When Messing Up Is A Chance To Practice – {Sheli Massie}

Today’s guest is Sheli Massie: a brave friend and fellow writer in the Redbud Writers Guild. I love Sheli’s honesty, her grit, her gift of encouragement… and I love her message in this post. Leave her some comment love, won’t you?

What if, instead of seeing ourwe saw

There are things that start to happen to you when you are on the other side of healing. And by other side, I mean be brave enough to say you need healing. To acknowledge that you are a broken person who needs to slow down and that you have pieces to put back together. When things are clear in my head and I don’t feel like I need to be in therapy three times a week I find myself being able to complete thoughts and realize where they need to go and where they came from. For example why I repeat patterns when certain times of the year come around or something someone does triggers a reaction that is let’s just say is “not sane healthy “. Well to someone who has lived in trauma for so long I am met face to face with the crap I have kept in there. Like for instance. I can improve on relationships. ( I suck at it) Now before you go all “Pollyanna” on me, realize that I have learned coping strategies through the years and some are not all good. For instance.

I sabotage good things. Like relationships. Or big occasions. I sabotage things are new or make me feel uncomfortable. I sabotage anything that makes me feel afraid. Do you see how I am operating here? Out of fear. But I am a work in progress and Jesus in his sweet gentle voice tells me this is something I am ready to walk through and figure out. That He and I will uncover what makes me feel so insecure and bless me with someone to hold my hand into this brave scary place called freedom.

I never wanted my husband in the delivery room. And until now I didn’t think this was a big deal. I just stated that he drove me crazy and I wanted my girlfriends in there, who knew what I liked and didn’t like. Do you see the problem? I didn’t want him near me. I didn’t want him to be a part of a very intimate moment that lasted 22 hours for one child and thousands of hours for the rest. I wanted other people closer to me. So when you begin to unravel what healthy is and your head comes clear, Jesus reveals things to you in small doses that you still need to unwrap. Like my inability to trust. I didn’t trust my husband, I didn’t trust hum to take care of me. I didn’t trust that he could comfort me. I didn’t trust him with my safety. I didn’t trust him as my legs were up in stir-ups and every stranger was up in my business yet I didn’t trust the one I made a covenant with. Perhaps I had some issues….

Do you see how alarming this is? I know others think this is crazy and strange. But I am seeing it as a chance to “practice” (new word I am learning from my wise people). It helps me to realign my thoughts that I am practicing and not making mistakes. I have to catch myself saying that I “messed up again” but this is just “practicing”.

I am learning that this is my turn to practice trusting. Practice inviting myself to pause in the unknown and sit there. Practice staying in the quiet when it makes my skin crawl and I want to hide in my bed and binge watch House of Cards. Practice sitting in the moment and finishing the conversation when all I want to do is say something sarcastic that others would find funny. Practice telling the truth even though it may make others upset. Practice slowing down. Practice leaving space. Practice saying yes to what really matters. Practice filling my space with things that are only useful and beautiful. Practice connecting to those I claim to love. Practice being present when my mind wanders to wherever I am not.

Practice is hard. Practice requires that I show up and put in my best effort. Practice makes me cry and wish for another coach. Practice leaves me exhausted and wanting a water break. But from what I have learned practice makes me ready for the game. It helps me to show up when it matters most and be ready to do this life thing together. It helps me know what works and what doesn’t work.

So when we “mess up” and get overwhelmed with how many times we have yelled or pouted or ignored to get our way. We take a deep breath and acknowledge that this was “practice” and we can try again.

So what if we all practiced together? Instead of repeating the patterns of our past or blaming it on a personality trait what if we all were brave enough to show up. In the little things? In the big things? If we were all brave enough to reach out to someone and say “help”. If we were brave enough to write that letter and say “I’m sorry”. If we were brave enough to fall and get back up again. If we were brave enough to tell that story. If we were brave enough to say “no more”. If we were brave enough to look him in the eyes. If we were brave enough to walk away. If we were brave enough to stay. If we were brave enough to turn off the TV. If we were brave enough to say the first words. If we were brave enough to love. If we were brave enough to forgive ourselves.

You can. We can. We can be brave.

You are brave sweet one. You are.

