Is It The Wind? (A Poem)

The warm sun and

Gentle rain

Spend so much time

Caring for the earth -

The grass, the plants, the flowers.

I wonder if

Tornadoes offend them,

Sun and Rain.

I wonder if,

After all that time

After all that care…

In their eternal dance

The sun, the rain,

The sun, the rain,

Do they feel resentful

Of the Tornado?

So quickly,

So unthinkingly,

Their careful work

Destroyed.

Undone in a moment.

Oh! The grass, the plants,

The colorful little flowers

Blooming just so.

Oh! Precious earth

Thrown about into sudden disorder.

I also wonder if, maybe, just a little,

Although Sun could not do

Without her dance partner

Although Sun has

Destructive power of her own

I wonder if she,

Perhaps,

Just a little,

Just sometimes,

Blames the rain.

"No, Yes, Maybe": biblical meditations on uncertainty

The ancient saying goes, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.” (Proverbs 13:12) But, what did the ancients know about dreams? During times of uncertainty, my dreams call out to me in the wilderness. Dreams protect us against the dark night of the soul and hope deferred. Dreams are much like the suet of a sacrificial animal, the thick fatty substance found around the loins and the kidneys, protecting the most intimate and delicate areas of the body: faith, hope, and love.

My Love, don’t overthink with your head, and tell me, “No.” This will certainly make my heart sick. Tell me: “We shall see…” (1 John 3:2)

I’m afraid of No’s, afraid of being cut off, of endings and walls, afraid of barriers and rejections. Tell me, “We shall see…” and I’ll find my faith again. I’ll dream about you every night.

Don’t go with your gut and tell me, “Yes.” Tell me this certainty instead: “The LORD will give you the desires of your heart.” (Ps. 37:4)

I’m afraid of Yes’s, afraid of commitments and vows, afraid of promises that might get broken. Tell me: “The LORD will give you the desires of your heart.” Then I will find longing and hope again. I’ll dream about everlasting fulfillment.

Don’t tell me with shifting feet, “Maybe.” Tell me, “Love is as strong as death [and a tree of life].” (Song 8:6)

I’m afraid of Maybe’s, of agonizing uncertainty, of death and the unknown. I’m afraid of wavering minds and wavering hearts, and of hope deferred. Instead of Maybe, tell me: “Love is as strong as death,” because uncertainty is only the certainty of change. Uncertainty awakens desire and longing and dreams. Uncertainty is the wilderness where dreams come alive, the place where God spoke and the love longing fulfilled became a tree of life.

Confessions

I’m a part-time youth pastor and admin assistant in a beloved church community (a2blue.org) that is LGBTQIA+ affirming, supports Black Lives Matter, and provides a safe place for me to be open and honest about my history with mental illness. I love the people in this community, many of whom have broken hearts because of religion, and yet choose love over religious creeds. My confessions here will not go into as much detail as those of, for example, Saint Augustine, but I do have a few things to confess.

An Inner Division

I’ve long had doubts about Jesus as the Christian church presents him to the world, as if he were a god on his own. But, I wanted to follow his Word. Even if I had my doubts, I could still do the good advice that he suggests! Give food to the hungry, clothe the naked, visit those in prison, and care for the sick. So, as a social worker, I did all of these things, with special care for those suffering from mental illness. Later, in foster care, I worked to restore the hearts of parents to their children and the hearts of children into a healthy, loving relationship with their parents—through reunion, foster care, or adoption. 

However, all this time that I tried to fulfill the work that God’s prophets call us to do, my personal life was quite conflicted and I often struggled with a heavy burden. The scriptures might call it "worshiping idols," but in simple terms, I felt enslaved to my own impulses and divided from within. When I was younger, I drank alcohol to the point that I would completely lose myself. I would do anything and everything that my impulses said to do, including things that I normally wouldn’t do when sober. Maybe this is often what some young people do, but, even worse than that, in my sober, waking moments, I rivaled with and envied the people that I love the most. Rivalry, envy, and resentment are powerful forces that can divide a body and mind from within.

A friend once told me that she struggled like I knew I struggled. She said she did certain things that she later felt bad about doing. But, then she’d go and do those same things again and again. I once told her: “If you want to do those things, then do them, and don’t feel bad. But, if you don’t want to do them, then don’t do them!” I said this as if it were a very simple solution:

“Let your yes be yes, and your no be no.” (Matthew 5:37)

None of us act on every whim or desire that our body has. But, there can be a great pull stemming from our self-serving drives. These drives are like an evil oppressor who insists on having their own needs met first, and only then attends to others—and only as long as they get something in return (Hey! White supremacy in a nutshell). Yet, all these go against the one command that I believe with all my heart: Love. Love the Lord Your God [and] Love your neighbor as yourself.

A Vision

The Book of John, chapter 8, tells a story that was not part of the original gospels. It's kinda an odd story in the context of the verses around it. It's known as, “The adulterous woman.” The story frames a group of people zealous for the Law as accusers who are testing Jesus, and ask if they should stone an adulterous woman who was just caught in the act. This story has long been interpreted through an anti-Judaism lens by gentile Christians---interpretations which I reject and am constantly unlearning.

However, I also received a vision. For certain reasons, I saw myself as the adulterous woman. My accusers circled around me, asking the rabbi if they should stone me or not. In my vision, Jesus was there, bent down, writing something in the sand. Possibly from my participation in years of therapy, I paused here and wondered: Who are my accusers?! 

Certainly, my accuser was not my husband who loves me, not my friends who do not judge, and not my church either (not to speak for all churches!). No, in that moment, I realized my only “accuser” was the Law of Righteousness written on my own heart. My bad feelings and frustration with my impulses and desires came from my own desire for goodness, decency, and ultimately to love my neighbor as myself. I realized that when I do whatever impulse comes up in me (even if only in my fantasies), I turn against my loved ones to serve myself first. In that case, I do not love my neighbor OR myself.

Because my accusers felt terrifying, I was afraid. And some evil liar tried to tell me that the only way to be *free* was to give in to all my desires: find and do whatever I please.

Yet, here, this one among the doers of the Law of Righteousness (Let’s call it: Torah), a rabbi who fulfilled the law to love your neighbor as yourself, showed God’s compassion on me. This Teacher forgave me and loved me just as I am. He turned to the accusers in my imagination and said, “Let anyone without sin cast the first stone.” One by one, starting with the oldest, they showed compassion on the humanity within us all. Their stones fell to the dust, one by one, until I was alone with my rabbi. He looked at me and said, “Neither do I condemn you. Now, go...” Go, and follow the greatest and first commandment: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, all your mind and all your strength,” and the second like it, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

These are my confessions. Something of me had to die for something else to live. My sanity was restored.

~

Whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord’s. (Romans 14:8)

~

Nothing is unclean in itself; but it is unclean for anyone who thinks it unclean.

(Romans 14:14)

~

Let us then pursue what makes for peace and mutual upbuilding. (Romans 14:19) 

Beginning of Birth Pains: Nation Against Nation

Birth pangs send shooting pain that explodes in the mind, an explosion that begins and ends in the darkness of the womb. New life will overcome it. 

