Fuck this, America

Fuck this, you guys. 

Wait.  Is nothing sacred?

How can you, and particularly as a minister, audaciously claim THAT word in the name of public faith?

I claim it because some things are indeed sacred, starting with being able to worship and learn and celebrate without fear of being shot to death in a nation in which the SOCIAL CONTRACT is currently BURNING in the halls of power.

I claim it because we know that faith means the power to bless, and we forget that we wield the equally important responsibility to curse: that which opposes the inherent worth and dignity of human life; that which steals hope; that which opposes, in short, the calling of God.

I claim it because this ongoing carnage is against my religion.  

And so, you’re right.  We should have a conversation about acceptable dialogue in the public square.

Here is how this is gonna go:

If you are more concerned about my saying the eff word—no, fuck that.  If you are more concerned about my saying ‘fuck,’ and by concerned I mean moved to say something to me about it, than you are inspired to action by the slaughter of six and sixteen and sixty year olds who are doing things like going to kindergarten and attending a concert and, you know, praying, and by inspired to action I mean that you are actively saying something to power about it, then you are part of the problem.

Ouch, right?  Those are fighting words.  Fuck, and You are part of the problem: two things we don’t have the stomach for in upper middle class white America.

I am so sorry to have to tell you that your baby/husband/wife/father didn’t make it, though, said to a thousand someones you don’t know and maybe a couple you do: that for some reason does not make us physically ill at this moment.

guns blood

But it should, you guys.  It really, really should. 

And so I’m starting this post with fuck and also writing it a lot of fucking times right in the fucking middle because I would like us to notice what it feels like to be uncomfortable.

What it costs.

Where we feel it.

The thing is, friends, I used to think that there would come a moment when the balance would tip and more of us would know what some of us know

That you are not safe, not anywhere, not ever, from mass casualty gun violence

That you are safe from your neighbors, even the ones who are different from you

That an incredible amount of money is invested each year to oppose and obfuscate those two realities so that you ignore the first and are terrified of the latter

That more guns only add to the reality of the first proposition.

… I used to think that then, in that tipping point, the larger We that lies at the core of American-style democracy, or that did, or that survives in our dreams, that this collective force would begin to assert itself, spontaneously and passionately.  That WE would begin to act purposefully and effectively.

Friends, I don’t think that anymore, and here are the two reasons why:

First, because comfort is the ultimate slot-machine payout of privilege.

Not worrying about X or Y or Z . . . indeed, not thinking about it at all, which necessarily precludes discussing it or the drag of hearing about it on Facebook or considering underlying themes (unless rendered harmless and third-person as fodder for the book group, addressed in two-hour increments, merlot in hand)—this elysian existence is the ultimate grand prize of “making it.” 

And talking about gun violence is fucking uncomfortable as hell.  It’s uncomfortable because it makes people sad.  It’s uncomfortable because people are going to disagree.  It’s uncomfortable because your uncle Joe and that one guy from high school are going to act as corporate shills of the NRA, because the NRA pays fucking millions every year to ensure that the right and privilege here is defending their coffers and calling it “freedom.”

It’s uncomfortable because the reality is that at this moment in this country you might fucking die in any goddamned random public place, or in a private place if your misogynistic loved one also has a gun, and who wants to think about that?

Comfort, my peeps, is both the dream we chase and the slow narcotic drip that we use to justify all the not-seeing.  And as its beneficiaries, we are loathe to contemplate, much less voluntarily enter into, the discomfort that we imagine to be the permanent price of challenging the status quo that got us here.

So that’s a problem.

It’s a big fucking problem.

And it’s not the only thing that’s troubling me.

Because the second problem is that actions are reflexive, which might seem hopeful in that we could move quickly at any point, but it isn’t, because it actually means that we are likely to move only in the ways that we can easily manage under stress:

  • What we ourselves have previously practiced
  • what we’ve seen modeled
  • What is rooted in the fundamental reflexes of our reptilian brains 

That’s it.  When push comes to shove, that’s what we’re working with.

And it’s fucking not enough. 

I want you to practice something different. 

For me, yes, and for our democracy, by which I mean not fucking consumer capitalism, but the social contract in which I still have so much hope.  I want you to practice differently for your fucking children, and I want you to practice differently for mine.

I want you to imagine a day when I can hold fucking worship without half an eye on the fucking door because I am responsible in that hour not just for your immortal souls BUT FOR ALL OF YOUR GODDAMNED LIVES.

gun bible

And so, I have created a handy practice guide.  I was going to make it 100 things but I thought that might be a little fucking overwhelming. Then I thought of three, but then you might think you have to do them all at the same fucking time.  And that’s not what I’m saying.

What we are going for instead is simply a movement toward something OTHER THAN THIS FUCKING INSANITY.  From each one of us.  The isolation and then the flexing and eventually the building and strengthening of OUR MUSCLES OF COLLECTIVE RESISTANCE.

