Gethsemane Jesus

I have always been drawn to the story of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. Maybe because it doesn’t always get as much attention; we often focus on the last supper and footwashing on Thursday, and the trial and crucifixion on Friday. I’ve wanted to linger at that inflection point in between, out in the darkness, among the old olive trees, in the quiet before the assault.

As a child, I could scarcely take in the gruesome, violent death of Jesus on the cross, especially coupled with any theology that insisted that God somehow demanded human sacrifice to appease his sense of wrath or justice. (If you’ve struggled with that theology, you are not alone! It is NOT the only way to read or understand the story. Here are some thoughts on how to approach this narrative differently as an adult or with children.) But I could journey with Jesus as far as the Garden.

This to me was Jesus at his most raw and vulnerable. He knew what was coming. The powers that be had been after him for weeks. He knew he would not retaliate; retributive violence was not God’s way. He felt the weight of the world on his shoulders. And as the story goes, he was “distressed and agitated . . . deeply grieved, even to death.” In Luke’s version, his anguish is so intense, his sweat becomes thick like blood. And he prays fervently for a different outcome: “Father, remove this cup from me; yet, not what I want, but what you want.”

In other words, this was a Jesus who was fully human, subject to the same fears, doubts, and anguish as the rest of us. Would living and teaching such a radical, inclusive, revolutionary love really cost him his life? Surely there was another way. God, please, let there be another way!

Who among us has not known those moments of anguish, of fear, of desperate pleading with God? Facing some grievous loss or our own mortality or a certain path with an unknown future, we clutch at the life we have known, the changing ground beneath us, and we pray for a different outcome, to be spared this suffering. We may or may not be able to add, “yet not what I want, but what you want” because let’s face it, we don’t always have the faith of Jesus. And yet we’ve prayed for cup removals enough to know, we often have to drink the cup we’re given. In those cases, we pray for the grace to know we are not alone in our suffering and grief, that God will bring us through.

As a child, I didn’t pay much attention to the disciples in the story. I identified in my own adolescent way, with Jesus alone. It was not until an experience of being doubled over in grief myself that I paid them any mind. In my second year of seminary, my mom called to let me know that Riley, our beloved cocker spaniel that had been a faithful and delightful companion since I was in sixth grade, was not long for this world, succumbing to cancer. I drove home from Atlanta, to find him with my parents on the garage floor laboring to breathe. And within minutes of my lying down beside him, stroking his body, and telling him of my love, he gave up the fight.

It was night. I can still remember the weight of his body, the wetness of the grass, as we crossed the dark yard and laid him in a grave. I could not stop crying. Not for hours. It was one of the deepest loves and losses I had known. My boyfriend at the time, bless him, held me and stayed awake with me as long as he could. But the hour grew late, and the tears showed no sign of stopping. Eventually, I felt his body twitch asleep. And suddenly I was in Gethsemane with Jesus, alone, and yet not alone, bewailing together that “the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Sometimes, we humans, even with those we love the most, even with the best of intentions, cannot stay with our pain.

The older I’ve gotten, the longer I’ve lived, the more pain and violence I’ve witnessed in our world and in those I count as my closest companion, I’ve come to identify more and more with those disciples. Despite their love for Jesus, despite their adamant protests they will not desert him, the intensity and grief becomes too much. They have no idea what to say or do. They cannot stay awake in the garden, nor stay with him at the cross.

How humbling to confess, we too fall asleep or run away in fear, deserting the Jesus who still prays for another way, who still gets betrayed, accused, beaten, mocked, and killed in the bodies of our brothers and sisters, who still suffers and dies every day among us. We don't know what to say to our friend with cancer or the one whose marriage is falling apart. We feel powerless in the wake of another mass shooting, another case of police brutality. There is so much hatred, so much suffering, so much violence, and O Jesus, our bodies, our eyes, our hearts are so heavy and tired. We cannot bear to see, much less follow, a vulnerable God, who takes the hatred and violence of humanity into his very flesh, rather than escaping or returning the violence. Our flesh is so weak and some days,we're not so sure about our willingness of spirit either.

Thank God, the passion narrative is punctuated throughout with God’s mercy and forgiveness. Jesus knows the twelve disciples, every last one of them, will abandon him in the end, but he promises he will see them again in Galilee. (Mark 14:26-31). When they fall asleep in the Garden, he keeps returning to them, and bids them to continue with him. When Judas comes to betray him, signaling who Jesus is with a kiss, Jesus calls him Friend. (Matthew 26:49-50) When one of his disciples draws his sword and cuts off an opponent’s ear, Jesus disarms them, and touches the ear to heal it. (Luke 22:49-51). When Jesus is crucified with criminals on either side, he speaks those ultimate words of forgiveness over the whole violent charade: “Father forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:34) And of course, the resurrection is grace upon grace, not that God had the power to live again, but that after all the abandonment and denial, the obscenity, hatred, and violence hurled upon Jesus, God chose to return to us, breathing peace and new life. What wondrous love is this, O my soul.

In recent years, my prayer around Holy Week is to be able stay awake and to stay with Jesus. I find myself humming the Taize meditation, Stay with Me, and contemplating this Mary Oliver poem entitled Gethsemane. And when I fail to stay as I’d hoped, when my flesh and even my spirit is weak, I pray to know God’s grace, to hear Jesus call me Friend, breathe forgiveness and peace into my weary soul, and promise to keep returning to me until I can stay with him all the way.

I pray that you have a meaningful Holy Week, finding your way into the story and contemplating the mystery in ways that draw you into God’s wondrous love and mercy.

The Power of Confession

I have a confession.

I’m realizing anew the power of those four words.

I’ve been thinking a lot about the power of confession this Lent. I have to say, I have not always been big on confession. As a recovering perfectionist (Enneagram One), I have been both painfully self-aware and self-critical most of my life. Add to that, I was raised in a stream of Christianity that often focused more on our original sin than our original goodness, and you had a recipe for someone who found it far more difficult to believe she was loved by God, than to believe she was falling short.

I know I’m not alone in this. Early in my pastoral ministry, I was partly responsible for writing the prayers of confession for our worship service. I remember a friendly church member taking me out to lunch, and kindly suggesting I lay off the acknowledgement of our waywardness. Did we really need help feeling more shitty about ourselves than we already did? I took his point to heart. I would grow to spend more of my ministry trying to remind people (myself included) of God’s grace and delight in them, and less time pointing out all our flaws.

I still believe we could all use heavier doses of God’s love and acceptance (often passing through human channels) than criticism and judgment. If we don’t tear ourselves down internally, there are certainly plenty of external voices pointing out how we don’t measure up in one way or another.

And yet, these last several years, I’ve also been so aware how difficult it is for people to take responsibility for their words and actions that are hurtful, if not downright violent toward others. How quick we are to point the finger and blame someone else, to defend and absolve ourselves, whether it involves our racial prejudices, the handling of the pandemic, the insurrection at the capitol, or our greed and sense of entitlement that poison just about everything. I’m hard-pressed to think of many examples of public leaders who humbly confess wrongdoing.

And to get all up in each others’ business, when’s the last time we humbly confessed wrongdoing about any of those things, or just the garden variety hurtful words we spoke or grace we withheld from the people under our own roof?

Shortly before Lent, I listened again to the full, unedited version of one of my favorite podcasts of all times. In it, Krista Tippett interviews Alain de Botton on the “True Hard Work of Love and Relationships.” Their conversation was first recorded and released in 2017, and she offered it again, as so many people have been struggling in their relationships during the pandemic

It is one of the most refreshing exchanges I’ve ever heard on how to be human, and how to live and relate with other humans. What I love so much about it, is that de Botton just says up front, we are all deeply wounded and flawed beings, making us tricky to live with in particular ways. And wouldn’t we all be better off if we could confess this from the get-go, instead of working so hard to prove and protect and defend ourselves? It’s exhausting trying to pretend we have it all together, comparing our insides to other people’s outsides. Not to mention, it’s lonely, leading us to believe we’re uniquely flawed, and isolating us from the love and mercy that can actually heal us.

This got me wondering if there are ways we can confess our flaws, our shortcomings, our wounds, without that crippling guilt and shame that often accompanies confession. Are there places where we can own the full truth of who we are, that includes our shadow as well as our light, our sinner parts as well as our saintly parts? Do we have at least one human soul with whom we can share our whole truth, bringing light and air to those things than can poison us when we keep them in the internal dark?

I do not pretend this is easy. It takes great courage on the part of those confessing, great mercy on the part of those receiving the confession. Humility and humor go a long way. But I’ve been trying to practice more honest confession this Lent. Confessing more of my trickiness to my merciful spouse. Apologizing when I’ve spoken unkindly to one of my boys or a friend. Naming how I am complicit in systems of inequity in this country, and prone to my own greed and self-centeredness. So far, I have not become an oil spot on the sidewalk. In fact, it has felt quite liberating.

But here’s the thing. I think you have to get the order right. Or at least I did. As long as I wondered if God really loved me, just as I am, I could not bear to see all the wounds and imperfections, the ways I hurt others, intentionally or through neglect or ignorance. But once I knew deep in my soul that I am loved, and that nothing can separate me from that Love, I could see myself more clearly. And I could entrust myself to that Love and Grace, because God knows, I’ve also learned I cannot heal or change myself, despite all my efforts to just try harder.

Dear friend, whoever you are, however flawed you feel, or shamed so deeply you can’t bear the flaws, I pray you will know the Love and Delight of God for you deep in your bones. And I pray you have places and people who love you with such tenderness and mercy, you can lay down the exhausting pretenses, and just be your delightful, tricky, human self among other delightful, tricky humans.

One Year of Covid

Last year, on the second Tuesday of March, I gathered with the worship circle for what would be the last time in the beloved meeting space at the Quaker meeting house. We kept our distance, giving elbow bumps instead of embraces for the passing of the peace. We talked about and prayed with our fear and anxiety about this new corona virus that was beginning to make the rounds.

We. Had. No. Idea.

We had no idea that we would not see each other again in person. That our "circle" would become a "grid." That we would soon be wearing masks anywhere and everywhere. That we would learn a whole new lexicon, like "social distancing" and "flattening the curve" and "virtual schooling." That we would feel simultaneously isolated and globally connected in unprecedented ways. That we would see both such heroic public service and wanton disregard for human life. That the pandemic would reveal both our fragility and resiliency, the interconnected fabric of our nation and the places unraveling at the seams. That we would both celebrate and grieve the slowing down, the interruption of life as we knew it. That the time would be "apocalyptic" in the sense of revealing what really matters, and how we fail to honor that in a myriad of ways. That two weeks would stretch into the rest of the school year would stretch into Summer . . . Fall . . . Winter (brutal) . . .a year and counting, of so much change, uncertainty, giving up control, loss.

