when prayer feels pointless

The last couple of days have been painful. What is happening in Ukraine and what is happening in Texas anti-trans legislature right now is terrible to observe (and I can only imagine is far more painful and terrible for those most directly affected by these things.)

I want to do something, but all I feel like I can do at this point is pray.

Prayer is always one of the ways I’ve felt most connected to the Divine.

And yet, right now, it feels utterly useless.

Because if praying to a supposedly all-good and all-powerful God isn’t enough to stop wars, pandemics, violence, hatred, discrimination – what good is it?

As I continue to deconstruct and reconstruct my faith, I’ve come to realize that I can no longer believe in a God who is both all-good and all-powerful. Because in times like this, it becomes clear that God is either all-good but not all-powerful (meaning that God cannot stop the awful things that are occurring right now) or God is not all-good but is all-powerful (in which case God cannot be trusted.) If God is both all-good AND all-powerful, how can He/She/It/They simply sit back and let evil, destructive, horrible things happen, wreaking havoc on people and just…not do anything?

Prayer feels pointless at times like this.

And yet, I find that I cannot help but continually return to prayer. Not because I expect my prayers to completely change the state of how things are in this world, but as a way for me to lament to God about the state of things.

I believe in an empathetic God. I believe in a loving God. I believe that all the things we grieve in the here and now on this earth, are things God is grieving alongside us.

To anyone who feels similarly, know that how you see prayer or God is not indicative of failure on your part.

It is okay to feel like prayer is useless. It is okay to feel like no amount of prayer will tangibly help vulnerable people with very physical needs. It is okay to be sad and angry about that.

And it’s also okay if you find that you still return to prayer anyway, not because you expect it to suddenly meet vulnerable people’s tangible needs – but simply because you are lamenting to the divine about terrible things.

Perhaps one day, prayer will seem to have more of a purpose. Maybe it will feel more worthwhile and like it actually physically, tangibly benefits vulnerable people.

But for now, it’s enough to just pray as a means of lamenting to God about how awful this world can be. For now, it’s okay if our prayers are us venting to God about how we want Ukrainians and transgender people not to be targets of violence and hatred, but to be safe and to be loved. It’s okay if our prayers are groans, or wordless tears, or a string of curse words. It’s okay if this is what prayer is. It doesn’t have to be a grandiose thing which we expect to make God move in particular ways.

It is okay if this is how we pray. God is not angry or offended by this prayer. God empathizes with us. God weeps with those who weep; and I hope we weep with those who weep, too.

when rest is difficult

I am neurodivergent, disabled, and chronically ill. Based on the Myers-Briggs and Enneagram personality typing tools, I’m an INFJ and 9w1. I grew up in conservative white evangelical Christianity. And I want to take about rest today, as it has been necessary but hard lately.

Those things may not seem very related or intertwined; but they are all very real aspects of my life. Last week I woke up one day with intense pain. My normal is usually the 3-5 range on a scale of 1-10; that day, I woke up at an 8. My pain meds worked, thankfully; I’d gotten a little bit ahead on schoolwork so I wasn’t feeling rushed or stressed.

The majority of this week has been spent in the 6-8 range on the pain scale. My meds have worked at times, and not worked at other times. Changing weather seems to be the most likely cause, as it’s one of my worst triggers and tends to make pain harder to get rid of than other triggers.

I became sick in September 2010. It impacts every area of my life. Personally, a significant part of why I prefer identity-first language (disabled person) over person-first language (person with a disability) is because in my opinion, IFL reads as disability being more a fact of life, while PFL reads as it being similar to a switch I can turn off and on, or something I can leave behind when I feel like it. Think of it like carrying a bag – I can use it when going places, but I can set it down, carry it in different ways, hand it off to someone else, etc. if needed. It’s not permanently attached to me; I can let it go if and when I need/want to. I cannot say the same about disability. It is a part of me, not something I can leave behind at will.

A few years ago, I wrote this piece. As I look back now, this particular article is more of a reflection of messages I internalized, rather than a healthy or accurate look at who I am to the core of my being. I am so used to caring for others, to thinking of others, to giving of myself for others – all to my own detriment – but it’s difficult to extend the same love, empathy, compassion to myself as I do to others.

I wanted to get ahead on schoolwork this week. I had every intention to do so. But my chronic pain had to be prioritized. I was able to do the bare minimum, but doing what I’d planned on would have resulted in my body being overworked, exhausted, depleted. I’m learning how to work with my body, not against it. It’s difficult, but I believe it is worth it.

