Everyone Else’s Home

I met a dog named Bill today in an antique home in Ledyard. A sweet, gentle 30- something school biology teacher newly living her nature filled country life, toured me around her 100 year old house. Straight out of an Andrew Wyeth painting, the soft colors and crooked floors give a sigh to simpler times. She is hurriedly showing me where everything is located, including the game of Yahtzee if I want to! She wants me to feel at home.

It’s hours later and I’m giggling about the things she wanted me to see, just in case! Pool noodles in the shed, where the snake lives by the pool, the vegetable garden- in case the tomatoes are ripe and I want one. So many houses I’ve been touring lately for my pet sitting business. The meet and greet tours go all kinds of ways. It’s interesting what people find important to tell me about because more than anything, they want me to be comfortable. I feel welcomed in everyone else’s home but my own... until now.

Last night I slept in my new apartment. Not just my new bedroom but my living space. I spent the last few years looking for housing. This last year, deadlines were set and finding housing before my finances could be settled was a nightmare. But I prayed for it. I asked for God to catch me. I made the leap. I trusted that God would provide.

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or drink; or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothes?  Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?”

Matt 6:25-27

I moved into Cate’s basement apartment yesterday. I met her at Toastmasters years before and we became pals. She added me on Facebook and we’ve kept tabs since then. Back in 2020 she ran for democratic seat of our town. She saw the plea for housing on Facebook just two weeks ago and told me to call her.

As I drove back to the house alone after a day of moving, I started to cry. I was going home… to rest. I mean really rest. I thanked God again and again.  I praised my prince of peace and humbled my heart before that throne and deeply and completely thanked the God of my soul. Tears flowed as I prayed into my gratitude and leaned into the feeling of safe joy.

I wailed. The last time I wailed, it was in deep despair. This day I wailed in relief.

Cate had shown me her favorite chairs and fun swing in the back yard. She had shown me silly trinkets and things that didn’t really need a tour. She had the same spirit as the school teacher today. Delighting in the details.  She really wanted me to feel at home. And when I made it into the house, I sat on the couch and finished my good cry. I prayed for protection and blessed the space.

In every one else’s house, the host wants me to feel at home. My entire life has been spent with people who don’t want me to forget that I reside in borrowed space. I was just a visitor. Don’t get too comfortable.

Now when I lay my head to rest, I know that I’m in a space where my presence is valued, welcomed and safe.

What does a sparrow worry about now?

Surviving Patriotism

How fast this nation forgets what we are celebrating our independence from… religious oppression, for one. And authoritarian government? We aren’t celebrating for the right reasons anymore, that’s why I don’t celebrate “patriotic” holidays. Not when religious fundamentalists are pushing to reinstate  the very establishment that had us coming to the new land for freedom from it. And then of course, promptly enslaving and slaughtering the natives who cherished and lived symbiotically with the land in the name of “Christian values”.

“Go live somewhere else,” some would say but this is my home too. You know who has to flee their country? Millions of people under threat of violence from not only its government but its people as well. Refugees running from corrupt nations looking for peace anywhere. Literally dying at a chance to make it across a border that may offer them some relief. Taking the risk that they may kill them too. How soon before we are fleeing this country for those same reasons?

We recognized the 4th in our worship service this morning. Many didn’t want to go because they didn’t want to talk about it or hear about anything political. Over half of our congregation is either queer and/or female. The struggle never stops for us. The laws against our healthcare, our bodies and even our clothing are growing in numbers by the day as decrepit old men, hang on to dear life just to make sure no one else feels good about living.

In any of my past churches, I would have opted out of today too but Unitarian Universalists always have an interesting twist on hard topics. True to my expectations, they reflected on both patriotism of being one people as a country, remembering 9-11 and that the days ahead preparing for the election cannot be faced with more anger. Instead, they ask for small gestures of kindness and respect - knowing the battleground will unfold in front of us whether we like it or not.

After COVID took over, the church I used to go to amped up their “patriotism”. Nothing was subtle or gradual. They took that pandemic as a sign the end was near (for real this time) and took hard, rooted stances. I can’t say other churches did not, as I’m sure the other end of the religious spectrum showed up at protests and the such. Evangelicals have been gearing up for battle for a long time. Unitarians are the ones who will slide flowers down the barrels of guns and peacefully block the tanks from rolling in. Still showing up but showing up gracefully.

As an empath, I feel like it would be easier to live with a hardened heart and slip into endless cynicism but too many people have given ME too many moments of their gentle kindness and those little bits of love have kept me alive. I can’t deny that type of love to another suffering soul. After all, it is their own insecurity and hurt that are hurting their neighbors. It’s dehumanizing the immigrant, the trans-person, the Republican, the liberals and the Christian Nationalists. None of us should be taking the faces and hearts from another human and watering them down to one label. Myself included. It’s a hard thing to do right now but it’s so very vital.

How do we survive the colossal shit show that’s barreling towards us? With loving kindness, I guess. Finding joy and peace in whatever place it may be lingering. Collecting moments to keep the flame of hope kindled. How do you think Jews made it through the Holocaust? Surely not out of spite- though I would not blame them if they had.

When the rabbis came to Matthew’s door and demanded to know why Jesus was eating with the sinners, Jesus didn’t come out guns blazing. He simply answered them.

When the people cheered for his arrival on Palm Sunday then changed their minds only a week later- Jesus did not scorn them. He did not tell them they would go to hell. He asked his father to forgive them.

When the Roman’s came to arrest Jesus, he did not revolt. He could have had God strike them down. HE could have struck them down with one wave of his hand. He could have had everyone fight for him.  In fact, Jesus stopped them from fighting for him. He took the beating, the humiliation and the cross when he really didn’t have to.

