discipleship
in chaos
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 This covid-19 shit is real.
Yes shit. To be exact: shit show. We call it a shit show at church. Shit show because there were no other words. What are the right words when it comes to a pandemic on top of everything else? The list is long. Forest fires rage. Poverty accelerates with rising unemployment just behind. And we haven't even mentioned #black lives matter. Just this week a black man was shot 7 times in the back while his children watched. Say his name: Jacob Blake. It was with these heavy hearts that we gathered on Zoom. Not outside socially distanced like on Sundays, our folding chairs and water bottles our new church attire. We miss each other's company. We miss each other's physical presence. Still we are truly vulnerable and present with one another on Zoom. The wise woman leading called us simply to share our shit shows. She asked: What is it like for you? What does it feel like? Open ended questions that broke our hearts open. One person confessed that they are so lonely, fighting against depression. The only thing keeping them sane is a beautiful walk. They worry. What happens when they can't take that walk? Another has a stressful job. She is worn out. It’s usually okay, but not on top of everything else. Her mother fell again. Your mother fell again? My dad's dementia is worse now, another adds. Cameras have been placed in his house so they can monitor him. He lost his phone again. They have to get a new one. He needs a better living situation, but who will pay for that? Another confessed he has begun to paint his walls in bright Mexican colors. He can't stand neutral anymore. His loneliness is suffocating him. He doesn't want to give into his depression. It is all too much. He misses seeing his children. He has set his Alexa to remind him every 2 hours to take deep centering breathes. Another just cries. She misses her dad. Her dad has been her rock, her pillar, her life line. She cries because it's a shitshow, because there are no other words. What are the right words when it comes to a pandemic? No one has even mentioned school. The endless complications of education. Masks, social distancing, hybrid, not going back, going back, zoom for children? What about those chittick school children? She laments. Those children who have no one to watch them, no one to teach them how to read. No safe space to be nurtured day in and day out. Educational desert. I’m pretty sure I am not going to teach this year, another says. It’s just not safe for me at my age. I’ve yet to make a decision because the school hasn’t made a decision. Living with indecision, in between, liminal space. We lament. We wonder. We get quiet. We hold space for teachers and administrators and kids all at the same time. We know there are no easy answers. A mother sighs, If my kids don't leave this house I'm going to lose it! I can't do it anymore. I can't pick up anymore wet towels. We all need a break from each other! Someone laughs. Someone else laughs. Everyone smiles. Another adds, I'm sure glad I don't have any small kids at home anymore. I don't think we would have made it! It wasn’t all lament. We laughed too, teased each other lovingly. We talked about the Mr. Potato Head. Did you know first there was no plastic potato. You actually used a real potate. Who had an Easy Bake Oven? The shitshow is laughter as well. Is the volume turned up more than before? we wonder. It feels like the volume is too loud. There was depression before. There was anxiety before. But now? Just dealing with a pandemic is hard enough. How do we deal with everything else and the pandemic. Talking about shit shows, I had plumbing problems. Me too, someone says. We laugh. We just bought a new house, they explain. I had no idea what it was like to care for a home. Talk about shit shows, her father-in-law is dying. There are no clear answers. If only we could choose our deaths with the snap of a finger. He's had a stroke on top of his congestive heart failure. It's awful. Did you hear so and so fell on her knee at work and is on crutches. Add her to the shitshow prayers as well. As if that isn't enough make sure you add those struggling with addiction. Oh yeah and those struggling with mental health. Absolutely. Don't forget the children at the Border in cages. The shitshow continues. Don't forget the RNC. All that hate. It's too much. So we pray and we covenant to continue to pray for one another. Because that's who we are. We are a community that vulnerably shares with each other. We surround ourselves in the endlessly loving presence of God and each other. And that love sinks into the mess of our shit shows. We are a shit show church. We say it proudly. Shit show. We say it loudly. Shit show. We say it unapologetically. Shit show. What other word is there to describe what's going on? Nothing. We pray. We are vulnerable. We are human to each other. We are community.
