Monday, April 1, 2019

Against the Grain

When I got the email, it felt like a slap in the face. A cold, disembodied feeling stole over me. All I could say was, “Oh.” 

My husband and I had recently been embroiled in a debate with our church over the role of women in leadership. With his full support and blessing, I penned an impassioned letter to our elder board after a beautiful unity service in partnership with a local black church asking the board to reconsider our church’s position on women in leadership. Unfortunately, the debate over women in leadership quickly devolved from the roleof women into the valueof women. Thus, began our journey into the choppy waters of advocacy where we got a front row seat to all the bad stereotypes of “Christian culture.” I was condescended to, deeply disrespected, and eventually silenced. The elders kicked me off the committee they previously said “God had appointed me to” several months prior. In a way I found strangely emasculating, my husband was completely ignored. 

Conversation about culture is not emotionally neutral in our day and time. When folks talk about culture, it has become a rather subjective topic. I live in a small southern town with an extraordinarily high church-to-household ratio. There is a widely held assumption that you not only attend church, you attend a certain kind of church. This attendance magically translates into voting a certain kind of way and for a certain brand of people. In every sense of the word, my hometown culture is very specifically a “Christian culture.”

In the last two years, however, our (now former) church has not looked much different than many other non-Christian institutions: a pastor caught in an affair with a subordinate, an elder board at odds with each other and scrambling to protect their power and influence, a staff battling the pull of income over mission, people forced out of the church when they raised concerns. The last two years of the church read like any second page news story about any corporation. This church body wasn’t living counter culturally. Sadly, it was living out a cliché. 

In the last two years I have been reading widely about the intersection of culture and the Christian faith. Even though the often-quoted statistics of church hemorrhaging don’t seemto apply to my small town, they still do.  In his book Irresistible, pastor Andy Stanley talks about living in a post-Christian culture. He quotes National Review editor John O’Sullivan’s definition of post-Christian culture as “a society rooted in the history, culture, and practices of Christianity but in which the religious beliefs of Christianity have been either rejected or, worse, forgotten.”  Stanley goes on to say that “in a post-Christian society, the majority have been exposed to Christianity (in our case, for generations) but are opting out for a different worldview—a different narrative through which to make sense of the world.” 

It is interesting that the Old Testament patriarchs leaned on just that—patriarchy. And slavery. And owning their women and children. They leaned on hierarchy and power attributing all they sought to following a God of the same nature. But when Jesus came on the scene, he was the very epitome of counter-culture. He espoused love over dominance, equality over hierarchy, service over power, assembly over nation states. Jesus challenged the establishment and its leaders, openly invited women to learn at his feet, went to the margins and dregs to heal and help, and admonished his followers to be like children. Jesus was completely counter-cultural. The problem was he was countering not just the Greco-Roman house-holding culture of the time, but he was also countering the thousand-year-old Judaic culture. He was countering his own religious culture. 

Photo by Christopher Jolly on Unsplash

During our rough introduction into advocacy, a fellow congregant got my attention when she started to describe her work in a local ministry supported by, but not affiliated with, our church. The I58 Mission operates in our little community to meet the physical needs of its clients. They have a food pantry and do other things like connect people who need dryers with people who are getting rid of dryers. In their retirement my friend and her husband have found purpose and family in their work through that ministry. They feel fed and filled while pouring out from a place of fullness and love. As I listened to her talk, her community at I58 sounded a lot like church. Or church as it should be. It made me think about the struggles of our particular church and of The Church. 

While The Church has shown a steady decline over the last 50 years with millennials walking away from faith in droves, we see no shortage of cultural movements, post-Christian cultural movements, toward equality: Black Lives Matter, #MeToo, the migrant crisis, and even the abuse scandals in the Catholic and Southern Baptist churches. While these movements share the space of being highly controversial and conversations about these movements should be thorough and nuanced, it’s hard to argue they reflect a lot more of what Jesus taught than what we see coming from some of our churches. Jesus didn’t spend his time worrying about empire, Rome’s, Jerusalem’s, or otherwise. Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s and give to God what is God’s. Jesus talked about loving our neighbor, giving to the poor, taking care of the disenfranchised. He was much more concerned about God’s Kingdom than he was about building a nation state for Jerusalem. 

