I don’t have any tattoos, mostly because it just seems so...permanent. I have been intrigued, however, by a tattoo displayed by one of my favorite singers, Karin Bergquist of Over the Rhine. At a concert years ago she shared a tattoo on her arm with a quote attributed to Theodore Roosevelt: “Comparison is the thief of joy.” I bought the concert t-shirt with that same quote because, well, a t-shirt isn’t as permanent as a tattoo. The words stuck with me, so I might as well get the tattoo. I could use the permanent reminder. I repeat the phrase to my children at least monthly as they lament the fact that we don’t go out to eat as much as _________’s family, that we don’t allow as much screen time as ____________’s mom does, that we implement an earlier bedtime than _____________’s parents. But then I find the nagging whisper of doubt enter in. Maybe we should have more screen time. Maybe I am too restrictive with social media. Maybe so-and-so’s mom is right; teenagers don’t really need a strict bedtime. And why am I still making them eat broccoli? I find my comparison to other parents stealing my own joy. In several conversations with other parents during the past months, I’ve repeated my belief that right now truly is the most difficult time to be a parent in the history of the world. Maybe that’s hyperbole, but most days it feels true. I read articles like this one that outline the very-real dangers of online pornography. I see studies like this one about the escalation of teenage depression that conclude that “all signs point to the screen.” So we make tough parenting decisions in an attempt to keep our kids safe from dangers. We say no to smartphones still, even though I’m sure my teenagers are the only two in the world that don’t have one. Or at least it feels that way. We set limits on social media access and talk constantly about the permanency of our online words and how tone can’t be interpreted correctly through text or direct message. I live in this tension of wanting to keep them safe and inoculated forever and simultaneously realizing that my job as a mom is also to prepare them for the dangers they face while also understanding that their prefrontal cortex isn’t fully developed. Throw in the dangers of school shootings, the frustrations with grades and homework, the worries about the junk food they’re inhaling, the concern for their hair and skin care routine (a special “problem” as the white mom of Black boys), and I have a recipe for certain anxiety with a sprinkling of sleepless nights. When I compare myself to other parents, I’m doing it all wrong. I’m not doing enough. I’m doing too much. I am making all the wrong choices. Damn. Deep breath. “Comparison is the thief of joy.” If I couple that with 1 Peter 5:7, I feel like a more grounded parent: “Casting your anxieties on him because he cares for you.” He cares for me, and He cares for my kids. More than I do, even, and that’s a hard equation to wrap my non-math mind around. But it’s Truth. So maybe I need a tattoo after all.
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This isn't much of a teaching blog lately, is it? I'm writing about race and Christmas ornaments and today, Jesus. I'm apparently not very good at sticking with a theme. Or maybe it all ties together. Who knows? For the past few months, however, I've been noticing a theme in my faith life. The Bible is full of so many outsiders. I think we in the Church (myself included) need that reminder again this Christmas season: Jesus came for the outsider, too. Part of Jesus' lineage is Ruth, a Moabite widow who definitely should not have been invited to the party by traditional standards. She's so important, though, that she gets a shout-out in Matthew 1:5. Then later in Matthew we are introduced to the Magi. As John Piper points out, Matthew skips right over the shepherds to get to these foreign astrologers who were some of the first to celebrate Jesus' birth. Check out Matthew 8:10. Do you know who Jesus was talking about when he said this: "Truly, I tell you, with no one in Israel have I found such faith"? It was a Roman centurion, not only an outsider, but a resented outsider. In Luke 7:29-30 we read that even the tax collectors believed that "God's way was right," and in case you missed it, the tax collectors weren't part of the "in crowd." We also have women playing an essential role in the story of our Messiah, with some of the most beautiful words of praise in the New Testament being declared Mary, Jesus' mother, as she presents a humble prayer of worship in Luke 1:46-55. (It's also worth noting that by Mary was an unwed pregnant teen, most definitely an outsider during that time period.) And I still get goosebumps every time I read the account in John 20:11-18 of Jesus first appearing to Mary Magdalene after the resurrection. Look at Jesus' teachings where we encounter the Good Samaritan. See his ministry where He healed