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This was written by a fellow traveler at Grace. We are hoping to use this space more often for the collective work of the folks who happen to gather on Sunday nights at Grace. Enjoy. This is a beautiful letter. To the World:
For my 30th birthday my wife reached out to as many people as she could asking if they would send me a birthday card. On my birthday I received 45. I am overjoyed that people responded in such a profound way. I feel loved, understood, and I am thankful that my hypothesis that people do not care about each other has been challenged. For those of you who know me, and receive calls and messages from me on random days, please know that it is because I love you. That said, my mission is not just to show people that I love them, it is to encourage you to reach out to people you care for more often. When you receive a message or call, respond and show people you understand that their time is valuable. We have stripped one another of our right to be loved-I challenge you to infuse that right back into your community. We must develop our capacity to love. The mind works like a hard drive on a computer. When you first start using your device you have plenty of space on your hard drive, then suddenly you realize you have started using your device so much that you need more space. I believe we should work that way in developing our hearts, and increase the frequency in showing how much we care about each other. I do not expect people to read this and suddenly go on a messaging spree. Reaching out to someone is not the frivolous behavior that social media makes it seem to be, at times. Yes, we all know how handsome and beautiful you are from the selfie you took from the perfect angle, but call someone and tell them about what was happening when you took that photo. Was that smile real or did it just make you look better? I see you care about YOURSELF, but do you really care about the people looking at the photo? How is it that we live in a world in which we can connect with anyone at any moment, but we have not heard from anyone? We have 4,000 followers and 4 actual friends. I challenge you to change that. When I was in High School I wrote an article for the school newspaper titled “people don’t care about each other.” I wrote it after a tragic event happened to someone I am close to, and there was a sudden outpour of support for a person who could use some support EVERY DAY! Unfortunately, on a daily basis people are hurt because they do not feel loved. The purpose of this message is to encourage people to show that they care about each other, more often. Reaching out to others should be a habit. Friends, be prepared to get one of those random text messages from Torrey that read “oh you forgot about me?” or “Happy Birthday!” Mentors, look out for the calls from your former student or the player that you coached as a 12-year-old; I have not forgotten about you. Family, look out for the call from your Son, Brother, Grandson or Nephew. To my wife Andrea, I understand now more than ever how blessed I am to be loved by you. I am married to someone who understands me and that is not a right: being married to you is a blessing. Being loved by you allows me to maintain the bandwidth to love you back and to love so many people. In all, I love you too, WORLD!! Later, Torrey Joyner  “Am I my brother’s keeper?” It’s an age-old question. Cain was the first to ask. He killed his brother Abel in a jealous rage (Genesis 4). God asks Cain what has happened to Abel and Cain responds, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” God knows that Cain has murdered his brother. It’s not complicated detective work. There are only four people living on earth at this point: Cain and Abel and their parents, Adam and Eve.
The particulars of the story are less significant. Even as a kid I knew the story of the first human family was implausible: if Adam and Eve were the first people and they had two sons, where did Abel and Cain’s wives come from? I digress. What the story tells us about human nature is what matters most. This is why the story has lasted throughout time. It tells us that from the beginning, violence and jealousy have been a part of our human story. It tells us that selfishness has been as well. Perhaps these two go hand in hand. How else could Cain have killed his brother and then respond to God in such a callous way, ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?” Recently I have been overwhelmed by the callousness of humanity. If I am to be honest, I also witness on a daily basis the generosity and goodness of humanity. That said, I have been shocked by the unbridled nationalism that has flooded our country’s collective psyche. This nationalism seems too often coupled with violence (think Charlottesville) and jealousy (think “They’re taking our jobs!”). How could a country that erected the Statue of Liberty, whose plaque reads, “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,” turn away desperate families seeking asylum at our southern borders? Our nation is asking once again the age old question, “Are we our brothers’ and sisters’ keepers?” The answer for some is clearly, “No.” This NO is