That we would lose over 500,000 beloved lives. I think about times in worship we've rung a bell, lit candles and read the names for saints lost in the previous year, or for the lives lost in a mass shooting - Sandy Hook, Orlando, or others. If we kept vigil 24 hours a day, it would take us over two whole months to read their names and ring the bell for every American life lost in the pandemic. It's beyond comprehension.

There have been a million other losses and hardships, both big and small. Each person, each family, each community has struggled in profound and unique ways. We cannot begin to get our heads and hearts around all the pain and suffering. And it has been a cruel irony that many of the things we typically offer to comfort and heal one another - our smiles, our hugs, our close company--are the very things we’ve needed to withhold to protect each other's lives. I may very well have advanced aging around my eyes trying to smile so hard it shows up above my mask.

It's been one year. One long, extraordinary year. With exquisite pain and grace. I believe it is important to honor anniversaries--to be tender with ourselves and one another, to grieve what has been lost and celebrate the gifts, and to share our stories. I hope we might each and all find ways to mark this time, whatever it has held for us.

If you would like to do that with other humans in a warm, welcoming community, I invite you to join this evening’s worship circle; you can read more details below or email me for the Zoom link.

Wherever you are, whatever this year has held for you, I pray peace and hope and comfort for you, as we all find our different ways through.

What We Do with Our Pain

I’ve been thinking a lot about what we do with our pain. God knows there is so much pain in us and among us right now. So much loss, hardship and heartache. Things feel so broken, whether it’s our political systems, our relationships, our bodies or our hearts. So many people with whom I’ve sat and listened over the past month have shared feelings of weightiness and weariness. If before we had somehow managed to deny or distract ourselves from pain -- others’ and our own, it feels like it is so front and center, that there is no getting away from it or around it.

It can feel overwhelming and exhausting. Like things are so broken, they cannot possibly be repaired. Like there is so much pain piled up, we cannot possibly heal. Whether it is in one singular human life or in our collective experience, how in the world do we heal layer upon layer of untended hurt?

Richard Rohr says, “If we do not transform our pain, we will transmit it.” And it feels like on the whole, we as Americans are not so adept at feeling, much less transforming, our pain. We would much rather engage in retail therapy, numb ourselves with medication or alcohol, online games or binge watching, or stay so insanely busy, we “haven’t got time for the pain” as the old song goes.

But it feels like our pain, or rather our inability to transform it, is killing us. Poisoning us on the inside. And then we are transmitting it all over the place, wounding others right and left.

I’ve been thinking about all this not just generally, but personally. Wondering about and witnessing what I do with my own pain. I came into the new year with more hopefulness, with strong intentions for how I wanted to be in my relationships, in my work, and in my practices of self-care and prayer. But by the end of January, I had hit a wall with the pile up of the pandemic, the insurrection, the political rancor, the winter weather, and parenting angst. I felt tired and depleted, lacking energy and motivation, patience and resiliency. I was struggling.

I used to hit those places and suffer in silence. I didn’t want to “burden others” with my problems. And in fact, compared to other people’s suffering, I would reason that my pain wasn’t worthy of attention. Other people were so much worse off. I should suck it up, be grateful. But secretly, I would hope someone could see through my façade and intuit that I needed some tenderness and care. In some instances, I would venture to share more vulnerably about a struggle or hurt, only to be met with awkward indifference or perhaps well-intentioned but often unhelpful advice. It turns out that many of us are not great with dealing with another person’s pain any better than our own. And that can leave us feeling even more hurt and lonely.

But here’s the beautiful thing. Throughout my life, I have been blessed with friends, mentors, and communities who know how to be with pain. People who know the power of just listening without changing the subject or shifting the attention back to themselves. Kind souls who know how to offer empathy, understanding and care, without trying to advise or fix me. And I have learned that sharing my hurt and struggles within those circles of care does indeed help transform the pain. I can’t say it magically evaporates. But there is something to bringing the pain out of the inner darkness into the light of another’s love and understanding that is healing. Joan Chittister writes, “It is not the wounding that kills; it is lack of understanding that paralyzes the soul. It is, after all, understanding that every soul on earth is seeking.”

Over the course of this hard year, I’ve been so grateful that every few days, I get to be in that kind of space. Whether it’s one-on-one or in a small group, whether we’re in person or on Zoom, whether I’m on the receiving or giving end, I have witnessed the healing power of showing up and sharing our truth--pain, struggles and all, and listening deeply and generously as others share their truth. I’m absolutely convinced it is one way we begin to heal all the pain, layer by layer, person by person, rather than letting it fester inside and/or explode onto others.

I’m curious, what do you do with your pain? Stuff it down or hide it away, try to numb or distract yourself? Try to reason it’s not that big a deal, not compared to others, not compared to the goodness in your life? Do you tell yourself you shouldn’t feel pain, not if you’re a believer? Or maybe that you deserve to feel pain because of unwise choices you’ve made or because you’re somehow fatally flawed?

May I suggest you try something different? Try finding someone who sees you as you really are-- flawed yes, but also fabulous and beloved. Someone who listens to your pain and struggles without flinching, without trying to fix you. Someone who holds space for your hurt, offers you grace and love, until with time and grace, you do heal. Chances are, you already know people who would gladly offer this; perhaps you’ve just never given them the gift of caring for you in this way.

And may we all also recognize our incredible power to be that healing presence for others. How many times do we struggle for the right words, or wish we could do more? But really, it’s our caring presence, our listening and just giving space, our empathy and understanding, our allowing our own heart to break for love of the other, that is most needed for healing.

This Lent, I pray we may acknowledge our brokenness. And I pray our hearts will not break apart into shards that wound, but may break open to one another and to the One who enters into our pain and transforms it.

Tenderly,

Kimberly

A Long Lent

don't know about you, but I'm already tired of Lent. I know it's only Ash Wednesday, officially the first day in the liturgical calendar. But if you ask me, we've been living Lent this whole year. Wandering in the wilderness between life as we knew it, and life as we hope and imagine it can yet be. Lost and confused at times. Tempted to distract or numb ourselves by things we know ultimately will not satisfy our hungry souls. Not quite sure which way to turn, which way to go.

We were just a few weeks into the Lenten season last year when the pandemic hit. I remember laughing at a friend's Facebook post: "I didn't mean to give us up this much for Lent!" Little did we know it was going to stretch beyond two weeks, then beyond forty days, then beyond the unimaginable 100,000 deaths, then beyond Summer, until finally we've just learned to live with the uncertainty of not knowing exactly when we'll come through, and what our new normal will look like.

I can't say that I relish the season of Lent, just like I can't say I enjoy the book of Job. But I do take comfort that they are both part of our story, that they honor the wilderness times, the pain and suffering that are naturally part of the human experience. Sure, I would love to live in perpetual Christmas joy, Easter resurrection, Pentecost outpouring, but that's just not the whole story. And I have to admit, it has been in some of the most bleak and painful seasons that I've experienced the most grace and provision.

I've always been intrigued by Mark's version of Jesus's time in the wilderness. In between the powerful pronoucement of belovedness in his baptism and the beginning of his public ministry, Mark writes, "And the Spirit drove him out into the wilderness. He was in the wilderness for forty days, tempted by Satan; and he was with the wild beasts; and the angels waited on him." (Mark 1:12-13)

That feels mysteriously true, that our own wilderness times are full of temptation, wildness, and grace. Some days it may be difficult to tell what is what. But might we trust that it is the Spirit that leads us into such times and ultimately brings us through, with the sound of Beloved echoing in our ears?

I hope and pray it may be so, for each and all of us, as we make our way through this long Lent. If you would like some companionship and nourishment on your own Lenten journey, I still have some space in this season's small group and retreat.

Getting Real

How are you? Really.

I’m not asking in that perfunctory way, where we sort of ask out of habit, and hope people will say, “I’m fine,” or “All is well,” because we don’t necessarily have time or bandwidth to hear the in’s and out’s of how someone really is.

Don’t we all know the exquisite gift when someone asks and really wants to know, and then takes the time to listen to us, really cares about what we have to say? I think we all hunger for exchanges like that-- to be seen and heard, to be witnessed, as we really are, not as we often think we should be or pretend to be.

Especially now. With the social distancing and masking, the things we have to do to keep ourselves and one another safe, it’s like we’re even more starved for real, genuine connection. We may go online to try to connect, but social media doesn’t exactly foster vulnerability in sharing, compassion in responding. If anything, it may make us feel more anxious and depressed, isolated and lonely.

I think about my little Luca. He wasn’t even two when the pandemic began, so it’s hard to say how he’s experiencing all this. But I know early on, he would stand on the balcony and yell to someone he saw in a yard three house away. He will still press his face to the glass of our windows, looking for somebody, anybody to greet. And since our return to playgrounds, I can hardly keep him from tackling other children. He runs up, talks in animated gibberish, gesturing wildly with his hands, and then follows them all over the play structures (while I apologize to the parents, and try to keep him from breathing in their face). The other day, a little girl starting playing chase with her dad, and bless him, Luca joined right in, laughing with delight as he chased her chasing him.

A friend of mine shared that in a recent FaceTime call between her 95-year-old grandmother in a nursing home and her sister, another resident photobombed the exchange. Apparently, this elderly woman tries to get in on everyone else’s calls. And sure enough, in a screen shot the sister took, there she was, in the corner of the frame.

It’s like we are desperately hungry for one another. For real, substantive, human exchange. Where we can say real, tender, and holy things like, “I’m struggling.” Or “This is hard.” Or “I’m so scared of what’s going on.” Or “I don’t know where God is in all this.”

As much as we worry about widespread misinformation campaigns writ larger (and believe me, they are worthy of deep concern), I am also worried that we’re losing the capacity to tell and hear one another’s truth - the full, messy, complicated mix of conflictual things we think and feel and are in our very being.

One of my favorite sentences from one of my favorite writers, Frederick Buechner, in his memoir Telling Secrets is this: It is important to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we truly and fully are—even if we tell it only to ourselves—because otherwise we run the risk of losing track of who we truly and fully are and little by little come to accept instead the highly edited version which we put forth in hope that the world will find it more acceptable than the real thing. (written long before Facebook, Instagram and the like, where we make a regular habit of putting forth highly edited versions of ourselves.)

And of course, I not only think this is what we long for in our human relationships, but also in our relationship with God, a place where we can bring our full humanness, our brokenness, our hardship, our pain, our shame, and hold it in the tender, merciful embrace of Love. Of course, many of us were not taught or invited to approach God that way. Instead, we learned explicitly or implicitly, that we had to clean up our act, use the right words, pray in a certain formulaic way. No wonder so many of us wanted and needed to leave the Church, or even leave God in the dust. The religion offered in so many places just made us feel worse or left us cold.