the beggars and the lepers and the most destitute of us all. Behold his dying-breath conversation with the thief on the cross. Again and again, we see Jesus display compassion for those outside of the "in group." Even a cursory glance through the Gospels convinces us that Jesus didn't come for the ultra-religious and the holier-than-thous. As a matter of fact, they were so busy being right that they missed Him completely. So where does that put us during this Christmas season? I think it's a not-so-gentle reminder to get out of our comfort zones and remember that the Good News of the Gospel is not just for the insiders. It's for the least expected. It's for the war-wounded refugee and the unwed teen mother. It's for the recovering heroin addict and the convicted felon sitting in a jail cell. Or, in the words of Dave Matthews, "The people he knew were less than golden hearted -- gamblers and robbers, drinkers and jokers, all soul searchers, like you and me." For many of us, this isn't a new revelation, but if you're like me, it takes practice to move from understanding to believing, and action is often a requirement. What does that look like? It might be putting together kits to hand out to the homeless as we drive through the city streets. (I found great ideas on Pinterest that I will be putting together this weekend.) It might be preparing a meal for a down-on-his-luck neighbor or providing gifts for some foster kiddos. I think it's up to us to carefully discern on the individual level, but with certainty I can say this: Sharing the Good News with the outsider looks like lots of things, but it doesn't look like the repeated care and concern only for the insider. Jesus made that clear. And maybe the revelation is that I'm an outsider, too, so the beautiful Gospel is for me. I witnessed a powerful, personal manifestation of racial reconciliation at Heartland Vineyard Church in Waterloo, Iowa, many years ago. A former white supremacist stood at the front of the church and shared his testimony, a story of redemption and transformation -- from hate to love, from dark to light. Many in the congregation were crying as this man emotionally spoke, and at the end, two Black women from the church body quietly stood, walked to the front of the church, and hugged the man as he wept. It was the most powerful, concrete display of forgiveness and grace that I have ever had the privilege of watching. A hush fell over the church because we knew the Spirit of God was among us.
Job 12: 22 "He reveals the deep things of darkness and brings utter darkness into light." Here I am, years later, and today I sat in Mercy Vineyard Church in the Twin Cities. I've been in a very vulnerable emotional space lately. I miss my sister and my coworkers, and while I had many difficult days last school year, the knowledge I am not returning has filled me with Big Feelings. And then yesterday in Charlottesville a group of emboldened and brazen white nationalists left me feeling shaken and scared for my country, for my children. In church I silently hoped that Pastor Jeff would speak of these issues, and he did not disappoint. He proclaimed that those who used the Bible to support their racist worldview were completely wrong. He boldly prayed for our brothers and sisters of color, and he spoke the Truth about hatred and darkness. The congregation responded with applause and amens and nods of affirmation, and we continued with our study of Ruth. Micah 6:8 "He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the LORD require of you? To act justly and love mercy and to walk humbly with your God." I sat throughout the rest of church today thinking about silence and complicity. Our pastor made it very clear where our church stands. We are FOR the marginalized in our community; we support justice and mercy and denounce racists and white nationalism. He spoke boldly. Many of my friends and family are speaking out online and in public against the violence in Charlottesville. They are posting articles and attending vigils and using their voices to combat the clanging of hatred. As I post articles, these friends and family share comments of affirmation; they start conversations with their neighbors. They are not being silent in the face of hatred. These conversations are not easy, and they involve words that we aren't comfortable using in our world today. My own sons were shocked this morning when I told them of the events that had unfolded. My 13-year-old learned about the Nazis last year in school, so when I told him that this rally involved Nazi flags and armbands, he was in disbelief. Have we learned nothing? It's hard to talk about white nationalists, white supremacy, the KKK and neo-Nazis. In 2017, well-meaning white folks such as myself like to believe that chapter of our country's history is behind us. Yesterday should serve as a wake-up call to us. We need to boldly denounce these actions and