In Which This Too is a Form of Worship

Photo credit: Ralph Cann 2011

I love the church.  I do.  I love the coming together of the body.  The sense of belonging.  The common purpose.  The intertwining of  generations, and cultures, and journeys of life.  I am at home in church.  It is my lifeblood.  I soak in the teaching of the Word.  I place such value on corporate worship.

Or, at least I use to. 

For the past few months anxiety and bitterness having been sharing my pew. Some weeks, it takes all the energy I can muster to sit through a service.  I am angry.  I am doubting.  I am weary.  I cannot bring my lips to sing words my heart does believe.  In silent rebellion, I remain wide-eyed and bitter, projecting nothing but anger.

Don’t get me wrong, I still love my church.  I still love my God.  I just don’t really want to talk to them right now.  I have become a spectator.  This cold heart does not wish to engage.   Do not ask me to lift my hands in worship.  I can barely lift my body out of this pew.

So on this Sunday morning I am sitting on my couch, staring at my computer.  Typing out truths in black and white.  I cannot sing God praises, but I can wrestle with Him.  I am asking Him the hard questions.  The ones they don’t tell you the answers to in Sunday school class.  There is no neatly presented lesson plan, complete with flannelgraph. There are no easy remedies. No pre-packaged responses that remove this animosity.   

But there is truth here.  There is a subtle bravery in this working out through poetry and prose, with fear and trembling.

There is faith in a Saviour who is not alarmed at my anger, who is neither daunted nor deterred by my doubts.  I am leaning into vulnerable.

And it's okay.  Because my faith life isn't a straight trajectory from the day of my salvation till now.  It loops, and bends, and winds.  Sometimes it meanders along and other times it goes at breakneck speed. And right now I'm just trying to figure out how to work the gear shift.

I'm starting to come to the realization that maybe I don't connect with God through music.  I don't feel Him in the bassline, or hear Him in the hymns.  Not that He's not there, He's just not choosing to commune with this daughter in that fashion.  It's not that this heart doesn't want to engage, just that it is created to connect through other means.  Maybe for me, I worship with words, and I praise through prose.  The scratching of pen against paper sounds as beautiful to my ears, to God's ears, as does the grandest orchestra.

I've tried my whole life to force it, to worship the way that we celebrate worship. (And for the record: I've failed miserably at every instrument I've picked up. I'm in excellent singer in my shower, but absolutely nowhere else.)  I've desperately sought to find joy in the chorus, to discover grace in the notes, and sometimes I do.  Sometimes it is genuine, but if I'm honest, most times it's contrived.

This here, with pen and paper and words on my heart, this is how I connect with God.  The bitterness and anger come when I try to confirm the person God has created me to be, into the image of someone else.  The anxiety and disconnect results from denying the process through with I express my exaltations and try to emulate the manner in which others profess their praise.   I am giving myself permission to place as much value on what happens on the page as I give to what happens in the pews on a Sunday morning.  And that has been the most freeing decision of my life.  When I stop trying to white-knuckle joy into existence, when I breathe in the freedom of being who God made me to be, with all these words burning at the tips of my fingers, I find that worship comes easily, because I'm already doing it.

So for today, this couch is my pew.  This electric hum and clatter-clap-tap typing of fingers: my hymns.  I have coffee and croissants, but this is communion.  This is holy.  This is the throne of God.  And it is not pretty or put together.  It is messy, and broken, and sometimes it gets ugly.  It is poured out and laid bare at the feet of a God who I don't pretend to understand, and only sometimes like.  It is real.

And this too, is a form of worship.   

WWJB: What Would Jesus Blog? [A Response]

On Friday, Christianity Today asked the question “What would Jesus Blog?”  In the article, Lisa Velthouse outlined the issue of bloggers and pastors vying for headlines by attacking controversial or conflict-laden topics.  Her message was clear: “Controversy is not a Christian virtue” and Jesus didn’t come to make headlines. Here is my response:

I’m not a big fan of response articles.  I don’t like the grovelling for page views by using the name of a big and mighty blogger or author or pastor, that often accompany the responses.  I don’t write or read many of these posts for the exact reasons that Lisa outlined.   Enough with the controversy, we need a bit more unity.   Just to be clear, when I read what Lisa had to say, I was standing on my chair, applauding.  And I’m writing this, not because I want to tear down and dissect what Lisa wrote, but because I think her words are a necessary part of this conversation.  But might I be so bold as to add, that I think these words here, these words that won’t reach many ears, these words too, are necessary to the conversation.