My views about Jesus (and really just my views in general) have changed a lot the past few years. One thing that has definitely changed is my view on work. Growing up, I was so often told that I was supposed to do every single thing – including every little mundane, insignificant task – for the Lord. It was all to be at my very best; it wasn’t supposed to be done for any human, solely for God, and always at my very best.

Now, my understanding and belief of Jesus is one of compassion, of love, of empathy, of care and concern for both self and others. I believe Jesus does not demand perfection or perpetual sacrifice of me, but invites me (and all of us) to love and care for ourselves. Sometimes, that means doing the bare minimum and giving our bodies extra rest. Shame can still creep in during these times, insisting that resting is laziness or that I should be doing more. I’m certainly not immune to these thoughts and feelings. But I believe in a God who is Love – not a God who is Shame. Love gently and patiently reminds me to rest; love tells me it’s okay if I don’t always give my absolute best.

It’s still hard. I don’t know if it will ever truly feel easy, intuitive, or natural to care for myself with the grace and tenderness I employ in caring for others.

But maybe, just maybe, I don’t have to overwork my body for God. Perhaps resting, recognizing my own limitations, and doing the bare minimum (even when I wish I could do so much more) is an act of love for God and love for myself.

I can’t remember where or from who I first read/heard this message, but the phrasing “anything worth doing is worth doing poorly” has stuck with me. It’s a necessary reminder for me to hold to. Sometimes, what I do will feel really crappy, nothing special, not worth praising or seeing any goodness in. It is good to remember that I have days where I can live up to my full potential, but I cannot expect that level of performance or productivity from myself everyday. Some days, what I do will absolutely suck, because I decided caring for my body was a higher priority than producing something good.

And maybe that’s okay.

hi again – I’m still here

It’s been a few months since I’ve published anything on this blog. I have wanted to – and I have 10+ drafts started, plus other ideas swirling about in my head.

But I just haven’t been up to writing on here lately.

For those who don’t know, I had a few health scares in 2021. In April, September, and October, I had 3 separate incidents. The one in September we (me, my parents, and my doctors) know for sure was a seizure. The April & October events could have just been me passing out or they could’ve been seizures as well, but it’s hard to say definitively one way or the other.

So far I haven’t had any in 2022. But I’ve had a lot of days lately where my pain & fatigue in general have been beyond my typical baseline. Earlier this week, I had a good day where my symptoms (primarily pain and fatigue) were actually less than my baseline which was nice. I made a post about it on Instagram because sometimes it helps to document my good days – it’s a reminder to myself that even as exhausting and dreary as chronic pain & fatigue can be, there are still good, beautiful days where it becomes easier to have my mind on something other than the pain.

The main reason I’m writing this is for anyone who hasn’t seen any blog posts from me lately and is wondering why that is; as well as for myself, as a reminder that it’s okay to take breaks – even long breaks – from things I enjoy and that I can come back when I am ready. I used to publish something every Friday at noon on this blog and while I enjoyed having that schedule, it eventually was just too much and I was totally burnt out. This is the second or third time I’ve taken a break from blogging, and it gets easier each time (though I do sometimes wish I could still have the energy to write something on a weekly basis).

Something I continue to realize, that I keep learning and re-learning, is the value of rest. Being chronically ill, disabled, and neurodivergent, I sometimes feel lazy even though realistically rest is important for everyone and I know that my body and mind need more rest than healthy, abled, neurotypical people do. If you’re familiar with the Enneagram and Myers-Briggs: I’m a 9w1 and an INFJ and I tend to be much more gracious to others than to myself. I offer a lot of compassion and understanding to other people, sometimes to a fault – but I can so quickly be hard on myself, with failures and mistakes haunting me.

In some ways, I don’t have much of a choice in resting a lot. I would genuinely love to be more active, to be able to do more in my day-to-day life. But doing even just one or two extra things in a day that I don’t normally do can overexert my body and send me into a flare (and flares can happen for no apparent reason, too – it’s not always that I overdid it one day. Sometimes there’s no obvious reason for a flare up.)

I’m learning how to befriend rest, to appreciate rest, and to love my body as it is – to recognize that while my symptoms are exhausting, and I wish I had more answers than I do, my body is doing its best.

I do want to try and write more regularly, and not take several months off of writing again. I also want to honor my body’s needs, including rest – which sometimes means not doing things that I really want to do because it would be pushing myself past my limits. I can’t just “good vibes only” or “positive thinking” my way out of chronic illness. I can’t willpower away my being disabled. I can’t erase my neurodivergence by acting neurotypical. Most of my diagnoses are incurable and will likely be lifelong.

What I can do, and am attempting to do moment by moment, is accept myself as I am.

