‘In the Light: A Lament’

In the light of mourning,
clarity.
Sorting out which mundane things matter infinitely,

and which matters of past importance to set aside forever
as time stretches out for some,
past another’s time,
cut short.

The unfairness pierces,
piercing,
pierced.                                                 

Different realities
crafted to drive a wedge.

Some of us believing
nurses and clinicians,
experts and those bereaved,
imperfectly trying to do our part.
Some of us unmask
our refusal to be inconvenienced
for the sake of others,
spreading falsehoods that kill.

Who gains when only some mourn the dead                               
and see the weary eyes of those providing care
for wave after wave after wave?

Which day do we designate for a day of mourning
when thousands die every day
and only some of us believe it didn’t have to be this way?

Will we ever grieve collectively
the emptying seats
in pews,
cubicles,
classrooms,
break rooms,
nurses stations,
around dinner tables?

300,000 and counting.

When we fail to mourn together
the lives lost to global tragedy
because we can’t agree
it is a tragedy here,
the wound grows unchecked.

We need the searing light
of mourning,
need to allow it to shatter our hearts
for the grief-stricken,
the PPE-clothed witnesses,
the ones no longer here.

But instead of holding vigil,
we carry on like all is well
or we withdraw completely
or we deny
or blame
or fling outward an endless volley of hate.

None of which will heal
or soothe
or bring back a single person lost.
We must find it in our hearts to grieve
for the year,
for our children,
for ourselves,
and especially
for loved ones taken,
and those they were taken from.

In the light of mourning,
lament.
As we see, bear witness, pay tribute,
our hearts ache, open, and
compassion can break through.

Barren branches against
gray winter sky
betray no hint of Spring.

Shadowy starting-over time,
indistinguishable from death,
disorienting.

Summer’s shroud,
now decaying underfoot,
ever-present,
impossible to forget.

Droplets heavy in the air,
a veil obscuring anything new.

Freezing, frozen, longing for
clear skies and no longer comfortable
shifting only in increments.

All words could become poetry,
All sounds could become music,
All shapes could become art,
on the other side
of this dormant season.

Pressing on, searching for
more spacious words
than the ones
men gave me.

Wholeness more universal,
Beauty more real,
Care more tender,
Value more foundational
than their limited imaginations could see.

And when I find them,
they’re not just for me.

I believe in God the Mother,
Whose womb gives birth to mystery,
Who nurtures all that is,
Visible and invisible.

And in her strength, intuition, and softness
To cradle the inner child of my heart
Tenderly, soothing hurt.

I believe in the spirit of this mother
To fiercely protect,
Warding off attempts to wound my very nature
Love from love
Light from light
Seeing the true essence of my being.

Through her I know my connection to all else,
For me,
And with me,
In the feminine that is not a construct
But is the abundance of mutuality,
Receptivity,
And fecundity.

She, who is neither opposite nor opposition,
But a cosmic bringing-together
Where the new unfolds.
One aspect, often suppressed,
Never subsumed,
Always rematerializing.
Moon energy, renewing after waning.

I affirm the beauty of her infinite variety
Originating from the same source.

The mother presence from deep within
Binding up my woundedness,
Creating balance,
Bringing forth wholeness
as a gift to the world.

Amen

(Note: Heartfelt gratitude to Ryan Keebaugh for asking me to take on a new project that led me to these words. Looking forward to hearing how it all comes together!)

Note: I wrote this in 2013 after meeting with Jackie, the priest who is the rector at St. Patrick’s in Lebanon. For those who may not know this part of my story: I was raised in the evangelical church and in 2012, after a time of personal and spiritual unraveling, I stopped attending church altogether. I wasn’t sure what I believed and if I’d ever go back to church once I figured it out. In March 2013 I got up one Sunday morning, googled “Episcopal church near me,” made my way to St. Patrick’s for their late service, and have been part of that community ever since. Today is Jackie’s final Sunday before her retirement and it feels right to me to share this little glimpse into one of my first conversations with her. She has had a profound impact on my life and I’m so grateful I am able to be part of the wonderful community she has helped create over the past few decades. I wish her every blessing as she moves on to her next adventure. (Also, for several years I participated in the #OneWordChallenge and the word I chose at the beginning of 2013 was ‘weave’)

April 19, 2013

Yesterday, when I sat in the old, worn pew in the back of the sanctuary and we chatted, I have to admit I began a bit guarded.  When I’d called the church office to ask about newcomer classes, she suggested that rather than waiting for them to arrange another session, I come in and meet with her, the parish priest.  I know I’d readily agreed to it, but I was still a little nervous.

The rectory office was in the midst of a re-organization effort and the common area was busily being rearranged for an upcoming activity, so the sanctuary was the only free space when I arrived at our agreed time.  It was mostly quiet, save for the kids from the free preschool they run listening to a lesson up on the stage.  It’s not an enormous church, but the last pew is far enough back that we couldn’t hear them. 

She asked about my church background and what brought me to St. Patrick’s.  In a few quick minutes I explained growing up in church and then trying to find the right place after the boys were born and then becoming a church drop-out to study my faith and try to figure out where I belonged.  I tried very hard not to ramble.  I think I did okay.