John 18:4-12 recalls:

Jesus, knowing all that was going to happen to him, went out and asked them, “Who is it you want?”

“Jesus of Nazareth,” they replied.

“I am he,” Jesus said. (And Judas the traitor was standing there with them.) When Jesus said, “I am he,” they drew back and fell to the ground.

Again he asked them, “Who is it you want?”

“Jesus of Nazareth,” they said.

Jesus answered, “I told you that I am he. If you are looking for me, then let these men go.”

This happened so that the words he had spoken would be fulfilled: “I have not lost one of those you gave me.”

Then Simon Peter, who had a sword, drew it and struck the high priest’s servant, cutting off his right ear. (The servant’s name was Malchus.)

Jesus commanded Peter, “Put your sword away! Shall I not drink the cup the Father has given me?”

Then the detachment of soldiers with its commander and the Jewish officials arrested Jesus.

While we’ve read the Old Testament the recounts the harshest of punishments from whom Jesus calls father, Jesus tells us repeatedly that he has died for all sin. The war isn’t with each other but instead asks us to do His work through love. It is only evil we should resist now. Everything else is an offense to Him, his ministry and his message.

Ask yourself what freedoms you are celebrating this week that perhaps your neighbors cannot celebrate. Then ask yourself why, in the land of the free… not everyone is free?

Unpacking Pride

This past Sunday was a milestone for me. Wow. Just wow. I never dreamed that I would be standing at a chancel, blessing people and telling them that they are loved, surrounded by queer community. Oh wait, yes, I did dream of this.

Back in the evangelical church, I wanted to be the bridge between people of God and the gay community. I was so devastated when I discovered that that would never be. There was no hope of me changing anyone’s mind in that place. For a while, I wondered why God would put this on my heart. Why give me this impossible task, knowing that none of these people will soften their hearts to let this community in? Was this more of Gods punishment?

One vital piece of advice I did get from them was to trust the “deep knowing” within you. It was such a perfect way to describe that moment that you touch faith. The deep knowing within me, dared me to dream big. The deep knowing within me, dared me to question- to step away. The deep knowing within me told me to keep going.

When I held the hands of my siblings in faith and I gave them my blessing my deep knowing said to me: this is where the life is. I felt so connected to these people who received a part of me. I could feel the electricity and the vibration between us. I felt connected and grounded. Like a tree anchored exactly where it should be. I exchanged the sustenance of healthy interaction and felt grace. Haven’t felt grace in a long time. She’s as beautiful as I remember.

When I found the United Church of Christ, I realized I had found where the real work had to be done. In this place, they were open to the idea of the queer community being part of their religious community, but their actions did not reflect their sentiment.

They need a lot more education and a lot more guidance. I do believe that God is calling me to help them with that transition and being part of the pride service at All Souls this weekend showed me that it could be done.

It can be done… And must be done again.

My roots are growing into the nutrient rich soil of All Souls. The shock of being replanted is wearing off and the ground is settling and I am holding on. I’m tired from always preparing for battle. I’m grateful to rest amongst these people for a while.

The Unitarians are teaching me the true meaning of witnessing to and for each other. They will show me how to reach hardened hearts and exuberant egos. They will keep me humble while I shine. We will love as a collective and serve each other the way Jesus intended for us.

John 13:34-35 says, "I am giving you a new commandment, that you love one another; just as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this all people will know that you are My disciples: if you have love for one another". 

Welcome to All Souls… where all souls are welcome.

Being Present is Blind Faith

Every t-shirt I fold and put in the drawer is one I am doing with intent. Downsizing to a “junior hoarder” is a really big hill to climb but I don’t have a choice. I can’t take every t-shirt with me. I can’t even put them all in storage. Today I am sorting. Calmly folding laundry and asking myself how important each piece is. Knowing a lot will be packed away and the rest sent to Goodwill.

It was awful when it happened to me 5 years ago. My landlord needed my apartment and I had to move out. Three story house and a shed. My God, did I have a lot of shit. I tried selling things over the years: crafts, art, antiques, etc. But one day a mouse got in the basement and ate through all the boxes. Most of my things went in a 12 ft dumpster. It was both traumatizing and liberating. Especially as I was the one who had to, truck load after truckload, by my own hands- fill that dumpster with my treasures. Another great loss. My independence and everything that represented it.

This move is different. There’s less to tackle. After the shock of the last move, I was much more careful with what I brought in the house or hung on to. I still have my things but they are here for a reason.

Still, my mother says, “you could get rid of so much more!” And while she’s right, I’d rather have some nonsense and nostalgia in my possession than rushing myself through appreciating the items before I release them.

A lot of downsizing in this move has been the momentos from past church lives. Cards, books, gifts, and letters of encouragement. Notes from distant friends that claimed they’d never leave. Echos of the past sitting on my bookshelves and then in the judgement of my palms. Throwing away these items, I am releasing them and their memory. I cried over some of the things I threw away in this clean. Sat by the garbage and mourned the trinket and everything it used to stand for. Snipping the tether between them and me. Releasing their spirits back to the wild. I think it’s fair that I cried.

I am preparing and setting up for my journey forward. Clearing away the old and replanting the seeds of faith, love and community. I am mending myself with my accountability and humbling myself in the face of correction.

Healing is so messy. Sobriety is so loud. Schooling is so difficult and I am very tired. But I am making progress and I am letting go. I am fine tuning my instrument as I change my habits.

In a dream I had recently, I found a note with my grandmothers handwriting. It read, “it’ll get there”.

Meaning, of course,  I’ll get there. Life will get there. To that place that isn’t always living from trauma. To a place that feels safe and a mind that feels strong. I’m hanging on because it’ll get there.

