to the church that raised me: body

to the church that raised me,

The sermons always started out like this: "Do you know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, who is in you, whom you have received from God." (1 Corinthians 6:19)
The trajectory of the story began like this: you are valuable, you are fearfully and wonderfully made.

The points of the sermon were as following:

1. Dress modestly. (you don't want to cause your brother in Christ to stumble). Your shorts must be approximately mid-thigh, straps three fingers, no bra straps out (because men 'complete the picture'), no cleavage, make sure it's not too tight, find a swim suit that covers everything, no bikinis, swim skirts are better, cover your belly, there are exceptions for prom/formal wear, but make sure it isn't too revealing - but you should probably go to a prom alternative instead.

2. Be pure. No sex before marriage, no kissing, no dating, don't talk to boys, don't look at porn, don't touch your body. (the above things are sin which must be repented from)

3. The body is the flesh- therefore it is deceitful and sinful. Your body will long for things that are unattainable, just say no.

The conclusion of the sermon was this: Your body is a temple of the holy spirit.

I embraced this message wholeheartedly. I followed the modesty rules to a tee. I didn't even talk to boys in high school because I was afraid to sin. I never listened to my body.

These messages have planted shame with deep roots into my mind. It took me years to hear my body, to listen to her voice as she tried to speak lovingly to me. She spoke a lot of messages about what kept me comfortable, when I was hungry, when I was stressed, when I was angry. I suppressed her for so long that I am still learning to hear her and listen kindly.

It is taken me a while to articulate why the messages above were so harmful, as I want to teach my future children to value their bodies. It bothered me because we shamed the girls who wore yoga pants to Church, the ones that had boyfriends and couldn't find a more modest bathing suit. There were so many expectations on women and how they should dress and present themselves. This message that sent the girls if anything were to happen to them, it was their body that was giving consent, not their voice. Rather than teaching our girls about their body, sexual development, how to love themselves and consent, we taught them to never put themselves in any of these positions.


I remember a metaphor that was used to describe what it meant when you had sex before marriage, comparing someone to velcro that loses it's stick. But there would be forgiveness and God would clean your spirit if you repented.

I remember the pastor telling the wives that they should wear makeup to please their husbands.

I remember my youth leader tucking in my bra strap.

I remember the adults asking "what was she wearing?"

I believe that our bodies are not deceitful. I believe that we must learn to listen to our bodies, to be kind to them. If we tell our girls that their body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, can we not learn to teach them as such? To love their bodies, to value them, to listen to them, that there is no part of them that is sin.

When she speaks to me by increasing my heart rate, I learn to listen and slow down.
When she tells me "you're tired," I stay on the couch for the night and I go to bed.
When she is feeling insecure, I pull out my yoga mat and remind her how strong she is.
When she is anxious and she tries to care for others to overcompensate, I ask her what is wrong.
When I wash my face, I try to be gentle, rather than scrubbing the pimples away.
When she feels a hatred for her figure, I look at her and call her beautiful.
When her thighs rub together, I look at my thigh tattoo and admire the canvas that holds my favorite piece of artwork.

Can we learn to love our bodies rather than hate them from the beginning?
In a culture that is filled with messages that we are not enough, can we make the Church a place that reminds us of our value rather than being another painful voice that we are not enough?
Church, we must not make timid women, we must create fierce warriors.

love, a woman with a body

to the church that raised me - on racism

To the Church that raised me,

Today, I joined a peaceful protest in my city. I know it was a small scale of what is happening in the large cities around America, but it was empowering. To see people support one another and stand by the pain of the Black community was beautiful.

My plea starts here. I wanted to hear your voices for the death of George Floyd, for Amaud Arbery, for Breonna Taylor, for the countless names that were silenced because of the color of their skin. I went to my social media, longing to see you share something, anything. But I only saw millennials who are sick and tired of this bullshit. So I sought your pages out. I thought maybe your content just wasn't popping up on my feed. Instead of outrage, I saw justification. I saw blame shifting - this can't be racism. I'm not racist, you said. My heart ached.

See, you raised me to love those around me. You taught me to listen closely to the voices of everyone. You said we are all equal, black, Asian, Native American, we shouldn't see color, we are all the same.  And yet, I looked back and realized there were few black people in our Church. I looked back and saw that we traveled to other places to commune with other cultures, but never did it happen within our walls. I realized your silence on this matter spoke louder than words.

I remember you taught us to respect the Native American tribe that we went to have missions trips -- but the goal was to share our beliefs, our worldview. I remember you boasted about the inner city kids you brought into the Church for AWANA programs. I didn't see the discrepancy with this at first. I didn't see the submerged privilege in these actions.

