Reflections of an Afro-Christian Scholar

Simple Gifts

2009-11-04T20:29:00.012-05:00

I've enjoyed playing an educational game I bought for my daughter. As a lover of puzzles and problem solving, I was drawn to the various brain teasers and math quizzes. While sitting on the couch and trying out one of the new levels on her game, I found myself stumped. I was given multiple choice answers to a visual problem, and yet I got every single one of the questions wrong. My daughter, surprised at my failure, took the game from me, did the same brain teaser, and got every single question correct. When she saw my look of surprise, she handed the game back to me and said: "you're thinking too hard. It really is simple." Out of the mouths of babes...

Her innocent words made me reflect on how often we complicate the simple things in life - and how often we fail to appreciate the simple gifts that make life worth living. Sometimes being a homeowner is so complicated, that I fail to appreciate the way that mid-afternoon light warms my kitchen. Being a parent is so complicated at times, that I forget to be grateful for the crayon pictures that adorn my walls and truly make my house, a home. Being a professor can be so complicated, that there are moments when I lose sight of the calling that drew me to this vocation.

The theology and religious history I teach is seriously complex. It is work to which I have devoted years of study, so the material I teach and the academic articles I write are complicated works of scholarship. My lectures are intricately crafted, as I consider the theoretical constructs of my discipline, the cultural and social location of those communities I study, and the overarching connections and disjunctions between this various material. But while the theology I teach is complicated, it is good to be reminded that true faith is itself a simple gift.

Generations of theologians cannot articulate what I know, without a shadow of a doubt, in the deepest recesses of my heart: God loves me with an everlasting love. Nothing could be more simple or more freeing than the confidence I have in this love. And God's love allows me to love myself fiercely, and to demonstrate this love to all those around me. It is a faith so simple that even a child understands its central message: love begets love. At times, the complications of life, work, ministry, and the juggling act threaten to engulf me. Sometimes I am overwhelmed with how hard life seems or how lonely life can be. But the simplicity of these few words restore my soul: I am loved. It is a simple gift, but it is an eternal gift.

A Morning Song

2009-10-28T13:03:00.009-04:00

A student recently shared the news that she was loving her clinical internship experience, with the exception of the early hours. She needed to wake up by 7:30am, in order to arrive on time for her 8:30am start time. I think she could tell by the look on my face that I was highly surprised. By 7:30am, I have showered, dressed, done morning devotions, made breakfast, packed lunches, sent a child off to school, and arrived at work. By 7:30am, I am through my first cup of morning caffeine, my first round of emails, and my first reading of the New York Times. I am a member of that species of humans known as "morning people." Generally up between 5am and 5:30am, I was amused to know that my student thought of a 7:30am wake up time as early.

I am a little embarrassed to admit that I am a morning person, only because it means that I don't know anything about life after 10pm. Somehow, I feel like less of an adult because I can't watch a television show that comes on at 10pm; I have to catch up with Stephen Colbert online the following morning. A friend invited me to a concert that started at 8pm and was scheduled to end between 10pm and 11pm. I had to take an afternoon nap so that I would be able to make it all the way through the event; morning people go to bed notoriously early. I have no doubt that there are children in elementary school who are up past my bedtime. Morning people are beginning to wind down for the day, while the night owls are just getting geared up to go out. Growing up in New York City, it was the never the nightlife of the "City that never sleeps" that interested me. New York is a haven for morning people, those of us ready to greet the day at 5am and in need of fresh bagels.

I love the early morning, when the day is full of opportunities. I love the quiet of the sun as it rises; I love the graceful departure of the moon and stars. In the summer, I enjoy sitting on the back porch and watching the dog walkers. In the winter, I love being the first one to make footprints on the freshly fallen snow. At 5am, everything still feels possible. On a crisp fall morning at 5am, mistakes are forgiven and new mercies are available. At 5am, I can sense God's presence and unconditional love for me.

I am sure night owls have a similar feeling for those late hours. And I think that we are hard-wired as either larks or owls; I was exhausted for all four years of college, when much of the activity took place late at night and I tried to manage life as a night owl. The pace of graduate school and academic life suits me well. You work 60 hours a week, but you get to choose which 60 hours!

I woke up on a Saturday morning, at my usual time. And despite knowing that I could close my eyes and get one or two additional hours of sleep, I got up and went outside. The air smelled so clean and the neighborhood was so quiet that I could pretend, for a moment, that there was no one else around. In that stillness and solitude, I felt completely alone, but not lonely. I felt like the infinitesimal speck that I am in the universe. But I also stood amazed that the Architect of this vast universe loved me so. My heart sang a morning song, grateful to be alone and yet in God's presence.

Spiritual Gifts

2009-10-25T12:16:00.014-04:00

I believe in spiritual gifts. I believe that each and every person is uniquely gifted to serve God and to serve others. It has been my privilege to have wonderfully gifted teachers who helped me to explore a particular topic and modeled for me the value of a lifetime of learning. I can so easily contrast these men and women with those who, while they knew the material in their fields, did not have the gift of teaching it to others.