Shots fired from police guns send pangs of death that explode on the bodies of the innocent, the oppressed of the nations, the light of our nation. The light begins and ends in the bodies of the oppressed, and the darkness will not overcome it. 

The surge always begins like this, like a warning or a sign of what is to come. More of this is to come...

~

I-in-You and You-in-Me. The child in the mother, the mother in the child. The mother’s blood poured out, her body broken, for you, new soul, wrapped in the warmth of the womb, waiting. 

I-in-You and You-in-Me, the immigrant child in our nation, the dream of our nation in the immigrant child. The blood of a nation’s promise, the very soul of a nation poured out, broken for you, innocent child, wrapped in a brittle foil blanket surrounded by the cold walls of a cage, waiting.

But, this was only the beginning…

~

“You have to breathe,” the midwife says as unwilling lungs clench tight in the breathless chest with tears streaming down cheeks. The heart rate rises.

“I can’t breathe!” say the victims of state violence with tears streaming down cheeks pressed against pavement. The heart rate rises.

“We can’t breathe!” say our elders and the most vulnerable with tears soaking face masks as a deadly virus spreads among doubters, revelers, and individualists. The heart rate rises.

“They can’t breathe!” we see as they speak out for justice, for peace, as they suffocate on tear gas released for a presidential photo op and $2 dollar toys at Target. We don’t realize that “they” are the heartbeat of us, rising and falling and ever rising again, as our unwilling lungs clench tight in the breathless chest, unwilling to cry or mourn or repent or breathe justice or breathe in peace. 

Tears streaming: no justice, no peace. The heart rate rises... 

~

The surges are coming stronger now so that every thought disappears and there is only an overwhelming, unbearable sensation that seems to last forever. Grab anything--a helpful hand, the bars, the bed sheets. But then the sensation fades and passes, forgotten--until the next surge comes. The doctor sees and says, “There’s still a long way to go.”

They surged against our governor without a thought, calling her, “That woman.” They surged against our state capitol building overwhelming and unbearable, grabbing anything--guns, automatic weapons, flags. But, the sensation of the moment faded and passed, forgotten...until the next surge came.

They stormed the United State’s Capitol without a thought in their minds as the world watched. Overwhelming, unbearable, it seemed to last forever. Grab anything--a hand-held weapon, a Jesus flag, Confederate Trump flag, “Don’t Tread on Me” flag, so as to tread on life-breath-heart beating-bodies and desecrate democracy. But, the sensation, the siege, faded and passed, almost forgotten--until the next surge comes.

The prophets see and say, “The time is near.”

White People on Instagram--We're Standing on Holy Ground with Our Shoes On

We live in a world that puts profit over people and bull markets over breathing souls. A world where screens and mirrors are more important than the humans behind them. When we stand before the Judge on the Day of Judgement, we will hear the words: “Take off your shoes, you are standing on holy ground.” White people posting and protesting for the protection and affirmation of Black lives: We are standing on holy ground — sacred spaces that our people have been trampling on for centuries.

I feel as though I’m walking on sacred ground with my shoes on. Actually, I know I am. Everyday. I walk on land that the Odawa, Ojibwe, Potawatomi, and Wyandot people held sacred for hundreds of years before Ann Arbor was founded as a city. Everyday, I walk on land with a history of segregated housing, redlined communities, and gentrified neighborhoods.

I feel as though I’m walking into a sacred space with unwashed hands, grasping sacred objects and claiming them as my own. I’m a pastor--I hold the sacred stories of another people in my unclean hands. I’ve read sacred words. The sacred stories tell about the ancestors (mine?) who ransacked the Holy of Holies. Today, Christian pastors ransack the holy of holies within vulnerable souls, using sacred writings to justify oppression, and to condemn the most sensitive organs of the human body (our sex and our love) with a one-size-fits-all sledgehammer of condemnation. All this in the name of "Love." Empire engages in the destruction of a holy place, then appropriates the sacred words of the revolution, giving meaningless gestures to soothe the ransacked people. 

I feel as though I’m walking over a sanctified people with my boots on their neck. I know “our” cops stand with boots on people’s necks. I condemn their heinous actions. But, I’m not talking about cops. I’m not talking about our racist, “pussy-grabbing” President either--though his boot is also on our necks. I’m talking about my own new boots. I’m staring at my “perfected” reflection on this iPhone with trendy new protestor’s boots on my feet. The Sanctified People have been speaking, resisting, fighting, and prophesying long before I took my first beautiful-blonde-baby-girl’s breath. But, I can’t see them when I’m busy staring at my own reflection. I don’t want to die--I prefer to share the insights of people who have already died. I prefer trendy protestor’s boots before they are muddied with soot and blood and dirt. I’m too busy walking with my new boots to stop and listen. I’m too busy posting *my* opinions on the matter, and re-posting trendy memes. It’s uncomfortable to look into the eyes (the windows of the soul) of a sanctified people because they might not like me, my opinions, or my memes. So, I gaze at a mirror of my own reflection, new boots and all, and stay safe among easy-going people who look a lot like me. Come to think of it, I always feel victimized when someone asks me to take my boot off their neck. 

I feel as though I’m walking through a sacred moment in time; the day the Lord has made for (un)rest. It’s Judgement Day. I’m unprepared. I’m not ready for justice to rain down like fire. There’s so much work I didn’t do! I knew I needed to do my homework, but I was too busy playing, eating, and shopping last week. I knew people were weary, hungry, and naked. But, now that the time for justice has come, the people on the streets don’t want what I have to give. I’d like to bring “them” in (it’s always they/them/their, except when someone politely asks). Let me open the door of my home that I shut in their face last week. Let me give my extra food I’ve always had to the stranger who I’ve never invited to dinner. The vintage clothing stores are closed (‘cause, the plague), but let me give what I have of last year’s trends. The problem is that the people in the streets on this Sacred Day of (Un)rest don’t want my home, my food, or my coat. So, I’ll join them after I catch up on my homework. I promise I’ll be able to understand. I truly want to be part of this historic moment. I’d like to join the movement. In fact, I’d like to lead. Yes, let me lead. Let me remind you that I’ve always done things the right way--they say my image is pretty perfect. Today is a Sacred Day of (Un)rest. Stop the protests! I need more time to do what I should have done yesterday, but cannot do today. 

The Arrogance of Thinking, "I Don't Really Matter."

Meditating at Dawn

Today, I woke up before dawn. With a hot cup of coffee and a pen in hand, and I'm filled with gratitude. The birds chirp as if to welcome the coming day, joining their simple song with the chorus of angels. My three children sleep soundly. My partner tinkers about in the kitchen, getting ready to work. Life can be good. But, there was a time, the lowest of times and the darkest of nights. My great descent. This was not a moment of loss or illness or disaster. It could have been a night like any other. I felt to the core of my being: “I don’t really matter.” I wonder, now, if this thought has led others to their lowest of lows, to suicide, reckless behavior, or a lifetime of greed. I've also come to realize that this thought is not humility, but quite the opposite: arrogance. When we think, "I don't really matter," what we are really saying is, “I can do what I want.”

Was this one moment, or many? There is only one thing to do when we’ve reached our lowest point: go up. 