Last year, before our turmoil with the church, I read a remarkable book called The Ministry of Ordinary Placesby Shannan Martin. In the introduction she writes, “As Christ-followers, we are called to be long-haul neighbors committed to authenticity and willing to take some risks. Our vocation is to invest deeply in the lives of those around us, devoted to one another, physically close to each other as we breath the same air and walk the same blocks. Our purpose is not so mysterious after all. We get to love and be deeply loved right where we are planted, by whomever happens to be near; we’ll find our very lives in this calling, to be among people as Jesus was, and it will change everything.” 

In this season of somewhat failed advocacy, all of God’s people in my house have said, “I’m tired.” We are taking a sabbatical, not from Jesus, but from The Church. A sabbatical from the church building, the cultural institution of it. Over the last two years, the folks who were the hands and feet of Christ to us did not worship under that roof. Some have a church home under more than one roof. One friend freely visits and worships with friends and loved ones in other denominations though she loves her tiny corner of Christendom. And some, like my friend who has found a faith community in I58, have no roof at all. I am certain we will return to a church building and a culturally traditional church body because we believe in the body of Christ. In the meantime, we coach soccer, we take meals, we sit with and pray for loved ones suffering through divorce, we help friends prepare for a move. We teach our kids more than the details of the Bible stories. We teach them the truth beyond the story and challenge them to apply that truth to their everyday lives, hoping to help them develop a faith that will stand up to the rigors of real life. 

This feels countercultural. Because I live in a hyper-evangelical conservative culture with strict rules about what a Christian should look like. But Jesus didn’t have a lot of rules. The Pharisees did, but not Jesus. Jesus said, “by this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” Turns out, “one another” is bigger than the church, The Church, or even all Christians. Life is vocational ministry, and our mission field is not limited by those traditional places and addresses. “One another” is everyone. 

This piece also appears in April's Redbud PostClick through for more on the topic of counter-cultural living. 

Thursday, January 24, 2019

Taken For a Ride

When I woke up that morning I felt better than I had in several days. A cloud of fatigue and deep body tired finally lifting. Life had been heavy these last few weeks. Little did I know of the great disruption lurking for me at the most unlikely place. 

She was there as I walked into my grocery's Starbucks. Me texting away on my phone, capturing a pithy thought to share with my sister in law who had just joined me for yoga. The mantra in yoga being one of listening to and trusting your gut. I didn't see her at first, so focused on my correspondence.  I looked up from my phone and there she was, eyes darting, downcast and afraid to meet my own, but walking right at me. I knew what was coming and mentally went over the contents of my purse. No cash. I braced myself.

"Ma'am, will you give me a ride?" 

Her voice was quiet, childlike. Her request knocked me sideways. 

"What?" I said. Then recovered. "Where do you need to go?" 

"5 Below?" She said it like a question, then repeated herself in a whisper. "5 Below." 

In one of those weird moments where an hours worth of thoughts fly through your head instantly, I calculated the time in the car and back, analyzed the risk to my safety, and picked up and discarded one hundred more questions. The woman was dressed in canvas shoes, no socks. I took in her thin cotton pants and baggy short sleeve shirt. It was 40" outside and the temperature was dropping. Her skin was red and chapped from exposure. 

"Sure." I said. "Let's go" I held out my hand and said "My name is Lauren." She took three of my fingers in a pressure-less grip and answered, "I am Sh...Ashely."

We got in my car still warm from the drive. I shrugged off my coat and put it over her lap. She just sat there. Murmured thank you. She still had goose bumps all over her bare arms. I cranked up the heat. 

As I drove her to the 5 Below in my town, I asked her a few questions: Where did she live? Did she live outdoors? Was she safe? Did she need help? Her mumbled responses were hard to follow. 

I offered help. Gave her my number and the numbers of two places in our affluent community that could help her come off the street. I told her she was loved, that there was help, that she wasn't alone. She sat in my passenger seat, her hair matted, grasping at fingers that were cracked and yellow, saying very little. What little she did say was barely comprehensible. We got to 5 Below, and I offered to buy her something to eat. In the line to buy her some coffee she told me she needed to go to the next town over, another 10 miles down the road...

When I asked about having children she gave a little laugh. It was twitchy, unhinged. She wouldn’t look at me, much less meet my eyes. I asked her if that was funny. Her response was the twitchy chuckle but no words. 