I have a wonderful friend who uniquely demonstrates the gift of hospitality. Those who meet her immediately feel welcomed in her presence; she has never met a stranger. I know individuals who are gifted as leaders; others who are incredible workers in the vineyard. There are those who exercise charismatic gifts, others who have administrative gifts. I am teaching at an institution founded with the very purpose of preparing those who have been called to the office of pastor or priest. It is an office that requires many spiritual gifts, from wisdom and discernment to compassion and exhortation. There is no one model of skills, gifts, and personality traits that make a successful pastor; but it is a role that requires certainty in God's calling on your life. You must "know that you know" because there is no singular handbook for guidance.

So I greeted the news of the Roman Catholic Church's decision to create a personal Ordinariate for the Anglican Church, with a heavy heart. I have nothing against either church being in full communion with each other, but I oppose the move to, once again, silence those women who feel called to the vocation of pastor; only male Anglican priests (married or single) will be allowed to remain priests. The Roman Catholic Church is inviting those Anglicans who specifically oppose the ordination of women and members of the LGBT community, to "return to the fold."

This has weighed on me very heavily this week, for a wide number of reasons; my theology affirms a priesthood of all believers, allowing women to serve in any and every office of their churches. My politics laments the continuing sexism and male privilege that pervades everyday life, both sacred and secular. I am fighting my own battles against the institutional sexism of our academic institutions. But ultimately, it is my belief in spiritual gifts that refutes those attempts to keep women "in their place" within the church.

As a seminary professor, I have seen those who are most incredibly gifted in pastoral leadership come from all walks of life; the people who may be most effective in ministry are not necessarily those men and women that "look" the way we assume pastors should look. And because God is no respector of persons, the future pastors and priests I am helping to educate come from every racial and ethnic group; they are members of every socio-economic class; and they all have vastly different educational and career backgrounds. They are men and they are women. They are gay and they are straight. They come from devoutly religious backgrounds and they come from atheist families. They come, believing that they have been called to serve God. And trusting in that call, they respond with their whole beings. Are we to truly believe that categorically, every single woman called to ministry is unqualified to serve, simply because of the presence of ovaries instead of testes?

It is my firm belief that it takes a multiplicity of identities, categories, and social locations in order to effectively minister to all people. I love enthusiastic worship; others love a more solemn liturgy. Both are pleasing in God's sight as we are called to assemble together as believers, but we are not limited to fellowship in a narrow manner. A female pastor brings her own unique set of skills and gifts to her pastoral vocation, factors which include her identity as a woman, but is not limited to it. There are some incredible women with the calling on their lives to be pastors and priests. Those denominations and churches who deny women their calling are all the poorer because of it. If we have trouble with women, who are made in the image and likeness of God, even delivering a sermon on Sunday morning, I hate to think of how truly narrow our view of God must be.

The Between Time

2009-10-19T11:15:00.009-04:00

A preacher who is truly interested in being a vessel to be used by God, discovers that the sermon she writes is usually a word more for the speaker, than for the listener. Such was the case for me, when I found myself offering a message on "The Between Time." I have been contemplating the difficulty I have in living in the "between time;" that difficult time period between when I petition God and when I hear God's response.

That "between time" can be a season of days, months, or even years. That "between time" can be the silence that greets us each day, even though we are doing all we can to hear God's voice. That "between time" is waiting on a biopsy result; that "between time" is waiting for direction and purpose; that "between time" is waiting for your soul's deepest desires to manifest. That "between time" is the wilderness and the barrenness of not knowing where to go, what to do, or how to proceed. That "between time" is waiting...and waiting, yet again.

In an era of "microwave" expectations, in which we anticipate an instantaneous response to our texts, emails, and voice messages, waiting is a lost skill and impatience is an acceptable response to daily living. We honk our horns if the car in front of us hesitates for even a second after the light has turned green. We curse the microwave that doesn't reheat our leftovers quickly enough. We grumble when the elderly passenger in the seat before us cannot quickly stow away his luggage and let us pass. So waiting on God is an even greater challenge for us, because we have no immediate source on which to vent our frustrations. So we either wait in a state of anguish, or we rush to act outside of God's will.

I am thinking more and more about waiting as a spiritual discipline. In waiting on God, I learn to trust that there is a good and perfect will for my life. In waiting on God, I admit my human helplessness, and I begin to trust more in God's strength, knowing that those who wait on God will renew their strength. In waiting on God, I learn the secret to being content: giving thanks for the process of waiting, and not just being focused on the results of my petition.

But this "between time" is a tough place to be; it is a place of vulnerability and uncertainty. It is a place where we must confront some of our deepest fears: that God has forgotten about us or that we are unworthy in God's sight. In my sermon on this "between time," I offered a reminder that God loves us and cares about even the smallest details of our lives. And that while the response to our requests may still be far off, we can be assured of God's love, mercy, and grace towards us - most especially in that "between time." Psalm 27:14 says it best: "Wait on God, be of good courage, and God will strengthen your heart. Wait, I say, on God."

Sidelines

2009-10-15T07:35:00.005-04:00

As a Christian, I am not called to spend my life on the sidelines. I am called to "enter into the fray" of life with my whole being. The pursuit of mercy, justice, and love is work that requires you to roll up your sleeves; they are not passive attributes rained down on us by some unseen and unknowable force. Instead, mercy, justice, and love are goals to pursue...and sometimes these goals become battles that we must fight.