View More: http://snohling.pass.us/massieloveAbout Sheli: ​I am a writer on good days when a child isn’t puking or screaming or the dog hasn’t run away for the zillionth time or when the house doesn’t look like a Hoarders episode or I didn’t forget to pick up one of the five children from school. I live in the western suburbs of Chicago with my husband who has pushed me to be a better version of myself for sixteen years. I adore my best friends and I get anxiety attacks around anyone pretty or skinny, so I stay in my yoga pants and write about my redemptive story at shelimassie.com. I am a proud member of Redbud Writers Guild.

 

Photo Credit: Georgio____, Silhouette (Flickr Creative Commons), edited by Bronwyn Lea.

A Letter to Men

LetterToMen

Dear Men,

A few months ago, a conversation on Twitter got my attention. Using the hashtag #YesAllWomen, women shared incredible and awful stories of ways in which they had been harassed, marginalized, ridiculed, leered at and exploited by men.

Yes, all women.

Soon the conversation changed, and people began to respond with #NotAllMen hashtags. Not all men are rapists. Not all men are addicted to pornography. Not all men pay for sex. Not all men disrespect and degrade women.

No, not all men.

This letter is for you: the not all men. And I’m writing to say We Need You. And, Please Help.

I am just beginning to uncover how close to home some very dark things are. Vulnerable women and children are being trafficked in our neighborhoods: they are preyed on and prostituted, and I didn’t know that so many of those who seem to be prostitutes are, in fact, victims who are drugged, manipulated and abused to be there.

Economics 101 teaches us that supply meets demand. This is true in the sex industry too. I didn’t know (and maybe you didn’t either) that the primary demographic of those buying sex are white, middle-class, well-educated, white-collar workers. Women and children are being trafficked to supply the demands of the very people society deems to be the most respectable.

But not all men are like that, which is why we need your help.

If you are a man who is white, or middle-class, or well-educated, or white-collar (or any combination of those descriptions), then you have a voice with these men that we don’t. You may not know who they are, exactly, but they’re among the every day guys at work, in class, at the gym, at the game. They’re the guys on the golf green, and at your business conference.

Women talk differently around women than when men are around, and men talk differently around men than when women are around. When women are around, men are less likely to suggest a couple of hours of entertainment at a strip club, or to make lewd remarks about how they’d like to “see her naked”.

Perhaps you hear men around you talk like that, and you find it uncomfortable. It might be funny, but it’s not who you are – so you say nothing. You let it go, finish your drink, and make your way home. I want you to know first of all that I really respect you not taking them up on the invitation.

But I am writing to ask you to do more. I’m asking you to please speak up and take a stand that it’s not okay to speak to women or about women like that. To point out that the massage parlor or gentlemen’s club they’re suggesting probably has trafficked women or children working there – did they know that? To say that prostitution may not mean what they think it means. To say you’ve heard some stories from women who worked the streets and it has changed your opinion on what was really going on there.

But maybe you don’t even need to say that much. A man saying something like “hey, that’s not cool,” in response to a “guy’s joke” might not seem like much, but it means so much.

If you stay silent, you may have protected your own character in that situation, but your silence is interpreted as indifference. “All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing,” wrote Bonhoeffer. The sex trafficking industry relies on secrecy to thrive, and when we fail to say something, we allow it to keep its secrets. Our silence become complicity.

Art by Corrie Haffly.

Art by Corrie Haffly

Please, don’t let the sexist joke go unchallenged.

Please, don’t let the guy next to you jest about “showing her who’s boss” without speaking up.

Please, don’t stay silent when someone makes a “movie suggestion”. The line between pornography and trafficking is a very thin on.

Please, if you are on a business trip and are invited out for an evening of entertainment, don’t just say “no thanks” and walk away. Say, “You shouldn’t go either.” Perhaps even invite them to do something else.

There are men in our communities who are predators and pedophiles. But not all men are like that. You are not like that. So I’m asking you: will you please be our protectors? Would you be a voice of conscience to the men around you?

For my sake. For my daughters sake. For all the #YesAllWomen,

Please, speak up.

We need you.


End-New-3DChris and Beth Bruno have written a FREE E-BOOK entitled End: Engaging Men to End Sex Trafficking. Download your copy today.

I am grateful to the Brunos for offering this resource as part of the #ACourageousOne project.


