Hearing Voices

Apr 5, 2021 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality, Women's Voice & Power

I am neck-deep in manuscript-writing these days. This book, my book, this thing I’ve been nurturing and holding and holding back for years (and years and years) is now making its way into the world. Much like labor, I can’t stop it now – nor do I want to.

The section I’m working on currently tells the story of a young woman whose life was violently, brutally ended.

I don’t like the story at all.

I wish it didn’t exist.

There’s no justification of it, no making sense of it.

And though I might wish to just ignore it – to dismiss it as one more piece of evidence against the text within which it’s found – that only perpetuates her harm. Which isn’t acceptable to me.

It is in telling women’s stories – even and maybe especially the most painful ones – that we invite the healing we desire and deserve.

When I calm myself down, at least for a bit, about the injustice and senselessness and violence, I can hear a different voice; I can hear hers. The one that was snuffed out. The one that was permanently silenced. The one we’ve rarely-if-ever bothered to listen to. The one that I imagine she’d speak on our behalf if only we could and would hear.

This is what I believe she’d say:

Fear is not your birthright.
Do not hold back – no matter the danger or risk.
Pursue what brings you life.

I am clear that these three statements are, indeed, the wisdom she longs for all of us to embody – in honor of her sacrifice, in honor of her story, in honor of her, and most of all, in honor of the life and story that is ours.

I am clear that were we to follow these three statements as gospel, it would be our own healing and that of our world that we would enable, invite, witness, and proclaim.

And I am clear that if I were I to imagine her saying even a bit more, it would sound a little something like this:

I’m right about this! Fear is not your birthright. But courage is. Write. Speak. Say. Do. Be. Say “yes.” Say “no.” Quit. Continue. Decide. Whisper. Roar. Love.

Risk is a given. To try and mitigate it, lessen it, create a balance sheet to show you exactly what might happen if you move this way or that is not the the least bit practical nor remotely close to your destiny. Do not hold back. Let risk and danger be the signs that you are moving in the right direction. And then read the paragraph above over again so that you can remember that fear is not your birthright.

Learn from me. Let my life (and death) offer you invaluable perspective. Cherish every moment. Pursue all that is yours, all that awaits you, all that exists within and around you, all that you desire and deserve. And then read the two paragraphs above over again so that you can remember that fear is not your birthright and you must NOT hold back, no matter the danger or risk!

Of course we wish that stories like hers did not exist, then or now. We must rage (rightly and justifiably) against violence. And in the midst of both, we must honor the voices that can no longer speak, the stories that are rarely if ever told.

We must use our own voices and live our own stories in ways that are courageous and risky and full of life.

And when we do? Well, Jepthah’s Daughter smiles and says “Thank you.” Oh, and this:

Read the three paragraphs above over again? And then maybe a few more times?

With her wisdom as rubric, encouragement, and hope, I labor on – knowing and trusting that the imagined words of even one ancient, sacred young woman might strengthen you in the labor that is yours, in the story that is yours, in all that is yours to birth and live and heal.

May it be so.

Nevertheless, we persist!

Feb 25, 2017 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Sovereignty, Women's Voice & Power, Women's Wisdom

On Tuesday, February 7, 2017, Senator Elizabeth Warren began to read a letter Coretta Scott King wrote in 1986 that criticized Jeff Sessions record on civil rights – the nominee for attorney general. The majority leader, Senator Mitch McConnell interrupted Ms. Warren with an objection, claiming that she was “impugning the motives and conduct of our colleague from Alabama.”

Ms. Warren asked to continue her remarks, but Mr. McConnell objected.

“Objection is heard,” said Senator Steve Daines, Republican of Montana. “The senator will take her seat.”

In a party-line vote of 49 to 43, senators upheld Mr. Daine’s decision, forcing Ms. Warren into silence – at least on the Senate floor. On Wednesday, February 8, 2017, Senator Jeff Sessions was confirmed as President Trump’s attorney general.

This story is shocking, untenable, and almost impossible to believe – so rife with patriarchy, misogyny, and harm.

And…we’ve been here before.

There is an old, old story told of man who led his tribe against a seemingly undefeatable foe. Before he headed into battle he prayed to his god: “If you give me this victory, whatever comes out of the door of my house to meet me when I return in triumph will be the Lord’s and I will sacrifice it as a burnt offering.”

It was inconceivable that he would win, but he did!

His daughter, an only child, heard the news of her father’s success. Thrilled to see him again and join in his celebration, she flew out the door and danced her way down the street. And as the story goes, she was the first thing he saw.

He cried out, “Oh, my daughter, what have you done? You have brought me low. You have brought me such trouble. I have made a vow to my god that I cannot break!”

As the story is told, she consoles him, saying that he must honor his vow. All she asks is that she be allowed eight weeks with her friends to grieve the fact that she will never marry. So, she and her companions head into the mountains to weep over all that she will never know, all that is lost to her, all that is lost to them.