I became a "Straight Ally" to the cause of LGBT equality and civil rights because of the example of two foster parents that I met many years ago. As a white, gay couple, living in a state that would not permit them to marry nor to adopt children, they had devoted their lives to caring for the "least of these" in our foster care systems. The vast majority of the children in their care were African American; some were HIV positive; most all came from circumstances in which they had not experienced unconditional love. I watched my friends provide this love - to the children they fostered and to each other. This model of love convicted my spirit of its homophobia and led me to the path of becoming a foster parent.

But when I am honest, my initial version of being a "Straight Ally" was quite passive. I was one of those people who had "gay friends," in much the same way that I functioned as the "black friend" for those who claimed my allegiance, but knew nothing of my struggle. I have always been deeply committed to anti-racism and anti-sexism work through my academic writing and teaching, and through my preaching. But my "Straight Ally" work was just my knowledge that I, as an individual, supported the cause for full equality for the LGBT community. It was a great beginning, but it was not enough.

In my heart, I knew that I feared that a more active participation would cause some people to think that I was gay. And that was the moment that I realized the depths of discrimination against the queer community: I was afraid to even be considered gay. How much more painful was it for those whose very core of identity was constantly challenged and constantly demonized?

So these days, I work to "enter into the fray" of this cause, knowing that injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere. I've lost my fear of people's perception of my sexual orientation. I am trying to help create a climate on this campus where all feel welcomed and affirmed. I am conscious in my writing and my preaching, particularly in the Black church context, to create space to discuss a topic that is still taboo in many communities. Some churches have not invited me back, but I know I have planted a seed. My efforts are small, but they have moved from the sidelines, to the center of my ministry. Thanks be to God.

Singing A New Song

2009-10-11T18:52:00.006-04:00

I love old hymns, those timeless songs of Christian praise that connect me to generations of believers. One Sunday, we sang "Great is Thy Faithfulness," and the lyrics brought me to tears:

Great is thy faithfulness, O God my Father;
There is no shadow of turning with Thee.
Thou changest not, Thy compassions, they fail not;
as Thou hast been, Thou forever more will be.

My spirit was full as I sang these timeless words, in reflecting on a God who never fails to demonstrate compassion to me. Maybe it's the old-fashioned English used; maybe it's the music that accompanies these words, its high notes straining to reach heaven. But when I sing this song, I sing it knowing the full definition of "lament," an expression of utmost grief, tempered only by an assurance of God's unfailing love for us.

So songs like "Amazing Grace," and "Blessed Assurance" and "The Old Rugged Cross," share IPod space with even the most contemporary of secular and religious music. These are the songs for which I no longer need the hymnals; songs to which I know all the verses. These are songs that never fail to articulate my incomprehensible and limited utterances before God.

Today, while walking in the beautiful autumn weather, I listened to a song written in 1707 by Issac Watts: "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross." How completely different is my life from Watts' life! Born in the seventeenth century, Watts was an English theologian, poet, and pastor. A prolific writer of hymns (close to 700), Watts suffered terribly at the end of his life, enduring both physical and mental illnesses. And yet, as I found myself walking in a town thousands of miles from Watts' birthplace and hundreds of years after his death, I am struck by this thought: for someone to write the hymns that he did, Watts must have known God deeply and loved God passionately. There is a longing for God in his music. And my soul identifies with this hunger to know God more, to experience God more intimately.

Despite the age of any of these old hymns, each time we sing them, we are singing a new song. I sing of God's faithfulness to me, in my own time and context. It is I who must also "survey the wondrous cross." That "blessed assurance" is personal, that foretaste of glory divine is for me - yes, even me. I sing these hymns anew, with rejoicing or with lament, but with my whole being. These songs tie me to a shared history and yet, each time the words are fresh on my tongue. As a writer, I struggle to write words that will speak truth across the metaphorical and real distances that separate us.

There is an African proverb that tells us: "the Spirit will not descend without a song." I love knowing that the same Spirit that inspired a blind Fanny Crosby to pen "Blessed Assurance" and "Pass Me Not O Gentle Savior," is the same spirit that fell so sweetly over my grandmother as she taught me these songs on our old Steinway upright piano. They may be old lyrics, but like God's mercy, the words are new every morning.

Endings

2009-06-20T11:55:00.011-04:00

I was sitting across the street, eating a bagel, as I watched two men remove the neon sign from the front of the building. I watched as several people approached the restaurant, prepared to enter, but stopped and stared at the sight of workmen removing all the identifying markers from the storefront. The Denny's restaurant on Route 1 in Princeton was closing; I was watching the ending of a small chapter of Princeton history.