I hope that if you’re in a similar boat – whether that’s due to chronic illness/disability/neurodiversity or something else – that you’ll accept yourself as you are, that you will welcome rest, and that you know there aren’t awards for pushing yourself past your limits. You don’t have to overextend yourself to be a good human. You can (and should) be kind to yourself, and let yourself rest when you need to.

Thoughts on White Privilege, White Supremacy, and Racism

Several weeks ago, I posted to my instagram story several posts from Black people about how making Juneteenth a national holiday felt much more like performative actions than actual anti-racist efforts. One of the posts included was from Twitter user @YesAurielle, whose tweet read: “Gaslighting is making Juneteenth a federal holiday while banning critical race theory in schools, destabilizing COVID mutual aid efforts, refusing to defund and abolish police, and blocking reparations legislation. Go play in someone else’s face, America.”

While there were plenty of other good posts in the mix from others on the performative, rather than genuine, nature of Juneteenth becoming a federal holiday, this one in particular had someone (a police officer) DMing me and asking if I’m in favor of defunding/abolishing the police.

At the moment I wasn’t in a good headspace, freaked out a bit and never actually responded. I can see now that it was a trauma/anxiety response, but here’s what I’ve been thinking about as an answer to that question; this is what I wish I would’ve said, after giving myself some time and space to calm down and breathe and prepare for an important conversation with another white person.

There are different solutions people see to the problem of police brutality. Some believe in reforming the police, others believe in abolishing/defunding the police; even among BIPOC there are differences of opinion on what should be done. But something needs to be done. Because historically – and still now – the way that some marginalized people, such as Black people, are treated by the police is not only harmful and dehumanizing, but for many people, it’s deadly.

I’m a white person. I don’t fully feel safe around cops, but I know that my white privilege means it is very unlikely I would be seriously harmed or killed by police (and if I were, it would be for something other than my skin color). I and a Black person could be having the same interaction with a cop, and I would have a much greater chance of being safe and unharmed afterward.

I could talk about my thoughts on reforming vs defunding/abolishing the police, but the thing is, me sharing my thoughts/feelings on that won’t save Black lives. It won’t end police brutality. It may encourage, or at the very least not do anything to stop, racism & white supremacy even if my intention is to fight back against those evils.

I believe that this conversation should be led by Black people.

And yes, it’s true that Black people aren’t a monolith. Every single Black person will not hold all the same opinions or views on this subject (or any subject, for that matter). I’m not ignoring this or pretending it’s not true.

But they are the ones most victimized, most harmed, most at risk in encounters with police officers. They’re far more likely to be killed, regardless of whether they are innocent or guilty, because non-black people may perceive them as threats rather than as human beings, who have just as much dignity and worth as every other human being.

I recommend looking through the names and stories listed on this site https://interactive.aljazeera.com/aje/2020/know-their-names/index.html to get an idea of just how quickly the murder of Black people is justified, whether the person is innocent or guilty. Even if they are guilty, they should still be alive. Murdering someone is not justice for crimes, nor does it make wrongs right.

If I were to say I’d prefer policing to remain as is, or to have police reform but not defunding or abolishing the police, that would be placing my opinion above the lives of Black people.

Fellow white people, please understand that though our feelings are valid, seeing them as the most important part of this conversation is dehumanizing and wrong. It is sinful to assume that we think we know how to best address oppression that isn’t happening to us (and that, intentionally or unintentionally, we may very well be playing a part in upholding).

Black Lives Matter.

We have got to start seeing Black people for who they are – people who are inherently worthy and loved, people who have the Imago Dei, people who deserve so much better than how this country and this world often treat them. We have to understand this isn’t about us. If we insist on saying what our opinions are, what our thoughts & feelings are, then we are placing our perspectives above others’ lives. We are playing into the ideology that white people are superior, even if we don’t want to or mean to go along with that idea. We have to look inside us and around us to see what problems are happening, and how we can fight back against racism and white supremacy – because whether evil is subtle or obvious, small or large, vague or straightforward – evil is evil. And our fellow human beings, especially those who lack some privilege(s), deserve the dismantling of systems and powers that have oppressed (and still do oppress) them.

I am certainly not an expert on anti-racism. It breaks my heart how long it took for me to realize anti-racism is a necessity. I grieve for the years that I (even unknowingly, unintentionally) upheld racism and white supremacy, because I believed that just being “not racist” was enough. BIPOC have been telling us that we are either racist or anti-racist. Just being “not racist” is more passive; and truthfully, as someone who has been there before, I believe that being “not racist” is actually closer to racism than anti-racism. Maybe you never use racial slurs, you oppose slavery, you recognize the existence of white privilege, etc. but if you aren’t committed to learning and growing and doing better, and to starting or continuing on the journey of anti-racism, you’re most likely “not racist” rather than anti-racist. We can do better, and we need to do better.