In my early morning reading, I discovered this insight — all sin derives from the sin of insignificance. The Chassidic Masters explore this idea from a verse in Leviticus:

"If you will not harken to Me, and walk casually with Me, I too will act casually with you…" (Lev 26:28) 

All sins derive from the sin of insignificance: when a person ceases to be sensitive to the paramount importance which G-d attaches to his life and deeds. “I don’t really matter” is not humility—it is the ultimate arrogance. It really means: “I can do what I want.” The most terrible of punishments is for G-d to indulge the sinner this vanity. For G-d to say: “All right, have it your way; what happens to you is of no significance”—for G-d to act toward him as if He really does not care what happens to him. (The Chassidic Masters) 

The New Revised Standard Version (NRSV) translates Leviticus 26:28: “If you continue hostile to me, then I too will continue hostile to you in a fury...” But, instead of “hostile,” the Chassidim translated this verse as saying, “If you walk casually with Me.” So, there must be a link between hostile fury and treating someone casually.

In the realm of relationships, I've heard that the end of love does not come when a couple argues with each other. When they rage and fight and fury, there is still hope. The secret of their anger is that they still care. The end of a relationship comes when one or both members of the couple turn away. Looking in opposite directions, they have become casual and cold, indifferent to the significance of the other. So, I wonder which translation is better (or which punishment worse)? A casual God or a hostile-with-fury God? What would most likely bring you back? Abraham Heschel wrote, "The secret of anger is God's care."

In my work for justice, there is a rage against the indifference of the rich and privileged. This fury is like God’s fury. This fury is our hope for change. The protest of the oppressed is a thirst and a hunger for justice that Jesus called Blessed (see Ken Wilson's article: "The God-Given Right of Howling Protest"). 

“Blessed are you who hunger and thirst for justice now, for you will be filled” (Luke 6:21).

A society should never fear this type of righteous anger, this howling protest. It's the only antidote to the indifference of the rich and privileged who laugh in the face of suffering and take their fill in the time of hunger. I never before connected my own feelings of insignificance to this height of arrogance. And yet, this is the attitude of the wealthy and privileged today: “I can do what I want.” Anti-racist activists fight against this casual arrogance when the masses of white people remain indifferent to Black lives. This is the casual arrogance of religious condemnation that LGBTQ folks must resist with all their might--our deepest desires do matter. The great significance of our own life and the lives of others should never be treated casually.

I remember some years ago, coming home to my small townhouse in Oak Park, Michigan, after being in the hospital. It was a late afternoon. I looked around at the grey walls and thought of the many moments in this home, and in others before it, when I felt my insignificance: “I don’t really matter.” Something like a prayer surged up within me. With all the fury of righteous indignation and all the passions of divine love, I defied that insignificance. I said aloud, “I want God in this house!” I was humbled and hungry. I also knew without a doubt that I do matter, and what I do matters. This gave a new dimension to the social injustices I have long fought against. Not a single soul is insignificant--including mine.

We descend to ascend. The only thing to do when we’ve reached our lowest point is to go up. Walking forward one day at a time knowing that you matter and that you are not alone. The darkest moments of the night are just before dawn. It’s dark out yet, and my pen's in hand. I hear the song of birds. I write with an awareness of the great significance of our being.

A Rainbow in the Time of COVID-19

I saw a rainbow yesterday. An arc of compassion covering our drowning world. A bow with no arrow. A bow symbolizing peace. The only arrows I see in our quiver (as I quiver) are the children. The rainbow (and our children) are a sign of hope for a world gone wrong.

This virus takes our breath away. The pandemic sweeps through our world like a baptism or a flood, like Noah’s flood. We can’t breathe. Like a flood, the virus does not discriminate, but in our days, the poor die first. The vulnerable, the elderly, and those suffering from the pre-existing conditions of racist oppression are the ones to die first. The wealthy and powerful have fancy arks of their own--secluded mansions with no signs of life, but plentiful access to testing kits, healthcare, and ventilators.

The virus does not care if you are rich or poor, but the poor die first. We cannot breathe. We cannot breathe. “I can’t breathe!” Eric Garner’s last words ring out like an echo through our nation’s history. We are a nation who refuses to see that Black Lives Matter. We profit from prisons, and put children in cages. We are a nation who swims in greed for profit, and then blame the gay.

Why, O Lord, do the righteous suffer while the wicked prosper?

Noah was a righteous man, but only for his time. He obediently saved himself with a bit of an F-you! to the rest of the evil world. But, who are the righteous of our day? Because unlike Noah, Abraham argued against God’s plan for destruction, “Far be it from You to do such a thing!” And Moses pleaded with God after the golden calf, “Have mercy on them, or else blot me out of your book.” On the night of his crucifixion, Jesus prayed, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

O Lord our God, far be it from you to do such a thing. We challenge this divine decree. Have mercy on us, O God. Give us our sight, for we know not what we do.

This virus doesn’t have to be a flood for us to know that we cannot breathe. The rainbow is a sign of hope for a world gone wrong. This is a flood, or perhaps, this is our baptism. When it is over, we will take our first breath, look to the sky, and listen (perhaps, we will finally listen), so that our children may know: 

The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the prisoners and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor. (Isaiah 61:1-2)

God Makes a Way Out of No Way

The enormity of our situation today can be paralyzing. We are not only facing a worldwide Covid-19 health crisis, but also living through the harmful effects of a society that prioritizes the concerns of the wealthy and privileged over the most vulnerable. In short, we face both oppression and plague. People seem to be responding by splitting into four different groups as we face the crisis of this moment:

1. Some are diving into this time of isolation by trying to create sanctuary amidst a world in crisis. Whether creating safe spaces and supportive groups, or by settling in at home.
2. Some are accepting reality and dealing with reality on its own terms--staying alert, gathering information, following the trends and responding accordingly. 
3. Some are out there fighting the necessary battles--whether by working on the front lines or by working to meet the needs of the most vulnerable in our families and our communities. 
4. Some are just scared and anxious, probably all of us at times. In moments like these, many of us call out to God. 

These are all appropriate responses. But, I also recently heard a quote by the poet Mary Oliver and it landed well:

“Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.”

I’m a Youth Pastor (a2blue.org) with a tendency to go deep. My young people like funny stories. So, on a much lighter note, my family and I had a small crisis of our own--we thought we were running out of toilet paper. But, thank the Lord! Our bidet just arrived in the mail. (A bidet, “buh-dei,” is basically a water wash instead of using toilet paper.) We like to joke that we’re taking this whole thing, “Day Bidet.”

Bad jokes aside, it is important to take this day by day. Keep moving forward. One day at a time. As African American Womanist, Monica Coleman, says, “God makes a way out of no way.”

At times like this, we need stories. Personal stories, stories from history, mythical stories, and stories from the Bible. Stories teach us, comfort us, and guide us. The Hebrew Bible tells a story about the Israelites who escaped from harsh oppression and ten plagues. The story goes that the people escaped in a great hurry and had little time to prepare for their new normal out in the wilderness. Then, they came up to the Red Sea with Pharaoh and his army hot on their heels. The people went forward. They put their feet into the water. Miraculously, the LORD split the Red Sea, and they were able to walk through safely on dry land. This story, told and retold, gives hope for each and every generation facing the crises of their own times. This miracle gives hope that God will make a way for us.

