Author Archives: PearlS

This weekend I became the owner of a minivan.
One might think this was long overdue–we’ve got four growing kids we’ve been toting around in a Honda Pilot for six years. The five-foot ten year old had to fold his legs under his chin in the third row seating, where fresh air cannot penetrate, void of headrests, foot space, and possibly airbags. The second row situation wasn’t much better–a crowded, two carseat affair with another child squeezed in the middle, his elbows resting on his belly button.
But we had put a hundred thousand miles on the rig, and even if she was faithful and uncomplaining, the seating arrangements were not in our favor. It no longer seemed kind to make a growing boy risk a migraine with every trip.

Still, I have a hard time pulling the trigger in these instances.

When I was a kid, people were often puzzled upon seeing our family’s living arrangement. My parents were not asceticists in the traditional sense; we were sort of pleasantly used to doing things the hard way. It was impossible to explain our shabby dwelling to the curious, taking “pride” in our low position. Good people would up and ask–outloud!–why my dad didn’t finish a house project. Wouldn’t a responsible, loving father finish the remodel? Why was it one tiny step at a time? Where was the urgency? Why couldn’t he care enough to  make his family comfortable?

The mere suggestion of neglect made my dad bristle. I do think he certainly intended to finish whatever house project was on his list, but it incensed him. It was an arrow aimed and shot at his character. Inevitably, the energy for the project would wane, or more likely, the funds would shift to a needier place.
I never understood. I hated it for so long. I didn’t see the harm in having flooring or walls with electric wires neatly tucked inside. Why did we have to suffer the cold in winter and the heat in summer? There was a reason I never experienced camping as a child–my own home offered its own survival challenge. It was not super enjoyable to live so rustic and basic–why would we up the ante and willingly sleep on the ground?

Like most kids, I didn’t value their perspective until I walked in their shoes, a grownup with my own children, realizing that comfort is its own beast. Spoiled children (spoiled adults!) are impossible to please, and the root of a bad tree is nearly impossible to dig up. Seating ourselves at the head at the table and demanding more service, more food, is a recipe for petulant whiners. Life is not physically comfortable for many people in this world, and it is okay. It is more than okay–it is actually an honorable way to live. A Christian can, and ought, to choose to buck cultural expectations in favor of outrageous counter-lifestyle. It is what Jesus did, even when his daddy owned a cattle on a thousand hills (Psalm 50:10)–he had no place to lay his head (Matt. 8:20). Extreme obedience and self-denial. This is what my parents have taught me.

This attitude has followed me into adulthood, though I can’t say I’ve always been grateful. From childhood, I’ve been trained to ask why? while the world says why not? Obviously, why not is so much more pleasant. Why not is an indulgent lover who asks how can it be wrong if it feels so right? It’s a second piece of pie, unlimited, sky’s-the-limit, I’ll-call-it-a-blessing, I-probably-deserve-it green light to my desires. Watch that show, drink that wine, relax! Why not pats me on the back and says to take it easy. If it is applauded, accepted, a result of hard work paying off–don’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Why not helps me justify the extra bedrooms and bathrooms in my house. Why not puts vacations on my credit card and signs the check to buy new things, like a minivan.

Why feels like an enemy to a Why not sort of person. And vice-versa.

But see here–the Word condemns self-indulgence and pride. Jesus warned it would be a tough row to plow for the believer. It would take some gumption and sitting down to count the cost of following Him. One of our most threatening personal enemies is our very own Flesh, the skin we’re in. We are supposed to live in fear of sinning.
Those who continue in sin, rebuke in the presence of all, so that the rest will also be fearful of sinning.
1 Tim. 5:20

In Greek it is more aptly put: we are to have a sin phobia.

This is a bit tricky for me to explain. We aren’t supposed to be afraid, right? We’re supposed to lean in, fully confident, saved-by-grace…yes? Isn’t the power of Christ enough to conquer the sin problem? But ay yay! the flesh. We’re stuck in these persnickety, selfish bodies, the same ones we love and hate. We are torn, over and over.