beliefs. What is our silence saying? Revelation 5:9 "And they sang a new song, saying, 'Worthy are you to take the scroll and to open its seals, for you were slain, and by your blood you ransomed people for God from every tribe and language and people and nation.'" I believe that one day God will set all things right. And in the meantime, I believe we have a lot of work to do. Like the former white supremacist at Heartland Vineyard who shared his sin so many years ago, we all have some soul-searching to do. Where is my privilege? How am I experiencing prejudice? What difficult conversations do I need to have? Where do I need to ask for forgiveness? And perhaps most importantly, how can I show love? Psalm 33:5 "The LORD loves righteousness and justice; the earth is full of his unfailing love." This month's existential crisis came in the form of Esther. (Is it normal to have a monthly existential crisis?) I've heard the story of Esther since I was a young girl. Esther, the beautiful queen destined to save her people. Today Pastor John taught on this story again, and I've been emotional since. Mordecai, Esther's uncle, persuades her to act on behalf of the Jews who will otherwise be exterminated at the hands of Haman. Mordecai says, in one of the book's foundational verses, "For if you remain silent at this time, relief and deliverance for the Jews will arise from another place, but you and your father's family will perish. And who knows but that you have come to your royal position for such a time as this?" (Esther 4:14). For such a time as this... At lunch after church I was distracted. "Esther had a real calling on her life," I said to Chris, "a true Purpose." 'Yes," he replied. "But she didn't know that when she became queen." And he was right. She didn't know right away, but she eventually knew. What if I never know? I had a snow day on Friday and found myself doing some deep cleaning and organizing. In the bottom drawer of my nightstand I found a roll of black and white film that Chris had taken before we were married. I stared at those pictures, trying to remember what I was like at 22. My skin was so smooth with no wrinkles around my eyes. I had not yet decided to become a mother by adoption, and I had yet to lay eyes on my two beautiful sons. I was finishing up my teaching degree, and as always, I loved learning. I stayed up later and said yes to more adventures. I wore thrift store t-shirts with cut-off camouflage pants. I believed there was a Purpose for me. Soon I had a vocation: English teacher. And I've had moments where my work feels like a passion, but I wouldn't say it's ever felt like Purpose. I felt a hint of that purpose during my summers working with youth at camp. I've felt similar hints when I've met with young girls for Bible study. And of course there's always been my dream to be a back-up singer. I don't need the fame and spotlight of a lead singer; no, just give me a mic and let me sing harmonies. Likewise, I read the work of professional bloggers and think, "Oh, I would love to do that," but that's not my calling either. I'm always living in my head, asking all of these big questions and not often getting answers. Maybe I'll never know my "for such a time as this." Maybe my purpose isn't saving a whole people group like Esther. Maybe it's being a mom and teaching students about Orwell and helping young writers find their voice. Or maybe it's something totally different. Or nothing. Or everything. See what I mean? Existential crisis. My personal and professional lives overlapped in the power of the prodigal son. It was the assigned reading for College Comp II, a part of our chapter on analysis. This is a class all about close reading and writing. It comes with a heavy serving of reading and discussion. Maybe you know the story. Father has two sons. Younger son takes money and runs. Lives the party life. Finds himself destitute and living with pigs. Literally. Comes home to rejoicing father. Older brother is peeved. Still, celebration ensues. "This is a story about bad parenting," a student remarked. I nearly spit out my tea. "Can you explain more?" I queried. "Sure. The kid didn't learn a lesson. The father gives and gives and gives. The older son has every right to be angry. How does the dad expect the son to learn from his mistakes?" A lively discussion followed. We talked about grace and forgiveness, about cultural context, about the importance of character placement. (Just why is the older son there? What is his role?) We talked openly about how our own parents might shape our interpretation, and my students looked for my input as the sole mother in the room. "Well, you know," I began, "in my house we mess up every day. In big ways and little ways, myself included. When my kids come to me and say they're sorry about something, my first response is always to hug and kiss and forgive. Then I move into teaching and correction." "Oh, in my house