So you’d think I’d be all for disrupting the worship service of a church where a pastor, David Easterwood, was also an ICE official.

And yet, I wasn’t. Not because I didn’t understand the impulse. Not because I didn’t support the cause. Not because, as one Facebook commenter suggested, I believed worship should be safe and I was trying to protect “white bodies.” And not because, as another suggested, I subconsciously related to this congregation.

Ew. As if.

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In fairness, I understand how they’d think this. Especially if this was the first post of mine they’d seen…ever. After all, lots of people who had been silent on (or supportive of) ICE’s brutal, illegal, un-American harassment tactics, on their murders of Renee Good and Silverio Villegas-Gonzalez (just a few miles east of my home), on ICE’s ill treatment of those within detention facilities were suddenly outraged over a disrupted worship service.

If you think that is how I have been, I get the uproar.

But alas, a quick scroll of my Facebook feed shows you it is not.

Believe me, I understand both the impulse and the rationale to disrupt that service. I understand that this non-violent action was about protecting the vulnerable, about seeking justice. I understand the importance of confronting a pastor about some very unChristlike behavior. And I understand that we are very close to something of a civil war.

Likewise, I know that Jesus flipped the money-changers’ tables. I know he kicked those dove-seller’s stools and drove them out of his father’s house. But hear me out (and this is where some of you are gonna get mad): Not all is fair or right in love and war. And Jesus (according to tradition) flipped those tables on a Monday. Flippin’ Monday of Holy Week. I think this matters. Maybe not.

Either way, there is something extra emotional about actions that happen in or are targeted at houses of worship. A firebomb that kills little girls getting ready for choir hits harder than one that kills them at Applebees. A swastika spray painted on the side of a synagogue packs a bigger punch than one painted on a WalMart wall. A community protesting the building of a mosque (or certainly, the bombing, the fires, et al that happen) stings more than protests for building a bandshell in the wrong place in a park. The story of a woman shot and killed on her way to church feels worse than if she were on her way to work.

Why?

Because by nature, places of worship elicit that response. They feel more vulnerable and thus hit our hearts harder. Places of worship are sanctuaries—safe places—or they should be—no matter who is worshiping inside or what or how they worship. Even if they are wrong. Even if they are very wrong as I do believe in the case of Cities Church in St. Paul.

And this is why, of course, the protestors chose to protest inside this. They were communicating the lack of safety a community felt by breaching the safety of worship.

I get it.

It struck harder to disrupt inside than to do so outside. The congregants described the act as “an unacceptable trauma.”

Uh huh. Right.

Even still, here’s where I land—as a liberal, privileged middle-aged white woman who has left jobs, lost clients and relationships over my unapologetic defense of the oppressed and vulnerable and in response to cruel and unChristlike treatment by Christians: It is our right to worship as we feel in this country. It is a church’s (or synagogue or mosque or temple or whatever) right to have clergy who believe horrible things. It is a church’s right to have a pastor who says horrible things. And I believe—to do so without reasonable disruption.

Partly, it’s just me. Because it feels impolite and because I’m socially awkward about disruptions (e.g., I had a hard time asking a grocery worker to scootch over so I could get to the bananas at Whole Foods earlier today).

But mostly it’s because this action—protesting during a church service—feels like crossing a big civil liberty line. And I’m a big civil liberties person (join us at the Illinois ACLU Lunch this April?).

I know the Right has crossed every line imaginable. But it doesn’t mean we need to. Or should.

To me, this action feels like book bans or burnings. We’re gonna shut you up because we don’t like what you say/think/feel.

To me, this feels like ICE banning clergy from serving the eucharist to ICE detainees. Only those the government approves are allowed to do this.

To me, this action feels like churches who say women or queers can’t be pastors. We’re not going to include your church in our city-wide gatherings because of your apostate beliefs—and tell congregants who disagree they are going to hell.

Of course, these aren’t equal. I mean, it was just one protest in a sea of absolute injustice and tyranny. I get that. Which is why I said on an outrage scale of 0 to 100, with this administration’s horrors being 100, I rank the St. Paul in-worship protest a 0.15.

But here’s the thing: I don’t want this to be the future of the Left. And I worry it could be. (Which, strangely, is a sign of hope that I can even consider this evil dictatorship will one day end!) After all, we know this country is willing to elect a tyrant. We know our Congress is bend the knee and turn away from accountability. I’m not fool enough to think this is only the domain of the Right.

There are Leftist megalomaniacs, you know. And there are folks out there licking their chops for this kind of unrestrained power.

I am not saying that’s what was happening in this church—but I worry it could be.

It’s not beyond the pale to think some day, an all-powerful Lefty could tell churches they either perform same-sex marriages and take offerings for abortions—or they must pay taxes. An all-powerful Lefty could decide that religious schools must teach evolution and about birth control, about the wide spectrum of genders, about sexuality and sex positions in their health classes—or lose funding or, again, pay taxes.

And while I support gay marriage and am pro-choice and while I believe in teaching students about sex (age-appropriately) and birth control and certainly evolution, I don’t think religious institutions should be forced to comply. This is still (barely) America.

And if I believe that, I have to defend the right of the Right to have a pastor who terrorizes communities, who kidnaps human beings, who pepper sprays protestors, who shoots women in the face and calls them fucking bitches afterward while casually walking to their cars. I long for the day these people are arrested, tried, and imprisoned, but in the meantime, it seems to be legal, so if a church wants that, God help them, but so be it!

Certainly, communities should know what this pastor does, what this church supports. Certainly, the press should be notified, protests should be held. Parents should be warned what sending their kids to this church’s VBS might entail. Certainly, Christians should act like Jesus—and march into the pastor’s office on a Monday. But interrupting their worship? Something historically and globally so rare and precious?

I still gotta say no. I’m nothing if not a person who stands up for the liberties of all. And sometimes, that really stinks.

In the meantime, please join me in contributing to one of the many amazing organizations in Minneapolis who are providing food for those who feel they cannot leave their homes due to the monstrous actions of ICE.

From my read of the essay, the student did sort of bring her personal experience in the form of her personal religious beliefs into the piece, but she didn’t engage with the assigned article. Nor did she cite any of the Scripture she vaguely referenced when referring to “God’s plan” for gender and the demonic nature of those who disagree with her.

Also of note, her essay was well below 620 words. Even still, the graduate assistant who assigned the essay offered helpful feedback—and a lot of it. A wise student would’ve heeded the feedback, listened, and learned.

And perhaps this student would’ve—had the instructor not used the word offensive (about the student calling a people group demonic) and if the instructor weren’t transgender.

But alas, here we are.

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And so, rather than learn and grow, rather than maybe gruff about it to her roommates like a normal, mature student (she is a junior Sooner), the student filed a discrimination complaint and shared her essay with Oklahoma!’s Turning Point USA chapter, who then melted down over this “discrimination.”

Lord Almighty.

As a Christian, as a writer, as an editor, of course, I have thoughts on all this. But they may surprise you.

Because I am also outraged.

Not by the terrible grade, mind you. Not because this is any kind of persecution or discrimination.

But because conservative Christians still haven’t learned how to use the Bible to back up their arguments properly. And in my nearly thirty years in Christian publishing, after nearly a decade working in a church, I have been trying to make this happen. I have been trying to help!

As have so many other editors and instructors out there. And we’re not making much progress—at least with certain groups.

Though there are exceptions, as a rule, the MAGA movement, the Turning Point USA sorts, the “Christian” Nationalists, and the regular conservative Evangelicals argue points so lazily. The talking points they parrot are so vapid. And when this is pointed out (as I try to do), they too often refuse correction and fail to “own the libs” like they desperately want to because of it.

So, once again, I will try to help.

In my role as an editor, I work with a lot of clients I disagree with. I have said it before and will say it again: I am a “bake the cake” editor. That means, I won’t refuse to edit a project because I disagree or find your viewpoint wrong.* In fact, I enjoy editing projects from different points of view, and I make it a key part of my job to help clients make their arguments—even, especially ones I disagree with—better, stronger, and more persuasive!

And what I end up telling my Christian clients (who are amazing and do tend to trust and listen to me!) again and again, is that the key to good, persuasive faith-based writing is summoning the devil.

Well, let me back that up.

First, if you want to write persuasively for the cause of Christ, study the art and craft of writing. Take a class. Read a book. Join a writers group. And learn to take freaking feedback and leave Turning Point USA out of it.

Among the things you’ll learn are how to write clearly, concisely, and for the love of God, to cite sources properly. How to quote Scripture and include the chapter and verse. How to drop a footnote when you share what some word means in the “original” language. Because you’ll understand those sources matter.

But then after you learn some basic writing skills, it’s time to invoke the devil—our inner devil’s advocate, that is.

Good persuasive writers examine our arguments from every side, pick them up and turn them around. We squint and scrutinize, pushing back on our own theses and assumptions and anticipating where and how others will disagree. When sourcing Scripture, we ask why one verse says one thing and another says the opposite (and be able to admit that yes, this happens all the time….).

We understand that writing God says is not a mic drop. Never has been. Never will be.

We understand that those who reject God says as a proof-of-a-point are not bigots or anti-Christian or persecuting anyone. They are using their God-given brains.

And we understand that persuasive writing is not for the faint of heart, the soft of spirit.

To write an opinion requires courage. To write an opinion about the Bible requires even more. To write an opinion that goes against what you think your professors or editors or clients or bosses believe requires nerves of steel.

But the nerve it takes to assume you can simply add “God says” to a piece of writing intended to be taken seriously like this student did? That’s “I love the uneducated”-level embarrassing.

And yet, I’m not without sympathy. This student has likely been raised to believe this country and Big University is against her for loving Jesus. And she’s likely been raised in a faith tradition where the Bible and pastoral proclamations are never questioned or examined (maybe even because she’s a woman, but I haven’t checked that).

This student goes to school in a state where politicians believe that hanging the Ten Commandments in classrooms will magically free kids from murderous or sexual impulses and make them love YHWH—or whatever they suppose this will do.

And she exists in a time when the president and his administration believe because they say something—clunkily, in the case of Trump and his administration; expertly, in the case of the late Charlie Kirk—it becomes truth and should be taken as such. And their followers comply. To be a Republican today is to accept what Trump, et al, say as truth—unquestioningly, uncritically. (Though, thanks be to God, I am seeing some of this changing.)

The trouble for those who claim Trump and Christ (aside from, oh, Matthew 6:24 and that gosh-dang first commandment) is that Trump may insist we follow blindly, but God does not.

God could’ve given us Holy Scriptures with clear bullet points on what God Says about X,Y,Z. Instead, God in God’s goodness gives us Scripture filled with poetry and letters, collected oral histories, laws, and prophecies, some agreeing with one another, some seemingly at odds. It’s as if God wanted us to think.

Jesus spoke in parables, telling stories so that we would wonder and ask, so we would question and investigate. And all these centuries later, the wise faithful still wrestle with the Bible, with the meanings, with the applications, with what “God says” about just about everything.

The saddest thing about this whole episode to me is that this could’ve been a great essay. This student could’ve shared how her peers in her community shaped her understanding of gender, of how she sees herself and her role. She could’ve quoted Scripture that supported her arguments—and had the courage to engage Scripture that didn’t—and connected it all thoughtfully to the assigned article. She could’ve engaged her mind and spirit, her body and soul and presented something that the TA might still have disagreed with, but have been compelled to reckon with.

Instead, it turned into an embarrassing whine fest for the student and Turning Point USA, and, of course, an unfortunate investigation for a TA who was trying to hold a student accountable and help.

All this to say, MAGA, please: If you want to change hearts and minds, if you want to persuade, if you want to draw people to Jesus, if you want to own us libs, learn the craft, summon your inner devil’s advocate, and think, question, wonder, test, explore, research—whether or your source is the Bible or something else.