I also want to dig deeper. Just before the Red Sea split, the people faced a critical moment. They found themselves caught at the sea with oppressive forces closing in. There is an ancient Jewish commentary on the Bible, a Midrash, that teaches that at this very moment, the people split into four factions. The first of the four factions wanted to dive headfirst into the sea. The second group wanted to accept reality and return to Egypt. The third group wanted to wage war against Pharaoh and his army. It says the fourth group cried out to God. But in Exodus 14:15, we read that God said to Moses: “Why do you cry out to Me? Speak to the children, that they should go forward!”

The Rabbis taught that we are not to escape reality, not to submit to it, not to wage war, and not to deal with it only on a spiritual level, but to go forth. God-with-us. Day by day. One day at a time. 

I’ve been reading the Sarum Prayer daily. The five lines of this prayer speak to the five different ways that we might be responding to this moment in time. So, let’s end with the Sarum Prayer:

God be in my head, and in my understanding. Let us create holy sanctuary amidst a world in crisis. It’s important to create safe spaces, especially when you are vulnerable or part of a targeted group.

God be in my eyes and in my looking. We must see reality as it is, and deal with reality on it’s own terms. Pay attention. Stay awake.

God be in my mouth and in my speaking. It’s necessary to wage war against evil, and the tongue can be like a sword. Speak truth to power in times like these.

God be in my heart, and in my thinking. It’s important to recognize that we cannot go this alone, and we can always appeal to God for help with our hearts and minds. There is incredible power in a single prayer.

The last line of the Sarum Prayer says: God be at my end, and at my departing. This teaches that we stand together with our head, our eyes, our mouth, and our heart and then go forward with our feet. Do justice. Love kindness. Walk humbly. 

God makes a way out of no way.

God: A Boss or in Solidarity with the Oppressed?

The hands from Michelangelo's Creation of Adam 

Assigning an Identity to God

In a recent article, a Stanford psychologist found that the identity U.S. Christians make of God is the same identity they attribute to a boss. Dr. Roberts found it somewhat shocking that U.S. Christians explicitly attribute a race and a gender to God--and found this has real world consequences. He summarized in this way, “Basically, if you believe that a white man rules the heavens, you are more likely to believe that white men should rule on Earth.”

Three men founded the church I grew up in: a Jewish man, a black man, and a white man. Our church, or fellowship, as it was called, belonged to a larger ecumenical, charismatic Christian community in the diverse college town of Ann Arbor, Michigan. This Christian community, The Word of God, had weekly prayer meetings, common households, and a mission. Catholics and Protestants of different denominations came together to experience the movement of the Holy Spirit. It was an idealistic community where people gave their lives for the Lord. “God loves all people,” they impressed upon me. And I believed them. I remember being in Kindergarten and opening my first Bible with great enthusiasm as though it held the key to God’s love for all people--and for me. 

The Hebrew Bible that Christians cherish commands us to create no image of God. But, the Stanford study shows that U.S. Christians certainly do--and attribute that image to positions of authority. In our Christian community there was a strict gendered hierarchy. Men were called Heads (as in the “head” of their household or some as District Heads--leaders over a hierarchy of members in various districts). The women were called Handmaidens, and wore headscarves during worship. Each member was assigned a spiritual leader who had the power to interpret God’s will for their lives. As it grew, a restrictive power structure evolved. The Word of God was investigated as a cult by the Roman Catholic Church and the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod in the 1980’s. These were the formative years of my childhood.

When we imagine a gender or racial identity in God, we are saying something about who has (or should) hold power on earth. Reflecting on the incarnation, my mother once told me, “If God came through someone in the U.S., God would probably come as a working-class Black woman.” Today, she'd likely add queer to her list. In her own way, she was exploring this idea from the Stanford research--that the characteristics we attribute to God translate to real-world views. In consideration of current hierarchies, her view begs the question: Is God a boss or a living God who moves in solidarity with the oppressed?

Trumpism Today 

Not all, but many of the charismatics from my childhood are now part of the Religious Right. These people, my people, elected Trump. Fighting abortion is the rallying cry. But, the seeds of Trumpism were planted long ago. I more recently learned that the highest levels of leadership in the Word of God in the 1970’s and ‘80’s believed they had a mission to fight against four “evils” in society: Feminism, Islam, Humanism, and the “gay agenda.”

As a child of the Word of God, I often wonder about the young people involved. How did this conservative community, set in a diverse college town, growing into the thousands and spreading around the world through The Sword of the Spirit, shape it's young people? 

Cut to almost 40 years later…

The three founding members of my childhood church have gone their own ways, but to my knowledge, all three oppose Trump. In fact, today, I work with one of them. He lost the church he founded over his advocacy for LGBTQ+ people, and is now a co-pastor with an amazing, queer, woman who I admire, Emily Swan. And as for me, the four "evils" the Word of God fought against did not stick. I'm a social worker turned pastor, striving to be an antiracist feminist, fighting against bigotry--including Islamophobia. I’m married to an agnostic doctor, and belong to a fully affirming LGBTQ+ inclusive church. However, remnants of my childhood remain: building Beloved Community, believing in God’s love for all people, and careful study of the Bible.

God Lives in Solidarity

A powerfully subversive message drives our work at Blue Ocean Faith Ann Arbor, and is summed up in a New Testament parable: “Whatever you did to the least of these, you did to me.” (Matthew 25:40) This does not say: Make the least of these more like you. It positions the Highest Power as One among us with the least. It requires action. It means there’s nothing wrong with those we've considered “the least of these.” Rather, there is something wrong with us when we stand by and do nothing while people around us get the short end of the power stick.

Perhaps the U.S. Christian image of God is reflected in the identity of their chosen leader: a wealthy, white, male president who "gets things done"—one who fights against women’s rights, Islam, climate change, and LGBTQ+ people. But, I have found a community of people, a gathering of exiles, who believe that God lives in solidarity with the oppressed. 

My People in the Religious Right: A Stiff Necked People

 ...more like a man, 

Flying from something he dreads than one 

Who sought the thing he loved. 

-William Wordsworth

Imagine a young boy in a youth group fired up for Christ. This boy finds belonging and a love for God. Yet, here and there and, in hindsight, everywhere, toxic anti-gay messages have been peppered throughout as a constant threat to belonging. These messages are absorbed into the subconscious, like drinking water sprinkled with powdered kool aid. When he grows up and can (at last!) self-define, this young man recognizes the harm done. He can see it has not only harmed him, but the ones he loves. He speaks to the people about their harm. They refuse to listen. He rebukes them. They refuse to listen. So, he rejects all things spiritual because of this great harm done to the soul--much like a man flying from the thing he dreads. Yet, “aversiveness always conceals a lure.” There remains a hidden longing: for sanctification, holiness, and affirmation from God and community. 

I’m a Youth Pastor for a church with 30% LGBTQ and 70% allies (a2blue.org). I hear stories like this because traumatized people have found a safe space to share them. Youth groups and Bible stories can be captivating to young people at a time when belonging is essential. But, there is no denying that religion can be exclusive, toxic, and harmful to people in the margins. To read these texts and be moved by them when you belong to an excluded group, requires a different way of reading. There must come a deep acceptance of self and centering of exiled people. One must cultivate an awareness of the hidden, unspoken, and equally valid points of view not explicit in the written text. We read the stories as inhabiting the full human spectrum. Ultimately, the heart of scripture is the command to love. All people are made in the divine image. Time and time again, we learn: God calls us by name. 