This #ACourageousOne project is a 5-day series of blog posts to raise awareness, money and hope about the reality of sex trafficking right around us. There are tens of thousands of invisible women and children – courageous ones – in need of rescue and restoration.

We can help. This week, support a courageous one by giving #ACourageousOne of your own:

  • Donate ONE DOLLAR to fight sex trafficking (here, here, or here, if you need a suggestion.)
  • Pray for ONE MINUTE for God to rescue victims, and give courage to women and men to speak and act as we ought. (Here is a Psalm to meditate on, as a suggestion)
  • Share ONE POST on social media to raise awareness about this issue. This is happening in our communities, so if we speak up within our communities, someone directly involved is going to hear.

Thank you for supporting the thousands of courageous ones with your Courageous One. We can make a difference!

My Little Helper

We are currently doing a series entitled “Right Here, Right Now” at church, about what it means to walk day by day as a disciple of Jesus. Last week, Joe (the Joe who taught us these important things about where teens belong) talked about what it meant to be God’s helper. It reminded me of this story, which was first published over at the gorgeous (in)courage website.

"He's my little helper. And I am His."

“I don’t need your help!” I snapped, as I swatted his grubby little fist away from the dough.

The boy wilted at my rebuke. “But Mommy, I love to help you.”

“I know, but your hands are dirty and I can do it myself,” I muttered.

I had five kids under 6 in my care and was trying to whip up scones for lunch before the high-pitched hunger wails set in. My three-year old, seeing the bowl, had scraped a giant chair all the way across the floor and posted himself at my side, ready to be my sous chef. Now he stood there: swatted at, snapped at, and snubbed. He was crestfallen.

I don’t need you either,” I heard the still, small voice say. “Your hands are often dirty. You mess up and make mistakes. And I could do it myself. But I don’t.”

Words from Corinthians welled up from within: For we are co-workers in God’s service. Co-workers. Co-workers of the Great One who could create the stars just by speaking. Of the One whom angels worship. Of the One who holds every molecule in the universe together. Of the inventor of harmonies, peaches, mathematics, asteroids, and neural pathways. And yet He chooses to accomplish His purposes on earth through us.

He could have willed people to follow him. And yet He chose to have salvation come by hearing a message spoken by foolish and fallible lips. We corrupt the message, betray the message, miscommunicate the message. And yet, He has chosen to use us as messengers.

He could heal with a concoction of spit-filled mud, and yet He chooses to have us apply band-aids and give hugs, learn physical therapy, walk the long-road of chemotherapy.

Me? His helper? How could He possibly use bumbling, fumbling, grumbling me to accomplish anything? But again Corinthians whispered: Not that we are competent in ourselves, but our competence comes from God.

I am my Daddy’s little helper. I am His kid, pulling up her chair as He cooks up His divine, fantastic plan, and He invites me to stick my grubby paws in His dough. To learn alongside Him. To share in the creation of what He’s baking in history.

Gentled by my Father’s guiding hand, I turned to the little one at my side. I let my son knead the dough – he over worked it. I let him roll it out – it was uneven. I showed him how to paint the egg on the top – he painted more baking sheet than scone. But they were delicious, and we did it together.

He’s my little helper, and I am His.

{Photo by Corrie Haffly. This post first appeared at (in)courage}

 

Life as Dorcas: My Name As Gift, Burden and Calling

Today’s post is from my incredibly talented and kind friend, Dorcas Cheng-Tozun. I LOVE the way Dorcas lives her life, thinks purposefully, and crafts her words so beautifully to express things. I am so grateful she agreed to share her story of her relationship with her name as part of the Words That Changed My World series of reader submissions. 

 

Lone Tulip Dorcas

 

When I was young, I hated the first day of each school year. When the teacher was taking attendance, I always knew she had reached my name when she paused for a long time. “Dor… Doris? Dorsis? I’m sorry, I don’t know how to pronounce this.”

I would then raise my hand and correct her, simultaneously enunciating and softening the central consonant that was the bane of my existence. “It’s Dorcas.”

The laughter always came, and I would always stare straight ahead, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Later came the questions from my classmates, who didn’t know much outside of their affluent, white suburban existence. “Is that a Chinese name?” Snicker. Giggle. “Or are you Japanese? Do your parents have weird names too?”