Here, my friends, are FIVE fucking things that even you can do to end the fucking slaughter in our fucking public spaces:

 

  1. Call your local elected representatives one time per week and tell them you are for fucking gun control.
  2. Call your state elected representatives one time per week and tell them that you don’t care about the NRA Scorecard because you are for fucking gun control.
  3. Say fuck this on social media and explain to your circle of influence that you are for fucking gun control.
  4. The next time your uncle Joe or that random guy from high school shuts down a conversation about how we can fucking move on this issue, TELL YOURSELF that their perspective is a fucking hack.  Which it is.  Maintain hope.  Maintain Hope.  Maintain hope.
  5. LEVEL UP NINJA MOVE: The next time your uncle Joe or that random guy from high school shuts down a conversation about how we can fucking move on this issue, name the thing that they are doing as PEDDLING IN HOPELESSNESS AT THE EXPENSE OF LIVES and say fuck that.  Know that while you do this, you are modeling courage and showing his and your public that we will not allow the conversation to be stopped with this inanity.

Bonus #6: Join Moms Demand Action*. Prepare for the movement.  Prepare to make change.

This carnage: it is against my religion.

moms for gun sense

In peace,

(by which I mean holy fucking fire),

j

*Yes, even if you’re not a fucking mom.  Jesus Christ.    

Though you’ve broken your vows a thousand times [re-covenant in a museum]

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I spent much of this week in a city I deeply love, which is also a place with which I am in the process of becoming something else.  “Visitor” doesn’t quite get there, and “stranger” never will . . .  but I’m learning the balancing act of living in, and loving, two places, while in some cases un-living and perhaps even un-loving.

It’s tough, and I’m doing it unevenly, unequally, and sometimes ungracefully.  And I’m persuaded that there’s no other way; we create and negotiate relationship, and do change rather than cut-off, by feeling our way through.  It’s a challenging thing for humans to straddle the canyons dividing “I” from “thou,” “this” from “that,”; “here” from “there” while maintaining a sense of balance and selfhood.

We simply move forward in trust, and hope that our mistakes might be small and not harmful. 

I could write a lot of words about that, simply from a personal perspective.  But what occurred to me on this particular visit is that in some way, we’re all here together.  Not in Kansas City, of course, though I’m sure the visitor’s bureau would love that.

I mean that we are ALL strangers living in a strange land right now, trying to maintain communion with what is important and beautiful from “before” even as we reach and lean and lurch our way toward an as-yet unknown “after.”

And meanwhile, we live in neither of those places—we instead exist in a “now” that is present, but undefinable.  And in this landscape, it’s hard to know how to balance the ordinariness of life—the tasks, the priorities, the conversations–with the urgent call to push back against what is changing.  And let’s be clear: what’s happening in our nation is not just change—it’s rupture.  Breakage.  It’s a negation of much of what has come before, including values.  Including lives.

no ban

How do we continue to weave with the threads of “any given Friday” when we know that in the background, damage is being done?

How do we go on, having arrived at a place in which it is normal to eat a four dollar cupcake while reading entertainment on one’s phone, and where it is simultaneously only reasonable to be screaming in the streets and demanding change and answers in the halls of power.

If there are answers to be had to these questions, they will come through our wrestling with and bridging two realities, in those moments when we find ourselves standing atop a widening canyon, a foot on both sides.  And we will do the real work of keeping our balance, first and finally, in the ways we always have: through art—word, image, song, act—, through religion (in churches and before the altars of our own hearts), and through human encounter.

And I thus think it’s not only relevant, but perhaps imperative, to tell you that in Kansas City, right this minute, it is possible to physically weave yourself between the threads of a very old song.  Janet Cardiff’s “Motet” at the Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art is exploration of public space, of art and musical harmony, of closeness to one another and to God, of sacred music and the secular curation of culture.

And not unlike custom cupcakes and all varieties of screaming in the streets, it is a product of our social and spiritual hunger.

“Motet” is 14 minutes long.  The room contains 40 speakers, some sound panels, tall white walls, leather benches . . . and a polyphonic memory sung, dissected, reconstructed, and explored.

Though removed in time, space, and cultural context, the song is powerful.  Listeners lean in.  They pause, and then linger.  They close their eyes.  Some cry.

And meanwhile, we do the same, trying to understand what is becoming of our nation.

Writing for NPR, Alva Noë reveals his discomfort with public religion and performance art, both, asserting that “There [is] actually something creepy about [Motet]. A room full of robotlike speakers going proxy for absent singers . . . and a museum or gallery is not a sacred space. There was something almost chilling about the performance of such a spiritual offering in such a secular context.”

This same week for Breitbart, Daniel Nussbaum asserted that the National Endowment for the Arts “has become a controversial agency over time . . . [because] taxpayers should not have to fund art they consider to be against their values, or obscene.”