So what would Jesus do if He had a blog?  What would He choose to write about?

I think Jesus would call Bulls**t.  I think Jesus would call us on our sexism and our ableism, our homophobia, our racism.  Jesus would look us straight in the eye and talk to us about our privilege.  Jesus would make us acknowledge that privilege, wrestle it to the ground and then do something about it.  I know this, because He did this.  

When Jesus walked this earth, He threw culture on its head.  More significantly, He threw religious culture on its head.  He rebuked the Pharisees.  He was friends with prostitutes and tax collectors.  He hung out with the literal and figurative lepers of society.  If Jesus was in your town, or my town today, I think you’d find him chillin’ at a gay bar, or at a soup kitchen, or a methadone clinic, or in the outpatients lobby of the mental health hospital, or maybe having tea at your kitchen table.   

And while we’re at it, I think kitchen tables are much better suited for wrestling with the hard topics.  Let’s sit face to face, shoulder to shoulder, not just screen to screen, and LISTEN.  I don’t have all the knowledge. I don’t have all the answers.  Neither do you.   If we take a moment to stop debating and convincing, we might learn from each other.   

Most of the conversations should be happening at tables over tea.   But then there are times when we need to call each other out (in love, humility, and respect). Occasionally that happens in the more public sphere of the online world.  [And maybe we need to have a discussion about the parameters within which public discourse is necessary, and how to conduct ourselves in such situations.  That’s a topic for another time.  But I think a good place to start, is to consider if our words build up, or tear down the Body of Christ.]

Sometimes it is about headlines, but most times it’s about connecting.  It’s about caring so much for the Body of Christ that we want to engage with her.  We will not sit idly by when we believe the words of others are tearing down our sisters and brothers.  And that is necessary.  That is good.  Neither side, the Christian progressives, nor the conservatives, have a monopoly on morality.  The position of neutrality is an option afforded to us by our privilege.  This is not the glorification of controversy.  This is rejoicing in the freedom to disagree with each other, to join with each other, to wrestle with it all the way to the foot of the cross.   To work it out with fear and trembling.

The Jesus I’ve encountered makes room for that.  He rejoices in those who care so much about His Word and His people that they will come to the top of the mountain and refuse to move until they have encountered Him.  They will seek answers.  They will seek justice. 

But the Jesus I know doesn’t stop there.  The Jesus I know tells stories. He connects with his people through stories.  He talks about lost sheep, and mustard seeds, and prodigals.  He knows our need for community.  How sometimes the doctrine, and hermeneutics, and grappling with theology are too much for our hurt.  Forget about being for us, we just want someone who is with us.  We don’t need someone on cheering for us from the sidelines.  We need someone with us, holding our hand, helping us take the next step. 

This little sphere of the internet that I call home is still being built.  I’m still trying to figure out the layout of my house: do I want oak or maple cabinets?  Where will we put the reading nook? Will we sit around the fireplace on oversized chesterfields, detailing our delights and drawing roadmaps through our regrets?  Or will we huddle around tables drinking tea and talking doctrine.   Or maybe, in this house, there will be room for both.

So, welcome.  Come on in.  Pull up a chair, doesn’t matter which one, whatever looks most comfortable.  Because in this house there will be days when we are tackling theology and confronting culture.  And then there will be days when we are stitching the fraying fabric of our hearts into the tapestry of humanity.

Maybe it’s the social worker in me, or the feminist in me.  Or maybe it’s the Jesus in me, but I think the personal is political.  The personal is spiritual.  The personal is theological.  And sometimes, the personal is controversial.   I don’t think Jesus would shy away from that.   I am doing my best to follow His example.

What Leigha Likes -March 2013

Leigha likes a lot of things in life.  (One of those things is alliteration.)  

This in the first in a monthly feature where I share some of my favourite things over the past month.  

Here some of the highlights from March:

Letters to the Wounded -Ann Voskamp

Ann Voskamp has a way of writing that reaches right into the very parts of my soul that I didn’t even know were longing to be touched.   May I no longer cover my wounds in disgrace, may I neither wear them as a badge of merit.  May I simply acknowledge, without shame, their existence.  Their evidence of a redeeming Saviour. 