Of course, I suspect most still won’t listen. After all, doing this means MAGA might become what they hate: good, interesting, thinking, feeling, caring human beings.

*I have passed on projects, the most recent one that amounted to defending child abuse.

Even still, Pigeon was happy. He ate, he slurped, he wagged his tail, he snuggled, and he loved me so, so much until his last breath.

And I loved him. To be more precise, I love him—as I believe 100 percent that his precious pit-bull spirit lives on.

While some question my faith and “terrible theology” based on my inclusive views of queer people or my concern for immigrants or my rebellion against our authoritarian regime, one should really question my thoughts about heaven.

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Indeed, since the days after Pigeon’s death, my family and I have imagined all sorts of heavenly happenings: from Pigeon’s “Welcome Week” festivities, to awkward encounters with squirrels and cicadas he’d previously sent to Glory, to his first day of Spooky School (Pigeon was sneaky, a lovey lurker, so if anyone’s gonna be a ghost, it’ll be him. Another of my pits will for sure be put on Judgement Day duty. IYKYK).

While there’s a lot to critique about my views on the afterlife—and animal souls—it’s been wonderful spending so much time imagining heaven and glorying in the amazingly high and wide and deep love of a God who is so good to give us dogs.

I share all this not to be a downer, but because when Charlie Kirk was brutally murdered, gunned down in broad daylight like too many Americans, heaven was already very much on my mind.

Perhaps that’s why I noticed all the heaven talk so much.

Not about Charlie going to heaven, mind you. (And yes, I believe he’s there.)

But rather, about Charlie’s legacy—of reaching young men with “the gospel,” of assuring they get to heaven.

As I wrote earlier, I’d barely heard of Charlie Kirk. I certainly had no idea Charlie was Christian or that he proselytized. As I’ve come to see, this was yet again another example of how algorithms silo us—and what we know about issues, people, politics, whatever.

So in the days after Kirk’s death, I began to read more, watch more, learn more about this man so many idolized—as I do when I realize how one-sided I’ve become on anything. And indeed, I did see him saying some nice stuff about Christianity—the faith I proclaim. I also saw him say plenty of inaccurate stuff about the Bible, about our faith, about the treatment of Christians, in his apologetics. But, we all get stuff wrong. And, good for him, I guess, spreading the faith and helping people “get into heaven.”

But as I saw more and more of his racist, misogynist, homophobic, anti-immigrant comments in context, I began to wonder about the cost—not of following Jesus. But of following Charlie.

American Evangelicalism (a tradition I was adjacently raised in and have long worked in!) has made “getting to heaven” its highest priority for as long as I’ve known it. Well, I suppose it’s been tied with “fighting” for the unborn and “traditional marriage.” But officially, most Evangelicals claim—I think—the whole point of believing in Jesus is to be forgiven and get to heaven. That’s why Jesus was born, why he lived, why he ministered, why he died, and why he rose again. So long as we—yes, even wayward, apostate me—accept Jesus into our hearts, we can go to heaven. That’s the deal.

And that is a great deal—and even better news! I believe that! I can’t wait to see Jesus and my dogs! (I’ll let you guess if I switched the order for optics or not…) I can’t wait to see loved ones, to meet historical figures, to ask Jonah about that big fish.

But I don’t believe getting into heaven is the actual point of believing in Jesus. Why? Because Jesus doesn’t say it’s the actual point of believing in Jesus. It’s a point, for sure. But getting us “into” heaven certainly doesn’t seem to be Jesus’s main reason for being born, for living, for healing, for ministering, for dying, for rising again.

The main point—at least as far as I can tell from Jesus—is how we live. Here and now. The best things we can do, according to Jesus? Love God, love others. Love and bless enemies. Seek the lost. Turn cheeks. Make disciples. Heal. Help neighbors. Be peace-filled and merciful. Forgive. Be honest, true, and faithful. Give generously. Pray. Serve God. Trust God. Repent. Be baptized. Take up our crosses and follow Jesus. Watch out for false prophets….

And the reward? Treasures in heaven, yes. But also, the kingdom of heaven. Life abundant. Peace. Hope, Love. Joy. Redemption. Restoration. Christ with us.

Here. Now.

Which brings me back to Charlie Kirk. Sure, he reached young people with a gospel, but his words about others reflected so little of Jesus. In many ways, they ran counter to Christ—as “Christian” Nationalism does. And a gospel disassociated from the life of Jesus, how he lived and what he taught, a gospel that only focuses on his resurrection as a “ticket to heaven” comes at that great cost.

To the gospel. To the Christian witness. And to the believers themselves.

The gospel suffers because it’s hollow. Shallow. Selfish. It’s transactional rather than transformational (gosh, I sound so Evangelical!).

The Christian witness suffers because rather than sharing love and mercy and hope and peace, a this weak gospel highlights fear, mockery, cruelty, exclusion. Rather than a Christianity that embraces like Jesus did, it excludes. Who would want to know this kind of Jesus (except those who already delight in fear, in mockery, cruelty, exclusion and don’t feel like changing)?

And believers suffer because they miss out on so much. I see this in the angry, young “Christian” white men—so eager to make sure they get back what they believe they deserve, what they think has been ripped from them. So eager to make sure others suffer so they can get ahead without having to do the work others do.

And I see this “fruit” in many of the Charlie-Kirk and MAGA disciples who post on my social media and DM me. The depth of their despair, of their anger, of their brokenness is so clear. So heartbreaking.

But this is what happens when we make heaven the end-goal. When we are willing to do anything, promote anything, any words, any cruelty, any false gospels—just to ensure people, especially our kids, come to Christ. Even if it’s a false one.

I’ve never been willing to risk that. I’m a mom of three young adults. Of course, I want them to know Jesus. But not some selfish, greedy, white American “Jesus” who speaks ill of others. And not just for some ticket into heaven.

I want them to know the real Jesus, the brown one, the suffering one, the loving one, the welcoming one, the good one, the challenging one, the confusing one, the one who costs everything to follow. Because that is the Jesus who gave up everything to be born of a virgin, to lay stones—figuratively and literally—to show us how to live, fully, here and now. That is the Jesus who was crucified, died, and buried. Who rose again to conquer death. To conquer sin. To put redemption into this world. So that we know that the worst part of the story is not the end of the story.

And that’s what I want my kids to know. That’s what I want my kids to believe. That’s what I want Charlie Kirk’s followers and all of us to know and to believe.

Because this is where hope lies. For now. For later. For heaven. For earth. And Lord knows, for this mess of a country.

In proclaiming forgiveness of her husband’s killer, it seems Erika Kirk—Charlie’s widow—understands this. I sure hope she does. And I hope as she takes over her husband’s organization, this spirit of grace and mercy shapes it anew—away from a shallow gospel and toward the real, rich one. Away from one that’s about heaven at any cost and toward life abundant. Away from Christian Nationalism and right toward Christ.

Of course, I’m sure plenty of “Lefties” do this too—grab a talking point and run with it—but I notice when “Righties” do it because they’re often directed at me. And it’s fascinating.

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The latest iteration of this has been the accusations of “celebrating” the death of Charlie Kirk.

This accusation first hit my Messenger inbox—from a good Christian woman who occasionally slides into my DMs to tell me I’m doing the devil’s work and that I’m sick and evil and other niceties.

Among them was the accusation that not only had people like me caused the death of Charlie Kirk but, as she said, “I bet you’re celebrating Charlie’s death.”

This was out of nowhere. It seemed odd. Until I saw this sentiment pop up over and over again—on my Facebook page, on other people’s social media feeds, everywhere. Accusations left and right that the Left was cheering this Right man’s death.

Now, of course, some people may be! People are rotten. We are a culture that loves violence. We crave blood. It’s part of who and what this great Christian nation has always been about.

But delighting in death is a weird thing to accuse me of. At least, for those who know me. If you do, you’ll know:

• I became definitively anti-death penalty at sixteen when I watched footage of that crowd cheering Ted Bundy’s execution. Cheering state-sanctioned murder didn’t sit right then, nor does it now.

• I felt bad when I saw Sadaam Hussein’s body swinging, when I heard Bill Clinton and Donald Trump’s partner-in-crime Jeffrey Epstein died, and when bin Laden was shot all those times. Not because the world lost good men—but because I don’t delight in death. I suppose I champion redemption and restoration this side of heaven.

• I think one of saddest stories in the Bible is when Judas dies—either by his own hand or by falling (depending on which Gospel writer you think got it right). Either account breaks my heart. Pretty sure it breaks Jesus’s too.

• I don’t like when a funeral is called a “Celebration of Life.” NO! Grieve, mourn, and wail, people! That’s what the Bible says—and that’s what I think we should do.

So anyway, just as I don’t delight in death for people I am aware of, who did despicable acts—I certainly don’t celebrate those I barely thought about, even if they said despicable things.

In fact, when I first heard the news about Kirk’s death, I had to check which MAGA person he was. I got him confused with that other guy from years ago—that gay Greek one. And a little confused with that Tate terror.

Then I remembered Kirk was recently parodied on South Park. Then I remembered the videos the young people in my life had shown me. The horrible things Kirk had said about women of color, about gay people, about women in college, about DEI programs, and Black pilots. Oh yeah, that guy.

I had no idea he was seen as any kind of champion of the gospel. Honestly, I’d never have guessed that. What I’d seen certainly didn’t strike me as Jesus-y, at least, not as I know Jesus. But in this newfangled MAGA version of Christianity, where Trumplikeness=Christlikeness , I get the comparison.

I had no idea Kirk was married or had kids. But when I found out, I felt sick, heartbroken for them—and for the rest of his family. And because I’m an empath, I really, really felt it. (Sorry, Charlie!)

And then there’s the other side of it all. The side that is personal because although I disagreed with Charlie on just about everything, we shared a zest for the outspoken, for the zinger, for challenging ideas. We shared a love of free speech—something I’ve also suddenly been accused of being against.

Which is so weird.

Because not only am I active in free speech organizations—fighting Republican anti-free-speech book bans, most notably—but in my work as an editor, this is a point of pride. This is what I do.

I think many MAGA sorts would be shocked to see the books I’ve edited, to see the “conservative” positions many of my clients hold—and the ways I’ve helped them sharpen their arguments, solidify their points, make their cases better. How I’ve helped make many conservative books great again!

Had Charlie Kirk come to me with a manuscript and been able to pay my fee and fit my busy schedule, I’d have helped him. When I’ve watched his videos, I’ve see his blind spots, the holes in his arguments. He was great with the surface bull-dozing shutdowns, but not so much with the depth or nuance. I could’ve been his editorial refiner’s fire.

And I would have.

Because no matter how much I disagree with him—and so many speaking out today—no matter how I cringe and bristle at the hateful and unAmerican things that come out of people’s mouths, dang it, I will fight for and defend your right to say it. Again, fee and time allowing, I’ll even edit it. Not to align with my views—but to make yours work better.

And indeed far from celebrating, I grieve—deeply, empathically—for anyone killed while or for practicing this amazing right we have. For now.

May Charlie Kirk rest in peace and rise in redemption.

And may we all live free—and fight the powers trying to strip it from us.

Huh.

I only learned my daughter’s birthday was also Donald Trump’s birthday when he was first elected. Honestly, one of the only nice things I can say about Trump is that he was born on a good day.

And I only learned that they both shared a birthday with the US Army this year—when the $30+ million dollar military parade was announced.

If someone would’ve told me 21 years ago that all these things would come together this way —that Donald Trump, the twice-elected tyrannical president, would be celebrating the army’s birthday with a Stalin-esque military parade while masked, chicken-**** ICE agents disappeared people off the streets and the US Marines were deployed to stand against US citizens while millions were at risk of losing health coverage and cancer research funds were being obliterated and life-saving vaccines discredited, while court-orders were being ignored, while senators were being tackled for asking a question of a dog-shooting cabinet member, and that “pro-life” people who claim to love Jesus and freedom and this country support all this—well, I’d never have believed you.* 

I would have thought you were stealing stories of my family’s experience in Communist Cuba.