Additionally: for those of you who say you are pro-life, this is a pro-life issue. I’ve written about this before on the blog, on social media posts, and said it in conversations with people, but it bears repeating: if you’re only pro-life when it comes to babies in wombs, you are pro-birth, not pro-life.

Being genuinely pro-life means advocating for all who are marginalized or oppressed – BIPOC, LGBTQ+ people, disabled/chronically ill people, religious minorities, immigrants & refugees, people living in poverty, etc. Simply opposing abortion doesn’t give you the moral high ground or make you truly pro-life.

I fully believe my anti-racism journey should have started much earlier than it did, but wallowing in regret cannot change the past, and it cannot make any of my previous mistakes or wrongdoings right. It just can’t. And so I commit to learning, listening, understanding, growing, and doing what I can to make this world a better place. I’m learning ASL currently because as a disabled & chronically ill person, accessibility matters a lot to me. Learning ASL is a way I can push back against ableism and stand with/for those who are d/Deaf and hard of hearing. Similarly to anti-racism, I’m still pretty new to ASL, and it will take awhile before I could truly be an ally or advocate (which, by the way, is not up to me to determine. In the ways that I’m privileged, it is up to marginalized people to determine if I’m an ally/advocate for them or not. That’s certainly my hope and my goal as I learn more about different means of oppression and marginalization, but I do not get to just declare that about myself.) But learning, growing, trying, failing, succeeding, etc. are all part of the journey to be anti-racist and anti-ableist* (and anti- any other form of injustice).

*I want to make a note that while I myself am neurodivergent, disabled, and chronically ill, and often face ableism in my day-to-day life – this doesn’t mean I never have been or never can be ableist. My experience doesn’t capture the experiences of every single person or diagnosis or symptom. So while on some level I know more personally about how to be anti-ableist, there are plenty of things I’m still learning about anti-ableism. It is entirely possible for minorities to uphold systems and powers that are corrupt and oppressive. There were times when I as a girl/woman, who grew up in conservative white evangelical Christianity, upheld things like patriarchy and purity culture. Girls and women are often marginalized and silenced in contexts like that, but there are those who continue to uphold those things, intentionally or unintentionally. Similarly, some BIPOC may side with oppressors rather than other BIPOC. The same can be said of religious minorities, LGBTQ+ people, immigrants, etc. But just because some people of a minority group let certain things slide doesn’t mean they’re right or that they’re the ones we need to be listening to or idolizing. No, we have to look at these groups as a whole and see what the majority of those groups say is best for their safety and well-being.

White privilege is real. And those of us who have white privilege ought to be committed to doing the right thing for BIPOC. We must be willing to face racism head-on, both on individual and systemic levels, and do the work of tearing it down and building racial justice and equality.

Anti-Abortion ≠ Pro-Life

Content Note: this post involves a lot of discussion around pregnancy, abortion, and abuse. Please be careful and kind with yourself and know that if this blog post is one you feel you need to avoid, take care of yourself first and foremost. This is an important thing for me to talk about, but you do not have to read or engage in conversations around this if it is too much for you.

Abortion is a complicated subject. For most of my life, I was pro-life because it was all I knew. It was the only option. Eventually, as I learned more of the pro-choice stance, I was often told that people who are pro-choice love abortion. I was told that people who get (or even just consider getting) abortions hate life, hate God, hate kids, hate morality. I was told these people who didn’t 100% oppose abortion as pro-life people do were pure evil and irredeemable. (And no, I’m not exaggerating).

For so long, I went along with the idea that pro-life = anti-abortion. I just assumed that pro-lifers had the moral high ground, all the right theological and/or political views. I felt justified in calling abortion murder, in shaming people who’d given or received abortions, in judging those who’d gotten an abortion. What I wasn’t interested in was actually seeking out the truth, hearing the other side, or allowing nuance. And I regret that.

I don’t believe abortion is in any way a black and white issue. It’s not a simple, obvious, right vs wrong situation. There is so much gray area here. For one thing: what is legally considered abortion isn’t just killing a living child in a womb. It can include other procedures, such as a removal of a dead child when miscarriage happens. You may say that there is a difference between killing a living child and removing a dead child – and technically, that is correct. But legally speaking, both of those are considered abortion. To make abortion illegal wouldn’t just be making killing a living child illegal. It would include other procedures as well. It would put more lives at risk.

