Jesus Is Not a Chair {guest post}

By Halley Kim | Twitter: @halleywkim

“Hi guys! Did you have fun? What’d you learn about?” I called out to my two children from the doorway of the preschool room at church, my infant on my hip. The service was over and because being a pastor’s wife means being a single mom on Sundays, I was more than ready to collect my kids and head home.

“Jesus!” replied two-year-old Phoebe while she played on the floor with blocks. I smiled at her stereotypical answer and smiled at Janice too, the classroom volunteer that week.

But Janice was disturbed. “Well, we had to backtrack quite a bit. Now I’m SURE you’ve told them this, but —” Janice put up her hand like a stop sign and took a big breath before she finished her sentence. “But when I asked them if they knew who Jesus was, they said no.”

Do you know who Jesus is? I wanted to ask. Does anyone, conclusively?

It was obvious she felt improper implying a pastor’s wife wasn’t feeding her children the prescribed diet of indoctrination. Nevertheless she felt it her duty to alert me that my kids were not fast-tracked to Heaven. I felt trapped because I couldn’t respond outside of church lady etiquette. I’m supposed to be a ringleader, not a rebel. I’m supposed to be advancing the gospel, not pondering disconcerting questions, and certainly not slipping in my charge to “train up children in the way they should go.”

Maybe Janice conveyed impropriety, but she did not hold back her objection to my parenting. With no church-sanctioned outlet for my feelings, I choked them down into the bulging box of All The Things I Cannot Say. A splash of anger was displaced by the new deposit, and I thought how easy it would be to snap Janice’s ninety pound frame like a wishbone.

She continued reporting how my children were failing Sunday School. “I asked them if they knew what it meant to believe in Jesus, and they said no. I asked them if they knew what the word ‘believe’ meant, and they said no.” Janice’s eyes seemed to bulge from her skull every time she uttered the word “no.”

“They’re big concepts for preschoolers,” I replied with my Sunday smile. I gazed at Gabe, my five-year-old who was zipping a toy airplane around the room and oblivious to my fury, to my sense of being caged, to my desire to defend my sweet babies who don’t know the five points of Calvinism and who cares anyway.

“Oh, I just used the analogy of a chair!” Janice tapped me on the forearm like she was telling me she substituted applesauce for eggs in a recipe. “I said, ‘Gabe, do you believe this chair will hold you up if you sit down in it?’ And he said ‘yes.’ So then I said, ‘Gabe, what if the legs of the chair were made of paper? Do you believe the chair would hold you up then?’ And he said ‘no.’”

Janice beamed as if to say, “There you go! Easy as that!”

The only thought I could formulate was You can’t use a word in the definition of that word, dummy.

Janice fiddled with the buttons on her sweater like she was waiting for me to thank her for unlocking the mysteries of faith. Her nine-year-old son Andrew stood nearby. Apparently he’d long-ago rejected the children’s Bible in favor of “the real thing.” Janice told me earlier that Andrew was reading before age two (yeah right) and that he just loved to sit on the couch and read Revelations.

Such a weird kid, I thought to myself.

“That Phoebe sure parrots everything Gabe says!” Janice said, changing the subject.

“Oh yeah. She does.” My mouth was full of words I couldn’t say and anger I wasn’t permitted to express. My baby fussed for her overdue nap and the bulging box inside me threatened to explode. Noted! For the hundredth time: “Only round pegs allowed here, so get your square self together.” I do not fit the pastor’s wife mold, nor am I a passable Christian mother. Guess what? You don’t get to grade me. Stop telling me that your way is the only right way.

About Halley:

Halley Kim is a writer and lactation consultant who lives in Phoenix, AZ with her husband and three kids. She has published essays with Mothers Always Write and The Junia Project. Follow her on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram.


Eight Nativity Myths: How the West Gets It Wrong

My children tore into the Christmas boxes yesterday, leaving books, toys, ornaments, lights and wrapping paper strewn about the living room. They arranged the Fischer Price toy manger in bizarre configurations and started in on their own versions of the Christmas story. A week ago for movie night, we watched the kids’ movie, The Star (complete with Oprah, Tyler Perry and Kelly Clarkson as voice actors) on Netflix and I wondered how much of the plot to critique with my children, age six and under.

Should I tell them there wasn’t a man in armor sent to kill Mary and Joseph—or a talking donkey? Or that Jesus wasn’t born in a barn? Should I point out that while the characters in the film looked more Middle Eastern than most adaptations of the nativity (apart from the blue-eyed Mary), their speech and mannerisms were decidedly “Western”? Was it even worth pushing against a story that has morphed into a romanticized version unlike what actually happened two thousand years ago …?

Living overseas and studying culture in graduate school taught me that I often view the world through Western lenses, forming incorrect assumptions as I read the Bible. Yes, the Reformation brought the freedom to study the Bible on our own, but with that comes the mighty weight of responsibility to research the culture behind the text. We can’t just take the Bible at face value and expect to get it right.

As I researched for my book about hospitality from a cross-cultural perspective this past year, I racked up late fines for a book I checked out of the library three times (and finally bought this week). Kenneth E. Bailey spent forty years living and teaching New Testament in Egypt, Lebanon, Jerusalem and Cyprus. The book, called Jesus Through Middle Eastern Eyes peels away the lenses we’ve used to read the nativity story, confronting our assumptions with truths about Eastern culture.

He says the misinterpretations of the nativity began when an anonymous Christian wrote a “novel” two hundred years after the birth of Jesus. It’s the first fictional account suggesting that Jesus’ birth occurred the very night Mary and Joseph entered Bethlehem. Bailey describes it as “full of imaginative details.” Along with this fictional account, we’ve managed to invent plenty of myths on our own. Here are some I hope to eventually debunk for my children (and myself) as we lug out our Christmas paraphernalia year after year:

Myth 1: No Room at the Inn

Our nativity stories usually involve a dejected Joseph and Mary finally bedding down in the straw of a barn because there was no room for them in the inn. But Bailey writes that “if Luke expected his readers to think Joseph was turned away from an ‘inn’ he would have used the word pandocheion, which clearly meant a commercial inn. But in Luke 2:7 it is katalyma that is crowded …literally, a katalyma is simply ‘a place to stay’… if at the end of Luke’s Gospel, the word katalyma means a guest room attached to a private home (22:11), why would it not have the same meaning near the beginning of this Gospel?”(32, 33)

Bailey points out that most Middle Eastern homes for the past 3,000 years were made of two rooms—one a guest room, and one for the family and their animals. Joseph had likely already arranged to stay at the home of a friend (he knew Mary would be giving birth around then, so of course he would plan ahead–perhaps he’s not as inept as we imagine …). Rather than a story of rejection, the birth of Jesus was, in fact, one of grand  hospitality—a family gave up their own room to make space for the holy family.

As proof that Jesus wasn’t born in squalor, Bailey points out that in the spirit of Middle Eastern hospitality, the shepherds would have whisked Mary away to their homes had their accommodations been unacceptable for a baby. As it was, they left them there, deeming the lodging fit for royalty, and raced off to spread the incredible news.

Myth 2:  Feminine Angels

 

For whatever reason, this misinterpretation of the Christmas story really irks me. In the Bible, angels were feared. They were warriors who inspired trepidation and trembling, not cuddling and cooling. Perpetuating the myth of an anemic angel lowers the bar on God’s unnerving power. Every single angel in the Bible is described as male, and most immediately say, “Fear not”—because they were terrifying.