But alas, here we are. 

Not the nation I’d have hoped for while holding my newborn on her first Flag Day. 

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And yet, as I’ve watched the list of planned protests grow for this Saturday, as No Kings Day has become a thing, my hope has steadily risen—as has my joy of having these things collide on her twenty-second Flag Day.

After all, what better way to mark your entrance into full adulthood than to see millions protesting the tyranny that currently governs our nation, to see the caring populace take to the streets and demand NO MORE to weak, would-be kings and those who worship him. 

What better way than to be reminded that though there is so much wrong with this country—that racism now defines the Republican Party, that fear and hatred of others drives our policies—there is also so much good.

You can see the good in the people willing to risk their safety and freedom, their well-being and livelihoods (Big MAGA is watching after all) to step out, speak up, and march against tyranny and injustice for the sake of others. 

In a time when we have so much to be ashamed of as Americans, nothing makes me prouder than to see this. 

As I do want to celebrate my amazing daughter well tomorrow on her 21st birthday (Trump has already ruined enough—no need for him to get this too), I’m not sure I’ll make it to a No Kings rally (though I will try). Either way, I will be rallying in spirit—cheering on the fight. 

Lord knows how long we’ll have this right.

I hope and pray that in another 21 years, this season of Big Government, of would-be kings and dictators, of tyranny, of animosity toward immigrants and people of color is all just a wretched memory. I firmly believe in the God who redeems and restores—and who can take this mess, who can touch hearts, who can redeem all this evil for good. 

My belief in a resurrected Jesus tells me that all this hell can be defeated—trumped, you might say—and made new. Better. 

In the meantime, may God have mercy on us all—and keep the ralliers safe and at peace.

And happy birthday to all who celebrate. 

*And if you’d have told me that the denomination my Flag Day baby would be baptized in two months later would one day say we were bound for hell because we affirm gay marriage, well, I’d never have believed that either!

My brain immediately went back to yet another DM from yet another friend, who, the morning after the election, wrote: Time to get the room ready. 

This friend was one of the few people I’d told my lifelong secret: That after reading both The Diary of Anne Frank and Corrie TenBoom’s A Hiding Place, I have always, in every house I’ve lived in (or stayed in for any period of time), figured out where I’d “hide the Jews.” 

This sounds perhaps off-color today, but in reading those books as a child, I promised myself that I would be the kind of person who was willing to hide others, to save others. No matter the cost, I’d be on the right side of history. (What a gut punch to realize that many Trump supporters must’ve read those same books and wiped their brows when the Franks were found!)

Of course, it was easy back then—to make those self-promises. Back when I never actually thought there’d be a need in this country.

But alas, as my friend suggested she would ready spaces where trans people could find sanctuary if needed, I gulped—and re-upped my promise. 

So yeah, that’s up with the all these book bans. 

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States like Utah, South Carolina, Florida, and Ohio are on book-banning rampages, claiming it’s to “protect the children.” Of course, it’s to protect The Tyrannical Right, to protect The Powerful, to protect White Nationalism from the dangers of none other than empathy. Specifically, the empathy that reading fosters.

And if you’ve been paying attention to the moves of The Tyrannical Right, you know that there is a war on empathy—even in “Christian” circles. The Sin of Empathy is an actual title of an actual book by someone who claims to be an actual Christian. And the idea of empathy being weak, evil, and anti-Christian—even by folks who would disavow this particular author—is catching on. I see it in the messages I receive from folks on The Tyrannical Right all the time. They imagine my loved ones must be this, that, or the other thing for me to speak out against the oppression of certain people groups. They cannot, they tell me, understand why else I’d be interested in fighting against anyone else’s oppression. 

It’d be laughable if it weren’t so evil—especially from the mouths of those who claim to follow Jesus (though, in fairness, their Jesus is spelled T-R-U-M-P).

Anyway, back to book bans. Let’s consider another example, one not about the atrocities of a previous Fascist regime and one instead about the atrocities of a current Communist regime (The Far Right and The Far Left—I’m nothing if not for equal opportunity!). Let’s consider my friend Tina Cho’s amazing, award-winning, must-read-of-a-graphic-novel, The Other Side of Tomorrow. 

This book has not, as far as I know, been banned or challenged. And I pray it never is. 

But it could be. 

After all, it’s about non-white children who escape North Korea in an attempt to find freedom and new lives in the United States. All along the way, they sneak across borders and bribe officials. The characters’ illegal actions threaten their return to the brutal dictatorship of North Korea or prison in the countries they sneak through. Let’s not sugar coat this: These children commit crimes. As do the pastor and missionary who help them.

Of course, as readers, as humans, that’s not how we internalize the story. We don’t see their actions as crimes or the characters as criminals; we see heroes. We see freedom-seekers. We see sons and daughters of God risking literal life and limb to escape tyranny and oppression—or at a more basic level, to find food. 

As readers, as humans, we feel for them each step of the way. Our hearts pound. Our palms sweat. Our stomachs inch up into our throats. We cheer for them. We champion them. We can’t put the book down until we know—please, God—that they are safe. 

And that’s the problem. 

When we read books like Cho’s, the scales of “the other” fall off, and our shared humanity is left exposed, raw.

And so, when we move out of stories and into real life, when confronted with the realities of the thousands, millions of people risking life and limb, sneaking across borders, seeking freedom and opportunity and food like the characters in The Other Side of Tomorrow, we see them differently. We understand them—and their plight—differently. We might end up voting or speaking up or speaking out differently because we see a shared humanity.  

And The Tyrannical Right can’t have that. 

The Tyrannical Right needs us to see the oppressed as less than, as other, as either not-so-bad-off or not-deserving-of. They don’t want us to see others as people just like us—people who want to be loved, who want to live into our callings, who want to be free, who want themselves and their children to have opportunities, who want to eat.

This is why The Tyrannical Right speaks of non-white migrants (and citizens) as animals. As murderers. As rapists. As criminals. It’s why The Tyrannical Right speaks of LGBTQIA+ people as perverts or deranged. It’s why The Tyrannical Right speaks of the disabled as unworthy of protection or opportunity. (Important to note that with The Tyrannical Right, accusation is confession. Always.) And this is why most banned books are about or by people of color or the LGBTQIA+ community. 

This is how The Tyrannical Right wants to see others. This is how they raise their children—and try to raise ours.

The Tyrannical Right does not want us to see others as human, as children of God, as bearers of the Image of God, as brothers and sisters. They must remain “other” for The Tyrannical Right to remain in power. 

And reading—widely—erases the other. 

This is what’s up with all the book bans. 

But the good news is that book bans are a losing proposition. Bills keep being defeated, lawsuits keep coming because organizations like Authors Against Book Bans (of which I am a proud member) keep up the fight.

So on this #RighttoReadDay, keep practicing this right we have (for now) to read freely. Keep supporting libraries and independent booksellers. Keep thinking. Keep feeling. Keep fighting. And keep encouraging others to do the same.

This administration can take away a lot of things, but they can never take away the life- and world-changing power of a great story. 

I call the night before to see if I have to report. Part of me hopes I don’t have to. Like everybody else, I’ve got work to do, dogs to let out! 

But part of me—the curious part, the journalist part, the writer part—hopes I do get called! That part knows I’d learn a lot, come away with a million story ideas or maybe even a plot line for this mystery I’ve been working on (I probably can’t write about the case, but Rump and Musk haven’t outlawed story prompts yet, have they?).

Besides that, I know full well what a rare global and historic privilege it is to serve on—and be tried by—a jury of our peers. 

But being called in this time of lawlessness and overstep at the highest levels of government feels different. Not only is a convicted felon and civilly liable sex offender the president of these United States, not only is that felon’s cabinet filled with people accused of heinous acts of violence against women and dogs and bear cubs, not only are the great unchecked being granted access to sensitive and private information, but the felon in chief (and those who voted for him) believe storming the place responsible for making laws is fine. They think crapping in Capitol offices and beating and killing police officers are good deeds. 

So, in light of all that, how does one properly serve on a jury? How does one judge? How can one convict in this time of “moral relativity,” as the Religious Right used to say. These are the strange things I wonder as I look at that summons. 

But there’s another kind of conviction I’ve been thinking about lately—the conviction that isn’t getting enough credit.

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That’s the conviction, the stick-straight backbone of the “Never Rumpers,” of those actual Conservative folks who hold true to their beliefs—maybe they’re “pro-life” or “pro-gun,” for “traditional” marriage or for states rights, low taxes, and a strong military—but they know a tyrant, they know a cult leader, they know a dictator when they see one. 

And they saw one, they didn’t vote for one, and they still aren’t bending.

Many of these folks are friends or family with whom I vehemently disagree on many issues (and agree on plenty of others!). But they understand that something deep and dear is being lost as Rump and the Gang run rampant through the government—and the globe. They see, they grasp what MAGA cannot or will not. 

And they’re speaking out.

I suspect it’s because these folks are smart. They’ve read history. Have paid attention. I suspect it’s because they’ve listened and learned and shared and debated and thought and prayed. And though they have their views, they understand the opposing side. They understand the benefit of checks and balances, of rules of law. 

And they love this country and their neighbors. I see it! I see how that love keeps them from selling out as other Republicans and former Conservatives have and propels them to speak up, out, and against what Rump is doing—without selling out their own values. 

Of course, a few Conservative (former) politicians are doing this too. Certainly Mike Pence, Liz Cheney, and Adam Kinzinger (and perhaps others) deserve much credit for their voices in this. 

But my appreciation for the regular Conservatives who refuse to fall for Rump’s nonsense, who stand tall, who hold to their convictions made me realize what a privilege it was to be able to debate politics and issues, trusting the pendulum would swing back and forth without tearing this country to shreds (even though both sides always accused the other of doing so). 

I never thought we’d see a blade on the bottom of the pendulum and see this country, see our freedoms, see our kindness and values ripped apart.

I never imagined we’d be here. I just didn’t think the Entitled were this afraid. As I wrote in my last post, I just didn’t think their selfishness and hatred of the Other was so great, that they’d burn it all down and let evil reign. 

Obviously, I was very naive. 

I do keep praying, hoping that this madness ends. I pray for MAGA and the Rumpers, that God in God’s mercy would deliver them from the evil they are caught in. And I pray for our country withstands this—and becomes better for having endured Rump’s reign.

But of course, we’re promised nothing. Empires do fall. 

In the meantime, I want to thank my Conservative, Never-Rumper friends who do not stand for this, who speak and write, who paint and protest, who pray and keep loving their neighbors and this country. I am amazed at and grateful for your convictions and your strength. 

It’s easy for us “typical liberals” to be against Rump. It’s much harder to fight against your own party (as most Republican congresspeople and senators are revealing!). Thank you for your courage. Thank you for your backbone.

You may be wrong on some of those views on (ha!), but you truly modeling what it is to be a patriot and a good American. And for that, I am grateful. 

I believe that all us Never Rumpers—Conservative, Liberal, Green, Socialist, Independent, old school Libertarian—need each other to save this country. 

So, let’s get together and debate the issues, help train up the next generation of leaders with conviction, and pray for poor, misguided MAGA and us all—while we still can. 

*Since our president loves to remove Ts, I’ve gone ahead and removed his. 

And that pesky Holy Ghost had the nerve to say: Pray for them. 

So I drafted a letter to my Congressperson. 

The rage didn’t subside.

Again: Pray for them. 

So I put away dishes and listened to a podcast. 

The rage didn’t subside.

Again: Pray for them. 

So I responded to comments on Facebook, listened to my daily Bach, watched funny reels, lit my writing candle. 

Still, the rage didn’t subside. 

Caryn! Pray for them. 

Fine! Ugh.