If you grew up in that kind of religious setting, or even a more neutral one, I realize the season of Lent may carry some dark overtones for you. Words and concepts often associated with Lent, like confession, repentance, fasting, and wilderness-- don’t exactly put a spring in your step for returning Home. But what if we thought of it instead, as an invitation to tell the real, whole truth of how we are, what we’re wrestling and struggling with, the ways we can’t seem to get our act together on our own, no matter how hard we try? What if we fast from our old, worn out images of God, let go of our oppressive ideologies and formulaic ways of praying, and just try meeting the Really Real with our real? What if we trusted that the longing in us for that kind of Love and Grace is God longing for us too?

I believe that’s what God wants . . the real us, in our delightful messiness and complexity. So in the coming weeks, when we hear the Lenten call to return, to change the direction we’re looking for our happiness (Thomas Keating’s definition of repentance), to prayer, fasting and self-examination, I hope we might hear it as a call to get real, with ourselves, one another, and ultimately God.

If you’d like to get real with others, I’d love to have you in either the Lenten small group, the retreat, or both. We will explore these themes in conversation, and try on ways of connecting with God and each other that invite authenticity and intimacy, fasting from whatever blocks us where we are in our own spiritual journey. One gift of the pandemic is you don't have to be here in the Atlanta area to participate; while it's not the same as being live, I've found Zoom connections to be quite intimate and lovely in their own way. You can read more below.

In the meantime, I hope you are taking good care of yourself, that you have some place to share your full, real self, at least with yourself and God.

Longingly,

Kimberly

An Awkward Question

How’s your quiet time?

That’s probably not a question you get asked very often. Not exactly a question you would ask at a dinner party, or even among close friends. But believe it or not, I remember a brief time it was actually sort of cool.

In high school, I participated in a Christian organization called Young Life. I had a huge crush on this guy from another school. Seth was the first guy I knew that wore the old-school Birkenstocks. And in the winter, he would wear them with bright, colorful socks. He was dreamy.

You can imagine my thrill when he noticed me, said my name, and popped the question every high school crush is dying to hear, “Hey Kimberly, how’s your quiet time?”

Ok, so it wasn’t exactly the question I wanted to hear, but I loved that he normalized talking about prayer, even made it seem hip.

Now, as an adult, I get why it can be awkward, or difficult to talk about prayer. Like just about everything in religion and spirituality, we can mean very different things when we talk about prayer. And it’s so very personal, intimate even, that it can feel vulnerable.

I don’t expect prayer will ever trend in public discourse, but I’m grateful I get to work in a field that normalizes talking about it. I know this may make me very peculiar, but there is almost nothing I’d love to talk about more than how we connect, commune, converse with God in ways that feel authentic and life-giving.

I give thanks that part of my upbringing in the church and in organizations like Young Life was an emphasis on having a “quiet time.” In case this phrase is completely foreign to you, this meant that you had a designated time each day for prayer. You might read your Bible or a daily devotional. And you would spend some time talking with God about whatever was on your heart and mind - your own struggles, people you loved, painful situations or pressing decisions. What was most important was that you showed up regularly for this time with God.

This was not only taught by the leaders in my church, but was also modeled for me. I remember seeing my granddad Theo (for whom my eldest is named) in his big recliner reading his Bible. I saw my mom do the same, with her quiet time resources on her bedside table.

I will say that having a regular quiet time was part of a package of things you did as a “good Christian.” And I was all about trying to be a good Christian, because the alternative was literally hellacious. I did, at the time, hold a view of God that was very much about reward and punishment, so I was in it for the eternal rewards, and frankly out of fear. Which admittedly created some cognitive dissonance around prayer; I was invited to spend time daily cozying up to God and sharing my deepest needs, while simultaneously fearing that if I didn’t show up regularly, this “loving” God might just send me to hell. I later heard a writer describe similar tensions as “religious schizophrenia,” which seemed fitting. At the time, I felt both drawn to and scared of God.

I was also a bit of an organizational geek, so I felt right at home in a denomination that literally took its name from having a “method” for almost everything religious. So I was delighted when I found a three-ring Quiet Times binder in the local Christian Family Bookstore. It had color-coded tabs and acronyms telling me exactly how to pray. I was religious about it, writing my ACTS . . words of Adoration, then Confessions, then Thanksgiving, and finally Supplications.

There was another voice in me that frequently noted that going through these motions didn’t always feel authentic, invited me to wonder if I was perhaps missing the whole point of prayer. My supplications were rarely “answered” in the ways I hoped. That made it difficult to really mean all my words of Adoration. And even if I could stop some of the behaviors I Confessed, I had a growing awareness of a holy host of thoughts and feelings that were not exactly loving. In short, it didn’t seem like my prayer was “working”-- not changing God, and not changing me either. What was the point?

I remember this particular afternoon in college, when my formulaic prayer practice broke open into Something Else. I had gone to an awards ceremony, and was disappointed when I didn’t receive the highest honor for the Religion Department. If I’m completely honest, I was shocked, because I thought I would receive it. And when someone else's name was called, I was flooded with shame, questioning, Who did I think I was expecting that reward? How absolutely arrogant and contemptuous, and flat out mean and jealous about the girl who did receive it? I had a full-on, full-body blow of conflicting thoughts and feelings.

I took my mess of a self, got in my car and drove into the nearby mountains. I rolled down the windows. I ugly cried. I choked up this big hairball of things I was feeling. I yelled. I told God all about the pressure I felt, the disappointment, the guilt and shame. I let it all rip. I listened to music and sang loudly.

And then, something completely new washed over me. It was this sense that I was seen and heard and loved in that very moment, exactly as I was, not how I often pretended to be. I felt, perhaps for the very first time, what I had been talking and singing about all these years . . amazing grace.

That began to change my whole orientation to God and to prayer. It’s been evolving ever since. If we’re living in a dynamic relationship with God, it only makes sense that the ways we think about, talk to and experience God change as well. What’s important, I think, is that we continue to find ways to connect that feel authentic and life-giving, and that match the season of life in which we find ourselves.

In recent years, since having two little boys, it’s been more challenging to carve out a daily “quiet time,” so I have loved finding new ways to be prayerful in the thick of the daily rounds. But since my youngest settled into a consistent all-night sleep rhythm, and then when the pandemic arrived and we were not rushing to get out of the house in the morning, I found myself longing for that consistent quiet time again. In recent months, I’ve been able to get up before my household and enjoy that time set apart for prayer, reflection, and meditation. It feels revolutionary, like I am so much more clear-headed, peaceful, and patient after I've started my day that way.

I’m curious, how’s your quiet time? How has your own prayer life evolved over the years? What do you find yourself drawn to or longing for these days?

If we’ve lost a rhythm of prayer in our busy lives, it can be difficult to find our way again. When and how should we pray? What should we do? What should we read? There are a dizzying array of prayer practices and books of prayers and meditations out there. How do we choose? We can get overwhelmed before we even start. For all our resistance to being told what to do, when it comes to prayer, perhaps it would be nice for someone to just tell us what to do?

I thought you’d never ask! :) If you feel that longing, that nudge, I would love to offer you a way back into or to continue your prayer. Not in a heavy-handed way, but in a personal, invitational way. I think Lent and other sacred seasons are the perfect time to try on a new or different practice. We choose and commit to a prayer rhythm for forty days, and then we try it on, see what fits and what needs adjusting, and we grow from there.

If you are interested in finding your way back to prayer, or finding a new prayer rhythm, or journeying with others seeking the same, I invite you to check out the Lenten small group and the Lenten retreat detailed below. I’d love nothing more than to help you (re)connect or deepen your prayer, to discover the gifts of having a regular quiet time.

Grace and peace,

Kimberly

The Power of Our Words

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never harm me.

What a lie. A self-protective lie trying to insulate us against the pain we know words can inflict. I imagine if we all think about the wounds we’ve incurred in our lives, many have come from words . . . toxic, hurtful, violating words.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the power of words. I think about the warning from James: How great a forest is set ablaze by a small fire! And the tongue is a fire. . . .a restless evil, full of deadly poison. (James 3: 5, 8) We’ve all witnessed the devastation wrought by careless, untrue, cruel words, whether delivered in remarks, tweets, or posts. I imagine we can all relate to this powerful prayer, offered by pastor Ted Loder,

Sometimes, Lord, it just seems to be too much,

too much violence, too much fear. . .

too much of words lobbed in to explode and

leaving shredded hearts and lacerated souls.

I’ve seen lists of accomplishments under Trump touting that we haven’t had a war these past four years. But how else would we characterize what’s going on among us as Americans? I appreciate President Biden naming the violence as such in his inaugural address, calling us to “end this uncivil war that pits red against blue, rural versus urban, conservative versus liberal,” to listen to one another, and to speak to one another with dignity and respect.

I know it’s easy to point the finger at others for using cruel, violent words, words that dehumanize or even demonize. Certainly there is plenty of blame to go around, and it seems we humans are primed from the get-go to pass the buck rather than take responsibility. Just think of that first exchange recorded in the Bible between God, Adam, Eve and the serpent in the garden . .

God: Have you eaten from the tree?

Man: But the woman you gave me made me do it.

Woman: The serpent tricked me to do it.

We call it a story about the original sin, but it is also a story about the original whataboutism. It reveals the truth that it’s painfully difficult to admit our own weakness (or that of one of our groups), to be held accountable for our own wrongdoing.

We have all eaten of the fruit (the fruit of naming good and evil at that). Passing the blame, pointing the finger, whataboutism, and mutual accusations of hypocrisy, are not serving us. In fact, it all just seems to do more harm. It’s like we’re all walking wounded, yet continuing to lash out with our own weaponized words.

How in the world do we move beyond the violence, the hate, the divisiveness that is poisoning our democracy? I know there are no easy or simple answers. I agree with those who say we cannot have meaningful healing or lasting unity without a serious reckoning and accountability for the damage done. But I also don’t see how we can have meaningful accountability while continuing to treat each other with such contempt, and doing further violence.

I do wonder how we each and all might take responsibility for our own hurtful words and actions. What if instead of pointing the finger, we looked in the mirror, and humbly asked, How have I contributed to the divisiveness, hostility, and verbal violence?

How have I used words to tear down, instead of build up?

How have I dehumanized, demonized or expressed contempt toward others

who do not look, speak, believe or vote like me?

How have I failed to see others as made in the image of God, beloved by God,

even when they are behaving badly?

Paul admonishes early Christians in Ephesus“Let no evil talk come out of your mouths, but only what is useful for building up, as there is need, so that your words may give grace to those who hear.” (Eph. 4:29) That is a tall order, especially these days. With social media, texting, email, and the like, we are lobbing more words into the universe than ever before, but often with a lot less awareness and intention. It is way easier to type something nasty in someone’s feed or in the comments section than it is to say the same thing to another human’s face.

How do we recommit to using our words for building up and giving grace? As powerful as words are for wreaking havoc, they can also heal and comfort, create and transform. They can be so nourishing and inspiring, igniting our imagination and hope for new ways of being. Who could listen to Amanda Gorman’s inaugural poem, The Hill We Climb, and not be moved by the power of her words and her gracious delivery of them?