I don’t like abortion. I am grieved by it. I wish it wasn’t necessary. What I’ve learned is that these things aren’t exclusively pro-life views. Everybody wants to reduce abortions. Nobody intentionally gets pregnant just to have an abortion. Nobody is pro-abortion.

Here’s what I think a lot of people get hung up on, and don’t often realize: everyone wants to reduce abortions, but not everyone sees the same solution to accomplish that goal. For people who are pro-life, their tendency is to want to make abortion illegal. For people who are pro-choice, their tendency is to want to understand why people get abortions, and work on those things. From what I have heard, read, and observed, I believe that the latter is more effective.

If a person becomes pregnant and wants an abortion, it could be for a number of reasons: 1) their life may be at risk; 2) they may live in poverty and not have the means to care for a child; 3) they may be in an abusive situation and unable to leave, and don’t want to put a child through that abuse; 4) they may be a single parent and not in a place to raise another kid; 5) the pregnancy may be a result of rape, incest, or other forms of sexual abuse. There are myriad reasons why people may get abortions, but these are the ones I’ve personally observed most often.

Another thing: if someone is considering an abortion because they lack the means to care for a child (money, food, shelter, clothing, or any number of other things), and you have the resources to help them but choose not to, you should absolutely not shame or guilt-trip them for getting or considering an abortion in that instance. If you have the means to help and choose not to, and a person chooses an abortion? You dehumanizing that person is entirely inappropriate, insensitive, and non-empathetic. You are a part of why they are in that position.

As much as possible, I want babies in wombs to have a chance at life outside the womb. Humanity is wild and messy and beautiful and amazing. It is heartbreaking when a baby doesn’t get to experience life outside the womb. But sometimes, abortion is the only option. Sometimes there are no work-arounds or other choices for pregnant people to make. They don’t deserve to be vilified for whatever choice they make. And even if abortion were illegal, it would still happen – it would just be far more unsafe. I’ve heard from many people who work or used to work in the medical field that when people are unable to go to a clinic for an abortion, and have to resort to attempting abortions themselves, it causes a lot more issues and is all-around worse for everyone.

I still tend to say that I am pro-life, but I always try to make it clear that pro-life ≠ anti-abortion, that I am never okay with shaming those who give or receive abortions, and that I think it is in everyone’s best interest to keep abortion legal. No one wants an abortion. No one likes abortion. I would love to see it one day be completely unnecessary. But until then, we have to consider who is getting abortions and why they may be getting abortions. They are not murderers who have no respect or love for the sanctity of life. They are human beings who are faced with an often difficult choice they’d rather not have to make.

For me, being pro-life means caring not only about babies in wombs, but about all lives – especially the lives of those who are marginalized. Whether it’s BIPOC, LGBTQ+ people, neurodivergent/disabled/chronically ill people, religious minorities, immigrants & refugees, poor people, abuse victims, or any number of other marginalized people – I believe that being truly pro-life means advocating for them too. And I believe that generally speaking, most pro-lifers only ever acknowledge and care for babies in wombs. (Note: this is NOT a justification for “all lives matter” or “blue lives matter”. Recognizing the inherent worth of every human being, and making consistent efforts to advocate for marginalized people, doesn’t in any way make it appropriate to silence people of color or speak over those who insist that Black Lives Matter. To many people, Black lives don’t matter. Black Lives Matter doesn’t mean that Black lives matter more than non-Black lives, or that only Black lives matter. The phrase doesn’t exist in a vacuum. It comes from a place of generations-long harm and abuse, both individually and systemically, experienced by Black people. Their lives have so often been dehumanized and stripped of dignity by people who uphold and enable racism and white supremacy. They deserve better. They, and all people of color, deserve an anti-racist world.)

I have witnessed many people who call themselves pro-life justifying racism, ableism, LGBTQ-misia, antisemitism, xenophobia, Christian nationalism, Islamophobia, fatphobia/diet culture, purity culture, white supremacy – and much, much more. Anti-abortion folks have chosen to focus on the unborn at the expense of those who have been born, and that is harming a lot of people.

Yes, I am grieved by abortion;

Yes, I want abortion to be unnecessary;

And, I describe myself as pro-life but not anti-abortion; I want abortion to stay legal because I believe abortion being illegal would do more harm than good.

Faith and Fear

“‘Faith over fear’ is a toxic half-truth.” Full post from KJ Ramsey: https://www.facebook.com/plugins/post.php?href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fkjramseywrites%2Fposts%2F189506376333669&show_text=true&width=500

“Faith over fear” seems to have become evangelicals’ mantra during the COVID-19 pandemic.

Certainly, this phrase wasn’t new to pandemic times. I’ve heard it throughout my life. But I’ve heard and read it countless times over the last year and a half or so.

