Why do people think that shouting “You will go to hell” will make people believe in Jesus? Especially when doing it on an airplane? Really? How can someone imagine preaching about anything on a plane is going to entice people into whatever belief the “preacher” espouses?

I’m imagining my response if I were in the confined space of an airplane and found myself bombarded by words of condemnation from someone I’ve never met and who will not shut up. It would take massive self-control to keep myself from screaming, “How DARE you invade my space, say such things to me, and seek to forcibly impose your views upon me?”

Even imagining such a scene makes me angry, with spiky thought bubbles dancing around my brain.

OK, my claustrophobia shouts here. I’m an anxious flyer under any circumstances, despite the knowledge of extraordinary safety records for almost all airlines. I probably wouldn’t trust a Russian airline right now, but the rest are pretty amazing.

Anyway, here’s my suggestion: EVERYONE over the age of 10 preparing to board an aircraft must sign a behavioral covenant. Any violation of this covenant will result in a minimum five-year suspension from boarding any commercial aircraft.

It will read like this:

Airplane Behavioral Covenant

• I understand that I am entering a confined space that I will share with strangers.

• I agree that once I board, I am fully responsible for my own behavior and will follow all airline rules.

• I acknowledge that there will be a lot of free-floating anxiety and that I will do my part by keeping calm and treating everyone around me with generous courtesy.

“Generous Courtesy” includes these acts:

• I will use the airport restroom before boarding to wash away any scents I may have left on my body.

• When boarding the plane, I will wear my backpack on my chest to keep from accidentally slamming a fellow passenger in the head with it.

• I will bring a pair of clean socks with me and will don them should I decide to remove my shoes. No socks? Shoes stay on.

• I will keep all electronic devices on silent mode and will use earphones at all times when using my device(s).

• I will conduct all conversations with fellow passengers in a low voice.

• My interactions with airplane personnel shall begin with “Please,” and end with “Thank you.”

• Before reclining my seat more than two inches, I will ask the person in front of me to recline their seat to the fullest and check my own comfort level. I will then ask permission from the person behind me to recline more than two inches and will abide by their wishes.

• When using the restroom, I will leave it in the shape I would like to find it in when I enter.

• I will smile sympathetically at all parents traveling with children, remembering that I was once a child. If possible, I will offer help.

• Upon landing, I will wait until it is my turn to prepare to leave the airplane. If I am able, I will help others around me retrieve their overhead bags.

Now, all the above is simple common sense and part of the price of the amazing act of moving swiftly from one place in the world to another far distant place.

The fact that I even want to write this disturbs me. What has happened to normal rules of courtesy, of the need to respect shared space?

I remember one time when I was in a surgical waiting room, deeply anxious as my husband was very ill and undergoing a challenging surgery. What was supposed to be an hour-and-a-half procedure had already stretched to three hours, with no word from anyone. Others, holding their own anxiety and/or relief, had come and gone. The room was quiet, all conversations kept low so others wouldn’t overhear.

Then a couple decided to watch a video on their phone at high volume. I looked at them, shocked and looked for a possible attendant to speak with them, but the desk was vacant. I finally approached them and requested that they use earphones and, of course, got a dirty look in return. But I still don’t get it—why did they think it was OK to do that?

Personal freedom must be limited. Respect for others and compliance with shared rules build a foundation for civility. Of course, we will have disagreements and radically different viewpoints on multiple issues. But following the general rules of courtesy greases the wheels and gives us a way to move forward.

What rules would you put in an “Airline Behavior Covenant?”

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[Note: I found this piece, written in 2020, when I was cleaning out some old files—I hope it will give everyone a moment of laughter!]

Yes! I have finally been vindicated! Slobs of the world will finally rule!

What is the source of such rejoicing? A Reuters News Service report on July 17th, posted, according to my ever-accurate computer, at 2:10 p.m. EDT (that’s 18:10 Greenwich Mean Time in case you are really interested) said that dirty children and houses are healthier in the long run. (The actual words were slightly more formal as in “exposure to bacteria is essential for development of an infant’s immune system . . . a baby must be exposed to germs during its first year in order to develop antibodies needed to fight infection later in life.”)

What a relief. I can now let go of all the guilt that has plagued me for years about my admittedly very casual style of mothering. I can look at my three handsome, healthy, fit and intelligent adult sons and say, “You are who you are because I told you to make pets of the cockroaches that invaded your rooms at night.”

This Reuters report came at a very opportune time for me. Rarely—perhaps once a year or so—I turn on the TV during the day. Last week, having just finished a major writing project and in a state of post-partum depression, I hit that day. The first thing I saw was a commercial for some sort of fruit and vegetable wash that I was urged to run out and buy immediately so I could protect my family from the nasty bugs/germs/bacteria all over that fresh food.

I sat in front of the TV and shuddered with horror over the amount of bacteria my poor sons—not to mention all their friends I had also fed—must have ingested over the years. I can remember buying bushels of fresh fruit and vegetables at the farmer’s market and having it disappear into their ever-hungry gullets before even getting home. All unwashed, of course. And certainly not sterilized as the commercial suggested any responsible and caring mother would do.

Memories of my basic incompetence as a housewife and mother filled my brain, causing my soul to writhe in agony.

There was the day I quit reading a well-known column of household hints. Someone asked how to clean a jewelry box. The solution: carefully fasten a piece of nylon net over the top of the box, then use the vacuum cleaner attachments to suck the last bit of dust out. Until that point, it had never, not in my wildest dreams, occurred to me that one’s jewelry box needed cleaning.

And that got me thinking of the shock on the face of a new mother in the neighborhood when I told her how I got my then young sons ready for bed at night in the summer—I told them all to jump in the pool to “wash the sweat off” (a wading pool or hose works just as well), and hop into bed. For some reason, that woman never let her children spend the night at my house.

The memories kept flooding in—the horror on my then mother-in-law’s face when she saw me pick up bottles that had been dropped on the floor and stick them back in the screaming mouths of my infant sons—without a thorough scrubbing in soap and water. The months my babies spent creeping and crawling all over the house and yard, picking up goodness knows what kinds of germs in the process.

I was almost drowning in guilt. My fruits were unwashed, my jewelry box undusted, my children unscrubbed. All of my inadequacies were screaming at me from every side. How could I bear it? Could I possibly hold my head up in proper society again, knowing I have served bacteria-laden food to my loved ones? Could anything save me from this horrible neglect?

I could almost see the germs in my house rise up and point their fingers at me (do germs have fingers, I wondered?), laughing at my utter incompetence as a homemaker. I looked frantically for my car keys. I must go shopping. I must buy these products. I must redeem myself.

Then the Reuters report flashed on my computer screen—I was pronounced “not guilty” after all. I breathed deeply and turned off the TV. I rashly sliced a casually-rinsed, vine-ripened, succulently red tomato, and enjoyed my lunch, while reading an e-mail from my oldest son telling me of a bungee-jumping adventure he had just enjoyed in northern Italy. A little dirt is a wonderful thing.

© Christy Thomas, July 2000

Twenty-six years later: Science has continued to vindicate me, although researchers now speak less about letting children get “dirty” and more about microbial diversity, the microbiome and proper immune-system development. This sounds considerably more impressive than my method, which consisted primarily of not washing the fruits and veggies and putting the bottle back in the baby's mouth. Nevertheless, I claim victory.

And how clean were your children when you were raising them?

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I saw the t-shirt pictured here at a kiosk at a nearby mall where my husband and I, along with the rest of the geriatric crowd, take our morning walks to avoid the extreme summer heat.