I see in my members another law waging war against the law of my mind and making me captive to the law of sin that dwells in my members. Wretched man that I am! Who will save me from this body of death?
Romans 7:23-24

Obviously, even pious Paul is wrecked by this sin in the flesh dilemma. And he wants us to be wrecked, too.

Rewinding to Old Testament times, after Moses died and Joshua was left to lead the Israelites across the Jordan River into the Promised Land, he was ordered to be strong and very courageous. We know this verse–it’s a fave of the Bible-thumpers. We embroider it onto hoops, we hang it on our walls. But it is prefaced with a strong admonition to obey and meditate, day and night, on the Book of the Law. Keep it front and center, God was warning Joshua–you have no idea what enemies you’re up against. Their success was dependent upon it–taking every caution to obey. Their success was not dependent upon being strong and courageous.

Dr. J.V. McGee draws correlation between the first three enemies faced in the new land and spiritual enemies we face as believers today: The great city of Jericho corresponds to the world, which can only be conquered by faith, patience, and following day-in, day-out marching orders. The Gibeonites represent Satan–a sneaky trickster that’ll stop at nothing to deceive us and gain access to our treasure. And Ai–that little town who seemed so innocuous–is our flesh.

A blip on the screen–a story often forgotten by the Sunday school crowd in favor of Jericho–Ai is the story of the second city conquered by Israel in the Promised Land. Hot off their victory over Jericho, Joshua sent out a small committee to spy on Ai. When they returned, they told Joshua it didn’t seem like any big deal. Don’t get everybody worked up. Just send a few good fighters up and the city will be ours. Unfortunately, they were wrong. Ai was ready to crush them. The Israelites were suddenly scared out of their pants. So much for being strong and courageous! Joshua and the other leaders spend a day with their heads bent to the ground, moaning and groaning about how they should’ve never crossed the Jordan.
And God says this:

“Stand up! What are you doing down on your face? Israel has sinned; they have violated my covenant, which I commanded them to keep. They have taken some of the devoted things; they have stolen, they have lied, they have put them with their own possessions. This is why the Israelites cannot stand against their enemies; they turn their backs and run because they have been made liable to destruction.”
Joshua 7:11-12 

A greedy fellow named Achan had taken some goodies from Jericho for himself, and God was not having it. He was not taking the blame for the trouble they were having with this particular enemy, Ai. Because there was sin in the camp, God said they made themselves liable to destruction.

Oh, friends. Why-Not people don’t stand a chance against the flesh. And God will not lead you to victory in your life, no matter how “strong and courageous” you are, if you’ve departed from His Word and made yourselves liable to destruction. It’s as simple as hiding your greed inside your tent, padding that bank account for your why not pleasures, and pretending life is just ducky.

The Ai story does have a happy ending, once the sin problem is dealt with (spoiler: stoning and burning is involved, but this is exactly why we ought to have a sin phobia). The Israelites divided themselves and ambushed the place–they fooled the Ai people into attacking and then retreating, so they were caught in the middle and defeated. When it was finally over, Joshua stood in front of all of the Israelites and read to them the Law they had been given.
It was the only way to remember that victory comes from obedience. From maintaining a sin phobia, a why approach to the flesh. And from continual meditation and eating on His Word.

Over the phone, I still confess to my dad and mom, my truest, longest confidants: My whole life has been me telling me ‘no’.
They understand perfectly. They have been at it longer than me, giving a hard ‘no’ to worthless endeavors, trash TV, a nice home, vacations, expensive clothes. They have eschewed the spotlight, glory and glitter, because they refuse to let the flesh win. We all agree–it is, by far, the hardest thing to do. We’re in these bodies that crave comfort, rest, ease, a controlled environment, coffee. It takes more energy in life to say no to myself. It takes some spying, some tactical study. Physical and mental toughness and counting of the cost. It isn’t pleasant. It’s still war. But when I’m not saying no to myself, I’m never moving forward. I’m stagnant, withering, blaming and critical. There’s no victory without a battle.
Thank God He hasn’t asked us to do it alone. The victory rests upon our obedience, and He’s already spelled out the strategy for our success.