Truly, though, I think fear is a part of life for all of us to some extent. It can show up in different ways. Therapy and/or medication can be helpful for anxiety disorders (I can personally attest to this).

It can get to an unhealthy place; but fear, in and of itself, is not wrong. It is not a sin. And it is not the opposite of faith.

For me, I’ve realized that one of my biggest emotional & ideological shifts in my faith has been related to fear.

For years, I was told about people I was supposed to avoid, or only engage with in efforts to convert them to my beliefs. This included LGBTQ+ people, people of different religions, immigrants & refugees, people who’d gotten or considered abortions, just to name a few. There were phrases like “love the sinner, hate the sin” tossed around when talking about some of these people.

It wasn’t until relatively recently that it hit me: when viewing people through that lens, that is choosing (unhealthy) fear – primarily fear of what is different or unknown – and not love.

My journey from being non-affirming to fully affirming of LGBTQ+ identities and relationships was scary. Because non-affirming was familiar. It was what I knew. It was what I’d always been told. It made sense to me within the structure of conservative Christianity (and even more specifically, white evangelicalism).

What I believe now is that the verses that are so often used to condemn LGBTQ+ people are misused. From what I have read, I believe that the original languages of Scripture do not condemn LGBTQ+ people. I do believe there is biblical basis for speaking up about pedophilia, rape, assault, and other sexual abuses. [For information related to my shift in beliefs on Bible verses about homosexuality, you can go to both of these links: http://www.comingout4christians.net/side-a-side-b-primer.html https://um-insight.net/perspectives/has-“homosexual”-always-been-in-the-bible/ ]

I knew in the past I could’ve been wrong. I know now I could very well be wrong.

But I believe love is ultimately what matters most. If I continually exclude, marginalize, and fight against equality & equity for LGBTQ+ people, because I believe they are sinning, that is choosing to live in fear rather than believing all humans are made in the image of God and worthy of love.

I may have been wrong in the past, or I could be wrong now. But letting perfectionism get the best of me doesn’t help anyone. And it doesn’t encourage or strengthen a life rooted in love.

I’m an Enneagram 9w1, but I also relate heavily to type 6 (as well as types 2 and 4). This is a common 6 trait. Sixes tend to gravitate towards planning, safety, familiarity. For me, a spiritual deconstruction was terrifying because it meant letting go of what I knew. It meant asking questions and being honest about loopholes or errors I found. My faith had pretty much been my entire life for so long.

My faith is still important to me. I still believe in the person and message of Jesus.

But what I’ve found is that loosening my grip has led to more beautiful, wholesome, fulfilling, life-giving faith.

And in this process, I have found that faith and fear often coexist. They aren’t attacking each other. They aren’t working against each other. They both work in their own ways to bring goodness, and yet they can also both be used in unhealthy, toxic ways.

My faith and my fear are two very real parts of me. I do my best to live a life of unconditional radical love for all, and some things – like faith and fear – are a part of that. It isn’t always easy figuring out how to live out all these things in healthy ways. But it is worth it, and it is what I aim for.

Disability And Chronic Illness Don’t Weaken My Faith

Earlier this week, #ACrippleHasWalked was a trending hashtag on Twitter. I wrote some thoughts out on twitter, but wanted to talk more about it on my blog.

In my 4-tweet thread, I wrote the following:

“I’m just gonna say that if word of faith/name it and claim it/prosperity gospel/health & wealth etc. theology is triggering for you, avoid #ACrippleHasWalked. That theology is rooted in greed & ableism & ego and not genuine love or care or concern for others. I despise this theology with everything in me. When I became chronically ill as a 12 year old, that was the only way I knew how to deal with my reality. And it only made things worse. It led to self-loathing and suicidal thoughts because I felt that it was entirely my fault that I wasn’t getting better, that God must’ve hated me since I wasn’t being healed, etc. It is abusive theology. It’s manipulative and harmful and it is utterly repulsive how it just runs rampant. Disability & chronic illness don’t happen to people because they don’t have enough faith. They happen because they’re a part of life. Being disabled/chronically ill just is. It isn’t a moral failing & it isn’t indicative of sin.”

I generally find beauty in theological diversity. Over the past few years I’ve loved listening to and learning from religions and Christian denominations that I am not (and have not been) part of. There are some brilliant observations and thoughts about God, life, and this world from so many people of varying faith backgrounds. It brings me joy to see new perspectives. I don’t think there is one right, best, or only way to be a Christian or to be religious in general.

But the theology that is behind #ACrippleHasWalked, and that is the source of a lot of trauma for me, is something I have no tolerance for.