evident as we build walls, expand detainee camps, and deport people who came to America so young that they don’t know anyone in their country of origin. This NO is evident when we respond angrily on social media, “They would be welcomed if they came legally like the rest of us!” This NO is evident as we scoff at the desperation of young families who have walked for months seeking safety, and as we ignore children locked behind barbed wire, separated from their parents. I can just imagine everything that raced through Cain’s head before he responded to God: Don’t blame me. Not my problem. Not my responsibility. Abel thought he was better. He deserved what he got. Anyhow his death isn’t my fault-- you’re to blame. You favored him. Cain’s explanation rings as hollow as the nationalists’ declaration that the only way to keep our country safe is by keeping everyone different out. Not my problem. Not my responsibility. Let someone else deal. Me first. America first. End of story. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain asked. The answer to Cain’s question from a Christian perspective is simple: YES. You are your brother’s keeper. You are your neighbor’s keeper. You are your annoying co-worker’s keeper. You are even your mother-in-law’s keeper. You are your community’s keeper. You are the keeper of the dehydrated child, clinging to her parents as they seek safety in a new land. You are the keeper of the many separated families locked in detention centers. Yes, you are your brother and sister’s keeper. Before Cain murders his brother, God tells Cain he has a choice. He can, if he chooses, master his sin (Genesis 4:7). We still possess this choice. We can choose denial and ask the maddening question, “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Or we can choose to live utterly interconnectedly, seeing ourselves as deeply related to all within our human story. We can choose to respond in a way that includes all and even at times places others before ourselves. We can welcome asylum seekers across our border and offer them safety and shelter and even love. We can say yes, come not only into my backyard, but come into my home as well. We can build longer tables instead of taller walls. We can say, “Yes, we are each other’s keepers.”  Before the #metoo movement became defined with a hashtag, I found myself in the throws of an intense sexual abuse investigation. With an open letter to the Board of Trustees at our high school, my childhood friend, Liza, and I forced our alma mater to look deep into its past and its current culture regarding sexual abuse. The incident we brought to their attention occurred over twenty years prior to our letter, but it was as raw to us as when we were 17 year old girl-women. Although I was not the abused, but rather the “defender” of my abused friend, Liza and I share this story intimately. Our roles and experiences are different, but we were both victims of a culture that ignored sexual abuse. The investigation we triggered was simultaneously healing and difficult. You can read the blog I wrote about this almost cliche sexual abuse story of institutional preservation, male power, and female silencing.
When the news broke this week about Professor Christine Blasey Ford’s story of survival and courage, my experience confronting my alma mater came crashing back. Each news story, each detailed article incessantly picked at my #metoo wound. I was pleased to discover that my wound is mostly healed, but I could not ignore the connections. I could not ignore the anger that rose from deep within. I also could not ignore how defeated I felt. How many times will I have to listen to commentators ask, “Why is she telling her story now?” or “It happened 30 years ago. How can she be sure?” Let me offer “you” some answers, “you” being the emotionally-bankrupt-head-in-the-sand politicians who ask such ignorant questions! Or as the Hawaii Sen Mazie Hirono said, “Shut up and Step Up!” But in my case I want you to Shut Up and Listen Up. Professor Ford is confronting a country. I only confronted a school. Imagine her courage. She has nothing to gain! Nor did I. Why is she telling her story now? Um, isn’t that obvious? Because Brett Kavanaugh has been nominated to the Supreme Court. Professor Ford is a patriot for sacrificing her privacy for the good of our country. If you need a more nuanced answer: Christine Blasely Ford did tell her story earlier to her husband, therapist and probably many others. Women have been telling our stories of sexual abuse for centuries, but we have been silenced. For many of us our silencing has been covert. We’ve been silenced by our culture everytime we hear, “Boys will be boys” or my personal favorite, “It was just locker room talk.” We’ve been silenced when our mothers told us never to find ourselves in a room alone with a boy, because whatever happens after would be our fault. We’ve been silenced by our fellow classmates who heard the rumors about what happened and lowered their heads in shame, unable to look at us . . . as if we were at fault. We’ve been silenced by every comment that insinuates the way we dress, the way we act, the way we look, “asks for it.” We have been silenced by our sexual partners who