And simultaneously, writing for the Church of the Larger Fellowship, and for Unitarian Universalism as a movement, Rev. Meg Riley said of covenant:  “I wake up in the morning feeling discouraged by the news of the day before…entire pieces of government being eliminated with no sense that anything of value will be lost; many people I know and love scared for their very lives with the new “health care plan,” news media that focuses on the ins and outs of party politics as if that is what I care most about, rather than focusing on how we are to be together and take care of one another in this time.  So our theme of the month, covenant, feels more and more relevant to me . . . [because it means] that we are all responsible to and for one another; that no one is free when others are oppressed.”

We cannot, in short, be separated from one another.  Cause cannot be separated from effect.  And none of us can be cut off from the context from which we hail—not really.  We are a people who cross borders all our lives, in our hearts if not with our very bodies.

And this is precisely the thing.  “Motet” is powerful because it isn’t separated from context.  It is in fact not divorced from anything that has come before—because it cannot be.

And this, wandering through a place that used to be my home but no longer is, is a revelation I can use.

Janet Cardiff’s exposition on infinite loop lays a song in our laps, parsed to be intimately accessible at the same time that it builds and crescendos to something that cannot be held by walls.  It has the audacity to be both right-sized for our ears and much too big to keep or categorize.

And this, friends, is not what religion has finally been brought to by secular culture.  It is, instead, precisely what we’re all achieving together, in the best moments: a faith that meets us where we are, in the confusion and fragility and human scale of “now,” which then carries us, soaring and together, into something more.

“Motet” is a recognition of all the history we have held, and it’s a simultaneous assurance for the next leg of a journey.  That the ancient song continues even amid displacement, that God may be found amid technological advances, that manna falls even amid changing invitations and varying hungers, and is here for us. still

Not unlike our covenants with one another.

That dusty word–covenant–speaks of the promises that return us to one another, and to ourselves.  The kind that are so strong that they can be redeemed even when broken.  The kind that allow us to straddle, sure of balance, the canyon between “here” and “there.”

In covenant, in “Motet,” in Kansas City: we tread familiar paths equipped with different tools, find ourselves returned to the start of all our wanderings and seeing the place with new eyes, and. know in deeper ways than we were able to before.

Sacred song in secular space is not a break.  It’s a return.

And here is its promise as best I know it:

What has come before is not gone.  It is here with us, here for us, still.  Here for the asking, for the hearing, for the singing.

This is what a sacred motet in a heartland museum can mean.  It is what the institution of church, keeping the songs of the people for millennia, can mean.  It is every cathedral with its sermon in stones, every poem, every protest, every hymn trying to name God by tugging the vibrating violin strings of our hearts.

In two days, “Motet” will close.  The song will once again fall silent.

 

But my people: it is nevertheless not too late.

It is not, yet, too late. 

j

we the people

 

Dear white girl from Kansas: I choose them

Wow, it’s been a few years.  More than that, actually—time flies, right?  We don’t keep in touch, and even though we lived and worked less than 30 miles from each other for the last six years, I haven’t seen you.  We don’t send birthday greetings.  I don’t know that I even understood you to be part of my village.

Until now.  By which I mean last week, when you sent me that message, and invoked the “friend” card.

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Don’t worry; you’re not alone.  I know this story.  It happens every now and again.

While we lack anything that might be taken for a relationship, we have a friendship, and you’re invoking it now to let me know I have put it on the line.

For being out of touch? 

For not knowing your kids’ names? 

For forgetting your birthday?

Nope.

For talking about racism. 

See, we can go a long time without talking, but there are some things friends just don’t do.  And I need to know that.  So you’re telling me.

Here’s the post that crossed that friend line:

“If you voted for Trump, and are also “not a racist,” this might be an important thing for you to read. And reflect on. And speak out about.

If this sort of thing is ok with you, well, you’re entitled to your prejudices. And also: we have a word for them.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/trump-attorney-general-jeff-sessions-racist-remarks_us_582cd73ae4b099512f80c0c2

And here’s part of your response:

“I know I am a sensitive person, but when I see that in the title of your post you mention things like “not a racist”, I really feel bothered. Things aren’t always so black and white. I do think it’s possible to identify more with one party- even while not completely loving your candidate- and not be generalized as a racist. I did read [the article about Sessions] and am intrigued by the choice.

I am worried about President Elect Trump and his choices, however I am hoping and praying too and giving him my hope and optimism. I really am trying to be inclusive and forgiving and allowing people a chance, even if they’ve said and done things that they shouldn’t have. . . . “

You go on to remind me to be tolerant, and, above all, that you are not a racist.

angry woman pointing

Dear Facebook friend.

Here are some things I value:

Civil discourse

Dialogue, and the magic I have sometimes found in the midst of it

Learning

Relationships

But we are not having a leveled conversation here. 

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And aside from the things listed above—things that I actually do value—you’re making a strong implicit ask for me to prioritize a couple of things that I do not, in fact, value:

“Friendships” with people I’m not really friends with.