It is not that we were particular fans of this restaurant or their food, but it was the one place that was open 24 hours a day, long before coffeehouses and newly renovated campus centers became the norm at colleges. As undergraduates, we looked forward to making a "Denny's run," which involved finding a person who had a car, gathering as many people as could possibly fit into that car, and heading off to eat mozzarella sticks or pancakes at 2am. The engineers among us loved this place for their bottomless cup of coffee which fed caffeine addictions and fueled all-night study habits. Those of us in the humanities just loved to eat and welcomed any excuse to escape from campus. The fluorescent lights, even at 2am, were a welcome beacon to students who were over-achievers by trade, but who were also exhausted by the strain of the high level of performance demanded from us. This restaurant, with its mediocre food, welcomed the teeming masses from campus with its cheap eats, large booths, and hands-off policy.

I had witnessed an ending with the closing of Denny's and it reminded me that I was in the process of witnessing many endings. As a teacher, students that I cared for deeply were leaving my institution and although they often keep in touch, their departures mark the ending of a special student-teacher bond that I cherish. My daughter completed another year of school and although she is still young, I can clearly see the ending of these precious elementary school days. Two young men I knew, a former schoolmate and a former colleague, passed away in the prime of their lives...endings for which I had not been prepared. In my own life, doors were closing, bringing endings to some long-standing dreams and hopes.

But endings often bring beginnings, new and wonderful beginnings. The ending of chemotherapy for one of my dearest friends marks her emergence into a new type of physical and psychological strength. The ending of the old school year marks the beginning of a new group of arriving students and new opportunities for me to mentor and dish up my brand of radical pedagogy. The endings of jobs or school or relationships can mark the very moment in which one closes the door to the past and leaps, blindly, into the unknown future. It is scary and exhilarating and crazy. But this is life: a cycle that comes to an end, but allows us to begin anew and fresh. Even those endings in which we have to say good-bye permanently, or those endings in which we must leave little pieces of ourselves behind, still pave the way to new beginnings.

Route 1 in Princeton, New Jersey will never be the same for me. Thinking about those late night food runs are some of my most cherished college memories. But I'm waiting to see what they build in that space and hoping that this ending will open the door for me to create some new memories. As T.S. Eliot so eloquently states: "In my end is my beginning."

Anger

2009-06-02T20:08:00.007-04:00

I've been struggling to write about anger, afraid that an admission of this strong emotion brands me as an "angry" person. I am a "glass is half full" optimist, someone who regularly doodles rainbows and happy faces in the margins of my journal. I know all the words to "Favorite Things" and I regularly dance around the house a la Julie Andrews. My life is full of "girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes" and "snowflakes that stay on my nose and eyelashes."

But for the past few weeks, a small undercurrent of anger has been brewing and simmering inside of me. What began as a small flame has been fueled by incidents large and small. I am angry at the lack of common human decency shown to others; witnessing an irate driver barely miss hitting an elderly woman who was slowly crossing the street nearly brought me to tears. When I am at work, I am angry at the racism and sexism that festers in the academy. When I am at my house of worship, I am angry at the indifference to suffering and blatant homophobia that festers in the church. And when I am in the privacy of my home, I am angry that other people are not angry enough.

Yes, I want this anger to fuel my passion to love others more, to more fervently work towards justice. The anger that Christ expressed led not to sin, but to healing and mercy. But first, I am working on accepting my anger as a legitimate and necessary feeling. In working so hard, personally and professionally, to refute the stereotype of the "angry Black woman," I left myself no place to experience the rawness of this emotion. And so now, in written words and in spiritual language, I am working with my anger and working through my anger. I know, without a doubt, that a place of healing and mercy is at the end of this process. But for right now, I am allowing myself to feel what I feel.

Doubt

2009-05-17T15:18:00.009-04:00

Mark 9:24 contains a revelation that has forever impacted my faith: "Lord, I believe; help my unbelief!"

I have had profound seasons of doubt in my spiritual walk. I have doubts about the uncritical theology learned during my childhood; but I also have doubts about the spiritless theology learned during my adulthood. I have doubts about the relevance of scriptural authority; but I also have doubts about the pervasive secularism of the contemporary church. I look at genocide and holocaust and famine and I doubt God's benevolence. I see war and death and torture and I doubt humanity's moral superiority. I picked an academic area of study - the relationship between slavery and religion - that created even more doubts in my mind about God's omnipotence.

When I would speak of my doubts to those in my church family, I would be chastised with clichés; the weight of these doubts was my fault. I did not love God enough; I did not read scripture enough; I did not have enough faith. There was no room in the church for a doubting Thomas, so I learned, as a child, to keep silent about my doubts. And even as my faith and my love of God and my scripture-reading increased, my doubts never vanished.

But it was the ninth chapter of Mark that freed me from this self-imposed silence. I now understand that doubt is actually a powerful component of faith. Doubt can lead us on a spiritual journey, to ask the questions that others fear to voice. Doubt motivates us to push past the clichés and seek genuine answers to our most pressing questions. Doubt requires us to be thinking, seeking, proactive agents of our spiritual lives.

When I cry out to God to "help my unbelief," I am acknowledging my lack of certainty. In that space of doubt and unbelief, I am honest about my lack of answers, my need for help, and my inability to figure it all out by myself. Where there is doubt, there is an opportunity for growth. Where there is doubt, there is opportunity for divine revelation.

