A poem about self-identity, remembering God, and the gifts of the divine that lure us home.
A poem about wondering, about God, about self-identity.
It was the best of Uber rides, it was the worst of Uber rides.
One driver was kind, relational, human. The other — not so much.
The other morning, I had jury duty. Since we’re down to one car, I hopped into an Uber to grumpily head to the courthouse in Newark, NJ. Due to a blessed string of events that have nothing to do with this particular story, I was immediately excused and turned right around to call another Uber.
The Bible is an infuriating, crazy, confusing, beautiful book that’s been misused to abuse people the world over. But there’s so much more than meets the eye in there — including some seriously bad ass, wildish women who don’t give a damn about patriarchal traditions.
I know you’re tired of hearing it. But I’m not here to make you feel all comfy cozy. I’m here to invite you to enter into the discomfort. I’m here to invite you to experience the fullness of your whiteness, because dude: the time is urgent. People are dying.
Even though I was always intrigued by the mystical, I never considered myself a mystic. That seemed a little too…I dunno. Special. Then I realized that being mystical is oh-so Christian.
My first year of seminary destroyed my faith. This is not a bad thing. A destroyed faith is a faith that can be carefully reconstructed, especially if the demolition process is thoughtful and well executed. Such is the case with my seminary experience, though it didn’t feel that way at the time.
The other day I was a guest on a podcast, and the guy interviewing me asked if the church should care about social justice, and if so, why? Luckily, he’d sent me the questions ahead of time, so I was able to answer quickly: I had 18 pages worth of scripture references that I’d just printed off in my hot little hands, just from doing a quick Google search: “justice + the bible.”