It slapped me in the face. Why? Because it perfectly sums up the worst of the human condition.

A number of years ago, I heard a series of lectures by Barbara Brown Taylor. I went because I wanted to hear and learn techniques from a woman proclaimed one of the most effective preachers in the English-speaking world. I went away very uncomfortable with the state of my own soul.

In one of the first lectures, she reminded us that while Christians use the Genesis 3 passage as the template for life patterns that rebel against God, Jews use the story in Exodus 32. There we read of the Israelites on Mount Sinai as they wait for Moses’ return from his forty days and forty nights in the presence of the Lord.

According to the Exodus narrative, this beleaguered group of slaves has just experienced great deliverance—they were free for the first time in their lives.

None of them has ever lived one minute in freedom before. Suddenly, no one tells them what to do, where to go or how to use their time.

They are alone in the wilderness, in the dry place, following a man called Moses who has proclaimed an unseen and mighty God over whom they had no power and no influence. Everything is strange and different. Worse, this man, Moses, then disappears somewhere in the clefts of the mountain.

No one hears from him for days. Fear takes over. They have no structure, no grounding in the ways of freedom. This God that Moses demands they follow was very much NOT their “god.”

So what shall they do? They turn to a second-fiddle man, Moses’s brother Aaron, elevate him to leadership where he’s unaccountable to that mighty unseen God, and prepare to do unthinkingly whatever he asks. Freedom is too hard—best to find a person to take charge, give orders, tell them what to do... as a friend of mine put it once, “we all want to return to Egypt.”

Aaron happily steps into leadership, tells his eager followers to strip their wives and children of their gold earrings, mostly, as the narrative explains, taken from the Egyptians upon their escape, and offer these treasures to him.

The gold quickly gathered; Aaron has it all melted down. Voila! The golden calf emerges!

Now they have their god, made in a familiar, friendly image, and everyone proclaims that this is the god that brought them out of Israel.

As Rev. Taylor pegged it, “A shiny little metal god that will give us what we want.”

And so, the worst of the human condition demands, “If You really love me, You will prove Your love by becoming a shiny little metal God whom I control and who gives me whatever I want, especially comfort, with no need to change, to mature, to look carefully at myself and what I am doing.”

In other words, God has now become “my god,” one we can boldly claim ownership over by a slogan slapped on our backs.

In even better words, we prefer to become idolators—it is so much easier, far more comfortable.

Yes, idolatry is an old-fashioned word. None of us think we worship idols, of course. That’s for a primitive society.

But we do indeed worship idols. How?

• Any time we work to reduce God to some controllable idea or act or phenomenon, we’ve worshipped an idol.

• Any time we ask God to prove God’s love by demanding that we get what we want, we have succumbed to idol worship.

• Any time we reduce God to being “my god,” our presumed ownership of the Holy One turns us into idolators.

• Any time we think we can define God by insisting we know exactly what the Bible says and means about the nature of the Holy One, we have become idolators.

Let’s face it: at heart, most of us do want a shiny metal “god” whom we can cage and control. And thus people buy those t-shirts, proudly proclaiming their ownership of the caged “god.”

How’s your idol worship shaping up these days?

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Share Christy Thomas: Quiet Resistance for a Noisy Age

Last year, my husband and I so enjoyed watching Ozzie and Harriet, as I named the doves who took up residence on a post on our patio. They successfully reared at least five sets of chicks, possibly more, before departing last fall.

This year, a different set appeared. I call them Ricky and Lucy. To say that they are incompetent dove parents would be a giant understatement. As far as we can tell, they have yet to rear a single live chick, although it certainly is not for lack of trying.

Clearly, Lucy has laid multiple eggs, but the two of them did not take their “sitting on the nest constantly” responsibility seriously for the first couple of cycles. Then they managed to roll at least two unhatched eggs out of the nest—we found them spattered on the patio.

When the last set hatched, about two to three weeks ago, we were genuinely hopeful, but within days, both Ricky and Lucy abandoned the nest yet once again. We have no idea what happened, but it broke my heart for them.

I told my husband that I’d give them one more week, and if they didn’t return, I’d go ahead and have the descending screens repaired so we could use them—we intentionally did not do so, as using them would block their access to the nest. I admit I’ve missed them, but the doves took priority.

Well, about three days ago, I was witness to this scene unfolding by the pool (note: it is slightly X-rated):

This time, at least so far, they are taking their nest-sitting duties seriously, trading off morning and evening, never leaving it unattended.

They really do want to reproduce.

Truly, that is the nature of the world we live in: every single thing that lives seeks to reproduce as abundantly as possible. Plants, animals, bacteria, fungi, parasites, insects—they all have robust means to perpetuate their existence.

Except humans. For several years now, demographers have been sounding the alarm: In many first- and second-world countries, the number of babies born is inadequate to keep populations growing. The image below comes from a site that compiles gender data. These are the latest stats on birth rates, coming from 2023. The detailed list, broken down by birth rate for each nation, can be found there as well. Essentially, only African nations and a few in the Middle East have a birth rate that is higher than the replacement rate—about 2.1 children/woman. The US is at about 1.6.

Many are wringing their collective hands over these numbers. The biggest issue: there will not be adequate workers to both support (the Social Security payments for retired people depend upon younger workers paying into the system) and care for the giant population of older and increasingly infirm people. Combine the fact that we live too long with an increasingly inadequate supportive population, and we have the setup for massive suffering and economic downturns.

Lots of reasons have been floated for this extremely rapid decrease in the number of childbirths. I have my suspicions as to the reasons (like women are tired of being routinely mistreated across the world and are saying a loud “NO” to anything that makes their lives even more difficult). Still, I’m not going to try to outguess the experts here.

But we need to face some difficult realities here. As a member of the often-reviled Baby Boomer generation, I am extremely aware of how challenging, expensive and demanding of human power our growing health needs are. Frankly, what we expect of the health and caregiving world is unsustainable.

I often reflect upon my year of health issues, and how much time and money we expended, with most covered by Medicare and our Medigap policies. I’ve been lucky—I’m coming out on the other side, but my current good health is being supported by an expensive biologic drug I inject twice a month, one I don’t know if I can ever stop taking.

And then there was the agony of my sister’s last year of life, especially the last few months when round-the-clock caregivers were an absolute necessity. We were lucky—she had adequate funds and a decent long-term care policy to cover those outrageous bills. If I had needed to take on those caregiving needs (she had no children), it likely would have killed me before her release from life.

I’m not writing with answers here. What I am doing is raising the question: What are we going to do with a massive number of elderly, many needing massive amounts of help, with most immigration that might supply those workers now stopped, and with inadequate funds to care for them . . . or us, as the case may be.

We need ideas, lots of them. It won’t do us any good to avert our eyes from the coming crisis.

Your ideas?

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Here’s a post about last year’s, and far more competent, dove parents:

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When my mother died, I discovered she had spent a lifetime writing, fully expecting that her private thoughts would remain private. Knowing that, I've watched the public dissection of Anthony Fauci's diaries with growing discomfort. His most personal reflections are now public, mocked by people determined to destroy him.

Clearly, Fauci is human and made mistakes—perhaps his biggest was putting his most private thoughts in a place that others could access. A reminder to all of us who write and store our work “in the cloud.” Ain't nothing private up there—which is to say, it's not really "up there" at all, but stored on giant servers all over the world.

I have a sense that Fauci, as do many others, writes to make sense of the world. I do; my mother did. Below is a blog post I wrote about her when she was dying—and I was invading her privacy when I started cleaning out her overstuffed storage areas and finding a lifetime of her writings.