Myth 3: White Jesus

 

Last year, I rounded up all the toys and pictures of baby Jesus I could find in my home. Most of them revealed a Caucasian, white-looking Jesus. While every culture has depictions of a Jesus who looks like they do, it’s still important to acknowledge that Jesus was born in the Middle East, therefore he most likely had brown skin, brown eyes and dark hair.

Why does this matter? In an article for Christianity Today, author and speaker Christena Cleveland writes, “Not only is white Jesus inaccurate, he also can inhibit our ability to honor the image of God in people who aren’t white.” (While you’re at it, you should follow her on Instagram because her posts lately have been amazing.) Deifying whiteness deadens the broad brush of a God who pigmented all skin and called it “good.”

Images matter. The more we surround ourselves with images of a white Jesus, the more we begin to believe that he was white. (That said, it is very difficult to find nativity sets with a brown Jesus–the Fischer price one we have has only one brown-skinned figure–the shepherd. But I have a few options at the end of this post.)

Myth 4: The Timeline

In our carved wooden nativity set, shepherds, donkeys, wise men and sheep crowd around baby Jesus. Most people know about this myth, but Richards and O’Brien in Misreading Scripture with Western Eyes note that, “When the wise men arrived, they went to a house where the toddler Jesus and his parents were living (Mt. 2:11)” (144). The visitation of the wise men occurred years after the birth of Christ, not on the night of his birth. While it’s not wrong to compress the Christmas story for the sake of a play or pageant, it still bears acknowledging that events have been tampered with in our retelling.

Myth 5: The Omission of Infanticide

Image from The Advent Book.

This isn’t so much of a misconception as an omission in the story we tell our wee ones. I’m not suggesting we go into this as we light our Advent wreathes and eat cookies as a family, but like so many of our Bible stories, I think we’re in danger of desensitizing ourselves and our little ones to violence when we gloss over murder, rape, genocide, torture, and abuse in our common Sunday School Bible stories. Amazon offers a startling disclaimer for the children’s Adventure Bible: “As with any full Bible, in the context of Scripture there is frank mention of drunkenness, nudity, and sex that parents may not expect to see in a children’s edition.”

As adults, we grow so used to the familiar tales that we forget to be shocked, horrified or to even to acknowledge the sickening violence. The story of the birth of Jesus is no different, as Herod slaughtered innocent children in his rage at the coming king. Bailey says “there appears to be a conspiracy of silence which refuses to notice the massacre. Why then does Matthew include it?” (58) He suggests that “if the Gospel can flourish in a world that produces the slaughter of the innocents and the cross, the Gospel can flourish anywhere” (59). Perhaps as adults we need to meditate on the violence and allow ourselves to absorb the horror as a way of recognizing God’s presence in suffering.

Myth 6: Mary Was an Unwed Mother

Most Americans read “betrothed” and incorrectly assume it means the same thing as “engaged.” In reality, under Jewish law, Mary and Joseph traveled to Bethlehem as fully married couple who had not yet consummated their marriage. The Middle Eastern view of betrothal bears little resemblance to our conception of engagement in the West.

Myth 7: Mary and Joseph Were All Alone

My Chinese students could never understand why I wanted to be alone–because they never were. In fact, most non-Western cultures are collectivist and can’t understand the individualism of those of us in the United States and parts of Europe. Our Saudi international student said even her 12 year old sister still slept in her parents’ room, an example that holds true in many Middle Eastern cultures. Why would Mary and Joseph have been any different?

As they were traveling back to Bethlehem to register, Bailey points out that most homes would have been available to Joseph, who was of the royal lineage of David. To reject someone of that heritage would bring shame and humiliation to the community. Mary, too, had relatives in the area and had just been visiting her cousin Elizabeth not far away in the “hill country of Judea.” Bethlehem was in the center of Judea. They were not friendless in Bethlehem.

The birth in the family room of a friend’s home would have been attended by other women and midwives as tradition dictated. Far from alone, Mary and Joseph would have been surrounded by more help than they needed. (My friend, Sarah Quezada, is sharing more about what she’s calling “the Advent caravan” the next three Sundays, you can sign up for that here.)

Myth 8: The Boot-Strapping Holy Family

In America at least, many of us love the Cinderella stories of the underdog rising to power. The United States lauds those who pull themselves up by their bootstraps, forge ahead without the blessing or need of others and make something of themselves. I wonder if this love of independence and individualism has seeped into our telling and retelling of our beloved nativity story. We love the idea that an unwed family left home and made something of themselves in spite of rejection. Not needing anyone else, they gave birth alone in a barn to the audience of only animals.

But what if we changed the narrative to reflect the culture in which it was written? A culture that valued hospitality, relationship, togetherness and family? How would this alter our tale?

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Why does all this matter? The more I learn about other cultures, the more I realize how much of my own culture I project onto my personal reading of the Bible. Understanding the nuances of stories in the Bible from the perspective of the culture in which it was written fills in the gaps of our shallow, faulty understanding.

I know there are resources out there that offer a more accurate nativity story. In our family, we use the Advent book and the Jesus Storybook Bible to share the Christmas story with our little ones, though these also fall short.

The Jesus Storybook Bible has a brown-skinned Jesus.

The Jesus Storybook Bible also has a more accurate timeline.

The Advent Book is straight from the Bible, and we open a door each night leading up to Christmas.

I want my children to peel away the heroics and white-washed Bible stories to see the God behind the myths. Mostly, I want my kids to know the many dazzling facets of God they’re missing when they settle for a Western god made in their own image.

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Resources:

The Story of Christmas (recommended by a friend of a friend)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Olive Wood Miniature Nativity Set (we have this one–it’s small and not for play, but nice!)

 

 

Nativity Sets from Peru (this site looks awesome–they have sets from all around the world!) This mini one from Peru is $16.99.

African American Nativity for $54.99

 

Bark Cloth Nativity Set for $29.99

 

 

 

Painted Peg Doll Nativity Set for $40 (Looks more Middle Eastern, but still has a female angel…)

 

 

Diverse Peg Doll Nativity Set for $142 (more money if you order the Dr. Who character!!!…???)

 

 

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For December, the theme on the blog is “The Other Side of Advent.” Let me know if you’re still interested in guest posting (I’m usually willing to extend deadlines)! Check submission guidelines here.

Sign up for the (occasional) Mid-month Digest and the (loosely) “end of the month” Secret Newsletter for Scraping Raisins Here:

Follow me on Instagram @scrapingraisins–I frequently give away books and products I love! 

I want my children to peel away the heroics and white-washed Bible stories to see the God behind the myths. #whitejesus #nativitymyth #nativitystory #advent #adventmyth #westernculture #easternculture

**This post includes Amazon affiliate links.

Dreamers, DACA and the Art of Godly Mourning {guest post}

By Dr. Michelle Reyes | Twitter: @dr_reyes2

I could see the frustration and heartache all over her face.

The woman standing before me had just heard that the Deferred Action for Childhood Arrivals (DACA) Program was ending, and she was now terrified for her future in the only country she had known as home since being a young girl.

Tears flowed down both of our faces as I could only stand there and weep with her.

What was this woman to do?