didn’t want the past to inconveniently interrupt their pleasure. I am confident that Professor Ford told a handful of people her story about the bathing suit that saved her. In fact, I am positive everytime she found herself struggling to take off a one piece bathing suit in a bathroom stall, she murmured a silent thanks. I can imagine the telling of her story, piece by piece, that has moved her from a place of shame and fear to a new place of survival and healing. She has told her story. Now she is telling it again. We have all told our stories before. YOU HAVEN’T LISTENED! I told my my headmaster twice that my friend was being abused by a teacher. He didn’t listen and worse, he didn’t care. I then told my dean and she told me to be quiet. Her words, “Abby, we already know what you think. Be quiet!” echo in my psyche. Stop asking why we’ve never spoken up before. We have. You haven’t listened. And just to be clear, we get to share our stories of abuse and survival whenever we want. They belong to us. Not you. How can she be sure what happened 30 years ago? Scientists have proven that traumatic experiences leave a signature in the brain that is hard to erase. I can attest to this truth. I can tell you where all my classrooms were located in my high school, my teachers’ names, and more. I have a very good memory. I could not tell you, however, the color of the walls, where each teacher placed book shelves or desks. I could only guess. But I can tell you every detail of my dean’s office. I can tell you every detail of the meeting, where a group of other students and I went to seek help for our classmate who was being abused. I can tell you where I sat in that small room and where the dean first sat, and then stood, leaning against her desk. I can remember the hesitant, almost stalling voices of my classmates, too afraid to say the word, “sex.” I know now that my memory is so clear because the experience was traumatic. I’ve carried this moment with me for years in technicolor, and I can hear my dean’s voice, “Abby, we already know what you think. Be quiet!” I am not surprised that Professor Ford can remember the sequence of events during that particular high school party: the two drunks boys pushing her into a deserted room, the struggle, the bathing suit, the hand over her mouth, the tumble, and her escape. Years do not erase the memory of trauma. If only they did. When such memories are buried by the psyche so the victim can survive, they always return to haunt their hosts. In my work as a pastor I can’t tell you the number of times I have borne witness to women in the throws of terrible depressions who discover they have buried memories of sexual abuse. I have seen the scars on teenage girls’ arms after they have cut themselves because it was the only way they could dull the repressed memory-pain of sexual abuse. I have listened to a 60 year old woman tell of her father’s daily rape that she had blocked from her memory until she finally felt safe after his death. Professor Ford has a story to tell. She remembers this story too vividly. Sexual abuse will never stop until we listen and believe. She is telling this story again with clarity and courage because it matters to the future of our country. It also matters to the many women who are still hiding their #metoo stories. Telling and listening is the only way as a nation we can heal and move forward into a new way of living as sexual beings of all gendered identities who never accept abuse as the norm. #MeToo #UsToo #AllofUs  It's the New Year. A fresh start. We make resolutions. We feel empowered to change our lives. We can create new selves. But what kind of new selves do we want to be?
With the coming of the new year we are bombarded with conflicting advice about just what new path we should take. On one hand our news feeds are filled with ways to become more spiritually centered and balanced. Yet in one click the next newsfeed entices us with promises of sleek bodies, corporate success, and filled closets. (If your closets are already filled, there is another new year’s promise regarding organization and simplification. Or a new home with a bigger closet.) These seductive promises are schizophrenic and also incredibly ironic. We are living in a moment of history with the lowest participation in faith community and the largest waist lines. Ours newsfeeds know for what we yearn: spirituality and healthier bodies. *** A year ago I saved an advertisement I received in the mail. It was a glossy invitation to attend the “Ultimate Wealth Summit.” Tom Brady was a featured speaker. Just what is an ultimate wealth summit? And why is it a summit instead of a conference? My guess is that summit sounds bigger or more important somehow. It made me laugh. And sorry Patriots fans, but what does Tom Brady have to teach me? I can't throw a football and I don’t want to. Sure he’s got some self-discipline, but from my vantage point, a man with an incredibly abnormal talent does not have much to teach me about success. But I digress. Here’s the best part about this SUMMIT. They had a congress of “National Achievers.” I couldn’t figure out from their website just what made the members of this congress national achievers, but I was pretty