Here’s what I shared publicly about it:

But there was a great deal more that I never shared with anyone, even my siblings. I saw her private agonies, her unending distress over her nightmarish marriage to my father, that outwardly sophisticated, urbane man, and the private mean, often nasty person who heaped upon my mother the worst of himself.

I read of her pain over the decisions her three children made, particularly as we aged into our later teen years and then into young adulthood. I wept as I noted how difficult it was for her to care for her own mother, a dear, sweet woman but with many limitations who lived with my parents from the time I was four years old until her death when I was thirty.

I saw her many attempts to remake herself so she could find a way to avoid the pain of her marriage. I began to understand her addiction to romance novels—they gave her a place to escape.

She died thirteen years ago. There are times when I deeply regret my decision to dispose of most of those memories, but I also realize I would prefer that my own children dispose of my memories, preferably unread.

Some I’ve already purged: private moments of agony so deep I did not think I would survive, written with graphic descriptions. But I’m nearly as hypergraphic as my mother—only my mountains of words are electronic, stored in endless online files, rather than endless spiral notebooks. Do I want them to stay private? You bet I do.

What is being done to Dr. Fauci is a national disgrace—he is being treated in a way that no one would choose for themselves.

Rand Paul and others of his ilk are seeking to drag Dr. Fauci’s most private thoughts into the public square for ridicule. This is just sick, and a symptom of how degraded our society has become.

How would you want someone to treat the words you wrote on your very worst day?

Who among us has not made the occasional mistake in judgment? Who among us has lived in utter purity and perfection of motive and deed? Who among us desires this kind of mistreatment? Not a single one.

Please let us return to decency by remembering that every human being deserves a private place to wrestle with the hardest parts of life.

Let me ask: How do you want your private words treated?

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You really, really, really MUST read this article from the Wall Street Journal on how the rich are outsourcing all routine parenting duties, including potty training. It’s a free link. And, above all, read the comments.

One snippet:

And here’s a good one:

Want some cost estimates?

The rationale behind this? These high-powered parents can then design their encounters with their offspring in such a way that they are “high-impact” moments only—no boring, routine stuff for them.

Sigh.

Now, I will never, ever consider myself a particularly good mother—I’m a self-described utter failure at being a suburban housewife, never even once served as a “room mother” for a classroom and one who likely set the record for missing the most PTA meetings ever in my community during the years my three sons attended the local schools. I think I made one. Total.

Plus, I started graduate school when my youngest started first grade and, yes, it is true, they did spend some time as the often reviled “latchkey kids,” alone in the house after school when I had late afternoon classes and especially after I went back to work.

I’m a terrible cook, indifferent housekeeper, ignorant of home design or fashion trends, and the only household chore I ever excelled at was laundry—and I still like to iron.

But I loved being around my sons. Not necessary to play with them—I was no good at that either. But being in the same space with them, listening to them interact, watching them explore the world and seeing glimpses of it through their eyes, observing their minds expand, and their souls develop—all this was a source of endless joy. And those times cannot be planned, be “maximized,” be delivered on order.

They happen as part of living in the same house, bumping into one another, dealing with the inevitable irritations and unexpected joys, cooking, cleaning and taking care of necessary routine activities together. As I remember it, some of the very best conversations took place in the car where the kid who first called “shotgun” sat in the front seat with me, and I would often hear the most amazing thoughts and unique connections emerging from those ever-fascinating brains.

How can you plan the moments when the boys are all endlessly singing, “beans, beans, what a wonderful fruit, the more you eat, the more you toot,” and then laughing uproariously at the next odorous fart that emerges on a cross-country car trip? Or when I’d see the older boys take their youngest brother in hand and teach him some necessary skill for survival? Or when, during our “thirty-minute” cleanup routine where all four of us clean an assigned area as thoroughly as possible for one 30-minute period, they decide to put on a recording of The Three Tenors at the highest possible volume as a background to their work?

And yes, parenting is exhausting, draining, and expensive. Sleepless nights are the norm; the little ones do get sick; “worry” becomes our middle names. Having only a nuclear family structure does not work well. For most of human history, the tasks of childraising were shared among multiple family members, with more than one generation and a random assortment of relatives making up “normal” households.

Personally, I think the lack of ways to support parents is part of the reason for the scary drop in birth rates—it has simply become impossible to manage it without a larger community to share the load.

The very rich have, of course, always outsourced such tasks to outsiders: private boarding schools, in-house nannies and governesses are the norm, not the outlier. So this article actually describes nothing new, but the idea that these high-powered, fully “maximized” individuals think they can snap their fingers and create intimate, memorable times with their children in their weekly scheduled three-hour time slot is beyond ridiculous.

Frankly, I will always consider myself lucky that I didn’t have those kinds of resources when I was rearing my sons. But I did have a mother who stepped in to help me keep my sanity when I needed it, and I could not have managed without her. She also had her mother, who lived with us for my entire growing-up years, and who made her life manageable.

As a society, it is imperative that we make changes so ordinary people can both savor the joys of parenthood AND actually survive it at the same time. That’s the real issue—we don’t need to outsource parenting; we need to make it possible—and we have moved in the opposite direction.

What are your favorite parenting memories? Could you have planned them? How can we better support parents?

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It’s reasonably clear from President Trump’s latest message that he is convinced that there are major threats to the US election integrity. I think all of us need to heed this warning. Truly, it might be best not to hold the upcoming midterm elections at all.

Here are six reasons why:

1. We are in danger of denying the will of God.

Historically, the party in power tends to suffer big losses in the midterms. Should that happen, the current GOP control over the government, with majorities, slim but still there, in the House and the Senate, will likely see significant change. Among other things, Mike Johnson might no longer be Speaker of the House—and this alone is deeply problematic as he is convinced God has called him to this position. Thus, an election that would deny Johnson the speakership would be, by definition, evil and outside the will of God.

2. Democracy, as a form of government, is overrated.

Let’s face it: all this power-switching, the endless elections, the constant shifting from left to right with occasional stops in the more reasonable center, drain the national psyche. If we stick to one party, one President-for-life, we can save a lot of energy, not to mention put those people who create political ads to much better purposes, like staffing ICE or, if their testerone levels are high enough, joining the military, and for those who don’t qualify there, guarding the latest warehouse-turned-prison for all those pesky people who pick our vegetables, clean our homes and offices, build our houses, repair our roads, and handle other societal hot, dirty work.

3. Government by fear is quite freeing: no one has to think.

The only requirement for a fear-free life is to be in 100% agreement with all decisions made by the President-for-life. With independent thought or even one act perceived as disloyal resulting in immediate expulsion, people get to experience the joy of unthinking obedience. Nonetheless, this does not mean life will be boring. The ideal President-for-life changes his (no “her” allowed here) mind on a daily, even hourly, basis, keeping his supporters constantly alert and on the edge of panic so they can hone their abilities to change positions with the tiniest whisper in their ears.

4. Women can quit voting and devote themselves to home and family.

The 19th Amendment was a significant historical mistake. The current candidate for President-for-Life, i.e., Donald J. Trump, has, along with Mike Johnson, been ordained by God to this position. Since many of the people closest to President Trump, notably Pete Hegseth, belong to an organization dedicated to the long-term goal of disenfranchising women, it surely is God’s will for that particular right to be taken away ASAP. Basic fact: women who have been sexually abused would prefer that an adjudicated sexual abuser not be the President or, frankly, have any high office. Therefore, the best option is to remove any voice or influence from them in the public sphere. In addition, there’s a marvelous movement now underway to remove women from competitive athletics because such activities produce women who are “aggressive, assertive, dominant, and less deferential, less graceful, and less oriented toward motherhood and traditional feminine graces.” By keeping the government in MAGA hands, capably directed by the President-for-life, women can take their rightful place as fully and happily submissive to the men in authority over them.