As it turns out, in my editing career and in my former church career, I’ve spent a lot of time on the crafting of prayers. Prayers may be easy to spout, to yell or gasp or sob out. But they’re less easy to write—whether writing liturgy, crafting a character’s prayer, or creating prayers in a devotional or prayer guide. 

In writing prayer, rhythm matters. As does pacing. Flow. Syntax. Imagery. Diction. Snap. And punch. I mean, these always matter in writing, but when we craft prayers to be read by others, to be used in community, our language needs to not only invite others into a holy space but to evoke spiritual response. Not just an intellectual or emotional one. 

After all, we’re writing to create space to go before God and for the Holy Ghost to sneak and speak into.

Add to that, people need to know what we’re talking about. But it’s a prayer—not a lecture. So a prayer must explain yet invite. Engage yet evoke.

Through it all, it must be true. 

This is humbling. This is difficult. 

And so, I thought I’d practice what I preach. It’s been a while since I’ve written a prayer—as such (I still believe all writing by people of faith is worship and prayer). So I’m rusty. 

And yet, in my rage, the Spirit won’t stop about praying for these enemies. Though the enemy list is long, as this began with a rant about the anti-DEI folks, I’ll start with them.  

The words that formed, however, are less a prayer and more a blessing (same-same-ish). A sharp blessing, of course, because this is me and that’s the only way I could make it true. 

So, okay, Spirit. Here I go. Have mercy. 

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A Blessing for the Entitled*

May you realize—soon—

that you can’t bulldoze the playing field, 

     uninvite the visiting team, 

     grab your ball, 

     huff home,

     and declare yourself the winner. 

May you discover—quickly—

      that you can’t play alone 

      and call yourself the champ. 

     You can’t be the only one 
            considered 

     and somehow the “most qualified.”

May you learn this before 

     you humiliate yourselves further

     than you already have. 

Instead, may you see that you are able! 

	You can work hard.

	You can study hard.

	You can do better.

	You can be better.

You can compete—and win fair and square—

     like the rest of us have 

     and do.

That is, after all, how we get better. 

     That’s how we got better—

     than most of you. 

But I can see how this hurts.

	This country was set up for you.

	It was never supposed to be hard 

          for you 

          to get into school 

          or to get (the good) jobs.

But then we came along— 

     the women,

     the people of color, 

     the gays,

and those with different needs—

		into your workspaces.

		Into the systems set up for you! 

                    YOU!

Suddenly, things weren’t so easy. 

     You didn't get what you'd been promised!  
    

	You had to consider 

               others. 

And that was hard.

       It was so "unfair."

	And so, like all entitled people 

                     (Lord knows I have been there)

		you stomped.

			You whined.
                              
                             You belittled.

				And then you voted.

					Oh, how you voted. 

And now your wish is coming true.

Those of us who worked hard and “bootstrapped” 

     are now being ridiculed.

			We can now be fired or overlooked—legally.

You think you’ve won.

	You lick your lips 

               as you taste your “spoils.”

	It’s precious, really.

Because we know the truth
     We all know you’ve lost.

	Badly.

	Embarrassingly.

	You’ve become

           —in the words of your hero—

      losers. 

May you see that. 

	Because we sure do.

We see who you are,

	how you are,

		what you are.

	May you understand that in playing this hand,

		your weakness

		your vulnerability

		your laziness

		your frailty

		your snowflakey-ness— 

                   if you will—

          now shines on the world stage. 

          Into the universe beyond

          and into the highest heavens. 

In eliminating Diversity, Equity, Inclusion,

          in ending competition,

          may you understand that this move makes you weaker—

          not stronger.

	This move makes you less qualified—

          not more.

	This move makes you so much less 

          than you were made to be. 

But you can change this.

	It’s not too late.

May you see that competition is good for you.

     Competition is good for this country (Capitalism!).

     Competition is good for our families, 

          for our communities, 

          for our workplaces,

          for our schools. 

Competition shapes us, 

          grows us, 

          strengthens us.

May you learn to want that.

May you discover the beauty in this.

We know you’re afraid. 

	We know you feel unworthy.

	We see it.

	We smell it.

But good news!

God in God’s goodness assures us

that we are worthy—

     just because God loves us.

That we have no need to be afraid—

	 just because God is with us.

And, you are worthy.
     God loves you!

You don’t need to be so damned scared. 
     God is with you!

You are held and loved

          by the God of the universe.

         (Not more than the rest of us—

          but not less.)

May you feel this assurance and

	stop your shaking, 
             your stomping,

               your whining.

May you know this and regain

	your strength

	your work-ethic

	your decency

        your competitive spirit

        your courage

       your pride.  

May you learn this before it’s too late

	For you.

	For your family.

	For your community.

	For this country.

	For this world.

May you instead discover the beauty

	not only of hard work, 

         of competition,

	but of sharing with 

              and learning from

			the other.

It’s not so scary. 

So, go get your ball(s).
Come join us.    

And when you do, 

     may you be given the empathy 

     and shown the mercy 

          you scorn.

*I had many other titles for this. A Blessing for MAGA Men, for the Whiney Whites/for the Straight, White, Cishet, "Able" Body and Minded Men.... If you are angry about this, it's for you. 

In a Zoom call with Authors Against Book Bans, co-founder Maggie Takuta-Hall warned against writing out of fear over how some might react to our words. “Do not obey in advance,” she said.

Great advice when it comes to silencing those inner voices that tell us that speaking up is bad for business (and it can be!). But as I’ve said a million times: the role of a writer is a prophetic one. We are called to speak up and speak out. Even when it costs us. Especially when it costs us.

And don’t get me wrong: it is scary!

I mean, if billionaires like Jeff Bezos are afraid of Trump’s political repercussions, how should I feel? 

Guess it depends on how mighty I believe my God is and how important our calling as writers (and as Christians!) is.

Guess it depends on whether or not I think it’s okay to stand idly by in the face of cruelty and injustice or stay silent while others laugh and mock, oppress and hate.

Well, I’ve got a mighty, mighty God; a high and holy calling; and an inability to sit still or stand by.

Here’s what I’ve got to say:

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A front yard tells a lot about a person. Right now, you could look at mine and rightly guess I’ve been putting off repainting our porch railing for about—OH—a decade. Mine tells you I love Halloween, my kids’ colleges (Go Blue! Go Bluejays!), and my queer friends, neighbors, and passersby. 

It also tells who I support for president: Kamala Harris, of course.

It’s not “of course” because I’m so True Blue in the Democratic sense. Lately, I vote Democrat because I’m a thinking, freedom-loving, government-over-reach-hating American like I am a thinking, Jesus-loving, Spirit-following Christian. 

Kamala Harris is not a perfect candidate. I disagree with her and other Democrats on plenty of things. (And contrary to what an elder at my former church warned me: my fondness for Liberation Theology has not turned me into a socialist. Goodness gracious.) 

But that’s okay, because unlike voters with Trump-shaped holes in their hearts, I don’t look at politicians as my personal lords and saviors. In fact, I always vote with skepticism and distrust.

So, it’s “of course” because I love my children, my family, my friends, and my neighbors—no matter who they love. Because I value freedom and equity. Because I support reproductive rights. Because I believe immigrants—and various races and languages and religions and perspectives—nourish the blood of this nation. Because I believe no matter who we are, where we are from, or how and when we got here, we bear the image of God and are worthy of dignity and respect.

Because I paid attention in history class and used to wonder how people could be so weak and roll over for totalitarians. Because I listen to family members who have lived under dictators. Because I read and watch and think critically. Because I take seriously the cruel and alarming and racist and sexist speech that comes out of the mouths of Trump, Vance, and their supporters and feel the chills when people (especially “Christians”) cheer this on.

Because I am a big-hearted, open- (and sharp-) minded, small-government libertarian at heart. Because I believe in free speech and the free press. Because the idea of a dictator-wanna-be president turning the military on rights-exercising Americans horrifies me.

Because I love this imperfect country.*

And after all this, even after watching fellow countryfolk support this other-hating,** sore-losing, insurrection-inciting, Hilter-admiring, p****-grabbing, misogynistic racist r*pist, I have hope that we can and will do better. That one day will we have liberty and justice for all. Finally.

In the meantime, may God have mercy on us all.

Peace. 

*I could write all day about the reasons I would never vote for Trump or Vance. A family friend once said, “I’d rather see Satan win than the Minnesota Vikings.” I think about that a lot in this election.

** My dear Trump supporters: one day you will be the other. You probably are today, actually.

I recently edited a political novel. Overall, it was hilarious. My report to the client was mostly glowing. She had done so many things well. Great pacing. Good structure. She had a knack for setting scenes and landing a joke. But she messed up in one area—a biggie. Many of her characters fell victim to caricatures. 

The heroes—of one political party—were all very smart, very witty, very charming. The villains—of the other political party—were all gross, witless, and very, very stupid. 

Black and white.

Good and bad.

Cut and dry.

Broad brushes.

Now, I am what I call a “bake the cake” editor. That is, I don’t have to agree with the political or theological or sociological position of my client to take on their project. And if I do take on a project, my job is clear: to help make their book the best it can be. I might push back on points, but it’s only to help the author make their case better—never to say they are wrong (which is not to say I don’t think it!).

So my concern with this client’s project wasn’t so much that I aligned politically with those dirty, witless, and very stupid characters. My problem was that the writing wasn’t true. 

She created characters that no one would believe. No one would recognize. At least, I didn’t (note: I do work from home and don’t get out much, so maybe I’m wrong!).

Her heroes and villains, her supporting characters and sidekicks had no nuance. No gray areas. 

And nobody, no party, no religion, no town, no nothing is all bad or all good. 

We know this in our heads. We all know that the bad guys have to have at least some redeeming characteristics and the good guys gotta have their flaws. That’s what makes characters interesting and stories true—even when they’re fiction. Especially when they’re fiction. These nuances allow us to understand motivation, understand one another.* That’s how we connect and consider and grow.

The trouble is that we’ve lost this sense in real life—and it carries over into our writing. Our day-to-day stories, the stories we hear on the news, the stories that wander through our minds, that come out of our mouths, that are projected across social media and in stump speeches from the wanna-be leaders, have become so untrue.

Often literally and at great expense.

But even when the stories aren’t completely fabricated, the expense to humanity can be just as great. 

When we start thinking in terms of “those people” or describing folks with different views or voting habits as “wicked” or “evil,” as “clowns” or “fools,” we flatten them as characters and as humans. 

And while this is disastrous in our writing, it’s even worse lived out.

Don’t get me wrong: There are wicked people. There are beautiful people. There are good people, bad people, wise people, foolish people. There are cruel people. There are kind people. There are people who stir hope and those who peddle fear. 

But no one is all those things at once. Whether they are characters in our stories, candidates on the stage, or voters in the booth. And even when we’re disappointed by what we hear someone say or by what we see someone do, it’s important to remember that.

And if we truly want to make better societies, we have to see each other as complex characters. It doesn’t mean we can’t discern who we want to vote for or hang out with. And it doesn’t mean we can’t push back or challenge folks on their positions. But it does mean we must stop maligning.

At least, I must. And my client had to. I’m guessing this is true for most of us.

So, as we Americans wade ever deeper into this election season, I’m going to do some deep breathing and see if I can’t practice what I’m preaching. Because, I have to be honest, some days I am yelling at the TV or my social media feeds. I just cannot believe people would spread vicious lies about refugees for God’s sake! And, to be honest, I can’t believe there are people who support this.

And yet, as hurtful and hateful as I find stuff like this, as a person of faith, I need to remember that while I am called to speak up for the oppressed and downtrodden, I’m to love neighbors and enemies alike. And part of that process is being humble and merciful, as Nadia Bolz-Weber recently wrote about, ditching the easy, false binaries, and seeking to restore some sense of our shared humanity. 