Dialogue about two things (potential of hurt feelings; potential of persecution, harassment, and unequal treatment based on skin color) that are categorically, exponentially different, carried on with “pretend like all concerns are equal” as a ground rule.

“Be nice*” as the fundamental edict of white womanhood.

And friend, there’s also something here about honor.  About respectability as a white woman.  About what we believe, but mostly do not say, about “decency” and “playing by The Rules.”

It’s been impossible not to notice—in fact, I think this is one of the great and unwelcome shocks to upper middle class white America during these last few years—that “don’t be racist” is no longer a rule.  It is my experience that it was a rule, at least out loud, for more than a generation and a half.  But it’s clearly not a rule now.

And yet, don’t be mean to other white women is TOTALLY a rule.  Also: don’t talk about hard stuff.  Don’t say what you’re thinking or wondering or worrying about, unless it happens to be birthday party décor.  Don’t you dare—ever— say something that might indirectly call anyone to account.

girls making self portrait on the beach

Sister, you’re intrigued?

And you’re asking me to be silent in the face of that?

I am not going to play nice with your casual racism, just because the world we have inherited says that “play nice” is in the honor code, and “check your freaking white privilege” is not.

My reality as a minister in a progressive, anti-racist, anti-oppressive, and multiculturalist faith tradition is that I’m standing atop a widening chasm in maintaining my various relationships.  And I’m not sure how much longer I can do it.

I am no longer sure how to occupy space where I give the same amount of energy—more energy, honestly—to dialoguing about your “a little hurt” feelings than to being physically present with those who are afraid for their marriage rights, for their trans child’s ability to use the bathroom without being beaten or intimidated or psychologically and physically brutalized, for their humanity, for their lives.

I can’t play by white girl rules anymore.  They make real conversation, and underneath that, real movement, impossible.

And I don’t think that’s an accident.  I don’t think my complicity with your comfort is value-neutral.

Thus, as to your implicit threats and explicit invitations: I’m trying to imagine the person you think I might be, the one you’re trying to pull me toward becoming.

I don’t think she’s someone I could live with.

And so, when it turns out I can’t bridge the gap anymore, I will have to make a move.  And the truth is, my choice is already made.

If being in relationship with you means preserving your comfort, keeping your thoughts pure and your cheeks tear-stain free …   if to be “friends,” I must choose silence, over and against solidarity with people whose concerns have never been about comfort—who are acting in a hierarchy of needs that doesn’t get past the physical and psychological safety pieces–

Friend, I choose them.

I choose my humanity.

I choose my soul.

Sound stark?  Feel problematic for your sense of hope, or your understanding of, yes, the magic power of dialogue?

It is.  That’s why it’s taken me this long to say this thing, even to myself.  It violates every “nice girl” norm I know.

Handcuffs standing on laptop computer keyboard

But there is indeed an alternative.  And it looks like you doing some work—to get courageous rather than comfortable.  It looks like you living in flexible, contested space for awhile.

Truly, you want to stay in relationship?  Or establish something deeper?  Or simply read my FB public ministry and not feel personally affronted in considering my words to the world?

That would look like you not expecting me to choose silence as a package deal with “friendship.”

Can you do that?  Are you inclined to?

I don’t know.

What I’m sure of: no one will make you.

And that, friend, is what we call privilege.

j

 

*to those who have social value.  Obvs.

**I’m going, now, to humanize this person.  I’m doing it because humanity and complexity are the deepest call of my faith, and I truly believe that we gain nothing—in any conception of “We” worth having—without that generous willingness.  But before I do that, I want to ask you for a favor.  All of you.  Every single person reading this.

Take a moment, and consider who we are not willing to humanize in our narratives.  To whom do we not offer this gift—this sacred responsibility belonging not to the people we choose to talk about, but to ourselves, as story-tellers?  Who are “thugs” in our narratives, rather than sons, scholars, dads, grads, promise, potential, our future?  Who are “illegal,” in your story, instead of brilliant daughters, future doctors, terrorized toddlers, and the many-centuried hope not just of American shores, but the hope of our nation itself?

I will show you the fuller humanity of this white woman, because we all deserve it.  But remember this: we all deserve it.  And the next time you want someone to look upon you positively in your own story, I invite you to work twice as hard to reframe your internal narrative about someone else.  Especially when it’s challenging.  You’ll know you’re on the right track when you surprise yourself.

So:  this open letter is part of a real exchange, with a real person.  I don’t know if we’re friends now, or if we will be in the future.  I do know that she’s stayed in dialogue as our conversation has continued beyond this point.  I know that she’s been courageous and willing to listen.  I know that she’s working hard to open her heart and hear other, larger stories—and that we can receive that as a gift, because although it is a bullshit way to allocate resources, privilege is real, and it makes willingness optional.  Call-in helps.  So does a willingness to answer when called.