I heard Anne Lamott speak this Fall, and she offered up a helpful acronym: WAIT - Why Am I Talking? (Or Typing or Texting or Tweeting) What if we paused to ask that before every post, every send? It has saved me from many a hurtful send, though sadly not all. We can all be moving, speaking and typing so fast and furiously these days that we forget to take care with our words.

Myself included. I really want my words to offer grace whether it’s the grace of comforting or the grace of challenging us toward more love. But I know sometimes I let them go too soon, without enough examination. Dear reader, I am sorry if my words have wounded you! I know sometimes people unsubscribe because they just get too many words, but I also take stock with every single one, wondering if could have said what I was trying to say in a more clear, healing, or inclusive way. I appreciate those who take the time to name any hurt caused or raise a question for clarification. That too feels like a gracious use of words.

With this opening of a new political chapter, I hope we can all make a fresh start. May we have the grace to realize the immense power of our words. May we pray and search for ways to speak truth in love, words that give grace and do no harm. May we speak words that heal---simple, sometimes nearly impossible sentences, like “I am sorry,” and “I forgive you,” questions like “How are you really?’ and “How can I help?”

I heard somebody say recently (sorry I cannot remember who!): it’s like we’ve all been saying, “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with them.” But we know the fallacy of that, don’t we? The truth is, peace must begin with us, and it is on the tips of our tongues and our fingertips, if we have the grace to recognize the power of our words.

Humbly seeking a better way,

Kimberly

Thank You Trump

My morning NPR news briefing opened with these words, “It is Donald Trump’s last full day as President.”  I know and am trying to honor that we as Americans feel drastically different about those words.  But for me, I breathed a huge sigh of relief, hit pause, and just let myself feel the enormity of the moment. 

I am under no pretense that we are “out of the woods.” In some ways, the political climate feels as dark, divided and dangerous as ever.  There is so much more I want to explore in the coming days around what we each and all might do to try to bring more light, more truth, and more healing, as we turn this page, if not chapter in our American history.

But for now, as we stand on the threshold of a new President and Congress, I find myself wanting to give thanks for the gifts of the last four years.  Yes, you read me right.  I want to give thanks for the gifts.

As a person of faith, I believe that even in the darkest, most difficult times, God is with us, offering us what we need to come through.  In fact, if I’m honest, it has often been in the most challenging seasons of my life that I have felt closest to God, and have experienced the most growth.  Of course, I can’t always see that or give thanks in the moment; it’s usually in retrospect that I can look back and see just how present God was, and how much provision, gift and guidance was offered.

I keep thinking of this metaphor used in a sermon by the much beloved preacher Fred Craddock.  He describes swimming across a raging river.  The waves are huge, the danger real, and you are flailing, absolutely uncertain whether you will make it to the other side.  But you do.  By the grace of God, in discovering a strength and endurance you didn’t even know you had, you find yourself on the other shore.  Craddock concluded (I regret I cannot find the exact quote):  When you’re in the middle of the river, you cry out, “Help!  I’m drowning!”  It’s only when you reach the other shore that you can look back and say, “Refreshing swim.”

It’s in that spirit, and before we plunge back into another hard swim, that I want to look back at the last four years, and name some gifts and growth I see:

·      I am grateful I have been reminded just how precious AND fragile our democracy is.  Prior to 2016, I had definitely taken it for granted.  Democracy is not a given.  We have to work to protect and preserve it.

·      I am grateful I feel called to step it up as a US citizen.  Prior to 2016, I didn’t feel motivated to do much beyond casting my vote, and maybe donating to a campaign.  I left the hard dialogues and decision-making to the politicians.  Now I feel compelled and empowered to engage more, even as I continue to discern what that looks like.

·      Related to that, I am grateful for a crash course in American History and Civics.  Before 2016, I would think about immigration or healthcare, and just get overwhelmed by the enormity of the problem.  I knew I didn’t know what our current policies actually were, how they worked, how they impacted real-life people, and what it would take to change them.  I either spoke from a place of ignorance, or parroted talking points from my political party or leaders.  I am grateful I felt inspired to become a more informed citizen, humbly admitting there was so much I didn’t know (and still don’t!), and trying to learn more, day by day, bit by bit.

·      I have been absolutely moved and amazed by my fellow Americans feeling a similar call, and trying to step into that gap between where we are and where we want to be, offering their perspective, passion, and expertise to help us reimagine what America can yet be, and to take slow but deliberate steps to create a more perfect union.  I’m thinking of the podcasts launched, the newsletters written, the action checklists compiled, the calls made, letters written, the groups and dialogues organized and facilitated. Starting November 4, 2016, millions of people worked like never before to change things.  I’m sorry we’ve been robbed of really celebrating that effort, the hard-won victories in every corner of America.

·      There has been so much troubling this nation for so long, so much injustice and so much suffering denied or ignored that has piled up.  I am grateful so many Americans, myself included, have had our eyes opened, our ears unstopped, our hearts broken to the pain and suffering of our fellow Americans.  Richard Rohr, reflecting on Jesus’ teaching, writes, “Before the truth sets you free, it tends to make you miserable.”  Many people have described these four years as a reckoning.  As hard and painful as it is, I believe it is ultimately redemptive to confess our sins as a nation, to seek to make amends, and to seek an alternative way forward that is more in line with the values we espouse.

·      I am grateful that among family and friends, church groups and volunteer organizations, I have had some of the most raw, searching and substantive conversations of my life.  About race and gender and wealth inequality.  About immigration, mass incarceration, addiction and gun violence.  About what we want for our families and our country, and what is the role of government, the private sector, and faith communities. I’m grateful for perspective that moves me beyond my little bubble to really wrestle with what it means to love my neighbors, all of them.

·      After many years of feeling like the Religious Right dominated the conversation about the role of Christian faith in public life and politics (different than separation of church and state which I fully support), I am grateful that Christian leaders from other branches and streams of Christianity have found their voice.  I’ve said from the beginning, I felt like the marriage between Trump and white evangelicalism was as threatening to the Gospel as it was to our democracy. I’m grateful other Christians have spoken passionately and prophetically about how the spirit, words and actions of Donald Trump do not square with the nonviolent, truth-telling, inclusive, merciful, self-sacrificing love of Jesus.

Clearly, some are in different places in this moment.  And like I said, I am full on aware that we are still in the messy, dark thick of these violent lurches in our democracy.  But in bewailing the darkness (which I believe we must do), I do not want us to lose sight of all the light.  We still have so much work to do, but I hope we can celebrate the steps and strides we’ve made, even as we pray for strength and endurance to stay the course. 

On this threshold of change, I wonder, what can you name as gifts and growth you’ve experienced these last four years?

And if you are one who feels the opposite, I wonder if this invitation might somehow feel like a small comfort.  If you are scared for our country, wondering if our democracy will hold, I hope you too will find strange and unexpected gifts in your own search.  God is with us.

With gratitude and hope,

Kimberly

Another Way to Be Christian

Hello friends,

It feels like a decade since the year began. We've already experienced so much joy and wonder, and so much shock, outrage and heartbreak less than two weeks in. We may still be reeling from last Wednesday's events, taking in more news and commentary trying to understand what happened and why, wondering what to do now as a country, and as a person of faith.

We have journeyed through the twelve days of Christmas and entered the church season of Epiphany, which offers stories about what God reveals through Jesus. The season always begins on January 6, the Feast of the Epiphany, with the story of the wise men who come following a star to find the baby Jesus. We usually lump their story in with the shepherd and the angels, but most biblical scholars agree, the wise men did not go to the manger, but rather to a house at a much later date. After all, traveling on foot from the Far East would have taken months, maybe even years, even if they first spotted the star when Jesus was born.

We also tend to ignore some really ominous details in the story. Namely that Herod, the ruling King of the time, was so threatened by another kind of power coming into being, so infuriated when the wise men wouldn't do his bidding, that he ordered a massacre of all infants under age 2 in and around Bethlehem. Jesus' family narrowly escaped by fleeing as refugees into Egypt where they lived until that Herod was dead. This is no sentimentalized Christmas where all is calm and bright. This is light and Love dangerously making its way into so much hostility and darkness, with rejoicing and weeping side by side.

Last Wednesday, January 6, was also the day of the Stop the Steal rally turned violent riot in our Capitol. The conflation of Epiphany with the real, live event of a violent mob incited by an insecure despot to storm the capitol, was striking to say the least. It revealed what is as true now, as it was then. Even as new light and hope may be breaking into the world, becoming flesh in new ways, many people are threatened by change, and will go to desperate if not violent lengths to hold on to worldly power.

There has to be another way.

This Fall and again last week, with all the heart-breaking tumult happening around the pandemic, the racial reckoning, and the elections, I found myself saying, mantra-like, there has to be another way. Another way beyond our partisan politics, our hostilities, our deep divides, our brokenness. I receive a regular newsletter from Plough, with the tag line, "Another life is possible." In my own personal life, I continue to wrestle with my own use of social media and addiction to my phone, with overwhelm at all the competing claims on my time and attention. I find myself hungry for another way to be, to parent, to engage in politics, to live and work with others.

You may have other things that come to mind or rise up when you hear the phrase Another Way. That's the beauty of a strong metaphor. What I really, truly believe is that whether we're seeking change on a personal or societal level, hoping for the transformation of a particular relationship or pattern in our own lives, or the healing of our democracy, the way of Jesus offers us ANOTHER WAY. A radical, non-violent, compassionate, just, merciful, life-changing way to be and see and live, that can change everything, if we devote ourselves to it.

So that is the theme of the year for the Deep Waters Worship Circle. And when I think about it, the circle itself is an embodiment of another way to be church. Another way to worship and to pray. Another way to read scripture and other sacred texts. Another way to be a community of seekers and believers, listening deeply to one another, learning from and encouraging each other, without trying to fix or change anyone else. Another way to hold all the feelings and tensions, questions and struggles of being human and being Christian. Another way to pray and engage spiritual practices.

We will begin meeting again TONIGHT, January 12, and continue to meet every Second and Fourth Tuesday. We will begin by exploring the Epiphany text, where the wise men from the East return home "by another road." I look forward to listening to this familiar text in a new light, reflecting on where we are, what's being revealed, and how we too might be called to take another road Home.

If you are longing for another way to be human and Christian in these times, I really hope you'll consider joining us. If you would like to be on the mailing list that receives the every other week reminders, Zoom link, and worship guides, let me know.

Also, I have a few spaces opening up in this Spring's Women's Spirituality Group. We'll be sharing around the theme, One Wild and Precious Life, seeking the guidance from female mystics about how to be both tender and fierce in these times. You can read more details below, and let me know if you're interested in claiming a space.

Here's to the grace of finding another way.

With radical hope,

Kimberly

Post-Insurrection

What a week. Beyond that, I don't really know what to write or say.

