Tag Archives: Feminist theology

No authority is higher than your own holy heart.

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Arrow tattoo on woman's wrist showing true north

Have you ever tried really hard to believe something that you knew in your heart wasn’t true? I’ve been trying to make myself believe a very important untrue thing for most of my life. I didn’t know I was doing it. I just felt wonky and off, a feeling I ignored for decades. I felt unaligned, and I thought all I needed to do was try harder to believe this thing that, deep down inside, I knew was untrue. Everyone around me believed it, or at least they said they did, so it must be true.
 
I thought the fault was in me, not the untrue thing.
 
I’ve known since I was a little girl that much of what I was hearing about God from church and family and culture just wasn’t true. Experience upon experience upon experience didn’t line up with what the people around me said about “God.” I thought that the remedy was to discount my experience of holiness, and cut off the parts of me that didn’t fit into the “God” box.
 
I’ve had this backwards all along. I want so passionately to articulate the importance of this shift that I’m struggling to find the words. Your experience of the sacred is the starting point for the stories and myths and theologies, the symbols and metaphors, that attempt to contain the sacred. If your heart-felt experiences of “God” don’t fit the theology your head is striving to believe, it’s the theology that’s wrong, not your experiences.
 
Sisters, we will never fit into the myth of monotheism—one God for everyone, invented by Abraham thousands of years ago, the source of so much suffering in the world today. We will never find a home for ourselves in worship of a disembodied, unearthly, solitary Father God. We will never be lovable and whole in a theology constructed to shelter a male, celibate, lone ranger lawgiver and arbiter of holiness. Men have a hard enough time, but women? Women will never measure up. (I imagine that queer folk struggle even more.)  
 
If “God” is ethereal, heavenly, and orderly, what do I do with my embodied, earthy, messy experiences of Holiness? What do I do with sacred dreams, making love and birthing babies, deep grief and soaring joy?
 
We swim in monotheism like fish in water. We don’t even notice it anymore, it’s such an assumed fabric of our lives. I see now that even as I scrape off and root out the patriarchal Father “God” from my being, I’ve been subconsciously searching for another monotheistic “God” to take His place. I’ve been disbelieving in that “God,” not understanding that I have gotten the cart before the horse. I’ve been searching for a pre-existing myth into which I can fit.  
 
What I need to be doing is to make my experiences, beliefs, and values primary before finding, or creating, a myth that fits ME.
 
I cannot overstate the importance of this shift.
 
The three pillars of my mending ministry (aka “coaching”) are remembering who you are, reclaiming your authority, and recommitting to your priorities.
 
To reclaim my authority, I now see, means to honor my experiences of holiness. I am NOT limited to what others have already created. I must take seriously the values and beliefs that grow out of my experience – of embodiment as an Earthling, of friendship, of love and sex and marriage and motherhood and aging, of words and images, and more – and weave them into a theological garment that fits ME.
 
I can give up this exhausting search through the already-created for an existing temple I can tolerate. I can create a structure into which I fit as a flesh and blood woman on this beautiful earth. I can build a shelter for myself and maybe for you, too.
 
Any theology you now inhabit was made up by someone. Just because you were raised in it and four billion people believe it doesn’t make it true.
 
There really is nowhere to land but in your own holy heart.
 
All the goodness and wisdom you need is within you. When you go into your heart deeply enough, you’ll find that you’re connected to all the other hearts in the universe.
 
If you’ve been cutting off parts of yourself to fit into the patriarchal monotheistic myth, these steps could be the beginning of reclaiming your authority.
 
1. Make a list of your holy experiences. Remember that our English word “holy” shares a root with “healthy,” “healing,” and “whole.” When, where, how, and with whom do you feel or have you felt whole, healed, and holy? In what do you experience holiness?
 
My list of objects, moments, and memories is quite long. Here are a few, in no particular order: Pregnancy, childbirth, and nursing babies. Sitting on a rock with my feet in a river. Swimming in high mountain lakes. Standing in front of Vincent Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” The companionship of cats, dogs, and horses. El Hospital del Alma in Castrojeriz, Spain, and my Camino vision of the deep heart. Hikes with Jed. Listening to wind in Ponderosa Pines. Mary Oliver’s poetry. Going to church with my grandparents. Water fresh from a spring. Granite and sandstone. Dippers. The night sky.
 