In that thirty minute drive I tried more questions. I found out she was from Tennessee. She walked to Georgia. She had a grandmother who was dead. It would be too much trouble to call someone. She lived in a camp. She was meeting Mike at 5 Below and oh yes, Mike was very nice. She gave the twitchy laugh, flashing teeth grey with rot. I saw her wipe her eyes.  

Looking at her I realized with a sinking heart that sometimes we cannot let go of the thing that’s killing us. It may be the darkest part of the human condition to be unable to distance ourselves from our greatest corruptor. 

When she got out of the car I told her to take the coat. Now, lest someone try to deify me as an angel or label me an attention grabbing humble bragger, I have three more coats at home. This was a coat I bought on clearance for a very specific purpose. Yes, I didn’t have to give her my coat, but I can go into any store I want and buy a coat. Most people I know can. It was literally the very least I could do for her. And there was absolutely no satisfaction in it. 

I watched her for a few minutes as she walked to the sidewalk and rearrange herself. She shrugged into my coat, pulled the hood up and walked away. The only thing I felt was sad. 

I knew "Ashley" for 30 minutes and she left me with hard questions. What do we do in the face of such disparity? How do we as a people, as a culture, as a first world country address the triple threat that is mental illness, drug addiction and homelessness? How do we help others who do not want to be helped? Tonight it would be 35'. Ashley would sleep in a camp. Dirty. With Mike. Because that is what she chose. 

I wrapped my sweater around me and drove away. 

Tuesday, January 15, 2019

Books Read - 2018

Here is a quick list of books I read last year. Honestly I had no intention of reading so much, but the number 1 rule of writing is to read.

Reading saved my life this year. Reading great writing, and some not so great writing, made me a better writer. Reading saved my faith; I am not alone in my spiritual journey, and this journey is filled with more beauty and mystery than one life can comfortably hold. Reading drew me closer to my fellow humans.

The first book I read was one of the best books I have ever read and will be a reread for 2019. The last book was the most instructional. I only abandoned one book this year, though I wanted to abandon at least one more.

All The Crooked Saints - Maggie Stiefvater
The Bridge - Jill Cox
The Road Back To You - Cron & Stabile
Commonwealth - Ann Patchett
The Shadow Of What Was Lost - James Islington (693 pgs)
Sleeping Giants - Sylvain Neuval
At Home In The World - Tsh Oxenreider
Lillian Boxfish Takes A Walk - Kathleen Rooney
Lost Women of the Bible - Carolyn Custis James
Before We Were Yours - Lisa Wingate
Age of Swords - Michael J Sullivan
The Sacred Enneagram - Christopher Hueretz
The Raven Boys - Maggie Stiefvater
The Illuminae 1 - Kaufman & Kristoff
Waking Gods - Sylvain Neuvel
Bigfoot CSI - K Osborne Sullivan
A Study In Charlotte - Brittany Cavallaro
A Darker Shade of Magic - V E Schwab
I Thought It Was Just Me - Brene Brown
The Day The Angels Fell - Shawn Smucker
The Dream Thieves - Maggie Stiefvater
The Scorpio Races - Maggie Stiefvater
Blue Lily, Lily Blue - Maggie Stiefvater
The Raven King - Maggie Stiefvater
The Path Between Us - Suzanne Stabile
Cinnamon & Gunpowder - Eli Brown
Winnie the Pooh - A.A. Milne
Gemina - Kaufman & Kristoff
Little Fires Everywhere - Celeste Ng
Small Great Things - Jodi Picoult
Bel Canto - Ann Patchett
Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine - Gail Honeyman
What Happened - Hillary Clinton
Out of Sorts - Sarah Bessey
The Bible Tells Me So - Peter Enns
Bird by Bird - Anne Lamott
The Evolution of Adam - Peter Enns
The Great Emergence - Phyllis Tickle
Crazy Rich Asians - Kevin Kwan
An Echo of Things to Come - James Islington (716 pages)
The Jesus Heist - C. Andrew Doyle
Times Convert - Deborah Harkness
The Long Walk - Jill Cox
The Immortalists - Chloe Benjamin
Girl Wash Your Face - Rachel Hollis
Boundaries - Cloud & Townsend
The Almost Sisters - Joshilyn Jackson
The Ministry of Ordinary Things - Shannan Martin
A Secret History of Witches - Louisa Morgan
Best Sci Fi & Fantasy 2018 - NK Jemison
Books abandoned
The Women In The Castle - Jessica Shattuck (pg 137 of 354...too dark)

Did you read any of these books? If you did, who was your favorite? What are you reading this year? Find me on Goodreads and lets connect!