I would answer them directly because I didn’t know what else to do. “It’s a Greek name. It’s from the Bible. I’m Chinese, not Japanese. My parents’ names are Robert and Grace.” This was usually enough to confuse my peers into silence. But only for a few moments.

Biblical names are par for the course in my family, now Christian for four generations. After previous generations exhausted all the usual names, my parents wanted to get a little creative with me. But as new Chinese immigrants to the US, they had no idea what they were signing me up for.

By the time I reached high school, I had learned to hide my hurt well. But if anyone had been able to penetrate my outer shell of indifference, they would have found a heart full of shame—over who I was and who I thought I never could be, all because of a moniker that invited ridicule in a majority culture I was desperate to fit into.

The ninth chapter of Acts records a beautiful story of a woman named Tabitha, or Dorcas in Greek. She is described as a disciple “devoted to good works and acts of charity.” When she dies, all the widows in her community gather to mourn, clutching the articles of clothing she made for them. The Apostle Peter comes at the insistence of other disciples and raises her from the dead, the only record of Peter’s resurrecting someone. The town’s grief turns to celebration, and word of this miracle spreads throughout the region.

I love this story, but I have not loved bearing the name Dorcas. More often than not I have felt my name as a burden.

When I was in college, my eyes were opened to the burdens that less fortunate members of our society bore, burdens that were much more oppressive and degrading than a culturally inconvenient name. I then started a student group whose sole purpose was to build relationships with the homeless community near campus. My peers and I would go out and spend our weeknights asking questions and listening, in hopes of offering some dignity and care to struggling individuals.

One evening, a Vietnam vet I regularly saw named Jerry asked me to remind him of my name. As I always do, I hesitated before answering. “It’s Dorcas.”

His unshaven face, wrinkled and dusty, lit up. “From the Bible!” he exclaimed.

I returned his smile. “Yes! Most people don’t know that.”

He looked at me carefully. I couldn’t have been a particularly impressive sight—I was twenty but often mistaken for someone much younger—but Jerry held my gaze as he said, “You’re really living up to your name.”

Something inside of me stilled. I don’t remember what I said in response or what we discussed after that. But in the fifteen years since that conversation, I have not forgotten Jerry’s words. I thought of them when I decided to pursue a Sociology degree; I remembered them when I signed the contract for my first nonprofit job. His words stuck with me through more than a decade of development work, which took me from low-income communities in California to villages and cities in Malawi, China, India, and Kenya.

Now well into adulthood, I still occasionally run into the too-blunt adult who smothers a smirk before saying, “You must’ve been teased a lot as a kid, huh?” Whenever this happens, the old vestiges of shame threaten to return. But, thanks to Jerry’s words, I think instead of my parents and their pure hopes for me when they named me after a compassionate woman with a servant heart. I think of the amazing opportunities I’ve been given to try to change this world for the better. And I find myself being grateful for this unusual name that has helped shape an unusual life. It has occasionally been a burden, but the reality is that my name has always been a gift, a calling truly worth living up to.

Dorcas Cheng-Tozun HeadshotDorcas Cheng-Tozun is a writer, blogger, and editor who has found healing and hope through words. Previously she worked as a nonprofit and social enterprise professional in the US and Asia. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and adorable hapa son. You can find her online at  www.chengtozun.com or on Twitter (@dorcas_ct).

Photo credit: ‘Lone Tulip’, copyright here. Edited by Bronwyn Lea.

Confronting my inner racist {Laura Droege}

Laura Droege is one of my favorite online commenters: when she writes something on my blog (or on her own), I always read it. Usually twice. I’d been hoping to entice Laura to write a guest post for the Words That Changed My World series, and when I read this post on her blog a few weeks ago – knew that this was it. Enjoy 🙂

different-races-2

Where: Chaucer class.

When: Spring 2002

Who: Me, my buddy Richard, and the middle-aged classmate whose name escapes my memory.

What: Richard, always a wild card, had decided to share with us about the time he was thrown in the slammer for DUI. Not the typical intro into a graduate-level discussion of The Canterbury Tales. But somehow, between bipolar disorder and PTSD from Vietnam, his social filter had disappeared, and so we got the unfiltered version of him, somewhat like the unfiltered cigarettes he rolled during Elizabethan Poetry and Prose class.