I imagine, if you're like me, you're still reeling from the week's events, trying to make some sense of things. Reading, listening, watching, talking to your peeps. If you cannot focus or function well, you are not alone. You are human and awake. In times like these, I don't think it serves us well to just get on with life, carry on like normal. This is not normal.

You had/have great hopes for this year, for certain changes coming our way. Before Wednesday, I talked with folks feeling more hopeful than they have in a long time, like this mental, emotional, and spiritual space had been freed up for more creative, generative, and life-giving pursuits. Perhaps you had begun naming some intentions, laying down new rhythms in this year. What now?

You may have seen this post on Facebook: I'd like to cancel by subscription to 2021. I've experienced the free 7-day trial and I'm not interested. :)

How do we begin to process the events of this week, much less the events of the past year or longer? How do we make our way with hope and faith and love into 2021 when we feel despair, anger, and potentially contempt for those who are so radically different than us? How are we going to heal our hearts, our families, our nation?

I'm thankful my work is not to provide answers, but to provide space for our deepest questions, feelings, longings and fears. To create community where folks hold that space for themselves and others, listening and caring deeply for one another. To curate wisdom from sacred literature that helps us get our bearings and find our way. To teach and encourage spiritual rhythms that keep us grounded in the Love of God. To help each and all of us discern what is ours to do, even in a time like this.

So that is what I will continue to offer. I do believe when we feel overwhelmed and troubled by what's going on, one of the most loving things we can do for ourselves and others is pause from the overload of news and information, and take time for prayer and reflection. I still have space in Sunday's Sacred Pause Retreat if you'd like to join us. And the Deep Waters Worship Circle will begin again next Tuesday evening, introducing and reflecting on the theme of Another Way, which feels even more timely than when I first prayerfully pondered it last Fall. Or you may want to consider coming for one-on-one conversation. Just know, I would welcome the opportunity to support you in your own search for God, for truth, justice, compassion, joy and meaning, all the things I believe God desperately wants for us and for our travailing world.

In the meantime, I join you in longing, hope and prayer for our wounded nation.

With persistent hope,

Kimberly

Looking Back on 2020

New Year’s Greetings to you friends! I hope you enjoyed your holiday celebrations, connecting with loved ones wherever and however you could, and getting some much needed rest and renewal after this long, hard year.

I always find the Christmas season a little tiring with all the extra doings, but arrived at Christmas even more exhausted than usual. I think that’s a testament to what we’ve experienced this year between the pandemic, the racial reckoning and the ongoing political rancor around the election. It felt like trying to run a marathon through molasses while catching heavy balls catapulted at us every few feet. Of course we’re tired. No wonder we may want to turn the page on this year.

I have also loved that delicious period of time between Christmas and New Year’s, where it seems like there is a collective slowing down, with more people off and less going on. Over the past few months, I had made an extensive list of things I wanted to get done around the house after Christmas. But when the time came, I didn’t have much energy for more tasks and efforting. (If you detect a theme in this year's writing, you would not be wrong; maybe it's a good thing you still can't visit our house! :))

I did however crave the time to reflect more deeply on the passing of this extraordinary year. So I stopped running, put the balls down, and got still and quiet whenever I could. As I often do, I started reading back through my journals from the previous year. It's taking much longer than usual, because I took to the page much more frequently as a practice in self-care and discernment.

Can I just say I’ve been blown away by the gifts of the year?!? Without a doubt, there is hardship and confusion, stress and anxiety, grief and rage all throughout, like this incessant noise. But it really fades into the background behind this beautiful tune of deeper gratitude and wonder, empathy and compassion, joy and connection in community (even on Zoom!), in nature, in family togetherness, in inner searching. Listing gratitudes, I’ve got three pages of bullet points, and I’m only through mid-April.

How do we measure the value of a year? If we think in terms of ease or simple pleasure, I get that 2020 may not receive high marks. But if we think instead of what makes us more real, more human, more connected (despite the social distance), 2020 afforded some amazing opportunities. Even with the struggles, maybe in part because of them, I felt more fully alive and human, and more in love with my family, life itself, my friends and communities, our nation, and humanity on the whole. Undergirding even the sorrow and rage was an almost desperate passion for us to come through all this and find more common purpose and meaning, create a world more aligned with what truly matters, laid bare by these unprecedented crises.

Like so many memes and posts I've seen, I thought I was ready to say good riddance to 2020. But instead I keep panning through the molasses, delighted to discover chunks of pure gold.

I’m curious, how are you reflecting on the year behind and the year ahead? I remain keenly aware there are profound differences and disparities in how the various crises landed in our bodies, households and communities. I count that awareness as a gift and a call to be more curious and more spacious in holding realities very different than my own. But I’d like to believe that even in the hardest circumstances, there were also moments of profound gift and blessing, of unexpected beauty and meaning. I wonder how we help each other find the beautiful tune amidst all the clatter.

If you too are longing for more prayer, reflection and conversation around the changing of the year, I invite you to join me and others for this Sunday’s Sacred Pause Retreat. These are always rich times to plumb our own experience in deeper ways, to connect with other lovely souls, and to rediscover the God who has been with us through it all. You can read more details below. Whether you’re a regular, a long lost friend or have never been to a Deep Waters group or retreat before, I’d love to share this time with you.

Gratefully,

Kimberly

Saying Yes to God

I gave my first fiat in Africa. I was on safari in the Ngorongoro Crater with my foreign study mates from Furman. After the thrill of seeing a whole pride of lionesses less than ten feet from our vehicle, we were stopped for lunch. I remember sitting on this huge rock in the middle of that vast wild space, feeling so alive and inspired. I wrote a prayer in my journal along these lines: God, I don’t know what wild adventure you may have in store for me, but I’m in. I’m open. I’ll go anywhere in the world with you. I want what you want for my life.

It was full of the wide-eyed optimism of youth, and the excitement of this trip that was changing my life minute by breath-taking minute. I didn’t really know what I was writing. And yet I meant it in some deep sacred place in myself that was beginning to awaken.

The change of plans was not without angst. I had been struggling for years with the question of vocation. I was a pre-med student and biology major now in my third year. I would have told you at the time that I enjoyed math and science, and wanted to use those aptitudes to help people. Becoming a doctor felt like what I should do, what others wanted me to do, but I knew my heart and soul were not in it. When I was even more painfully honest with myself, I knew I was driven as much, or maybe even more, by the allure of wearing the white coat and enjoying all the creature comforts a doctor’s salary would afford.

Letting go of all that was hard, I’m not going to lie. I liked having a clear plan. I liked how it felt to say I was pre-med, and how people responded to that. I had slogged my way through organic chemistry, physics, and the like, and I wanted that BS degree to show for it. I liked choosing a profession that was so respected and admired.

I worried about what other people would think. And I didn’t have to wonder for very long. I could tell that many loving adults in my life didn’t get it, had their own set of disappointments and anxieties around my change of course. I still remember talking to a former boss whom I greatly admired, sharing that I was planning to go to seminary instead of med school. He replied, “I’m disappointed to hear that. What a waste of your intellect.”

Was I wasting my life, my gifts? I had my own doubts and insecurities.

But let me be clear. What compelled me to change my plans was not a Voice making me feel guilty or shaming me into giving up the life I thought I wanted. I had caught a glimpse of, tasted another kind of life that was possible. The Summer before my trip I had served as the youth intern at my home church, and had experienced a joy in vocation I didn't know could exist. I loved connecting with the youth in authentic ways, exploring the great questions about life and faith, teaching and learning the Bible and prayer and service in new ways. It felt full of purpose, meaning, and sheer delight.

The trip to the Middle East and Africa then opened up a whole new world of possibilities. The landscape out there, and inside me, was so much more vast, complex and beautiful than I had known. I remember looking out the windows of our jeep in the middle of Tanzania thinking I had never seen green so green or a pink sunset so pink. It was like the Creator had a more vibrant palette for painting Africa. And it symbolized how I felt on the inside . . . more lush and verdant, full of fresh, ripe possibility, more fully alive, more liberated, more me.

And it wasn’t just the landscape; it was also the people there. Many had so little materially, by comparison to what we had in the States. But there was a look in their eyes, an ease in their way of being, a joy in their welcome and their music that was utterly foreign to me. I sensed a generosity of spirit, a depth of soul I had not known. I discovered a longing in me for a different way to be in the world.

So when I said Yes that day in the middle of that lush green inside me, and as far as my eyes could see, I was captivated by Another Voice, drawn toward something I could scarcely begin to describe. I was both invigorated and frightened.

I think that’s why I’ve always loved the story of the Annunciation in Luke's gospel. The angel Gabriel brings greetings to Mary, announcing this fantastical plan for her to bear God’s son into the world. She is rightly perplexed, but the angel encourages her not to be afraid, revealing that the Spirit’s mysterious overshadowing will accomplish this impossible conception. She is asked not to do something herself, but to surrender and allow God to do something through her.

We take it as a foregone conclusion that Mary said Yes. But I believe she was utterly free, as we all are, to pass on the divine invitation. I’ve always wondered if there were others who couldn’t bring themselves to say Yes. Was there a more complicated, messy discernment that Mary experienced to arrive at her response? Was there any hesitation or angst in her as she weighed this most monumental of propositions? All we know from the biblical text is that she said, “Here am I, the servant of Lord; let it be with me according to your word.” And with that fiat, her life and the whole history of humanity was irrevocably transformed.

I wonder about the divine invitation that comes to each and all of us. Caryll Houselander, in her spiritual classic The Reed of God, wrote “We are all asked if we will surrender what we are, our flesh and blood, to the Holy Spirit and allow Christ to fill the emptiness formed by the particular shape of our life.” Or as the Domenican mystic, Meister Eckhart wrote, “We are all meant to be mothers of God . . . for God is always needing to be born.”

I had no thought of Mary, no sense of being called to be a mother of God, that day in the Crater. But I did feel invited by a Mystery greater than me into an unknown future. I felt the first inklings of something utterly new stirring in me. And I was willing to “waste” my life to find Life.

As we move from Advent into Christmas and into a new year, I wonder what Voice, what Mystery, what Longing might be beckoning you? Might there be another way to live, another way to serve, another way to pray that honors the deep sacred shape of your own soul? What might it look like to pray with Mary, "Let it be"?

Grace and Peace be with you,

Kimberly

Ready or not, Advent comes

I had great hopes for this Advent. I couldn’t wait for the election to be over, one way or another, so we could move on. As both my news consumption and volunteer efforts had ramped up in the final months, I was eager to have that time and energy freed up again. I started making a list - “Hopes Beyond the 2020 Election.” De-clutter. Get off email lists and social media. More time outdoors and digging in the dirt. More focused time with my guys and friends. More writing. More prayer and meditation. I knew I had let myself get lost in the thicket, and I was ready to turn and find my way out.