I close the drawers on my temporary dresser and feel a spark of joy after viewing and carefully tucking away my favorite shirts. Jesus tells us not to store up our treasures here. During my transition between homes, I aim to appreciate the time spent living minimalisticly.

I remind myself daily to trust the process. This leap I’m about to take with no idea what’s below my feet. A net or rocks?

Spiritual signs pour into my daily life in synchronicities, in conversation, and in symbols. Voices on the other side repeatedly reminding me that I’m not alone- even when I am.

My life is hanging on a letter that hasn’t been delivered yet and I don’t know when it’s coming. Waiting for a judge to give me a date where they get to decide if I’m worthy of help from the state. Am I sick enough? Is my chronic pain crippling enough? We will see what these strangers decide

This situation of not knowing is wildly frustrating but we both know it’s the only way to get this lesson down. It’s not about the past or where I used to live. It’s not about where I’m going to live in the next six months or what the judge will say. All I can do is sort my things right now. I can box it all up and put my life on hold. Once it’s all in a storage unit, I will have the freedom to move anywhere. God will then place me where I will settle. I will rebuild my life.

I don’t get to plan this one. I couldn’t if I tried. I have no choice but to be present. That’s a heavy place to be sometimes but I’m getting used to it.

This is how we grow.

No Hate Like Christian Love

WBC members demonstrate outside of Olathe North High School on May 20, 2018. Lots of WBC signage now uses biblical references. [Photo courtesy of WBC]  

When I was in the evangelical church my friend hated when I used the phrase “no hate like Christian love”. It disturbed her because she felt that all she did was love in Gods name. I didn’t realize how much it bothered her until she meekly brought it up one day.

“We’re not all like that,” she said.

Some time later, she would denounce our friendship over an easy out so that she could stay in her groups good graces as I had challenged the church and left. I understand the hierarchy of the place and knew that in order to hold her unspoken respectful standing, it was best if she cut ties with me; someone who speaks out.

Through my deconstruction journey I found tiktok and Instagram wildly helpful. “Ex-vangelicals” and “ex-Mormons” littered my For You pages and with them came the painful stories of people who never wanted to leave the church but ultimately had to, so they wouldn’t betray themselves. They spoke open and honestly about how the church hurt them and how they found peace after the devastating loss. Something that went hand in hand with these stories were the venomous reactions from “Christians”.

In addition to dehumanizing and turning people away from houses of God, some of these people took to the comments of these wounded posters on the path to healing and tore open portals to hell with their words. People who’s online bio read “God first” and “Faith, Family, Friends” were telling the original posters to kill themselves and hurling insults as though they were defending the ones who hung Christ on a cross themselves! But the crime was just speaking on their experience and that seemed such a threat, near violence boiled up in these Sunday serving Christians.

I never understood why Christian’s get so angry when people don’t agree with them. Why the pendulum swings from radical love to rage and loathing. Either you are in or you are OUT. No room for those who just want to figure it out.

One of the creators I follow on Instagram goes by the handle  “Eve was framed”. She shares why she left the church and how it was harmful for her. She dissects what was taught to her and has community like myself, who are also trying to pick up the pieces and find God in the rubble. She also has a number of people who walked away from God completely, as she did.

Once in a while, she and other creators like her, highlight the comments and private messages she receives daily from “Jesus loving Christian’s”.  They are some of the most disturbing messages you’ll encounter. The rest of us look and see evil spouting and the blatant hypocrisy. As though their hateful accusations will make us grab our things and peel out to the nearest church to return to Jesus... In what world?

Here is the image/comment that prompted me to write this out today:

While I’ve seen hundreds of these types of angry comments defending their religion through threat and verbal attacks, further down in the comments someone responded with a satisfying answer as to why these Christians go against Jesus’ actual teaching of love and respond like the devil themselves.

Here is that comment:

It’s something the rest of us probably subconsciously know and definitely understand but to put it in words helps diminish the aggression behind the attack. For “Eve”, she takes these messages with a grain of salt because, like this commenter, she knows these are fear responses.

While not all angry Christian comments are as open and vial, undertones of superiority and suppression of human rights try to slither under the radar in the interest of “saving those who can’t save themselves”. A slippery slope in a country that founded itself on freedom of religion while MAGA maniacs are trying to force prayer and guns into school in Jesus’ name.

I imagine as my life, writings and future career unfold over time (as an openly gay pastor), I will receive the same kind of threats. Not because I’m looking to throw rocks at the beehive but because living out loud in your truth is highly threatening to those who rely heavily on their religion to define them. They don’t want to see another way of life and they don’t want others to either.

While I hope I can take the future aggressors with a grain of salt, there is no psychological explanation that will ever quench the thirst of the age old question as to how these people claim Jesus as their savior while speaking to Gods children with such disdain. Because whether they like it or not, we ARE all made in Gods image and God gave us free will to explore this creation.

Ask yourself truly, if you are a person of faith… what do those outside your church walls see? Because if it’s not the shadow of your prince of peace, perhaps you need to spend more time praying for your own soul then trying to destroy mine.

Peace be with you.

Whose Good Friday?

I wasn’t sure how the Unitarians would cover the death of Jesus. We don’t talk about Jesus that often but when we do, it demands our attention. We spend most days talking about ways to be Christ like. How to help, to pray, to guide, to make change.

Hearing the pastor read the account of Jesus’ death brought tears to my eyes. Instead of just the Bible, she pulls from many sources including poetry. She reads a piece from the perspective of the man who drove the nails into Jesus’ innocent palms. Recounting how he felt at the end of the day and where the nails ended up after it was all done. They all wanted a piece of Him. Something to sell on the market.