Her story ends with this line: It was a custom that the women gathered to grieve the daughter of Jephthah for four days every year. We might even say, “Nevertheless, she persists…”

Her story is shocking, untenable, and almost impossible to believe – so rife with patriarchy, misogyny, and harm.

And unlike the one of Ms. Warren, few of have heard it. Understandably, given that it has not made the rounds of MSNBC, Twitter, or Facebook. In truth, it is rarely told even in places where its larger context is read and respected. No, she is quickly skipped over (and silenced) – again and again.

That sounds familiar.

Mitch McConnell, the Senator who led the objection against Ms. Warren explained afterward that “She was warned. She was given an explanation. Nevertheless, she persisted…”

Exactly.

Sometimes persistence is all we have.

And persist we must in the telling of Jephthah’s daughter – again and again. Nothing skipped over. Everything seen. All told. Her voice heard. And truth vs. alternative facts proclaimed.

Her story is a brutal reminder of what gets overlooked, silenced, and indefinitely perpetuated when stories are told with the patriarch as protagonist – which, of course, has happened throughout all of history and yes, even and still today.

Unbelievably, predominant interpretations of this particular text honor the father’s faithfulness and determination no
matter the cost, his unswerving loyalty to his principles and sacred vows.

That sounds a little like what Senator Dan Sullivan, a Republican from Alaska, said during the debate on Wednesday afternoon: “Everybody in this body knows Senator Sessions well, knows that he is a man of integrity, a man of principle.”

I completely reject this – the commentary, Senator Sullivan, all of it. There is nothing
honorable in the sacrifice of his daughter, nothing credible about beliefs that affirm or perpetuate the harm of another, nothing within his actions to which we should ever aspire.

And yes, this includes Senator Sessions.

The story of Jephthah’s daughter’s story is a painful reminder of what happens when we do not think to ask how any and every story would be told differently when the woman, the victim, the harmed one is not silenced. What have we not considered? What have we not seen? What have we not heard? Did she willingly comply with his vow? Did she mildly and calmly plan a getaway with her girlfriends? Did she become a burnt offering without protest? Or did she, as we might expect, find herself without volition and agency in her own story and, sadly, even in its telling throughout time? With this telling we no longer overlook and explain away the violence and misogyny. With this telling we spontaneously and unanimously rise up and scream, “No!” so that no such thing ever happens again.

Except that it has. Except that it does. Even this week with Elizabeth Warren…And just a few weeks back on November 8, 2016.

We are re-living the story of Jephthah’s daughter as we witness a man in power who chooses his ideals over the value of a life, who makes and fulfills promises that perpetuate harm, who does not actually believe that others – especially women or vulnerable populations – have agency or will of any kind, who uses his role as protagonist to perpetuate the worst of patriarchy, the worst of humanity.

What are we to do but head to the hills and weep?

Exactly! This is the wisdom and hope that Jephthah’s daughter still and always offers us today. Her story is a clear reminder that we must gather together as women to grieve, to wail against injustice, to stand in solidarity alongside one another; nevertheless, to persist.

It is true, the story of Jephthah’s daughter is a tragic and traumatic tale, but not without hope. Hers is the only sacred story (within this particular text) that tells of women gathering together, that names and honors its necessary continuance throughout time. When these smallest of distinctions – deeply embedded within a patriarchal text, culture, and reality – are found, they strike me as nothing other than the undeniable evidence of grace and goodness that nevertheless persists despite all that threatens to destroy. Then…and now.

The hope and grace and goodness in Elizabeth Warren’s story? Within hours of being shut down on the Senate floor, says the NY Times, Ms. Warren read the letter from Mrs. King on Facebook, attracting more than two million views – an audience she would have been unlikely to match on C-Span, if she had been permitted to continue speaking in the chamber.

Nevertheless, she persists.

Jephthah’s daughter, Elizabeth Warren, you, and me. And nevertheless, hope does.

Hope that darkness and death don’t have the last word. Hope that stories can be redeemed, that they can be rewritten and retold, that new endings and even new beginnings are still and always possible. Hope that despite it all, women still gather. Hope that when we do, we will be able – again and again – to hear Jephthah’s daughter speak into our hearts and on our behalf. Hardly silenced, instead allowed, amplified, and affirmed.

“Fear and silence are neither your birthright nor your curse,” she says. “And my fate is not to be yours. Go out the dangerous door and dance in the streets. Gather the women, climb the mountain, and wail. You will be seen. You will be heard. You will be honored and strengthened and healed. You are never alone. And nevertheless, no matter what, you must persist. How can you do anything other? You are my daughter, my lineage, my kin.”

Open the door. No matter what.

Oct 13, 2014 | My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Women's Voice & Power

Same thoughts. Same frustrations. Same choices. Different day.

To open the door, or not…

Your hand trembles on the knob, uncertain, not ready, afraid.

No. Not yet. Step back. Stay safe.

But you don’t want to be safe, do you? Not really. You want to fling the door wide and dance through its frame. You want to write poetry and paint wildly and speak prophetically. You want to move through your world with the freedom and abandon of a young girl – dandelions in her hair, trees bowing down to her in worship, grass the grandest of blankets, blue skies that surround in song.