And part of this is living out what I’ve always told my kids: to seek to understand. We have to seek to understand—motivations, hurts, fears, longings, everything—as writers and as neighbors. Doing this requires asking more than preaching and listening more than shouting.

It’s not easy. It’s much more fun to paint the other side as one bad thing or the other—especially when we’re confused or heartbroken how our friends, neighbors, or family members can believe or support views we find appalling.

But we’ll never get anywhere if the characters in the stories we write or the ones in our lives are all extremes. There’s no understanding in that. There’s no grace in that. There’s no love in that. And therefore, there’s no change in that.

If we want better stories and if we want better societies, let’s work on our characters and—Lord help us—our character.

And if you are able, make sure to vote!

Peace.

Caryn

*I recently listened to Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood. Not sure I’ve ever read anyone portray pretty “bad” people who did very bad things so richly. I felt bad for everyone throughout—even as I wanted justice. Though, not the death penalty.

Use pronouns sparingly. And remember: a pronoun needs a clear antecedent—the name or noun the pronoun represents—before it. 

While an antecedent-less pronoun can be used for effect— to create mystery in the beginning of scenes (His eyes met hers as he clawed through the spiderweb…) for instance—once we have names, use them. Don’t make the reader go back and figure out who’s talking or doing the thing. Reading should be a pleasure—not a chore. Writing is the chore (albeit a pleasurable one!).

So for years, I’ve attributed a quote, “Pronouns are the devil,” to Stephen King. I thought he wrote in his absolute masterpiece, On Writing. Apparently, King did not. Google will not show anyone who said this—so perhaps the phrase is mine.

King does write this about pronouns, however: “I hate and mistrust pronouns, every one of them as slippery as a fly-by-night personal-injury lawyer” (p. 214). 

I mean, that’s good too. But “pronouns are the devil” is better, right? At least for those of us who understand how the devil works, sneaking and sliding his* evil into this world.

But my little phrase has a big problem: Much like an antecedent-less pronoun, my phrase can be misconstrued. 

In fact, I can imagine the delight of some—those who told me the presence of “she/her” in my old church email signature “promoted sin,” for instance—thinking that I have acquiesced. That I now agree that including pronouns in bios or on nametags is not about hospitality but about an allegiance to Satan—or something like that.  

Alas, while I haven’t changed my mind on the good hospitality that pronouns afford, I do agree that the devil is to blame for the current pronoun hubbub.

Contrary to what that devil has convinced many faithful folks of, however, pronouns may cause literary problems, but they don’t cause personal or theological ones. 

At least, they shouldn’t. Especially not for people who use pronouns—male or female—for a genderless God. 

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In Scripture, God’s only requested pronoun is I (Am). However, since Jesus calls God Father, we learn something important—and it’s not that God has genitalia or XY chromosomes or that God the Father teems with testosterone.

Instead, we learn that it is right and proper to address our good, merciful God—one without male parts, one without male chromosomes, one without male hormones—as Father. A him. 

But that’s not all. In Luke 13:34, Jesus famously sees himself as a mother hen longing to gather her brood under her wings. Now, Jesus had rooster parts (note: I’ve recently learned that roosters have different sorts of parts, but you get the gist…), and yet in this moment, the circumsised Jesus identified as a girl bird. A her. 

Now, we don’t have to understand everything about a genderless Father God or a male Mother Hen to use these terms. We do it, we go with it, because that’s how Jesus identified them. We call God Father and don’t ridicule Jesus for describing himself as a Mother Hen out of courtesy, out of love and consideration.

So those who think it is not “of God” (as I’ve heard preached) to use pronouns for people whose parts (at birth or at present) don’t match who they know themselves to be is or those who refuse to use those pronouns because we “don’t understand” or are disgusted would do well to reconsider. 

We need to wonder why Jesus, the Son of God, had no problem identifying as a lady bird and why Jesus attributed a gender to God that does not line up with God’s “biology” or his physical or spiritual composition. 

Why was this? 

Did Jesus succumb to some ancient cultural gender pressure? Did Jesus’s library not ban enough books? Were the bathroom signs not clear enough?

Or was Jesus showing us that sex and gender and how we identify in accordance with parts are actually not huge issues to God?** 

That despite what the poets wrote in the creation accounts, Paul would be on to something with his “...nor is there male and female, for you are one in Christ” bit. 

That perhaps what matters is that as long as we identify as God’s children, as long as we know we bear the image of God, and as long as we recognize that God, the Creator, the Father, the Mother Hen, the Crucified, the Risen, the Advocate, the Hoverer, the Spirit, the Three in One—the he, she, they, it—love us and long for us to understand the depths of this love and the lengths to which this God will go to show it (really, that’s the story of the Bible!). 

But again, like antecedent-less pronouns, the devil lives to misconstrue. And the devil wants us to forget that unrelenting love of God. The devil wants us to forget that God longs for our company, our presence, our prayers. The devil wants us to forget that no matter the parts, no matter the pronouns, we bear God’s image.

And so, cue the pronoun conflict.

Cue the lie that we need to understand before we respect or love.

Cue more reasons to hate our neighbors. To see them as other. To mock them. To torment them. To live contrary to the way Jesus told us.  

All in the name of “God”? All because of Genesis 1:27, in which an ancient who thought the flat, domed earth was the center of the universe tells us that there’s a male and female form of mankind? That’s more important than being made in God’s image?

Yes, the devil convinces. That’s why.

And when that hate takes hold (and oh, it’s taken hold!), the devil rejoices when a child gets murdered in their bathroom because they identify as they. 

The devil celebrates when community members hope to silence and shame public school districts from kind and inclusive policies. 

The devil cheers when “Christians” proclaim that to be queer is not to be made wonderfully or in the image of God.

And then—aaah—the devil sits back and relaxes, hands behind his head, feet up, when he realizes he’s convinced half a mighty nation and so many people who claim to love Jesus, that though God’s beloved are sexually abused in churches, in prayer rooms, and at “Christian” camps and although God’s image-bearers are getting murdered in bathrooms and shot in schools, in churches, in parades, in the streets, in you-name-it, pronouns that may or may not match parts are the bigger threats in our day.

***

It’s funny how we change as we get older. I’ve spent most of the past two decades avoiding pronouns for God—because God is neither male nor female and because “they” feels correct but awkward.

But I think I’m going back to him. Maybe sometimes her. Because when we use him (or her) for God, we acknowledge that pronouns do not need to match the plumbing—or lack thereof, in God’s case.

But pronouns do need to match a recent antecedent. 

**And here we get to the root—because if they aren’t, so many gender-related power plays in the church and home and everywhere are at stake! This is the reason people care. If gender is fluid, so is power. And those in power gotta hold on to that power!

When you write an article or a book or a poem or a short story—and send it into the world—announce it. Promote it. Tell folks about it.

It may be awkward. It may feel like boasting. You may hate every last minute of promoting a book. While I’ll never be on Team Establish a Brand (ugh), if we believe in what we’ve written, we should share the good words.

Okay, so while I do tell my editorial clients this, the truth is: right now, I’m telling it to myself. 

Because TODAY is the official launch day for my latest book, The Cupsnake Escape, book two in the Frankinschool chapter-book mystery series. I love this series, and I love this book, as does my friend and fellow writer Jennifer Grant, who gushed about it but added, “It’s so weird.”

And it is.

Because the entire series is about the magic of asking, “What if?” and the power of pretend—and how What If and the power of pretend not only helps us have fun but helps change things, solve things, make this world better. 

And this book is no different in exploring those ideas—in a slightly creepy, ghostly way. Born out of my own curiosity about a mysterious fourth floor at my kids’ high school, my attempts to conquer my fear of snakes, and my appreciation for a super fun third-grade field trip, The Cupsnake Escape explores what happens when our worries get the best of us—and how in those instances, our imaginations can help or hurt us. 

Anyway, it’s not-so-scary ghost story about an ooky-spooky baking competition and conquering our fears and cooperating with our friends. Perfect for young readers who enjoy reading or being read chapter books. 

And I’ve got a special offer for readers of this newsletter! Comment below or share this post to be entered into a drawing for a free signed copy to be sent to the reader, the school, or the library of your choice.

So, not so hard, right? The promotion, I mean. Once again, words for my clients—and for myself.

When writing—anything—only use one space after a period.

I can’t believe I even need to type this in the Year of our Lord 2024. But alas, every now and again, this debate pops up on the socials, and we get people thinking they sound smart, saying:

“They can pry my two spaces out of my cold, dead hands.”

Okay. Fine. But it’ll probably also be out of your cold, unpublished hands.

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Of course, I jest. If you are publishing on your own sites or printing your own books, you are welcome to do as you wish (although, many sites correct this for you). But if you want your writing to be taken seriously—whether it’s in a professional setting or in hopes of being published—and you continue to leave the double spaces even after you know better, it reveals something about you as a writer. And it’s not great.

It reveals an unwillingness to learn, to grow, to adapt, and to operate within the long-accepted practices of an industry.

Of course, our typing teachers were correct when they told us to click and clack two spaces on our Smith Coronas forty, fifty, sixty years ago. Typewritten documents needed that extra space for readability (I think this is the reason). But like so many other changes that we’ve embraced over the past nearly half-century, the advent of word processing has eliminated this need. And thus, the “rule” to leave two spaces after a period died away more than thirty years ago. 

I understand that change is hard—especially when we’re changing things we learned back in the days when, for some of us, life was easier, better. Back when periods and people knew their place—and that was, two spaces removed!

Habits are hard to break. As is acknowledging that what we once learned is now wrong or unnecessary. It’s like learning our parents or pastors did not in fact get everything right! This can lead to a crisis of self or faith. A “deconstruction” and an opportunity for reconstruction and new understanding.

Accepting one space is much less dramatic. But it points us somewhere just as good. Because change is good! Change is the movement of life, the rhythm of the world. We grow. We explore. We discover. We learn. We progress. We evolve. We press on. 

So exciting!

And yet, I get it. These ideas—growing, exploring, discovering, learning, progressing, evolving—terrify some folks. 

But fear not!

All around us folks are making terrible decisions based on fear—fear of failing, fear of being alone, fear of being wrong, and fear of losing power.

But being a writer takes courage. Like all prophets, our high and holy call to put our words into the public sphere leaves us open for rejection, for ridicule, for shaming, for shunning, for loss of livelihoods (all of which I have encountered, by the way—and I am prepared for any delight folks might have upon discovering a likely typo in these editorials…).

And yet, we write.

Though, we are wise to listen to the sword-wielding guardian angels (i.e. editors) who guide us, protect us, and tell us: ditch the double spaces.

In short: Be wise. Be brave. Be on the side of change.

One space.

Peace—

Caryn

PROMO NOTE: Frankinschool 2: The Cupsnake Escape comes out February 6! It’s available for pre-order at Bookshop.org, Amazon, B&N, or your favorite local bookseller. I have a few copies to give away to deserving schools or libraries. If you have a favorite teacher, school, or library who might enjoy the latest in the award-winning series of “delightfully creepy” chapter books, email me at Caryn.r@comcast.net to have them entered into a drawing for a free copy!

When writing dialogue, use said. 

I mean, sometimes it’s okay to use shouted or asked or whined or whatever. But as a rule, said is best. The purpose of a dialogue tag (which is what he said or she said is) is to tell us who is talking. 

Said is a lovely, invisible little word that gives our brains the info they need and allows our minds to move on without overthinking or—in the case of a character who “ejaculates” the words—exploding. 

Now, this bit o’ wisdom is not without controversy. 

Some editors and writers will die on the hill of disagreement with me. And of course, English teachers—whom I love and support—are fond of telling students to “mix it up” because using the same word is boring. These teachers—whom I love and support—are wrong. A dialogue tag is neither the time nor the place to show off our vocabulary (indeed, terrible academic papers might be the only place for this). 

So how does an author convey the manner in which something is said without using extrapolated or screeched or belched? Context, of course. Create the character so well, set the scenes so well, write the sentences so well that the reader knows or can well-imagine on their own how something is said. 

