Category: Issues of Faith

The Season of Perpetual Motherhood

~ ejmcewan ~ 3 Comments

My oldest child will turn 8 next month (!!). I had a daughter 2.5 years later. Another daughter 2 years after that. And I’m due to have another son any day (any moment) now.

In all, I’ve spent about 8.5 years pregnant and breastfeeding, physically connected in one way or another to children who are dependent on me as their primary caregiver. Yes, I’ve worked part-time during most of those years and I have spent a few hours away from them a few days a week. But, practically speaking, motherhood and its demands and responsibilities have been my primary vocation for 8.5 years. With my new baby’s arrival imminent, I can count on at least 2 more years of the same.

I am 34 years old and this is my season of (what sometimes seems like) perpetual motherhood.

Definition time: By “perpetual motherhood,” I mean the willingness to continue in a constant state of pregnancy and child-rearing as one’s primary role and responsibility, in contrast with women who “take a few years off” from their lives and careers to have one or two kids before returning to other responsibilities.

Life update: A few months ago, I quit my “day job.”

As a matter of principal, I’ve never worked full-time since my first child was born. But, the economics of our family situation being what they were, I was blessed (100x blessed) to already be in a job with an organization that valued me enough to allow me the flexibility to transition into a super part-time role. Once I got pregnant with Baby #4, I knew that the logistics of my job were going to be impossible to juggle and I finally took the leap into official unemployment. (Which isn’t even honestly true since I work as a freelance writer from home.)

Specifics aside, the past few months since my transition out of work have forced a lot of difficult soul-searching about this season of life and about how it has grown and challenged me. It’s still new to me and I haven’t finished processing it all, but I’m 40+ weeks pregnant and feeling bold enough to share.

The truth about perpetual motherhood is that

It’s isolating.

In the 21st Century, I don’t have all that many peers. I don’t blame other women for not wanting to choose this road with me, but I sometimes feel like I’m an island in a sea of moms who paid their full-time mothering dues for a few years, but have moved past this season into more interesting and exciting things–even if that’s just more time alone or with others, without their kids. I, conversely, spend almost 100% of my time in the company of young children. And it’s surprisingly lonely.

It’s hard to make and keep friends.

I may talk up being an introvert an awful lot, but being an introvert means less about “liking people” and more about desiring close, meaningful relationships rather than casual ones. Being an introverted mother means sometimes feeling physically smothered by children who you truly enjoy and love desperately but who simply cannot (and should not) meet your mental and emotional needs. But it means not having the social energy to pursue the relationships you desire with other women, especially those in a different season of life than you.

And it’s hard to connect with your husband.

Parenting together is the most amazing and frustrating task a couple can undertake. Watching the man you love become a father is like watching a new part of him come to life. And it’s fantastic. But it’s not enough. My husband and I have spent nearly all of our married life with children. And those first few years were rough in ways we never acknowledged until recently. Learning to connect as “us” before “us with kids” is really, really important and, if you never really have enough time to make it happen before you’re “with kids,” then it’s even harder to make it happen after the fact. Especially when you keep adding kids to the picture and you have to start all over again with each new baby.

Choosing motherhood requires much more personal sacrifice than I anticipated.

The world of business executive husbands and nannies aside, most of the perpetual mothers I know have given up an awful lot for their decisions. They sacrifice careers (along with their income potential and financial independence). They give up their bodily autonomy and self-care for the sake of carrying and caring for babies. They lay aside creative aspirations, life goals, and dreams of worldly success. They give up time with their husbands who often work longer and harder and more so their wives won’t need to. They give up yearly vacations and extravagant gifts and $75 steaks because they’ve re-negotiated wants vs. needs. And, whether these children come by birth or by fostering or adopting, these parents have already reconciled one fact: this is not a temporary situation. This is the life we’ve chosen.

And it’s impossible to ask for, or expect, sympathy.