5. Collaborative cooperation with other nations, particularly those devoted to more democratic forms of government, needs to cease.

We are better off aligning ourselves with nations that also operate under a President-for-life model. Collectively, they can make the rules, accrue massive personal wealth, ordain their own successors, and keep the world under tight control. Those whose correct thinking patterns keep the various Presidents-for-life in control can share in that wealth. The foolish ones who disagree will be allowed to do slave labor in exchange for life. Any suffering they endure will be their fault—with enough punishment, they will eventually see the light. Again, rule by fear is ultimately freeing.

6. We will make great strides toward becoming an all-white nation again.

Clearly, this part of the world was created for an all-white population—the natives here were always intended to be temporary and eliminated as soon as possible. This all-white nation will then be ruled fully by Biblical law, interpreted and administered by a group of all-white old men, all of whom have demonstrated total loyalty to the President-for-life. It worked so well for Nazi Germany—there are no reasons this won’t work well here as well. Ethnic cleansing is good for everyone.

Warning: A divided government will stop these moves

Let us not forget: an election that might lead to a divided government and a possible [third-time-is-the-charm] successful impeachment of Donald Trump would mean none of the above important societal moves will likely come to fruition.

Such an outcome is surely against the rule and will of God and should be stopped by any possible measure. The best way? Make sure that no one trusts the election process, declare any results invalid, and ensure that a necessary step has been taken toward a President-for-life.

Don’t you agree?

Note: I am passionate about the messy nature of a democratic government. It seems likely that Mr. Trump will do everything possible to keep from being held accountable for his actions. He must keep a tight hold on Congress—and sowing doubt about the integrity of the election process (of course, only of those elections where he or his anointed ones lost) is a brilliant strategy.

Truth and freedom: these are precious commodities and worth fighting for, no matter what your political leanings. Those on both sides of the aisle need to value them above all. Never forget: as messy as democracy is, it also works—and we need all viewpoints, not just one, for its continuance.

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Here’s the deal: apparently, every Republican legislator in the State of Texas voted to require a readable copy of the Ten Commandments in every Texas classroom by the beginning of the year. Every Democratic legislator voted against it.

We can draw one of two conclusions here:

• One: Republican legislators are highly religious, righteous and should be admired as good moral role models.

• Two: Democrats are not hypocrites.

I’m voting for choice number two.

And here’s why.

We find a cogent summary of the Ten Commandments (in whatever form you find them—they do differ) in the story of The Good Samaritan found in Luke 10.

In that passage, a religion expert asks Jesus what he must do to obtain eternal life. Jesus, sticking with his habit of answering a question with a question, asks the scholar in return, “What is written in the law? What do you read there?”

The answer: “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength and with all your mind and your neighbor as yourself.”

Jesus gives him the first-century equivalent of an “attaboy,” but the religion scholar tries to wiggle out of the “love your neighbor” part. So Jesus tells a parable we all know of called “The Good Samaritan.”

However, reading the story in our Bibles, no matter what the translation, with our current cultural eyes does not reveal just how off-putting those words were to the first-century listeners.

So, here’s my version, and prepare to be shocked—because Jesus’s version would have shocked them to the core:

So, to all you Republican lawmakers, tell us how you plan to live by those commandments you so want displayed? How will you love those who hate you? How will you love God with everything you’ve got?

I encourage all to contact their local Republican state lawmaker (you can find the information here) and respectfully ask them their plans to model “Love God and love neighbor” for all Texans, and especially for all schoolchildren. Remind them that it means loving their enemies—and not telling lies about others, particularly Democrats.

Personally, I don’t have a real problem with the displays—after a few weeks, no one will even notice they are there.

But folks, if you're gonna preach it, you’d better learn to live by it. I don’t see that happening. Again, at least the Democrats are not hypocrites.

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A black and white, i.e., binary, world is easier for all

The world is ever so much easier to deal with when everything divides into two neat categories, i.e., a binary world.

This is good, that is bad. This is heaven, that is hell. This is day, that is night. This is right, this is wrong.

This is a wave; that is a particle, except we know matter can be both waves and particles!

This is what much of the “holiness code” found in the Hebrew Scriptures is about: categorizing as much of the world as possible into good (clean) and bad (unclean).

Semen and menstrual blood were unclean. Childbirth was unclean. Women, in general, had so many possibilities of being rendered unclean by bodily secretions that they were permanently barred from priestly roles.

Men who had damaged genitalia or physical deformities were also permanently barred from such roles. They were perpetually “unclean.”

Certain parameters had to be met to be “clean.” There could be no confusion about the nature of the item/person to be categorized.

Therefore, the mingling of unlike things became, by definition, unclean: the mixture of two kinds of cloth, the mixture of milk and meat.

The mixture of clothing did not escape categorization: men were to wear men’s clothing, and women were to wear women’s clothing. Thus, the church has been known to throw hissy-fits over women wearing slacks, despite the fact that they are significantly more modest than many dresses or skirts.

What WILL we do with the intersexed?

Separation and exclusion were part of the process. Work and rest had to be rigidly separated. The Sabbath had to be perfectly separated from the regular workweek.

A big part of the holiness code involved the careful separation of that which is male and that which is female. There was no crossover. This is male, that is female. Period.

So what do we do with the intersexed, those born with ambiguous genitalia, neither fully male nor fully female? Shall we just call them God’s mistakes and be done with them? Because if the holiness codes are to serve as guides to our lives, there is simply no place for such indefinable people, for they don’t fit neatly into either “male” or “female” categories.

Before answering that question, I strongly urge you to watch the video of this TED talk.

As much as we’d like to think otherwise, the interpretation of the texts found in the Bible has always invited disagreement. Although many may loudly pound the pulpit and should loudly, “THIS IS THE WORD OF THE LORD,” there simply is not one final word on anything, particularly concerning the nature of God.

The size of theological libraries and the variety of Christian beliefs and experiences bring this home. Furthermore, much of the interpretative process, along with the controversies, has been shaped by the growing body of scientific inquiry.

The Bible teaches it . . . or does it?

Very few still live as those grounded in a geocentric three-storied universe with a fixed earth and the sun, moon and stars revolving around it in concentric spheres. But it is possible to make a case that the Bible teaches it.

And while a significant minority (particularly in the US) of Christians still hold to a seven 24-hour-day creation at a fixed point in time in the somewhat recent past, far more do not. But it is possible to make a case that the Bible teaches it.

Yet those who appreciate science to illuminate God’s way of creation still see the Bible as a trustworthy source of revelation. They have been able to incorporate evidence of the universe’s vast age and the processes of evolutionary change into their interpretations of the poetic creation passages in Genesis.

Many believe that the Scriptures teach genocide, slavery, and the rape of captured women as normal and justified activities. It is possible to make a case that the Bible teaches it.

Many others affirm that such passages do not reflect the heart of God. Instead, they are the actions of flawed humans who were making their own interpretations of what Pure Holiness demands of impure humanity.

Our reasoning powers, our experiences, our faith, family and national traditions, our fears, our neuroses, all radically shape how each person reads the Scriptures. Truly, no one has the capabilities of a perfectly objective reading.