In short, “White girl from Kansas” just might be more impressive than you give her credit for.  May that possibility mean something when it matters.

how can I know another’s heart?

This is a post guest-written by a friend, Mandie, who shares her own experiences and perspectives about abortion in response to this post.  For more of Mandie’s words about parenting, faith, and life in general, go here.
j
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I volunteer as an escort at a local women’s health clinic that twice a week provides abortions. My job is to shepherd women into the clinic — walking them from their cars to the door and making small talk to help drown out the shouts of the protestors.
Even after weeks of this, I never quite know what to say. Every word of chit-chat seems crass when I know how wrenching the decision to end a pregnancy can be. And even for the women who are confident that they are doing the right thing, walking through protesters into that clinic, knowing the social stigma that awaits them when they return to the world, is just plain hard.
 

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One cold Saturday morning, I arrived at the clinic before the doors were unlocked. The protesters were already setting up with their thermoses full of coffee, their rosaries at the ready. Idling in the pull-up driveway was an old, boxy sedan full of people.In the front seat were a man and woman looking to be in their 40s, heads bent toward each other, talking softly. Crammed in across the bench seat in the back were four exuberant children, who appeared to range in age from about 3 to 9.

As I walked up to try the clinic door, the woman got out and the car drove off. Since the door wasn’t actually open yet, we had to stand there for a few minutes, waiting, with the eyes of the protestors upon us, as cold as the air.

“I’m sure this looks really great,” the woman mumbled, “me coming here with my kids.”

Oh, Honey.

My heart nearly burst with sorrow for her — sorrow that she had to make this choice, sorrow that she felt ashamed and unsafe even with me, whose job it is to be supportive of her and protect her from those who would shame her.

I wished I could wrap my arms around her, that I could take her cold hand in mine and pass on to her the love and compassion I was feeling. Instead, all I could do was look at her and say, “Honey, I am SO not judging you.”

How could I know another’s heart? How could I imagine the circumstances surrounding her decision? Without that knowledge, how could I possibly judge her?

What must have brought her to this place?

Did she look at two lines on a plastic stick and cry because she and her husband were already barely able to care for the four living, breathing, children full of personality and love that they already had, because while another baby would fill her with joy, it would leave them without the resources to care for any of them?

Did she cry because she was physically and emotionally exhausted by the demands of motherhood, and another pregnancy — another baby, another child — would be a burden too great to bear, would break her completely, and leave her family without the glue they so desperately needed to hold them all together?

Maybe she stands here next to me after facing the choice between carrying her pregnancy to term and leaving all of her young children without their mother, or terminating the pregnancy before it was much begun?

Maybe she rejoiced at the positive result and eagerly attended all of her prenatal appointments until the day the doctors told her that her baby was severely malformed and would almost certainly be stillborn if the pregnancy continued.

Did she think everything through again and again, agonizing over it until she finally decided on what she felt was the best option in the worst situation?

Abortion providers screen their clients with paperwork, watchful for warning signs of coercion. They ask women to check yes or no for a variety of questions, and one is “This is my only option.” How many women check that box knowing full well that the other options available to them are few, and none will truly help?

This woman standing next to me, with cold hands and warm eyes, what will she face when she leaves this place, a little relieved but also broken-hearted? Denial that she could be experiencing Post-Abortion Stress Syndrome, a condition that doesn’t actually exist because, after all, women are no more likely to suffer emotionally after an abortion; after all, a fetus isn’t a person, isn’t worth mourning. A mouthful of shame and attempt to convert her into another weapon of anti-choice protest, because after all, she is living proof that abortion hurts women, so she should try to prevent others from making the same choice she made; after all, if there’s no choice, there’s no pain.

Who will see her as the woman, the human being, that she is? Who will respect her decision and her pain?

Perhaps if abortion weren’t so stigmatized in the first place, if so many lines weren’t drawn in the sand, if women weren’t made into political pawns by this debate, she wouldn’t be quite so emotionally scarred. Perhaps she would feel safe telling her story, and allowed to heal without losing her identity.

A final note from Mandie: If you would like to speak to someone about your experience after abortion, or if you are considering abortion and would like spiritual counseling without moral judgments, you can contact Faith Aloud for free and confidential counseling by phone.

an intermezzo about abortion

“There aren’t ‘women who have abortions’ and ‘women who have babies.’ Those are the same women at different points in their lives.” — Rachel Atkins, PA, MPH, Executive Director, Vermont Women’s Health Center

My children are the joy of my life. I love them more than I would have imagined possible; they add depth and meaning to my days and challenge me to seize the moment, to see the good, to be true to my best self far more effectively than anything else ever has.  That these things are true, and that the idea of having another child, at least right now, is impossibly frightening, is one of those strange paradoxes of life.  My husband and I have our hands full in every possible way. The past year has been very interesting around here, and in the midst of it, I took a pregnancy test, got an unexpected result . . . and I cried.