Monday, October 1, 2018

Using the Side Door

A while ago, my mentor challenged me to think about what might happen after I die. More specifically, what might heaven look like. At middle age, I realized I never felt invited to ponder this mystery before. When I was young, I saw myself as indestructible, protected by the solid shell of my own energy and the strength of naivete. Now I have lived long enough that I have real experience with death, the sadness of loss, the grief of being the one left behind. In the funerals I have attended the message is always the same; the person who has died has gone on to a better place. The implication, for me, has been that death itself is simply a transformation, a doorway to pass through on the way to becoming something new. 

Recently my best friend Beth observed the one-year anniversary of her stepfather Gary’s death. In watching my dear friend and her family walk the treacherous path of grief, I was reminded of my own uneasy relationship with death. Then, on Gary’s birthday Beth’s stepbrother called their mom with the news that he and his wife were pregnant with their first child. One year ago, Gary walked through a doorway from this world into another. In a few short months, another life will walk through that same doorway from that other mysterious world into this one. For a moment, or for eternity, Gary and that baby will hold the same holy space. They will both live on the same side of the threshold and both have crossed the same doorway. I pray the thought will bring Beth and her family comfort. 

I have been to Gary and Carol’s house only a couple of times. Each time I entered like family. Rather than standing at the front door, arranging myself and knocking, I walked in through the side door. Walking into Gary and Carol’s house, not head on like a person selling fancy vacuums or newspaper subscriptions, but from the side door, through the messy, dusty, less image-conscious living areas made me think of approaching the topic of death and dying the same way. For me, it has been too intimidating, too formal, too big to use the front door. It has been more comfortable to come in through the side. 

Western culture is not well versed in dealing with the cycle of life in its entirety. Few places in our culture, inside or outside of the church, welcome or initiate a conversation about death, loss, or the transition from life. As a result, death is fearsome, this force with dark destructive power. Like most topics where there is a lack of information, where there is mystery, there is fear. While death is often only given a cursory glance or ignored all together, culture has done a serviceable job describing life through the lenses of birth and growth. We love a good growth metaphor, like spring time planting and the growing of gardens. But even in these beautiful images, there is a death. The seed dies so the plant can grow upward and outward, stretching its arms toward heaven’s light. 

Seeds are an often-used biblical theme. It is striking how an analogy relevant to agricultural society two thousand years ago is still, remarkably, relevant today. The mustard seed, the tiniest seed, grows into a large tree. Scattered seeds are mixed into the ground in a variety of ways and left to grow. In all the teachings, there is something profound about the seed; all the stories explore a potential for growth. The seed does not avoid growth. It submits to the loss of itself as doorway to greater potential, the fullness of itself. Jesus even used the seed metaphor to predict his own transformation through the process of death when, in John 12, he said, “I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed.”

We are no longer an agricultural society ruled by the movement of sun across the sky and rain across our fields; however, our lives are not so different from a seed’s. We can stay a seed with all our potential stored inside ourselves, dormant and forever waiting, or we can submit to the cracking and breaking of our hard-outer shells. We can let the water and light reach into the deep, dark spaces and change us. We can stretch our own arms towards heaven’s light and let the potential that lives there be transformed and made new. 

As with the seed, something old must yield its space to make room for something new. Moving through my own seasons of growth, I have experienced this profoundly in two ways: pregnancy and marriage. 

Any woman who has ever carried a child has shared this experience: One day she is alone. Then, miraculously, there is another person there sharing space in her body. That symbiotic relationship grows and grows until there is no longer room for both. Mother and child are ready to transition to the next phase.The simple truth is that in order for someone to live, a kind of death must be endured. For a baby to be born, a pregnancy must end. In this transition full of so much gain, there is also a loss. 

