[Image description: bare trees and my silhouette reflected in an icy, leaf-lined puddle]

“The Word became flesh and lived among us”
always compelled me to stay or return,
whenever I wondered if my religion was still my home.
God with us, among us, example for us,
living wisdom and healing and love
for all.

Unsure if it’s cumulative, years spent watching
abuse excused, hatred glorified, blatant disregard,
or the breaking straw of a man using Christian teaching
to justify taking women’s lives.
Either way, I’m overwhelmed with wondering
why I stay, if I’ll stay, or if I’ll leave once and
for all.

if many my religion elevates to power,
puts in charge, promotes, allows to represent,
are nothing like God-with-us,
how I will reconcile these contradictions, and if I can
at all.

why “acceptable” white women stay, why we do this dance
where we allow ourselves treated as less than men,
and more egregiously, trade sisterhood for proximity to power,
allowing non-white women or
not-assigned-female-at-birth women or
women who would marry women
to be treated like they are barely human
at all.

if by staying I am assenting to, participating in this harm.
Even when I qualify with “not like that” or “not that kind,”
it seems impossible there is not guilt, not responsibility
I must bear for association with
it all.

if I’m always on the outside, trying to make exceptions,
taking issue with everything from the conduct to the canon to the creeds,
at what point am I by-default excluded, already not a part,
clinging to false hope of redemption for
it all.

how long I can live insisting “God is not a man,”
questioning status quo, leaders, and traditions
with my heart in my throat or on my sleeve
and the nagging suspicion its never
in the right place for the establishment
at all.

where this goes and where I’ll end,
if this is another dark night
that transforms and returns me home
or if it’s the abyss between
God is not that religion
God is not
at all.

Confession for Morning Prayer

[Image description; morning sunlight streaming through an early spring woods, with blue skies and a small creek visible]

Spirit of mercy,
we often neglect to be merciful
with ourselves and with each other.
Our thoughts, words, and deeds
fail to reflect loving kindness
and we cause harm
to our neighbors, our own lives, and the earth.
We are grieved by this separation
and set our intention toward
healing, compassion, and right relationship
with ourselves, our community,
and the more-than-human world.
Source of love and goodness,
buoy us as we reorient to you,
that we may be restored and bring restoration,
be joyful and bring joy,
and walk in the ways of truth and reconciliation.

And may the knowledge
that we are never separated from eternal love
strengthen us, center us, and
keep us connected to the source of life.



Sunday school fruit of the Spirit
seemed like rewards
for being Christian enough
to memorize them.

Like badges acquired,
displayed on a chest sash,
or niceties, gathered then divvied—
some for them, some for him, one for her.

Makes for a quick lesson,
simple coloring page,
perhaps an easy-to-distribute
fruit cup snack.

But I wish they had told us
the fruit of the Spirit is deep water,
welling up, nourishing,
running over.

Love flowing, never failing
Joy, awash in gratitude.
Peace, inner stillness, surfacing.
Patience, river of compassion, enduring.

Kindness, care rippling ever outward.
Generosity, abundance overflowing.
Faithfulness, steadfast tide.
Gentleness, drawing from a tender heart.

Wisdom, Spirit hovering,
ever present,
and we
do not know


[Image Description: My shadow projected on a blank wall]

don’t worry.
this wasn’t racist.

sometimes some men just have a bad day
and kill some women.

the sacredness of multiple identities, dismissed.
justification so nonchalant.

feels like there is no humanity
behind that badge.

i am on fire, every cell,
and thoroughly benumbed.

is this rage?
or grief?

searing flames bursting outward?
or ice crystals encroaching on my heart?

frenetic, flailing backlash?
or being swallowed whole?

on the brink of avalanche if I try to give it voice?
or stupefied, barely breathing?

both, it seems.
and they know this:

non-white people deserve safety.
women are not disposable.

feels like no one who can
change the deadly falsehoods, will.

To Jane

[Image description: Sun setting over a parking lot, with a small tree in the foreground]

I’ve thought of you more often than usual
these past few days,
most recently in a conversation on race and sexuality
where I shared ideas you taught me.

Later, I walked in the woods feeling
grateful to you for your generous wisdom.
Sad I couldn’t remember the day, I looked it up.
Four years ago this month

it was cold and I was sitting in the car
outside a rundown gymnasium in a nearby town
where one of my kids was
practicing soccer.

First one, then another,
there on social media,
posts saying you were gone.
It was sudden, unexpected.

Folks I only knew online,
sharing about you, who I only knew online,
all connected as participants in a weekly Twitter chat
on queer theology

that taught me not to relinquish
my faith to something smaller,
not to surrender divinity to
those who would diminish it,

not to abandon mystery
to those who want to contain it,
not to resign myself
to traditions that no longer fit.

Your joy and big heart reaching me
all the way from the west coast
and soon we were sharing recipes
and discussing our latest eco-friendly swaps.

I watched the way you interacted
with people who didn’t have your understanding
in a way that made them wish they did,
a kind-hearted, fierce way that taught the rest of us so much.

From you I learned how easy it is to miss
harmful isms and phobias that can pervade
even seemingly good causes when I’m not their target.
And to be always learning, always listening to those who are.

So often I’ve done my best to highlight something problematic
in a way that honors your legacy, saying,
“My friend Jane helped me understand…”
Other times I find myself thinking, “Jane would love this.”

I wish I could send you reusable glass straws
because they are far better than stainless.
I wish I could meet you in person and that all the people
who love you weren’t going into their fifth year without you.

I know I am both a better person for having connected with you
and still have far to go in all the learning you helped inspire me to pursue.
I miss your presence and your friendship, Jane.
And I thank you for your light.


Note: I took the photo above right before I found out about Jane’s passing, and posted it the next day with the following caption: “Sunset last night while I was waiting at soccer, right before I found out my beautiful friend Jane passed away that afternoon. I never had the chance to meet her in person, but she was a wise and loving soul who I admired and learned so much from. I will miss her insight and compassion, and remember her for her fierce devotion to the friends and family she held dear, her passionate care for LGBTQ youth and others from marginalized communities, and her appreciation for the art of cooking. May the many mourning her passing be comforted by the love and light she shared with all of us.


[Image description: Ice crystals formed on a creek bed]

They say anger is hot,
burning, scorching, searing,

yet I was taught there is no expression suitable,
no outlet acceptable.

Don’t be so intense,
so dramatic,

you’ll hurt someone’s feelings,
make them uncomfortable,

better your own discomfort
than theirs.

Learn to freeze the lava-hot fury inside
so no one else ever gets burned.

Say something nice
or nothing at all,

whatever you do,
don’t act angry.

Your anger is a waste of time,
of energy,

a sin,
will change nothing.

Just stand there, frozen,
and don’t make a scene.

What a farce.
I see now.

Those messages were fear of what could change
if my refusal to accept what is

is unleashed.