No one forced me to do this. It was our decision to have kids right away. To have four of them. My decision to breastfeed them for what seems like forever. To homeschool. To quit my job. To live an urban lifestyle we can’t really afford. To support my husband’s decision to work for a non-profit rather than make big bucks elsewhere. (Etc.)

I chose this life because I believe it is good for my kids and valuable work for me and the best for our family. I never expected it to be easy. (Geez, can you imagine the disappointment that would have caused!?)

I am not a victim and I don’t need sympathy.

But I also wish I didn’t feel so alone in my decision. Invalidated by a culture that sees motherhood as a job you take on the side. Left behind by my peers. Isolated from other moms who are living similar lives, like islands, alone with their gaggles of children.

 

 

I know a lot of awesome moms who have made very different decisions than me for very good reasons. And, here in the thick of things, I can understand why they would. I may not agree with a woman’s decision to be a “career mom,” but I know for a fact that it is a hard decision and carries a lot of difficult implications, as well.

All good moms see themselves as “full-time moms” even when they have other roles and responsibilities. Child-rearing is hard work, whether it’s with two or twelve kids, whether it’s your full-time “job” or something you share with a babysitter or their father or their elementary school. So, there’s just simply no way to compare our lives equitably. At least not in a way that truly validates the role of motherhood in the way it deserves to be validated for all moms.

(Career moms are not victims, either, and they don’t need my sympathy.)

 

 

Some days of constant mothering leave me wondering when I’ll get back a little bit of what I gave up for this life and hoping there are some “golden years” awaiting me once my kids are grown that will help make up for the years I’ve given. But, at the end of the day, and at the end of my life, I don’t believe I could ever regret this decision.

These children in my home are more than projects to take up a few years’ of my time until I move on to bigger things. They are little people, after all. Little people with all the hopes and dreams and potential in the world. If training them up is not the most important job in the world, I can’t imagine what would be. (Thankless, exhausting, and isolating as that job may sometimes be.)

Cheer up, perpetual moms.
Even if this season is lonely, you are not alone.

What This Election Taught Me (or retaught me)

~ ejmcewan ~ Leave a comment

I know it’s dangerous to publish this while many people are still reeling from last night’s election results, but I’m going to do it anyway because it’s fresh in my mind and I want to remember everything I’ve learned about myself, about the American public, and about this political process.

Dang. What a wild ride it’s been.

For better or worse, here are some important things this year’s election season has taught me (or retaught me):

 

Americans have bought the lie of the false dilemma and it’s both self-destructive and counter-productive.

In an American mind, it’s always a question of either/or, him/her, us/them. We are so married to a two-party system that the two-party concept has steeped into our personal ideological construct and our interpersonal relationships.

Sure, there are some things that I’ll agree are black and white. I’m a pretty black and white thinker myself. But I still believe that, even with strict ideological commitments, it’s possible to entertain more than just Option A or Option B. (Case in point: Option A and Option B in this election didn’t satisfy me, so I choose another option. Yes, you can do that.)

This false dilemma appears in relationships, as well, as we become so committed to our own solutions to the world’s problems that we not only refuse to examine the potential for another solution, but those adopting other solutions become our enemy. Two sides. Us and them. That’s all we can comprehend.

Political media is manipulative.

Because all media is created by people and all people have some sort of ideological commitment, it’s prudent to be wise about how media is consumed. It’s not always clear, at first, whether the “news” sources we use for information are really intended to inform or to influence.

Basically, all media tells a story. But very few sources are telling the whole story.

Every political candidate will say and do a million things during the duration of their candidacy, but each media source will pick and choose which photos to show, which quips to quote, and which videos to play. If you’re a media junky, you’d better be consuming more than one source and more than one ideological school of thought or, chances are, you’re being sold a lie. (Or at least only a small part of the truth.)

No one wants to believe their guy might be the bad guy.

You know that Biblical parable about the sawdust and the plank and “judge not” and all that? (Matthew 7:1-5. Read it here.) I’d venture to say that this applies to more than just our personal sins. It applies to our choice political candidates, as well.

