midst of exactly its opposite.

My story is no different. Nor is yours. For we are her daughters, her lineage, her kin. This is the Feminine enfleshed and embodied. This is Sophia in breath and voice. This is the Sacred here and now. Not
someday. Not happily ever after. Right now. Within. Always. Unswerving. In the midst.

Because I can witness this in the story of Bathsheba (and Eve and Hagar and Rahab and Mary Magdalene and the Woman at the Well and a gloriously-infinite list of so many others), I can allow for the same in my own story. In the midst.

What if you did the same?

Here is what I know about you:

Right now, in the midst, you embody the Feminine. Right now, in the midst, you inhale and exhale Sophia (wisdom as She). Right now, in the midst, you birth and behold the Sacred. Not someday. Not when your story is satisfying and happy. Right now. This story. This day. This you!

May it be so.

The Full Moon and other thoughts

Mar 6, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters, Spirituality

Whoever you are: some evening take a step out of your house, which you know so well. Enormous space is near. 

~ Rainier Marie Rilke

Yesterday marked another full moon. I’m paying attention to such things these days. I’m honoring Her cycle; my own. As it waxes, letting go. As it wanes, inviting in. This is liturgy. This is ritual. This is the Sacred.

But it’s not the Sacred I grew up with.

Back then I sat still in church. I listened carefully. I (tried to) dutifully obey. And though my required demeanor was calm-serene-peaceful, within was often a different story. Frustration. Longing. Grief. Desire. These emotions were parked at the door. The Perfect Persona applied, like a mask.

I’ll be honest: it’s not fair to drop this reality only at the feet of the church. It was true in so many other aspects of my life, as well; namely my marriage and my job(s). Oh, how well I learned and practiced the rules, the expectations, the unspoken-but-practically-shouted way of being that was required. Be good. Don’t rock the boat. Stay within the lines. Practice makes perfect. Seen not heard. Sometimes not even seen.

I’m grown up now. I no longer sit in church. And I’ve learned that obedience isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Now, when my demeanor is calm, serene, and at peace, that’s actually how I feel! No emotions unexpressed. No masks. Just me. (And a
lunar calendar on my wall.)

This does not mean that I no longer believe, that I have abandoned all faith, that my heart no longer soars at a strain from a hymn or the stories that save me. In fact, just weeks ago, I did sit in church and watch my eldest daughter get baptized for a second time. 18 years ago, I held her as a newborn, silent tears rolling down my cheeks in gratitude for her miraculous presence in my life. This time she walked up three steps then stepped down into a huge hot-tub and allowed the pastor to dunk her completely under the water. Silent tears rolled down my cheeks in gratitude again – this time for her heart, her faith, her desire to express it in an acknowledged, bold, and unmasked way.

Last week I sat at a fundraising banquet for the youth ministry that enraptures my youngest daughter. She texted me throughout saying, “Aren’t you having the best time?!?” I knew she was; that this is a safe and sacred space for her. More tears as I watched her sing and smile and step into the life of faith she desires.

And yesterday I honored the full moon, the Sacred, my turbulent-yet- tenacious faith, and an ever-increasing love for/by the Divine (who, by the way, is totally into lunar cycles).

This is the Sacred. Nothing prescribed. Nothing locked down by dogma or doctrine. Possible. Open. Full (like the moon). Big enough, magnificent enough, glorious enough, and grace-full enough that any and every way in which our hearts are moved can be honored, resonant, and true.

May it be so.

Imagining God’s Voice as “She”

Dec 2, 2014 | Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

I know. I know. God is neither a man nor a white-bearded patriarch in the sky. And yes, I know that God is not a woman either. Qualities of both. The best of everything. (Thankfully) beyond my capacity to imagine, entertain, or hope. Energy and light and love. Yes, I know.

But just because I know something doesn’t mean I can fully incorporate it. Just because the intellectual and intelligent part of me gets it, doesn’t mean that I don’t, still, admittedly, struggle to separate from old habits, deeply-ingrained lessons, nearly-in-my-DNA-dogma. And truth-be-told, sometimes, when stuck in this kind of mental spinning and theological puzzling, I want to throw the baby out with the bathwater. Only not really…

I need ways of helping my brain latch onto and understand something else, anything else. I need experiences of something, anything else.