Shadow of a Doubt -Seth Haines

“Do I really know Jesus? I mean really? Mostly, I feel like I’m groping in the dark for him, like all I want is to touch the hem of the garment and be made wholly alive. But do I know him? I don’t think it’s as easy to answer as all of that”

How Sesame Street is Undermining Biblical Values -Matt Mikalatos

(okay so this one was posted in February, but I read it in March, and I'm a sucker for satire, so it makes the list)

 *This is a response to a post by Owen Strachan regarding gender confusion in Sesame Street

"While I sympathize with Strachan's concern that boys might grow up to be nurturing fathers, both he and Sesame Street are missing the point. The fact is, Baby Bear should not be playing with baby dolls. He is a bear...[and] the Bible is very clear on the role of bears in human relationships." 

In Which Art is Like Manna - Sarah Bessey

In the days leading up to Leigha May speak going live, after I had told my closest friends and family members, I wanted to take it all back.  I had spiral note books filled with thoughts and ideas and beliefs that I felt completed to share.  But what if no one reads it? Or even scarier, what if people actually read it?  What if I put all my good stories and metaphors on the internet and then I run out things to say? What then?  And then this little post showed up in my feed from Sarah Bessey that quieted my soul and gave me the boldness I needed in spite of my fears.

This soul my mine needs to be consuming poetry on a regular basis.   This month I've been re-reading The Rise of the Trust Fall by Mindy Nettifee.  I've also been breathing in the words of Carrie Rudzinski, who was at this years Women of the World Poetry Slam (Wowps):  "My God, My God/ I am a stupid, selfish prayer/Your voice has begun to sound like my voice/And I haven't yet learned to silence my own fears."

Anita Sarkeesian of Feminist Frequency, posted a video critiquing the damsel in distress trope in video Games.  Best Line:  “In the game of patriarchy, women aren’t the opposing player, they’re the ball.”  You can also check out my thoughts on the Damsel in Distress and how the church is involved, here.


STORY 101

In April I'll be starting the Story101 eCourse with Elora.   As a result, I've "met" some wonderful women this past month, who also wrestle and worship through words.  Elora wasn't kidding when she said the community would happen instantaneously.  I'm justing getting know these women and all I want to do is put the kettle on and invite them to my kitchen table.

One of these women in Esther Emery. She's doing a series on radical homemaking.  You should check it out.  No, seriously: Check.it.out. (If you're only going to read one-which would be a mistake, read them all- I would suggest this one, on radical homemaking and feminism.)

Holy Week

Check out this video on Confessions on Good Friday:  "It's the only thing left to do."

Holy Week for Doubters - Rachel Held Evans

"And sometimes, just showing up -  burial spices in hand -  is all it takes to witness a miracle"

Digital Holy Week - Brandy Walker

I've been participating in digital holy week every night with a group of wonderful women and it has been wonderful!

In Deafening Silence - Ronne Rock

(Ronne is also from the Story 101 group)  "promises are hard to hear when standing in the brackets"

I've also written two posts for Holy Week,  you can check them out here and here.

Other Things That I Like this Month:  Opening letters that start, "Dear Ms. Cann, Congratulations! This is to confirm receipt of your acceptance of our offer of admission to the MSW program of McGill University."

So what have you all been up to this month?

On Holy Week and Crocuses

The first crocuses of the year made their debut on my front lawn today.  Violet blossoms, still tight in the bud.

I am unashamedly a flower person.  Want to thank me, impress me, persuade me?  Buy me flowers. Plant them in my garden.   And I will almost certainly do your bidding.  Doesn't matter the breed - roses, lilacs, daisies, orchids - I love them all.  Although, I will admit, no one has ever given me a bouquet of crocuses, and I probably wouldn't give my florist much in exchange for a handful of these barely-there-blossoms.   But I can't think of a flower that brings me more excitement and joy.

See, crocuses are how I know Spring is coming.  Even as a child, every year come March, I would go about searching for the subtle patches of colour against the muted brown, or the sharp purples and yellows peering through white snow. Before the tulips and the daffodils, before the green grass and swollen buds of maple trees, before the robins return to build their nests, there are the crocuses.  They are the unobtrusive evidence that this cold and bitter season is almost at a close.  Soon, we will put away our coats, uncover our heads, unwind the scarves from around our necks, and make room for the sun.

Crocuses are such unassuming creatures.  They lay close to the ground, so easily trampled if you are not searching for their presence.  Their lives are short.  Their beauty, fleeting.

But today, they continue their slow work of bloom, of spreading beauty among the still sleeping earth, right outside my front door.  And how fitting that they should make their appearance in the middle of this Holy Week.

The thing to remember about crocuses, is that they do not signify that Spring has arrived, but that it is coming.  In fact, the first few crocuses of the year usually mean that the dark days of Winter still have a blow or two in store for us yet.  That there will be a day not too far away, when we will bury our heads under the covers and shiver at the wind that blows right through.