Another place I experience this strange dichotomy of gain and loss is in marriage. For spouses to enjoy the rich blessing of a long-term marriage, the new love and all its feelings must fall away in favor of time. That butterfly in the stomach feeling, that anxiety to see if she will text or he will call must slowly be replaced with the surety that the other person is committed to growing through the cyclical seasons of life. Falling in love dies, yielding its space to building a life-long love. Death is a reality we cannot escape. But again, what seems like loss is really a doorway to the greater, richer, fuller life. 

Giving myself to the practice of imagining heaven, what it might be like to no longer be separated from God, from love, by the thin veil of this world, I must confess that I still do not know what heaven might look like. I have some thoughts that are like seeds themselves; undeveloped, small, but rich with potential. Endings always precede beginnings, especially when you have hope in a lives-forever-outside-of-time God. If this is the case, what is death if not a doorway to new life? The more I give myself to holy imagining, to seeing the possibilities of what life after death may bring, the potential of life beyondthis one, the less I am afraid of walking through that door. I can hold my life in the white-knuckle grip of my own fear. Or I can let that fear die and hold my life with open hands and a sense of adventure in all life’s mysterious forms and phases. 

This piece is published in its entirety on the wonderful Redbud Post, a monthly publication of the Redbud Writers Guild. Please follow the jump to see what other writing my fellow Redbuds are sharing...

Friday, August 17, 2018

Am I Alone?

I see myself in this impossibly small boat, pushed far away from shore. Behind me, land is a thin strip, disappeared in haze, a memory. Before me is wide open water, blue and deep and full of mystery.

There are no waves in this part of the ocean. My boat rises and falls on swells of water that started low low low and carry me up, down. Out here, there are no crashing waves. The crashing has already happened. I watched from land for a long time as the waves, violent and strong, broke over the shore.

The waves are homophobia, Black Lives Matter, systemic sexism, racism, white supremacy, rape culture, power structures, patriarchy.

The island was my faith and the waves were these big, hard to ignore inconsistencies crashing hard and persistent against delicate sands, eroding away a shore line, bringing back no deposits from the sea. Because the island was not an island. It was a sandbar. 

The months leading up to the presidential election in 2016 were for me what a drunk calls a "moment of clarity." I hadn't considered myself evangelical or fundamentalist. In my southern tradition, or at least this neck of the woods, I have always been a little bit fringe. I thought I had made my peace with that. I love Jesus. With him there is no bone to pick. I could bear with the body through these waves. Then I watched 78% of the evangelical vote go for the most un-Christlike man and herald him as the savior of "christian ideals."

It was unnerving to watch. And heartbreaking.

I asked God to help me have eyes to see and ears to hear. Eyes to see the world as God does. Ears to hear what God would speak to me. In my experience, this is a dangerous proposition. Proceed with caution.

I began by referencing the Bible, maybe I had missed something. I reread what the Bible said about foreigners, the poor, the downcast of society. It didn't line up with what I saw the Church, supposedly the body of Christ, doing. I broke out of my reading circles and read more broadly. I broke away from all my circles. I listened to podcasts about racism, bigotry, sexism, homophobia. 

I began to see Jesus differently, an advocate for equality. But not just creating equal power structures. More like doing away with the power structure. Subverting the Greco-Roman and tribalistic patriarchy that we are still squirming under.

Now I see it, the insidious power structures that keep certain people, specifically white men, in the highest positions of power. White women may be allowed too, as long as they realize their position of power as a favor from the white men. Our entire culture is built on such power structures. The architecture of our culture, the bones of our society are literally made from this patriarchal hierarchy. The Church has leaned on the clever use of pronouns and a tribalistic or Greco-Roman translation of language to weaponize scripture in order to suppress entire groups of fellow humans. It's gross.

Like anything formed on a bed of brittle materials, the foundation is starting to crumble. This is happening culturally, politically, in the Church and in my faith. And the builders of the city are scrambling trying to shore up the failing foundation. 

This is incredibly painful to see. It calls into question everything I have ever believed.  I am out in a boat in the deep deep waters of faith watching the weather roll in. Hearing I told you so right now would not be helpful. What would be helpful would be to know if there are others like me here in my community. Or am I alone?

Monday, March 5, 2018

Long Days

Nothing reminds you that you are not out slaying dragons more than cleaning toilets.

Or vacuuming. Or folding laundry. Or spending an hour and forty minutes on the phone with Sprint to figure out how to upgrade your cell phone (though they were very nice).