And eventually, I thought the unthinkable—the dark whisper that comes after, “I cannot be pregnant right now.”  Or, I halfway thought it, only to be overwhelmed by fear, guilt, shame . . . in the hours between taking that test and talking with my husband, I felt something like despair.  I knew that in even thinking about ending a pregnancy, I was turning away from my faith in God.  And I knew equally that my marriage, while wonderful in many ways, had been strained to the limit by our two career, two commute lifestyle, a series of significant (and horrifically expensive) health challenges and an ongoing, soul-gutting lack of sleep best employed in the context of a gulag.

Having a third child is an expensive proposition by any measure, but in this reality, it felt like the true cost might be my soul.  And of course, I worried about that fairly literally on the other side, not because I believe in eternal damnation, but because I believe that we are responsible for our decisions, and there was no potential cost that made this one feel defensible.

In short, I didn’t feel free to think about abortion.  I also didn’t feel like I could talk about my fear and internal struggle, not anywhere, but particularly not in the context of church.  In the Christian church, I’d find platitudes and guilt . . . and in the Unitarian church . . . I wasn’t sure. And after some soul-searching, I decided not to find out.

Ultimately, it wasn’t fear of God, but fear that I would not, could not be heard on my own terms in the Unitarian context that kept me silent.  I was afraid I might lose UU as a safe space for my family—not because I’d be shamed for considering an abortion, but because I might be encouraged to, in a way that would let me know, irrevocably, that my own spiritual experiences are not taken seriously by this religion.

This is unfortunate, as I have rarely felt so acutely in need of spiritual guidance.   I was terrified—and my terror at the situation was compounded by fear of becoming an unwitting case study for those determined to view “crisis pregnancy” as solely a medical decision or even a political statement.  I feared being ideologically manhandled by people whose devotion to their cause makes it difficult for them to acknowledge the toll that “choice” can take—even where that choice seems the more survivable one for the members of our family living outside of the womb.  And I realize now—I realized then; irony is bitter—that I had helped to build the ideological walls that entrapped me.

By framing the issue in black and white terms, by choosing a “side,” and then choosing another; in agreeing, tacitly or explicitly, to be identified as part of a group differentiated from another group on the sole basis of my thoughts about abortion, I had left myself precious little room to manage the actual events of life.  By reducing this life circumstance to an “issue,” my response to it was equivalent to a “statement” . . . unless I’d prefer to remain anonymous.

In the end, it wasn’t a decision we had to make.  I wish I could tell you I was entirely happy about that.  I wish I could tell you I wasn’t.  The reality is, it was a terrible, scary, confusing few days . . . and I’m still confused about these issues, it still scares me to think of becoming unintentionally pregnant, and it continues to feel terrible to weigh quality of life (mine, my husband’s, and our children’s) versus actuality of life (an unborn child’s).  The best thing I can say is that I have a deeper understanding of how incredibly complicated and fraught these decisions are—not unlike end of life decisions, which in some ways this is—and greater empathy, on both sides.  I hope that this more nuanced picture of reality enables me to respond more creatively as a participant in our ongoing dialogue about abortion.

Partly this means a change in the way I envision the conversation.  It also impacts the way I engage with the social justice piece of reproductive health.  Thus, as part of our family’s inaugural Chalica celebration this year, we made a donation on day 2 to celebrate justice, compassion, and mercy. I considered our local battered women’s shelter, the rape crisis center . . . and Planned Parenthood.

After careful consideration, I chose Planned Parenthood—not because I feel any less conflicted about the moral issues we confront in the abortion debate, but because the work that they are doing to allow women to lead healthy and productive lives—and here I am talking about basic and essential preventive health care, friends—is simply not being routinely provided by anyone else.  In fact, in many communities it is no longer being provided by anyone at all, and there is every indication that this trend will continue.  This is unacceptable; it is, in fact, an sign that we have lessened the humanity of women in poverty.  I felt a bit strange, but also proud, making this donation, and the same mix of pride and apprehension in posting about it on my facebook page.  I may have lost a few “friends”—or not—but the world continued to turn despite my embrace of a messy take on morality.  Nothing of note changed . . . except for me.

In this conflicted, messy, imperfect action–in recognizing the humanity on all sides of this conflicted, messy, and imperfect discussion–I took a small but significant step away from polarity.  What started with my wallet—and believe me, I experienced no small amount of cognitive dissonance making this donation; I really did have to force myself—ultimately brought my heart along for the ride.

I am not somebody’s pawn in this conversation.  And as it turns out, you don’t have to be, either.  How often do we paint ourselves into a corner of a discussion that shouldn’t have corners in the first place?  Why do we let others define the terms of our thoughts and opinions on some of the most nuanced issues we confront?  We step into the midst of a polemic that we had no role in creating (most of us, anyway), mentally check one of two boxes available, and accept the entire adhesion contract that the movement—whichever movement—places into our hands (if it is not instead shoved down our throats).  It will take a conscious, informed effort on each of our parts, but what if we simply stop allowing the discussion to be framed this way?