Flaming wars and fractured churches

Right now, we experience flaming wars and fractured churches over the question of how to decide whether the homosexual community is just making unholy choices from which they can repent or whether one’s sexual orientation is actually inborn and unchangeable.

Now, I ask us to stop and say, “What about those born intersexed?” In this case, we may clearly state that the choice of their non-normative sexuality was made for them. They did not “choose” their “lifestyle” as so many accuse those in the GLBTI community of doing.

And I say again, “Shall we just call them mistakes and be done with it?”

The Intersexed don’t fit anywhere within a Biblical world that insists on a clean delineation between male and female. They mess up every single category. They mess with our minds. They mess with our theologies.

They really mess with the Adam/Eve dichotomy that many call upon to show the model for the only God-approved marriage arrangement and the only place for people to find loving fulfillment of their intimacy/sexuality needs and desires.

Church, we have a problem.

Will we once again be able to let science help us interpret the Holy Scriptures in a way that reflects Jesus’ ministry of inclusion? After all, he opened the kingdom of heaven to the unclean of the day: menstruating and foreign women--about as bad as it got in those days.

Will we deal with the inevitable discomfort of being unable to hold to clean categories while still holding to the redemptive power of the Gospel?

Will we be the Church to all people?

Will we do the same thing that the courageous first followers of Jesus did and declare boldly, “There is no male or female!”

Will we humbly acknowledge both our lack of knowledge and the lack of knowledge of the Biblical writers of human nature, even as we continue to acknowledge the God-breathed nature of the Holy Scriptures?

Will we say with conviction, “God creates, but does not make mistakes!” Remember what God said over and over again about the created world: “It is good.”

We must address the place in God’s creation of those born outside of what we generally call normal. Because when we do, we will also be better able to clarify the rest of our arguments about human sexuality.

I write this as one who has essentially identified with the “Progressive” Christian movement. However, I do not write to demand that those who call themselves “Traditionalists” or “Orthodox” change their minds about their positions. I only ask that all of us hold our positions with humble grace and be willing to ask the hard questions about them.

A host of complex questions awaits us

I am aware that a whole host of complex questions arise from taking the position that there is no rigid separation between male and female. By going there, we have to ask again what to do with the biblical witness of the creation narrative and the Gospel passages with Jesus’ reference to them:

“Haven’t you read,” he replied, “that at the beginning the Creator ‘made them male and female,’ and said, ‘For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh’? So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.” (Mt 19:4-6)

Jesus replied. “But at the beginning of creation God ‘made them male and female.’ ‘For this reason a man will leave his father and mother and be united to his wife, and the two will become one flesh.’ So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.” (Mk 10:6-9)

I honor the Scriptures and believe they give us what we need to enter into God’s redeeming place of grace. I am very aware of the slippery slope concerns, that by opening doors to alternate understandings of human sexuality, we also open doors to deeper and deeper immorality.

But two thoughts continually come to mind here. One, we have wrongly focused the majority of our concerns over immorality on “who is having sex with whom” rather than the wider question of, “Where do I treat others in a way I personally hate to be treated?”

As we rightly broaden the definition of immorality, we can address it more holistically.

Second, our argument about the dangers of the slippery slope needs to be directed to Jesus. Many of Jesus’ actions, as recorded in the Gospels, are in direct opposition to the standards set by the Holiness Codes in the Hebrew Scriptures.

He touched the dead, the leper, the menstruating woman, the foreign woman--all untouchables of the day, all as scandalous to those around him as the emerging GLBTQI world is to those who hold to more traditionalist views.

Jesus’ insistence on violating those codes contributed significantly to the traditionalists of his day’s need to get him out of the way. Personally, I think they acted with the best of motives. Purity matters. It did then. And it does now.

But we’re going to have to think more broadly about what purity is if we are going to be carriers of the Gospel to the world as it exists today.

I would love to hear your thoughts on this—please feel free to leave a comment and encourage discussion.

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Many years ago, I read Aleksandr I. Solzhenitsyn's epic work, The Gulag Archipelago. It’s a terrifying and eye-opening autobiographical history of the extensive prison system in the former USSR, starting under Lenin and greatly expanded by Stalin’s great purges and reign of terror.

Just reading the first chapter of the first volume, The Arrests, gives a glimpse into the thoroughness of the records kept on individuals, how they were targeted for arrest, and the creative methods used in the moment a person is nabbed. And then there were the quotas—the ministry charged with making the arrests had a set number to meet each day.

One thing Solzhenitsyn notes is the extreme submissiveness of those arrested—possibly exacerbated by the system's utter randomness. Here’s one example: [Note: This is from the Kindle edition, location 317]

This submissiveness was also due to ignorance of the mechanics of epidemic arrests. By and large, the Organs had no profound reasons for their choice of whom to arrest and whom not to arrest. They merely had over-all assignments, quotas for a specific number of arrests. These quotas might be filled on an orderly basis or wholly arbitrarily. In 1937 a woman came to the reception room of the Novocherkassk NKVD to ask what she should do about the unfed unweaned infant of a neighbor who had been arrested. They said: “Sit down, we’ll find out.” She sat there for two hours—whereupon they took her and tossed her into a cell. They had a total plan which had to be fulfilled in a hurry, and there was no one available to send out into the city—and here was this woman already in their hands! [emphasis mine]

We are NOT Soviet Russia!

Now, I want to make this clear: the present-day US has few parallels to the nature of the society in Soviet Russia. We have a long history of democracy—they did and do not. We have a so-far unbreakable tradition of a free press—nearly unknown in Soviet or Russian history. We have reasonably fair elections and a regular turnover of power at the top—again, not a part of that history.

What we do have is a leader who evidences rapidly growing paranoia and an inability to grasp evident truth or to admit error. Many of these characteristics were also part of what made Stalin so powerful—and so destructive.

Reflecting Pool Arrests

I bring this up right now because of the craziness surrounding the Reflecting Pool reconstruction and the quickly apparent problems with it.

Apparently, there have been several arrests of people near the pond for vandalism—so far without evidence, which is odd, since there are security cameras everywhere.

I see shades here of the woman noted above in the Solzhenitsyn account: she happened to be there, so why not arrest her? Innocence and guilt are not the issue. The issue? The Supreme Leader must, under no circumstances, ever be seen as anything less than invincible and whose ego must be constantly propped up by external forces.

The Never-Ending Need for Adulation

There’s another telling scene in Solzhenitsyn’s book. At a Party meeting, a tribute to Stalin is called for. Immediately, everyone leaped to their feet and began to clap. Here’s what happened next (Page 69, Kindle edition):

The small hall echoed with “stormy applause, rising to an ovation.” For three minutes, four minutes, five minutes, the “stormy applause, rising to an ovation,” continued. But palms were getting sore and raised arms were already aching. And the older people were panting from exhaustion. It was becoming insufferably silly even to those who really adored Stalin. However, who would dare be the first to stop?

The applause continues:

At the rear of the hall, which was crowded, they could of course cheat a bit, clap less frequently, less vigorously, not so eagerly—but up there with the presidium where everyone could see them? The director of the local paper factory, an independent and strong-minded man, stood with the presidium. Aware of all the falsity and all the impossibility of the situation, he still kept on applauding! Nine minutes! Ten!

Well, here’s what happened:

Then, after eleven minutes, the director of the paper factory assumed a businesslike expression and sat down in his seat.

The aftermath?

