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.

Imagination and then some…

Feb 21, 2015 | Sacred Stories, Women's Wisdom

Imagination is a wonderful, healing, redeeming, strengthening, transformative thing.

I spend a lot of my time in this act, this work, this calling – the privilege of imagining. How lucky am I?

The stories I tell, the stories I love, are filled with imagination. It’s true! Even the stories of women in Scripture. Oh! Wait! Had you heard something else? Like they are actually carved in stone? Oh, well there’s (at least part of ) the problem! They’re not! Like any story, they are fluid, ever-changing, moving, shape-shifting, and offering meaning to their hearer through the lens of their teller.

First told ’round camp fires and in caves, the oral tradition carried their truth through the generations. Later, carved in stone (OK. I admit it: this part is true), then written on scrolls, then translated and transcribed (and imagined) again and again. Printed. Organized. Argued and fought over. And translated even more. Even still, their significance survives: in art, in poetry, in prose, in song. Ancient, sacred stories infused with imagination.

Though many have walked away (if not run screaming into the dark) because of the ways in which these stories have become doctrine have become dogma have become dogmatism, I am not willing to do so.

Because they were reimagined and retold again and again, in ever- changing ways, I can do the same. I get to do the same.

I began to figure this out while in Seminary – not the most common place in which one uses imagination. As part of my M.Div. degree I was required to take a year of Hebrew and another of Greek. I don’t remember a bit of either, but I will never forget what I learned through them: this whole translation thing is SUPER subjective. Always has been. Always will be. And if that’s true (which it is), then I can translate and imagine and tell the stories just as well as the other guys (which yes, most of the time, have been and still are guys).

My imagination. My perspective. My telling.

When I imagine to my heart’s content, I am the one who is healed, redeemed, strengthened, and transformed.

Oh, the stories I could tell you of this; the myriad of ways in which these stories (and the women within them) have changed my life. But we’d be here for days…

“There is no use trying,” said Alice; “one can’t believe impossible things.” “I dare say you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” ~ Lewis Carroll

You may find it impossible to believe that the stories of women in Scripture could possibly still speak; more, could possibly speak to you (without the doctrine or dogma or dogmatism). I get that.

“Impossible!” you say. And, like the Queen, it is my honor to continually invite you to a world of imagination, maybe even belief, and most definitely hope. Maybe not before breakfast, but hey, I’m always up for a good challenge!

My hope(s) and endless imaginings for you?

  • That you would come to not just imagine, but know and believe that there are stories that long to be heard and known and experienced by you that will touch and embolden your heart.
  • That you would not just imagine, but know and believe that you are not alone; even more, realize that you are surrounded by an entire chorus of your matrilineage.
  • That you would not just imagine, but know and believe that your story matters.

May it be so.

About rain and tears and grief

Feb 16, 2015 | Hope & Encouragement, Women's Wisdom

My desk sits in front of two windows that look out on stark trees. For now, there are no leaves in sight. And the rain continues to fall and fall and fall. I suppose I could look at the bright side: the ever-green grass, the vast foliage, the lack of dry skin for the plethora of moisture. All of these things would be true. But those silver linings are quickly forgotten in the endless gray and endless wet.

I cannot tell you how many seasons, exactly like this one, I have said, “I have to get out of here!” And yet one day follows after the next, Spring arrives, then Summer, and I remember, once again, at least one of the reasons why I stay: days that are so clear, so gorgeous, so glorious that I can barely take them in.

Weather, yes; so too, in life.

Seasons that are dark and bleak. Tears that fall and fall and fall like rain. Endless gray and endless wet. The disbelief that warmth will ever return.

It will. I promise.

Your willingness to allow dark and bleak and tear-stained seasons is directly proportionate to the clear and gorgeous and glorious you that will yet shine forth. I promise.

And though it’s not the advice you usually hear, take mine: Weep, wail, and scream. Let it all out. A cloudburst. A downpour. Get drenched. Your grief is what makes you more tender, more vulnerable, more real. Your heartbreak is what enables you to tell
your truth in ways heretofore unheard. Your tears are what water the soil of the life you are yet to birth, yet to bring forth, yet to offer this world.

Take your finger out of the dyke and flood the world with the oceans you’ve been keeping at bay.

Why? Because as surely as the sun will return to my neck of the woods – you will survive, you will heal, you will rise. I promise.

Those who have the courage and capacity to grieve are those who have the courage and capacity to yet stand, to still hope, to live and live and live.

I promise.

Telling Stories

Dec 20, 2014 | Sacred Stories, Women's Wisdom

“Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can’t remember who we are or why we’re here.”

These words were penned by Sue Monk Kidd in her book (and then film) The Secret Life of Bees. And oh, how I have found this to be true.

I tell stories that often feel to me like they are on death’s door – so often untold (even more frequently mis-told) if not completely forgotten. And I can’t bear that!

I need their stories to remember and resurrect my own.