Her story is a tragic one and, sadly, not so uncommon. Born in Guatemala, she had been kidnapped from her own home at age seven by human traffickers, and the stories she recounts from that time in her life are truly horrific. It was only by God’s grace that she was able to escape. During a chaotic moment, while her kidnappers were stationed near the Mexican-American border, she made a run for it. This woman ran so hard for so long that she eventually passed out, and when she awoke she found herself on the side of a Texas highway. She didn’t even realize she had crossed into the U.S. She had just been trying to run back home! A kind, old woman took her in, brought her back to health and raised her as an adopted daughter.

As the pastor’s wife of an urban, multicultural church in Austin, TX, this was not the first story of its kind that I had heard. Our church is a minority church, and it is comprised of immigrants, refugees and asylum seekers among others. These are the people that my husband and I have a desire to serve, to care for and to live life with. This includes everything from sharing meals together on a weekly basis to helping them become documented, find jobs and making sure they can pay rent each month. In fact, the more we live life with men and women like the gal from Guatemala, the more we understand their plight and the more we want to do to help them!

Our church prioritizes a variety of social justice initiatives in our community to care for the vulnerable, the poor and the needy. Just recently, we hosted an event in Austin to raise awareness to the current plight of Dreamers in our city, and we talked about ways to support them, both on an individual and federal level. For example, Dreamers are not just from Mexico and Latin American countries. They come from countries all around the world, including Cambodia. One of our own church members is a Dreamer from Cambodia, and his status in the U.S. is now in jeopardy by the current DACA situation.

Perhaps we were naïve to think our community would immediately rally around our cause. But sadly, we found that not everyone was as sympathetic as we were to these men and women.

While my husband and I hear the stories of Dreamers and our hearts break with their plight, others can only see them as nothing more than lawbreakers, who have entered our country illegally and need to be deported immediately.

I know that the complexity of certain issues like immigration cause many people to first turn to a political stance for guidance. But I’m not here to make one statement or another, regarding party ideals.

I simply believe that we, as Christians, forget to care for the individual, to see the humanity of the immigrant, the Imago Dei in them, and to mourn for their pains, regardless of what the laws and systems in our country dictate.

If anyone is a model for how we should view the hurting minority it is God himself.

Consider Psalm 146:9, which states, “The Lord watches over the sojourners; he upholds the widow and the fatherless, but the way of the wicked he brings to ruin.” The psalmist here paints a picture of a protective, loving God, who watches over the foreigner in the midst of His own people, caring for them and “upholding” them.

Should we not do the same? Should we not also mourn the evils that our fellow, hurting minority brothers and sisters are experiencing?

Immigration laws aside, no matter who you are or what your circumstance is, there is always pain when a family is torn apart. Being judged because of your skin color causes pain. Being thought less of because you are poor causes pain. Being ostracized because you can’t speak the majority language well causes pain. Being told that your only usefulness in a foreign country is as a manual laborer, despite the familial and professional dreams you have, causes pain.

I am happy to say that people from our community did attend our Standing For Dreamers event, and the discussions and ideas for activism were positively received. Among some of the main things that we shared that night was this: When we stand before God on the Day of Judgment, do you think He will praise us for being stingy and judgmental toward those less powerful than ourselves? It’s easy to form strong opinions against someone. It’s not as easy to sympathize for the other.

I am passionate about our commitment, as Christians, to doing mourning well. My prayer for all of us is to always strive to better emulate God Himself in his love for the sojourner, to be better at mourning with those who mourn, and to care for those who are hurting, no matter what their ethnicity, nationality or skin color is.

About Michelle:

Michelle Reyes, PhD. is pastor’s wife, literary scholar, and momma of two littles. She is a regular contributor for Think Christian, (in)courage and Austin Moms Blog, where she writes on faith, family, and diversity. Michelle helped plant Church of the Violet Crown in Austin, Texas in 2014—an urban, multicultural church where her husband, Aaron Reyes serves as lead pastor. Follow Michelle on Facebook, Twitter or Instagram.

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The theme for August is “Homelessness, Refugees & the Stranger,” so send me a post for if you have an idea. Email me at scrapingraisins @ gmail (dot) com if you are interested in guest posting. You can find submission guidelines here. Be sure to include a headshot and bio.

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A Confession: I Am a Tiger Mother {guest post}

By Nichole Woo | Blog

There’s this thing in the air. You’ve likely been exposed — especially if your kids’ activities (too) have incapacitated your social life.

Symptoms.
This “thing” is both infectious and highly contagious. It incubates in competitive environments, attacking parents’ vulnerable nervous systems. Symptoms range from elevated heart rates and involuntary clenched fists to sweaty palms and irritability.

These symptoms exacerbate during children’s performance “events” — school art shows, music recitals, spelling bees, the monkey bars . . . any place where parents are sizing up their offspring’s abilities to those of their peers. It is common for symptoms to worsen at sporting events, most notably during soccer games. (Scientists hypothesize that this correlates to a high incident of player distraction, from factors like butterflies, dandelions, and somersault-worthy grass.)

Symptoms are accompanied by overwhelming angst, culminating in feelings of frustration and inadequacy. Often, parents channel this emotional intensity to their own children through sideline “cheers”, the “look”, or the barely audible swear word. They believe that, applied effectively, this pressure will prompt superiority: The win, the score, the MVP, the not-just-a-participation-ribbon, the top performance. Progeny victories appear to usher in brief periods of remission. Ineffectively treated, however, symptoms will reoccur and worsen, often resulting in long-term damage to the heart.

Detection.
I began noticing infected parents – especially moms – right out of the parenting gates. There were many on my beat: The boasters of super-latching babies in lactation group, and the exuberant church moms swopping milestone stats on sleeping, sitting, rolling over, and speaking. (Either that or they were referring to their dogs . . .)

As my children grew and my circle widened, I feared an epidemic. The infected surfaced at toddler music classes (best shaky egg form), after school language programs, swimming lessons and tumble-bees gymnastics (“Tuck your head on that somersault, dang it!”). I playfully christened these women “Tiger Moms”, from Amy Chua’s controversial work, Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother.

I scoffed at the pressure parents placed on their kids to perform. It seemed every move since birth was calculated to usher their offspring out of mediocrity and on to the Ivy League, Julliard, the NBA – or at least one of these. I pitied each overly-ambitious disease carrier and their poor, defenseless children.

Until the day I glanced into the mirror, and saw orange and black stripes.

Diagnosis & Denial.
It was my husband who painfully and lovingly held up that mirror. I was vexing about some recent “Tiger Mom” encounter, when he interjected “You know you’re one, too, right?” There is nothing like realizing you are the thing you ridicule. It’s even better when your spouse exposes the hypocrisy. (The “for worse” part of my marriage vows are never lost on me.) I jokingly shrugged him off, knowing he was right.

Acceptance.
It wasn’t the title that gnawed at me so much as grasping why I deserved it. There was no denying I exhibited the symptoms. Simply put, if my kid landed on top, I was gratified — at least for a while. Anything less opened the ugly flood gates of discontent, until their next chance to shine. It’s why I felt a competitive tension whenever my kids performed, and why I constantly sized up their “opponents” in the classroom and on the playground. My radar constantly detected others like me. We prowled in the same territory, always cramming that one extra thing into our kids’ packed schedules. (Because someday, it just might matter to MIT if they can say “Where’s the bathroom?” in 12 different languages. . .)

Honest dialogue with a close friend exposed the truth: This wasn’t about my children, or their greater good. It had nothing to do with them realizing their full potential, learning the value of hard work, or becoming the best version of themselves.

It was all about me.