Turns out it was harder than I anticipated. The election did not end as decisively as hoped, so the relief and celebration were short-lived. Plus there’s this run-off in Georgia, maybe you’ve heard. Watching The Social Dilemma for the second time, I was even more determined to wean myself off Facebook. But like the tech executives featured in the film, even knowing the tricks of manipulation and distraction, I’m still seduced by them. I’ve been unsubscribing like a madwoman from email lists, but it has been shocking and depressing how many there are. No wonder my more recent approach has just been to scroll and ignore to the tune of 45,845 unread messages. And I don’t really know where I thought I was going to get all this new quiet alone time. Over six and a half years into parenting, I still seem to forget, my time is not my own, and it’s rarely quiet. :)

The week of Thanksgiving, I set myself up for spectacular failure. We went to my parents’ in Savannah. In addition to wanting to spend time with them, I had a list of all the things that had alluded me during the pandemic, ok maybe the last four years, or make that six and a half. With some extra eyes and hands on the boys, I was going to get at all of it, at least make a dent.

As it turns out, I was exhausted. I wanted a break, not a different To Do List. My email flooded with the coming of Black Friday, Giving Tuesday, January 5. I drank wine. I played too much solitaire on my phone and got crankier by the day. I gave not a lick of thought to Advent preparation or Christmas gifts. I did not have it in me.

It strikes me that this might just be the best way to enter Advent. Weary. At the end of my own rope. With plans come to naught. Keenly aware of the seductions of the darkness. Unable to save myself. Longing. Waiting. Messy.

I am ever thankful for the seasonal rhythms, both of the natural and liturgical calendars, that give us opportunity after opportunity to begin again. Advent is one of them, and perhaps my favorite. Literally meaning “arrival,” Advent offers four weeks to contemplate Christ’s coming-- in that first Christmas over 2000 years ago, in final redemption at some unknown time, and perpetually in our own lives and times. I love the invitation to get back in touch with our longing, God’s longing in us and for us, for this world that God so loves. I appreciate the challenges to wake up, stay vigilant, turn back to God, and to prepare the way for God’s coming. I even love that for us in the northern hemisphere, it corresponds with days of growing darkness, a dramatic backdrop for the coming of light.

So ready or not, Advent comes. I pull the Advent meditations off the shelf, the wreath and half-burnt candles out of the attic. We light candles, say prayers. Something in me knows and remembers that as dark as it gets, the darkness cannot ultimately overcome the light. I sense the light deep within me, deep within you, deep within the holy heart of all things. And I pray again with Mary, “Let it be with me according to your word,” not according to the world’s tired script, or even my own best-laid plans.

Come Lord Jesus.

Grace and Peace be with you,

Kimberly

In the Wake of the 2020 Election

After another tumultuous election season, and torturous election week, we have elected Joe Biden and Kamala Harris as our next President and Vice President of the United States.  Saturday felt like one of those days that will be emblazoned in my memory because of its historical import.  I will remember that I was just sitting down to breakfast with my family when friends texted the news, with images of Joe Biden on huge TV screens.   I will remember watching Van Jones break down on the CNN news desk, channeling what so many of us were feeling in that moment, the relief and joy, the ability to breathe again, to say to our children that truth and decency and character matter, that everyone belongs in our America.  I remember hearing cars honking, going out into the streets to join friends and neighbors in celebratory toasts.  I remember loading up as a family to go share the excitement with dear friends.

Perhaps the image that will stick with me the longest is from Saturday night.  Most of our neighbors - gay and straight, black and white, were all gathered together in one backyard.  Our kids ran around together, screaming with glee as we shot off fireworks.  And then we turned our attention to the TV screen as Kamala Harris and Joe Biden took the stage.  After complaining all day that he would have to watch the speeches instead of a movie, Theo was sitting inches from the screen, quiet as a mouse, taking it all in.  And across from him, sat our neighbors’ beautiful daughter, watching someone who looks just like her say, “What a testament it is to Joe’s character that he had the audacity to break one of the most substantial barriers that exists in our country and select a woman as his vice president.  But while I may be the first woman in this office, I won’t be the last.  Because every little girl watching tonight sees that this is a country of possibilities.  And to the children of our country, regardless of your gender, our country has sent you a clear message:  Dream with ambition, lead with conviction, and see yourself in a way that others might not see you, simply because they’ve never seen it before.”  Theo looked across at Maya looking at Kamala and I felt hope rise again.

I realized it was the first time in four years I’ve sat with Theo to watch our President-elect or President.  To trust that he would not be assaulted or confused by the words coming out of our President’s mouth.  I felt such an immense relief, and joy, and restored hope for the kind of America I want for our sons and our neighbors’ daughters, one that values all of us, where we all have an opportunity to flourish.

After feeling so much bewilderment, heartbreak, rage, and fear over the last four years, it felt to me and many in my circles like a liberation, like a huge weight lifting, a dark cloud passing, a new page being turned in American history.  And we gave ourselves over to the joy and celebration.

But we know, of course we know, that so many Americans are not feeling the same way, not seeing this election in the same light.  Every joyous occasion and conversation I’ve engaged has been tempered by the awareness that we are as divided as ever, by fear of the tinderbox of explosive hostilities that have been building for years, by the pain of those divisions in our own families, faith communities and nations.  There are layers upon layers of hurt on all sides.  I know that many of you dear readers, may be feeling the polar opposite of the joy and relief I have just described.

I couldn’t help but think of the anguish I felt four years ago.  I re-read the post I first wrote then to get a sense of where I was.  I was in so much pain.  I didn’t want to get out of bed.  I cried in public.  I had trouble focusing.  I raged about the foreign interference, the lies, the voter suppression, the electoral college vs popular vote.  I desperately hoped and prayed there was some glitch to change the results.  I was so scared that our democracy would fall apart, be the end of us all.  It took me weeks and months to work through my raw grief . . the shock, anger, denial, and bargaining, before I came to accept Trump had won the election, as much as I hated that reality.

I remember a whole range of things people said to me:  

            Now you know how we felt when Obama was elected.

            No matter who is President, Christ is still King.

            Suck it, you libtard!

            “Let everyone be subject to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established.” Romans 13:1

            Poor little snowflake, needing “safe space” to cry.

True or not, well-intentioned or not, most just felt like salt in the wound.  Like a complete failure of empathy, to honor another human being in her pain.

I hope those of who are celebrating can do better by those who are now struggling.   I am under no pretense that acceptance of the results or healing of the pain will come quickly or easily. I imagine what hurting folks need right now more than anything is time and space to work through all those stages of grief to come to a place of acceptance.

I’ll admit, it’s hard to know what to say.  But I'll start with what I would have liked to have heard: I see you. I hear you. I'm sorry you're hurting. I hope you have safe places, and comforting shoulders for your pain.  I don’t believe you have to suck it up, put on face, say God is in control.  But I do believe God is so close when we’re in pain, holding us and healing us in our disappointment and grief.  So I pray that you may feel that in your bones in these difficult days.   Be excessively gentle with yourself.

I continue to hope, as I have hoped for the past four years, that we will find a way beyond our painful differences and separations.  I am grateful that our President-elect, Joe Biden, is a man well-acquainted with loss and grief, a public servant with a history of reaching across divides, a leader who has turned his pain into purpose, a person of faith who believes in healing and redemption for our dear nation.  I am grateful that in his tone and rhetoric, he is signaling that he wants to at least try to bring more unity and empathy.

I pray in time, whether we have to work through our grief, our hostility, our resentment, our fear, whatever, we may follow his lead.  May we listen to the pain and the fear underneath all the aggression on all sides.  May we extend mercy and grace, whenever and however we can.

God heal us.  Bring us through.   

Grace and Peace be with you,

Kimberly

The Agonizing Wait

I don't know about you, but in this last week before the election, I'm on pins and needles.  Holding both hope and terror for what next Tuesday will bring.  I can hardly think beyond it, make any plans for myself or family, my work or the holidays, not knowing what state I, those I love, and our country will be in.  Will we be elated and relieved?  Or will be devastated, wondering how or if we can endure another term?  We’ve been wrestling with weighty questions for four years:  Are we really this kind of America?  Will we have a future as a democracy, as a planet?  If so, what kind of nation and world do we want for ourselves, our children, and future generations? Waiting, wondering, worrying about the answer that will come on November 3 (or hopefully, soon thereafter.)

I feel like I'm on hold, waiting for test results to reveal the health of our democracy.  How sick are we?  What are our treatment options and timelines?  It’s agonizing.

If that sounds too dramatic to you, I’m sorry.  It’s how I and most of the people I engage on a regular basis feel about things.  To quote one of the campaigns (and a favorite podcast), we feel like we’re in a battle for the soul of our nation.  This is not just a regular old left versus right, Democrats versus Republicans election for us.  We feel like our friends’ and neighbors’ lives, our democracy, our integrity as a nation, and our planet are on the ballot.  And if you don’t feel that way, we want to save things for you too, though we may have some lingering resentment to work through when all is said and done.

As we near another presidential Election Day, I know many of us are replaying the trauma from four years ago.  I remember joining other women in pantsuits that morning to knock on doors and get out the vote.  I led our worship circle that evening, then left with a dear friend to go to an election night party to celebrate our first female President.  Within thirty minutes, we couldn't stomach what we were seeing on the Jumbotron screen and headed our separate ways to nurse our pain in private.  I remember being racked with uncontrollable sobbing, holding Michael in the dark, worrying about what kind of nation our then two-and-a-half-year-old would inherit.  It was such a traumatic night, ushering in four years of heartbreak, outrage and bewilderment.   What’s become of us?  How can anyone tolerate, much less celebrate this woefully unfit and immoral President and the things that have happened on his watch? 

I hope and pray with every fiber of my being that we will choose another course come Tuesday.  That we will come together, putting country over party, to choose a President who is fundamentally decent and kind, empathetic and trustworthy, who has been a faithful public servant his entire life, overcoming unimaginable tragedy to channel grief into higher purpose, who still believes in the goodness and potential of America and wants to help us heal and move forward into our best years yet.  (Just watch and listen to him here; what a stark contrast.)

I am hoping, praying and working for that outcome, while trying to also prepare myself for the other.  In my most anxious moments, I offer my fear to God.  I’ve tried, aided by an image of Anne Lamott, to unwrap my tentacles and stop squirting squiddy ink all over everything, to put this election in my “God box” literally and figuratively. (From Help, Thanks, Wow:  The Three Essential Prayers)  I do ultimately and fervently believe in the God that holds us through it all, that keeps showing up and healing and redeeming things, even when we insist on a path of self-destruction.  Whatever comes, I know I will have friends and communities with whom I can lament and rage, that will show up in fierce love to comfort and support one another.  I know we will continue to pray and labor for the kind of world we believe God wants, where everyone is seen as a beloved child of God, where we work together for justice and peace, and the joy of sharing in God’s abundance. 