My mind slips back to a women’s retreat I went on in 2019. We all sat in a silent room with our eyes closed as the pastor read every gruesome detail of abuse Jesus endured that day. She described the science and torture His body went through and as she began to speak about the nails, a loud hammer from the back of the room came down against metal causing us all to jump unexpectedly. As she read on, her voice began to crack. She stopped and began to weep, unable to finish. We were all given a flattened nail, with red paint at the tip, as a keep sake to never forget this impact and this sacrifice.

The complete irony of the entire situation is that these would be the people to crucify Him again were He there in that room that very day. Those who are only hanging on for the day He returns are the very same who would call Him blasphemous and would use force  unapologetically to eliminate Him. Those who cheer on the insurrection and the killing of LGBTQIA children. Those who don’t want to teach critical race theory and ban books. These are honestly the people who think they will be praised when He comes back to earth. They kill their savior

How do they see this as lining up with His values? How do they not realize they are the ones cheering on Palm Sunday AND on Good Friday? Pro guns, selective blessings, rules to follow- all Pharisees.

Never honoring His walk or His death. Only honoring the idea that He can make them feel better when things are hard and heaven is a big party at the end.

How convenient.

They’re so worried about the after life, they have no regard for the life we are in right now. The crucifixion and resurrection were not the end game for Jesus. He was bringing people back from the dead for months before that. The end game was having us live out his teaching. From birth to death.

Heaven isn’t the goal. Heaven is the reward for doing His work. Spreading His legacy of love to all people. ALL people.  His legacy of love and forgiveness. Inclusion and assistance. His patience and his kindness.

Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they are doing.”

-Luke 23;34

I don’t know how they don’t know but they don’t.

I wept.

Jesus wept.

Remaining Human

Listening to the sermon today at the Unitarian Universalist church, the conflict of the Ukraine and what it’s doing to the peoples spirit was the focus.

As I compare the war torn country and it’s problems to the United States, I fear the similarities are too close. We are missing the bombs and missiles for now… but I have no doubt that our “free” country will succumb to the same fate within my lifetime. Not only that but in the next decade or two.

I live in a country that terrorizes it’s neighbor and civil war lurks in the shadows. The guest speaker goes on about how the Ukrainian people are trying to retain their humanity in a setting that lacks just about everything in that capacity. They are dumping funding into therapists and humanitarians to heal the wounded from the inside out- not something you see everyday. As any person of faith knows, we have nothing if we have no hope.

I feel selfish comparing my troubles to those in a war torn country but I can’t help but see the similarities. In my highly sensitive and empathetic nature, I mourn for them. I see myself in them. I try not to lose my own hope as I have more reasons to be thankful today than those 5 million who are refugees in their own country. Not counting, of course, the 6 million that have already fled.

In three months, I have to have found a place to live. With very little money and no one willing to lend me a room in their home, I cry for my own displacement. I’m ashamed that I have lost my trust that God will provide. Embarrassed that my fear wins the day more often than it should.

Being taught in all these different denominations has not sent mixed messages. They all preach hope and love; security in trusting God. Although what that means to each group of people may look different, it’s not different for me. So why can’t I have faith as small as a mustard seed at the time I need it the most?

The guest speaker goes on about PTSD and Anxiety Disorder; both of which I have acquired over the span of my short 40 years. The baptists would say it’s the devil talking to you and he’s a liar. Which in some respects is true. These conditions born of trauma and darkness that I’ve experienced want me to believe I’m always in danger. And while it could be a helpful tool in keeping me safe for the future, it’s inadequate for day to day living.

While my heart aches for those across the world, it never ceases to ache for my own plight. It can be so overwhelming to feel all your own feelings, those of your friends and loved ones and then those of whom you don’t even know… but I do. Often I wish I could separate myself from the intensities of feeling so much at once but more than that, I fear I would lose my own humanity.

I watch our pastor as the speaker explains in detail, the people he’s met in Ukraine and what’s happened to them. Her usual brightened eyes and wide smile are long gone and a temporary solemn sadness rests in its place. It’s so uncommon to see her this way, it makes the material that much heavier. I imagine she is moving through the same struggles I have- feeling deeply for those she’s never met.

This congregation is one of action. They preach “deeds not creeds” and they mean it. They put into action their love of humanity and practice exactly what they preach. I wonder to myself… how can I possibly manage to be a pastor in this way? The amount of feelings I struggle to manage on a day to day is heavy enough. When you lead a congregation, they become your flock; your children. They come to you in peril, in question, in despair. I know I have. The love that pastors have for their congregation is immeasurable. They grieve and mourn together, not only each other’s pain but that of their community and of course, the world. How do they hold all those emotions and still function? How does my pastor stand up every week, presenting a smile full of sunshine, when so many things are so much heavier around her? And more importantly, can I learn to do this too? Surely I cannot be void of feeling, should I choose to shepherd my own flock. My fear of failing them or being consumed by their troubles, keeps my path of ministry quiet and simple for now. These are such important questions to ask and revisit as I walk this road.

What a beautiful thing the Ukrainians are doing for each other. Doubling down on mental support. Finally, people acknowledging that food and water only get us so far. If our spirit dies out and we become inhumane, what is left of our soul?

One thing I have struggled with in particular lately is finding out that I am no longer seen as human to someone whom I called family for years. I felt led by the spirit to reach out to her and try to reconcile our differences. She is a Christian Nationalist and I couldn’t be farther from those views. I tried to meet in the middle with something we both loved; Jesus. When she said she would respond but never did, I realized that she can only see me through the lense she uses in her own life. Her religion is based on recruitment and persuasion. It finally hit me that she, most likely, believed that I was going to try and lead her astray from her own beliefs. There’s a reason they don’t promote learning about anyone or anything different than them. They think everyone (or the devil) is trying to persuade you to do wrong. All it does is promote misunderstanding and dehumanizes people. I truly believe, being away from her and her people for the last few years has solidified my stance as an “outsider”.