certain it had something to do with their bank accounts. They promised to teach attendees how to raise “the essential capital to fund your passion,” “multiply their income,” and create “a systemised wealth plan.” These were only steps to the ultimate goal: enjoying life. Which is apparently impossible without gobs of money. I need to stop writing here so I can gag. *** As I was pursuing pinterest, searching the best advice on just how to obtain that sleek body I most intensely yearn for after my Christmas butter consumption, somehow the wealth summit snuck into my feed. It promised a new year. A new path to wealth. Prestige. Esteem. Everything I had sought after achieved. Maybe if I attended, I too could be a member of the congress of national achievers. Clearly, the pin didn’t seduce me, even if I would love to be wealthy and a nationally recognized achiever. Yet this string of thoughts made me question our national obsession with New Year’s itself and collective dreams of being more spiritually centered, successful, balanced, organized, skinnier, wealthier . . . What if instead this year I didn’t seek after any promise? What if this year instead I gathered with regular old folks at a home, not a summit, and we decided we would be community? What if we decided we didn’t need to create a congress of national achievers, or a seven point plan on how to become that thing--wealthier, skinnier, better-- and instead we supported one another in our earnest, faith-filled, stumbling endeavors to be kinder? And then I remembered: I already do that! My New Year’s resolution is complete. I just need to continue to gather with the folks at Grace and Stratford Street. They expect nothing of me. They just desire my company, as I desire theirs. New Year’s can be a good time for assessment--where we are in life, where we’re going, where we would like to go. It can also be an opportunity to assess where all those little voices in our head come from, the voices that tell us we’re not good enough, but that this product can make us better. But wouldn’t it be best, wouldn’t we thrive more, if instead we joined a community that told us we were already good enough? That we were already better than we could possibly imagine, that we were already beloved--by God? That’s what faith communities do. Now, if we can only listen to them, and tune out all the voices that tell us we’re not good enough. Because we are good enough, because God delights in us, right now, as we are.  Please read this if you are a gun owner.
Please read this if you believe nothing can be done to stop the mass shootings in America. Please read this if you are afraid your child will not return from school one day. Please read this if you have become overwhelmed by the gun debate in our country. Please read this if you are afraid. Please read this if you are a Christian. The United States has a sever gun problem.
Please do not rationalize away the above stats. Guns are killing American citizens at a horrifying rate. We cannot ignore the recent back to back shootings in Las Vegas or Sutherland Springs, Texas. Thoughts and prayers are empty platitudes. As a Christian minister, I believe America needs policy changes, not prayer. Americans are obsessed with safety. If a child falls out of a crib because of a faulty railing, every crib is recalled. Americans are obsessed with health. If we are told that pomegranates are good for us, all of a sudden our supermarkets are filled with pomegranate snacks, juice, treats, infused coffee. So why do we continue to do nothing about guns which are one of the greatest safety and health concerns of this century? Why are we the only western country that watches, inert, as our fellow citizens are slaughtered around us? There are a number of false rationalizations & complicated rhetoric whirling around gun control, which as of late, have left our country immobile:
Renee Graham, argued in the Boston Globe (October 8, 2017) that the United States is a state sponsor of terrorism, “Our government is complicit in at least 58 murders and more than 500 injuries at a country music festival in Las Vegas. By failing to consider even common sense gun control policies after previous mass shootings, legislatures are supporting those who terrorise and kill people.” I would take Graham’s argument further. As a follower of Jesus, I believe the American Christian Church is a sponsor of terrorism for remaining deafeningly quiet on gun control. The Christian Church has loudly declared its concerns over unborn fetuses and led a successful campaign to limit women’s access to safe and affordable abortions. I am confident that the Church could lead as a successful campaign to mandate common sense gun control, but it hasn’t. In remaining quiet, the Christian Church has made it clear that the deaths of thousands are unimportant. Domestic terrorism is acceptable. And in doing so they embraced the irony that elementary students in Sandy Hook, CT matter less than unwanted fetuses. The common Christian response to another mass shooting, "thoughts and prayers," without the will to change policy or practice, is the very definition of "faith without works." As a progressive Christian I’m not praying anymore. As a wise clergy friend said, “...right now I don't have it in me to overwhelm this great empty space with hope-filled murmuring about God’s love and abiding presence in the midst of tragedy.” Instead, I’m acting. I’m speaking the uncomfortable things many do not want to hear. I am voting. And I am pleading with you, if you claim to follow Jesus, to join me in fighting for gun control, and at minimum common sense gun laws. Read this again: Over the past 50 years more Americans have been killed by guns that in all the wars in our nation’s history. As Christians, we cannot stay quiet any longer. We must mobilize, less we become the church of guns. As citizens, we cannot remain inactive any longer. We must enact real change and policy, less we become a nation of guns.  “You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories.” -Anne Lamott
#MeToo. Yes, me too. I might not have shared #MeToo on my facebook wall with as much confidence last year. I thought my story of survival didn’t count. In fact, I thought it wasn’t my story, but the story of my childhood friend, Liza. Thanks to her courage and her insight, I have come to understand this is my story, her story, and most powerfully our story. The story from my point of view is fairly predictable. It is a story of willful institutional preservation and denial, sexual abuse and power, and silencing. In the fall of my high school senior year it became apparent to me that my longtime friend, Liza, was in an “abnormal” relationship with a male teacher. I was too young and inexperienced to know what made me uncomfortable about their unusual closeness. I did what I was told to do; I spoke to the head of our school. I told him in detail my concerns, even sharing with him that Liza was spending weekends at the teacher’s home. I heard nothing more. Two weeks later I followed up with the headmaster, still deeply worried for Liza. The headmaster asked me to be patient. Now I understand that asking for patience was his way of telling me to be quiet. My patience wore out in the late winter. A group of fellow classmates often discussed our growing concern for Liza. We whispered, never naming out loud what we most feared. I was tired of inaction, tired of being “patient” with institutional power. I organized a group of female classmates who shared my concerns and we went to speak to our dean. We were ignored and I was silenced. When my classmates spoke of our concerns, they were afraid to speak their worst suspicion: sexual abuse. At one point in the conversation, I said, “Mrs. X, what we are trying to say is . . . ,” but before I could finish my sentence, I was silenced. Her exact words were: “We already know what you think, Abby. Please be quiet.” I remember this meeting like it was yesterday; the office, the hesitant voices of my classmates, and the dismissal. I know now that my memory is so clear because the experience was traumatic. Scientists have proven that traumatic experiences leave a signature in the brain that is hard to erase. I’ve carried this moment with me for years in technicolor, the words, “Be QUIET. We know what you think,” echoing in my psyche. This institutional silencing was effective. I shut down there and then in that dean’s office. Until this year, I have avoided the school like a childhood nightmare. Today, I understand that I was silenced because I spoke the truth. The story, however, does not end with my silencing, or even with my graduation from the elite prep school. It did not end when Liza detangled herself from the lengthy abuse she suffered at the hands of a protected predator. Instead our particular story is unfolding now in hope-filled and unanticipated ways, beyond survival to a place of healing and insight. A few years back I wrote a blog on forgiveness (10/19/2014). I vaguely mentioned the above story, referencing things I had been unable to forgive. Liza read the blog and contacted me. Are you writing about me? I was concerned I might have hurt her, but instead I discovered she had no idea anyone tried to help her. What followed were lengthy, honest, and healing messages back and forth. This spring the news story about Choate-Rosemary Hall’s sexual abuse culture broke. The story was too much. Neither Liza nor I could remain silent. Each of us, on our own, came to the conclusion we must speak up. Together, we decided to act. We wrote letters. We created a community of support. We forced our alma mater to investigate its past. With shock and gratitude, it is significant to note we have been treated with respect and kindness. Our story has not been dismissed but listened to with attention and care. This is where our story becomes uncommon. This is where our story becomes transformative. As we were preparing to break our silence, Liza and I had many lengthy conversations. Out of respect for the abuse she had suffered, I often deferred to Liza with statements like, “You lead,” “This is your story,” and “I’m here to support you.” Finally Liza, after numerous reminders that I was also a victim, said point blank, “This is your story too Abby. You were affected just as deeply as I was.” I was? Liza had to help me understand that it was my story too: I had been victimized by sexual violence and I was a survivor. I