Imagine another young man. He finally decides to come out to his conservative parents. He found the person he wants to spend the rest of his life with. He is deeply in love. The young man decides to make this love, this inward grace, visible through the sacrament of marriage. So, he asks his parents to come to his wedding. They refuse. Flying from the thing they dread, they fix themselves to certain pieties. The parents have built up for themselves a certainty that this is the God, and so give up their most beloved possession, their own son. 

In the book of Exodus, God describes the people as an intransigent people who cling to the pieties of the past; a people who refuse to hear those who would rebuke them; a people who are loyal to a fault. It is written:

“I have seen these people,” the Lord said to Moses, “and they are a stiff-necked people. Now leave me alone so that my anger may burn against them…” (Exodus 32:9)

This verse comes from the story in Exodus just after they built the Golden Calf. The event is often considered a fickleness, an adulterous turning from the living God to worship other “not-gods.” In this verse, however, God describes another side to their idolatry: “stiff-necked.” In Rashi’s words: “They turn the stiff back of their necks toward those who would rebuke them and refuse to listen” (my italics). In a remarkable turn of events, the people who just declared, “we will hear,” refuse to listen. 

Avivah Gottlieb Zornberg articulates this concept well. She writes, 

“If the implications of the “stiff neck” are taken seriously, then, they disturb a primary notion of idolatry as infidelity. Perhaps, after all, the people are all too pious in their attachments? Perhaps they have never, in fact, left [that enslaving nation], that place of the deaf and dumb and the callous hearted?” (409, The Particulars of Rapture) 

Rather than a fickle turning to a new deity, the image of the stiff-neck is clinging to a previous attachment with a callous heart. 

We must wonder how long it took. How long from the time the people received the revelation, declaring, “We will do and we will hear!” (Ex. 19:8) and this stubborn clinging to old pieties (Ex. 32:9)? A midrash suggests 40 days, two days, half a day…(perhaps two thousand years?). The people had an inkling that the prophet was delayed, and so they threw their most precious possessions into the fire saying with certainty, “This is the God…” 

When Moses returns and sees the people, he breaks the tablets at the foot of the mountain. In a gruesome description, he grinds the Golden Calf, sprinkles it into the water, and makes the people drink it (Ex. 32:20). I wonder if this action is a possible therapeutic antidote to their actions. It’s an eye-opener for sure. This time, they taste the “kool aid” in full awareness of its toxicity. 

Nevertheless, Moses pleads with God for forgiveness and mercy on the people. In the biblical story (and for some today), the people repent. Their fixed pieties cease to hold power. A new relationship with God and neighbor is made possible. Far from relying on certainties, they finally open their ears to hear. 

Listening to the untold stories, like the boy in the youth group or a young man in love, makes way for a deep knowing, to your core, that your friends who are being excluded definitively belong to God’s beloved community, in full inclusion. Biblical stories take on new meaning. Most importantly, the too often silenced exiles and their stories come to be centered as the most precious part of the whole--sanctified, holy, and affirmed.

Babies Wedged In Border Walls

(Children playing on seesaws along border wall, police standing by)
AP Image from Daily Sabah

Children play on seesaws at the border wall. Words, like a seesaws, from ancient Midrash to modern day, take us back and forth, up and down, so that what was then is now, and what is now was also then:

“The more they were oppressed, the more they increased and spread out, so that the citizens were sickened by the foreigners” (Exodus 1:12).

The text describes this foreign people who lived in the land as “swarming hoards,” a fertile and fruitful people that increased greatly, even under harsh oppression, so that the land was filled with them. We, the readers of the text, have to ask, who are these people today? Who are the hard working people from distant lands who have increased and spread out? Who are the citizens that were sickened by them?

Perhaps, they are the people being rounded up at workplaces by the hundreds, their lives wedged into the bricks of our American walls and store cities. Perhaps, they are the strangers among us whose blood police have spilled into the dirt with impunity. Perhaps, they are the gay members at a church who reveal fruits of the spirit in their relationships and their lives, only to be expelled from the pews with a slanderous word.

He, the powerful ruler, was described as slanderous and hard hearted. Did he have an orange hue? Did he grimace and scowl? The scripture says he, this ancient ruler, built profitable store cities. His buildings were made through harsh and exploitative labor. His walls were made with brick and clay. His police would strangle and suffocate the working people in the walls, between the bricks.

The Midrash, like a stone in the water, sends ripples to the shoreline of this very moment in time:

Said Rabbi Akiva: Pharaoh’s police would strangle the Israelites in the walls of the buildings, between the bricks. And they would cry out from within the walls and God would hear their moaning, as it is said, “And God heard their moaning and God remembered...” (2:24)                                                  [Perke d’Rabbi Eliezer, 48]. 

This great wall suffocates and strangles God’s people. It seems America is like a child who loves to hear the same story over and over—because this same story is happening today. 

God says to those crying out from within the walls that they will know Him by His name: “I shall be with you.” God told the great redeemer of God’s people God’s name: “I will be what I will be” or “I am who I am.” The prophet knew this meant God would be with them now and with them in the future—and, unbearably, this meant it was going to get worse. So, he told the people only the first part, “I AM sent me to you” (Exodus 3:14).

It got worse.

The ruler advocated for the children to be separated from their parents. He ordered the “border guards”—midwives who stand on the border of the womb and the world—to separate the babies from their parents when they arrived! But, the midwife-border guards in the sacred text feared God and did not do what their ruler commanded.

Says the Midrash Yalkut Shimeoni Shemoth: God brought the matter before all the guardian angels of the nations, and He explained the case to the guardian angels of the nations. He explained the matter of enslavement and buildings, of drowning babies in rivers. And the guardian angel of the enslavers stepped forward. This angel proclaimed God’s justice and God’s truth, but begged: “If you please, save the foreigners, but don’t destroy [this] nation.” Which nation?! Our nation? Do we send our angels to beg God not to destroy this great nation and our profitable store cities?

It got even worse. The midrash continues almost unbearably, describing a baby wedged in brick…

Said Rabbi Joshua Ben Levi: When the Angel, Michael saw that the angels of the nations were supporting the Egyptian case, he made a sign to the angel Gabriel, who flew to Egypt in one swoop, and extracted from a building one brick with its clay and with one baby that they had wedged into the building. He said, “Master of the universe, this is the story of how they enslaved your children.”

It says: 

Immediately, Egypt drowned in the Red Sea; [that is…] the clay that Gabriel brought caused Egypt to drown.                                                [Yalkut Shimeoni Shemoth 247]

What is the way through this horror story which mirrors our own? Where is the hope and redemption of our tale? We are in the middle of it, and we cannot say the end. But, the text has a hopeful ending…

The book of Exodus tells a story of one foreign baby wedged in a box lined with clay, placed on the river among the reeds. The English translations say it was a basket. It was not a basket. It was a box (tebah: a box/ark). A box lined with clay. There was a baby wedged in this brick. In his brick-box-ark lined with pitch and clay, his mother—the mother of a three month old—placed her beloved infant in a box in the river among the reeds, praying for redemption.