I will continue to struggle with my doubts, even as my faith continues to grow. But I will no longer be silent about those places of unbelief in my life because God powerfully meets me where I am, doubts and all. I will continue to pray: "God, I believe with my whole heart, but in those places of doubt and unbelief, reveal yourself to me, again and again."

Failures

2009-04-27T16:29:00.016-04:00

Several months ago, I attended a dynamic workshop for career women, facilitated by a female psychologist. All the workshop participants had to do an exercise in which we checked off a list of things that we had failed at doing. The "failures" among this group of highly successful women were numerous: failed classes and failed relationships; failed bar exams and failed businesses; failed comprehensive exams and failed dissertation defenses. And yet, an outsider considering this group of women gathered would have considered each one a "success" story, all currently excelling in their careers as lawyers, doctors, professors, wives, mothers, and various other roles.

That exercise has stayed with me for months, as I reflected on the facilitator's powerful words: "successful women are those who have not allowed their failures to define them." She continued in her assessment by reminding us that successful people fall down, as everyone does, but they get back up again and again. And while this was a secular workshop, I left humming the words to gospel singer Donnie McClurken's song: "we fall down/but we get up/for a saint is just a sinner who fell down/and got up."

As encouraged as I was by this workshop, I know myself to be a person who is haunted by her failures and who does not let go of them easily. I have failed at many things; important things. And sometimes people I love have failed me; important people. And while I have "gotten up" after all these moments, I struggle with not judging myself solely by these failures.

But a real moment of healing took place in my life when I stopped feeling afraid to fail. Each failure has been a learning experience, a building block in my life. Each failure has led to a new discovery about myself and about others. I've learned about real friendship, real loyalty, and real trust only because of failed friendships and failed loyalty and failed trust. And even in those dark moments, when my very faith has failed, God has always and abundantly brought me to a greater level of spiritual intimacy. So I'm learning not to fear the failures, which are simply inevitable. I am learning, each day, to focus not only on the number of times I've fallen down, but to celebrate those occasions in which I've gotten up, again and again.

Easter

2009-04-12T17:31:00.005-04:00

I join with billions of Christians across the globe in a profound celebration of the Risen Christ. It is in this miracle that I find my hope, my confidence, and my very life. My whole being worships with an utter certainty in remembrance of the cross, the grave, and the empty tomb. On Good Friday, I sat with death. On Silent Saturday, I mourned the sacrifice. Today, Easter Sunday, I rejoice in resurrection.

Yet, as I close my Lenten reflections and embrace Easter, I pause to think about all those things that are dead or dormant within me. What dreams have I allowed to die, because they seem impossible? What hopes lie dormant, because achieving them seems improbable? What are the dead things, or the dying things, in all our lives that need to be resurrected or resuscitated?

While the Lenten journey ends, let a new spring season begin...one in which we dare to do the impossible and achieve the improbable. Let us embrace a theology of abundance, instead of religion of scarcity. Because is not this the very message of the cross? Salvation and freedom, in abundance; sacrificial and unconditional love, in abundance; death defeated and eternal life, in abundance.

My prayer is for all those hopes and dreams that have died an early death, or for all those hopes and dreams that have been killed with harsh words and lack of support...let them arise anew in you. Risen, indeed.

The Holy Ordinary (5th Sunday of Lent)

2009-03-29T17:58:00.007-04:00

I have spent the past few weeks trying to create a space to hear from God, praying for an extraordinary move of the Spirit in my life. Instead, I have been besieged and overwhelmed with the most ordinary of tasks: dinner to prepare for my family; homework to check; papers to grade; and bills to pay. And these ordinary tasks must be done after the most lowly of tasks: cleaning the bathrooms; taking out the trash; mopping the kitchen floor; and filing this year's tax return.

Lately, I have been so inundated with work and chores and errands, that I haven't had time to think big thoughts and dream big dreams. How would I ever have my "road to Damascus" experience when my mornings were spent writing recommendation letters; my afternoons were devoted to checking long-division problems; and my evenings were spent preparing to do the same thing all over again the next day? I pleaded with God for a supernatural expression of God's presence. God told me to find the holy in the ordinary.

Now, when I do laundry, I take the time to hold a tiny sweatshirt to my face; smelling the fragrance of the fabric softener and reflecting on the little one who loves to wear her favorite sweatshirt every week. As I mop the kitchen floor, I smile at the thought that if I dropped a cookie, my floors would be literally clean enough to eat off. As I take the car to get an oil change, I take delight in how few miles I've driven and how I'm reducing my carbon footprint. To pay bills reflects the fact that there is money in the bank; to write recommendation letters ensures that future generations will continue important scholarly work; to pray with a student means that I am consistent in my witness. These are the ordinary tasks of my life. And they are all holy.

This Lenten journey has helped me to reflect on the fact that the sacred is not always found in the church building and the holy is not always experienced in worship. By purposefully setting my heart and mind to recognize God's presence in ordinary things, I am feeling and experiencing God's presence in powerful ways. What an amazing God, who is "here with us" in the ordinary and in the lowly.