Recently, I have begun to do the work of identifying my white privilege, my submerged racist tendencies. I have learned that being non-racist isn't enough, we must be anti-racist (Angela Davis). I am nowhere near done and have so far to come being a young white American woman. I have begun to read resources that aren't by white people, but by those of color. I have started to ask questions of my friends of different races. This is only the beginning.

So today, I went to a Black Lives Matter protest for George Floyd. And it was there that I knew Jesus was. Somehow I think we lost him in the walls of our Churches that are built to keep people in and out. So, when you see my posts about going to this protest, I hope you don't look at me and think "she's gone off the deep end." I hope you take time to see how Jesus is here, in the protesting, in the riots, in the voices that shout black lives matter.

As a young Christian millennial, I implore you to do the work of undoing racism. I want to hear you admit to your white privilege, I want to know that you are working your hardest to undo racism in your own life. I want to know that you are actively fighting for our black brothers and sisters who have been oppressed for so long. Jesus is in the work of justice and mercy (Micah 6:8), let's find him here.

Yes, I am a millennial. Please don't write our voices off. The world is too loud and the evangelicals are even louder. This isn't just a phase. The millennials were teenagers once, but now we are adults, who have gone to college, seen a lot of things, learned a lot from people who were different than us. Our voices have meaning. Please hear us out.

From,

A millennial who is unlearning, seeking and finding and desperately wants justice.

learning

On my first cross-cultural trip as an adult that wasn't directly for the intention of missions, I learned a lot. I stepped foot in a Church that looked a whole lot like an American Church and I was angry. I met "short term missionaries" attempting to help long term missionaries. I watched them for the week, knowing that their savior mentality was something I had certainly fallen into before. One time, I was with my Romanian friend who I had been staying with. The white short term "missionary" was handing out Chapstick to the children of the village. My friend asked if she could have one as well. This white woman looked at my Romanian friend and had the audacity to 'teach' her how to put Chapstick on. My friend looked at me and rolled her eyes, nodded at the woman and took the Chapstick.

This story has stuck with me for the past several years. There was something that turned me off about this couple. However, instead of being angry, I asked a lot of questions to the Romanians there. I asked what it was like to have this couple come annually. Was it helpful? Or was is it a burden? I watched as my Romanian friends payed for meal after meal for this couple. I watched them complain about the living conditions (God forbid, they didn't have air conditioning in their room). They complained about the food made for them by the hands of the Romanians in kindness. I watched them talk about the Romanians as though they were less then. "These poor children," she would say, "they barely know English. They don't know what Chapstick is."

I was angry. And since that trip, I've been trying to figure out why I was so angry. What was it about this couple that was just so infuriating? I had done the very same thing in other countries, on other trips. I was ashamed to be attached to this mentality.

Recently, I've followed a lot of black activists on social media, I've been reading books by people of other cultures, I've been listening to things that aren't informed by a evangelical viewpoint. And my God, I have been learning so much.

I have immersed myself into a worldview that is different from my own. I am unlearning the harmful ideas that I grew up with. I am learning about the resiliency of people, the way people rise and survive. I am learning about privilege and the harm of the systems.

As I've been learning, I realized why this couple made me so angry. They came from an American Christian system that praises you for taking an annual pilgrimage to another country to serve. They came from a country that told them they are better because of the shade of their skin and the amount of money that they have.

I am less angry now and I am sad for them. There was so much they could have learned from the Romanians. They thought they were bringing Jesus, rather than seeing Jesus who is already there, in those people, in that culture. I met Jesus that week in a new way. I met him in the gentleness of the Romanian missionaries who took in the teenagers from the village and gave them a safe place to call home. I met him in the girl who didn't like me because she was wary of these Christian missionaries who came and took, rather than learn. The way she cared for the children was gentle and relentless. I met Jesus in the elderly couple who owned the Church down the street and sat and watched as the children played in their yard.

One day I hope to return to these countries where I tried to teach rather than to learn. I hope to return to India and ask more questions rather than share my own story so many times. I hope to go back to Nicaragua and see the beauty of children being raised by a village rather than think they would be better off with me in America. I hope to go back to Romania and ask a lot of questions, not just about missionaries, but about their culture.

Let us be gentle in learning before we try to Americanize a culture for the sake of the Gospel. Rather than pushing our culture on theirs, let us slow down enough to see how Jesus is already there, in these beautiful cultures and beautiful people.

