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Seemingly Random Things

Feb 23, 2023 | Spirituality

My oldest daughter lives about 9.5 hours away; a reasonable road-trip. So, in preparation for my most recent trek her way, I prepared! I downloaded an audio book in advance, along with a couple podcasts that I’ve been meaning to listen to. I couldn’t have anticipated the way in which these (and one more event besides) weaved themselves into something else entirely.

Four (seemingly) random things I now see as completely interconnected.

Thing #1:
I listened to Celeste Ng’s newest book, Our Missing Hearts. I knew I couldn’t go wrong with this choice, given how much I loved Everything I Never Told You and Little Fires Everywhere. Plus I’d recently heard her on a podcast and was intrigued by her perspective, her wisdom, her heart.

I won’t spoil the story for you, but suffice it to say it is profoundly thought-provoking. It solidified so many of my opinions/fears about our hyper-patriotic culture, about “leadership”-through-fear, about how easy (and understandably self-protective) it is to look the other way instead of stepping toward justice. And all of this through a plot that primarily involves an 11-year-old boy.

Thing #2:
About an hour into my return trip, I finished the book and switched over to the 2022 Podcast of the Year: Roe V. Wade by Slow Burn. Only 4 episodes long (unless you subscribe and get all the bonus content), it doesn’t talk at all about the recent repeal of this ruling; rather, it tells the powerful (and mostly unknown) stories of individual women and cases, their trials, the unbelievable legal battles, and the convergence of forces that enabled this legislation to be passed in the first place.

It’s well worth listening to. It was a reminder of how easily women, their bodies, and their agency/will is disregarded AND how important it is—ongoing and always—to hear and honor women’s stories, both individually and collectively.

Thing #3:
I listened to a second podcast from the New York Times called 1619 that tells of how slavery has transformed America.

Again, SO worth listening to. It was a glaring and heartbreaking acknowledgement of how much I take for granted, how much I actually do not know, and how excruciating our history is—not to mention the ways in which every bit of this continues to be perpetuated.

Thing #4:

Just a day or so after my road trip, news was released that Stephen tWitch Boss had died by suicide.

Both of my daughters texted me when they heard the news, given that years and years ago we were obsessed by So You Think You Can Dance—when he won and then the years that followed in which he came back as a mentor and most recently a judge.

This has me reeling and deeply cognizant of the following: 1) we never know what other people are actually experiencing and feeling, no matter how things look on the outside; and 2) the cultural belief-and-demand that success, fame, money, and more will make us happy is a complete lie.

OK. So, how do these things connect to one another? You’ve probably already spotted the common thread, but let me gather it all together by saying this: unless we remain awake and aware, so much passes us by that remains unnoticed, unnamed, and unhealed.

And this: forces always conspire to invite us more deeply into our own story and all that is ours to learn, embrace, and transform both within and without.

An event occurs. An email arrives. A strong, even unexpected emotion thrums in your chest. A conversation takes place. There’s a book you read, a podcast you listen to, a news story you hear, a song that lingers and haunts. All of it seems random in the moment, but when you look beneath / behind / within, you will glimpse what’s weaving them all together . . . and all on your behalf.

These threads, these glimmers, these connections ARE the sacred: endless and infinite ways in which seemingly disparate aspects of our life are really one big, beautiful story that waits for us to see it as such, that holds its breath in anticipation of us stepping into it, that longs for us to live with complete trust in its truth.

Whew! This feels like a big claim: the (seemingly) random events and experiences in our lives are evidence of the sacred, the presence of the sacred, the activity of the sacred—and all on our behalf. 

So, my invitation in all of this? Be curious about the myriad and (seemingly) random ways in which the sacred shows up for you. You don’t have to go searching for it, preparing yourself for it, or working your fingers to the bone to deserve it. Gift. Grace. Surprise. Serendipity. And (seemingly) random.

Mmmm. May it be so, yes? 

And I Roar!

Jan 28, 2013 | My sort-of Sermons, Women's Voice & Power

Commemorating the 40th anniversary of Roe v. Wade

In this moment, one’s feelings about, or position on abortion are not what matter. What does matter, a lot, is that a woman’s right to manage her own body is still, or ever has been, at question. How is it possible that this topic is even entertained in politics, religion, or cultural critique of any kind? How is it possible that anyone is still talking arguing about this? Why is this legitimate tenet given enough media coverage to continue being discussed and proselytized?