In this election, both candidates were the brunt of some pretty serious allegations of both character and behavior. Yet, for the most loyal of followers, those allegations meant nothing. As if the sins of the other were so terrible that nothing else mattered. The double standard was almost laughable.

Whether the specific allegations are legitimate or not almost doesn’t matter at this point. The sentiment was clear: your guy is the real bad guy here; mine can do no wrong (or at least not as much wrong as yours, so it doesn’t really matter to me).

(Sidenote: have you seen this?)

Most of us don’t understand the guy voting for the other guy.

This is true across all political lines. We presume to know all there is to know about those who support our opponent, yet all we have to rely on is exit polls and media scams.

The truth is that it’s easier to see the opposing side as a “people group” to be categorized or write them off as a demographic with an agenda than to actually know and understand why someone might support something we don’t–increased border security or universal healthcare or stricter gun laws, for example.

I may disagree with someone’s position on an issue, but I can’t possible know all of their stories. If I did, it might start to make sense why they care about one issue and not another or why they believe some issues are more urgent than others. And, once I start to understand why we all vote so differently, it dismantles the us vs. them dichotomy.

Even if we don’t end up agreeing, it could lead to mutual respect. Or, in the least, less adolescent name calling. And it would save us from the surprise when discovering that those people groups we’re so quick to subject to our own stereotypes are not nearly as homogeneous as we’d like to believe.

No one likes hyperbole, but everyone uses it. (And no one is willing to admit it that maybe the other guy is just being hyperbolic.)

I am first to admit that I love a good hyperbolic argument. But I also understand the nature and use of hyperbole. And I hate it when it’s used dishonestly rather than for illustrative effect.

When the news hit last night/today that Donald Trump won the election, it was like a hyperbole tornado:

“The Apocalypse has come. All immigrants are going to be deported. African Americans are going to be shipped off to ghettos. Men everywhere are now welcome to grab a stranger’s crotch. And I’m moving to Canada.”

Instead of looking honestly at what we’re actually facing (by reading Trump’s actual immigration plan, for example), thinking through it critically, and considering what the actual implications might be (both for good and ill), we choose extremism. All we hear in our heads (which, come on, is all the media wanted us to hear because it makes for good tv) is the irresponsible and reprehensible rhetoric of Trump’s public persona and then we, in turn, spew off the same doomsday rhetoric. This does not excuse him, but neither does it excuse our response.

Hyperbole is great. But it’s dangerous. Learn how to use it and how to interpret it. It will save us all a lot of anxiety.

Our children are listening.

And, no, I don’t mean this in the Clinton campaign video sort of way (although I think she’s correct, as well).

What I mean is that our children are listening to us. And, because they know no better, they believe us. So when we make outlandish claims about the other candidates, or speak in hyperbole about the implications of this, that, or the other thing, they are listening.

They see our overreactions, hear our outbursts, and will internalize either our hope or hopelessness. Be careful what you model for your children.

Everyone has a trigger (or two).

We all have our triggers–things that elicit a strong response or reaction from us. For one woman, it’s sexual assault. For another, it’s healthcare. For another still, it’s gun control or education; race relations or childhood poverty.

I think it’s a beautiful thing that we all carry different sensitives within us. I think it’s a providential thing that insures we, as a collective society, cover all of our bases. I mean, what if the only thing we all cared about was childhood poverty? Sure, kids would be fed and clothed, but the elderly would not be. Or what if the only thing we all cared about was climate change? We might have the best sustainability initiatives in the world, but our economy could go belly up and leave us trillions (more) in debt.

There is no need to minimize someone else’s political trigger just because it isn’t your own. Sure, there are some that are, on a certain level, mutually exclusive. And there are some issues that some of us will never get behind personally. But, for the most part, I simply don’t believe that’s the case.

Here’s a thought: It might actually be possible to work toward a healthy planet, well-fed families, a strong and equitable economy, safe babies (and mothers!), and affordable healthcare. Geez. What an amazing thought.