I believe miracles can happen. I believe healing can come, sometimes through miracles, sometimes through medicine. And I believe that sometimes, the ordinary everyday parts of life are miracles themselves.

I am incredibly grateful for all of the professionals I have who work with me to make my life and my health as good as possible as someone with migraines, anxiety, depression, ADHD, hemerrhoids, insomnia, GERD, and the other things I experience. I thank God for my doctors and meds which help me live as freely and healthily as I do (which is far from perfect or ideal, to be sure – but my worst days with medication are worlds better than my best days without medication).

There is a lot of pain and fatigue I deal with daily. It’s something I’ve become accustomed to, in the almost 11 years of chronic illness I’ve had. I don’t remember what it’s like to feel healthy, to be pain-free.

And while the first several months of this reality were devastating and exhausting for me, what I’ve learned is that there is still beauty and joy and hope in this life. That goodness may never come in the form of full, total healing – and I’m okay with that. I don’t need to be healed to enjoy good things or to believe I am loved or to follow Jesus. During Jesus’ time on earth as a human in the flesh, he loved marginalized, oppressed, disadvantaged people. Jesus was subversive and offensive to the powerful, the legalistic, the oppressive and was a friend of the people who were disenfranchised by them.

Right now, in May 2021, I believe that Christians best embody the love of God when we care fiercely for LGBTQ+ people, poor people, abuse victims, orphans, widows/widowers, immigrants & refugees, religious minorities, and other marginalized people – including disabled, chronically ill, and neurodivergent people.

Ableism is a pervasive problem in both theological and non-theological contexts. There are many people who have a lot to say about how we can make this world less ableist and more accessible in certain settings. For me, I believe that Christianity is the realm I can most speak to about ableism. I am a Christian and have been my whole life.

I believe that if the gospel is good news for anyone, it should be good news for marginalized and oppressed people. And I believe that if the gospel is offensive to anyone, it should be offensive to oppressors & corrupt powerful people. But so much of 21st century white American Christianity has that backwards.

I believe all humans are made in the image of God.

Disabled, neurodivergent, and chronically ill people are no exception.

I believe in a God who is present and empathetic with me when nothing brings any pain relief, when I can’t sleep, when I experience sensory overload, when I have panic attacks, when pain or fatigue make it impossible to focus on anything.

The god of those who believe prosperity gospel/word of faith/name it and claim it/health and wealth theology isn’t the one I worship. That is a false god who isn’t interested in actually caring for people, just in showing off, in ego, in attention, in greed, in selfishness. And that deity isn’t worth following or worshipping. Period.

I may or may not be miraculously healed someday. It’s a possibility, but I’m not counting on it.

But regardless of what happens to me, I pray I will always fiercely care and advocate for marginalized people, including disabled/chronically ill/neurodivergent people. Because a God who cares about “the least of these” (Matthew 25) is absolutely a God worth following, and the God I aim to reflect in all I say and do.

Imprecation and Injustice

Last month, people had been bombarding Chanequa Walker-Barnes and Sarah Bessey with a lot of vitriol. In Sarah’s book, “A Rhythm of Prayer” (https://www.sarahbessey.com/books/rhythm-of-prayer), one of the prayers included was written by Dr. Chanequa.

I get that the opening words can be a jarring way to open a prayer. If you are offended by those words, I want you to read the whole prayer to have the context of it. If you have read it in its entirety, and still feel outraged by it, I want you to sit with that & examine why that is (https://drchanequa.wordpress.com/2021/04/08/prayer-of-a-weary-black-woman/?fbclid=IwAR2RknubSA0DNB6Ooap9nJeSx4zNPgEZiSqMXInvCaE6e27iBT00CBLLhKw & https://drchanequa.files.wordpress.com/2021/04/prayer-weary-black-woman.pdf are links you can use to find both her entire prayer and further explanation of the heart behind it).

Lots of people are insisting that Walker-Barnes is racist for praying that way, and that there’s no context that would make it okay.

First, maybe read some imprecatory psalms. Imprecatory prayers like Dr. Chanequa’s aren’t new – they have biblical precedent. And she has shared about what led her to pray the way she did.

Second, it’s very telling that so many people are enraged at a Black woman’s deeply honest prayer. Prayer is conversing with God – and God can handle us, our full selves. We don’t have to make our prayers palatable. (Also, a lot of the people who are bashing this prayer have expressed hateful sentiments towards people who didn’t/don’t support Donald Trump. If you’d defend the former president against any negative words – even when they’re undeniably true – but will not defend marginalized people who express themselves fully & honestly, you are a hypocrite. Full stop).