I left a corporate job in December of last year to pursue playing with kids, running super long distances, and writing a trilogy. I was not slaying dragons there either, but like many of my unpaid friends, it is still tempting to introduce myself this way: “Hi, I’m Lauren. I used to work as Project Manager in the Design department at …”

It is as though what I am doing now is not sufficient in and of itself. The truth is what I am doing now is much more satisfying, though doesn’t sound as glamorous.

The year leading up to my “career change” was fraught, filled with so many cultural shocks both inside and outside of the church alongside my own internal battles of calling and faith. It was a year of sharpening clarity where I delved deep into my purpose, my spirituality, and my roles as a woman and a mother.  Just about the time I was ready to burn it all down, I read LongDays of Small Things: Motherhood as a Spiritual Discipline by Catherine McNiel.

In her book, Catherine invites me into a space that is uniquely sacred. And uniquely feminine. In the midst of a cultural backlash against systems of oppression for women, I soak in the gentle, but strong reminder that the feminine is created by God and in God’s image and is therefore God ordained. Catherine unpacks the divine nature of mothering, the spiritual celebration of our flesh. She reminds me that life has never been and will never be sterile or even particularly clean. Not literally or metaphorically. She celebrates the feminine images of God and invites me to connect with them. It is like drinking from an ice cold hose in the middle of a hot, humid summer day. So refreshing.

It is interesting that Catherine crafted her book around spiritual disciplines, a topic I have only ever heard taught by those not actively raising children. She then invites me to see my experience as the expression of all of them. Of the discussions on spiritual disciplines, two hit me most strongly. The first is her discussion on Service.

Ironically, now that I am home, there is this assumption that because I am a mom who works in the home, I can somehow, magically volunteer in a million different ways. Presumably this is because just working as mother (or as a mother with a full-time paying job) is somehow not service. It’s exhausting and guilt tripping and a huge turn off. The truth is my hands are full of service, and my most important constituents are the ones that leave their hand prints all over my walls. If I fail to serve them, then I have failed in service all together. There are plenty of voices in the world telling me I am not enough… I need to do more. Catherine reminds me that God’s voice is not among them. Her book invites me to re-frame my focus on service and rest in the satisfaction of a job well done.

Perseverance is my other favorite discipline. I’m a distance runner, so of course this speaks to me. My thirties have been a decade of seeking emotional health for myself and, in turn, my family. Even so, I am still in process. The process, though beautiful, is often a long slog with a slowly changing landscape. Catherine reminds me that “it is not ease but challenge that shapes our character into strength and beauty” (Long Days, 140). But in life, like in running, slow progress is still progress. Through the practice of perseverance, I have been working on my mind, my soul, and my body. After fifteen years of working in a corporate job, I have finally found my passion and the courage to pursue it. The beautiful gift is that I have begun a new journey. I have a new goal to strive toward.

Now my days are filled with many small, inconsequential things with a long run and a side of writing. The days are sometimes long, but every woman I know has long days of sometimes very small, inconsequential things. Sometimes, when we are lucky, the long days are about much bigger, grander, life shaping things. In those days, the hard work and tedium finally pay off. Until then, Catherine’s Long Days ofSmall Things encourages me to soak in the sacredness of my daily experience. 

Sunday, February 25, 2018

Tired From This Endurance Run

I don’t usually post political commentary, and I have always committed to maintaining a positive presence online. I have been sitting on this post for a week asking myself why I would share my thoughts or what I would want to see come from posting them. I do not want my silence to contribute to propping up oppressive systems or inadvertently supporting ideals that prop up oppressive systems. This post discusses misogyny and the church’s silence in the wake of this oppressive behavior. I would ask that if you choose to read this post and it makes you defensive that you share the post with someone who might see things differently from you, then have a respectful conversation about it.

I’m in training for another marathon and am constantly amazed at what a perfect analogy distance running is for life. Last week during my long run, I took a break from music to listen to a couple of news podcasts. What a week for women:

Rob Porter, White House Staff Secretary, is accused of physically abusing two women. The FBI knew about it. Apparently, a bunch of other people knew about it too. No big deal though. He was up for a promotion.

John Kelly, White House Chief of staff, defended Porter. In the past, White also defended a Marine Colonel in a court martialing for sexual abuse allegations. The Colonel went on to be convicted of sexually molesting three children.