The real (exciting and difficult) conversation starts when we get to talking about the how. (But that’s a post for another day.)

For now, people are really hurting.

This election triggered not only strong ideological responses but really strong emotional responses, as well. And although empathy is certainly one of my weakest traits, I’m not heartless.

I think it’s important to acknowledge that many people in our country have deep hurts that made this election (and its outcome) really painful. I may think that some of the reactions (toward both candidates) have been immature or overly dramatic, but whether those pains are “legitimate” is not my decision to make.

I don’t have the right to tell a woman who has been sexually assaulted that she shouldn’t take Donald Trump so seriously. And I can’t promise the Mexican-born US citizen that Trump won’t suggest something that threatens their citizenship.

Just like you cannot insure the safety of my children from the terrorist waiting across the ocean.

And just like I can’t honestly tell the third-generation coal miner in West Virginia or the small-town family farmer in Iowa that their livelihood and the future of their families wouldn’t be on the line in a Clinton-run America.

Those hurts, those fears, those concerns are real. And, even if they are unspoken, they influence how we approach politics and social issues. So even if we don’t share them or understand them, we can at least be patient with each other as we work through them and, hopefully, find some resolution.

In the end, hurting people can’t depend on a government to save them. Because a government can’t save them. Maybe temporarily or in small, calculated ways. But not in the personal, loving way that people need. Certainly not from the depth of pain that leaves people crushed at the end of an election. And, honestly, not even from the hundreds of unknowns and the fears of danger and the evil lurking around the corner in this scary world.

Which is why the greatest lesson this election has retaught me is that, while I love and respect this country, my hope rests elsewhere.

And I am really thankful for that today because, honestly, if Donald Trump was the foundation on which I was building my hope for the future–yikes.

(Listen.)

 

Saying Yes, Saying No, and Dealing With What Comes Next

~ ejmcewan ~ Leave a comment

What if I told you that one of the most difficult parts of adulthood is not the big life decisions you make but the daily decision to stick it out and deal faithfully with what comes on the other side?

 

My generation is plagued by two major lifestyle errors:

The fear of commitment.
Serial monogamy.

One is floundering in impermanence, afraid to make a promise or commitment. They live with the presumption that only the most perfect decision is one worth making and are constantly in fear of missing the big opportunity just around the corner. They are tentative. They are dispassionate. They are impotent and indifferent.

The other is always in love. They believe perfection has already arrived and jump in 110% before testing the water. But, then, when a glimmer of “better” or “brighter” appears around the bend, they move on as quickly as they moved in. They are passionate. They are present. But then they are gone in an instant.

No, this isn’t just about sex and relationships.
This is about all of life–love, friendship, careers, community life.

I see it and I understand it because I’ve felt it every time I’ve been faced with a big life decision: where to attend college, what degree to pursue, what job to take, what guy to date, where to live, who to marry, etc.

But let me share some of the greatest lessons I’ve learned here on the flip side of those big, scary life decisions:

Even good decisions carry difficult consequences.
All great pursuits in life require sacrifice.
Every “yes” requires a “no.”
Something better and brighter is always around the bend.
You can never go back, but you can always move forward.

 

 

About 6 months ago, my husband and I finally had the conversation I’d been not-so-secretly avoiding:

“Are we ready for another baby?”

In short, the decision was “No, absolutely not. But we want this more than we don’t want this. And we believe this is a ‘good’ thing and that we will never regret it. And we aren’t getting any younger.”

The longer version of the story would look something like a storm–equal parts hurricane and tornado–swirling through my head, weighing pros and cons and calculating dates and family budgets, alternately avoiding and then pursing my husband, anxieties and fears and subtle jolts of excitement. (Notice: I obviously tend toward “fear of commitment.”)

Even good decisions carry difficult consequences.