What’s on your list? Please take five minutes to start one.
 
2. Honor your experiences as holy. Ritualize the quotidian, everyday items and events. Reverence your holy moments. Remember your holy experiences deliberately, with intention. Pick a few items on your list, and find or make symbols of them for your altar.
 
4. When it feels right to you, begin to play with myths, spiritualities, theologies, symbols, and metaphors that contain your experiences of “God.” Let yourself roam in the wild unknown. There are no rules.
 
If you feel like you need a starting point, here are a few ideas. Perhaps Celtic spirituality, the pre-Roman Catholic version, works for you. Maybe Goddess spirituality is your jam. Maybe it’s Wicca. Maybe it’s even progressive Christianity. Or a little of this and a little of that to begin with. Since those are already invented, maybe your call is to invent something completely new, and invite us to join you. I don’t know. Only you know. If you do explore an existing theological structure, pay attention to how it feels in your body. Ask yourself if it feels true enough to contain your experiences of the holy.
 
As for me, I’m going to dwell in this wild openness for as long as it takes, which may be a lifetime. These roots go deep. It will take time, attention, and perseverance to disentangle myself from Father God’s possessive grasp.
 
No authority is higher than your own holy heart. Trust your good, strong, wise heart. Follow its yearnings, whether or not they make sense to your head.
 
Remember who you are. Reclaim your authority. Recommit to your priorities. This is the work. This is the call. This is the journey. This is the dream.
 
(Dara Molloy’s Reimagining the Divine: A Celtic Spirituality of Experience was a rich source of inspiration for this post.)

PS. If you enjoyed this heresy, you can subscribe to my weekly-ish newsletter for up-to-date heresy and coaching offerings. Thanks!

Image credit: Natalie Rhea Riggs on Unsplash

Ground yourself in your soul’s deep wisdom.

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Woman with tattoo of arrow on wrist overlooking a lake

What do I believe in when church doesn’t work for me anymore? Do I have to abandon everything I’ve loved and that has fed me for all these years? What about Jesus? What about God? What about prayer? Where will I find community? How do I do this?

These are the questions clients and readers ask me over and over. Not knowing the answers to these questions keeps them in the pew long after they hear the call to leave. They feel lost, afraid, and vulnerable when they think about leaving. They know what to expect in church. Church might not feel good anymore, but at least it’s familiar.

Why so much fear? Here’s why. You’ve been taught to fear. You’re so freaking used to accepting others’ truths as gospel, because that’s how you were trained. Your parents, teachers, and pastors didn’t teach you to think for yourself, especially about God and religion. Of course you feel terrified of leaving the comfortable fold. Of course you look to others for permission. Of course you don’t believe you’re up to the task of doing your own theological work. Because you’ve been told, both explicitly and implicitly, that you don’t have the right. That you don’t have the education. That you’re just not smart enough. That you need to leave God stuff to the guys, sweetheart.

Who are you when you’re no longer who you were? Who are you, out here in the wilderness? Who are you, floating in this Sea of Ambiguity?

First of all, you’re okay. Yes, this feels scary, and you’re okay. You’re just in Square One of the Change Cycle. You’ve done this before, and you can do it again. You’re okay.

We navigate through uncharted territory by following a compass. In this case, the compass is your soul, the part of you who knows the way home.

Here are three simple ways to ground yourself in your soul’s deep wisdom.  

Be in your body. Women’s bodies, especially aging women’s bodies, have been denigrated for centuries by patriarchal religion and capitalist culture. That’s some toxic bullshit right there. Please, get back into your body. Love her. Listen to her. Body scans. Walk. Run. Yoga. Sweaty work. Warm baths. Delicious food. Beauty. Move your attention from your head to your body, my sister. Your soul speaks through your body. (The first tool I teach clients is always the “body compass.” Your body can’t lie, because it doesn’t use words. Only brains and minds lie, because it takes words to lie. I’m happy to walk you through this exercise on a Clarity Call.)