Easter for the doubter

we met at the well

i go there everyday at noon when all of the women are in their homes
if i could be invisible, I would.
you were standing there at the well
it was strange because it was midday
and the men don't congregate there, its a woman's place.
i tucked my head down low and a walked forward
i didn't expect to hear you say
Give me a drink

and here you are,
the man who changed my life.
The only person who looked past my lies and my shame
and called me by my name.
There was no judgement,

there was no shame.

Yet here you are, hanging on the tree.
As tears stream down my face, I wonder if this was a lie.
My life has changed, I gave up everything and to follow you.
Was it too good to be true?

You are the Christ,
at least that is what You told me at the well.
You are the living water,
I have not been thirsty since I met You.
And now, I am quenched.
Thirsty for the truth,
doubts swirling like a hurricane
Pain wrecking my heart
I cannot breathe,
someone please give me a drink.

I've heard the story of Peter walking on water.
Faith bubbled in my heart as Peter shared that story,
his heart alive like mine was the day You said my name.
But now, just like Peter, I'm drowning
but I'm looking right at You.

Every promise you made,
I hung on every word.
Every word you said,
I buried deep within my heart. 

The women are here,
I'm at the foot of Golgotha.
We stand and weep
We know not what to think
We know not what to believe

As the sky breaks open,
I didn't expect you to breathe the words
Give me a drink
Sorrow rages within me
these are the first words you said to me,
what I would give to be at that well again with You.

I have never heard such deafening silence
as the crowd of people stood unmoving
unbelieving that the Son of God has breathed his last
This man, who claimed to be my Savior, has died.
Where do I go from here?

One of the most powerful things about the cross is the silence that comes between Friday and Sunday. Between those days, Jesus' most devoted followers were wrecked with doubt, fear and pain. Everything they believed to be truth was turned upside down, killed and buried with Jesus. What did they do for those three days? What did they talk about? Were they ashamed? Were they angry? As Christians, I don't think we spend enough time between Friday and Sunday. We mourn the loss of Jesus on Friday and on Sunday we are amazed and singing worship songs. But what about Saturday? What about those long, brutal days where Jesus' followers did not have a rock to stand on anymore? When they had no hope? When everything they believed to be truth had been obliterated?

There is a sacredness to Saturday we forget. A heaviness we ignore, we are terrified of. I believe that there are more people who are feeling the pain of Saturday on Sunday morning. Some people who cannot believe that the Ressurection takes away the pain that quickly. Mourning must happen. Jesus was not who they expected.

Friends, Saturday teaches us the importance of doubt. Of holding questions close. Jesus waited two whole days before he rose again because He is not afraid of questions. He is not afraid of doubt. He is not afraid to be the unexpected. If it's Sunday and you are still questioning, it is okay. If you cannot sing the worship songs because it just doesn't make sense to you, it is okay. If you are kinda glad they cancelled Easter because you aren't sure if you could enter the Church with all the happy people, it is okay. Jesus makes space for the doubters. 

There is space for us here.

finding healing within a plague

The world is loud right now.
There are so many messages,
so many rules,
Do this, they say.
Don't do that, they advise.

Amidst it all,
I've been drowning.
Going under
beneath the waves of heaviness,
of confusion,
of wanting to take it all away.

And the voices get even louder from the Church,
Come to our service online!
Don't stop meeting together!
People are throwing Bible verses around like candy
desperately trying to find an answer for this plague.

I think one thing we all have in common is this:
anxiety.
The plague finds us all back in our deepest trauma memories
and here we stand,
fighting the memories off,
fighting the fear off, trying to displace these feelings.
Running.

You and I,
we feel the same thing.
What if instead of sharing numbers and stats and hypothetical scenarios,
we shared our hearts with one another?
What if instead of judging those who went to the grocery store 7 times last week
or to buy plants for their garden
or to hike with a friend
we held one another up,
we praised them for keeping a schedule rather than staying in their bed,
we supported them for finding something new to love when the job they love has been taken away.

This plague will look different for everyone.
One of my friend lives in Bolivia and hasn't left her home in 3 weeks and is running out of food.
Another has built a garden and bakes bread every day.
Another signed up for a class and is fighting off the memories of depression.

The question I have been wrestling with for the past several weeks is this:
Can we sacrifice our physical health for our mental health?
Does one come before the other?
Or is it possible to find healing in even this?

the God you fell in love with is truly good

I was wide awake at 4:41 this morning. I begged my body to go back to sleep, but something was stirring. As I showered at got ready at 5:20, I realized how much I missed mornings. The quiet when the rest of the world is sleeping, the peace that comes when my heart is not yet throbbing with the heaviness of the day. When I began to ponder this peace and this strange stirring in my heart for the morning, I realized how much I miss Jesus too. I have been a whirlwind, a storm, and a hurricane. Glimpses of the sun have been rare, far and few between.