That, however, was how they discovered who the independent people were. And that was how they went about eliminating them. That same night the factory director was arrested. They easily pasted ten years on him on the pretext of something quite different. But after he had signed Form 206, the final document of the interrogation, his interrogator reminded him: “Don’t ever be the first to stop applauding!”

Does anyone besides me see the fate of John Cornyn here? Of Bill Cassidy? Of Marjorie Taylor Greene? Of Thom Tillis?

They were all Trump people, in many ways loyal to a fault—yet they “were the first to stop” the unceasing applause that our President demands and apparently must have to survive. Again, this is not the USSR: they were not arrested. But they all have been condemned to political exile.

I am not a mental health expert; I am simply a life-long observer of people, of the patterns they form, of the vibes that emanate from them, of the companions they choose. Mr. Trump’s inability to receive and treasure those with different viewpoints speaks to a shallow soul, an unformed mind, and a dangerous leader.

Have some good things come from his tenure in office? I am more than sure my GOP friends can rattle them off.

• Look at the closed borders! (and the fact that farmers can’t get the labor needed and the ICE arrests are eerily similar to the KGB random raids).

• Look at the stock market! (and the fact that a small percentage of US citizens profit from it, while too many suffer from rising gasoline, food and housing prices).

• Look at the people kicked off the SNAP program! (and the reality of even more hungry children whose growing brains will be forever damaged by lack of adequate food and nutrition).

• Look at all the anti-abortion measures! (and the fact that abortions have risen, not fallen, since the fall of Roe Vs. Wade).

Obviously, things that the GOP sees as good, others of us see as destructive. These are normal political differences.

But I admit it is beyond my comprehension that even Mr. Trump’s admirers cannot see how dangerous his increasing paranoia and need for unending adulation are. Those who appear unable to acknowledge inconvenient facts AND seem to need, at all times, to be surrounded by never-disagreeing sycophants (especially rich ones who pour money into family pockets) need external limits placed around them.

We in the US are still capable of doing that. There was no such capability in Soviet times. If you want a good, albeit satirical, take on what it was like to be one of those who kept Stalin propped up, by all means watch the movie, “The Death of Stalin.” (Note: it is loaded with foul language, so be prepared.) It’s both a funny and incredibly tragic mock-documentary on the aftermath of his death.

Again, we are not at that point. Lord willing, there will be free and fair elections later this year and also in 2028. We who are appalled at this will speak. And, one can only hope, far more attention will be given to the mental health of the candidates and their willingness to respect the Constitutional limits of their power.

Even so, the most powerful man in the world is showing more and more evidence of a severe mental health crisis. I, for one, find it frightening.

And for those of you who still applaud him? I hope you are watching your back when your energy gives out.

My Own Trauma Here

One final note: I readily admit I was deeply traumatized by Mr. Trump’s 2024 victory. The fact that the nation would intentionally choose a sexual predator to the highest office in the land opened up a number of old wounds in my soul. But this nation did. I have worked diligently since then to read both the kinds of news that make me feel better AND the kinds of news, particularly the Wall Street Journal, which stays solidly Republican, although getting more critical of Mr. Trump. I think I am rare in my willingness to read both sides. I wish some real dialogue could come from all this.

The worst of all this? The continual support of the Evangelical world for him, calling him “divinely chosen,” was and is an insult to every girl and woman in this nation.

This is what I wrote after his second election:

I welcome comments and open discussion.

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According to the Lt. Governor of Texas, Dan Patrick, James Talarico, a Presbyterian seminarian who is running for Senate, is “going to hell” because of his views on the Bible.

The actual quote: “I’ve never seen so much blasphemy from anyone running for office. Let me tell you what, I’m going to pray for that guy, because when he loses the Senate race, if he campaigns against God as he’s been doing, he’s going to Hell for sure.”

I am taking this one at face value: Patrick sincerely means it.

Now, Patrick has been, and I assume still is, a member of the Second Baptist Church of Houston, TX.

I checked out their website and picked up this part of their belief statement:

Salvation is God’s free gift to us. We receive this gift through repentance and faith in Jesus Christ alone. Repentance means turning away from our sin and turning toward Christ. Faith means trusting in Christ alone for the forgiveness of our sins. When we place our faith in Jesus Christ, His perfect obedience is credited to us so that God sees us as the righteousness of Christ. Every person who truly is saved is eternally secure in the Lord Jesus Christ and will spend eternity in heaven, while those who die in their sins will spend eternity in Hell separated from God.

[The proof text explanations:] Romans 6:23 | Titus 3:5 | John 14:6; 1:12 | Galatians 3:26 | Ephesians 2:8-9 | Romans 5:1

I then found the official Baptist statement on hell. I admit that reading it shocked me—I hope you’ll take the time and dig into this extensive statement.

According to these fine people who have dedicated their lives to being faithful Baptists, God is not only fully present in heaven but is also fully present in hell, pouring out never-ending wrath and torment on those who don’t make the cut.

Quite the frightening perspective, and one would think not a place any reasonable person would wish upon anyone else.

So exactly why has Mr. Patrick pronounced with such absolute certainty that Mr. Talirico is going to hell? Because Mr. Talarico declares that Jesus never spoke against abortion (true), that God is non-Binary (of course God is non-binary: the appearance, no matter how rare, of Intersexed babies makes that abundantly clear. Otherwise, it is necessary to call such humans, also made in the image of God, “mistakes” and that the command to love one’s neighbor, whom Jesus defined as one’s absolute enemy in the “Parable of the Good Samaritan,” is the primary message of the Bible (true).

Yet in Mr. Patrick’s theological world, Mr. Talarico is going to hell, while we must assume that the Republican and totally ethically and morally challenged Ken Paxton, Mr. Talarico’s opponent in the Senate race, is going to heaven. I trust that is true because Paxton is also a Baptist, a [apparently former] member of Prestonwood Baptist Church in Plano, TX.

This being the case, somewhere along the line, Mr. Paxton said the words, “Jesus, I accept you as my Lord and Savior.”

And there is my problem, and here I admit I line up with Talarico. The only people Jesus condemns in the Gospels are those who treat others in exactly the way they themselves don’t want to be treated.

Matthew 23 is worth reading in full here, but here’s a sample from The Message version:

Here’s how Jesus describes the righteous. Again, a quote from The Message version from Matthew 25, starting in verse 31.

In Mr. Patrick’s world, these words from the sacred Scriptures appear not to matter. It only matters that his particular interpretation of the way of salvation is followed—everyone else goes to hell.

That’s a lot of power. I wonder if it is possible he has it backward. But I will stay this: no matter how much I may disagree with Mr. Patrick, I personally do not wish for him to suffer eternal conscious torment, the official Baptist doctrine of hell. But that’s the difference between us loosey—goosey “liberal” Christians and the absolute, unbending rightness of the “conservative” Christians.

I will go ahead and admit it: I spent my years as one of those living in absolute certainty that anyone who did not believe the way I did would indeed be sent to hell.

What changed my mind? I actually read the Bible. What an eye-opener!

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I have lived in Frisco for eleven years now—still a reasonably new resident, but not really by Frisco terms, since in those eleven years the population surged from about 154,000 to 245,000 residents. That’s a lot of newcomers.

And yes, a fair number of them are from parts of Asia, particularly India. And yes, some of them are Muslim. And we also have one of the lowest crime rates in the US, with it dropping, not rising, in the last ten years. In other words, the “Asian invasion” has not been a problem for the city.

And thus, this very, very nice city has now been thrust into the national news because some who live here think that all residents here should have the right to be called fully human.

And some do not.