To a Christian Nationalist an outsider is not really a human. Of course they would never say that but as I watch women lose their rights to their bodies, they are dying along with their children, they have no face to her people. Trans and gay people that they protest against using bathrooms are not people but perverts to them. They give the same narratives from the same people and it’s buttoned up nicely along side scripture that is taken out of context and half of them don’t understand.

I’m sad that she looks at me like I’m nothing more than another problem in the world, trying to trick her people into going to hell when all I wanted was to find common ground.

Evangelical Christian Nationalists are doing real damage to humanity. I have spoken in public about this and therefore they think I’m just attacking their religion. “Why do I have to bring others down when I am upset?” She would ask. To which I say, “speaking about my experience is speaking truth, it’s not my fault if it doesn’t look good.”

I was hurt in that space by people who refused to look across the aisle and see true suffering in their brothers and sisters. They root for a president that takes the humanity out of pretty much every human that’s not a straight, white, cis male. They openly support true evil. True evil.

So now I am among the “others” in their eyes. I’m sure they believe any hardship that happens to me is Gods will and my own fault for sinning. My sin? Inclusion, of course. Jesus’ sin was inclusion too. The same people preaching that they know the will of God, put Gods son on the cross. They wiped and tore the humanity right out of his flesh and left him to die… all while acting righteous. They don’t even realize that they are the ones who would do it again

But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’

Matthew 9:13

I’m not a pervert because I’m gay. I’m not lying because my experience makes you look bad. I’m not shut out of Gods kingdom because you say so. I’m not less of a person because I don’t share your denomination of faith. I know, in the deepest and truest part of me, that Jesus Christ WILL meet me at heavens door when my body can no longer withstand this hypocritical, cold and traumatic world. Until then, I will weep for those who have suffered under the ones who fail to see the soul in us and I will try my damnedest to hold on to my own humanity so that I do not slip into the evil that is indifference.

To remain human is to never stop working to keep the lights from going out in our neighbors hearts. To remain human is to help.

Fan-Girling over Jesus

I love contemporary Christian music and I’m not sorry. I listen to thousands of hours of worship music and K-LOVE radio. These are passionate love letters to Jesus. The one thing we are allowed to be obsessed with, so we are.

There are a lot of things that evangelicals do right… hear me out. While I acknowledge that there is also a lot they do wrong as well, I want to take a minute to revisit some things I miss most about my “born again” days.

The number one thing I miss the most is being head over heels, in love with Jesus. When they worship God, they are doing so with their whole hearts. They are intense because they want nothing more than to please Him and feel close to Him. I miss that kind of elation and appreciation over our creator. Our source.

I miss standing barefoot in the carpeted sanctuary, lights dim, body’s swaying, arms high and eyes closed. Soaking is what they call it. Absorbing music dedicated to the love of our lives. Everything they do is to make God happy. Or what they think will make God happy.

Evangelicals look at Jesus like a mascot and an icon. “Let there be no other god but me.”

However, he doesn’t mean to obsess over him and idolize him. I mean His physical body, of course.

He wasn’t his body. He is love. And if God is love then love is what you should worship. Not a statue of a lifeless hanging man on the cross. That’s an image.

WE are made in gods image, right? So he is asking us to worship the idea of loving Him through our neighbors. Through each other because God is inside of each of us. Quite literally we have the divine laced within our DNA. Google that, it goes deep.

Jesus told every person he healed to tell no one. Acts wasn’t to prove God is real. The people knew God was there. The miracles Jesus performed were to remind mankind to have hope and to believe the Lord is within reach. Close enough for even you to touch his garment. So to speak.

Now… I’m a church merch nerd. I like t-shirts with  the local church and sweatshirts with scriptures on the sleeve. I have my Jesus swag. I used to cry thinking about God during the soak sessions. Not in sadness but in deep, feeling love. The way girls at rock concerts scream out for Harry Styles.

I love Jesus. I’m a huge fan. But in all the flashing lights, I must not forget to listen to the lyrics. Receive the message then LIVE OUT the message. Don’t just put the record on repeat and keep dancing.

I want to be like Jesus and I want to work every day towards making  my life a WWJD moment. What would he do? Or would Jesus make this choice? Then why am I? Take an honest look at your own actions. We should be aspiring to be the closest version of Him that we can.

Sometimes, you can love someone or something so deeply that you blind yourself to their authentic self and only see a character to have fun with.

Stepping away from the evangelical church, I lost my groupie friends. How dedicated was I really? Without people around me that were no where near as passionate about Jesus to ge me up, would this religion thing die out? That was a scary one.

When I made the decision to leave I saw the story of Abraham and his son, play before my eyes. I sacrificed a bunch of friends, family, community I loved in order to follow the path I felt called to by God. God has paved the way.

Being in traditional Methodist and UCC churches now, Jesus’ fandom is more like a country club than a hip party. The pizzaz is gone and the deeply feeling moments are up to me to experience, quiet and alone.

My relationship with Jesus has matured over the years. Like a good marriage, settled and familiar. But like any good relationship, I do miss the fresh fire of being in love with my creator and when I get the chance, I’ll go to a worship concert and relive those feelings for a brief time.

At the end of the night, I come home to the comfortable love of someone who is growing with me and teaching me to respect and carry out His work.

Jesus reminds us that it isn’t getting a piece of Him that brings us closer to God. It’s our belief and our faith.