It’s an old, sad story…

The Old Testament tells of Esther; a young girl who was captured and then taken to be part of the King’s harem. She was prepped and readied for a year before being eligible to be “chosen” by him then risked life and limb to protect her people from a route of ethnic cleansing by the king’s power-hungry, right-hand man. It is from this text that we hear the well-known words spoken by Esther’s cousin, Mordecai:

“Do not think that because you are in the king’s house you alone of all the Jews will escape. For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father’s family will perish. And who knows but that you have been made queen for such a time as this?” (Esther 4:12-14)

Esther’s is a powerful narrative worth knowing, (re)telling, and redeeming; words themselves that impact and transform when internalized and allowed to inspire. And (as is always the case) her story rests on the shoulders of another’s: Queen Vashti.

The prequel…

The King had been celebrating (translate: drinking) for days. A huge party that included all the dignitaries and military leaders under hisreign. On day 7 of this endless revelry, he remembered his wife, Queen Vashti, and called for her to join him.

“…he commanded the seven eunuchs who served him to bring before him Queen Vashti, wearing her royal crown, in order to display her beauty to the people and nobles, for she was lovely to look at. But when the attendants delivered the king’s command, Queen Vashti refused to come. Then the king became furious and burned with anger.” (Esther 1:10-11)

Her “no” unleashed a chain of events that culminated in losing her throne and being deposed. And this led to the region-wide search for all eligible young girls, including Esther. These realities, in and of themselves, are upsetting, but it’s the reasoning diatribe that ensued about why Vashti had to go that causes me to hyperventilate almost every time I read it:

One of the nobles present said, “. . . the queen’s conduct will become known to all the women, and so they will despise their husbands . . . There will be no end of disrespect and discord.” (Esther 1:16-18)

My response . . . 

I’m taking deep breaths.

(Parenthetically, let me calmly state that this is exactly what has happened for centuries upon centuries. Women’s lack of rights, silencing, less-pay-for-equal-work, and an exhausting list of atrocities borne throughout time has, in large part, been motivated by the same reality that motivated King Xerxes: fear. Fear of a woman’s strength. Fear of a woman’s power. Fear of a woman’s “no.” Even fear of a woman’s “yes.”)

Enough of the deep breaths. Enough of the calm. I feel the emotion build – way, down deep within. I roll my shoulders back. I stand up even taller . . . 

And I roar . . . 

on behalf of Queen Vashti-deposed and Esther-turned-concubine-and-queen. On behalf of Eve and Noah’s wife and Sarai and the woman who anointed Jesus’ feet with her tears and the hundreds and hundreds of ancient, sacred narratives of women waiting to be heard, understood, and honored. On behalf of the countless named and unnamed women before Roe v. Wade and after. On behalf of you. On behalf of me. On behalf of my daughters. On behalf of our daughters. And on behalf of our sons, our husbands, our fathers, our lovers, our friends.

And I roar . . . 

until the day when it never occurs to me to write this post. Until the day when the sacrifices of so many are a distant, but esteemed memory. Until the day when terms and concepts like feminism and record number of women in Congress and sexual trafficking and rape and domestic violence are no longer in our lexicon or shared consciousness – other than to proclaim, again and again, the stories of those who suffered so we don’t have to.

And I roar . . . 

to praise the enduring strength and power of women. No matter the obstacles, the harm, the silence, the struggle. This is the nature of women. This is the capacity of women. This is what we do. Not as martyrs; rather as necessary and willing fighters, advocates, lovers, fierce friends, champions of truth and justice and all-things-good-and-right.

And I roar . . .

in the belief that despite how heavy our hearts and sore our throats, we do and will have the strength to continue, to keep hoping, to keep believing, to keep our desires for healing and change alive . . . 

. . . for such a time as this.

Lucky are you, reader, if you happen not to be of that sex to whom it is forbidden all good things; to whom liberty is denied; to whom almost all virtues are denied; lucky are you if you are one of those who can be wise without its being a crime. ~ Marie le Jars de Gournay, from “Grief des Dames” (1626) as quoted by Elise Boulding in The Underside of History.

We are lucky. And with such privilege comes responsibility – and a roar that has the potential and passion to shake both earth and heaven.

So go ahead and roar – on behalf of women’s stories, your stories, and all else that matters. I hear you. And I feel the quaking even now.

As it should be.