In my twisted version of reality, their victories meant I was “enough.” My parenting abilities were enough. Their upbringing was enough. Even my genes were “enough.” My “enough-ness” was intrinsically tied to their success, all the while exposing them to my illness, too. I could see it in their eyes every time they searched mine for approval and came up short. My “Tiger Mom” mentality was eating away at their self-worth. I either tamed it, or surely I would contaminate them.

Treatment.
Earning my stripes was effortless. Losing them meant painstakingly shedding my pride. It required me to expose the darker underbelly of a value system I’d thought was godly. As it turned out, mine just pretended to be. Finally, I recognized a comparison worth making — His values next to mine:

Threaded through Scripture’s pages, I found God in relentless pursuit of His beloved. Us, valued not for what we did (He had that covered), but for who we were. Imperfect, fallen, flawed — but masterpieces nonetheless; His workmanship, His image bearers. And just in case there was any doubt about our worth, He bought us back at the highest price possible, the price of His only Son’s blood.

No plastic trophies or gold medals required. Not from me or my kids. Not from humanity. My futile quest to net value through the likes of these now seemed absurd. Here was the antidote: In Him, enough was enough.

Recovery, and a Science Fair.
I wish I could tell you that I’m completely cured, and that I’ve lost my “Tiger Mom” credentials. But that “thing” still lingers in the air, and my tiger sometimes still rears its ugly head.

Recently, I strolled the poster board labyrinth of our school’s science fair. I’d like to say I spent that time celebrating the amazing learning on display. Instead, I secretly scrutinized each one, assuring myself of my kid’s place on the podium.

The symptoms came roaring back. But this time, I prayerfully applied His antidote: In Him, enough was enough.

And that was enough.

About Nichole:

Despite a deep desire to belong, Nicole Woo often finds life nudging her to the margins. She’s been the only girl on the team, the only public speaking teacher afraid of public speaking, the only Caucasian in the extended family photo, and the only mom who lets her kids drink Fanta. She calls the Rockies home, often pretending to be a Colorado native in spite of her flatland origins. Visit her blog at www.walkthenarrows.wordpress.com.

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This month on Scraping Raisins, we’re talking about adoption, foster care and children. If you’re interested in guest posting about this theme, shoot me an email at scrapingraisins (dot) gmail (dot) com. The theme for June is “Create,” so you can also be thinking ahead for that. Be sure to check back or follow me on social media so you don’t miss the fabulous guest posters I have lined up this month!

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*This post includes Amazon affiliate links.

My “enough-ness” was intrinsically tied to their success, all the while exposing them to my illness, too. I could see it in their eyes every time they searched mine for approval and came up short. My “Tiger Mom” mentality was eating away at their self-worth. I either tamed it, or surely I would contaminate them.

 

Weak is the “New” Strong {Guest Post}

By Nicole Woo

My best friend’s daughter hates her middle name. As a parent, how do you not take that one personally? After all, most of us spend about nine months contemplating, debating, and often agonizing over the matter. We sift through the millions of options, scrutinizing name meanings with a fine-toothed comb. We do the nickname test with first, middle, and last names to ensure survival through middle school, and then veto all options that remind us of mean people from childhood.

Some of us are so weighted down by this heavy responsibility that we are still deliberating on our drive to the hospital. (This happened to my grandparents, who succumbed to the stress by drawing names out of a hat. Thankfully, my uncle was named “George” instead of “Machine Washable.”) Somehow, we all arrive at the “perfect” name. Nailed it!

At least my friend thought so.

10 years later …

Daughter: “Ewe!!!! You named me after a ewe, as in ‘a female sheep’?” she recently lamented in tween dialect. So now she uses just her middle initial on official forms. Although it feels a bit to her parents like a slap in the face, I’m starting to see her point.

After all, the tide has turned in American culture. Who wants to be named after a female sheep when “strong” and “woman” may now proudly exist, side-by-side? This dynamic message is in plain view, everywhere: “Strong is the New Pretty” has replaced “Daddy’s Little Princess” on t-shirts, while Wonder Woman is smashing box office records. (Yeah, you get it.)

This “Strong Girl” movement is fascinating to observe. I sprouted up in the 80’s when playing football at recess and collecting GI Joe’s often earned me “weird girl” status. But now being strong, aggressive and independent is celebrated, embraced and even expected. Pop culture is riding this wave, so shouldn’t we too? It’s easy for me to get swept up in the excitement of it all, and what it might mean for this generation of girls. Lately, though, a few questions are nudging me to proceed with caution:

Is this celebrated version of “strong” the one that’s best for us to hear?

Is weakness really such a bad thing?

Are they mutually exclusive?

Last night I made a mental list of the strongest women I know personally. Honestly, I was pretty surprised at the names claiming the top spots.

My Strong “Girl” List:

• A mentor, in the throes of cancer, thanking God for the captive audience of clinicians who regularly drained fluid from her lungs: she boasted of His faithfulness and goodness at each appointment.

• A loved one, who rises each day resolved to forgive the man who blind-sided her, abruptly ending their long marriage.

• A friend, who recently endured the most complicated and high-risk pregnancy I’ve ever seen. Despite her pain, she selflessly and sleeplessly drags herself out of bed when her needy newborn cries.

Not the top three I imagined.

I thought it would include women like Jessie Graff, acclaimed Ninja Warrior and celebrated stunt double for Super Girl. (Disclaimer: I don’t really know her, but I did get my picture taken with her, so I’m counting it.) I recently saw Jessie complete a Ninja course on one leg, due to a knee injury. That was after she climbed a 40 foot rope, using mostly arm strength. No sweat.

But physical strength was not the defining trait I linked to “strong.” Nor were a slew of other qualities we often associate with the “Strong Girl” movement, like “confident,” “independent,” “leader,” “bold,” and “outspoken.” I am not editorializing these traits; in fact the women on my list have many of them. Rather, it was their entanglement with weakness – their faceoff with uninvited adversity – that spelled STRONG to me. It was their weakness that gave birth to strength.

I’m imagining it now: A rack of sparkling t-shirts at Target proudly proclaiming, “Weak is the NEW Strong.” I know. It’s not like we would just veer our carts over and grab one for those special girls in our lives, right?
(It’s funny how the truth is so often counterintuitive.)

These portraits of weakness, strength, and adversity reminded me of someone else’s. Maybe this “New Strong” is not so new.

The Apostle Paul’s first century resume included blindness, shipwrecks, beatings, imprisonments, and a slew of other undesirable hardships. I’m not an expert in ancient rhetorical criticism, but I think Plato would agree with me that you’d want to hide these red flags for credibility’s sake. But this man, in his relentless pursuit of Christ, did just the opposite. In one letter, we find him celebrating debilitation:

“… I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong.” –2 Corinthians 12:10

Forget personal image and self-promotion. Strength yielded from weakness was Paul’s M.O. throughout his tumultuous life. (We see this repeatedly in his other letters.) The result: A flame, igniting a radical message – a new way of living – that still burns today.

This ancient antithesis didn’t just start with Paul. It’s a marvelous and mysterious undercurrent throughout the Hebrew Scriptures. We find it running through the stories of people like Ruth, David, Joseph, Rahab, Ester, and Daniel.