Meditate. Meditation grounds you in your truth, as opposed to someone else’s truth. When you meditate, you begin to separate what you know to be true from the cultural messages you’ve absorbed. You begin to discern your soul’s wisdom bubbling up through all the thoughts. You begin to separate the fear from the call. You can start meditating by simply sitting still and paying attention to your breath. It’s simple and incredibly powerful.

Lectio Divina. Give your brain something to do in service of your soul. Lectio Divina is just the fancy Latin name for “holy reading,” and it’s super easy to do. You can bring the Lectio process to nature, to images, and to text. Everything speaks, when we learn to listen. Here’s a free ebook I wrote several years ago with background and directions. (We’re doing some Lectio to begin today’s Zoom Community Conversation. Subscribe here for updates, including events like this one.)

You’ll be okay. As you begin to trust yourself – body, soul, and mind – you will be sourced from a deep holiness who’s always there for you. You will be guided by your own deep wisdom, which is both unique to you and as common as dirt. Let me know if I can help.

Photo credit: Natalie Rhea Rigg on Unsplash

You get to do this work.

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Camino de Santiago, 22 May 2014

It’s another rainy day in Spain. May 22, 2014. Day 17 of what will ultimately be 37 days walking El Camino de Santiago, 500 miles across Northern Spain. I’m walking alone. Jed stayed behind in the last village to buy bocadillos for lunch. He’ll have no problem catching up with me. This rain is incessant. This rock and mud Camino feels endless, Santiago a fantasy. My feet hurt. I’m sick and tired of being wet and cold. I’m sick and tired of sharing sleeping quarters with twenty strangers. I’m sick and tired of anticipating another damn albergue bathroom, hoping there will be enough hot water to get clean and that the lights won’t go out mid-shower. I’m putting one sore foot in front of the other.

I am not having fun.

But then. Then comes a moment that changed my life, a moment I will never forget.

I’m suddenly aware of a presence deep in the ground below me. I feel connected to this presence. It feels like a heart. Or a uterus. The beating heart connection between my heart and Earth’s heart feels deeply good. I know that every single pilgrim around me, slogging up the muddy hill in the Spanish rain, is also connected to this deep wombish heart. I know this deep heart is supporting, nourishing, and loving each of us. I know that every single thing is attached through this deep uterine heart to everything else, and every single thing is loved. I know this is true.

Unfortunately, this God is not the God I meet in church. The patriarchal church God is male, unchanging, spiritual, “up there” somewhere, worried about sin, and far removed from that fiercely loving muscular presence down in the dirt that I felt on the Camino. Church God and Camino God are incompatible.

I have a choice. I can take my knowing seriously. Or, I can continue to try to make myself fit into the church box, and continue to give away my power and authority over my own theology.

I choose to take my knowing seriously. After decades of contorting myself and denying what I know to be true, I choose to leave church. This moment on the Camino isn’t the only moment of truth. It’s just the one that gets me to take action.

Leaving hasn’t been easy. My “coming out” story did not sit well with some parishioners. Since I want everyone to like me, their disapproval feels mighty uncomfortable. 🙂

(I want to say again that my loving husband has done everything in his power to make church not hurt for me and for women like me. Clergy can only go so far within the constraints of the church institution. And the institution appears unwilling to change.)

No one’s forcing you to accept the tradition as it’s been handed to you. You will not die if you choose to lay that burden down. Jesus will still be Jesus, if you want him to be. Sisters, religion has been invented by institutions which don’t prioritize our well-being. If they did, they’d listen to us when we tell them it hurts, and be willing to evolve. Religion is constructed. It can be critiqued, deconstructed, and reconstructed as necessary.

You are perfectly capable of doing your own theological work.

Here’s one way to begin. (If you’ve gone through my Coaching Intensive, this will be familiar.)

Step One:

Fill in the blanks of this sentence:

If “God” is ____________, then I am ____________, and my soul is ___________.