Writers need to do our jobs and trust readers to do theirs. And that means, writers need to let go of our words and let the readers read and use their imaginations.

Of course, this is terrifying. 

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Especially for the writer who wants to control the narrative. 

But as both an artist and a person of faith, I believe we must resist this. 

As artists, what we create and release into the world is no longer just ours. I mean, it is, legally. (Quote and cite! Plagiarism is a crime! Pay artists!) But the way a book or dance or song or sculpture affects me, the way I react or respond or change or grow based on my experiences in life and with the artwork belongs to me. It’s legitimate.

Same for you.

I suppose this is why I struggled as an English Literature major a million years ago with identifying the author’s “intention” or “themes” in books. While this is an important field of study (I promise: English teachers, I love you!), great books have always felt so personal to me, so intimate. As does all great art. I feel most exposed and raw and vulnerable in the audience of great paintings or productions. These are holy moments, and our reactions or interpretations matter as much as the artist’s. 

“Art” that makes us feel nothing or do nothing is not art.

As a person of faith, I feel the same. Because of how God—the Great Artist—reveals Godself in God’s masterpiece—creation—and in the Scriptures. 

God may be in control (I do believe in God’s complicated sovereignty), but God does not seem concerned with controlling the narrative. 

If God were, the Bible would be a whole lot clearer. And we’d understand creation—even just this Earth—a whole lot better. We’d never disagree on interpretations of passages. There would be no Schisms or Reformations or denominations. No person of faith would still believe the Earth was six-thousand-years old or *clutches pearls* flat. A certain candidate would not … Act, nevermind.

As it is, God inspired fallible folks to write of humanity’s experiences with God—sometimes of their first-hand encounters, sometimes of stories that had been passed down (read: modified, edited) through the years and even centuries.

God tells God’s story through means—the Scriptures, Creation, our personal run-ins with the holy—that are wildly open to interpretation based on our personalities, our experiences, our understanding of God, our temperaments, our traditions… All the things that we bring to art.

And so, when the Lord “sayeth” something in the Scriptures, we bring those interpretive elements to how we read it and how we hear that voice of the Lord. Some of us hear shouting. Some of us hear disgust. Some hear whispers. Some hear a voice crack. Some hear warmth. Some see the smile behind the words. 

If we’re reading the Bible “right” —open to the Spirit’s movements all while considering the history, context, authorship, audience, the translations, the politics—and we’re bringing our vulnerable selves to the reading, I’d guess it’s a mixture of both. Depending.

I want to say this is because God trusts God’s readers. God did give us minds and wisdom, after all. But maybe it’s something closer to God wanting us to trust God—and engage with God’s great gift to us—art.

Anyway, this is why Caryn says, “Use said.”

Though I wouldn’t hand the letter to my boss until the end of January—when the holidays and my boss’s sabbatical were over (I’m not a monster)—it was important to have it done. Though it was time (long past, likely) to leave the job I’d held for over ten years at church, still, I worried that I’d chicken out. That my desire (and need!) for a steady paycheck would overwhelm my desire (and need!) to do the right thing.

So, I wrote the letter as a promise to myself. To steel myself against future doubts. To rid myself of having to write a hard letter when perhaps more felt at stake.

Then, I went into that Advent and Christmas season with my resignation letter ready, but with only my husband, kids, self, God, and Google knowing it would be my last as an employee and as a member of the church that shaped me.

As this following Advent draws to a close, as I’ve reflected on the Peace, Hope, Love, and Joy of the season, I keep thinking, What a year it’s been. What a change.

First, on the church front: Where for the previous decade, I was at church all the time—especially during Christmas and Advent. This year, I don’t go. I tried. Really. But as I’ve told others and as I’ve told Jesus, leaving my church feels like a divorce. I was hurt. I was angry. I was confused and felt betrayed by the turn the church and denomination took. Perhaps we just “grew apart.” But my heart was and remains broken by the decisions that were made. 

Though I’ve worshiped many other places that align well with what I feel the Scriptures and Spirit say about loving others and The Issues that caused me to walk away, I’m ready to offer my heart to another church—not yet.

Things with me and God are good, however. Maybe better than ever. I know plenty scoff at the idea of being a non-church-attending Christian and I do believe corporate worship is important, but lazy Sunday mornings are really healing! So restorative. Especially when there’s an F1 race on. Who knew I’d get into that? But this is what happens when you get extra time to hang with your husband after missing these mornings for a decade. 

I still love the Church. I still love Jesus. I still rejoice in the Incarnation and all Jesus’s being born meant for this lonely world. And I trust one of these days the Spirit will woo-woo me back to church. 

Second, on the work front: While I’m now able to enjoy a slower week before Christmas (hallelujah! This is amazing!), I just signed a contract for a two-book project that I do need to get moving on. This year, my new Frankinschool series launched with Monster Match. Book two, The Cupsnake Escape, comes out in February. And Book three, Gone to the Dogs (gotta get dogs in here!), comes out this summer.  

I wrote an Eastery picture book that I’m currently revising. And I’ve made progress on my slow-moving middle grade novel (poor thing. One day I’ll finish you, Angel!). I remain so grateful to be a working writer. What a gift. 

As are the opportunities I’ve had to edit this year. Lord, have I edited. Book upon book upon book—an absolute abundance of work and clients I never imagined when I left my job. I’m so grateful for the clients who find me through Reedsy (what a fantastic organization) and through the grapevine. 

It’s such a privilege to be trusted with people’s manuscripts and their hearts, minds, and souls. The writer-editor relationship is so vulnerable. So tender. Especially for new writers. (My own editors can tear me to bits. I’ve got deep creative callouses.) 

Something holy happens when an editor and writer click, when we understand one another. And I get to stand on that ground and help not only make a manuscript better—but help writers and their work feel valued and loved. Stragenly, editing turns out to be some of the most pastoral work I’ve ever done.

And this doesn’t only happen when I work with Christian writers. The writers I’ve worked with this year have fallen all over the theological, sociological, and political spectrums. I love that the writers trust me—knowing where I fall on certain issues, knowing that I may disagree with their perspective, but also knowing I seek to help them put out the best book they can.

All this to say, I love this work. 

In fact, I love it so much, I’ve started compiling a list of the editing and writing mistakes I see again and again. In the new year, I think I’ll start sharing some of those. Maybe here. Maybe via social media. We’ll see. 

In the meantime, here’s a quick one, a Christmas gift: 

• Welcoming the stranger is not Biblical. It’s biblical. 

• Loving your neighbor is not Biblical. It’s biblical. 

• Polygamy is not Biblical. It’s biblical.

Adjectives are neither particularly holy nor proper names. So, lowercase them.

Wishing you all the happiest of holy days and a bright new year ahead!

Merry Christmas! ¡Feliz Navidad! God Jul! 

Don’t get me wrong: I have things to do. Client books need editing. My books need writing—and rewriting. Proposals need drafting. Talks need crafting. Laundry needs folding. Dogs need snuggling. And dinner—Lord, help me—needs something. 

What’s different now, however, is that my days are largely unscripted. 

Though it’s been over six months since I left my church job, six amazing months of me working as a full-time freelance editor and writer, it’s only now that I’m feeling the space. 

Six months ago, I left church gasping after squeezing in writing and editing (and school) projects under tight deadlines wrapped around a six-day-a-week work schedule. It took a couple months to catch up—and catch my breath. Then, my kids wrapped up their semesters. Though each had work or school throughout the summer, at least one of them was here with me at any given time—which was fantastic, but it did mean juggling and squeezing my work around our conversations and fun outings and vacations.

We had so much fun. I had the best summer I can remember. 

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But now, they are back in school. Last week, I was back to gasping—catching up on deadlines, knocking tasky business things off my to-do list. 

Then, I caught up. I relaxed. And now, as I look at my hours, at my days, at my week, it all seems so roomy.

I’m struck with this first-ever or, at least, first-in-a-very-long-time-ever sensation of time being All Mine. After decades of working while raising kids and also going to grad school and writing and… and … and… having this time is luxurious. It’s a rare privilege. I know.

Because of this, I want to say I need to learn to steward it. But I don’t actually think that’s the right word.

I’ve been listening to Wilder, a podcast all about none other than Laura Ingalls Wilder of Little House fame. The podcast plods at times but is largely fascinating. It covers the good, but also explores many of the troublesome things about Laura, her daughter, Rose, and the books in general. 

While I already knew many of those troublesome things (much as I loved the books as a child, I didn’t encourage my kids to read them [but also—I did not ban them]), the podcast opened my eyes (yet again) to the many, many things about U.S. history I did not know. The Minnesota Massacre? The U.S.-Dakota Wars? The United States government hiring buffalo-hunters to destroy the food source of indigenous people to make room for white settlers? What?

(Oh, how we need a fully inclusive U.S. History. If we don’t do anything about guns hurting kids in school, why do we worry what history—or books—will do?)

Anyway, listening to this podcast has made me rethink pioneers and pioneering in general.

Ever since I was a kid—growing up well-fed, well-schooled, well-loved in a snug Chicago suburb in the 1970s—the word pioneer has had happy associations for me:

Adventure. 

Fortitude. 

Industriousness. 

Creativity. 

I absolutely romanticized pioneers. I’d ride my bike through neighborhoods and down paths (the same neighborhoods and paths I still ride my bike, for what it’s worth) — and imagine I were on a palomino. I’d wonder what this land looked like without all the houses—when it was just open prairie—and what it would’ve been like to settle it.

Of course, our town didn’t do much reclaiming of the prairie back then—we’re better about it now—so I never even properly imagined the itchiness of the prairie grass or wildflowers on my—or my horse’s—legs. But still, I’d wonder how long it would take to haul clothes to our local creek to bang it against rocks or if we’d have to go two full towns south to grind our corn.

And of course, though I do remember recoiling at the anti- “Indian” sentiments in the Little House books, I never thought much about how the wide-openness of the prairie, the opportunities afforded those pioneers did not belong to them. How, the pioneers pioneered because they were manifesting their desinines and living what they saw as a God- and government-given right to take and use it and set their days as they saw fit.

I didn’t think—much—about the people displaced. 

But now, here I am: thinking, typing on land I purchased—but that was once stolen—facing the openness of my days. Time is the prairie of which I am a pioneer.

Like those pioneers, I face a long task list and much to do, as I wonder where’s best to start and what the best hours are.

While I don’t believe in the American Manifest Destiny (what a horrible concept—especially that Christians ever believed this to be true!), like those pioneers, I do believe in callings and in manifesting destinies in general. I believe completely that God called me out of a steady job and into a new frontier. For both of these—and for God’s amazing provision—I give thanks.

However, I don’t want to be like those pioneers—taking what’s not mine. Profiting from the loss of others. Destroying so others out of my way. Thinking what is best for me and my family and my calling trumps the collective good.

I realize this seems like over-kill thought. I’m just trying to set a schedule for crying out loud!

And yet as a person of faith, I must recognize, my time, my days are not just actually All Mine.

This concept that is so central to the Christian faith is almost impossible to square with American thinking.

If I were a Communist, this would be so much easier.

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But alas, I’m not. 

I’m not even a Socialist (though, yes please to socialized health insurance—for the sake of human kindness but also human entrepreneurship!).

I’m left-leaning, free-market, open-border, open-table Christian, a writer, editor, mother, wife, pit-bull-rescue-r, neighbor, friend trying to be a good pioneer of my open days. And though I know better than to romanticize the pioneer past, still, as a good American, I’m drawn to the spirit of adventure, fortitude, industriousness, and creativity as part of my day-to-day. It’s hard to resist the thinking that it’s all mine for the taking.

But that’s not the way of Jesus, who calls us to live—to pioneer—differently.