Deciding to have a fourth child felt like staring ahead into my future, weighing the value of the path I was on, and turning right around and taking two big year-long steps back. It meant another round of pregnancy, another round of sleepless nights with an infant, another two years of lending my body to a nursing baby, another couple years of putting myself and my dreams and my work and my friendships on standby for the sake of a child, and it meant another couple years of distance between me and my husband.

Is it worth the sacrifice?
All great pursuits in life require sacrifice.

Ask anyone who has ever trained for a marathon or aced an important exam whether the sacrifice was worth the early mornings or the late nights or the aches and pains and headaches.

Yes, it was worth it.

And since I believe that children are worth far more than finished races and completed degrees, my late nights and aches and pains and headaches are going to be spent on them for now. For this season. For as long as it takes. Until it’s time to move on.

Because every “yes” requires a “no.”

And, so, there are seasons of life in which we really can’t have it all. We must choose. And choosing something important often means saying “no” to something else. Marriage is the perfect example of this truth. We stand publicly, before God and witnesses, and promise our commitment, our future, to one person. “Forsaking all others,” we say. And if we don’t mean it, then we have no business participating in such a sacred act.

But there is a secret truth that you’d better understand before you make such an outrageous promise:

Something better and brighter is always around the bend.

Truth is: I am not the most beautiful or virtuous woman my husband has ever known. And he is not the most handsome or charming man I’ve ever known. And, truth is, there will always be someone “better,” someone brighter, or someone more exciting around the bend. (Just like there is always a better job, a better house, a better friend, and so on and so on.)

Making a solid commitment to something or someone means saying “I choose you now. And I choose you tomorrow. And I will choose you the next day…” and it requires a daily decision to be faithful to the promise made.

You can either pretend this isn’t true and that you’ve already found the “one perfect thing” you were searching for (like a serial monogamist) or this can scare the crap out of you and leave you immobile and afraid to ever choose anything (like a commitment-phobe).

Or you can just accept it as truth, lean on wisdom, and then walk confidently into big decisions with eyes open, willing to be faithful to your decision and deal with what comes next.

But what comes next? Because certainly not everyone who makes “a good decision” comes out feeling good about it on the other end. Some people struggle through parenthood. Some couples have miserable marriages. Some people despise their careers or regret the path they chose.

Thankfully, not all of our life decisions are permanent the way marriage and parenthood are. But even temporary decisions can weigh heavily on us and, when they don’t pay off the way we’d hoped, can make us question the sacrifices we’ve made along the way. This is why part of walking through disappointments in life means knowing when a step forward requires moving on.

You can never go back, but you can always move forward.

And part of dealing with what comes after big decisions in life is keeping your eyes focused in the right direction.

When I take stock of my life and the decisions I’ve made, the worst of my past fears come to life when my eyes are focused backwards (on the things I’ve given up) or sideways in comparison with my peers (on the things I could have instead). But when I am focused here–on my life, my family, my calling, my worthy pursuits–I see that each decision and each step is building a life in which the sum is much greater than the parts.

Basically, what I’m building here–with this man in this home with these kids–is bigger than the pieces that I had to give up along the way. And someday, when I am old enough and wise enough to look back on my life without being afraid of regret or comparison, I’ll see the fruit of the sacrifices we’ve made.

And, even now, when some days are harder than others and I feel like I’m surrounded by reminders of all I’m missing out on by choosing this and not that, God extends an extra measure of grace and gives me a taste of the fruit I’m cultivating with my life.

Maybe it’s a kind word from a friend or a smile from a stranger.
Or it could be a reassuring moment with my husband or a moment of breakthrough with my child.

Even if it’s just enough of a taste for one more day’s worth of faithfulness to my “yes” and “no,” then it’s enough.

To Frederick, On The Occasion Of Your 90th Birthday

~ ejmcewan ~ Leave a comment

Frederick-

I discovered you first in a literature class about thirteen years ago. The class was called Faith & Doubt and you and your Sacred Journey were hidden among other greats by Shakespeare, Dante, and Milton.