all of a sudden understood that there was a reason I was depressed in high school my senior year. There was a reason I didn’t trust institutions. There was a reason I didn’t trust male teachers. There was a reason when I received the latest alumni news in the mail I could barely touch the glossy pages. Recently when I asked her if I could use her name for this blog, her response was clear, “Yes. I am part of your story and you are a part of mine.” The breadth of our story came crashing in on me when I was interviewed by the two lawyers retained by my alma mater. The three hours I spent with these deeply present and intelligent women were holy. Have you ever heard the words holy and lawyer in the same sentence? It was. They listened and created enough room for me to tell my entire story from beginning to end. Through their questions, the edges of our story became more clearly defined. Through their attention, our story became more real. After the long interview, and then subsequent meeting with the board of trustees, Liza and I had hot cocoa and coffee. We were weary and unready to return home to our children and spouses. We needed time to settle. It was then, as if carried on some wave beyond my control, I knew in my bones this was our story. Our story must be told. We were silenced once. We would not be silenced again. In the months that have followed, I have reflected on the enormity of our story. Paradoxically, it was only when Liza helped me claim this story as not only her story, but also our story, that healing began. In telling this story again and again I have made new emotional memories. I have begun to finally grieve for the many young women, including Liza and myself, who learned that we mattered less than the institution. In telling our story, Liza and I have made space for others in our alma mater to tell their stories of survival, abuse, and even shameful complicity. There is hope in telling and listening. The legal team’s investigation is coming to a close. Yesterday I ended a conversation with the lead lawyer by thanking her. I couldn’t help but to be a pastor; I asked how she was. How exhausting it must be to live with these stories as a professional, I commented. Her response was disarming, “It is. I live and breathe this story,” she remarked. “But this is good and important work. You and Liza are remarkable women. I have never known a story of two women with such courage and insight.” Before I write any further I want to make it clear that I am uncomfortable calling myself remarkable. In fact, I have been taught all my life, like most women, to downplay compliments, to underestimate my abilities, and to always defer to others. Part of telling this story is to shake myself of this proclivity. I thought that our story was just one of many stories and it is. But it is also a story of two remarkable women. It is a story of a feisty teenage girl who refused to be patient. A girl who grew to continue her outspoken work in the world as a minister and advocate for the least and last. It is the story of another seventeen year old girl who survived and then found healing and built a life full of love. A girl who is now an emotionally insightful feminist who speaks her story with courage and acuity. I want to share this story not only because remaining silent about sexual abuse only strengthens the culture of abuse, but also because I want to shout to the rooftops that two remarkable women survived and share a powerful story together. I want the world to know that we are tough and emotionally perceptive, determined and sensitive, full of old hurt and new beginnings, angry and hopeful. We survived apart, but together we are thriving and hopeful. Perhaps our story will change a long-standing culture of institutional preservation and sexual abuse in an elite school that has a terrible past. I want to share our story loudly because in sharing it, I claim my space among legions of women who have fought and survived. I share our story because I want my daughter to one day read this and be filled with pride and move forward into her own story with fierce courage. #MeToo #UsToo #AllofUs Few. have escaped the distorting culture of sexual abuse. Yet together we can share our stories. And in the sharing there is powerful healing to be discovered. Today, I pray for the real hard work of transformation. Want to do something constructive is response to this story. Consider giving to Equality Now.  "Thoughts and prayers," without the will to change policy or practice, is the very definition of "faith without works." How much longer can we wait for the mass killings to end? It seems like not long ago, Grace Community Boston gathered heartbroken, during Advent, shocked at the news of Sandy Hook. In response we wrote letters, plastered bumper stickers on our cars that read, “If not now, when? Ban assault weapons!” with the date of the Sandy Hook tragedy. As a church we joined the Everytown for Gun Safety movement. The following year we collected the same number of mittens and gloves as the children senselessly murdered in Sandy Hook and donated them to a shelter. We have done much more than pray, we have acted. But still, the killing goes on. Guns are idolized in our culture.