This theme flows through the New Testament, too, with no one embodying it more than Christ Himself. Here we find the power Source, and it’s not from ourselves. Paul unabashedly names it in the midst of his own oppressing frailties:

“Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’ Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me.” –2 Corinthians 12:8-9

Christ’s power. This is the catalyst that sweeps us beyond “the triumph of the human spirit” as we lock horns with adversity. I’ll freely admit: this is a mystery I’ve experienced, but still can’t understand. This is the same power I see carrying the strongest women in my life. It’s the power I want my friend’s daughter to see and embrace as she witness Christ’s strength in others, and discovers it in the inevitable hardships she will face herself. Because someday her own strength will not be enough, and she’ll be stuck on a 40 foot rope that she cannot possibly climb.

Do I want to see a generation of strong daughters?

Absolutely.

But the Source of strength we can point them to eclipses anything a t-shirt or even a movement can offer: When it begins with weakness, it can end extraordinarily with Christ’s power. It’s then that we, and our beloved daughters, are truly strong.

Maybe even strong enough to embrace a middle name.

As Christ followers,

How can we underscore this message of “strength in weakness” to the girls and women in our lives?

Can we inject this truth into conversations within the “Strong Girl/Strong Woman” movement? What would that look like?

About Nicole:

Despite a deep desire to belong, Nicole Woo often finds life nudging her to the margins. She’s been the only girl on the team, the only public speaking teacher afraid of public speaking, the only Caucasian in the extended family photo, and the only mom who lets her kids drink Fanta. She calls the Rockies home, often pretending to be a Colorado native in spite of her flatland origins.

GIVEAWAY:

A Book Review of A VOICE BECOMING {plus, A GIVEAWAY!} If you share my last post and tag me in it on Instagram, Facebook or Twitter, I’ll enter you to win either a copy of A Voice Becoming (see my review here) or the first edition of a fantastic new magazine for girls called Bravery. The giveaway will end on January 31, 2018. Sorry, I can only mail to U.S. residents!

 

 

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My Children are Not Just “Little Sinners”

I have a confession that may or may not shock you. As much as I once longed to be a mom, I spend the majority of my days looking over the shoulders of my constant companions—my three tiny children—wishing I were anywhere but here. Highly educated, I feel largely unqualified and wholly unprepared to be a mother to tots and preschoolers. I often fall into the “just wait it out and survive” camp instead of the “thrive and delight in your circumstances” camp.

But the Holy Spirit snagged me in a few traps recently as I randomly opened the Bible. Not once or twice, but three times in ten minutes, I turned to passages where Jesus talked about children. In each one, he gently stood a child in front of his listeners as an object lesson and bade them look and listen.

“Welcome this child, and you welcome me,” he said in Luke 9:48.

“See that you do not look down on one of these little ones. For I tell you that their angels in heaven always see the face of my Father in heaven,” Jesus said in Matthew 18:10.

And the kicker: “Unless you change and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven,” he said in Matthew 18:3.

Sitting in the last quiet moments of the dark morning before my three year old would crack open my door, climb into my lap and ask to watch a show, I cocked my head, thinking about my children. Surely God wasn’t talking about my children?  Didn’t he know how selfish, loud, ornery, hyperactive, rude, irrational, impulsive and sinful they are?

I studied culture in college. Other cultures often followed strange social rules, communicated differently, and could even hold an alternate moral code. We were taught to enter new cultures as learners, asking questions instead of bringing solutions. One class assignment led us to laundry mats, train compartments, and third grade classrooms to simply sit, watch, and take copious notes in order to learn how to do ethnographies and prepare us for our six-month long internships in developing countries.  We were taught to approach new people and places with a holy curiosity. Our professors urged us: before judging, observe; before speaking, ask; before asserting, listen.

As I read Jesus’ words that morning, something shifted and stirred in me, challenging me with these questions,

What if I became a student of my children, studying them as I would study a foreign culture? What if I stopped seeing them as little sinners, and started seeing them as little Christs?

As mothers, we are journalists and anthropologists embedded in the country of children. And if we take the posture of a student, what will we learn there? Assuming Jesus didn’t mean for us to take on the negative characteristics of children, what did he mean?

Seeing is not a new concept, but seeing—truly seeing, appreciating, and even revering—my children is a new concept to me. Barbara Brown Taylor makes the distinction between the “language of belief” and the “language of beholding.” We have our beliefs, but are we ready to see God trying to tap into all of life as we “behold” our children?

This year, my goal is to take advantage of the privilege of spending day and night in the company of the little people Jesus commanded us to emulate. I want to enter the country of children with the posture of a person who does not have all the answers, but suspends belief in order to behold.

What can our children teach us about kingdom living?

Children dwell in imagination land and conjure up mystical, magical worlds. They believe in a jolly, bearded man who flies around to houses delivering presents made by elves just as easily as they believe there are monsters in their closets. The lines between sacred and secular are marvelously blurred in the eyes of a child. They notice everything and model holy astonishment with hundreds of questions a day. They give extravagantly of their emotions—both good and bad. They love to be loved. They are silly and squirrely and come programed with giggle buttons.

Their little hands thrive on creating—cutting, gluing, weaving, drawing, sculpting and painting. They are novice artists, uninhibited by criticism or fear of failure. No one expects them to be “good” at anything yet, so they create with the wild abandon of the unshackled and unafraid. And they are utterly and unashamedly dependent.

It’s no mistake Jesus came to earth as a baby. In the Bible, small rarely equals insignificant. Instead, small represents latent power, potential and promise. Manna, mustard seeds, yeast, fish, and bread were divine symbols in ordinary form. The majesty, splendor and radiance of God hide in an infant nursing at the breast of a low class woman.

Incarnation chooses small, ordinary objects in which to veil the divine.

So when Jesus grabs a child and says, “see him,” “see her”—“welcome this little one and you welcome me,” he is pointing to the majesty of God hiding out in our tiny children.

Studying my children will take intentionality on my part. I am usually more intent on molding them into my image than seeing how they already reflect the image of God. I rarely consider them as the tiny priests and priestesses they are, with a direct line to God, unencumbered by adult burdens. Their air is still clean and unpolluted by sin and all the shame it delivers. “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.”

Does this mean I will stop teaching, guiding and modeling what it means to be a rational, god-fearing adult to my children? Of course not. But instead of seeing my children as a nuisance or as soiled and in need of cleansing, I will welcome, respect and revere them as little Christs. I’ll take the posture of one who enters other cultures to learn: before judging, observe; before speaking, ask; before asserting, listen. I may just see more of Jesus than I have ever seen before.

***

I plan on delving more into this topic in the new year, so sign up for my newsletter to be sure you don’t miss the discussion!

My Children Are Not Just "Little Sinners"--"I am usually more intent on molding them into my image than seeing how they already reflect the image of God."

Why I’m Not Apologizing for My Kids and Doing Hospitality Anyway

Lately I’ve been asking myself if I still enjoy hosting people in my home. Gathering around the table, feasting, having deep talks over plates piled high with food in the glow of candlelight is the goal, right? The adults belly laugh, dabbing tears from the corner of their eyes, then grab another steaming roll to dip in their homemade soup while the children run off to laugh together in the backyard. This is my expectation. No, this is my illusion.

Instead, hospitality looks more like this:

I wait until the absolute last minute to tell my three children we are having guests, because they turn into crazed creatures pulsating with energy the second they know more attention-giving bodies will be in our home. Instead, as soon as my pre-arrival stress is about to erupt, I plug them into a movie to do the last minute meal prep, sweep the floor, pick up the toys and issue marching orders to my husband-turned-servant. Seconds before our first guest arrives, we scan the house, noting that it is worth having guests over just to have a decluttered home even if for just a second. But then the reality check arrives.