Lenten Journey - Day 23 (Touch)

2009-03-19T08:42:00.008-04:00

I wanted to give her a hug, but instead I squeezed her hand and we each went our separate ways. I wanted to embrace her and share that portion of God's love that we experience through these small acts of touch and connection. But I did not heed that small voice inside of me telling me to reach out and defy social conventions.

I grew up in a loud, noisy church where the love of God was expressed in concrete ways, where healthy and healing touch was as much a part of the worship as music and preaching. Babies were passed from lap to lap, likely to fall asleep in the warm comfort of anyone's arms. Children were caught up in bear hugs, enveloped in the smells of bath oil and peppermint candy. Kisses were placed on the elders' cheeks, on skin that was still smooth and unlined despite old age.

But those days seem long gone. Steeped in the reality of abusive, uncomfortable, and violent physical contact, we have created sterile places where no touching is preferable. We err on the side of caution, but in doing so, I fear that we lose the fundamentals of real human connection. The "laying on of hands" did not simply commission the early church; it equipped those men and women with a powerful reminder of a real, tangible, and loving community that supported their bold work.

As I continue this Lenten journey, I am confronting those places where I have conformed, those times when prompted by the Spirit, I have refused to act out of fear for how I will be perceived. It is an act of risk to offer a hug, when a handshake is the convention. But real love requires that risk. I commit myself to the power of transformative love, where healing and comfort can be known in the form of a godly embrace.

Do not conform any longer to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is—God's good, pleasing and perfect will.

Lenten Journey - Day 15

2009-03-11T11:06:00.002-04:00

The term "despite" is a frame of mind. This Lenten season, let us reflect on how we can live, love, and serve God and one another "despite" our circumstances. When we play jump rope with our daughters, despite the need to finish paying the bills, we are choosing love over obligation. When we take the time to talk with a friend, despite being late for a meeting, we are choosing people over institutions. When we make our way to a house of worship, despite all the other places we need to be, we are choosing that which is eternal over the temporary. When we actively choose to worship and love God, even despite God's apparent silence, we are operating in faith. Remember that faith is the substance of things hoped for and the evidence of things not seen.

Lenten Journey - Day 8

2009-03-04T08:23:00.001-05:00

In our personal lives and in our professional lives, there is great liberty in confessing that we are not where we want to be and that we are not who we want to be. When we admit that we are works in progress, we are open to seeing the wonderful possibilities still ahead of us. To admit where we fall short is also to stand in expectancy of getting back up and continuing our journey. Know and affirm that God, who has begun a good work in you, will be sure to complete it. Be open to acknowledging and embracing those unfinished places in your life.

Lenten Journey - Day 6

2009-03-02T09:38:00.003-05:00

I am learning many things this year from my yoga class, particularly about my physical body. As we go through the postures, I can sense my areas of strength and my areas of weakness. And while yoga is a gentle discipline, I have been surprised at just how many places I am physically weak and therefore particularly vulnerable to injury.

As I continue this Lenten journey, I want to surrender all those areas in my life in which I am weak, both emotionally and spiritually. I want to fervently lean on God's strength in those vulnerable places knowing that where I am weak, God is strong.

In Winter (First Sunday of Lent)

2009-03-01T08:35:00.004-05:00

The first story in my RSS news feed this morning was "Why Does Hair Turn Gray." It was quite something to contemplate as I sat in my kitchen, watching snow fall on this first day of March. The sky was overcast, the snow was white, and scientists were promising me that if I lived long enough, I would have a head full of gray hair. It has been a long winter around here, in many ways.

But as ready as I am for spring, I cannot rush the seasons. I must continue to sit with winter, with the barrenness, and with the gray skies. I must continue to endure the cold temperatures and the snow storms, because winter is a preparing ground for the bountiful spring ahead. Winter, despite its appearance, is a fertile sowing ground for so much that is to come.

Lent asks that we not leap too quickly ahead to the glorious Easter moment. We love the notion of the triumphant Christ entering into the city of Jerusalem, whom we celebrate with the giving of palms. We love the notion of the resurrected Christ, whom we celebrate with praise and thanksgiving on Easter morning. But can we identity with the lonely Christ, who faces temptation in the desert; the Christ who faces a gray winter in the wilderness?

Let us sit with winter for a little while longer...spring is surely coming, but winter is still fertile ground.

Lenten Journey - Day 4

2009-02-28T10:56:00.001-05:00

Time is one of our most precious commodities, so how we choose to spend our time reveals a great deal about our priorities. During this Lenten journey, can we set aside time that is free from the distractions of our lives and devote that time to self-reflection, meditation, prayer, or journal writing? Can we create a few moments or a half hour in our day that is sacred? In a 24 hour period of time, can we set aside even a small portion of it so that we may listen, with expectancy, for God's voice? We long for connection with God and yet we fail to invest our time in pursuing that relationship. May the Lenten season remind us that our time is a resource that when invested wisely, yields spiritual growth.

Lenten Journey - Day 3

2009-02-27T12:00:00.000-05:00

What can we do to make spiritual health a priority in our lives? Our lives are full and overflowing with things to do, errands to run, and people who need our care. And yet the Lenten season demands that we pause and reflect: on our relationship with God, on the health of our individual spirits, and on our engagement with the very Spirit that gives us life. As we continue this Lenten journey, I pray that each day brings a moment of intimacy with the Divine. May we hunger for God's presence.