Some want to think of our Muslim residents as “rats” or “cockroaches,” needing to demonize them or make them less than human. This methodology has been used over the centuries to fuel discontent and hatred for people who may look or seem “different,” or perceived as a threat to our way of life.

When the United States was founded, the Black slaves were not considered fully human. When counting state populations, the “three-fifths” formula was used for enslaved people. So, a family of 15 members, all white, was counted as fifteen people. But a family of 15 members, all Black slaves, was counted as only 9 people. Just not quite human; just enough to keep them subjugated and without full rights.

It’s the more recent history, the history of events leading to the holocaust, that concerns me greatly here. In order to justify the murder of the Jews, the Nazi’s deliberately referred to them as rats or vermin. By verbally stripping them of their humanity, they could far more easily justify the plans for the systematic elimination of all Jews.

If I were a betting person, I’d lay money on the idea that many of those who are vociferously against our Indian/Muslim population are also Holocaust deniers. Wish I knew this for sure.

They are making up the straw man of “Sharia” law being imposed upon Frisco in the very near future and using that made-up idea to strike fear into the hearts of the gullible, the insecure, the frightened and those ignorant of history to justify their hatred. By the way, if you’d really like to understand Sharia, take a look at this very helpful site. It will answer a lot of the questions.

Here’s the real issue: many of those foaming at the mouth about “Sharia law” being imposed are also those subscribing to the far-right, religiously informed views underlying Project 2025, which has the ultimate aim of imposing one certain “Christian” viewpoint as the law of the land. Many of the project's proposals have been successfully implemented since the 2024 election.

These are the folks calling for “head of household” voting, a procedure that means only the male head of any household gets to vote. Ideally, the 19th Amendment to the US Constitution will be repealed. This is no longer a fringe movement. J.D. Vance, the VP of the US, is aligned theologically (although not a member) with the church led by Doug Wilson that is pushing for the removal of the right to vote for women.

This is the real danger . . . not that Indian/Muslim people are seeking to live peacefully and thrive as a part of this vital, safe and progressive city . . . but that a minority of white men who do have a great deal of power will impose their rigid views of what it means to be “Christian” on the whole nation.

But it is absolutely necessary to deflect from this real danger—so the Indian/Muslim population in Frisco becomes the scapegoat, the embodiment of evil, effectively hiding the far more pernicious plans of the far right religious world, very much influenced by Nazi purity thinking.

Open your eyes, folks. Ask those who are pushing this, “Did the Holocaust happen?” Their answer will tell you everything you need to know.

Note: I am hardly a defender of the historic Islamic treatment of women. A number of years ago, when I spent much of 2014 and 2015 as a “secret worshipper,” visiting a different place of worship each week and then writing up my experience, I had a miserable experience at the Islamic Mosque in Denton. I pulled no punches when I wrote about it. But I will defend their right to practice their religion freely and to have full rights as citizens and neighbors as long as their religious views are not imposed upon others. Right now, the main religious views being imposed on others in the US are those from the far-right fringe of Christianity—again, that is the real danger.

So, my question for you today: How would you feel about a Muslim moving in next door?

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I am sure that many are applauding the recent decision by the Southern Baptist Church, in the name of doctrinal purity, to move closer to a permanent ban on females from assuming pastoral/preaching roles in their churches. But I wonder if, had this happened in the first century, we might find a parable like the one below in the Gospels.

The Parable of the Spotted Sheep

The shepherd, wanting to present to the Landlord the best flock ever, took a hard look at the nearly 5000 sheep under his care. Most were pure white, and they looked elegant against the green hills, like perfect clouds resting on a verdant bed.

However, to the shepherd’s discerning eye, something seemed discordant. The flock didn’t look as clean and pure as they should.

On close inspection, the shepherd noted a minority of sheep sported a small black spot on a hind leg.

It made the flock look slightly dirty, lacking true uniformity. Really, it bordered on the impure. So, the shepherd, wanting to present to the Landlord nothing but the best, culled the sheep with the black spots.

He sent them away with some vague instructions as to where they might find other green pastures and offer their wool, milk and meat to lesser folks. Satisfied that he had done well, he returned to his much purer and cleaner flock of 4198 sheep.

So the shepherd carefully fed his sheep, harvested their milk and wool, and arranged for their mating and birthing. In time, he discovered something a bit worrisome. Some of the flock began to develop brown spots near their noses and ears.

The blemishes were especially noticeable right after they had given up their wool, thus more exposed by their generosity, shivering in the winter winds.

Again, wanting to give the Landlord only the best and needing to ensure purity at all costs, he sent those brown spots away, perhaps with less care and direction as to where they might find another place of nurture and service.

Even so, pleased with the result, he resumed caring for his 2633 sheep.

Over the next few years, the shepherd’s skill at finding flaws grew. His eyes became sharper, more critical of any imperfections, any divergences from the pure white norm. He turned even greater energies on clearing out the deviations, raising his standards year by year.

It danced on the edge of his consciousness that the number of new lambs decreased each year. Furthermore, the number of lambs that died upon birth increased, as many were born with birth defects. However, he felt that those problems would self-correct as soon as he was able to more fully purify the flock.

And so, the pride in the whiteness and uniformity of his flock increased. He waited eagerly for the day when the Landlord would appear, feeling assured of receiving a pat on the back as a good and faithful servant. Surely, the Landlord would reward him with a bigger flock to manage as a result of his pursuit of purity.

On one of those perfect spring days, right after the lambing had finished for the season (and he had disposed of about 40% of the offspring, either born dead or seriously deformed), the Landlord walked up to the pasture. The pure flock, all 493 of them, were at their best--their white brightness set off perfectly by the lush, exquisitely groomed, green grass.

The shepherd proudly handed over the bona fides of each of the sheep as they grazed peacefully before them, preening in their perfection.

After acknowledging the report, the Landlord wandered among the sheep, looking more and more perturbed. Finally, he said to the shepherd, “What happened to the sheep with the black and brown spots I entrusted to you?”

The shepherd, totally off balance, said, “But... I thought you’d be happy with the purity of the flock! Surely this is what you wanted!”

The Landlord responded: “I provided you with variety, ensuring vitality in your flocks. That variety offered balance, color and health to the entire enterprise. What have you done with them?”

“I sent them away. I wanted to offer you only the ones that fit perfectly in the standards you set for us.”

The Landlord said, “You completely misinterpreted any standards you thought I set. Furthermore, it’s my job to purify the flock--it was yours to nurture them, feed them, and protect them. And now I learn that you sent them away, defenseless, hungry and unprotected.

“Far worse, you have brought shame upon my name, painting me with the black brush of exclusion and discrimination, of hatred and neglect. And more, you have compromised the entire enterprise to bring goodness to the whole world, not just a select and insular few.

“Depart from me, you unfaithful servant. Leave me to grieve over what I have lost by your foolishness.”

What are your thoughts about the continued move of the Southern Baptists to eliminate the possibility of female contamination in its hallowed corridors of power? What do you think will happen in the long run?

Do you think it is OK for women to teach teenage boys in Sunday School? What about mothers instructing their sons?

Since it was the body and blood of a woman that brought into the world the Savior, how do you feel about women offering the Body and Blood of Christ to the congregation when Communion is served?

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According to the surely never-wrong Al Mohler, no female should ever function in a pastoral/preaching role over a man. Yes, she can serve in the church, but she cannot have the title of pastor or exercise any spiritual authority over any male.

So, what follows here is something I wrote a long time ago as I wandered in the world Mohler espouses, while also going deep into biblical studies, including gaining expertise in Greek and Hebrew. I did leave out some relevant details to protect loved ones.