I suppose time will tell the rest.

Today, my three month old rocks in a swing and I know that the children will play. They will play with the stories we tell, and they will play on seesaws along our monstrous walls. The child in me also plays; I play with words. I read these stories and their midrash with a childlike wonder: How did they know to tell our story so many centuries ago? And how did we know to hear their story as our own? Like a seesaw from the past to the present to the past. These stories are the stories of our times. 

Three Parables: "Who Is My Neighbor?"

1996, Keshia Thomas protects man at KKK rally.
Photo by Mark Brunner.

Just then a lawyer stood up to test him. “Teacher,” he said, “what must I do to inherit eternal life?” He said to him, “What is written in the law? What do you read there?” He answered, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” And he said to him, “You have given the right answer; do this, and you will live.” But wanting to justify himself, the lawyer asked, “And who is my neighbor?” The teacher replied…(Luke 10:25–28 NRSV)

A child was coming from Venezuela to the U.S.-Mexico border, and fell into the hands of robbers who stripped her from her mother, beat her, and went away leaving her half dead. Now, by chance a Catholic Priest was going along the road; and when he saw her, he passed by on the other side. So likewise an Evangelical Pastor, when he came to the place and saw her, passed by on the other side. But, a Muslim while traveling came near her; and when he saw her, he was moved with pity. He went to her and bandaged her wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put her in his own car, brought her safely to a nearby Bed and Breakfast, and took care of her. The next day, he exchanged his money — Syrian Pounds for U.S. Dollars — and gave it to the owner of the B&B, and said, “Take care of her; and when I come back, I will repay whatever you spend.”

Which of these three was a neighbor to the one who fell into the hands of robbers?

 It happened again…

A Black trans woman was coming down from Pacific Heights to the Castro District in San Francisco, and fell into the hands of robbers who stripped her naked, beat her, and went away leaving her half dead. Now, by chance a Black preacher was going down that road; and when he saw her, he passed by on the other side. So likewise a feminist, when she came to the place and saw her, passed by on the other side. But, a poor man — an atheist, while traveling came near her; and when he saw her, he was moved with pity. He went to her and bandaged her wounds, having poured oil and wine on them. Then he put the woman on his own bike, brought her safely to a motel, and took care of her. The next day, he took out his wages and gave to the owner of the motel, and said, “Take care of her; and when I come back, I will repay whatever you spend.”

Which of these three was a neighbor to the one who fell into the hands of robbers?

And, in 1996…

A middle aged white man wearing a t-shirt with a confederate flag and an SS tattoo was coming along the path from Detroit to Ann Arbor, Michigan, to rally with the KKK. He fell into the hands of protesters who wanted to beat him (to teach him). Now, by chance, a white liberal from the city was going down that road; and when she saw them, she passed by on the other side. So likewise a white conservative from the suburbs, when she came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But, an 18-year old Black woman who was there came near him; and when she saw him, she was moved with pity. She went to him, put herself in front of him to stop the beating, and covered his wounds. She brought him to safety saying to the crowd: “You can’t beat goodness into a person!”

The next day, she returned to him, to his children, and his children's children.

The story ends in the Gospel of Luke 10:36–37:

“Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the one who fell into the hands of the robbers?” 

The expert in the law replied, “The one who showed mercy.”  

“Go and do likewise.”

The Power of Desire*

I look at an image of your face. 

You have eyes that cannot see (me) 

And ears that cannot hear (me). 

I have worshiped idols. 

But…your verboten voice, to me, 

Was like the morning dew, 

A sign of blessing to the world. 

Awakening inner vitality, only to disappear. 

The tenor of your voice, like a hint, 

Suggestive of love and beauty, 

Having done that work, 

Vanished from recognition. 

Say the Rabbis: 

“‘Yours is the dew of your youth’: 

Your youthful sins acted like dew-- 

They roused you to search for God.” 1

Your voice (& eyes & ears) awakened in me 

The power of desire. 

Through promise and frustration, 

They roused me to search for God. 

“I will be as dew to Israel,” says the Lord 2 

A hint, like perfume;

A word or two is enough; 

A whiff of perfume that lingers. 

I ask in mourning, dew on my cheeks: 

“Would you say I bear guilt all these years 

For having worshipped idols?” 3

God reassured Abraham: 

“Yours is the dew of your youth” (Ps. 110:3). 

Even as dew evaporates, 

So our sins may evaporate, 

As was for Abraham and his many sons, 

(O daughters!) 

Do not rejoice over me. 

Do not rejoice, my enemy! 4

Though I’ve fallen in darkness, 

I will rise again. 

Say the Rabbis: “If I had not fallen 

I should not have risen up; 

If I had not sat in darkness, 

God would not be my light.” 5

______________________________

1. 165, The Murmuring Deep
2. Hosea 14:6
3. Bereshit Rabbah 39:9
4. Micah 7:8
5. Yalkut Tehillim 628


* Title: The Power of Desire "The only thing to be done with sinful behavior is to stop it, to repent for it, and never to return to it. As for the power of desire that leads to the sin, it has significantly more positive possibilities" (Chabad.org).

Bull in a China Shop

photo by matthais jordache on unsplash

"Delicious"

I can’t cook a meal without messing it up.

I burn.
I overpour.
I leave out something essential.

I don’t always cook for myself. Sometimes, I create meals for others. My ambition for perfection and over-correcting for mistakes inevitably leaves me asking for forgiveness before we even sit down to eat. But, I can’t leave it at one apology. After each bite, I look for signs and feedback. Anxiously, I interpret every response:

Slow chewing.
A napkin to the lips.
A cough.

Would I overdo it if I asked what they really think? It’s a disaster!...Did I say that out loud? No, no, it’s fine, they say. Really, it’s delicious.

I can’t cook a meal without messing it up. But, we have to eat. And, sometimes, I create meals for others for the soul purpose...excuse me, I mean, the sole purpose of hearing that precious word, “Delicious.”

***

photo from richard gatley on upsplash

"Beautiful"

Sometimes, when there is a very special or important event, I wear makeup. Wearing makeup is like painting the image in your mind onto a canvas. It’s an art form. To perfectly apply the various powders, pencils, and paints should result in an effortless looking beauty. You don’t want people to notice the makeup, but, rather, you want them to see the elegant you more clearly. You want your natural beauty to shine through. It is an art form of tenderness and care.

When I have a very important event I get nervous and I’m usually running late. First, I scrub my face clean. I sit down in front of the mirror. I tell myself, looking straight in the eye, perfection is the goal.

Inevitably, I overdo the powder. So, I put lotion over it and my face looks shiny, almost oily. I add more powder and it creates a thick skin-colored layered goo on my face. I wipe it hard. My skin becomes blotchy and raw. Next, the blush, intended to give me a youthful glow and ruddy cheeked vibrance, sticks to the caked powder and ends up as a dark smear of rose too high on my cheekbones. Often, my eyeshadow turns into a bruised look, and the eyeliner, so flawlessly drawn on one eye, is smeared and uneven on the other. I don’t even try the lipliner. I assume you can’t go wrong with lipgloss. You can.