Lenten Journey - Day 2

2009-02-26T11:59:00.000-05:00

Lent is a sacrificial time. Many of us choose to give up things that are difficult to surrender. So we force ourselves to lean on the Providential God who gives us strength to admit our weaknesses, shortcomings, and addictions. Lent forces us to admit that we care too much about the concerns of this world: what we eat and what we drink; how we spend our time and how we spend our energy. As we continue along this Lenten journey, may we do the work of self-examination so that our sacrifice may be truly pleasing unto God.

Lenten Journey - Ash Wednesday

2009-02-25T11:58:00.000-05:00

As a Protestant, I embrace the imposition of the ashes on Ash Wednesday. It is a sign of my personal humility and contrition before God, but it also connects me to the community of Christ throughout the world. On this Ash Wednesday, I pray that we receive the ashes not to proclaim our holiness, but to acknowledge that we are a community of sinners in need of repentance and renewal. Revive us, Oh Lord. Revive us, again.

Comfort

2009-02-22T08:34:00.008-05:00

On a beautiful summer afternoon a few years ago, I sat at an outdoor cafe drinking lemonade and people watching. This is one of the joys of living in a college town: an endless parade of interesting people and stories exist just outside your door. I noticed a young woman in a beautiful sundress; the color was flattering to her skin tone and the cut of the garment was perfect for her body. She looked like a walking advertisement for summer. I kept thinking about her dress and wondering why it looked so familiar to me. It slowly dawned on me that I had that exact same dress.

It was perhaps a week later when I pulled my sundress out of its bag and ventured to wear it around town. I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror and thought that this dress looked nothing like the dress that was on the walking model. Now that I had actually seen the dress on a size 2 frame, it looked like a potato sack on my size 10 frame. How did I ever convince myself, when trying it on in the store, that this dress was flattering on me? And so I tucked the dress away, in the back of the closet, where clothes go to die.

Last summer, bereft of anything to wear to a picnic, I scoured the depths of my closet and found the discarded sundress. I put it on, along with some strappy sandals, and walked confidently out the door. I hadn't become the size of that walking model. But I had grown comfortable and confident in my own skin. Some tough things had happened to me over those intervening years, but borne of those tragedies was my desire to love myself fiercely, to love the skin I was in, and to be truly comfortable with my flesh.

The same process has occurred with my spiritual walk over the years. There is no "one size fits all" approach to spirituality. I am as likely to worship with Anne Lamott and James Baldwin, as I am to read the words of Paul. I embrace my womanist identification, even as I embrace a high Christology in my theology. I joyfully worship with my whole body in high praise; but I also seek those spaces of silence and stillness. My prayer life consists of letters written to God. The text of my sermons come from Langston Hughes and Audre Lorde. Fasting is as much a part of my worship as is preparing a bountiful table to feed family and friends. I have learned to be comfortable and confident in my own spirit.

And perhaps this is the path to spiritual maturity: wholly embracing the skin you are in, loving the spirit that encompasses it, and using the mind to relish the connections between body and spirit. I'm looking forward to summer, wearing that dress again and others like it, and enjoying the knowledge that God loves me and has fearfully and wonderfully made me.

Lost

2009-01-25T12:38:00.013-05:00

The plan was perfect. The four of us left the conference center, ready to cast aside the three days of sitting in a cold room, listening to cold speakers. Once a year we gathered for our discipline's major conference and once a year, we caught up with each other. Literally coming from North, South, East, West, it was a time to renew our friendship, a friendship borne out of the trauma of graduate school. And though we were now at varying stages of our careers and lives, we looked forward to this annual ritual of leaving the conference behind, finding a great restaurant, and getting to know each other once again.

We piled into the rental car, a brand new model equipped with a turn-by-turn navigation system. Ever the cautious one, I had even come prepared with a printed copy of directions from MapQuest. Between the four of us, we were equipped to navigate the streets of this unfamiliar city with GPS, cell phones, MapQuest, and laptops. Between the four of us, we had 15 post-secondary degrees from some of the most elite universities in the world. Between the four of us, we had lived in almost every corner of the globe and had traveled to every single continent. But on this day and in this place, the four of us were lost. And no amount of technology, education, or street savvy seemed to make a difference. We were hopelessly lost.

A quick detour to a gas station got us back on the right path. Directions hastily scribbled down on a napkin proved more effective than any of our technology. With only about 30 minutes off our schedule, we quickly settled into the restaurant and began catching up on each other's lives. Hours later, it was an uneventful trip back to the conference hotel and tearful goodbyes. All in all, this adventure became just a great story I share with my other friends: how four tech-savvy, GPS-equipped women got lost, but eventually found their way.

But as I stood in church today, singing praise to a God who found me and rescued me when I was lost, this story took on a much deeper meaning. God is the force who is ever present, always available, always accessible, always there with arms stretched wide open. I am the wayward child, with her toys, constantly on the go. I am constantly moving, seeking, traveling, struggling, resisting, rejecting, and disobeying. And I am the one, in my conviction and repentance, using artificial tools, and unnecessary props, and useless strategies to get back to the place, that place of peace and contentment that I have lost.