The doorbell rings and one of my children hides, while the other rushes to the door, suddenly all disheveled hair and stained clothing and immediately drags any newly arrived kids to their messy bedroom. The guests make their way to the kitchen and plant themselves at the kitchen island. My husband delivers drinks while I try not to screw up the whole meal in minutes because I am now not only stressed and hungry, but distracted. The kids race through the house, dumping the toys from every basket, crashing trucks over our feet and racing them on the hardwood floors. They reach grimy hands over the counter to blindly grab at olives, cheese or chips at the edge of the counter.

I calmly and slowly remind my children of “what we talked about before our guests arrived”—they should play outside or in designated rooms. Go there right now. Please. They ignore me. I stand there, hands covered in garlic, knife in hand and keep smiling at my newly-arrived guests.

Welcome to our happy home.

We had a family over last weekend with three children the ages of our children and one man who came solo. We spent the entire afternoon preparing. The food was overcooked and too salty, and I learned the downsides of the popular “open floor plan”—namely that the child chaos ricochets around the room and is impossible to escape. The four older children (all five and under) sat alone at the kitchen island, dueling with the plastic knives they had snuck out of the drawer and turned their food into ships and guns. The other mom and I tried to feed our babies finger food and unsuccessfully police our other children all while trying to talk about plans for a new small group. The older kids finished and the three-year-old girl caught her finger in the sliding glass door and wailed the remainder of the time. We all stood up, leaving our one male friend eating his apple pie alone at the table.

When the baby, too, began to cry, the parents abruptly announced their decision to abort mission. What was meant to last 2 ½ hours lasted 1 ½ hours. They were all out the door in minutes, leaving my husband and I standing in the kitchen, counters piled high with dirty dishes and over-stimulated kids running through the toy and food-littered floor. “Let’s go for a walk,” I said.

And so in the quiet after the chaos, I did what any halfway sensible adult would do and reflected on the wisdom of continuing the stress, anxiety and humiliation of having people to my home during this season with little ones. Maybe this isn’t the time of life. Perhaps I just said I liked hospitality because it seemed like the Good Christian Thing to do. “God, is this really…” And before I could even formulate the thought into a prayer, God interrupted.

“You do it anyway.”

Wait, what?

Do hospitality anyway. You do it in the stress and the mess and the raisins smashed into the carpet. You do it even though you are hollering over three preschoolers telling knock knock jokes with no punchline and talking about poop and pee at the table. You do it when your children throw tantrums and blatantly disobey you in front of your friends and family. You do it because doing life together means not hiding behind closed doors, but inviting people into your actual life. And real life is not pretty. It is not organized, perfect or pristine. Hospitality is not comfortable, clean or controlled.

Three of the four books in the Bible about Jesus’ life and ministry tell a story about his friends trying to keep the kids away from Jesus. I’m sure the children then were not so different from kids today. They had dirt under their fingernails, food on their faces, didn’t know how to use inside voices or walk—not run–inside. They didn’t know they shouldn’t ask people why they are fat or handicapped or black. They probably announced that food was “yucky” and peed on the floor when they forgot to go to the bathroom. They probably fought to hold on to their favorite toys and didn’t like going to sleep in the dark. Those Jewish children probably acted just like my kids.

And yet instead of being embarrassed, Jesus invited those messy, noisy, belligerent children to come to him. He didn’t tell them to clean up or straighten up first. Instead, he reprimanded his well-meaning friends who were eager for a constant atmosphere of contemplation and miracles. “Don’t stop them,” he scolded them. “For the Kingdom of God belongs to people like these.” The Kingdom does not belong to the perfect adults (ha), but the imperfect, loud, obnoxious kids.

Somehow, the Kingdom of God belongs to those with the greatest impropriety. The ones we are embarrassed of are the very ones to whom the kingdom belongs. Instead of working for our children to be seen and not heard, perhaps we should be doing more inviting, listening and learning from them.

I’m not advocating for a child-centered existence, but I am wondering if there is something to Jesus’ command that I’m missing when I expect my children to be anything more or less than what they are–children. Perhaps I need to hang a sign by my table as a reminder: “She is three years old. He is four years old.” Because I forget and expect them to act like adults.

My children are peeling away my masks, forcing me into true, messy relationship without the pretense of perfection. And Jesus says that if I don’t learn to receive the Kingdom of God like one of these kids we apologize for and try to hide, then we will never receive it.

So I’m doing hospitality anyway. In the noise, fuss, mess and chaos. Don’t wipe your feet at the door. Just come on in.

 

How are you doing hospitality anyway?

Somehow, the Kingdom of God belongs to those with the greatest impropriety. The ones we are embarrassed of are the very ones to whom the kingdom belongs. Instead of working for our children to be seen and not heard, perhaps we should be doing more inviting, listening and learning from them.

Day 31: Conclusion: This I Know {31 Days of #WOKE}

Day 31: Conclusion: This I Know {31 Days of #WOKE}

Would you buy a remodeled home with a cracked foundation? Would you forgo the inspection, assuming that because all appears well, then all is well?

That’s how I feel being born in 1979 on the heels of the Civil Rights movement and school desegregation, without full awareness of the racial history that preceded me. Like moving into a remodeled house without realizing its very foundation is damaged, I was oblivious to living in a world where all was not as it seemed.

It’s foolish to ignore the bearing history has on the present. We pretend slavery, segregation and Jim Crow were in the distant past, when those events continue to seep into old fissures, splitting our cracked foundation even wider. How could the fact that my mother did not attend school, drink from the same water fountain or sit in a doctor’s waiting room with a person of color not have any bearing on how I perceive black people today?

For the past 30 days I have been writing, reading, thinking, eating, drinking and breathing race. The simple fact that I don’t have to think about race on most days reveals that my world caters to people just like me. In the U.S., I am never inconvenienced, denied, discriminated against or made to feel inferior because of my race. I can go about my day without giving a single thought to the color of my skin.

Truthfully, the only times I’ve been painfully aware of my skin color was when I was a minority: as a teacher in a school in inner city Chicago; and on mission trips to Tajikistan, Costa Rica, Uganda, Nicaragua and China. In Chicago, I felt ineffective and paralyzed by my race, but in every other place I felt honored, admired and even revered—simply because I was born with white skin. Though it made me feel uncomfortable at first and I tried to shrug off the attention, I admit I began to enjoy it. Now I can confess: I liked being white because of the privileges it earned me. I knew I could use my whiteness as currency if I needed to get a visa, buy the last bus ticket or find a seat in a crowded room.

Though I’m thankful for some readers who have followed me on this journey toward being more “woke,” I wasn’t out to convince anyone of anything. Instead, I hoped you would learn along with me. Now, I can’t read a book without wondering if the author is a person of color. I notice when all the characters in my children’s books are white or if there is not a single person of color sitting in church. I drive by schools and parks in neighborhoods we could potentially move to, hoping to spot more than a few children with brown skin skipping next to the white ones. I look for opportunities to talk to my children about race.

But as a person who trusted Jesus with my life 27 years ago, I need to process these issues in light of my faith, which, if I’m honest, has wavered. Not because Jesus changed, but because I started looking at and being disappointed by the white church instead of looking at Jesus himself.