So I want to value what I’ve been given—but be aware of what might have been taken or should be shared. I want to honor God in my calling and my work—while knowing calling and work ain’t everything. I want to remember that loving others—enemies and neighbors—doing justice, loving mercy, walking humbly is what God actually asks of us. No matter where or when we find ourselves. 

That’s a better pioneer spirit. 

Just not sure how to do it well. Thoughts?

In Other Gnus
Thanks to all who’ve sent lovely messages about Frankinschool: Monster Match. Keep them coming—and if so inclined, it’s very helpful to leave a review on your favorite online bookstores. I have some copies that I’d love to give teachers for their classrooms. If you know a 1st through 5th grade teacher who might like a copy, nominate them to receive one by emailing why their classroom would benefit (if you are a teacher—feel free to nominate yourself!!). I’ll choose a few winners and announce them here. Email me via substack or caryn@carynrivadeneira.com. And stay tuned for more on Book 2—coming this January!

Anyway, although I love all my books, this book is special. 

Maybe because Frankinschool has been around—lingering, waiting, hoping, wondering—for so long. I queried and snagged my agent, the amazing Adria Goetz, with this book nearly seven years ago. Somehow, however, it shifted to the backburner, while other projects got cooking. 

Maybe it’s because Frankinschool is set in a re-imagined, once-was school and because it satisfied my own curiosity about a weird door and a “secret” set of stairs that I used to wonder about while waiting for parent-teacher conferences to start. 

Certainly it’s because this not-so-scary monster and ghost-y story with potions and mysterious transformation is “based on a true story.” At least, the truth of what happens when a kid is disappointed and their mom is a writer. 

And definitely it’s because Frankinschool is all about the power of pretend and the wonders of one simple question: What if….?  

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A reporter friend of mine once said that “Wait. What?” is at the heart of journalism. Indeed, stopping and asking for clarity has propelled a great news story. Similarly, I’d argue asking “What if…?” is at the heart of creative writing—and fuels every great story, whether plot- or character-driven. 

I love being a writer—whether writing here on Substack or writing for children—because I love the opportunity to explore what if, to allow myself the luxury of venturing down trails or around creepy corners and up creaky staircases and seeing what happens or who pops out. 

Of course, asking what if comes with a lot of risk. Which is why the question is also at the heart of our anxiety. If we never asked what if in our regular lives, we wouldn’t worry because we would never wonder what might happen in the worst- or even just bad-case scenarios. So while as a writer, I let my what-if-ing run wild, as a human, I’ve had to learn to temper it, or more accurately, flip it—especially in my spiritual life. 

Here’s what I mean:

Many of us Christians have built our theology and approach to God and life and the ways we treat or include (or don’t) others on fear. This fear—a terror, really—is a direct result of our what-if questions about God when we take them to the worst-case scenarios, i.e. “What if we get this wrong and God smites us?” 

And so, since our what ifs often lead somewhere bad (i.e., smiting), our beliefs and doctrines and theologies and worldviews get shaped and shared to avoid that. 

Believe me, I understand this inclination. I don’t want to be smited either. 

But a while ago, as I wrestled with my anxiety-related what ifs, and meditated on the many (many, many…) “Do Not Fear” passages in the Scriptures, I felt the Spirit suggest another way, a more trusting way to consider my what ifs as I struggled to believe that God listened, healed, restored, and redeemed. 

I realized in these terrible moments—where all my what ifs about God led to worst-case scenarios—that not only were my answers wrong, my questions were. 

Not only does God seems to be largely out of the smiting business (though, was God really ever in it?), but also that kind of fear at any level constricts our reading of the Scriptures and our view of Jesus. Being terrified of one misstep dampens our ability to sense the Spirit and notice God at work.

This isn’t how God called us to live or be in relationship with God or one another.  Our Creator, the God of the Scriptures, this God who sent God’s Son and Spirit to dwell among and within us, invites us reframe our what ifs—both the questions and the answers. 

And when we do, those of us who take the Word at their word, who follow God’s love and God’s rescuing, redeeming hand at work throughout the pages of the Scriptures and through the history of this world, even our most difficult moments, our what ifs can be less about fear and terror of a big, angry God and more the absolute, unending delight and joy of a bigger, loving God. 

Freed from the fear of getting something wrong (and being smited), we’re left open to wonder: 

What if God is not only bigger but better than we imagine?

What if God is more gracious, more open, more loving, more restorative than we think?

What the stories of Jesus are true and God is less interested in us getting every i dotted and every t crossed (gotta put in a little evangelical, “Jesus took care of that cross, after all”) and more interested in our hearts?

What if Jesus was right and that loving our neighbors—as we’d want to be loved—is actually more important to God than anything?

What if rather than being angry at us all the time, what if God smiles at us a lot? 

We could go on and on. Perhaps the biggest question is: what difference does flipping our what-if questions make to our theology, to our beliefs, and to our actions?

I hope a lot. Because of this, it’s a pretty decent spiritual practice.  

Because God not only invites our questions but God gave us imaginations to unlock something powerful—sometimes fantastical play, as happens in Frankinschool—but also something powerful in knowing God and in understanding this world. 

I’m forever grateful to live in a world where we don’t know or have all the answers. I’m grateful God invites us to question and trust in God’s goodness and love—even in our more difficult times. 

As a writer, I love the places what if takes me. As a person of faith, I might love it even more.

***

If you have or know a child who loves slightly spooky (not really) stories of friendship, creativity, exploration, and imaginative mysteries, consider gifting them a copy of Frankinschool or letting your local library know about it. (Want a sneak peak? Click here for the first chapter!) They can be purchased from or requested at your favorite local bookstores, at Amazon, of course, or through Bookshop.org—an amazing site that offers online convenience while supporting local bookstores. If you let me know you’ve ordered it by sharing a bit of the receipt and a good mailing address, I’d be happy to send you or the child a special bookmark and bookplate.

The columnist agreed that a woman was technically, legally in the right in a family squabble. Then she asked: “But would you rather be right—or be happy?”

This question struck me. Not just because I love to be right—or because being right makes me happy. It struck me because I actually misread it, my tired eyes seeing instead: Would you rather be right—or be holy? 

That’ll grab the attention. 

Of course, to many, right and holy are one and the same. Once upon a time I thought so too.

I mention it because this question of rightness versus holiness came to fore again this week as I watched as the Synod (governing body, if you will) of my “heritage” denomination, the Christian Reformed Church of North America (CRC), double-down on last summer’s declaration that some queer-ness and all queer sex are unchaste. This stance is still “confessional.” 

Here’s the weird thing: As much as I disagree with Synod, I understand their thinking—and the fear behind it.  

Synod decided what they did because the majority believe they are right—in biblical interpretation, in doctrine, in church polity, in traditional values, and in the eyes of God.

They believe this rightness will save souls and probably save America*—maybe even make it great again. And they believe being right is what God asks of us. 

The problem is, they are wrong. 

But that’s okay—because, as it turns out, so is Jesus.

Consider what Jesus had to say when the Pharisees tried to trap him for healing bodies and sneaking snacks on the Sabbath. Mark and Luke tell the stories.          

The Pharisees were right when they confronted Jesus for picking grain and healing muscles on the Sabbath. Read the Ten Commandments. The Hebrew Scriptures are clear on what one is not to do on the Sabbath—and that is work. 

While picking grain might not have been work for Jesus (his “sin” was one of not preparing. Jesus, you know I’d have packed snacks if I were traveling with you), Jesus was essentially a healer by trade at that point in his life. Therefore, healing on the Sabbath was work for him, just as editing or writing on the Sabbath is work for me (confession: I edit and write on the Sabbath all the time). 

Jesus should’ve come back the next day. The guy with the hand and the woman with the back had been suffering for years. What’s one more day crumbled in pain or tormented by a spirit compared to the eternity of God’s Law? I mean, God wouldn’t have chiseled Don’t Work on the Sabbath into freaking stone if God hadn’t meant it. 

The Pharisees were totally right on this. Absolutely correct. 

And yet, Jesus told the Pharisees they got this wrong. It was not sin, Jesus said, to free—to liberate—a person from Satan’s suffering on the Sabbath. Despite what the Law clearly said. 

Troublingly, Jesus did this sort of thing all the time. He knew the Hebrew Scriptures. He knew the Law. He knew what was right. He knew the stance that held tight to tradition and stood strong against pagan culture. 

And Jesus didn’t follow it. Time and again, throughout the Gospels.

When faced with the question, “Would you rather be right—or holy?” Jesus chose holy.

When rules and rightness competed with Jesus’s ability to heal, to liberate, to feed, to equip, to uplift, to converse, to call, to love, Jesus chose “wrong.” Jesus chose grace. Jesus chose mercy. Jesus chose righteousness. Jesus chose holiness. 

In fact, these choices undergirded Jesus’s whole ministry. They are the essence of the greatest commandment—loving God with all we’ve got and loving our neighbors as we love ourselves. And based on its placement in Luke, I’d guess these choices—or Jerusalem’s failure to understand them—sparked Jesus’s Mother Hen lament: “Jerusalem, Jerusalem,** the city that kills the prophets and stones those who are sent to it! How often I have desired to gather your children together as a hen gathers her brood under her wings, and you were not willing!”

Jerusalem was not willing because Jerusalem needed to be right. And were very afraid of getting it wrong. This misguided fear cost them the opportunity to huddle under Jesus’s warm and welcoming wings and to experience all he had to offer. 

I worry our need to be right costs many of us that opportunity as well. 

As I’ve written in previous posts, I believe the CRC’s confessional interpretation of Scripture that excludes many of our queer siblings from full inclusion in the life of the church is misguided. I believe this based on God’s Word, based on Jesus’s life, and based on the Holy Spirit’s leading. I believe this position is dangerous—and not just to the queer community and those who love them. 

Choosing rightness over righteousness—refusing to liberate people’s suffering on a Sunday, if you will—damages us all. It keeps us from being like Jesus and from being with Jesus.

But I know this is scary. It’s hard enough to let go of being right for the sake of happiness. To let go of being right for the sake of holiness is next level difficult. Especially when God’s Word is so “clear.”

I certainly don’t have a handle on this.

I mean, how do we know when it’s okay to be like Jesus and break a rule (even a Bible-y one!) to show hospitality?

How do we know when it’s okay to be like Jesus and loosen our grip on tradition or power or the Law or whatever else keeps us from loving others?

How do we know when it’s okay to be like Jesus and stop worrying about being “right” in order to heal or uplift or show mercy?

How do we know when it’s okay to be like Jesus and sacrifice our comfort and security for the sake of another?

How do we know when it’s okay to be like Jesus?

I mean, as we read in the Scriptures, sometimes Jesus is just wrong. Right?

Ack. It’s hard to be faithful.

But here’s the good news: While we battle over who is right and who is wrong (and what is right and what is wrong?) and who is in and who is out, Jesus stands, his wings outstretched (look, how wide! How long! How high! How deep!), ready, eager, desperate to shelter, to heal, to liberate, to feed, to equip, to uplift, to call, to love us all. Us all.

Because Jesus may be wrong, but he is holy.

*O, Canada. I didn’t forget you. It just got in the way of my little silly.
**Just noticing now how this echoes David’s heartbreaking lament for Absalom. Of course, I have a soft spot for Absalom—and was probably right and holy in his rage at his father!

As the lone non-person-of-color in my house, I routinely set my family on edge when I ask questions like this—especially when they sense one of my privileged-feminst-Gex-Xy whitesplanations coming on.

But as my husband read us an article about local citizens objecting to the inclusion of American Street in our public high school English curriculum, no one objected to my questions. 

After all, we all recognized a familiar pattern.

According to the article, the objections to the book were because of “reading level” (which, as a kidlit author, don’t even get me started), because of certain scenes, but mostly because of the 350-odd “bad” words in a sea of 75,000 good (?) ones.

However, we’ve lived, watched, listened, and read long enough to understand that reading levels (again, ugh), scenes, and language are rarely actually the issues.