We bought that Honda minivan, maybe six years after we should have bought it–mostly because I thought I was asking a why not question. We were uncomfortable, yes, but discomfort serves its purpose. You know I’ll forever be reminding the long-legged back-seaters to not complain. I’ll remind them how it was before, in the Pilot. At least now they’ve got functioning windows and headrests. We made our move out of necessity, and there’s some promise in conquering flesh when we realize we can outlast our desires.

The funniest thing is this: we bought the Odyssey from a BMW/Mercedes-Benz dealership. It was a smoking online deal–turns out no one shops for minivans from a luxury car brand. I laugh every time I pass by the temporary tags on the back, stuck in a license plate frame boasting BMW. I’m not a BMW girl, but I guess now I’m a minivan with BMW plates girl. It doesn’t make sense. It is absurd. But we aren’t trying to make sense, are we?

We’re trying to trick that flesh into retreating. We’re slaughtering those lies–that what other people say matters, that why nots are a better place to live. That beauty cannot be found in submission, that wonder and worship are flashy and fleeting.
We dig in our heels and never underestimate the enemy.

 

Be careful. People in masks cannot be trusted. Fezzik, The Princess Bride

 

Stay at home. Save a life.

We zoomed under the words posted above the highway, intent on making our Taco John Sunday brunch (terrible, to be honest) last us till our next stop, the disc golf course. The kids and the dog whined, no longer used to long jaunts in the car. We passed out fruit and encouraged them to see what they could see out the window.

Joe knew I needed to get out, so we drove an hour and a half to a new course.

Disc golfers seem to be notoriously unconcerned, even with signs warning parties over ten people. Men hold bottles of beer in koozies while putting shots. Dogs run around, thrilled to be in the open. Folks smile. It’s a mask-less oasis. None of us are shaking hands, but we are all breathing the same air.

At the tenth hole, we took off our shoes and waded in the creek. Gretty loaded a sun hat with river-washed rocks. We finished the course and ate Cheez-its out of the back of the car, enjoying a view different than our front and back yard.

I was at the point where I couldn’t look out my front window without stomach acid burning my throat. This week I reported a domestic violence incident in my neighborhood. I held the girl in my arms as she sobbed and recounted all the ways he has hurt and threatened her. I held her baby as the cop took photos of her bruises. For hours I begged her to let me take her to a safe house. She wouldn’t leave.

I am so sick of hearing the jingle: stay at home, save a life.

I’m weary of celebrities in celebrity homes acting like we are all doing our part, baking bread and mindlessly scrolling social media, looking for the next big meme or “challenge”. I am tired of the news assuring us we cannot trust our instinct, our own rationale. In my city, it is becoming, just this week, absolutely required to wear a mask in public or face a $1000 fine. Reporters sit in front of cameras, faces masked, urging us to trust them, to do what they say. They know more than us, they think. Wearing a face mask in public shows we care, they say. Do it because it’s the right thing to do.

Is it the right thing to do? Who says what is right? Dear God, throw us some bread. Open our eyes and show us where we are being deceived.

The Lord nullifies the counsel of the nations;
He frustrates the plans of the peoples.

The counsel of the Lord stands forever,
The plans of His heart from generation to generation.
Psalm 33:10-11

When we lived in southwestern Colorado, our county had the highest liquor stores per capita as well as one of the highest suicide rates in the country. Distraction from hopelessness crowned purple mountains’ majesty. In the past decade, recreational marijuana and same sex marriages have been legalized, redefining sobriety and disparaging the family unit. Who needs a mother and a father? How old-fashioned!
One in four babies in this country dies by abortion; in Colorado, a fetus may be aborted up to birth. As long as she doesn’t breath air before they silence her, it is fine and dandy. My body, my rights.