Another option: a continued challenge toward self-reflection and a renewed commitment to self-responsibility—including the insistence that this right extends to others.  As above, allowing each woman to manage her own life leads to decisions that are messy, imperfect, and conflicted.  Thus, the greatest challenge of all might be a quiet one: the inner work that allows us to accept this.

Perhaps we could call this the theology of life.  We seek the ideal, we acknowledge what is real, and we render unto each other the terrible, wonderful power to make decisions for ourselves.  Ultimately, we do this not because we know things are going to work out the way that we want them to, or because we are entrusting others to make the same decisions that we would make, but because, in the words of Nelson Mandela, “to be free is not merely to cast off one’s chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.”

To that end, this past week, I went farther, making a donation—and a significant one, for our family—to the Peggy Bowman Second Chance Fund.  Our church has contributed to this fund at least once per year for as long as I’ve been a member.  My family, on the other hand, has contributed never.

Unlike my Planned Parenthood contribution, this isn’t something I can rationalize by explaining that I’m covering costs for preventive care; someone who believes in it more can foot the bill for abortion services.  No, I made a donation that will help pay for abortion expenses for a woman in a personal and financial emergency.  And I have to tell you: it hurts a little.  This is true despite what I shared with you earlier—and I think it’s because, at its heart, this isn’t what we pretend it is.

Abortion isn’t an issue.  It is rights and lives and real people clamoring for recognition of worth and integrity.  It is balancing that which cannot be balanced.  I continue to stretch myself, and it continues to hurt a bit because this isn’t a process that makes things feel less fraught or somehow numbs me to reality.  There is a woman out there making a choice that ends a possibility for another human being, and I am helping to make that choice possible.

For me this awareness touches both a great sadness and a great mystery.  That sadness and mystery too often go unacknowledged—because we know there is power in this pain, and we fear it.  But let’s acknowledge it, just as we acknowledge that there is wonder and revelation in allowing for human freedom, whatever great things or terrible wreckage that freedom may leave in its wake.

It could be a choice.  It could be a child.  And, just maybe, it could be your family.

If so, I’m trusting you to make your decisions, and to live with them and make sense of them, in the best way you know how.  I simply don’t know what else to do.

fewer lines in the sand, more listening (part I)

Recently, the Rev. Tom Schade published a series of posts suggesting that today’s political conservatism is wholly inconsistent with the values of Unitarian Universalism.  To those who claim both allegiances, Schade says “Show your work”—how do you get from your faith to your politics?  I take issue with this, not because I don’t think the questions are valid, but because I’m not persuaded that it makes sense, given the number of ethical and practical conflicts that we all live with each day, to level these challenges at one particular group of UUs.

Maintaining right relations—with each other, with our communities, and with the broader world—is demanding, soul-searching work.  But it’s not work that belongs most particularly to one group or another—it’s the work of all of us.  And so, perhaps we can say, to conservative UUs, to liberal UUs, and to everyone in between: Tell your story.  Explain your reasoning.  Show your work.  And then listen, in a spirit of honest curiosity, as we consider the answers.  What does our religion require of us, individually and together?

As we examine these questions—stepping up to the plate ourselves–carefully and respectfully, freely and responsibly—we create the safe space that might allow others to do the same.  This is valuable, as those who choose to worship among us have self-selected, perhaps more than they consciously know, to invest some effort in the task of living spiritually-connected lives.  As Unitarian Universalists, we are not the Nones–those who have opted for a life of secularism–but a religious people who have entered into a covenant that includes invitation to spiritual growth.

So let’s provide that challenge to grow, and Rev. Schade has highlighted some areas where discussion in our congregations might be helpful and illuminating.  But let’s also accept that the invitation to self-examination, and the discoveries that follow, are going to change not just the one we think needs to be changed, but us, too.  In talking openly with those with whom we disagree, we will be made different, and we need to be.  Not because we need to believe in equality of opinion, as individuals or as a movement, but because we believe in the power of stories to shape the world–and to reshape our perceptions of it–and we each must tell our own.

On that note, here is a little piece of my story, as it relates to opinions, values, politics, and our relationship to and with the Infinite.  Our minister–let’s call her Jane–occasionally posts an article or meme related to a social justice issue on her publicly-accessible facebook wall.  One recent post was about abortion; I responded to it explaining that I don’t think the discussion needs to be all-or-nothing on either side, and that I, for example, am both pro-choice and a supporter of the codification of some fetal rights.  Conversation up to that point had been a range of “Amen!” and “Rah-rah!” comments about the original post.  After my response–cue crickets.  (Jane respectfully acknowledged my post and looked for areas of agreement, but the silence from other participants felt deafening.  On the whole, I wondered if it was perhaps shameful in UU circles to even frame the issue as two sets of rights to balance, rather than as an outrageous usurpment of one.)