And so, I asked again: Is the writer Black? 

A quick Google showed that indeed the author, Ibi Zoboi, is Black, Haitian, Immigrant, Female.

Uh-huh.

I ordered American Street and read it in a weekend.

Turns out, it is an “easy” (again, deep breathing) read. There are scenes. And there is language. 

Beautiful language. Salty language. Creole language. English language. Spooky language. Abusive language. Critical language. Polite language. Family language. 

Language. Language. Language. As so often happens in books. 

But just as the presence of a penis and a butt do not make Michelangelo’s David pornography, nor does the presence of certain words or scenes make a book profane.

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Indeed, the brew from the cauldron of all those concerns—that reading level, those scenes, and that language—casts a gorgeous story of Haiti, of Detroit, of immigration and detention, of spirituality and faith. 

American Street is a celebration of all the United States has to offer (until it won’t or doesn’t), of complicated—but still—families, of privilege and underprivilege, of hope, of school, of drugs, and of love and violence in all their heartbreaking, devastating, and powerful forms. 

It’s a great book. (Confession: Any author who describes a high school as a “haunted castle” has my heart.) 

I recommended American Street to my kids—and would recommend it to anyone, say eighth-grade and up. If pressed, I might offer a “trigger warning” about moments of abuse, gun violence, and indeed the language if one absolutely cannot tolerate a book where 0.5% of the words are “bad.” (There is also sex—I think. Still not totally sure. Artfully written!). 

But I recommend it because like so many great stories, American Street makes us care about complicated people and complicated situations and gets us dreaming of and moving toward something better for us all. 

And that, of course, is the problem with the book.

While certainly some folks object to books based on reading levels or scenes or language (and people of all political persuasions, races, ethnicities, and perspectives do this), that’s not the trend we’re seeing in this country (it’s not just Florida, folks!). 

Violent moments and F-bombs are not why books like this are topics du jour at local Republican meetings.

No, the fear that book-banners and school-board protesters have is not that public school freshfolk will be subjected to “swear words.” Gasp! 

The fear is that reading books like this, hearing stories like this, might move those students. Might shape them. Might inspire them. Might enrage or uplift them.

The fear is that conversations might happen. 

Understanding might rise. 

Neighbor-love might break out. 

Healing might come. 

Power might shift.  

Power might shift.

Power might shift

And we sure as eff* don’t want that! 

And by “we” I mean, those for whom this American life is so perfectly crafted. 

Those who stand to lose if the oppressed, the excluded, the underserved and overlooked find the understanding and equality they (we) seek.

Those in power have a lot to lose if our society truly loves, truly understands, truly repents, truly heals, and becomes truly equal and free. If we become more Jesus-y.  

This has been true since Jesus. It’s been true since the Founding Fathers.

It was true during slavery, in Reconstruction, during Jim Crow, in the Civil Rights movement. 

It was true back in the 1980s, when we freaked out about N.W.A.’s “F*** Tha Police.” Rather than listen to the message, rather than consider the pain and power of the folk song (which it is), we cried about “The language! The language!” Our concern was how dare you speak of the police that way. Not, how dare police treat fellow humans that way. But I digress. 

It was true when a church elder confronted me about the trouble with my “appreciation” of liberation theology. Liberation theology—the theology of the Black, the brown, the women (the queer—though I didn’t bring this up at the time), the theology of those who believe the Bible when it calls God a Liberator—was dangerous, the elder said, not because it was blasphemous or idolatrous or led me astray from the heart of God. The concern was not for my spirit—but my politics. Liberation theology, the elder said, led to—and I quote—socialism. 

It was true when we just learned that Taylor University fired Prof. Julie Brown, because of “complaints about assigned readings on racial justice”—the most troubling being a citation of historian Jemar Tisby, the Black author of the amazing, The Color of Compromise, on her syllabus. 

I’m sure the defense of her firing will ultimately be that it was about reading levels, scenes, language—or, of course, socialism. Because it always is. 

*So, why if I don’t find language to be that big of a deal do I not write out the words. Great question with a pretty simple answer: When I’m not spouting off here, I write for children—young children. Though most kids are not looking up author Substacks, if they do, I’d rather not be the one to introduce them to those words. So why don’t I care about freshfolk in high school seeing these words? Because by forteen or fifteen, they know those words. They use those words. Heaven help us, they might even live those words.

To be fair, I looked the part. Based on political profiling, the candidate might well have guessed that the minivan-driving, suburban-living, blonde- (okay, gray-) haired woman she approached would clutch her pearls right along with her as the woman launched into a diatribe against the evils of our “failing” schools and their “liberal agenda.” 

But reader, as the candidate sneered the teaching of self-awareness, kindness, and empathy through Social-Emotional Learning (SEL). And as she bemoaned the apparently even-worse evils of an inclusive, comprehensive history that hints that this country is not all “liberty and justice for all,” all the time, as Critical Race Theory (CRT) suggests, I did not clutch my pearls. Though I may very well have been wearing them.

Instead, I held up a hand and smiled (I am a nice, polite person—most of the time). I told her I loved our schools, supported our teachers and school staff, was a fan of SEL and CRT, and that she was preaching to the wrong choir.

That candidate didn’t win this past November. But her sneering contempt for our “failing” and “liberal” schools and for SEL and CRT lives on in some of the candidates in our local elections—which happen tomorrow (April 4) here in Illinois.  

And as I hear the messaging from the rabidly anti-SEL and anti-CRT crowd (not everyone falls into this camp. I understand some people are still figuring it out!), I continue to wonder what on earth is happening—especially when those candidates claim to be people of faith. 

I love Jesus. I believe this is our Father’s world and that the Holy Spirit is on the move. Because of this, I applaud the inclusion of SEL and the teaching of goodness in our public schools. (FWIW, I also write books—a whole series, in fact! — that get an SEL designation.)

And as far as “CRT” (this broad academic term that seems to have come to mean something more specific than it was intended to) is concerned, I get that history is written by the victors. But unlike the anti-CRT crowd, I believe we are culturally, intellectually, and even spiritually worse off because of this. 

I credit the Bible for my view. 

Most of the stories, poems, prophesies, and letters in the Hebrew Scriptures and the New Testament are by or about losers. Sure, the Exodus had victorious moments, so do the “conquest narratives” and stories of King David. We could make cases for the “victories” of Noah, Abraham, Ruth, and Esther—and certainly others. Of course, Christians believe Jesus was victorious over the grave (Alleluia!). But oppressed, decidedly non-victors wrote those stories. Jailed, beaten, murdered, exiled “losers” wrote the letters, helping us explain what Christ’s victory meant. 

Thank God for that. Imagine if our Holy Week writings came from the Victors. 

Of course, it would be amazing to have a record of this. How exciting if a scribe-y Roman soldier kept an eye on Jesus during Holy Week and took notes. If we found a scroll that read: “Those poor disciples. Word is, they believe this Jesus has risen. Little do they know Pilot is a notorious body snatcher…” 

From their rhetoric today, I have to believe the rabid anti-CRT folks would insist that is the story. The Romans “won,” after all. They get to tell it. I assume were the anti-CRT crusaders around when the canon were put together, they’d say the loser stories we preach this week and on Easter should be seen as “woke.” Tossed aside. We don’t want children to feel guilty that THEIR SIN caused those nails to be put in Jesus’s hands and feet (more on this in a moment…). 

And of course, the Scriptures are full of stories, poems, prophecies, and letters that help us be kinder, better people. Jesus tells us the best thing we can do in this world is love God and love others—as we love ourselves. 

Take out Jesus, put that in a textbook, and it sounds like a bunch of SEL nonsense! 

Does Jesus not know that if we worry about loving ourselves and others and spend a moment talking about that in schools, our children’s test scores might fall? Grades might suffer! Loving others as we love ourselves jeopardizes the power and prosperity of white ( … male … cishet …) Americans. Does Jesus not know that? 

Now, of course, this is not something the voracious anti-CRT and anti-SEL crowd would say. At least not the ones who claim to follow Jesus. Which is confusing.

Goodness know, I love and follow Jesus imperfectly. As Tanner, friend to those great theologians, the Indigo Girls, says, “You know, me and Jesus, we’re of the same heart/The only thing that keeps us distant is that I keep f***ing up.” 

Can I get an Amen?

But, here’s the thing: aside from my confusion over why any Christian would think teaching empathy and love and care for self and others in the public school is bad, I have heard Christian conservatives say that the problem with CRT is that it makes white children feel guilty.  About horrors of the past, committed by their ancestors, back when white Christian Americans weren’t as nice and good and thoughtful of others as we are today. 

And yet, these same Christians teach their (our!) children—often as young as two or three years old—that their sin and the sins of their ancestors—is and was so bad that Jesus had to come to earth, get beaten, and have nails driven in his hands and feet to pay for that sin.

I see a disconnect. 

In the case of Holy Week, our guilt is good. Presumably, because conviction of guilt leads us to Jesus, to asking for grace, to receiving mercy,  and to becoming better people. 

But in the case of recognizing the evils of the American past and the privileges of the American present, guilt is bad. Presumably, because conviction of guilt might, what, lead us to Jesus, to asking for grace, to receiving mercy, and to becoming better people?

Of course, we all know that the problem is not guilt. The problem is not test scores. 

The problem is power—and the fear of losing it.

White (especially male, cishet or closeted) “Christians” have been in charge for a long, long time. We’ve had a good run—for ourselves.

The idea of someone else directing the play, of having the lead voice in the narrative, of being able to reveal something about this country and its systems, or about God and theology, or about kindness or equity or public health or whatever is too much to bear for many. 

Because what if that guilt leads us to conviction—personal and collective? What if we have to stop pointing fingers and judging and admit we’re the ones who’ve failed and wronged others and that Jesus probably isn’t all that tickled for how white American Christians have “loved” one another? 

We’d have to repent! We’d have to ask for mercy. But repentance means to turn away from our power and privilege and toward a God with a huge heart for the oppressed and some harsh words for the powerful. Yikes. 

And asking for mercy requires humility. That would mean giving up power. Like Jesus! We all know what happened to him.

And once we repentented and humbled ourselves and relinquished power, what if others treated us not as they would treat themselves or loved us not as they love God, but as we have treated them?

Terrifying.

This is especially so for those who do not truly believe in redemption. Who do not really believe in a Jesus who rose from the dead to restore and redeem and make all things new and set things right. Who do not thank God that the Bible was written by the powerless instead of the Victors. Who do not understand that it’s because of the voices of those oppressed and wronged Bible writers and editors that we see the power of God. We get the story of God (not human powerhouse) at work in this world. 

But that does nothing for test scores.* It doesn’t guarantee success or more money. So, that’s the rub.

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Nothing makes me feel more patriotic than voting. Nothing makes me more grateful to live in this amazing country full of trouble and opportunity than than the hard-fought freedom to vote. 

Truly, no matter how you vote, I hope you join me at the polls. Of course,  I can’t wait to cast my vote in favor of the local candidates who understand guns—not freaking books—are the actual, real danger in the classroom and who share my appreciation for including goodness and, well, inclusion in the curriculum. 

Happy Voting!

*Oh, and I do hate standardized tests (I’ve always done poorly on them, but managed to “succeed” in many areas of life). But according to the Department of Education: “Research clearly demonstrates the significant role of SEL in promoting the healthy development and academic achievement of all students. It also shows that SEL reduces problem behaviors and emotional distress that interfere with the learning and development of some students. Research indicates that SEL programming significantly raises test scores while it lowers levels of emotional distress; disruptive behavior; and alcohol, tobacco, or other drug use. SEL is thus an effective approach for addressing the SS/HS core elements: safe learning environments and violence prevention activities; substance abuse prevention; behavioral, social, and emotional supports; mental health services; and early childhood SEL programs.”

So, if you love testing, you can support SEL too.