The tale was in full swing, complete with Richard’s descriptions of being drunk and his jail cell. I sharpened my elbows, prepared to jab Richard’s ribs if he got too out of control. (This happened frequently.)

Our classmate was a serious man. He dressed in suits, behaved properly, and was as completely unlike a criminal as I could imagine. He shook his head slowly. “I hope I am never jailed,” he said soberly. “I pray I never have to go through that.”

He said it as if jailtime was a distinct possibility. Why, I wondered, would he worry about that?

A series of realizations tumbled through my mind:

He’s black.

He’s afraid he’ll go to jail, even if he’s innocent.

I know nothing about being non-white in America. Nothing.

——————————————————————

My own ignorance hadn’t gone unnoticed. Two years before, I had had a similar revelation while reading The Autobiography of Frederick Douglass and Toni Morrison’s Beloved. I read Douglass’s description of a whipping and had a physical reaction: my body hurt.

I flinched, paused to take in my surroundings—blue sky outside, glass window beside me, cold to the touch—before I forced myself to continue reading.

A second awakening happened at Walmart. As I walked in, I looked around and noticed the skin color of almost everyone else here wasn’t the same as mine. I’m the only white person here, I thought, and felt apprehension fill me. Then I was shocked. Why would I be apprehensive about being the only white at the entrance of Walmart?

A second question: Was this how many African-Americans felt when they were the only black in a room of white people?

Then a third question: Was I racist if I felt uncomfortable around people of a different race?

The answer made me ache.

Racism had torn apart my extended family when I was young. I remember sitting on the kitchen floor, crying, because I knew that it was wrong for anyone to hate another person for their skin color, wrong for family to be split in this way, wrong because God loves all people.

“Jesus loves the little children,” my little girl self sang in Sunday school, “all the children of the world. Red and yellow, black and white, they are precious in his sight . . .”

Was it possible that a deep-rooted prejudice against minorities was planted in my own heart?

—————————————————————

All of us are capable of prejudice.

When this ugly beast raises its head in my heart, it’s shocking and repulsive because it tells me how hateful I am capable of being. It is tempting to look away from this uncomfortable truth (like looking in a mirror and then forgetting my appearance when the reflection disappears from view.)

But it’s also an opportunity.

  1. First, it’s a chance to admit the depth of my sin and my need for Christ.
  2. Second, it’s a chance to struggle against this sin. Learning more about the people I am prejudiced against is a good start. (It’s not a guaranteed way of dispelling racism; it’s possible to hate someone even when we know them well.)

I signed up for African-American literature that fall. Maybe this wasn’t the most effective method, but I respond to literature, and this class seemed as good a start as any.

For the first time, I saw my own behavior as a white American reflected back at me from a non-white perspective. Some of my thought patters were racist, even when I didn’t intend them to be. It would be hard not to see that while I read books like Native Son or Their Eyes Were Watching God. It would be hard not to be uncomfortable in my white skin while I read the poetry of Nikki Giovanni, Imanu Amiri Baraka, or Countee Cullen.

Even when I meant well, I still might be doing something wrong. I might be trying to “speak” for the black community. (As if I understood the experience of being non-white—which I didn’t—and as if no one else could speak for him/herself—which wasn’t true.)

For example, during this time I went to a church (predominately white) where I knew several people who were racist. Some made remarks that blatantly misunderstood the African-American community. The remarks made me cringe; the appropriation of Bible verses to defend their stances against interracial marriage made me angry.

I wanted to say something because I didn’t want silence to be seen as agreement. But how could I correct the racist statements without trying to speak “for” other people who weren’t present? Also, these church people were my only “friends”; I desperately wanted them to accept me, and I was afraid that if I disagreed, they would reject me.

Sadly, I let my fear of rejection stop up my mouth. I let my fear of saying the wrong thing keep me from saying anything. I was afraid. I was silent.

My silence hurt me as much as anyone else. I lost the chance to confront the ugliness in my own heart—of racism and fear—and lost the chance to be honest with my fellow believers about the sin in their lives, too. I don’t have contact with any of them now.

If I did and if that conversation occurred again, I hope I would say:

You’re wrong. Look at the Bible. Look at how Jesus treats others. Do your attitudes reflect Jesus? Do mine?

I can’t speak for other people. I can’t pretend to understand what it’s like to have a different skin color.