In this agonizing waiting period, I join with you and others in prayer.  I remember the words of Frederick Douglass:  “I prayed for freedom for twenty years, but received no answer, until I prayed with my legs.”  I’m praying with my words and my silence, my legs and my vote.  I’m praying with Stephen Mitchell’s beautiful translation of Psalm 15.

Lord, who can be trusted with power,
     and who may act in your place?
Those with a passion for justice,
     who speak the truth from their hearts;
     who have let go of selfish interests
          and grown beyond their own lives;
     who see the wretched as their family
          and the poor as their flesh and blood.
They alone are impartial
     and worthy of the people's trust.
Their compassion lights up the whole earth,
     and their kindness endures forever.

The Psalms, translations by Stephen Mitchell 

Grace and peace be with you as we pray and wait,

Kimberly

Why as a Christian I'm Voting Blue

Dear Fellow Citizen,

It will come as no surprise that I am a proud Democrat, and eagerly voting for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris. But in this divisive age where we so easily write off or mischaracterize people with different views and voting records, I think it is important to say why I am voting the way I am. I think if we could tell and listen to stories, sharing the personal beliefs and experiences that have led us to our political preferences, it would go a long way to healing some of our divides. What if we started by trying to understand where others are coming from, without feeling the need to argue or try to change them? It feels like there are so few spaces where we can do that, but I am hungry for that exchange.

So this is part of my story and perspective. I would welcome the same from you, in whatever form or space. If you've come this far, I appreciate your willingness to read, whether you think or vote the same way or not. I know and love that I have a diverse extended community that reads some of my ponderings.

I grew up thinking that being Christian and voting Republican went hand-in-hand. There was much about the Republican party platform at the time, like fiscal responsibility, and "family values" that appealed to me. As a youth I was also encouraged to ask questions about my faith, to think critically about why I believe what I do, and how I live that out. I came to see that being Christian wasn't just about me and my personal salvation project, but about coming to know the love and mercy of God that embraces me and the whole world (God so loved the world, not just Christians or Americans). I saw that the call to love my neighbor meant orienting my life toward others and trying to help build the Beloved Community, rather than what was best for me and mine alone.

I began to see my vote, and the larger call of citizenship, as an important way to love my neighbor. And God kept stretching my own definition to include more neighbors . . . LGBTQ family and friends, people of other faith traditions and none at all, immigrants working among us and showing up at our border, people of color still experiencing racial oppression and violence, people with disabilities, women on the margins who feel damned if they do, damned if they do not have the baby, and the planet itself. I'll confess, I continue to find it way easier to love Jesus, than to love all of his friends. Lord, have mercy.

I don't believe I can love my neighbor and vote against their wholeness and thriving. So I vote for candidates and policies that come closest to a Christian ethic of caring for all, and particularly those most neglected and despised. No party or person or platform is perfect, or in complete alignment with my beliefs and values, but I am not looking for perfect. I am hoping we as a people, as a democracy, guided by our elected leaders will do more good, and less harm, to help every American thrive. Even with all that currently ails us, I still really believe in the American project of democracy, and how we can all contribute as citizens to make it a more perfect union. I love the Biden campaign slogan, Build Back Better, because it is forward looking, and says our best days are still ahead of us.

As for this particular election . . ..

I am so weary of the divisiveness, incivility, and meanness among us. I think Trump's divisive, cruel, bullying rhetoric has brought out the worst in all of us, preyed on our fears, and made us more hostile to one another, myself included. I want a President who at least tries to bring us together, to call forth what is best in us, who will be a President who cares for all Americans, not just those who support him. Joe Biden is a fundamentally honest, kind, caring human who has devoted his whole life to public service and his family, and I believe he will take care of all Americans with everything he's got. While I can't imagine all the suffering he has personally had to endure in his life, losing his first wife and infant daughter in a fatal car accident in 1972, and then losing his beloved son Beau to brain cancer at just age 46, I think those experiences of extreme pain have shaped his empathetic nature, and how political policies actually impact real, human lives.

I want a President that I can let my two young sons watch on TV and listen to on the radio. I'm tired of having to change the channel or explain how the most powerful leader in the world speaks and acts in ways we find unacceptable. I will be proud to let my boys watch both Joe Biden and Kamala Harris as wonderful (again, not perfect) examples of humanity and moral leadership.

I am voting for Biden and Harris because I believe our nation needs to confront in a more serious way our original sin of slavery and racism, to stand consistently and unequivocally against white supremacy, and to foster conversation and policy changes to root out the racism and prejudice still embedded in our system. I really don't feel like we can move forward into a brighter future for the beautifully diverse nation we are without addressing our past and present failures.

I am voting for Biden and Harris because I want every American to have adequate and affordable healthcare that does not bankrupt them when something devastating happens.

I am voting for Biden and Harris because I want to protect my LGBTQ+ friends and family who have finally been able to marry the loves of their lives and to enjoy all the rights and responsibilities afforded to married couples.

I am voting for Biden and Harris because I believe we are facing an existential environmental crisis, because I trust what the climate scientists have been warning about for decades, that we must make radical changes in our collective lifestyles, so that we, our children and grandchildren continue to have a hospitable place to live, and don't have to face ever-greater natural disasters than we're already experiencing.

I am voting for Biden and Harris because I believe every American who works hard should be able to provide for themselves and their family. The wealth inequality in our country is a moral disgrace, with the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer. I do not believe everyone should have the same, but that everyone should have enough. I do not know how to have honest, searching conversation about this without being unfairly accused of being a socialist. I believe we should have an economy that values people over profit, whatever you call that.

I think being pro-choice OR pro-life is a false dichotomy, one that has been so manipulated and weaponized that it's hurting us all. I passionately support life from womb to tomb, and STILL believe those tender decisions belong between couples and their medical professionals (and God if they're believers). I would desperately like to reduce the number of abortions, but I do not believe making them illegal will achieve that, AND it will do so much more harm to women and families. Like a majority of Americans, whether they identify as pro-life, pro-choice or somewhere in between, I believe abortion must remain legal, while continuing to push for policies that make it less necessary. That is why I as a pro-life, pro-choice Christian support Biden, Harris and Democrats.

I am voting for Biden and Harris because what is happening at our border and in our detention centers (families separated, kids in cages, women sterilized against their will) is morally abhorrent and unacceptable. I want immigration reform and a path to citizenship.

I am voting for Biden and Harris because I believe they will restore America's respect and standing in the world, becoming a leading voice for democratic values again, and honoring our commitments to our allies, while taking a strong stance against foreign enemies and dictators.

I am voting for Biden and Harris because I believe they will surround themselves with thoughtful, highly competent leaders of integrity, and have a more collaborative approach to the very complex task of guiding this great nation. I was so impressed with the diverse field of Democratic candidates for President this year, and would love to see many of them in a Biden-Harris cabinet. I hope together, they can restore relationships between the Administration and our armed forces, our intelligence community, and the Department of Justice. I love that Biden and Harris have such a warm, mutually respectful relationship, while also being able to have rigorous debates on a number of important matters. I believe Presidential decision-making must be made through thoughtful, grueling debate among diverse perspectives, not by unilateral tweet rants.

I am so grateful for the awesome freedoms and opportunities that come from being an American citizen. In gratitude, I want to invest (yes, pay taxes) in a democracy where we can all thrive, not just the people who look and think and believe and work like me. What an awesome vision of what we can be --glorious people of multiple races and ethnicities, faith traditions, and ways of being, learning from and enriching one another, while doing the messy work of trying to figure out the most just and equitable ways to live together and protect this land and democracy we love.

I'm all in for a Biden/Harris administration that leads us closer to that brighter future. 

However your beliefs, values, and experiences have shaped your own perspective and politics, I hope you will exercise your right to vote in a thoughtful and safe manner.  As the late John Lewis said, "The vote is the most powerful, nonviolent tool we have.  We must use it."

Grace and peace to you, 

Kimberly

Of Course

Our family went camping two weekends ago. It was our first go of it as a family of four.  Among other things, I was looking forward to a little respite from the daily onslaught of news which has been so intense in recent weeks. We were so deep in the woods we actually didn't get good cell coverage, aiding us in our desire to disconnect, to avoid the temptation to "just check one thing."  Then, on a pre-dawn drive with Luca, who was delighted to wake up next to me at 6:15, when I stopped to buy the things I'd remembered forgetting in the middle of the night (not our best night's sleep, you may be gathering), I looked down and saw the headline in the local mountain paper that RBG had died.  My heavy heart sank lower.

We returned to Atlanta and I returned to work and caring for our family and catching up on what we'd missed. There was more hard news to come. Another grim milestone of 200,000 deaths in the pandemic. Another "not guilty" verdict in the case of a woman shot to death while sleeping in her own bed. Confessions that Trump will not peacefully transfer power if he loses. The Senate has the votes and will rush to confirm another justice.  

It feels like too much.  Heartbreak upon heartbreak.  Outrage upon outrage.  One bitter, divisive battle after another. When will it end?  How long, O Lord?  I am under no pretense that the weight will magically lift on November 4 if things go the way I hope (though it will certainly help!) No matter who wins, we will still be in a pandemic, still be bitterly divided, still have such gaping racial wounds and inequities, still be a nation struggling to find a way forward together.

By mid-week, I was utterly exhausted and depleted. Some days, I still just can't believe we're here. I remember visiting other countries in college and learning about the corruption, authoritarian rule and bitter divides, and naively thinking, Thank God, this will never happen in the United States. So much for American exceptionalism; it was always an idol anyway.

Let me be clear. I believe God will ultimately redeem all people, all nations, all things. I believe God is working at all times, even now, to heal and redeem, to bring new life out of chaos and destruction. I believe in Jesus, that following his way of self-giving, nonviolent love is the way to Life.

But I also believe God leaves us totally free to make our own choices, and that we can and often do wreak absolute havoc, hurting ourselves, wounding others, causing massive unnecessary suffering, and even threatening life on the planet itself. I still remember Archbishop Desmond Tutu saying repeatedly in class that God has such a profound respect for human free will, God would rather us go freely to hell (though he also believed that even then, ultimately the grace of God would prevail), than force us into heaven, believing those categories to be present in the here and now, and not just in some distance hereafter. I remember that even God's beloved Jesus was not spared the vulgarities of humanity, as he was declared an enemy of both religion and state, and strung up by an angry mob to die a shameful, torturous death.

Whatever comes, I believe God will be with us, that all shall be well in an ultimate sense, as Julian of Norwich reminds us. But that does not mean that I am not deeply troubled, or even scared about what we humans might do to one another or the Earth in the meantime. There is so much suffering and hardship that is utterly beyond our control. But I believe we should do everything in our power to prevent what we can. In fact, I believe we are called to join God in the repair of the world, in moving us toward the Beloved Community here on Earth, not just in some by and by.

