Encouraged by donkeys
For almost 40 years they have done their plodding, gracious work on me and my vocation.
For almost 40 years they have done their plodding, gracious work on me and my vocation.
I grew up in the era of evangelistic T-shirts. I was too shy to wear any myself, but I had friends who did. “WWJD?” “Cross-trained.” “Made to worship.” “Be still and know.”
One of the T-shirt slogans I saw often was “Jesus is the answer.” Kids would sport the slogan in bright, colorful letters, hoping to strike up conversation with peers who weren’t Christians. Their faith was earnest, and I respected it. But every time I read the words “Jesus is the answer,” I wanted to ask, “What’s the question?” What question is Jesus the answer to?
The summer seminar promised the kind of elite educational experience top high school students covet. Set on a leafy Ivy League campus, Anti-Oppressive Studies was tailor-made for those who prefer their education privileged and progressive. The professor was as impressive as the students. Educated at Princeton and Berkeley with street cred as a veteran activist and organizer, African American theologian Vincent Lloyd seemed perfectly matched to the occasion.
It is surely a no-brainer that women and girls should be protected from violence and exploitation. Across the world, women and girls are disproportionately affected by issues of sexual exploitation, poor living conditions, and lack of educational opportunities. Meanwhile, online misogyny adds new lines to the old story of hatred of women. Every woman I know has been sexually harassed; many of us have been assaulted and much worse. For all the opportunities that exist for women and girls in the US and UK, systemic issues regarding our safety remain.
Maybe immortality is about more than not being dead.
The birthday candle on my cupcake was flickering brightly. The traditional birthday song had been sung, as well as the Stevie Wonder version, and all I needed to do was to make that critical birthday wish and blow out the candle.
When we bear witness to someone’s baptism, we’re called to remember our own. When I remember mine, I think of my grandfather, mi abuelo, who baptized me.
I was young, a preteen. Papi was a deacon at his church, part of the Vineyard movement in Southern California. He stood in the water, at the shallow end of a swimming pool. As I stepped in, he offered me his hand and I took it, wrapping my arms around his arm. Then he dunked me, saying, “En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo, y del Espiritu Santo.” He baptized me into the people of God, his God becoming my God.