But I can tell you this: Jesus loves us. He loves people of every race. He loves us when we’re racist and prejudiced and hateful.

But he loves us too much to let us to remain comfortable in that prejudice. He gives us the power to change so we learn to love others the way he does.

That’s what he’s teaching me. I hope that’s what he’s teaching you, too.  

71ac72bc4dce29e471f15efe1c931e1eLaura Droege is a wife of a rocket scientist, a mama of two daughters, and a novelist with three manuscripts in search of a good publishing home. She holds a graduate degree in literature and taught English as a second language for four years. Now she stays home with her kids and writes. Actually, scratch that: she drives the SUV to various kid activities and writes at bagel shops and in the carpool line at school and in her study, which is close enough to the laundry room to induce guilt, but far enough from the kitchen to (almost) ignore the siren-call of the M&M’s she shouldn’t have bought last week. She blogs at lauradroege.wordpress.com.

Photo Credit: morguefile.com

 

When there’s something icky in the bath water

I don’t even know what it was that made me suspicious, but I’ll give the credit to mommy-instinct. One minute my two boys were splashing in the tub, and the next I was giving my four-year old the death stare:

Me: “Did you just pee in the bath?”

Boy: “No, I was holding my hand in front of it so that it wouldn’t come out.”

Me: “Do you need to get out and pee?”

Boy: “No. I went.”

Me: “Did the pee come out while you were sitting there in the water?”

Boy: “Yes, but it’s okay because I had my hand in front of it so that it wouldn’t be in the bath water.”

*lesigh*

The boy seemed confused and more than a little upset at the speed with which I yanked him out of the water. What was the big deal? From his perspective, he had contained the problem. Why, then, was I muttering something about contamination and yuckness? He acquiesced to his premature lauch from bath-time-bliss, still confused, but glad to be in one of his favorite spots: snuggled in a towel burrito.

20140211-202652.jpg

For the record, this is not my shiny clean tub in the picture.

As I leaned in to pull the plug from the tub, I got a glimpse once again of the tireless love with which God loves me. How many times have I not broken a little rule, done something I know I ought not to have done, and thought “it’s okay”? How often have I thought that I was doing “damage control” putting my metaphorical hand out to contain the mess, certain that no-one would know and nothing would be affected by my sin? Surely, from God’s perspective, that looks a lot using your hand to try and prevent pee from mixing with the bath water.

Sin, like germs, are invisible. And contamination, like pee in a bath, happens. Other people, like the unsuspecting baby brother sitting in the same water, are affected. Others, like that same brother, experience consequences from our choices, even though he was dimly aware of the facts. And yet often I am perplexed at the alarmed reaction to sin from Jesus: “if your eye causes you to sin, CUT IT OUT!” What’s the big deal, we sometimes think?

As I snuggled my boy, another thought crossed my mind. The Psalmist writes of God:

“He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire;

He set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand.” (Psalm 40:2 NIV)

Maybe I could suggest another version:

“He rescued me out of the pee-bath, out of the mud and the germs;

He set my feet on a non-slip bath mat, and snuggled me in a fluffy towel.” (Psalm 40:2 crazed mama paraphrase)

And rescue me, he has. Even though I was hardly aware of it. As I watched the last of the water swirl out of the tub, I found myself thankful for Jesus once again: “As far as the east is from the west, so far has he put our transgressions from us.”  They’re gone:  down the drain,  washed away,  while I am safe in the Father’s arms.

Why I won’t take a stand on gay marriage

A few of my Christian friends have asked in the past months what my position is on gay marriage, or whether I was going to write about it. “I wish you would,” said one friend, “I feel very strongly about it.”

That’s exactly the problem, though. Everyone who’s talking about it seems to feel very strongly about it, whereas I have very mixed feelings, with a net result of apparent apathy.

It’s not that I’m really apathetic, though. I do have thoughts and I do care. I do believe that God has set limits around sexuality and yet I also have friends and family within the LGBT community (LGB friends, T relative) whom I love and do not want to see suffer prejudice or judgment.

And yet I won’t take a stand. I realize that writing this post in a public forum is probably just inviting cyberspace tomatoes to be thrown at me from every side, but for some reason I feel like I need to explain why I’m such a chicken.