I’m usually running late, so I give up and go. Would it be socially awkward to ask people to forgive the state of your face at a special event? I make up for my failures in the art form of beauty application by being as kind and agreeable as I can. I’m always hoping people will look past my failures with cover-up and concealer. I try to hide, afraid they will see my nakedness. At these special events, I find myself listening, straining my ears in hopes of hearing someone, anyone, say, “Beautiful.”

***

photo by stephane yaich on unsplash

Broken Glass Everywhere

I broke my friend’s mother’s inherited vase. It was a beautiful blue porcelain painted with yellow flowers. Daffodils, my favorite. At the time, I was a little out of my mind. Yes, I had had a few glasses of wine. But, I was also feeling restless, needy, and wanting so badly to create a good impression.

We were dancing in the living room. It was late. His mother was out of town. He asked if he could kiss me. This startled me because we were good friends. I stumbled backwards and crashed into his mother’s curio cabinet. A precious vase, given to her by his late grandmother, suddenly crashed to the floor.

Frantically, I knelt down to clean it up. I used my hands and cut myself. The blood stained the cream colored carpet. I grabbed the first thing I could find to wash the stain and ended up rubbing the blood with beer. He told me that he would take care of it.

"You should go home," he said.

I left in a daze. I couldn’t get the vase out of my mind. Surely, there was some way I could fix it. Years went by. He never called. I was embarrassed. I couldn’t stop thinking about that broken vase and those shattered pieces of porcelain--yellow narcissus flowers painted over a wash of baby blue.

One day, I drove past his mother’s house again. I remembered his bedroom window. I thought maybe if I used these small pebbles I could throw them at his window to get his attention. If he would only turn back those heavy curtains and open his window, I could tell him I was sorry.

I stood there in the middle of the day, with the sun shining down. I wondered what he would think if he knew I was here, at his mother’s house again,

...and I just broke the second story bedroom window.

Black Trans Woman is GOD

Your feminine presence in the room (Shekhinah)
Hovers over the mind of each soul
Accompanied by our fears,
Also by my reverence and awe.

For the many, you are a mythical creature
Who, in the contradiction of
Your living, breathing presence,
The mob seeks to kill.

You wear a garment of great earthly beauty.
We claim to have your hidden places,
Your covered parts, Your Mystery,
Within our callused hands.

Like a verse of holy scripture used as a knife,
We cut your wholeness into pieces.

We consume the male and female broken like bread,
Along with your blood in this cup.

Blood is poured out for the many
For the forgiveness of sins. 
--ENOUGH!--
[El Shaddai] is our G-d.
[El Shaddai] is one.

A Holy Name: “G-d Almighty,”
“Big Breasted One.” “All Sufficient One.”
Assigned male at birth
In the beginning with the word.

You dwell in thick darkness, in your skin
Arafel, dark cloud, of the Hebrew sort, 1 Kings 8.
Your name, to me, means “innocent” or “lamb”
And when I touched your hand, it was soft.

Lamb, You are Sufficient.
You are God-With-Us.
The Incarnation.
The Black Trans Woman is God

***

[Note: This poem was inspired by an activist I met some years ago. I’m also taking a Hebrew class learning letters, the root meaning of words, and their gendered forms. The Shekhinah (the presence of God in the world) and El Shaddai are Hebrew words for God in the feminine form.]

God Experiences: Can we trust our own minds?

24 Feb 2019—Blue Ocean Faith Ann Arbor Sermon from Blue Ocean Faith Ann Arbor on Vimeo.

Divine Being and Mythical Creatures

Part 1

I once read a short story about a content fisherman. One day, he saw a mermaid and she disappeared. He became obsessed with finding her again and deteriorated in the process--his longing for her destroying him. Then I wrote a short story. This story is also about a seeker, much like one searching for a mermaid or the mythical city Atlantis. But this story is of one who lives far from the sea...

Our seeker began in the desert village where she had grown up. It was a dry and barren land where people drank whiskey while dancing in the light of campfires to the music of stringed instruments and goatskin drums. Smoke could often be seen rising up along with a word or two of spoken wisdom.

She heard a legend of a utopian place hidden far inland. This place was often talked about among her older friends, and exists in the cloud covered climax of an unknown mountain. There, legend tells, a waterfall pours into a pristine lake guarded by two trees and is surrounded by a grassy field.

“The map is written on the body,” her friend alluded as she gave the map which had passed this way by friend to friend as long as anyone could remember.

She brought a book for reading and the map to be her guide. It would be too hot to start in the middle of the day. She began at dusk. Just as she came to the fence, the meeting place, she looked out across the desert in the direction her map would take her. Past the prickly pairs and the saguaro cacti, she saw a starling image on the horizon. A black stallion. Its galloping silhouette dark against the expanse of the setting sun.

In front of her, there at the fence, stood a young donkey tied with a rope. She introduced herself by showing her hands. Its nose was soft. It was alert to her every move, but seemed trusting. From her hyper-religious background, she remembered a biblical moment when He came into Jerusalem on a young donkey and all the people shouted “Hosanna.” What a different story she had to tell.

She secured her burden on it’s back. They began their journey.

They moved through the desert under the stars for a long time that first night. She eventually found a place to sleep. She had always day-dreamed of riding a horse through the open desert, wind in her hair, barebacked, and galloping at full speed. She thought it would feel like flying. That night, she dreamt fitfully.

The first day, the map brought her to the long flowing grasses of the nearest plains. The grass moved in the wind looking like waves in the ocean.

Eventually, she came to the place of two crystal clear ponds, side by side. They reflected a dark gray sky above surrounded by brighter, white clouds. She rested there for a while. She prayed. It was as if she could dive into the very soul of humanity as she gazed into these strange ponds. They mirrored back a certain truth from her downcast eyes. She felt strangely alive in them.

They continued on their journey over a small hill where the wind blew like the breath of God and smelled of recent rain and creosote bush.

The ground lifted and gave way into a canyon surrounded by rocky terrain. The white rocks bleached from the sun were piled almost on top of each other. There was a reddish brown swamp at the bottom of the canyon. It was hard to see how deep it went. The wind seemed to sing or whistle as it rushed through the depths of the hollows.

On they journeyed, down a long, narrow ravine and the vastness of the landscape began to change and shift.

In the distance, two sloping mountains, smooth and round, rose up. From the peak, she could see a herd of horses galloping through the grassy flatlands. She searched them hopefully as the herd flowed and danced together in a seemingly choreographed chase.

The smooth stretch of land ahead had been grazed over, perhaps by the horses, or sheep that had also come this way. She and the donkey travelled along. During the day she used her map and looked for landmarks. They walked through the night with the stars to guide them. She often found herself scanning the horizon for another glimpse of that compelling creature, ready at a moment’s notice to throw the map aside and run with the mares.

Eventually, she came to a small signpost in the middle of the flat plains. It was a human touch in the untouched wilderness. The post looked like a cross stuck into the ground, but there was a flat wooden circle nailed to the top of the criss-crossed wood. It made her think of the circle of life, or the cycles of life, or the cyclical nature of time. She realized this was the trailhead marker. She could see it on her map, and here it was in person. When she came close to it, she wiped away the dust on the circular sign and realized it was covered with aluminum. She could see her reflection, and in that reflection, she could see her mother, her grandmother, and on and on into the ancient past of all the mothers who lived in her, before her, and of all the generations yet to come through her. 