So finding myself frustrated by the lack of results of my fragile human endeavors, I abandon the hope that by myself I can ever be found, that by myself, I can ever find the right path. And it is the act of surrendering my devices and my vain attempts to find my own route, which yields a clarity of purpose and direction as to the way I should go. It is a lesson I learn again and again; I have never been so far lost that the grace of God has failed to find me.

For the Love of Snow

2009-01-19T08:59:00.009-05:00

Walking to church in the snow yesterday was an act of worship. The morning was completely quiet and still. It was so early in the morning that only two cars passed me as I walked. It was a rare combination of absolute peace, freshly fallen snow, and an overcast sky.

Shedding my usual self-consciousness, I walked and played in the snow like a little child. I stuck out my tongue to catch snowflakes and feel them quickly melt. I took delight in being the first person to leave my footprint in the snow. And as the snow continued to fall, I took note of those places where the new snow completely covered my old footprints, erasing even this barely visible reminder of where I had walked. I took off my gloves to feel the gentleness of the snow on my hand. I had forgotten that snow has the feel of soft lace. As it quickly evaporated in my hands, the snow left perfect drops of cool water in my palm. Walking in the snow was a time of unexpected beauty for me.

I actually don't like snow. Snow means crazy traffic, multiple layers of clothing, and schedule disruptions. Snow means de-icing and shoveling the walkways of the house. Snow quickly becomes dirty and those gray piles of ice, snow, and debris litter the sidewalks for days and weeks. I'm a warm-weather woman and I miss the days when I lived in the South and the town would literally shut down if a snowflake dared to fall out of the sky. That seemed a reasonable response to me. Instead, I am back in the Northeast, where the hearty souls around me take great pride in how they are able to carry on business as usual during a blizzard.

But as I walked to church yesterday, I was reminded that this very moment was the time to worship in the beauty of God's holiness. The earth felt holy; it felt sacred as I walked through the snow. I looked around and saw God's beauty, and not the inconvenience of bad weather. I became like a little child when I was willing to surrender my adult cares. And like a child, the snow became a source of wonder for me. It was a reminder that God's mercies truly are new every morning and in each unique snowflake.

I got to church with snow in my hair and all over my coat. It was a working Sunday for me and I had to miss much of the worship part of the service to attend to my various duties. But it didn't matter. My heart was full with worship and out of the overflow of that worship, I was able to pour out love onto everyone I saw. I'm still warm weather girl at heart, but I'm learning to fully appreciate the beauty of all God's creation.

Place Memories

2009-01-11T15:09:00.009-05:00

While on a recent vacation, I checked into my hotel and was out the door again in under ten minutes. I was headed to a little bookstore and coffee shop that I adored. I had spent much of my travel time thinking about this little store and looking forward to spending some quality time there. So I cannot adequately express the disappointment I felt when I arrived at the location and discovered that the shop had closed several months earlier. I think I stood there for five minutes in a state of disbelief. I had tears welling up in my eyes as I walked back to the hotel. I asked the concierge what happened to the store. She indicated that the store had faced financial trouble, and then she helpfully offered several recommendations for other places. There was certainly no lack of bookstores in this college town. But I really wasn't looking for a bookstore.

I wish this was a story about my outrage over the large, impersonal, corporate conglomerates that drive local stores out of business. But it isn't. I had spent several hours at this bookstore with someone I loved. We drank tea and talked politics; we ate cookies and argued about literature. It was a place full of memories of someone who was now gone and someone whom I terribly missed. I had spent one of the happiest days of my life at this bookstore and I was back to relive those memories. The bookstore was gone, and although my memories were still in tack, I still felt a sense of loss. Humble as it was, it was a special place for me.

Places, houses, tangible objects have the power to evoke something powerful within us. A piece of jewelry can take us back to the most special day of our lives; a childhood home can evoke feelings of great love or great sorrow; even a particular outfit can remind us of some occasion or some special person. But the Bible urges us, again and again, to not hold the things of this world too tightly. We are instructed to hold tangible objects loosely, to not invest our hopes and dreams in material things. I understand the reasoning behind this: we must be careful not to make material things our idols. We must maintain our focus on the eternal things that really matter: how we love God, how we love each other, how we treat each other.

But standing in front of that bookstore with tears in my eyes, I fully understood another reason why we are admonished not to put our hopes in tangible things. Places and objects are so incredibly fleeting, that we will always be disappointed. But memories and emotions are so incredibly powerful, that they can always be a part of us. And so we are encouraged to live in the moment, not in the memory of a place, or a time, that has passed and may not longer be physically there. Nor can we live in the expectation of an uncertain future.

I had traveled hundreds of miles, in part, to recreate an experience that was essentially impossible to recreate. It had been one moment in a particular, day, time, and season of my life. And although that past moment was precious, I was in this particular time and in this particular place, fresh and anew. I knew that I needed to embrace the joy of a moment not ever seen, instead of a past that I could not relive. It is a lesson I need to take with me and hide in my heart: the past is precious, but the present is priceless.