I was somewhere around twenty years old and, with thirteen years of faith under my belt, was now deep and dark into a season of doubt. I was confused and angry and, studying among people for whom faith was an unspoken expectation rather than a matter of patience and cultivation, I felt misunderstood and alone.

Have you ever met someone for the first time and, in a matter of only moments, found that there is some deep soul comradery between you that makes you feel instantly like kin rather than strangers? With whom the conversation comes with ease and familiarity? Have you ever had a friend for whom you didn’t need to explain yourself? With whom a mutual understanding made them a place of comfort and rest when the rest of the world felt tense and turbulent?

Your story is different than mine.
But beneath the story I read in that class and the many stories I’ve read of yours since, I found something I desperately needed. I found someone who understood the soul longing that I felt but couldn’t express because the only words I had to use were hopeless words and I still had hope.

You helped me find the place where faith and doubt are a dance, not a battle.

When I discovered you, I found the words to give life to my doubt in a way that let me move through it instead of wallowing in it, words that let me be honest and brave and audacious enough to believe that I could be my crooked, confused, heart-broken self and still be counted among the saints.

And you let me say it all out loud. You showed me it could be done. (Thank you.)

There were a few years during which your words were the only words I could use. You helped me learn to pray again. And I still appeal to you often when I don’t know what to say. When my prayers don’t come easy. Or when the world is scary and painful and I wish I knew how to comfort a hurting friend.

Or when I need to be reminded that I’m not the only one of the disciples still sleeping with one eye open and my hand on my wallet. I see you. I’m here, too. And there are many more here with us.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Buechner.
You’ve given more than you know.

 

 

 

*On the occasion of his 90th birthday (which falls on July 11th), Frederick Buechner has released Buechner 101, a curated collection of sermons and essays. Get yourself a copy for a window into his world.

For a quick (Liz McEwan-curated) Frederick Buechner primer, start with the sermon “The Magnificent Defeat” (which can be read in its entirety here) or, for a taste of fiction, try Godric.

Preachers start here.
Writers start here.
People with short attention spans can start here.

The Time Between: Living Life on the Second Day

~ ejmcewan ~ 4 Comments

Have you ever read something for the umpteenth time and noticed something you’ve never noticed before? It happened to me tonight a Good Friday church service while reading along with one of the Gospel passages.

The passage covers the brief time after Jesus’ death when he is being prepared for burial:

Luke 23: 50-56

Now there was a man named Joseph, from the Jewish town of Arimathea. He was a member of the council, a good and righteous man, who had not consented to their decision and action; and he was looking for the kingdom of God. This man went to Pilate and asked for the body of Jesus. Then he took it down and wrapped it in a linen shroud and laid him in a tomb cut in stone, where no one had ever yet been laid. It was the day of Preparation, and the Sabbath was beginning. The women who had come with him from Galilee followed and saw the tomb and how his body was laid. Then they returned and prepared spices and ointments.

On the Sabbath they rested according to the commandment.

Did you see it?

“On the Sabbath, they rested according to the commandment.”

I swear that in all the 33+ years I’ve heard the Bible read and have read the Bible, I’ve never really noticed that little bit. Or at least I never thought it was anything other than an inconsequential blip. So here I am, decades into knowing the story of Easter, realizing that I’ve never thought too much about what happened in the time between Jesus’ death and his resurrection. Turns out, the Sabbath happened.

I did a little quick research tonight and it appears there is some disagreement about how the Sabbath fits into the schedule of Jesus death and resurrection, especially since in that particular year and at that time, the Jews observed both a normal weekly Sabbath and a yearly Sabbath. That was about as much information as I needed to know to know that I could at least count on the observance of the Sabbath happening somewhere in there. And I certainly don’t think it was a coincidence.

Have you ever experienced a huge, monumental event? Maybe something exciting; maybe something traumatic. Think of something significant, something by which you can mark the timeline of your life as “before” and “after.” Think of something after which you laid in bed, mind racing, replaying the event in your mind until you finally fell asleep. Maybe it was the death of a parent, witnessing a crime, meeting a personal hero, or being offered the dream job.