Some examples:

You’ll notice these examples are flesh and blood, dirt and rock. We are Earthlings, and our metaphors work best when they’re earthy.

  • If “God” is water, then I am a spring, and my soul is the connection the water flows through.
  • If “God” is a womb, then I am a child of God, and my soul is an umbilical cord.
  • If “God” is dirt, then I am a tree, and my soul is where my roots touch the dirt.
  • If “God” is an artist, then I am a work of art, and my soul is the part of me that grows and changes with each stroke of the divine paintbrush.

You likely have many metaphors for God/Divine Energy/Holiness. Use them all. Play around. Try them on. Feel into your body for the ones that feel true. You decide.  

Step Two:

Choose one of your sentences and find or make a tangible expression of it. Put that reminder on your altar. If you don’t have an altar, put the reminder somewhere you will see it regularly. You could find a photo online of your metaphor. You could draw your metaphor. You could find or make a sculpture of your metaphor. Go beyond the word. Create something you can hold in your hands.

Step Three:

Visit your metaphor regularly. Sit with it. Ask questions, and listen for answers.

This work starts when you accept the responsibility to do your own theology. You are smart enough. You are brave enough. You have everything you need.

You get to do this work.

PS. Fall Semester is coming! I’m opening enrollment for all programs starting mid-September. Now’s the time to get on my schedule for a Clarity Call if you’re interested in working together. More information will be coming soon, so make sure you’re subscribed for weekly updates.

The Cathedral and the Well.

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Bedouin woman crossing the desert

(Act One)  The setting is a desert which, like all deserts, has to be crossed. In the middle of this desert is a well, fed by an underground spring of fresh, loud, rushing water. This particular well is fortunately located just at the point where thirsty pilgrims need refreshment if they are to survive and continue on their way. So in those days news got about that it was relatively safe to cross the desert as long as you listened for the sound of the spring and stopped to drink from the well. Generations of pilgrims were able to cross the desert and head into the wilderness — which is where God’s people were usually traveling.

(Act Two)  Many years later news spread of a building in the middle of the desert, a cathedral of great beauty. Throughout the years pilgrims, when they passed, had dropped stones (some fancier than others) to mark the location of the wellspring, an improvement which they hoped would show their respect for the well. Soon a cathedral stands in the middle of this desert, one stone buttressing another. Pilgrims stop, look up, and admire the cathedral from a distance. Yet most of them are close to death from thirst when they approach. They can neither hear the sounds of rushing water nor see the well, now covered by stones.

(Act Three)  Centuries later, in the same desert, one very thirsty pilgrim dares to approach the cathedral, now overgrown by weeds after years of neglect. She (most late medieval pilgrims were women) notices that a stone is loose. Pulling it out, so that she might replace it correctly, she hears the sound of rushing waters! She rediscovers the well and invites her companions to drink of its life-giving waters. Soon news spreads of the cathedral and of the well. The cathedral was imperfectly built, always standing in need of repair; the well, which stood in its midst, is free-flowing. Future generations of pilgrims, sighting the familiar landmark of the cathedral, draw close to the well, drink of its springs, and live to cross the desert.

If this parable of thirst, courage, and deconstruction speaks to you, here are some possible ways to interact with it.

1. Ponder where in your life the living water flowing from your Source into your soul has perhaps become blocked. Are you requiring certainty before you move? Are you taking literally what was meant metaphorically? Are you resisting the next step on your journey because you feel afraid? Are you trusting external authority at the expense of your own experience? Something else?

2. Use the story as your text for Lectio Divina.

3. Put yourself in the story. Be the thirsty pilgrim crossing the arid desert and approaching the cathedral. Be the thirsty pilgrim pulling aside the loose stone and hearing the sound of water. Hold the stone in your hands. Drink deeply of the cool, living water. What do you hear and feel?

4. If you’d like to chat about what this story may be saying to you, contact me for a free no-strings-attached Clarity Call.

PS. Please subscribe to my weekly letter for the latest on coaching openings, retreats, workshops, free community conversations, and more!

PPS. I’m indebted to Fredrica Harris Thompsett’s We Are Theologians for this beautiful parable.