This is for you, on this Holy Wednesday.  Take solace in the crocuses. There are still dark days ahead. But Aslan is on the move.  And with him comes Spring, comes new life.  Make room for the Son.

In Advance of Holy Saturday: Caught in the in Between

Growing up in an Evangelic church, I've never been quite sure what to do with Holy Week.  I mean, I get Lent (at least as a concept, if not in practice) and the days preceding Easter.  And I understand Good Friday: Our Saviour, crucified. Church. Communion. This is Christ's blood, poured out for us.  Eat fish.

And then there's Easter Sunday: The resurrection. Church. Christ's body, risen from the grave. Throw in some chocolate bunnies and painted eggs for good measure.

But what about the in between?  What about Holy Saturday? Because not even scripture tells us what to do on this day.  The only direction we find is that His followers buried the body of Christ in another man's grave and then observed the Sabbath.  And three of four accounts don't even mention the day at all, they skip straight from burial to resurrection.  One chapter ends and the next begins.

But that's not how it really happened.  There was a whole day.  An entire day when the followers of Jesus didn't know what would happen next.  They had thought the Messiah had come. And now this. They gave everything to follow the Son of Man and now this.  Where was God's purpose for His people in this?  

See, when you read the accounts in the gospels you can turn the page, skip right ahead to the next chapter.  The triumph over the grave.  The victory over death.  But there is a pause in between.  A collective holding of breath.  A poignant, painful pause.

How many of us find ourselves in this space?  Caught in the in between.  We were so full of hope, only to have it pulled out from beneath us.  We gave it our all.   And we are left broken and empty.  God.  You promised.  We thought this was it.

And we don't yet know that Sunday's coming.

We don't yet know that God will redeem even this.

Holy Saturday is for us.  For those of us forced to sit in the stillness.  Holy Saturday is for us who are grieving.  Who feel abandoned.  For the ones buried in other people's graves.  For those of us who haven't yet seen an empty tomb.  Who have had the rock rolled into place and it. will. not. move.

In our anticipation of redemption, we fail to acknowledge the holy weight of this day.  We are too eager to rush ahead to the triumph of the resurrection.  But this matters, too.  This observing of the Sabbath.  This learning of stillness.

And it hurts.

And I want to press fast forward.

Skip ahead to the happy ending.

But Lord, teach me to sit in the stillness.  May I mourn with those who mourn.  Add my tears to their grief.  Teach me the act of waiting.  May I acknowledge my own powerlessness and trust in Your sovereignty, even when I find no purpose in the pain.  May I find peace in the in between.

Damsel in Distress

St. George and the Dragon - Paolo Uccello (Wiki Commons)

As a child, I was the only girl in our neighbourhood.  I often wanted to play with my brother and the other neighbourhood boys.   On the occasions when the “NO GIRLS ALLOWED” sign on the tree house was removed, we’d play our imaginary games based on our favourite stories or TV shows.  Some days we would play Mario Brothers, and I would be Princess Peach.  Or we would play Spiderman, and I would be Mary Jane.   Other times we played Star Wars and, you guessed it, I was Princess Leia. (Now to be fair, this one was kind of a given. I, Leigha, played the role Leia, and my brother, Lucas, was Luke Skywalker  - if you have any issues with that, you can take it up with our parents.)  But my roles in our childhood re-enactments got pretty boring.  I just kind of sat around, waiting for one of the boys to rescue me from some invented disaster.   The damsel in distress. 

The summer before I turned 9, my parents packed up their children, Leia and Luke, I mean, Leigha and Lucas, and took us to Prince Edward Island for a family vacation.   One laidback island afternoon, we wandered into a farmers market where they were putting on a play for the children.   In the skit, there was a beautiful maiden who was trying to go about her day and live her life, but she kept getting interrupted by these knights in shining armour, who would ride in on their white horse to rescue her.  And she’d shake her head, annoyed, point to her frock, and say, “No, no, no.  You’ve got it all wrong! I’m a Damsel in THIS DRESS, not a Damsel in DISTRESS!”

But that is what we have done.  We have created a society where it is hard for us to imagine a world where the woman plays any role other than helpless victim, in need of saving.  That might seem a little severe, but just consider some of our most popular films and television shows:

• The Princess Bride 
• Cinderella, Rapunzel, Snow White, Sleeping Beauty (or any other princess movie, really)
•  The vast majority of romantic comedies, or chick-flicks (looking at you Nicholas Sparks and your pretty white women who need rescuing by pretty white men)
•  Taken
• Pirates of the Caribbean 
•  All James Bond films
• Indiana Jones franchise
• Most other action films
• Lois Lane to Clark Kent’s Superman
• Olive Oyl (Popeye)

The list could go on….