Now think about what it was like the next day. Remember the excitement or the pain or the confusion or the regret. Remember how it felt the first time you saw the people who had experienced that event with you, how you didn’t know if it was better to talk about it or not talk about it. How it had been such a huge deal that part of you wondered if it had certainly been a dream. How maybe you wished it had been. Remember how you wanted to hear everyone else’s version of the story so you could be sure you hadn’t imagined it all.

Now think back to the night of Jesus’ death. Imagine the disciples who had just allowed a mob to arrest and torture their beloved teacher and mentor. Imagine Jesus’s mother who had just hours before stood at the foot of a cross while her son was crucified. Imagine the women who prepared his body for burial, who didn’t understand how the man they believed had come as the promised Messiah was now dead in a borrowed tomb.

Imagine how they all wandered back to their homes, crawled into bed, and laid awake that night wondering how any of the things they’d just witnessed could possibly be true. Imagine how certain they must have been that, from that night forward, everything would be marked as either “before” or “after.”

Now this is where that little bit I mentioned before gets really important because, the next morning, they didn’t really wake up to life “after” the death of Jesus. They woke up to the second day, the time between what Jesus did and what he’d said he would do. And, for that time between, on that second day, God gave them a Sabbath.

This second day might not seem significant to anyone else, but it seems awfully significant to me and I’m thankful tonight that the fathers of our faith were wise enough to put some space between our observance of Christ’s death and our observance of the resurrection.

I’m thankful because I feel like the second day is where I’m living these days.

I feel like the majority of my past 10 years or so has been one big, fat “time between.” It’s been the time between what God has done and what God has promised to do. And, just like the morning after witnessing a horrific car wreck or the morning after meeting the man of my dreams, I wake up every morning wishing I could skip through this time between and go straight to Resurrection Day.

The time between sucks.
And part of what sucks about it is that, like the disciples, there’s not a whole lot I can do to make the story move faster. Like the disciples, God is at work in the background bringing the story to completion while I’m left in the dark. Like the disciples, I’d probably rather find something to keep myself busy and distracted while I wait but, instead, God requests obedience to the Sabbath.

Rest. Worship. Pray. and Wait.

The second day.
It’s the time between the diagnosis and the cure.
It’s the time between the first try and the “+” sign.
It’s the time between the pink slip and the “you’re hired.”
It’s the time between her death and your falling in love again.
(Or, for some, it’s the time between wanting that cure or wanting that baby or that job or that new love and the day your heart finally lets go of the longing.)

Rest. Worship. Pray. and Wait.

A watched pot never seems to boil.
Until it does.

Sometimes God never seems to show up.
Until he does.

And when the disciples woke up on that second day, I’m sure some were confused and some were angry and some were so sad that they couldn’t even get out of bed. But they observed the Sabbath anyway. They rested. They worshiped and prayed. And, if they were brave and bold enough, they probably talked together about what they’d just witnessed the night before and hoped together beyond all hope that God was going to come through like he said he would.

And he did.
On the third day.

As for me, I keep waking up hoping it’s finally the third day. That my heart is finally whole again. That my faith has been restored. That my mind is not anxious. And that God has done the things I’ve been told he promised to do so that I can live more like the resurrection and less like the time between.

Sometimes God never seems to show up.
Until he does.

So let’s make the time more easy passing by telling ourselves and each other the stories about the times he has shown up, the things he has done, and the ways the resurrection has brought fulfillment to our longings, hope for our despair, and peace for the chaos of a world caught in the time between.

Donald Trump and the Prophetic Voice of America

~ ejmcewan ~ Leave a comment

Has there ever been a more polarizing election year in the history of our nation? If so, then certainly not one so televised and “shared” via social media, which makes the polarization even more evident.

Who the hell are these people?
No, not only the candidates themselves, but also their die-hard fans. Their loyal donors. Their faithful followers.