President Trump also defended Porter, thanked him for his service, and wished him a long and prosperous career.

Michel Cohen, President Trump’s longtime lawyer, admits to paying off a porn star so she would not come forward regarding an affair she had with Donald Trump. Affair. Because his wife was at home with their newborn baby.

Recently I read a novel about World War II (one must ask oneself why this time period has become so popular in the last two years) and had to stop at a certain scene. Jewish women and children, young mothers and their babies, were being marched out to the woods and shot in the heads by the men of their village. These were older, middle age men, too old to serve in the Nazi army anymore, but capable of taking out their communal daughters and grandchildren, their neighbor’s daughters and grandchildren, and killing them in cold blood for an ideal centered on nationalism.  It was chilling, and I found myself asking, “how did it get to that?” Fascist dictatorships begin with those in power bending the rules to suit their own purposes. Is that not what we are seeing from the highest positions of power in our nation right this moment?

It made me think of the older men in my life who have voted a man into power who devalues women so much that he would openly disparage them, protect those who harm them, and hide an affair with a woman in a sex trade industry.  The sad, disappointing, heart wrenching part of all this is that these men, my men, don’t acknowledge the wrong done. They do not speak out against it or discredit those who perpetrate crimes against women.

As far as I can tell, neither does the church.

I am no longer surprised by this. The common thread in all of these news headlines, in literature, and in personal experience is that in this administration, in this country, in our churches, there is no more shame. Misogyny is not questioned. Racism is not questioned. Oppression is not questioned. There is no more shock.

This run is long, and it is wearing me out.

I am not alone. People on the margins - women, non-white Americans, the poor, the disabled - are dealing with so much pain and oppression right now. This is not new. What is new is how open and out there and in your face the perpetrators are. The current administration’s MO is to continually denigrate those populations with downgraded, dismissive and openly hostile language. Or, in the case of the Staff Secretary, they simply ignore the sin. Which leads me to ask the same question over and over; where is the church in all this? Where is the righteous indignation of the evangelicals who helped vote this person into office? *

You know who is marching? Women, people of color, the disabled.
You know who is not marching? The white evangelical church.

And why not? Is this an admission of guilt? At the very least it would seem an admission that the white evangelical church has, unwittingly or not, propped up a system that derives power from holding others down under their collective boot. The “others” being those who live on the margins and in the fringes, those who are vulnerable physically, emotionally, or because there are unjust laws in place that keep them vulnerable.

For years, conservatives and evangelicals have been yelling about morality. Leading up to the election I can’t tell you how many times I heard the pseudo aphorism that Trump was going to restore America. He would be God’s deliverance for this country.  Yet now, after so much evidence to the contrary, there is silence.

Is having an extra marital affair with a person indentured to the sex industry moral?
Is defending a man who beat not one, but two or his wives’ moral?
Is building a wall to keep out others from “sh**hole” countries moral?
Is using language like “sh**hole” (or pus*y) moral?
Are these Christ like morals?

Jesus taught us to honor our spouses. He instituted a system of mutual submission and partnership. He elevated the status of the poor and of foreigners. He defended the oppressed, and he challenged the systems of oppression. He taught the church to share their wealth and live within their means. He espoused telling the truth.

These are not fringy, left leaning morality issues. These are basics of faith. These are the basics of many faith backgrounds, and evangelical Christians are not differentiated for espousing them.

In the book of Esther, the Jewish people are about to be annihilated by a political machination. Queen Esther’s uncle calls on her to flex her position of influence on behalf of her people. Esther balks. What if she fails? What if she loses and it costs her something? Her uncle’s response is to tell her if she does not rise up, she will not escape the fate of her people. But another will rise up to deliver the Jewish people. Who knows but that she has been brought to this position for such a time as this.

Dear white evangelical church folks, living in the Trump era is a painful endurance sport. For the last eight years you have wanted a voice and to be seen. Now there is a voice, and what we see is terrifying. Are you willing to give what you have asked for to the rest of the country? Are you willing to see things from the lens of the other?  Are you willing to rise up on behalf of the oppressed and the marginalized?

If the church cannot do this, we are lost indeed.

*Noteworthy sources on the white evangelical vote:

“Myths Debunked: Why did white evangelical Christians vote for Trump?” Myriam Renaud, The University of Chicago Divinity School, 1.19.2017