I sincerely hope that those who’ve been sending an immense amount of hate towards Chanequa & Sarah repent. In a book about prayer, if a Black woman cannot offer up a brutally honest prayer (with some inspiration from imprecatory psalms) without intense backlash, we are missing a huge part of the picture.

A Poem for Holy Week

if the pain

the grief

the ache

the loss

the longing 

associated with death 

like on Friday and Saturday 

feel far more present and real than

the hope

the joy

the beauty 

the goodness

of life and resurrection 

like on Sunday 

you are not alone

you are loved

may you one day find love 

grace

peace

joy

hope

in both small ways and big ways 

and if that one day isn’t today

you are still 

always

always

always

immeasurably loved 

and 

unfathomably sacred

never alone 

and I hope that 

resurrection 

in some way, shape, or form

finds its way

to you

but for now

in the meantime

when things feel dark

hopeless

ugly

too far gone

may you have people who

rejoice when you rejoice

and who mourn when you mourn

may you have good company

to sit with you

and just

be

present

with you 

and hold the pain

the grief

the ache

the loss

the longing 

of this moment 

When Love Feels Like A Waste

“Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.” -Alfred Lord Tennyson

“But what is grief, if not love persevering?” -from WandaVision (I haven’t watched it, I just really love this quote)

Throughout my life, but especially over the last year or so, I’ve at times felt like my love for another person or animal was wasted. Sometimes, it was that the loved one had died; other times it was a relationship that ended, either because it wasn’t a good relationship or just that it was our last time seeing each other, and we had no way of knowing. Sometimes it was because I or my loved one was leaving an environment, like church or school or a job.

Probably the most intensely I’ve ever felt that my love was wasted was last year on May 8th when my beloved cat Snowflake died. She and I had a fourteen-year-long bond, and I now am incredibly grateful for the years we had together. But as I sobbed uncontrollably at the vet’s as she was euthanized, I felt a devastation like no other & wondered if it would ever be worth it to have any other pets if the end would be so excruciatingly painful. I’m thankful for every new day with my other cat, and am sure I will feel similarly whenever he dies; but I know that every moment of pain is worth the deep, rich love.

When it comes to people, lots of various life changes have left me feeling similarly – graduating high school, quitting my first job, living on campus at my college (and having to take some semesters off for health & financial reasons), moving, leaving a church, etc. There was always good that came with these changes, but it didn’t erase or cancel out the bad that came with it. And usually I could see the good as outweighing the bad.

But then the pandemic hit.

There have been a few moments of joy and hope since the beginning of COVID-19, but they have in no way made the pandemic “worth it”. No bright side or silver lining can make up for the deaths of 500,000+ people in the U.S., or 2.5+ million people worldwide. Having a 99% survival rate doesn’t soften the cruel, harsh reality of death; nor does it make the long-haulers magically get better. And yet, in the U.S., the reason it’s as bad as it is is because of the apathy and irresponsibility of so many people. Many of these people will show a lot of vitriol to anyone who gives or receives an abortion, but don’t care about people dying from COVID.

I have missed people so badly. I’m far from alone in that, of course. I would love to be able to be with people physically, hug them, and not have to think about wearing a mask or practicing social distancing.

But people’s lives are sacred. People’s lives are worth far more than being reckless because “most people survive, COVID’s not a big deal”.

With many people, it feels like I may never be with them in person again; with some it’s possible I’ll never have any sort of contact with them, depending on how things go. It’s a sad reality.

But with some specific people, it hurts knowing that they think the government is “taking away their rights”, and so defiance (going out for things that aren’t necessities, not wearing masks, refusing to socially distance, etc.) is the most moral thing they can do. It hurts because many of these people claim to know and love the same God I do; many of them will proudly say they are pro-life.

But it’s become very evident that my life, and the lives of all vulnerable people, was never actually worth much to these people.

It’s devastating to see that lots of people have chosen American individualism, Trumpism, Christian nationalism, prosperity gospel theology, etc. over people like me. It’s their choice to make, but it’s painful realizing someone isn’t who I thought they were, that they don’t care for me the way they say they do.

All of this just hurts, and I’ve often found myself wondering if loving many of these people was even worth it in the first place.

I’m not sure if or when the pain from these strained or lost relationships will subside. What I do know, though, is that I believe genuine, wholehearted love of others, means that it will at times be costly. And even though I sometimes feel that perhaps my love was wasted, what I believe deep down is that love is a gift. Love is important. Love is soothing, healing, nurturing. And there can always be more love in this world.

I’m sure I’ll still continue to have times where I feel like love was a waste.

But at the end of the day, what I believe is that love is never wasted.