And suddenly, a woman who had a flow of blood for twelve years came from behind and touched the hem of His garment. For she said to herself, “If only I may touch His garment, I shall be made well.” But Jesus turned around, and when He saw her He said, “Be of good cheer, daughter; your faith has made you well.” And the woman was made well from that hour.

Matthew 9:20

Do you have a relationship with Jesus or do you just have a t-shirt? Are you hanging on his word, or actually living it?

Spiritual Soup

How it started vs how it ended.

Woke up with the Unitarians and rested after an  Episcopal evening service. Such extreme ends of each religious spectrum. Each honoring the community and love between us all as humans. Honoring the divine presence in our lives that weaves us together. Such beautiful expressions of God’s love at work in the world.

Although the Unitarians have no religious symbols other than the chalice in the sanctuary, three crosses cast a shadow over the alter as Rev Carolyn Patierno said “…at the memorial service a woman would have liked to hear scripture and a prayer. I told her- ‘the service WAS the prayer.” For someone like me, a mind always churning, it feels good to know that my acts of love are prayers, my art as I paint alone are prayers and my gratitude is a prayer. Then I see symbols from my Christian god in a place some people would tell me, He does not live. There is no where I go that my God will not be with me.

In the evening, weaving around candles and iron crosses, I sat in a weathered pew at St. John’s and see three bibles with three gold crosses in every pew in front of me. Eyes drawing up past the lovely piano and it’s music, the word “EPIPHANY” stood alone and bold on the hymnal board. I took communion and honored God’s sacrifice. It felt comfortable to be clear and precise with God here.

Rev. Kate Wesch reacted to the scripture about Lot and his plethora of problems, remembering a memorial from her past and asking what we’re all thinking: “why do bad things happen to good people?”

We just don’t know. Its too big a question to answer but she reminds us, with Mr. Rogers-like warmth, that after service, they would all be making Valentines for their home bound community members. Whatever the circumstance, you are not alone and it’s okay to be mad at God sometimes. He can take it.

Perhaps bad things happen so that good can come balance it out. So we don’t get stuck in neutral, afraid to live. And perhaps a prayer doesn’t need a title, middle and sign off but can be a kind gesture, a caring heart, a life of gratitude. For me, it’s a little of each. Each house of worship adds spice to my spiritual soup and I am fed. God meets me in every  place and I see Jesus’ face in every person that preaches love.

On Pins and Needles

I’ve been watching The Chosen lately. The beautifully and well done series that depicts the story of Jesus. When I watch these episodes I feel transported to Jerusalem. Like I’m standing in the crowd listening and watching the miracles in disbelief. I’m resting inside all of the human questions we have. Usually, “why?”

This weekend I worked the front desk of an acupuncture practice. As a client myself, I’ve been getting treatment for over a year for chronic pain.

Before I found this place, the people of town raved about it. People that I thought wouldn’t be caught dead in a place like that, swear their hand or knee was cured after a few sessions! I couldn’t wait to get some of that. I was excited but also needed to see it to believe it.

When I first started treatments, I knew I had a lot going on with my body. I knew it would take longer for my miracle to happen.

But weeks dragged on to months and here we are a year later. I’m watching clients hobble in with walkers and walk out with relief on their faces. Sitting there this weekend was bitter sweet for a moment.

Why were all these other people getting healed or even just getting temporary relief and not me? I’m trusting for it and believing. My own best friend wrapped up the day with their first visit to the office leaving “95% better”.

In Season Two, Jesus tells the disciples that they are leveling up. They are now going to perform miracles themselves. Little James approaches Jesus after the talk and asks how he could possibly be out in the world healing others when he, himself is crippled? I paid close attention to this because I was with Little James on this one. Why didn’t he heal his own disciple? Why does God let Their people suffer?

The most faithful person is that on the brink of being healed which makes that person, closer to God. We connect to God through our suffering because to be human is to suffer.

“The LORD is close to the brokenhearted, and he saves those whose spirits have been crushed. People who do what is right may have many problems, but the LORD will solve them all.”

Psalms 34:18-19

Without suffering we lose our humility. When we lose our humility, we will lose our compassion and forget those who are still suffering. As for me, I remember that praising God through the storm is the ultimate testimony. God is good, whether it hurts to type that out or not. (It does. It definitely hurts.)

Little James left with his cripple leg and went on to heal others. Suddenly his pain wasn’t enough to keep him down. All of us, in our due time, will find relief and peace. Until then, rejoice with those who have already received it.

Chasing Nuns

Another med change and this one is for alcohol. Could God be clearing the way?

Sometimes blessings don’t feel like blessings. Many times the blessing IS the burden.

In the last 10 days, I have been living with nausea and hypoglycemic sugar crashes every few hours. I had no business thinking I knew what detoxing was about.

Dizzy and hot and confused. Why am I confused? I know what’s happening. Who was I to think that detox affects should only last a few days? I’ve been drinking steadily for just about 20 years. Time to change my perspective on healing… AGAIN.

I spent the afternoon angrily texting my neighbor about the cigarette smell coming through the walls. My head felt detached and I mentally crashed. In the back space of the Big Lots parking lot, I kicked my dashboard while screaming into my steering wheel. Eventually falling back against the drivers seat, slumped over, I hugged my car seat and I sobbed.

I cried for all the pressure inside me and the lack of compassion from this world. I cried in despair and hopelessness. Then the clock struck 2:20 and I had to pack those tears back in, blow my nose, wipe my face and go into my physical therapy appointment.

Inside there was a nun in front of me, waiting to check out. Full habit, rosaries and all.  I checked in and she went to the ladies room.