So when others chide, "Do not be afraid. God is in control. God is King of kings," I try to trust they mean it as a word of comfort. But it feels dismissive and shaming, rather than acknowledging it's quite human and natural to be pained and scared in a time like this. More than that, it feels like spiritual bypassing, an avoidance or denial of the real pain and loss of being human, of the terrible injustice and suffering among great swaths of humanity. And what is the cross if not a symbol of God entering into the heart of our suffering, rather than trying to escape it?

Last week, when I was feeling so much heaviness and despair, I heard the two divine words that have saved me time and time again:   Of course. Of course, you're feeling tired and depleted; you've been living through a global pandemic for six months and many of your sources of inspiration and nourishment are not available to you in the same way. Not to mention, that camping trip, as fun and lovely as it was in other ways, wasn't exactly restful. Of course, you're grieving; like John Lewis, another beloved mentoring figure, an exemplar of the long nonviolent struggle for freedom and justice, one who had made the way for you as a woman, has crossed over. Of course, you're enraged; the lying and deception, the brutality and injustice, the greed and corruption are as out-of-control as the wildfires in the West.

Sometimes, we just need permission to really feel what we feel. To be fully human. To let our hearts ache and break. To fall apart, unravel. Without adding guilt or shame to the hurtful mix. Without comparing ourselves to others who seem to be "more together" or reciprocally to those who "have it so much worse." Without chiding ourselves to buck up or hold it together. Good gracious, we can be so very hard on ourselves, especially when we are in pain!

But I hope we can listen for another voice. The still, small voice. The one that says, I know, my love. Of course, you're hurting. Me too. I've given you a heart of flesh, not stone. You are not alone. I am right here with you. You can scream and rage, you can cry, you can completely fall apart. And I'll still be right here, loving you.

So that's what I did. I let myself feel lost and off for days. I listened to and watched RBG's funeral, YouTube tributes, and the movie, On the Basis of Sex, and let myself cry and cry some more. I raged to Michael and posted some angry rants on Facebook. I expressed my fear to a beloved friend. Also, I ate chocolate. I listened to Brene Brown. I went to bed earlier. I laughed at Schitts Creek. I delighted in the pitter patter of little feet, the smothering hugs of ramped up boys.

I waited patiently for the Beloved,

            who heard my cry and came to me.

Love raised me from the pits of despair,

            out of confusion and fear

            and set my feet upon a rock,

                        making my steps secure.

~Psalm 40:1-2

This morning, after another restless night's sleep, I appeared at the bottom of the stairs, glasses on, Covid-hair disheveled, half in a ponytail, cinching my threadbare gray robe around the waist. Theo cheerfully met me, gave me a huge morning hug, drew back, looked me in the eyes, and said, "Mommy, I like you best like this." I stepped over the baby gate onto the most solid ground I've felt for weeks.

Don't feel like you have to get your act together to come to God. Whether you're in a desolate pit, a raging fire, a miry bog, or a cold, gray cell, I hope you can open to the God who comes to you. Listen for the voice, saying, I know. Of course, you are. I'm right here. And I love you. Just like this.

Grace and peace to you, 

Kimberly

What We Do with Our Fear

We were on our way to North Georgia for a Sunday hike. Both boys were safely strapped into their car seats, each happily watching his own screen. This gave Michael and me a rare and luxurious hour of uninterrupted time to catch up with one another, conversational space that has been hard to come by these last six months. Grateful to get away from the city, in our own little minivan of familial connection, I could literally feel some of the stress melt into the seat.

We stopped at a light on Highway 23 and became aware of people honking at us. An SUV passed us, every passenger side-eying us. In the rear-view mirror, Michael saw a woman hanging out of the SUV behind us screaming at us. And sure enough when we pulled into a turning lane, allowing them to pass, she yelled as many obscenities in our direction as she could bark out at 65 MPH.

Weeks earlier, inspired by another vehicle in our neighborhood, Theo and I had decorated our van with window paint. The back window said, "Biden-Harris, for the soul of America." Borrowing from signs we've seen and discussed in our neighborhood, Theo had painted "BLM" on one side window, "No Justis No Pes" on another, "ByeDon" on a third. We had fun doing it, and it led to some meaningful conversation about why we have to say Black Lives Matter, what are justice and peace, and why we believe Biden and Harris will help heal the heart and soul of our democracy.

We turned away from the angry motorists, but Michael and I were both genuinely rattled. I felt my heart racing, scared for our physical safety in a visceral way. After all, we were driving into a county where one candidate has an assault rifle on his campaign signs. There are multiple gun shops and billboards promoting them along our route. I kept checking our rear-view mirrors to see if anyone was getting close again. I thought of the protesters shot by a civilian in Kenosha, the mean, vitriolic text messages and memes I had received while recently text banking.

We looked at our boys obliviously watching Thomas the Train, and thought, we cannot risk this. We cannot afford to have our van vandalized, or worse, to have some angry, gun-toting extremist shooting at us. So we pulled into the safest looking gas station. Michael went it to make a purchase while I carefully wiped off every single window (except the sun roof; Theo wanted to make sure there was a message overhead that planes could see.) I was flooded with conflicting emotions - shame, fear, relief, rage, guilt. All I kept thinking was, This is white privilege, right here. I feel just an inkling of a threat and I can pull over and wipe off the paint to protect myself, my children, and my property. How in the world do people live with this level of fear every day of their life when they cannot wipe off their black skin? When they refuse to take off their hijab. When they hold tightly to the hand of the one they love. When they do not have the right papers. If I am so sick and tired of living in this kind of America, I can only imagine how millions of others feel.

We are all scared. I try to remember that about the people brandishing weapons at peaceful protesters or leaning out their SUV window screaming obscenities. I just wish our fear led us to feel some solidarity with and compassion for one another, instead of such hate and vitriol.   We all want life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, to protect our own lives, our children, our property. Do we not see that the fear driving some of us to buy more ammo is the same fear driving millions of people into the streets to protest? We all just want to live in peace.

While we may all feel fear, I do not believe we are all truly threatened (despite political adds designed to make you very afraid). Not in the same way. I am keenly aware that the fear I felt that afternoon is not my waking reality. I do not walk or drive around feeling that my life is in danger because of my skin color, immigration status, religious affiliation, sexual orientation or gender identity. I could basically get rid of the threat with the wipe of a damp cloth, leaving me both relieved and burdened.

My white privilege and complicity continue to weigh heavy on me. I pray for more courage and clarity to stand up against the real threats, and to call out the manufactured ones. I lament the fear that has us up in arms, literally and figuratively, and pray for the grace and understanding that finally disarms us all. I long for a time when God will "judge between the nations and will settle disputes for many peoples. They will beat their swords into plowshares (guns into gardening tools, in contemporary language and practice) and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore." (Isaiah 2:4)

Grace and peace to you and to all who fear,

Kimberly

Breathe and Push

I hit another wall. It had all gotten to be too much. Again. The family schedule gymnastics to keep one child learning virtually, while caring for a high energy toddler while both trying to work. The news of another black man shot in the back, followed by violent unrest. The political conventions offering mind-boggingly sharp contrasts of what we see as our crises, and who is best prepared to address them. After feeling some relief at finding our way into this new weird school year, and hope about how we as a nation might move forward, I tanked.

The first sign of deterioration was that I was no longer present to myself or my loves. Rather, I was glued to my iPhone or laptop or both, reading articles, watching convention speeches and analysis, checking Facebook, going down rabbit hole after rabbit hole. I'd take a break to help Theo with an assignment or play a game with Luca, and then go right back to it.

I found myself feverishly posting on Facebook, and getting into no-win exchanges. I know good and well these online exchanges don't tend to lead to more understanding or connection, actually quite the opposite. But I wanted a place to put my rage, my grief, my fear, my longing for something more, something different than all this. And I do find some sense of solidarity with other kindred spirits. But the volume can just be too much.

Coming into the weekend, I knew I needed a huge reset. In my hallowed Saturday morning reflection time, I could finally let myself really feel all that I was trying to hold and process, discern what I needed both out of the weekend and out of the weeks and months ahead.  

I took several helpful steps:

• I did some Facebook hygiene, making sure I can see the posts of close friends and family, and quieting the voices of more distant relationships, especially those that tend to trigger me with disinformation and mean-spirited memes and such. As a friend wisely reminded me, we get to choose what we eat, and I do not have to consume toxic, crazy-making junk food.

• I revisited my daily and weekly rhythms, designating specific times and ways to take in the news and be on Facebook, and making them off limits at other times. I set limits on my phone

• I also rediscovered some "Political Discourse Guidelines" I had co-created in a Faith and Politics dinner last Summer. They included things like: "Be proactive, rather than reactive," and "Don't engage when there's no opening to genuine dialogue."

I started doing more healing things Saturday, laying off the distraction devices, spending more time with my boys and reading a soul-nourishing book. And then Sunday, after my Sunday school class, I felt a clear invitation to renew my Sabbath practice, to honor Sunday as a day of rest. So again, I set some very clear boundaries: No news, no Facebook, no political conversation or activity, no work, no shopping. The more difficult part for me was then giving permission to let myself truly rest and engage more life-giving activities.  

Thankfully, I remembered (Thank you Holy Friend!) I had signed up for an online spiritual retreat on Wise Hope, and it just so happened that during Luca's nap, I got to sit in on a conversation between two of my favorite wise women, Anne Lamott and Valerie Kaur. Nourishing and inspiring, their words and loving presence lifted my spirit and filled my soul's cup. It was just what I needed. I came into this week with renewed hope and energy.

I am afraid that the intensity is only going to ramp up between now and November. This is no typical election. We are simultaneously experiencing multiple serious crises. The contrast between Presidential candidates cannot be more stark. There is so much fear and anxiety. So much grief and rage. So much hatred and violence. Even with the best of intentions and spiritual practices, it can be exceedingly difficult to stay open and engaged, to keep speaking and acting in the way of truth, love and nonviolence. I know I may cycle through this same pattern of overwhelm and exhaustion, then regrounding and refocusing.

One of my favorite spiritual metaphors has always been childbirth. Long before I experienced it myself as a mother, I loved the idea of something so painful and messy bringing something new to bear. Every Advent becomes an opportunity to reflect on what God is trying to birth into the world in and through us.

But the metaphor took on a whole new life for me when I encountered this prayer from activist and faith leader Valerie Kaur. In a prayer she wrote shortly after the 2016 election, then passionately delivered in a watch night service that year, she wondered aloud: "What if this darkness is not the darkness of the tomb, but the darkness of the womb? What if our America is not dead but a country still waiting to be born? What if the story of America is one long labor?"

She then reminds us of the wise words of the midwife or doula. "Breathe. Then, Push." You cannot do one without the other.

As the contractions of this election season bear down upon us, growing closer and closer together, feeling at times like they may rip our body politic apart, may we hold to the faith that our Creator is trying to birth something new among us. May we discern what is ours to do to in the Push for a more perfect union. And may we not forget to Breathe.

Breathing and pushing with you,  

Kimberly