We are so morally awful that we fail to recognize our choices are leading to our deaths! We are far, far beyond wearing masks. We are sick on the inside, sicker than we care to admit. We cannot rely on the government to fix the problem.

Take, for example, China. One night when I stayed up late, I watched a documentary on Amazon Prime called One Child Nation. Filmed and produced by a Chinese-American who interviewed her own family on the one-child policy and its implementation, the documentary is a heartbreaking insight into the overreach of Communist China.

The government imposed a law to limit the number of children a family might have, promoting its ideology in numerous billboards, songs, dance, and cultural stories. Even today in China are slogans–fading painted reminders on city blocks: One more baby means one more tomb. Induce labor. Abortion! Anything but an excess baby.

For a price, some families might be allowed to expand their family to two children, but only if spaced five years apart. The stories are horrific. Forced abortions and sterilizations, women screaming and pleading for mercy. During the interviews, tears trickle from deadened eyes. They shrug– “We had no choice.”

As Hitler rose to control in Germany, Dietrich Bonhoeffer could not reconcile any Christian peacemaking attempt with the Nazi regime. He had seen the African-American struggle for equality while he was in school in the States, and he felt it eerily similar to the injustice taking place in Germany.
“Christianity stands or falls with its revolutionary protest against violence, arbitrariness, and pride of power, and with its plea for the weak. Christians are doing too little to make these points clear…Christendom adjusts itself far too easily to the worship of power. Christians should give more offense, shock the world far more than they are doing now.”
D. Bonhoeffer

We are not far off this path of history repeating itself. I fear our pacifistic, don’t-rock-the-boat nature is bordering neglect. Someone is going to have to explain our inaction to future generations–why millions of kids weren’t allowed to learn at school or even play at playgrounds. Where they were held captive, at the mercy of domestic abuse. When mental health issues became the next crisis. When churches and fellowship were forbidden. Why the economy was stifled; why the new Depression began.

 

You may point a finger and say, how irresponsible, how naive! People are dying–doesn’t she care?! Here are my credentials: I am a sober, recycling, thrift-store wearing, tax paying, public school supporting, law abiding, cautious, debt-free, domestic abuse-reporting citizen, yet I am not given the choice to decide on wearing a mask in public. When is it ever my body, my choice?

This is the opposite of civil liberty. This is fear-mongering. This is bullying. This is overreach. This has little to do with sickness or concern for the elderly and health-compromised. If we had cared about the least of these, we would have looked into the nursing home for-profit industry long ago, because it has a history littered with neglect. If we cared, we would respect human life enough to not give handouts to people unwilling to work for bread. If we cared, we wouldn’t collect debt like it was Halloween candy. If we cared, we would not have legalized a drug (marijuana) that damages the brain and exacerbates mental illness. If  we cared, we would not fiddle with and downplay the role of a mother and a father or the family unit. If we truly cared, we would support caregivers. We would be people who honored our parents. We would love our neighbors as ourselves. This is the moral code written on our hearts, yet our minds that have been seared to allow the unconscionable.

Here is where we find ourselves.

You and I–we do not need to be told to keep our germs to ourselves; it is quite the natural way for a responsible, healthy person to behave. But we are no longer healthy-minded, and this is why it is so easy to be tricked into mindless submission.

We live in a country where the death of a celebrity is worth more than the death of a dear one in the nursing home. Kobe Bryant sparked a wave of mourning prior to Covid; twenty thousand nursing home deaths have not. We love pointing fingers and shifting the blame. Politicians fling hate like confetti–they’re ready to throw a party for the death of a president, a candidate, a representative, a speaker.