Jesus moved in the margins. Though he came from the “right” pedigree of the times, He was criticized for mingling with undesirables. He risked disgrace by talking with a promiscuous woman, being touched by a bleeding woman in a crowd and having his feet soaked with the perfume and tears of another “sinful” woman in a room full of self-righteous men.

With his brown, rough, Middle Eastern fingers, the carpenter, Jesus, touched the untouchable—lepers, demon possessed and those burning with fever. He welcomed wild, curious, innocent little children, telling everyone else to become like them. He broke the rules: throwing over tables in the temple, doing the work of eating and healing on the Sabbath holy day and even calling himself God.

As a child, Jesus narrowly avoided genocide, only escaping by becoming a refugee in Egypt with his parents. Three kings journeyed from the east to lay gifts at his feet and worship the baby king born in the Middle East. Jesus was not white, nor did he say that white people were God’s chosen people. The country called The United States would not exist for another 1700 years.

Jesus did not promise comfort, acceptance or power. In fact, he guaranteed suffering, hardship and death. He told his followers to fall to their knees and wash one another’s mud-crusted feet. He said to show hospitality to the stranger and to outdo one another with generosity. He told them that if they wanted to bear fruit, they needed to die. If they wanted to live, they had to die. If they wanted to love, die.

Jesus cracked the dividing wall of hostility that once separated the Jewish people and everyone else (Eph. 2:14). Jesus made it possible for every person who admitted they were lost and named him as Lord of their lives to be grafted in to his incredible tree of life.

Jesus defeated death, rising from the dead after three days. A low-class woman was the first to see him, touch him and tell others. And with this resurrection, eternal life rushed in like a river undammed.

But the promise wasn’t just hope after death, but Spirit Fruit in life. We could have: Unconditional love for the unsavory, the undesirable and the undeserving. Joy in suffering, but also laughter in abundance. Peace in being beloved children of God–nurtured, adored and protected. Patience in stress and anxious times. Kindness even when treated cruelly. Goodness when the world applauded evil. Faithfulness that God wins. Gentleness when attacked, persecuted or treated unfairly. And self-control to keep moving forward when all they wanted to do was run away, lie down or fight back.

These Spirit Fruits became accessible to every person– regardless of race, gender or socioeconomic class, though those in the margins seemed closer to God because they had less distance to fall. God’s arms extended and his love capacity welcomed all who would come to him. Like children all jumping in bed with their parents at dawn, kicking, scratching and laughing at frigid feet and bedhead, every person who knows Jesus shares family privileges.

“For you are all sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus. For all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, there is neither slave nor free man, there is neither male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.” –Gal. 3:26-28

We are all one in Christ. We maintain the beauty of our skin tone, language and culture, but all sit under the blanket of Christ thrown over our legs, warming, comforting and claiming us. The fire light strikes our faces—tan, olive, chocolate, coffee, caramel and cream colors—as we all share the same covering, laughing in the light of His unrelenting love.

The foundation of the United States is cracked. Just as we would not move into an immaculate house with a faulty foundation, so we shouldn’t exist in the world without studying where we went wrong and how we can repair the rift.

Being woke means refusing to live in a house with a broken foundation and pretend that all is well. Although we did not cause this breach, if we do nothing to repair it, then we are good as guilty. As a white woman who wants to follow Jesus as he moves in the margins, I confess my silent complicity in a broken system. I confess my ignorance, pride and complacency.

Christians should be leading the way when it comes to racial reconciliation. And as white Christians, we should be the first to fall on our faces and the last to criticize, be defensive or cover up. This is the way of Jesus. We grind our knees in the ground, making the repairs we know to make on behalf of our brothers and sisters in Christ. We educate ourselves, speak out, write, read, teach and listen. But mostly, we just listen.

And yet we know our hope is more secure than our society. We have an unseen foundation that cannot be moved. We have a God who brings the high, low and the low, high. He draws the marginalized, oppressed, invisible and ignored into the same building and gives them equal status as children of God. Paul put it like this:

“Consequently, you are no longer foreigners and strangers, but fellow citizens with God’s people and also members of his household, built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, with Christ Jesus himself as the chief cornerstone. In him the whole building is joined together and rises to become a holy temple in the Lord. And in him you too are being built together to become a dwelling in which God lives by his Spirit.” –Ephesians 2:19-22

Our spiritual building is anchored by Christ. In him, we rise to become a place where the Spirit of God dwells. We each reflect a facet of God’s glory, a piece of his image and a strength that someone else may not have. We need each other. Without different skin tones, languages, laughs, cultures, expressions of worship and ethnicities, we have an incomplete picture of the kingdom of God in the world.

***

This concludes 31 Days of #WOKE, though I know it is not the last post I’ll write on these issues. Check out any posts you missed in the series here:

1. Introduction

2. The Year I Went All ‘Dangerous Minds’

3. My #Woke Journey {for SheLoves Magazine}

4. Rich, Loud and Carries a Backpack {stereotypes}

5. Lent and Prophetic Lament

6. (Guest Post) “What are you?” by Vannae Savig

7. Without a Voice (poem) 

8. Three of My Favorite Podcasts with Women of Color

9. Uncomfortable Friendships (Part 1)

10. Friendship: The Need to Hear “Me, Too” (Part 2)

11. Resources for Talking to Our Kids about Race

12. Just Mercy

13. Words (a poem)

14. The Culture of Whiteness

15. White in Uganda

16. White in China + 14 Stereotypes Chinese Have about Americans

17. (Guest Post) Moving Towards Different: My Reconciliation Call by Tasha Burgoyne

18. What I Want for My Children

19. How to Engage in Racial Reconciliation When You Live in a White Bubble

20. The Problem with the Wordless Book

21. What Ever Happened to Integration? (Part 1)

22. Following Nikole Hannah-Jones Down the Integration Rabbit Hole (Part 2)

23. The People We See and the People We Don’t

24. (Guest Post) A Letter to My 13-year-old Self by Leah Abraham

25. Divided by Faith (book)

26. The White Savior Complex (thoughts on short, medium and long-term missions)

27. A Lesson Plan for Talking to My Preschooler about Race for the First Time

28. Two Poems//Teaching in Inner City Chicago

29. Transcript of ‘The Race Talk’ with my Kids

30. Talking Race with my Southern Mama (an Interview)

31. Conclusion: This I Know

 

Wake Up, White Church

Wounded, the Body of Christ walks with a limp. In the United States, our black and brown brothers and sisters are suffering, so the evangelical church–the whole church–should ache with pain. Five generations of so-called freedom have not erased fifteen generations of slavery.

It’s time for the white evangelical church to notice.

I was stunned by these tweets from people of color in the wake of the election in November:

Yolanda Pierce @YNPierce Nov 8: White evangelicals: you’ve decisively proven that you love your whiteness more than you love your black & brown brothers & sisters in Christ.

Soong-Chan Rah@profrah Nov 9 White evangelicals, you could have stood up and said that following Christ and the body of Christ is greater, but you chose to pursue power.

M.DivA@sista_theology Nov 8#ElectionNight taught me that white evangelicals will NOT be denied their privilege. They will trample the cross to hold onto it.

Leslie D. Callahan@fifthpastor   Nov 8 By the way, white evangelicals I see you. I see your racism and sexism. I see your repudiation of the very values you said matter.

Nicole Chung@nicole_soojung Nov 8 This is white people. White people voting directly *against* their neighbors, their friends, some of their family. It’s a vote for violence.