I have been trying to conquer the world, save the lives of everyone around me, deciphering the difference between boundaries and walls, navigating the anatomy of the human heart and just trying to make sense of the world. I don't know what it was supposed to be like, but I know it is not this.

The world has been so loud and His voice has been so quiet. My questions are bigger than ever before. Vulnerability has a way of cracking open anger and bitterness in a way I never thought possible. A tornado tangles my own memories with all the pain I have ever seen in the world. I have a hard time separating truth from lie. My questions have become demanding, rather than reflective. Why was my little friend in Nicaragua living in trash? Why did they tell me to not sit in the trash with her? Why did I come back to America after I gave my heart and soul to little children who didn't speak my language or know my Jesus again and again? Why did I feel the heart of God so fervently in India and I can no longer see him in my own country? Every damn time I pass a homeless person, I am infuriated at the system and how I play a part in it. Someone told me recently that the people I offer services to at my job steal money from my paycheck. How can their hearts be so cold to those who are less fortunate? How can God allow the oppression of suicidal spirits to plague our nation, let alone my close friends?

There was a time when I was okay with not having an answer for these questions. There was a time when a gentle man of God told me to set my questions on a shelf until Jesus himself came and tore down my shelf. But my shelf is full, my heart heavy from constantly carrying the questions. I know I join an army of Christians who carry these and can no longer accept the status quo. Church, what am I missing? This body I am a part of has been an organism, living and breathing for thousands of years, alive with the heart of God at its center since its beginning. I cannot turn my face because the evidence is so real. I cannot ignore the legacy of the Church, with all of its flaws and all of its beauty. But I do need to reconcile the way in which this Body has been a part of the pain of the world while still having Jesus at its center.

A friend encouraged me a few weeks ago and told me this: "Remember that the God you fell in love with is truly good, but is so different from what we've been taught. You'll realize this God we believe in cannot be contained that we have created for Him. It's so much more." I cling to this because I know that this Jesus that gave life to the dead, belonging to the forgotten, Family to the lonely, and changed my life from the inside out is still the same Jesus. Even though doubt pulses like blood through my veins, it is for those children who do not speak my language in other countries that keeps my faith alive. It is for all of these people that ignites my smoldering wick. It is how the heart of God still pulses through my veins just like the doubt. And this is what keeps me holding on.

unraveled

"When I know I've lost me,

will you come to find me?

Will you reintroduce me to your love?

Can you find all my pieces?

Can you put me back together?

They say you're the defender of my heart,

is it better this way?"

He hears my rewrite of the popular song. One I have sung over and over again, confidently. 

He hears my beating heart, throbbing with fear. If there is one thing I still know, it is this: 

He hears me, He knows me and He is still writing my story.

When I was little, my grandma always taught me not to pull on the loose strings of my clothes. I can hear her voice now, telling me how quickly it will unravel. She would remind me to be gentle with my tights as I pulled them onto my legs, "Careful, or they will tear." I always had tears in my leggings growing up, I was playful and reckless.

I didn't know the same would go for faith. 

As curious as I am, there was a loose string. I kept tugging at it, mesmerized at the way it all unraveled before me. Shocked at how quickly it came apart, wasn't it rooted on solid ground? And now, here I am, sitting on the floor, surrounded by the loose threads of my faith, wondering if beauty can be made from even this. Here I am, pleading with someone to answer: is this a good thing or not?

I told a friend about my unraveled tapestry.

She said, "Leah, if it helps - this makes sense. Mid-twenties, graduating college, trauma and a personality adamantly against ambiguity. It was bound to happen." 

This is one of the scariest places I have ever stood. It is also one of the most beautiful. It is a view from the mountain I have never seen before. I am grateful for the support I have found here. I am grateful for the stories I have heard here. It feels like a valley, but the view is wonderful. I am not afraid, because I know Jesus is here. Slowly, He is stripping away the parts of my theology that were far from him. 

I cannot be silent in this place.

It would be simply unfair of me to only post my revelations. 

I must invite you into my journey because I know I am not alone. 

I know that there are others who are deeper in this journey than me.

I have given Jesus my unraveled tapestry. I don't know how long it will take, but I hope the end result is more beautiful than I can imagine. I hope the same for you.