I’m not willing to take a stand for gay marriage. I do not believe that we live in a Christian state, and I do not believe that Christian morals ought to be legislated, so my resistance is not because I think everyone ought by law to follow Judeo-Christian norms.

My unwillingness to endorse gay marriage is rather because if the boundary lines demarcating marriage and family are re-drawn, I can’t think of another place which is logically reasonable and good to draw them.

The best illustration I can think of for this is to make an argument that immediate family members ought to be allowed to get married too. If a brother and a sister are legal, consenting adults who love each other, if they are promising lifelong fidelity and commitment – why should they not be allowed to marry too? To say “it’s not natural” or “what about the children?” or “incest is morally repugnant” are all arguments which have been leveled against gay marriage, and those objections have been set aside as being irrelevant and unimportant. A couple’s human rights and the insistence that sexual relationships are private trump concerns about a couple’s ability to healthily and naturally procreate or the “questionable” nature of their relationship.

So why shouldn’t brothers and sisters be allowed to marry? If marriage lines are re-drawn to include gay marriage, I can’t see any logical or jurisprudential reason not to include many other categories of union too and legitimize it as marriage. In the absence of another good place to redefine marriage, I vote for retaining the default position.

(As an aside: I would probably prefer the terms “civil union” for everything that the state does to legitimize human partnerships, and keep a separate term for “marriage”, but that is not realistic. I would gladly be “civilly united” to my husband by the state, and then have a church blessing which counted as “marriage”. But even if those words are used or confused, I don’t think God is confused. I believe that God does bless marriage, but He is not confused about what He is blessing. I don’t imagine God would look down on a brother and sister getting “married” and say “now I’m in a pickle: they’re getting married and I’ve said that’s not a legitimate union but I have to bless it anyway because they used the “m” word.” But I digress.)

So I’m not willing to take a stand in favor of gay marriage, but I’m not willing to take a stand against it either. I am not willing to devote large amounts of time to arguing about the ‘sin of homosexuality’ and how to interpret leviticus.

Here’s why. I think the church is drawing the line in the sand in the wrong place. Too much of the discussion draws a line between homosexual-heterosexual, with the former being denounced as “sinful” and the latter as “blessed”. However, as far as I can see, the sexuality line God draws is around marriage. Husband and wife sex is seen as very, very good by him. Everything else gets the ix-nay with the worried concern of a parent who sees their children teetering on the edge of very dangerous precipices.

So here is my issue: the church is FULL of heterosexual people who are standing on the wrong side of the boundary. Statistics say there are more couples having pre-marital sex than not. The statistics on pornography among men and women are alarming. Co-habiting seems to be the norm, if not even the recommended thing among many. Adultery happens, and we say with a shrug “how awful, adultery happened.” And yet no-one is picketing outside churches to have those people thrown out. No-one is looking at them when they come to the communion table and thinking “you shouldn’t be taking that.” So why on earth should we call out and shame just a few?

I’m not willing to take a stand against gay marriage because I’m not willing to call out homosexuality as THE issue that draws the line in the sand. In fact, I’m not willing to call out sexuality as the line the church should draw in the sand, period.

As Sarah Bessey wisely said, I want to be known for what I am FOR, not what I am against. And this I know: Jesus hung out with all sorts of people. Greedy people, sexually tainted people, crass people – and he LOVED them. To those wanting to see the women caught in adultery called out and shamed for her sexual choices, he said “if you’re without sin, cast the first stone.” (John 8:1-12)

(To her, he said “I don’t condemn you either, go and sin no more…” but I take it that was between her and Jesus, and not for the rest of the synagogue to follow up on.)

And so I’m officially declaring that I’m a chicken. I’m not willing to cast stones. But I’m not willing to move boundaries either. I am sure that is disappointing to almost everyone who wanted me to write on this topic. Get your tomatoes out already and prepare to aim. But more important than all is this: I hope you know what I’m FOR.

I’m for love, and I’m for marriage. Truly, I am.
I’m for the gospel and its call to radical transformation in ALL areas of life.
I’m for unconditional acceptance and deep friendship with WHOEVER God puts in my path.
I’m for grace.
I’m for equal ground at the foot of the cross.

That there is my chicken manifesto, and I’m sticking by it until The Lord convicts me otherwise.

P.S. comments are, as always, welcome – but please keep the tone respectful. Belligerent comments will be deleted.