that was always opposite," the same student who initiated the conversation reflected. That same night as I sat in church, I thought again about the parable that I've read hundreds of times and heard dozens of sermons about. While many of my students connected to the older brother, I always find myself relating to the younger son, maybe because I've been the one messing up so very many times. Unlike the younger son, it seems like I'm always drifting away, not necessarily running at full speed. But then I blink and discover I'm away from my Source, the One who really loves and welcomes me home. (Oh, I do so love the love of Jesus.) I sat in church and reflected on my own parents, the ones who first introduced me to that deep, deep love of Jesus around the oak kitchen table as Dad read devotions. The parents who took me each week to sit on the stark wooden pews with a soundtrack of rumbling hymns that taught of "streams of mercy, never ceasing." My parents always sided with grace. Family folklore tells the story of the night I missed my curfew. (I'm sure my siblings can also recite the details by heart.) I was sitting in a friend's yard on a perfect summer night when I saw headlights coming down the road. I had already missed my midnight curfew by at least an hour. "It's my dad," I joked. And it was. He cranked down the manual window and said four words to me: "Get your butt home." And I did. I learned from that lesson, too. I wasn't berated or shamed when I got home. I was first hugged because my parents had been worried that my car was in a ditch on a gravel road. Yes, there were consequences for my actions because I had broken the rules. But I was corrected in love. Grace always won. This lesson will come back to the classroom, too, because I label this as a teaching blog. I hope I'm known as a teacher who sides with grace. This morning two senior boys came into my classroom on the day our Kate Chopin literary analysis is due. Our school has had district-wide filtering and network issues this week. These boys had both been victims with no access to their first drafts. I could have said, "I'm sorry, but there will be a penalty for your actions." And maybe I should've. But I will forever be that young girl in an old church singing, "Let that grace now like a fetter bind my wandering heart to thee." So instead I said, "I understand extenuating circumstances. I know the tech is up and running now, so try to get it to me by the end of the day." And each boy smiled and said, "Thanks, I will." So that's my response today, too. "Thanks. I will." My students recently wrote letters of the next president. I thought I would do the same. Dear Future President: This morning I was reminded of a song I love, and it is the message that I want to implore you to remember. The message will sound simplistic because it is. The song is titled “Everyone’s Beautiful,” and that’s where I want to start. Our country feels more deeply divided than it ever has in my memory. I have my theories as to why this is, but I know you’re busy, so I won’t share them here. I do want to share what I think can fix that. It can be summed up in a word: empathy. Empathy will help us remember that everyone is, indeed, beautiful. I’m teaching my high school students the beauty of To Kill a Mockingbird right now. I hope you know the story. The main character, Scout, develops empathy for others throughout the story because of lessons her father teaches her, lessons about walking around in someone else’s skin, learning from others’ experiences. You don’t need to know my whole life story, but I will tell you this: I had an idyllic childhood with loving parents and extended family and a strong educational foundation. My world lacked one essential element, though: diversity. My friends were like me: white, Midwestern, Christian, and heterosexual (or so I believed at the time.) It may have not been explicitly stated to me as a child, but I grew up knowing to vote Republican. Because my world looked just like me, I thought that WAS the world. That changed. Now here I am, decades later, the white mom of black children with gay friends and Buddhist friends. I’ve traveled outside of my Midwestern bubble more times than I can count on all my fingers and toes. Every one of those people, every single experience expanded my world. It’s no longer white, Midwestern, Christian, heterosexual, and Republican. And it’s better because of that. My worldview changed because I now love people who are different than I am. (Now here's a lengthy side note on faith. It’s worth noting that I’m still a Christian. My relationships with Buddhists and agnostics didn’t sway my beliefs. However, I want to live in a country where my friends feel they have freedom of their religion as well. I hope you realize that you can’t legislate salvation, as much as some well-meaning Christians might wish you could. The rest of the lyrics from “Everyone’s