General Douglas Macarthur said, “In this day of gathering storms, as moral deterioration of political power spreads its growing infection, it is essential that every spiritual force be mobilized to defend and preserve the religious base upon which this nation is founded; for it has been that base which has been the motivating impulse to our moral and national growth. History fails to record a single precedent in which nations subject to moral decay have not passed into political and economic decline. There has been either a spiritual reawakening to overcome the moral lapse, or a progressive deterioration leading to ultimate national disaster.”

 

Friends, people have always been hurting. People have forever been dying. As with my neighbor, I might not convince you to leave the craziness in the hands of the crazy. I might beg and plead, yet you still find the world an entertaining place and nothing more. Your life will testify for you, your silence, your words, your actions. If you are on the fence, ask Jesus to throw bread in your direction to knock you off of it. Ask him for perfect wisdom in this world, ask what is the will of God in my life? Ask for the Spirit to move in your heart, even as it raised Jesus from the dead. These are days where your seeking and knocking are imperative. It isn’t just about masks.
If you know the good you ought to do and do not do it, for you it is sin.
James 4:17
We must finally stop appealing to theology to justify our reserved silence about what the state is doing — for that is nothing but fear. ‘Open your mouth for the one who is voiceless’ — for who in the church today still remembers that that is the least of the Bible’s demands in times such as these?

D. Bonhoeffer

 

I spoke with my mom on the phone last night. Our conversations keep circling back to these weird times we are living, and she said something I thought was worth writing down: I hope people are taking this time to slow down and think. Maybe it will change the way they live. Maybe it will change everything for them.

Like it or not, she’s right. Everything has come to a screeching halt, and it is the perfect opportunity to pose thoughtful questions. Before we start the engine back up–if that is what happens–question everything. Knock on the door and boldly ask for bread, for understanding and insight. I am posting a small series of some of my midnight conversations–I’d love to hear yours, too.

I’ve been thinking more about femininity and our culture, and how it enmeshes itself with  our modern American version of Christianity. I have touched on this in a previous post, written last year after Rachel Held Evans passed away. In a way, she split hairs for the faith community. She stepped into a gap and bluntly asked the questions we all had but were too afraid of rocking the boat. We differ in many ways, but like her, I have wandered this desert of perplexing “Biblical womanhood” for several years.
It has never felt natural to me to paste myself to the wallpaper or be a domesticated “help meet” to my spouse. I’m pretty independent, sort of stubborn, and embarrassingly low maintenance. I crave uncomplicated routines and despise laziness. At the same time, I am aware of the truth in the statement that beauty fades but a gentle spirit is forever lovely. The gritty sandpaper of the Spirit has had to smooth a lot of my rough edges, and I’m learning to yield a bit sooner as clay in the hands of a Potter.

My husband has pursued a career while I have stayed home and raised children. The feminist would cringe if they heard me declare my love for homemaking (by that I do not mean house cleaning), but I’m afraid they would stand and applaud if I confessed how much I grieved my lost dreams from my twenties. I didn’t even know what those dreams were, but I was sure I could knock them out if given a chance. Then God gave me four babies. It powered up the Holy Spirit sander–they have completely worn me down. Now I am equally at home in my mind mindlessly washing dishes as I am doing anything work or dream-related.

How does one explain the peace that comes with forfeit to a go-getter who has pursued their dreams? This was where I slipped off the train that carried people like Rachel Held Evans to feminist-Christian applause and success. I stopped questioning if God’s ways were higher and if His words held water. Of course they were. Of course they did. In our marriage, it wasn’t an argument that landed me a loser; we simply allowed the money making responsibility to rest on my husband’s shoulders, because he is better at it. It made sense. Likewise, I’m better at home life. Happier, even. I love my kids and am thankful to stay home with them. Some things are no-brainers: our marriage works best when we link arms and humbly take up our respective responsibilities.
Still, I’m no June Cleaver. There remains an unspoken tension when we compare our life to others in our conservative, evangelical circle, because even though things work for us, it doesn’t line right up with expectations. For beginners, we got married and told as few of people as possible just to avoid the gratuitous reactions of people who only slightly knew us. In the Love and Respect class we took, we found ourselves a backward combination: he wanted more love and I wanted more respect. There isn’t a bone in Joe’s body that desires an important, well-spoken, sharp-dressed, influential presence in the church. It makes me uneasy to admit how much I despise small talk and womens’ conferences and table decorations and fussing about refreshments and furniture and baby showers.