If you’re a long-time reader and this parable seems familiar, you’re right! This post was originally published several years ago. I’m not sure exactly when. 🙂

Photo by Rubén Bagüés on Unsplash, edited on Canva.

Three more ways crappy theology causes suffering.

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Open gate leading to sun-filled meadow

Last week I wrote about three ways I see crappy theology cause suffering for my clients. These lies, taught to us by (usually) well-meaning people, are in there so deep we don’t recognize them as made-up ideas that just aren’t true.

We know they’re not true because they cause us to suffer.

In case you missed it, here are the first three lies.

Lie #1: Jesus died for your sins. On the contrary, God and Jesus aren’t concerned about how you in your wickedness are breaking their rules. What they are concerned about is how much you love yourself, each other, and the world. The only sin is failing to love.

Lie #2: God despises the world and “things of the flesh.” On the contrary, God IS the world. The world is made of God. As the bumper sticker puts it: The Earth is my church. My body is the altar.

Lie #3: God has a plan for your life, and your job is to figure it out and follow it. On the contrary, Creator God is always at work, and all She wants from you is to be the fullest version of yourself you can be, right now, at this moment.

Three more lies:

Lie #4: You need to be perfect, as God is perfect.  On the contrary, beloved, God wants you to be yourself in all your miraculous messiness. God loves your messiness.

The word translated as “perfect” in many versions of the Bible (Matthew 5:48) would be better translated as “whole.” (I like Eugene Peterson’s rendering in The Message: “In a word, what I’m saying is, Grow up. You’re kingdom subjects. Now live like it. Live out your God-created identity. Live generously and graciously toward others, the way God lives toward you.”)

Being human is messy and unpredictable, and you’re making yourself crazy and miserable when you try to be perfect. As Anne Lamott says: “Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life ….” Be whole instead, beloved. Be whole.

Lie #5: Following your heart and your desires is evil, and being “selfish” is bad. On the contrary, beloved, your desires are holy and necessary. God wants you to want what you want.

When we believe that wanting something is bad, we fight against ourselves and our deepest longings. Instead of honoring our soul’s yearnings, we talk ourselves out of them and we lose ourselves in the process. This is an especially insidious one for women, who are expected to be the caretakers of the world while staffing bake sales, cleaning toilets, and never ever saying NO. (I am NOT saying to act out every desire you have. What I am saying is that every desire has wisdom for you. Honor that wisdom. Listen for it.)

It’s a cliché, I know, and it’s still true: Put on your own oxygen mask first. Only then will you be full enough to give when it’s your turn to give.

Lie #6: God is outside of you, “up there” somewhere, separate from this messy world and its pain. On the contrary, beloved, God is Mother, here with us.

God is not “the man upstairs” or the spirit in the sky. God is not our Father in Heaven. 

When we believe this lie, we make the disembodied sacred and the bodied profane. We make spirit good and flesh bad. We then look outside ourselves for guidance and answers, and we avoid our adult responsibility to listen for the Wisdom within. We’re incapable of giving our gifts freely, because we’ve forgotten who we are.

God your Mother inhabits your everyday moments. She is as common as dirt. And She loves your body like a mother.

Oh, my beloveds. These lies cause so much suffering. They leave us contorted and stuck and so self-critical we’re paralyzed with shame and self-loathing.

You can feel their destructive power when you hold them in your body. Try saying one lie and notice how your body feels. Now say the truth (use my “On the contrary … “ formulation or your own words) and notice how your body feels. Lies cause suffering. Can you feel how you stop suffering when you disbelieve the lies causing you to suffer?

Beloved, you are not called to suffer. Being human on Earth is full of pain. Being human on Earth is full of joy, too.

Please take your suffering seriously. Look underneath your suffering and find the crappy theology causing it. We can do that together if you want to.

Heal crappy theology and you heal yourself.

We need you whole, healthy, and healed. We need you telling the truth. We need you raising your voice in the wilderness so we can find each other.