*I’d like to point out that just because there is sexist media doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy it.  It’s about recognizing the sexism when we see it, and being critical consumers. 

We are robbing ourselves (men and women, boys and girls) of so many wonderful, courageous stories where women are the protagonists.  Screenwriter Joss Whedon summarized it quite well when he was asked by a reported why he kept writing strong females characters.  Whedon's response: “Because you keep asking me that question.”  It seems we have a problem imagining women in positions of power, and we have effectively silenced them and their contributions.  And Christian culture is far from exempt.  

Consider Mark Burnett’s “The Bible.”  The second instalment in the 10 part series on the History Channel, featured the story of Jericho.   See, in addition to God, I always though Rahab was the hero of this story.   But in Mark Burnett’s version, Rahab’s status as (s)hero is removed and she is made a passive participant, spared by God for complying with the spies request to harbour them.  Elizabeth Esther had similar complaints, taking to twitter to voice her displeasure:

Really disagree w. portrayal of Rahab in #thebible on @history tonight. She initiated helping spies, wasn't threatened at knife point.
— Elizabeth Esther (@elizabethesther) March 11, 2013

God chose to give Rahab a prominent role to play in defeat of Jericho. #thebible on @history chose to diminish her role!
— Elizabeth Esther (@elizabethesther) March 11, 2013

HAVE YOU READ THIS STORY?  This woman is amazing, she defied her culture to follow God.   She told the spies how to avoid capture.  She rescued the national of Israel! She was one of only five recorded women in the lineage of Christ. 

And then there is Ruth.  Like Rahab, Ruth is also in the lineage of Christ.  If you’re a young woman who has grown up in evangelical culture, you’ve no doubt been encouraged to follow Ruth’s example and wait for your Boaz.  In fact, you’ve probably heard girls announce, “I’m just waiting for my Boaz.”   Wait is such passive language.  Go back and reread the story.  Ruth is anything but passive.  Ruth is assertive.  She’s one powerhouse of a human being.  And while we’re at it, let us take a moment to consider if we really want our daughters and sisters to wait until a man is drunk, lay at his feet, and convince him he slept with her and must therefore fulfill his moral obligation by marrying her.   Maybe we need to rethink that one.  Don’t get me wrong.  There are many characteristics of Ruth that are worth emulating.  But let's not boil it all down to her ability to get herself a man.

Christian author, Karen Kingsbury, further perpetuates this silencing of women is her children’s book “The Princess and the Three Knights”.  In the story, there is a King who has a daughter.  A beautiful daughter, who is kind, and good, and gentle hearted.  Like any good father who loves his daughter, he doesn’t want the princess to marry just anyone.  So the King decides to hold a competition for three knights to see who is worthy of his daughter.  The knight who is the strongest, the most courageous, who has the kindest heart will win her hand in marriage.  The Princess is a prize to be won.    The most shocking thing is that the Princess doesn’t even speak in the story.  She utters not one word.   Forget passive participant, she is hardly even present.  She has been reduced to a trophy to be awarded to the best contender, an object.

These narratives remove a woman’s agency and her right to self determination.  They deny women the ability to be the protagonists in their own dramas.

That’s why stories about girls like The Paperbag Princess, Merida of Disney’s Brave, Anne Shirley, and Susan and Lucy, are so important.  To show our boys that their sisters and female peers can have exciting adventures too.  To show our girls that they are capable of great things.  It’s why we need to hear the stories of the Bible heroines, of Miriam, and Deborah, and Esther.  Of Junia, and Pricilla, and Tabitha.  We need to hear them preached from the pulpit.  And we need to hear them in a woman’s voice.  For goodness sake, the first person to preach the message of the resurrection was a woman!   Let’s teach our girls and women that we have skills and giftings to contribute to the kingdom, that we are not just passive princesses, or damsels in distress waiting to be rescued.  

Because the fact is, I already have a Saviour, I’m not looking for another.

To be clear, the story of rescue is not, in and of itself, harmful.  Humanity is in distress.  We, as a creation, have messed up.  We are a fallen creation in desperate need of a Saviour.  A God who is mighty to save.   And that has nothing to do with gender roles.

*Coincidence:   While I was writing this post, Anita Sarkeesian of “Feminist Frequency” posted a video critiquing the damsel in distress trope in video games.  It's worth checking out.