Beautiful” mentions that redemption is found “down deep in your [God’s] eyes.” Redemption isn’t found on a ballot or scrawled on a piece of legislature. I’m not sure where that faulty idea came from, but it’s a permeating, poisonous one.) Maybe what I’m suggesting is a book club where the Syrian refugee and the Midwestern farmer join together with some other folks to read To Kill a Mockingbird. I guess that’s probably not feasible, so what I’m asking you to do is this: help our country remember that we’re not all the same, and that’s a good thing. I recently saw a poll that suggested the majority of Republican voters thought life was better in the 1950s. But Mr. or Madam President, my transracial family would not exist if it were the 1950s. One of my favorite former students would probably still be living in the closet, and my role as a working mom would be the exception, not the norm. Personally, that’s not a way of life I would like to return to. My encounters with the exceptional diversity in this country tell me that America is still pretty great. This all means that you’re assigned a task that I’m sure feels nearly impossible; you must make decisions that are in the best interest of a wide range of people groups. For a long time the direction of our country was driven by white men, but that is no longer the case. You need to do your job accordingly. That means you’re representing the white man, the black man, the Jewish woman, and the Muslim refugee. That’s a tough task, and I sincerely hope you’re up for the challenge. After all, we are all beautiful. Thank you for your time. Sincerely and respectfully, Kimberly Witt Some days I feel pretty hopeless. A student wrote, in response to an article about Colin Kaepernick, “I kind of get sick when black people say it’s a white man’s country because it is we were here first and if you don’t like it then get out of our country.” And I think as I read those words, are you thinking of my children? Where did you learn such falsehoods? I see the giant Confederate flag waving in the back of another student’s truck, and I think, do you know what that symbolizes to so many? I sit at my desk and vacillate between throwing my hands up in the air or weeping or screaming. I want to give in. Today I’m feeling pretty beat up and broken. This afternoon I can’t read one more Article of the Week response telling me why the police are justified in all of their shootings. I can’t look at another essay that tells me that racism is over and black people need to get over it. It’s hard to talk about favorite books with a student one minute and the next minute read the hatred sprinkled in his writing. So this afternoon I switch Pandora to some worship music and remember that change once happened in me. Yes, this is a teaching blog that often touches on issues of social justice, but I am first and foremost a follower of Christ. When I was 20 years old and working at church camp, I sat alone in the quiet with God and had a vision of my heart hardened like a rock floating up to heaven. In return I received a heart of flesh. It was new. I was new. At that point in my life, my heart of stone was crusty and dusty and full of regret. But I went from living a life of darkness and sin to walking in the light with Love. Last night at my church small group we talked about the patience of Abraham and Sarah. They were promised a precious son, and then they waited. And they waited some more, waiting on a promise that God would fulfill only in His perfect timing. As we continue to live in the midst of sinfulness and depravity and the remnants of a white supremacist society, we are waiting on another promise that God made, the one in Revelation 21:4 that says, “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." In the meantime, we’re living in this shitty mess, the old order of things. (Excuse the language in a blog about faith. Sometimes it’s the only word that will do.) And in the meantime, it’s really really hard to have hope in this mess. It’s hard to hear of divisions and hatred; it’s nearly impossible to believe in that promise. But still. I have to cling to that same hope for humanity, even if that change doesn’t come in the timing I desire. (Or in my lifetime.) That doesn’t mean I don’t keep trying and praying and posting and pleading. It doesn’t mean that I sigh and give up in resignation. It just means that I do NOT give up my hope. It means that His ways are higher than mine. In “Your Hands” by JJ Heller she sings the Truth that “one day You will set all things right.” That is where my trust is today. Not in my words. Not in the government. Not in humanity’s ability to get it right on their own. I trust in God’s power to transform hearts of stone into hearts of feeling flesh. Come, Lord Jesus. Set all things right. |
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September 2020
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