Tell me why you stay inside? Remind me?

Listen. You already know this. Nothing that you want, desire, or deserve remains on this side of the threshold. You’ve given it every chance. You’ve been patient. You’ve been gracious. You’ve stayed seated. You’ve been silent.

You know this, as well: Until you step over the threshold and turn your back on the familiar, the entrenched, and yes, all that
seems safe, you won’t be able to taste the wildness that awaits.

You don’t know what will happen (which, of course, is why you have continued to stay inside). You don’t need to. Turn the knob, open the door, breathe in the brisk, fresh air, and move. Don’t look back. Be impatient. Choose yourself. Stay standing. And start speaking, shouting, yelling, singing. Who cares what anyone else thinks? You’ll be free.

Will you stumble and fall from time to time? Probably. Will you know grief? It’s a given. Will people sometimes often misunderstand you? Mmm hmm. But will you be alive? Yes.

How about this? I’ll stand on the other side and just keep knocking. Eventually, you’ll get so tired of not accepting the invitation that is so clearly yours that you’ll open the door anyway. And there, waiting as I’ve always been, I’ll grab your hand and pull you into the world, the beauty, the life that awaits you.

[The story of Jepthah’s Daughter inspired this post. Just one of the ancient, sacred narratives I so need and so love.]

Head acknowledged. Heart aflame.

Sep 28, 2014 | Hope & Encouragement, Spirituality, Women's Wisdom

Something within you knows that you bring a seeing, a knowing, a perspective to this world that, once expressed, might just (and probably will) change everything. So far, you’ve kept it under the radar and off the grid. But within, you are intuitively certain of the capacity you hold, the reason you’re here, the gift you have to give that defies our every expectation.

You can (sometimes) feel it. You can (usually) sense it. You are (mostly) sure. You have been waiting and watching and planning and dreaming and…holding back.

It’s just out of your reach. It’s just on the edge. It’s (seemingly) just outside your door. And…it’s a lot: Unleashing this much power, this much might, this much brilliance, this much passion, this much you.

You’re not quite ready to leave this place.

Not yet.

*****

One day, one moment, probably when you are least expecting it, your very Heart will knock on your door. You will watch it step boldly, winsomely, breathtakingly across the threshold. You will feel its energy, your adrenalin, the thrill. Every condition will be right and you’ll know, with a flash of insight and wave of emotion, that this is it.

And you will hear it say, “Yes. This is it.” Finally. At long last. The Breakthrough.

Or so you think.

On that same day, just a moment later (or is it sooner?), right on its wings, another guest arrives. You didn’t invite this one, but it always seems to show up – forceful, pushy, well-known. It’s your Head.

Wrestling its way into the room, it sounds something like this: “Oh no, no,
NO! Now is not the time. You’re not strong enough, smart enough, known enough, important enough, brave enough…yet. Wait a while longer. Think on it. Don’t rush into anything. You should hold back.”

But something about this day and this moment is different. Something shifts. Stars align. Your confidence soars. Your body knows. And your wiser, calmer, truer, bravest self invites both your Heart and your Head to join you.

You welcome them in. You offer them unparalleled kindness, hospitality, and conversational reign.

Your Head gulps strong black coffee; determined, focused, on-task. Your Heart sips peppermint tea; bemused.

You open up an Excel spreadsheet for one and open up space, period, for the other.

Your Head goes to work while your Heart “just” dances.

You allow the familiar fear, insecurity, and cynicism, the checks and balances, the pros and cons, the conservative, safe, protective stance, the logic, the reason, your heavy sigh. Simultaneously, you are captivated by the lack of restraint, the hope, the magnificence, the imagination, the passion, the risk, your pulse.

This day, this moment, you sit back and take it all in – amazed by the vastness of both.

After a while, caffeine wearing off and certain it’s been heard, your Head finally relaxes and takes a well-deserved nap. It’s so tired. It’s been working so hard and for so long. And then, late into the night, unhindered, unrestrained, unafraid, you and your Heart desire and dream and yes, dance.

The day, the moment will come when, Head resting comfortably and Heart ablaze, you will reach out, turn the knob, swing wide the door, and step over the edge. You are ready to leave. You will confidently and compassionately cross into the world that has been eluding you for far too long. You will look around and be overwhelmed, humbled, transformed.

*****

It’s not about head vs. heart. It’s about opening the door, ushering in and acknowledging what frightens, limits, and restrains. It’s about opening up space, listening to, and trusting the steady beat-beat-beat of that know-that-you-know-that-you-know voice within. It’s about being grateful for how brilliant your head actually is and reminding it (and yourself) that it’s your heart that rules this roost. It’s about realizing that home is where your heart is…which means you are ready to go.

Unleash all that power, all that might, all that brilliance, all that passion, all that is you.

No more holding back.

May it be so.

[Deep appreciation to Jepthah’s Daughter and her story for connecting me to my own. Just one of the ancient, sacred narratives I so need and so love.]

*****

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