Jamil Smith@JamilSmith Nov 8 Manhattan, NY I knew my country hated me. But this much?

Jemar Tisby, president of the Reformed African American Network told The Atlantic: “The vast majority of white evangelicals with whom I interact are on board and want to see a more racially diversified and unified church. However, when that same constituency overwhelmingly supports Donald Trump, I feel like they haven’t understood any of my concerns as a racial minority and an African American.”

Over the past year, God has taken a tiny fissure in my awareness and cracked it open into a growing knowledge of the pain experienced by people of color today. I’ve immersed myself in stories via podcasts, books and articles. I’ve intentionally followed as many people of color on social media as I can and sought out friends who are people of color.

Because of this newfound sight, I dreaded attending church the Sunday after the election. Instead, I downloaded sermons. Of the four sermons from white pastors, each spent two minutes talking about the election, only to carry on with their regularly scheduled programming.

But the sermons by black pastors I downloaded? Most scrapped their plans and devoted the entire service to preaching on the sovereignty of God in these uneasy times.

The fact that white pastors did not have to talk about race following the election is an indicator of the privilege inherent in white evangelical churches.

Ignoring the Ache

The western church loves to compartmentalize. We talk about “our ministry” and excuse ourselves from the table of other ministries we may not feel passionate about. But listening to a wounded brother or a sister in Christ and trying to love them better is not a ministry, it is a call for every Christ follower.

The Bible says if one member suffers, all suffer together and if one member is honored, all rejoice together (1 Corinthians 12:26 ESV). We are all connected, but as the white church continues to ignore the cries of our brothers and sisters, we become numb to their pain until we no longer feel the ache.

Advocating for the security, equality and respect of our brothers and sisters in Christ is not an option; it is a mandate from Jesus Himself.

True Jesus-followers

In Mark 12:28-31 “one of the scribes came up and heard them disputing with one another, and seeing that he answered them well, asked him, “Which commandment is the most important of all?” Jesus answered, “The most important is, ‘Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength.’ 

 The second is this: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ There is no other commandment greater than these.”

If we do not love our black and brown brothers and sisters–treating them with the same respect, attention and admiration as we expect to be treated–we cannot call ourselves lovers of Jesus.

I’ll be honest. I’m still grappling with my own latent and blatant racism. When I see several black men loitering around a gas station, without even thinking, I say, “This is a bad neighborhood.” I feel uncomfortable watching the TV show The Man in the High Castle where the Japanese have taken over the U.S. and white people are subservient to them. I expect I will be treated fairly if pulled over by police. I can live in a white bubble if I choose to. But the more I listen and learn, the more I realize we are far from living in a post-racial society.

I believe Jesus wants racial justice and radical change to begin with the church. The church is for healing, reconciliation, listening, learning, lament, growth and transformation. Yes, it is a place for studying the Bible, but many churches worship the letter of the law instead of worshipping Jesus. We dole out the minimum amount of love in order to achieve the maximum amount of comfort.

The Heidelberg Catechism asks: “Is it enough that we do not murder our neighbor in such a way?”

The answer is profound:

“No. By condemning envy, hatred, and anger God wants us to love our neighbors as ourselves,1 to be patient, peace-loving, gentle, merciful, and friendly toward them,2 to protect them from harm as much as we can, and to do good even to our enemies.3

Are we protecting our brothers and sisters of color from harm as much as we can?

The church should be the place where people of color feel the absolute safest. It should be a place where we can delight over our differences because we each reflect a facet of the Imago Dei. It should be a stunning picture of heaven on earth.

But it is not. Right now, people of color do not feel safe with their white sisters and brothers in Christ—and that’s a problem for the entire church, not just the few who feel “called to racial justice.”

Many young people are walking away from the church, longing to shed the baggage the term “evangelical” now carries. The white American church is in danger of becoming so irrelevant, self-absorbed and legalistic it will continue to lose members of the congregation who recognize society as doing more to help people than the church is. It’s time for the church to wake up.

So what do we do?

Mostly, we shut up and listen. At first, at least. Michelle Higgins says, “Without humility, there is no solidarity.” We first take the posture of a learner.

We can seek further education individually or as groups. We form book clubs, start prayer groups or attend conferences. We find friends who look different from us. We partner with black churches to meet for meals, holidays or special services. Church leaders can prioritize having people of color on staff and on stage, regularly listening to their heart and voice.

I believe a movement is stirring.

African American sister Latasha Morrison is the founder of Be the Bridge to Racial Unity, a group that focuses on bridging racial divides. It grew from 900 members in July of 2016 to 10,000 members in February of 2017. After the election, Latasha tweeted:

Tasha@LatashaMorrison Nov 16 many POC have been disheartened at the looking away of many White evangelicals. I’m encouraged by those choosing to stand. #bethebridge

White people are beginning to “get woke.”

Nothing New for POC

Our country is spinning wildly and church itself is a dizzying experience. It’s tempting to walk away. But ironically, the greatest solace I’ve found is from my sisters and brothers who are people of color. Why? Because this is not the first time many of them have felt out of control, afraid or had their voices suppressed. These tweets testify to this:

Broderick Greer@BroderickGreer Nov 16 For some of us, the terror began long before Trump’s rise.

Broderick Greer@BroderickGreer  Nov 16 And so, this feeling of insecurity isn’t new, it’s just more pronounced.

The Sunday after election day, African American Pastor Eric Mason of Epiphany Fellowship shared a sermon entitled “In God We Trust.” In it, he acknowledged that “there wasn’t a divide made, there was a divide that existed prior to this election. It just exposed this divide.” He said, “Sometimes you need for something to happen on earth so that you can look up to heaven.” And “There is nothing that sneaks past the fingers of the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords.”

He described November 9th like this: “The clouds were still there. I still had mobility in my limbs. I was able to breathe. I blinked my eyes and I looked … and I said, ‘Hold on, you mean to tell me that this election didn’t stop the universe from being held in its place?’”

He continued, “This election did not move anything.”

Yes, God is in control, but the white evangelical church still has work to do. We need to open our eyes and acknowledge that all is not as it should be. In an age where truth is seen as “alternative fact,” we must advance toward, not away from each other. We are not whole until we suffer together.

White church, it’s time to wake up.

***

1 Matt. 7:12; 22:39; Rom. 12:10
2 Matt. 5:3-12; Luke 6:36; Rom. 12:10, 18; Gal. 6:1-2; Eph. 4:2; Col. 3:12; 1 Pet. 3:8
3 Ex. 23:4-5; Matt. 5:44-45; Rom. 12:20-21 (Prov. 25:21-22)

 

Be sure to sign up for email updates, because you don’t want to miss this:

A 31 Day Series Exploring Whiteness and Racial Perspectives

Beginning March 1st, I will be sharing a series called 31 Days of #Woke. I’ll be doing some personal excavating of views of race I’ve developed through being in schools that were under court order to be integrated, teaching in an all black school as well as in diverse classrooms in Chicago and my experiences of whiteness living in Uganda and China. I’ll also have some people of color share their views and experiences of race in the United States (I still have some open spots, so contact me if you are a person of color who wants to share). So check back and join in the conversation. You are welcome in this space.

 

 

 

 

 

"If we do not love our black and brown brothers and sisters--treating them with the same respect, attention and admiration as we expect to be treated--we cannot call ourselves lovers of Jesus." --Leslie Verner

 

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