I thought to myself, “if she comes out before my name it’s called, I’m going to approach her.” And naturally, that is what happened.

I followed her outside the first set of glass doors, before the cold of the second set opened and stopped her. “Excuse me, would you pray for me?”

“Of course, what for?” She answered, almost surprised. She had her uniform on. Don’t other people assume it’s okay to approach them?

With my back to the full waiting room, I told her, “I need healing. Physical, emotional and spiritual. I just spent the last hour crying in my car and I felt my despair. Then I came inside here and saw you. It felt like a nod from God.” She smiled.

I reached out my hands to show her I wanted to pray together, right in that moment. In the glass box where I’m sure many curious people were watching from the corners of their eyes. Was I allowed to touch a nun?

“Are you Catholic?—not that you have to be!” She asked. I told her I was with the United Church of Christ. “Do you know the Lord’s Prayer?” Oh yes.

She took my little hands in her little hands and asked God to stand with me and help me. When she started the Lord’s Prayer, I jumped in and then “Amen”. I thanked her and turned to leave.

“Oh - may I hug you?” She asked with her arms already stretched. I gladly obliged and then we went our separate ways.

In that moment I could’ve became her God Moment for the day. The grateful thing you think about as you lay in bed hours later. As I’m doing myself now.

After my nun encounter, I went into my first PT appointment that has  Craniosacral therapy.  The practice of laying hands on someone to heal them. Pressure points, moving chi, somehow encouraging damaged parts of the body to heal and correct themselves.

After all that, I came home and found relief. The mental episode, long gone. The only evidence being ugly text messages to my neighbor left on BLOCKED.

Thy Will be done.

Press Record

When I first started to feel the love for God growing inside me, I started recording the services. Especially the Wednesday night Bible study with it’s more intimate crowds and casual warmth. We swayed harder, spread our arms wider and felt closer to God and each other. I loved Wednesday nights.

Five years later, I play back some of the first recordings from my evangelical church. The long, immersive  prayers and repeating the chorus of that Chris Tomlin song flood me with happy memories. I can hear my friends crying out in gratitude to God and whispering “Amen” beside me.

As the sound pipes through my car stereo, I am transported and I feel like I am there and they are here. I can feel the ugly rug under my bare feet. I reach out for them but there is only a steering wheel.

I listen to the prayers from the preacher who was my friend. Back then, before the rush of “end times” he let us marinate in our walk with God. He prays for you to over come the storm and trust the writings of Paul and he’s not wrong. I miss those teaching nights.

Now I’m a wandering Christian. I don’t attach to any one holy space. I pass through and show up when God nudges me to be there. Otherwise, my faith journey has turned more inward as I find myself on this private pilgrimage.

The evangelical church had the atmosphere that helps me, personally, to connect with God and community. Their views on the LGTBQIA community are dangerous and actively hurting people. Jesus would not want me to be part of that.

So my pilgrimage is solo… for now.

Suicide Awareness/ Prevention Month

It seems fitting that September would be Suicide Awareness/Prevention month. It’s the beginning of the end for us Seasonal Depressives. It’s a bittersweet symphony of gorgeous death.

The Summer has cooled down quickly (more so these days with global warming) and the first sign of an orange leaf means the inevitable brown decay is only a few months away.

I love the Summer for it’s rich warm days in sundresses and crisping at the beach. I hate wearing shoes and because of that, I get to receive more life giving energy from the ground I travel on barefoot.

Fall is beautiful though. Cozy, because the sun still shines most days and you can wear t-shirts but best to start wearing those dreaded socks and shoes. The smells of autumn with cinnamons and fried doughs at town fairs fill the air.

Halloween is my favorite holiday although some find it blasphemous. I say, why pretend this is the only Pagan holiday when Catholicism borrowed all the rest and made them “holy”? Autumn and Winter Solstice ring a bell?

Why draw attention to suicide now? Well, in the midst of pumpkin spice lattes and knee high boots, some of us struggle to stay present knowing the short, dark, cold days are just around the corner. The seemingly endless wait for warmth to come back around.

We have the stereotypical Thanksgiving and Christmas anxieties where the meeting of families with different political views and triggering comments seem unavoidable. The stress of having enough money to get everyone a meaningful Christmas present because no matter what they say, Christmas isn’t as much about Jesus as it should be these days. The gift of my presence doesn’t seem to be the invaluable treasure that I could only wish it was.

Driving down the street today I saw a plastic sign by the side of the road that read #stopsuicide. As if a hashtag would make someone put their plan aside and choose joy. People cut and paste paragraphs on their Facebook page to “come to them because they would rather you pick up the phone and call for help then attend your funeral”.

Well it’s not about them and often times, it’s not about you. As someone who struggles with depression and daily life, my view of this world is much different than those who don’t. I have found this again and again over the years in my experience. Those who have not faced death or want to face death just cannot wrap their minds around why anyone would want to take their life and while offering to take a phone call if you’re standing on the ledge is admirable, most times a fifteen minute conversation is not really going to save the day.

I’ve been to this darkness both before I found Jesus and after. I thought it would look different after accepting God as the most important part of my life. Well maybe it looks different but it doesn’t always feel different.

Well meaning Christians would tell me to “choose joy” and remember that Jesus died so that I could live. My life was a gift and to commit suicide was spitting on Jesus’ sacrifice.

My reason for going back to church after a long hiatus was because I was looking for reasons to stay alive; to keep trying to make things work. I wasn’t living for myself. I was living so that I wouldn’t hurt my friends or family. I didn’t want to put them through that trauma and those who posted on Facebook or sent the “are you okay” messages didn’t really want to deal with the intensity that comes with hearing out someone who is in those dark places.