We are two oddballs, puzzled over mysteries like the perceived higher calling of being in the “paid ministry” and fellow believers who have no interest in setting a foot in their child’s school or Sunday school class. We are often impatient with a world that encourages us to love our neighbors but has such a hard time realizing that that means here and now and him and her. There is nothing remarkable about us, yet we feel so much on the fringes of Christian culture.
What do you do with folks who don’t fall in step with the crowd? What if they just won’t step in the water and ride the current? What about the system shakers that don’t take a side? I’m afraid I can come off as annoying or impossible to please. But if a person is bold enough to challenge the norms, they risk all sorts of labels.

After studying scripture and asking God to throw more bread, I think mostly everything I was raised to believe about women is only half true, if true at all. Rachel Held Evans hinted at it–I think she was on the cusp. I am finally understanding why my life, my marriage, and our perspective (mine and Joe’s) doesn’t always line up with cultural expectations. The view from the mountaintop looks nothing like the view from the valley. But sometimes in the church, we’re given a perspective that paints a picture only accessible from the top. It cuts out a lot of people who have to climb trees, like Zacchaeus, because they’re at a disadvantage–simply put, they’re too short to see. We’ve been fed a steady diet of what a women or a man ought to look like with little nuance and appreciation for differentiation. Mostly I am thinking on women, because I am one. Specifically in our culture of conservative American evangelicalism, we’ve been alerted to two paths–loud, obnoxious, rebellious (wrong), or gentle, quiet, obedient (right).
It should be simple, but I keep throwing rocks at the foundation of what I’ve been taught to see if it holds up. For example, the husband is supposed to be the head of the home, the spiritual leader. But what about the single woman? What about the woman married to a man who doesn’t want to be a spiritual leader? What about a woman who has lived through abuse and doesn’t trust men? With one-size-fits-all, it is difficult to find a place for the outliers.

As I get older, I realize I’m more aware of how easily I fell into this supposition that people who are able to follow the rules or match pitch must be right, therefore knocking the rest of us out of the running. But womanhood is not only for homemakers and hospitality and June Cleaver. Even if all the audio Bible versions I’ve ever listened to are women actors acting helpless, weepy, pitiful, or emotionally unstable, I know this is not a valid picture of womanhood.

I think I’ve always been a bit aware of the disconnect. The flannel board from my childhood Sunday school memory made Lydia, Martha, Mary, Magdalene, Esther, Ruth and Naomi all look the same. Even Eve just needed a robe in place of her carefully-adjusted hair and fig leaf to look the part. They were beautiful, shallow, Elizabeth Taylor versions of Bible characters, none of whom resembled any women I’d ever seen. None were portrayed as people I actually knew–none except poor Martha–and she was, in church, brushed off as a distracted control freak. Martha, whose work ethic resembled every good woman I’d ever loved and admired, the first to get up and serve, the last to sit down and rest. The tireless mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother who fixed food and cleaned it up with not one nod of gratitude in her direction.

I could read the story, but how was I to really believe it, that love was sitting at the feet of Jesus and not getting the table set for supper? It took years before I put it into context, that at the time Martha’s story was unfolding, Jesus was there–God in person. Poor Martha. She should’ve been using paper plates, not scrubbing dishes.

