I’ve heard Psalm 23 my entire life. Yet no one ever taught me the feminine aspect of God in David’s prayer.
As theologian Kenneth Bailey says, “You prepare a table before me” is a clear depiction of a male engaging in activities that in David's culture only a female would do.
I wonder
what comfort
we cut ourselves off from
by putting God in a box
marked male.
This weekend, whether you are a mother or not, I pray you'll let yourself be mothered by the God who is preparing a table for you, whose Goodness and Love are searching for the lost parts of you even this moment, who cannot wait to welcome you home.
Some of these thoughts are from my new book, #TheLordIsMyCourage, which is available for preorder now + releases June 21st. I explore this more in-depth theologically there too, don't you worry. 🫶🏼 amazon.com/dp/0310124166/…
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As hard as it is to believe, your body isn’t a bully or a betrayer.
Your body is a biographer.
Every symptom and stress response you wish you could control or change is sacred speech. Your sensations are a fierce invitation into connection.
Maté wrote that trauma isn’t the horrible things that happen to us but what we hold inside in the absence of an empathetic witness.
Your body is telling the subversive story that you deserve safety, belonging, and respect. And your agency to author a better story for yourself and your community is amplified as you practice awareness of your inner sensations.
Making pain more palatable does nothing to heal it.
And I believe you are worthy of more healing than half-truths can give. Hear me out:
When you use the term “church hurt,” I know you aren’t trying to be dishonest. You are trying to be acknowledged without losing your acceptance.
We give our pain from other Christians a nicer-sounding name because we fear that being fully honest—including with ourselves—will cut us off from belonging.
When you know you are loved, you don’t have to be as afraid of getting hurt by others, because you sense that the hearts that hold you now will hold yours when it feels too shattered to hold together yourself.
By “know,” I mean sense, see, and savor. For all its loftiness, love is mostly in the looks—the eyes who are willing to meet yours with compassion, the friends who text back to hold the hard thing w you, the sound of a voice saying, “You don’t have to go through this alone.”
Seek the sense of love you need. “Be not afraid” honestly means “be not alone.” Ask to be seen + held. Even your asking can be a bold acknowledgment of hope—a tender shoot from the ground of your grief that says, “Maybe I could do this alone, but I am worthy of not having to.”
Hey, it took me months to accept this privately and work up the courage to share it publically. In Jan I got very sick with what we way-too-late learned was covid. Covid triggered six (SIX!) new diseases/conditions, and I have started high-dose IVIG treatment every three weeks.
On Monday, I took a moment to smile back at my reflection at the infusion center, to bless the bravery of my body to endure. Right now, she’s getting used to welcoming literally thousands of other human beings’ healthy antibodies to replace what she can’t make on her own.
I feel bionic! Except it’s just interdependence in painfully acute form.
Today, I dare you to own your power to connect others to the privileges + possibilities you have.
You can be a miser or the master of a feast. The choice is yours.
All I know is, you have more social capital for change + justice than you realize.
One of the things that’s stuck with me most from my degree in community development is Putnam’s lens on social capital.
We can use our social capital to reinforce systems of power that already exist—a self-preserving cycle. OR, we can become bridges to the world we wish existed.
You have capital in the form of connections. You carry currency which can be spent on creating a more just, compassionate world—even if you don’t have much $ in the bank.
A miser or a feast-master.
Who do you want to become? And who do you wish others would be toward you?
Just a friendly reminder that people lamenting the lack of integrity in Christian leaders is not indicative of them putting their faith in people more than God.
The lament I hear is a loud cry that Christian faith and community should never diminish human dignity.
It is a false dichotomy to either put our faith in God or put it in people. As Teresa of Avila said, “Christ has no body now but yours.” When we act as though it’s an either trust-God or trust-people situation, we downplay the sacred responsibility we all hold as bearers of Love.
When we are crushed + confused by the abuses of Christian leaders, we are crying out for Christ’s body to be one of wholeness, Christ’s hands ones that lift the weary, Christ’s feet ones that trod in peace, + Christ’s eyes ones that see with honor + dignity. We are Christ’s body.