Just beyond the sign, in the low grasses, she could make out the trail—and it was a straight and narrow path.

She followed the trail in the darkest part of the night, which is just before dawn. She came up over a slope and looking down she could see two tall trees as looming shadows in the distance. The trail disappeared between them.

Part 2

Just before she entered the woods, she glanced back along the horizon. Bright orange and red hues were growing increasingly vibrant in the night sky. With great surprise, she saw the stallion again galloping in the distance. Other horses, mares perhaps, could be made out chasing him as he flew past. She thought she saw a glint of light reflected near his forehead before he disappeared again. In her mind’s eye, she could still see the stallion’s graceful movements.

The ball of a fiery sun came up slowly like a chariot with red and orange splashes of color racing out in front of it. The purple, gray and midnight blues of the dome above her were being transformed into morning. She looked at the map to orient herself. The map, like the donkey, was reliable and steady. Her heart beat wild and reckless, like the stomping thunder of racing horses.

The donkey continued confidently on its feet marching through the morning dew. Surefooted. Humble. Trustworthy. It carried all that was ever needed--the tent, a sleeping bag, and clothes for modesty and warmth. It also carried water, bread and fruit, bittersweet chocolate, lilac wine and stringed instruments to make a mournful song when she felt lonely or sad. She decided not to look back. Carrying her burden, the donkey moved with her into the woods and she used her hand to guide it along the trail. She glanced at the length of the wood as she passed by the two cedars standing tall like two long legs of a sentinel.

The sun continued to rise, but she could not see what was ahead through the thickness of the trees. Her heart began to beat faster as she moved through the thicket. The trail seemed to be rising up, growing steeper as she climbed. She climbed. And climbed. Suddenly, the thick trees and overgrown bushes gave way to a vast open area. The sun shone brightly and the birds were singing like a chorus of angels.

The colors were vibrant. Birds of Paradise and other enormous flowers surrounded the lake. Within the flowers, she could see the yellow pollen dusting the tips of the stamens which gracefully arched down into the center of the flower where all parts connected together as one. And from the center of the flowers, she could see the stems and the stigma surrounded by colorful petals and all of it reaching toward the sky. Water poured out of a crevice in the rock high above, crashing down in a crescendo as she moved in closer. The waterfall poured into the lake creating foamy white bubbles in the deep and still waters. Ripples formed along the water’s surface spreading out in concentric circles. She waded in. There was a remarkable peacefulness in this place. Hope. Completeness. Love.

The donkey’s eyes were round dark pools, and surrounded by thick lashes. It’s nose was soft and reassuring. She took her burden off it’s back. She laid the items on the grass next to the gentle waters.

“We’ll stay,” she said decisively.

Then, and she thought it was only in her imagination, beyond the soothing sounds of the falling water, the chirping crickets and songbirds, beyond the wind moving through the trees, she thought she heard a faint and distant neigh of the stallion. For some reason, in this mystical place, she felt convinced she had seen a unicorn. She shook her head. Unicorns are mythical creatures. But, remarkably, the map proved true and this place was real.

Overcome with gratitude, she put the map in her book for safe keeping. When she returned at last, she would discover it’s metaphor. She kept it hidden within the pages, with the hope that one day a friend might learn of this utopian place. They’d need a map to get there.

A Caterpillar's Bible

“Is this depression?” Eva wondered as her body inched forward. She had to drag every ounce across the wooden walkway that felt rough under her feet and seemed to go on forever. Dark shadows above her seemed to swoop and sway menacingly. She wanted to disappear, but she was also starving. Hunger was the only thing that willed her to go on. This hunger guided her like an invisible sign pointing the way or a silent urging call. She turned slowly down a more narrow path, still on scratchy wood, still rough on her feet.

She saw something thin and flat waving in the wind, like paper. It was green. When she strained her neck, she could see hundreds of these pages floating around and above her. The words of life seemed to be written on them and she could see the words reflecting and glittering in the sun. She took a slow and careful bite. She chewed for a long time, trying to make sense of it, trying to digest it. Her body began to feel heavier than ever before, but her mind felt different. For the first time, she experienced a glimmer of hope. So accustomed to downward spiraling thoughts that seemed to form a rope around her body, she suddenly knew that her useless hands and stubborn, slow, heavy body could never stop her from eating these green pages with the words of life glittering on them. Almost unable, she kept moving ahead.

She ate. She ate the words. She ate more and more and more. Her body grew bigger and slower, but her mind felt lighter and almost free. She consumed these pages without a thought anymore to the swooping shadows and darkness that threatened above her. It was as if the pages provided shelter — from enemies and from the storm. She chewed and swallowed. Again. And again. She grew, bigger, slower, and heavier.

One morning, when she woke up, she couldn’t move. She couldn’t go another inch. The leafy pages around her and above her still danced in the wind. She wanted more, but her body had finally won. She couldn’t move. She began to cry. Her tears poured out like the rain that pitter-pattered on the leafy papers, now a thousand umbrellas to shelter her. She cried hard, pouring out all of her depression and all of her newly awakened mind. She cried all the weight of her heavy body into those tears. Written in those tears were the words of life. She lay her life down, and it felt like death. She closed her eyes and still the tears poured out of her like silken words and she began to weave them around herself. She spun the weight of her helplessness. She spun the heaviness of her depression. She spun all the thickness of her body and being around and around her — like a cocoon.

It was dark and silent. She could see nothing anymore, as if the words of life were wrapped tightly around her very soul. Somehow, she knew that to the world (and those dancing green pages, and those swooping shadows), she no longer existed. And yet, she began to think that all the colors of light were somehow wrapped inside the great absence of color that surrounded her. Although her eyes were closed and her body paralyzed, she started to feel all the color of the rainbow write itself into her skin.

A day passed. Maybe a week. Could have been years. She was suddenly filled with an insatiable thirst. This thirst, like an invisible sign or a silent urging call, willed her to go on. “Be brave,” her thirst seemed to say. “Don’t be afraid,” it said. And then, “The burden I give you is light.” Remembering, she took a slow and careful bite. She chewed for a long time trying to make sense of it, trying to digest it. But, there was nothing in this bite. The words of life that had wrapped around her were no longer outside her in this empty, dry casing, but rather had found their way somewhere else. So, she broke the casing. She pushed and pulled her way through. She felt vulnerable but brave. Hopeful and unafraid.

She opened her eyes, but all was dark in the world. No clouds, or moon, or stars. She stretched her arms and prepared as if to dance. For the first time her body did not feel so heavy. Her depression did not feel so eternal. She could feel the rough scratchy wood under her feet again. She took a deep breath and she felt joy surge in her heart. Now, she could feel the wind. Wind in her hair. Wind under her feet.

Purple and pink began to spread out before her. Then, orange and red. Then a fiery burning, unquenchable light broke through the darkness. The light was with her and the light of the words of life could be seen by all the universe, written on her humble and eternal wings.