This is what fooled me for so long–flannel board women, two-dimensional stories. Tales that wrapped women in petty roles. None of them mirrored my mother, grandmothers, aunts, or virtually anyone I knew in the midwest. When I happened upon the chapters describing the roles of men and women in the church, I shrugged and figured they were antiquated. It kept men happy to limit a woman, it made them puff their chest out a bit to keep them quiet.

Let me say, I rarely, rarely saw a man who led his family the way our Bible told us–the “spiritual leader”. My father loved my mother, but did he love her as much as he loved his own body? It seemed pretty apparent that deep down every mother was in charge of the leading.

This is actually what flipped the switch for me.
God doesn’t ask easy things of us. He didn’t ask that a man simply go to work and make money, then retire to the couch for the rest of the evening. He asked him to take care of a woman like it were his own flesh. He doesn’t ask women to sit pretty and keep kids quiet. He asks them to live meaningful lives where not a single word or action is wasted. He didn’t send Jesus to ace some test and prove He was flawless. God held a heavenly list of people who needed to experience love, and He sent Jesus to check off each personality type that has ever represented all of the human race. He hung out with his single friends, Lazarus, Mary, and Martha. He loved on women who were abused and tossed to the side. He approached women just to talk with them. He let women touch him. He raised a little girl from the dead and asked for some breakfast. He took the babies from the arms of their mothers just to snuggle them for a moment and smell their sweet heads. He let women be the first to witness his risen self–even though a woman’s voice didn’t count as testimony in the court!

You want to know who has chutzpah, who made the balls-iest move in all of the New Testament? It was a Gentile woman with a demon-possessed child who begged Jesus for help. Those good men, those wonderful, super perceptive, servant-hearted disciples (note my sarcasm) told Jesus he needed to make her go away.  But Jesus pulled her aside and spoke in code. It was a secret language she understood, a pact between just the two of them. Hear this: Jesus pulled a Gentile woman into his circle and spoke her heart language:

It is not right to take the children’s bread and throw it to the dogs.

And she shot back the quickest answer only a woman with incredible wit and a lifetime of pain could give:

Yes it is, Lord. Even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from the table.

In that time, a man would have every right to kick her in the face for being so cheeky. Jesus applauded the woman and healed her daughter that very instant. (Matthew 15)

Women are essential, elevated, big-time, multi-dimensional characters. We get it wrong all the time because we have the mountain view, the view that values beauty, success, health and wealth. We display our Beth Moores and Ann Voskamps and June Cleavers as the ultimate example of womanhood because they fit our flannel board minds, but we forget we are little shorties who need to climb a tree to see Jesus. The scope of womanhood is an ocean.

Now there are voices all the time being added to this discussion. They challenge our perspective and have incredible sway on our thinking. I listened to a recent podcast of Jen Hatmaker interviewing Glennon Melton-Doyle. These ladies are prominent faith leaders, you could say, and the frustration they expressed regarding this very subject–a woman’s place in society–was palpable. Both authors have recently released books, manifestos, you could call them, regarding the friction caused by unrealistic expectations–the flannel board woman. The conversation was all about feminism, power, the church. However, Hatmaker and Melton-Doyle explained their way out of the fundamental evangelical church, which they felt restricted their freedom. From their perspective, they are breaking chains and the unspoken rules that held them captive participants to life. They describe themselves as teachers of women, as if they are opening doors no one has ever walked through. They say they know the secret to regaining their wildness, untaming the tamed. It begins with hot anger at the system and courage enough to challenge the status quo. There is a sneaky twisting of facts. Do not subscribe to their fake news.

Jesus does not hold women in bondage. He raises a banner of love over us.

Get out of your Sunday school room and toss the flannel in the garbage. God’s love for women is not a thrift store, hand-me-down version. You can’t buy a higher quality, more fulfilling, satisfying, wild and wonderful life than the one He wants to give to you. Power, success, beauty–you’ll forget what you used to want when you run into Jesus.

Climb up into the tree to see Him, let your perspective be changed.