The loneliness that comes with extreme feelings can be crippling. I tried to find comfort in prayer, music and community. For a while this helped- a lot. I was at an evangelical church for 3 years and I loved it there.

Although I was a little Democrat in a big Republican pool, we all got along like a big family. It was the pandemic that changed everything. I learned things about my brothers and sisters that had been laying somewhat dormant until this “critical time came to rise up and stand for everything you believe in”, which oddly enough, did not reflect what I was reading in the same Bible they were.

I ended up leaving, which is it’s own story, and found an affirming UCC church. While their message was exactly what I was looking for, it was a stark contrast to the Jesus and family centered warmth of the evangelicals. It took a lot of getting used to and I tried hard to adapt.

The rituals and elders of the community did not want to embrace anything new. It was a divided body and therefore was always working against itself. Paul would have cried and if he were alive, they would have received one of his strongly worded letters as he remain chained in a cold prison cell.

I ended up leaving that church as well and now I am a dreaded “unchurched” person. Wandering to different houses of God all offering welcome and comfort when I know most times it’s situational to them.

I try to stay on the outskirts and remain nameless but if the church is doing it’s job, I am approached and greeted by people who recognize that I am a timid, new face amongst them. I try not to go to the same place multiple weeks in a row. I don’t want to get drawn into church life, even though I crave it’s familiar comforts. I believe my journey has led me to stay mostly anonymous for a reason for now. I get swallowed up in people and end up losing the connections and the lessons to God.

I want to be spiritually fed with sermons and holy music. It may never feel like it did at the evangelical church and I’m still mourning that. I may never stop mourning it. Soaking in music that penetrated right through my bones and people who were messing up but trying desperately to get it right.

I won’t lie, I’m upset that God has me walking this road alone but it makes sense doesn’t it? The evangelicals gave me the knowledge and the powerful feeling of love from God. My pastor from the United Church of Christ gave me permission to interpret and internalize Gods love in the ways I felt were in my own heart.  Marrying the two concepts together, I’m trying to figure out what God wants from me and my life.

Even Jesus walked alone for some time. For now, I think this part of my journey is one of solitude so that I can strengthen my connection. Try without crutches to walk. Trust the process

And Jesus stopped and said, “Call him.” And they called the blind man, saying to him, “Take heart. Get up; he is calling you.”

Mark 10:49

What can we do to help others in a season like this? Be kind without reason. Be kind and mean it. Pay attention to what people are saying- or even not saying. You may not have to hash out their whole issue but usually acts of thoughtfulness help people feel like they matter. Slow down and notice your loved ones. Don’t tell them to come to you in a Facebook post.

“As for you, my son Solomon, know the God of your father, and serve Him with a whole heart and a willing mind; for the Lord searches all hearts, and understands every intent of the thoughts. If you seek Him, He will let you find Him; but if you forsake Him, He will reject you forever.”

1 Chronicles 28:9

What if pain is an answer to prayer?

A few weeks ago I saw a person from my past who had left their mark on me. It wasn’t a good one. Seeing them elicited in me, an immediate physical response. A trauma response.

My breath became short as my chest tightened. My mind raced with disbelief and confusion. This person didn’t live around here. I instantly wondered if God was punishing me for something I did? Why would God allow me to see them, knowing the years it took to heal from this person?

It’s the evangelical in me that points me straight to punishment first. But I serve a loving God now. To me, God is a feminine and nurturing spirit. Our guardian. Our Devine  Mother.

May your unfailing love be my comfort, according to your promise to your servant. Psalm 119: 76

So why do I have to see them, after years of being away? Why did we have to cross paths? After I move the punishment theory out of the way,  I generally consider a hard situation to be some kind of test. I’m sure at times they are tests. Not set for us to fail but to learn.

Always last to cross my mind is that maybe my trauma dirt cloud is getting kicked up because someone else in this world needs my actions to chain react to help them. Maybe this discomfort that I am in is because I am answering another woman’s prayer. Maybe our Devine mother is asking me to protect another.

I’m in a healthier place with this situation. Still triggering and traumatizing but… not debilitating. Uncomfortable but without the anchor. I’m free from those chains.

I think it’s important, when we find ourselves in extreme pain or discomfort, that we entertain the idea that our pain may be answering another’s prayer.  An unspoken service to others. In this way we may be loving our neighbor.

As spiritual people, we are infinitely connected. We already know that God works in mysterious ways and uses a multitude of vessels to do Gods will.

So in the quietness of prayer, I realized that the steps I took following this encounter could have been preventative maintenance for another one of Gods children.  Maybe that person would not have made it through like I had. In that moment I felt like I took the hit for the right reasons. I trusted God in all the places and people I could not see, hoping to be a silent instrument of peace. Hoping also that anyone reading may consider the same when things get hard.

Sister Mary Clarence

I was going to call this Mary Clarence Ministries. You know,  that 90’s smash hit “Sister Act” where Whoopi Goldberg has no religious history and ends up sparking change in a very stiff church. Inspiring new life from the inside to attract the revival of participation from the outside.

I realized that I was not like sister Mary Clarence. Well, I am like her in the unconventional ways to approach the church structure but I didn’t have the same outcome. I didn’t have the happy ending and the nice clean tie off at the end. I live in real life, of course, and not a movie.

I am not as apologetic as I should be. In real life I am a pest. A pest with the best intentions. Someone who wants to push the boundaries of the church and make them put their money where their mouth is. Not everyone appreciates that. People struggle with change. Luckily the Bible hasn’t changed. Our approach to it, however, is and should be ever changing.

I’m still walking on the long and winding road of my spirituality. But the scenery on the way has been incredible.

I intend to use this space to openly explore my walk with God and share my experiences.