We talked about what I’ve been reading — Richard Beck, Rachael Held Evans, Thomas Keating, Barbara Brown Taylor, Miroslav Volf.  She is a good listener.  Sunlight was streaming in through the windows and it felt like a holy moment, even though I’m not sure I believe there is such a thing.

Looking me in the eyes, she said, “You are so young and that is quite a journey.  You are brave to keep trying.  A lot of people give up.”  I detected no hint of condescension or insincerity or flattery in her voice.  I kept my composure and asked about her journey, but my heart was breaking open in the most excruciating and beautiful of ways.   

When she considered her words and said that she knew there were some things she may be wrong about, but that she kept praying and seeking understanding and grace, I felt hopeful. 

When she said that I would find people in the congregation who held opposing political and social views, she stretched her arms out wide to demonstrate the full reach of those differences.  But when she assured me that the congregation strongly believes we are one in Christ and are called to share the table even with those differences, I felt like I was hearing the church I’ve been listening for. 

When she said that they aren’t always perfect at it, that they are a place comprised of people which means they will never be perfect, I laughed and told her that if she’d tried to convince me her church was perfect I would have known it was not the place for me.  I told her that her congregation was the most welcoming I’d ever experienced and that each Sunday at least two people I hadn’t met yet made a point of chatting with me, and she said she was very glad to hear I’d been made welcome.

She didn’t try to pressure me to continue attending or for any kind of commitment, she simply said that based on our conversation, she thinks the Episcopal church seems like a good fit for me.  She encouraged me to call her if I have any questions and agreed to come up with some books for me to read to learn more about their traditions and beliefs.  And then she gave me a big hug and said she enjoyed talking with me. 

I waited till I got to my car to let the tears fall.

At the beginning of this year I didn’t know if I would ever feel at home in a church again.  Four months later — after only six Sunday mornings there — and I can’t imagine finding anywhere else that feels more like home.

They are having a dinner/fund-raiser Saturday night to benefit the local interfaith homeless ministry.  She’d seen that I signed up to attend and as we discussed it, she mentioned that she is going to speak for a few minutes beforehand.  The topic? Weaving the Fabric of Life.

Maybe there is the slightest possibility I do believe in holy moments after all.

Several people have pointed out that I seem to dislike our current president and I want to clear up a few things: I do not simply dislike him or merely think he has an unpleasant personality. As a survivor of sexual abuse, I hate that our president is an abuser and that this fact did not disqualify him in the minds of so many.

Regardless of what you may want to be true, someone who so willingly violates another person and shows no remorse, but rather brags about it, is not a fit leader. Such a person will willingly violate other moral standards and not lose any sleep over doing so. And when he does violate all manner of other principles of decency and ethics with impunity, the response should not be to fall back on conspiracies, but rather to deal with reality.

His administration’s cruel treatment of immigrant children, poor and homeless children, protesters, and families struggling due to the pandemic should show you that he does not care about your children or some hypothetical trafficked children or unborn babies. All he cares about are his own polls and ratings and advantage.

Regardless of what television shows tell you to trust him or what other public figures of questionable standards you invoke to support him, I will not betray myself by taking up his cause. If you support him, I will probably be able to find it in my heart to give you the benefit of the doubt and see you as someone whose conditioning and life experience have made it difficult for you to see him as he really is, but I will never willingly accept the authority of an abuser.

And as for his farcical attempt to convince evangelical Christians that he is one of them, I remind you that actions speak louder than words. A wise friend once told me that if I’m struggling to discern if something or someone is of God, I should look for the fruit of the Spirit: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness, and self-control. The president displays none of these.

I assure you that what you may perceive in me as partisan dislike for the man or an embrace of liberal media rhetoric, is nothing of the sort. It is anger that an abuser has been given such a platform and grief that so many people who identify as Christian have convinced themselves that he is someone they should support and follow. And, admittedly, I struggle with how many of his supporters would rather tell me “Fuck your feelings, libtard!” than care at all about the women he has abused and violated and what this says about the kind of person he really is. Comparing him to other people who have also done things that are wrong in no way absolves him of his own behavior.

I, too, hate the division politics are causing these days. I hate that I do not feel comfortable or safe engaging with many people who I consider friends. I hate that I have lost friends over expressing my views of the president or my support for people suffering injustice. But I spent too many years betraying myself by accepting abusive behavior in leaders because I was taught falsities about grace and forgiveness and my own worth as a woman. And I have put way too much time into unlearning and healing and dealing with what I survived. I cannot and will not go backward.

All or nothing.
Take it or leave.
Of course, only
all and take it
earn me keys.

It’s clear-cut,
cut and dried,
cutting, cutting crosswise
across my nature.
Close your eyes,
swallow ideology
wholesale.

Conform
and consume
and follow the lead.
Choke back questions.
Ignore contradictions.
Come as you are
if you’re like us.

Such slow exhaustion
living perpetually outside the fold.
Or in it,
but outside myself.

I once was trying,
but now I see

I would never be shaped
into that vessel
or any vessel
at all.
I am not clay,
it turns out.

I am wind
and sunlight

And leaves
budding
unfurling
changing
falling,
nourishing new roots.

I am space for unknowing
and uncertainty.

I am choosing nothing
and leaving
and astonishment at
what blooms.

I am myself and
my questions and
seeing all the contradictions.

I am other possibilities
beyond either/or.