  • As I struggled through the excruciating years of infertility, the kindness of women who had known the same came alongside me in solidarity and strength. Remembering and telling the stories of Sarah, Rebekah, Rachel, and Hannah (and so many more) reminded me of who I was and why I was here no matter the grief, the ache, the anguish.
  • In the days-weeks-months-years leading up to my divorce and certainly through it, the steady companionship of a marginalized, pregnant slave was all that held me together. Remembering and telling Hagar’s story reminded me of who I was and why I was here no matter the misunderstanding, the confusion, even the shame.
  • As a mother, while worrying and wondering about the stories through which my daughters have already lived and are yet to face, the cryptic tale of a woman who knew fear far more visceral than my own danced before me in glory and radiance.
  • Remembering and telling the story of The Woman of Revelation 12 reminded me of who I was and why I was here: to rise up on my daughters’ behalf, to fight for them, to sustain their story.
  • Often, at the start of a new day, I consider all that waits for me in the hours ahead and I look to these same women and so many more.
  • I ask one to walk with me – offering perspective, hope, wisdom, courage, and strength. She never disappoints. Remembering and telling her story, over and over to myself, reminds me of who I am and why I’m here – no matter what comes.
  • Just three weeks ago I sat on a stage at a church in Nebraska – graciously invited to tell the stories I love. Friday night. Saturday morning. Sunday. I recounted the lives of Eve, the Wives of Angels, the Midwives, Elizabeth, Mary, Hagar (yes, again), the Woman at the Well, the Woman of Revelation 12 (mmmhmm, again), and the Extravagant Woman. And I wept – so aware of the ways that the remembering and telling of their stories is the only thing that has enabled my own; the very thing that has offered me life and life and
    life.

I must tell stories so that they can live; so that I can!

I’m guessing I’m not the only one. If this provokes even the slightest hunger in you – to remember and hear such stories – there is nothing I would love more than to tell you one, many, an infinity of them!

Here’s a place to start. One ancient, sacred story – chosen especially for you – the Sacred She who will come alongside you with wisdom, beauty, and strength; who will help you remember who you are and why you are here. I promise. Learm more about SacredReadings.

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).

 

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.

Extravagant Love. Extravagant You.

Nov 26, 2014 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Women's Wisdom

There’s an ancient sacred story told of a woman who was beautifully, lavishly, even shockingly extravagant.

Desiring love, she risked. Potential misunderstanding. Certain ridicule and scorn. Whispers, shouts, and most certainly shame. None of it mattered. Only the experience and expression of love. Compelled by love, she held nothing back. Unrestrained and passionate, her deepest heart revealed and exposed. A recipient of love, she gave. Generously, without thought to prudence, scarcity, boundary, or anyone else’s ideas of what was appropriate (or not).

Because of all this, she knew extravagant response:

Worthy of love, she was honored. All shame erased. All spoken and unspoken bonds broken. All penalties paid. Freedom hers. “Truly, I say to you, wherever good news is spoken in the world, what she has done will be told in memory of her.”

*****

There’s so much I love about this story, so much I love about her. But most of all this: Her love was pre-determined, her actions hers alone, and NONE of this dependent on the response she might (or might not) receive. That is extravagance, right there.

And that, right there, calls forth the truest, most honest expression of self we could possibly hope to attain.

Want to be more authentic? Want to live in a brave and connected-to-the-Sacred- Feminine way? Here’s the template:

Risk.
Hold nothing back.
Give.
Be extravagant.

And all as expression of the love that is yours to offer; the Love that is you!

Extravagant, indeed.

This woman calls us to be exactly who we are: risky, honest, generous, and completely compelled by (not for) the love that already dwells within us; the love that defines us; the Love that is us!

When we are truly ourselves, we can be nothing other. And this is extravagant, indeed.

*****

Be assured, I’m hardly preaching here – other than to the choir. I’m working diligently on these ideas/practices in my own life. For I intuitively know that this is the way in which I am to be. The afraid, protective part of me is, well, afraid and protective. It’s true: I’ve been hurt before, the love I’ve expressed has not always been returned, and the risks have often felt far too costly. With a closer and more honest look though, I can see that these memories and experiences also carried my expectation, my desire demand for love’s return and a reward/recompense for being oh-so-generous and eh-hmm, loving. This is not my truest self. This is not my truest nature. This is not the Sacred radiating forth through my life. And this is not extravagant.

So what if, even in the smallest of moments and slightest of ways, I could move through my world as the glorious being I most truly am?

What if I were to risk because it’s a thrill; because I’m strong enough to handle it?

What if I were to hold nothing back – in my relationships, to be sure, but also in my writing, my parenting, my friendships, my self-care? What if I gave little-to-no thought to what’s in it for me, and instead, just gave, period?

What if I were extravagant?

Though a rhetorical question, I already know the answer. I would be me. I would be Love. And I would reflect the Divine.

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.