Who is okay with this!?

Most of the people I know are watching in utter confusion as some of the most spiteful, hateful, and radical candidates in history take the stage to the whoops and hollers of screaming, supportive fans.

Donald Trump is running for President.
Let that sink in for a moment.
And then let it sink in that he will likely be the GOP candidate for the general election. Which means that he has the potential to actually become the POTUS, with the support of a political party whose social agenda used to be one closely associated with conservative values, the American dream, and grandma’s Sunday afternoon apple pie.

Wow.
Look how far we’ve come.

Now before you assume that this post is meant to be an indictment against Donald Trump, let me make one thing clear: We are all to blame for this. And this isn’t really about Donald Trump. Whether you share Donald Trump’s specific rally cry or not, you probably have more in common with him than you think.

(I’m gonna get a little preachy here, so I’m sorry ahead of time for people who were just hoping I’d rail against Donald Trump.)

Donald Trump is the prophetic voice of the American people. He is speaking a damning word over us all and we should be ashamed of ourselves.

“Who? Me? Never! I am voting for Bernie Sanders!”

Yes, you. And me. And that guy right there. Because Donald Trump isn’t the only one speaking for us and over us these days. The prophetic voices in our culture are loud and strong and broadcasted over every loud speaker and television screen and facebook feed on the planet.

The message?

“I’m okay. You’re not. You created this problem. I will solve it. And then you will pay.”

The enemy is always different, so, take your pick.
Who caused all of your problems?

Was it the lazy black man?
The entitled white man?
The backroom-dealing CEO?
The lesbian feminist?
The illegal immigrant?
The backwards redneck?
The fundamentalist Christian?

Do you see what I’m getting at here?
Sure, Donald Trump may take the prize for Worst Rhetoric Of Any Presidential Candidate Ever, but the underlying message of his campaign should come as no surprise because it’s the same self-righteous garbage that lies at the heart of our culture at large. It’s the same self-righteous garbage that blames feminism for “destroying the family,” blames Capitalism for poverty, and only blames other countries for our insecurity. It’s the same self-righteous garbage that allows us to justify crooked cops and misbehaving black men by just blaming them one on the other.

“I’m okay. You’re not. You created this problem. I will solve it. And then you will pay.”

This is the message our modern day prophets are speaking and we should see it as an indictment on all of us. Especially people of faith. Because the message of the Gospel is entirely different:

“I am not okay and neither are you. We are all a part of a problem that we cannot solve on our own and all owe a debt that we cannot pay on our own. Jesus is both the solution to the problem and the satisfaction of the debt.”

You may not buy the Jesus stuff and think Christianity is one of the enemies. Or you may have a much higher view of mankind and believe that everyone is, at the core of their best selves, really “okay.” You may think that it’s a good thing that the Christian faith is going out of fashion in our country. (In some ways, I kind of agree with you. Popular faith has a tendency to lose its potency.)

But, before you bid “good riddance” to the Christian worldview, it’s important to understand what we lose when we trade a shared complicity for personal self-righteousness. And how we got to the point where it’s no longer possible to even stand in a room together with someone who disagrees with us without calling names and throwing punches.

One of the beautiful things the Christian message does is it completely levels the playing field by saying that there is not one man or woman in the entire world who is “righteous.” Not one. So, instead of pitting black against white and rich against poor and legal against illegal or liberal against conservative to fight about who can solve the problems of our world, it turns us away from each other and lets us stand side by side to confront the Creator of the universe with our own failures and to plead for help.

This is how, in the Kingdom of God, there can be neither “Jew nor Greek, slave nor free.”
We are all broken; we all need to be fixed.

But we–we, collectively–don’t believe that anymore. Even people who still call themselves “Christians.” Instead, we let fools like Donald Trump speak the message our hearts already believe, which is: I’m okay. You’re not. You created this problem. I will solve it. And then you will pay.

He speaks for us all, whether we want to admit it or not.