Not long afterward, some members of my church were socializing together before a meeting, and the topic of the anti-abortion movement in the U.K. came up.  Opponents of abortion reportedly staged silent vigils across from women’s clinics, handing out leaflets to women who passed by.  “Those people are just crazy!” exclaimed one member, and the others nodded their agreement.  My husband replied that he didn’t think it was that the protesters were crazy, but that they were living their values—different, but strongly-held—in a way that made sense to them.  Crickets again . . . and then a hasty change of subject.

I share this example because it is one in which my husband and I hold what is—so far as I can tell—a fairly moderate view [namely, that abortion should be safe, legal, and an option of last resort, one particularly eschewed after the point of viability] in terms of the range of opinions in our society, but which is an extreme view in the context of Unitarian Universalism. I will share more about this, from a different perspective, in my next post.  For the moment, a few words about how my take on abortion fits with my larger faith—my response to the calling to account for which Rev. Schade speaks.

I arrived at this opinion—having spent much of a decade information tabling for Planned Parenthood—through my experiences of pregnancy, childbirth, and pregnancy loss.  It is a view dictated by my heart and my soul more than by my head, and it’s been both challenged and supported in my journey since then.  I have researched and written in the special education context in support of fetal rights—and the rights to life, dignity, and bodily integrity of all who cannot speak for themselves.  Far from conflicting with my UU faith, it is my deep concern for the inherent worth and dignity of ALL people that leads me to reflect upon and speak about my own views on abortion, counter to prevailing UU opinion though they may be.

Do my fellow congregants agree with my thoughts about this?  I’m not sure, as we haven’t found a space or format in which we can really discuss it [aside: this space is sorely needed, as are the willingness and practical skills to engage, and it’s not just UUs that are missing these–it’s our society], but my guess is no.  Should I be called to account for my reasoning should I decide to stand and speak for what I believe to be just and humane?  Definitely.  But do I have a higher burden of obligation to do that than someone speaking on the other side, simply because my opinion is less common in this faith?  What presuppositions do we make about the values and scruples of those who reach different conclusions—and what do those judgments say about us, as a movement?

To those who would assert that this calling-to-account of some members is not because their opinions are different, but because the opinions conflict with our principles, I ask: how do we get from “our principles” to the intolerance of some theological beliefs within individual UU congregations?  How do “our principles” guide our blindness to the empty plate at our own congregational table, or inspire us to do first for ourselves and share with others what is left over?  They don’t, of course, but our congregations deal with both of these issues–or in some cases, choose not to deal with them–constantly.

I suspect that we each struggle, at least insofar as our eyes and hearts are open, to discern the meaning and the imperative behind our values, and to live in accord with that.  That’s part of why we need religion–it’s hard to live a life of worth and decency without examining our choices.  Thus, the hypocrisy we’re talking about today is just easy pickings–it’s visible, and it’s about “someone else.”  Just this once, let’s skip the low-hanging fruit and see if we can go deeper into what matters.

The reality is, those who disagree with us are, in general, not crazy.  They are people, often people who care deeply about the same sorts of things that we care about, who have arrived at different conclusions.  But a common reaction—perhaps even our default reaction, these days—is to view those people as “the other,” and to see them only through the lens of our disagreement on an issue.  And there are tangible benefits to doing this.  First, fear of the Other can unify a group into a cohesive Us like nothing else—for an extreme example of this, consider the instant national unity, from the mountains to the prairies to the halls of Congress, after 9/11.  Further, it feels good; righteous outrage stimulates the pleasure centers of our brains, and makes the complicated, headache-inducing dilemmas we face everyday seem much simpler.  And while it’s disappointing, we UUs are not immune to this simplification-by-way-of-Other . . . sometimes it is even preached from our pulpits.  (Perhaps this surprises you—I hope it does, actually, as that might mean it is rare—but I have seen it happen.  And friends, it is ugly.)

Drawing a line in the sand.  An old metaphor.

Why is this call to establish [and enforce?] a UU line in our politics happening now?  Is it necessary?  And where else might we choose to go in the call to deepen our commitments to living our spiritual principles?

More on that soon.  In the meantime, I’d love to hear your thoughts on any or all of this discussion.

j

Oh, when will we ever learn?

I thought that I would have a new post for you today.  As this day has unfolded, though, it has turned out that the only words I have are Pete Seeger’s.

On its face, this is a song about war.  Reading a bit deeper, however, it is a poem about the terrible call to witness as the losses mount, losses that seem both inevitable and senseless.  It is a reminder that, though as individuals we may feel helpless,  our collective choices in one moment either contribute to or help to prevent our anguish in the next.

When WILL we ever learn?  That, for now, remains an open question.

But there is hope in continuing to ask.

peace, and prayers for peace.

j