More than all else, I need and long for my head to quiet down and my heart to speak; for Her to speak. And so, by way of practice and discipline, I imagine the voice of God as a woman. What does She say? What does She know? How does She invite me to new ways of experiencing the Sacred that already and always dwell within me?

Most recently, just.like.this.:

I see how deeply and desperately you long for rest. Rest from the swirling, spinning, endless thoughts in your brain. Rest from attempts to control outcomes. Rest from the labor required to get circumstances (and particular people) to go your way. Despite all your best intentions, all the work your brilliant mind does to craft and implement solutions, at the end of the day, you can rest. Your heart will carry you. Your soul knows. Your intuition courses powerfully through your blood, your body, your very being. And there is a larger story that is writing you. It is beautiful and miraculous. Even more, you are beautiful and miraculous. You are a womb for miracles. You bear and bring forth life that is infinite and dazzling in impact and force. You are chosen. You are worthy. You are seen. You are so much more than enough. And you are not too much. Ever.

Because of all this…and so much more, you are loved.

And did I mention? You can rest.

To tell you that I have deep, unfailing faith that never wavers wouldn’t be true. What is true, though, is that I have deep, unfailing, and never-wavering hunger – and hope – for all of the above, and then some. If I could find, know, and experience this God, I’d be sold, I’d be committed, I’d be devoted, I’d preach!

I do find, know, and experience this God.

Just not all of the time.

Anne LaMott once said that “the absence of faith is not doubt, but certainty.” Because I really like Anne LaMott and because I am convinced she has a direct line to God (how else could she write as she does?) I’m going to go with this. I trust that my uncertainty is actually the doorway into faith; a faith that far exceeds the one I grew up with, the one that is too small, the one with the white, bearded man in the sky. And as I continue to doubt, I’m going to continue with the “if God was a woman” process for no other reason than to offer my brain some God-given rest and much-deserved Grace; to let my heart lead and beat and love as it wants and knows to do. In the midst, maybe, just maybe I’ll come to believe (i.e., have faith) that every single word I’ve written above is actually true.

That would offer me rest. And it does.

May it be so (for you, as well).

 

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The Sacred in a High School Gym

Nov 11, 2014 | Mothers and Daughters, Spirituality

Yesterday morning I sat in a high school gym surrounded by teenagers. The Veteran’s Day Assembly. I wasn’t there because of what was being commemorated (though that was worthwhile). I was there because my youngest, Abby, was singing in the choir and I wanted to hear her. It was, she was, as I expected: fabulous.

Something happens to me, within me, when I hear choral music – the haunting harmonies, the familiar melodies, beauty that causes my heart to catch in my throat. I cannot help but cry. Today was no different. What I hadn’t expected was to see my oldest, Emma. She moved all over that same gym, wearing a “School Photographer” badge and wielding her camera. One moment she was taking pictures of a line of U.S. flags, the next a Veteran who stood alone and proud while the rest of us applauded, and in the midst, the faces of her peers who made up the bulk of the audience. Something happened to me, within me, as I watched her see and capture beauty. It caused my heart to catch in my throat. I could not help but cry.

Just for a moment, sitting on that folding chair, I realized that this was the Sacred: two young women, my daughters, their felt/heard/seen presence in the world, their voices and talents shared. Just for a moment, I took a deep, raggedy breath and gave thanks. And then I cried some more.

It wasn’t about them (though of course it was). It was about just that moment. Right then, right there, and completely unexpected, I was part of something Bigger than me, beyond me, and smack in the center of me. The Sacred.

Truth-be-told, I rarely notice these moments. That could be probably is because I am more often, longing for, praying for, working for deep, wide, and ongoing ways in which I can endlessly, consistently feel connected to something of Meaning, of Beauty, of God. And yet, all along, the Sacred is showing up. Today especially. And apparently, exclusively, perfectly, powerfully, tenderly, amazingly – just for me.

That’s grace. That’s God. That’s enough.

May it be so.

If my writing resonates, I’d be honored if you’d subscribe to A Sunday Letter. Long-form, from me to you, every week. Learn more.