PS. A deep bow of gratitude to you voices in the wilderness who joined our inaugural Community Conversation on June 17. We were witnesses for each other’s pain and joy, and we formed deep community almost from the first moment. I’m so grateful to meet you “face to face,” and look forward to our next gathering on Tuesday, July 13, at 2:00 pm Pacific. Newsletter subscribers will get the Zoom link the day before. Missed the first one? No worries. You can join anytime.

PPS. I’ll be sending emails only to my weekly letter list beginning on July 1st. Email subscribers will get new content, current offerings, and notifications of upcoming events delivered straight to their inbox. You can subscribe here, and thanks!

Photo by Nikola Knezevic on Unsplash

Necessary Darkness

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16

Milky Way (www.goldpaintphotography.com)

Milky Way

The darkest night I ever spent was on top of Steens Mountain in the southeastern corner of Oregon, far from artificial light sources, hundreds of miles from any population center. The moon rose very late that night and the stars were absolutely breathtaking. I saw more night sky than I had ever seen — parts of the Milky Way I didn’t know existed, multitudes of meteors, and so many stars.

Many Western Christian churches celebrate Advent in the four weeks preceding Christmas. Most Episcopal churches carve out a solemn and simple space during this time, a sanctuary from the surrounding Christmas craziness. Typically you won’t hear Christmas Carols or see Poinsettias. Not yet. Most Episcopal churches are peaceful havens where the focus is on holy waiting – both for the return of the light and for the birth of a baby.

Many Advent prayers and hymns focus on the light, so much so that it seems to me we’re afraid of the dark. The collect (prayer) for the first Sunday of Advent contains this phrase: “… give us grace to cast away the works of darkness and put on the armor of light …” I protest: “There’s grace and healing in darkness! Mary’s womb was dark! Darkness is necessary!!”

It’s also worth noting that many spiritual feminists and people of color hear the church’s plea for light as misogynist and racist, as women and non-White people have historically been denigrated, marginalized, and exploited precisely because of their perceived association with dirt and darkness in all its forms.

David Owen writes, in a 2007 New Yorker article about light pollution, that we actually make ourselves less safe when we artificially illuminate the darkness. “Diminishing the level of nighttime lighting can actually increase visibility,” he says. Among many other examples of situations where illumination creates blindness, he cites “criminal-friendly” lighting that’s so bright it turns everything around it into an “impenetrable void.” Much “security” lighting is anything but secure.

Owen, in the same article, reports that lighting our interior spaces disrupts our circadian rhythms, which affects obesity, sleep, and perhaps some forms of cancer. And lighting the outdoors harms our fellow creatures, especially migrating birds, insects, and sea turtles.

We used to watch our world get dark. We used to look at the night sky. Stars and the night sky have been an important part of becoming and being human. We’re wired for star-gazing. Darkness is necessary, and we avoid it to our detriment. Gestation and germination require darkness – the warm nurturing darkness of wombs, and the holy soil of Earth. Darkness is necessary for birth and renewal.

My family used to live in a suburb of Chicago, where only a smattering of bright, brave stars penetrated the “sky glow” of that city. Every summer we’d head north to Lake Superior on Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. And every summer, at least once, we’d see the Northern Lights. Our Aurora wasn’t the full-blown psychedelic light show of polar regions. Our Aurora was a shimmering and flickering magic dance of white light, arcing above the dark vastness of water, sporadic and ephemeral and enchanting. We only saw these Northern Lights because we were in a very dark place, sitting on the beach of that immense lake, paying attention.

My husband and I took in last fall’s lunar eclipse out among the sage and juniper of Oregon’s high desert. We perched ourselves on a ridge formed of lava. We watched the full moon slowly rise and then disappear as Earth moved between the sun and the moon. As the moon was eclipsed, more and more stars appeared. As the moon slowly reappeared, the dimmer stars began to wink out, one by one. Oh, holy night indeed.

Sometime in the next few weeks, the longest nights of the year here in the Northern Hemisphere, let’s go out to a dark place. Let’s dress warmly and take a thermos of hot chocolate and maybe a companion if they can be quiet. Let’s sit. Let’s settle into the darkness and just let it be dark. Let’s welcome the gifts darkness has to offer us. She’s waiting.