Here’s a little perspective: 54 Americans were killed and 425 were wounded during the main phase of 2nd Fallujah, in November 2004. This was the biggest battle of the Iraq War. In Las Vegas, 59 were killed and over 500 wounded. What are we to do? In this moment, perhaps the only truly Christian response is lament. Action next week. But this week, lament. A good and wise clergy friend posted the following lament to her wall. It has rung true for me this week: “I'm not 'praying for Las Vegas' today. I'm not praying for anything or anywhere or anyone right now. I'm on strike. Not sure when God and I will be back on speaking terms. Right now I don't have it in me to overwhelm this great empty space with hope-filled murmuring about God’s love and abiding presence in the midst of tragedy. I don't rule it out for later, but right now I can't even bear the thought of 'God.' I'm not looking for reassurances or encouraging words. I won't be rushed to Easter. I'm sitting still with this crucified absurdity for however long it takes.” Raise an angry fist to God. She won’t mind. In fact, maybe she is raising a fist too. Lament is the faithful response. We will act later.  Sabbath. Remember? It’s one of the ten commandments. God is pretty clear when God commands us to take a sabbath. There is much in the scriptures that is very unclear. Sabbath is not one of them. “Remember the Sabbath day, to keep it holy. Six days you shall labor, and do all your work, but the seventh day is a Sabbath to the LORD your God. On it you shall not do any work, you, or your son, or your daughter” (Exodus 20.8).
No excuses: we are to take a sabbath for a full day. Yet few of us do. If ever. Not even for half a day. People used to take the sabbath more seriously. Was it because they were more religious? Or was it because their bodies would have fallen apart if they did not rest from the exhausting toil of physical labor? I’m not sure. But I know that sabbath is important and elusive. For me, too elusive. I have discovered recently how essential sabbath is to our spirits. It was certainly essential to my family on our eighty-five day out west trip. Our entire family would reset after keeping sabbath on the road, ready for the next adventure, filled with gratitude for what we had seen, and grounded in the present. I was eager to remember this learning when we returned from our blessed sabbatical adventure a few weeks ago. (Yes, it is not lost on me that sabbatical and sabbath are related.) I wanted to hold on to sabbath. I made sure every week my calendar reserved a time for our family to have sabbath together--Friday night movie nights, Saturday campfires. I wanted to somehow hold onto the new internal clock our family had developed. But I forgot about myself. I ignored my own need to keep sabbath. Over the past three weeks, upon returning from my sabbatical, I’ve worked too much. This was to be expected. There was much to catch up on. Not to mention, I wanted to catch up, I was eager to be back at work. But then things spun out of control. For a nine day stretch I didn’t take a day off, or an evening off, or anything. I became grumpy and weary. Fortunately, the Holy Spirit seems to have an interesting and humourous way of doing her own thing. On Monday I had an eye doctor appointment, the usual see-how-much-vision-Abby-has-lost-this-year sort of appointment. The doctor informed me I was overdue for an eye dilation in order to check the health of my eyes. The doctor warned me I wouldn’t be able to read for at least two to three hours. Okay, I thought, I’ll be able to start work around 1:00. That’s fine. There were plenty of other things I could do. For some reason my eyes did not recover quickly. I wasn’t able to do any computer work or writing until late Monday evening. Really late. I tried and I couldn’t. The Holy Spirit had her way. Instead, I enjoyed a full life giving day of forced sabbath. I cooked and listened to a book and enjoyed my daughter. That night I fell peacefully asleep and did not wake in the middle of the night with racing thoughts. On Tuesday I didn’t feel frantic, wondering just how I would accomplish all the tasks before me. Instead I moved forward with my work gratefully. And it felt like overnight, somehow, my work list shrunk, as if someone else had edited it. I wonder how it would change our culture as a whole, not just on an individual level, if everyone took a day of rest? How can we in this postmodern world, where all of us carry our work around on our phones, carve out sabbath in our lives? We can’t inist our eye doctors dilate our eyes once a week, although I think that might help . . . . We have to change. We have to figure this out. We shouldn’t feel guilty when we’re being unproductive. We have to value our lives and our relationships more than success, more than our task lists, more than our wasteful busyness. The good news is that sabbath works, and keeping sabbath can change us and change the world. The challenge is to keep sabbath in a frenetic world. We need rest. We need sabbath. |
Abby HenrichRev. Abigail A Henrich (ehm!) is an ordained minister who earned her stripes at Princeton Theological Seminary and Colgate University. That said, Abby is really a mother-pastor-spouse who lives in a kinetic state of chaos as she moves from her many vocations: folding laundry, preaching, returning phone calls, sorting lunch boxes, answering e-mails, and occasionally thinking deep thoughts in the shower. Unabashedly she is a progressive Christian who believes some shaking up has got to happen in the church. Categories
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