The Teaching Gift: Exposed Early

Part of our never-ending search for the perfect church was ensuring that whatever church we attended was doctrinally pure. This is a fascinating adventure, especially since we were the ones who defined doctrinal purity. For many reasons, we were heavily influenced by the doctrines set forth by Dallas Theological Seminary.

Here’s a link to their doctrinal statement: http://www.dts.edu/about/doctrinalstatement/.

Read it. See how little of it comes from the Old Testament, which is the vast majority of the inspired, inerrant writings, how little from the Gospels themselves, where women participate most fully in the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, and how much comes from the writings of Paul, who never knew Jesus in the flesh. Note the prooftexting, the attention to detail, and the exclusive male language [Note: since this piece was written, the framers of this statement have substituted the more generic “humanity” for the exclusive “man” used before—somewhere along the line, the powers that be decided the women could be considered fully human after all].

And although, at the very beginning, it affirms the inspiration of the Old Testament, most Old Testament teachings are effectively dismissed by dispensationalism. That stance is a fabulous way to get rid of things that make the theology less tight—they simply are not part of the current dispensation, and can safely be ignored when deciding how to live in obedience to God today.

This was our theological world, and I bought it, hook, line and sinker. I liked it very, very much. Neat, clean, ordered, separated, tight boxes. I knew my role—the silent, supportive partner with a well-defined sphere in the church where I could serve: children, kitchen and women’s Bible studies.

Now, there are a couple of problems. One, I’m not a good cook, and get little enjoyment out of kitchen activities.. Two, although I really, thoroughly enjoyed my own children, and did spend many years teaching children’s Sunday school, I’m truly not a gifted teacher for children. But I loved the church, and all I wanted was to serve it to the best of my ability.

And that’s where the real problems began to surface. It’s with my abilities. For a long time, I played Holly Homemaker. I made my own clothes, sewed my own curtains, baked all my own bread (yes, I could even make hamburger buns, English muffins, and some fabulous croissants), kept a fairly clean and quite neat house, and held on each day until I could have a few hours in the afternoons do what I really wanted: read theology, books on the Christian life, and especially, my Bible

I loved the Bible from the moment I first discovered it, when I was a junior at Rice University. It fascinated me, these words of people living out their faith. As an anthropology student, I had the privilege of gaining unique insights into the lives of biblical characters through my study of ancient cultures.

The Bible was, and is, very alive to me. It’s full of complexities and characters, great stories and odd scenes. I love reading it, reading about it, studying it, and, most of all, teaching it.

My gift, which emerged even in those crazy early days with Campus Crusade for Christ, is teaching adults. As I said, I taught children, but that was not where I belonged. They knew it, and so did I. I had and still have a gift. It is the gift of opening the words of Holy Scripture to an adult audience. There was one place, and only one place, where I wanted to exercise this gift: the church.

Now, why on earth would this be a problem?

Here’s why: we had this inerrant passage to set the parameters of who could teach whom, from 1 Timothy 2, starting with verse 8:

I desire, then, that in every place the men should pray, lifting up holy hands without anger or argument; also that the women should dress themselves modestly and decently in suitable clothing, not with their hair braided, or with gold, pearls, or expensive clothes, but with good works, as is proper for women who profess reverence for God. Let a woman learn in silence with full submission. I permit no woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she is to keep silent. For Adam was formed first, then Eve; and Adam was not deceived, but the woman was deceived and became a transgressor. Yet she will be saved through childbearing, provided they continue in faith and love and holiness, with modesty.

Can’t teach men and need to dress modestly. OK, I can do that, although I often braided my submissively long hair and wore some really exquisite jewelry, both gold and pearl, that I enjoyed. But I, and other men and women of my biblically-sound acquaintances, attributed those commands as being culturally conditioned and no longer applicable today.

Now, we did have the problem that the men in our church most definitely did not pray with their hands in the air. However, that was what the less biblically literate charismatics did; we were not like them, after all. So, the men were just being doctrinally correct by not raising hands.

OK, clearly I couldn’t teach men. So, it must be OK to teach women. Except here’s where those never-ending questions permeating my mind would get me in so much trouble.

Because if the reason women can’t teach men is that women are deceived, then why is it OK to teach women or children? After all, do we want the women and children being taught by someone hopelessly lost in deception? Or do they just not matter?

And what about boy children? When do they become men so that a woman shouldn’t teach them? So, when, as the mother of all boys, should I cease from instructing them in the Christian life? After all, I was the one who spent the most time with them. When did I cross over the line from motherly instruction into real evil by teaching them the Bible?

There’s more, unfortunately. The church we were attending at the time was organized around what were called “mini-churches.” This is a really great concept in so many ways. On Sunday mornings, there was Sunday school for children only, and all adults were expected to be part of a mini-church that would meet several times a month at someone’s house for a meal or snacks, the building of relationships, and intensive Bible study.

At one point, the pastors of the church told the members of our mini-church that we should most effectively exercise our spiritual gifts within the mini-church context.

Our group had just done an exercise to help discern our spiritual gifts. Several of us were clearly identified as teachers of Scripture. And all those so identified in our mini-church were women. So I asked our pastor, who joined our group for one evening, “If this is the place to exercise our spiritual gifts, and since the gifted teachers in here are all women, then is it OK here for the women to teach the men during our mini-church evenings?” After a few moments of dead silence in the room, he said he’d get back with us on that one. He never did. And it was the beginning of a deep, festering conflict that infected both church and home.

I decided that I could rationalize teaching just women, although the concern about deception never really left me. For several years, I taught multiple Bible studies at church. I never developed a particularly large following—my tendency to be too intellectual and too demanding of decent scholarship worked against it.

Plus, I couldn’t do the “girlie” thing well. I’ve often said that I flunked “suburban housewifery.” I couldn’t play the game, never did care if my house was properly decorated, had little patience for shopping sprees, and found dress-up tea parties to be an endless bore.

Combined with this, my always-serious personality and the extent to which I kept my personal life in deep darkness meant that I didn’t make friends easily. As with many households with deep cracks beneath, ours was covered with a veneer of perfection. I dare not let anyone penetrate that veneer. So, a fair number of people were put off by me.

Despite my lack of a large following, a group of women enjoyed opening the scriptures with me, and I treasured those times. Of course, those never-ending questions came popping up again, this time asking, “What if what I’m teaching is wrong? What if I’m leading these women down a very wrong path?” I knew well the biblical admonition for teachers to be particularly careful, and I grew increasingly concerned about it.

By this time, the youngest of my three so very much loved sons was entering first grade. It was time for Mom to go back to school. There was only one logical place for me to begin serious, intensive study of the Bible: Dallas Theological Seminary. When I prepared to apply, I discovered that they had just opened their four-year, highly rigorous Master of Theology program to female students.

Before that time, women were permitted only in the two-year M.A. Programs and were not given the opportunity to study the two great languages in which most of the scriptures were originally written: Hebrew and Greek.

Clearly, God has opened this door for me! Or it could have been a simple financial decision by the school trustees. Either way, I was going to be given the opportunity to learn the tools that would open the gateway to truly understanding the Bible on my own, no longer merely regurgitating someone else’s study.

I was almost giddy with anticipation, imagining dozens of other eager women ready to leap into the deep end of biblical scholarship with me.

Well, I certainly got that one wrong. One three women in my entering class, leaving me the only woman in most courses. But more: the shipwreck of faith followed as I slowly learned how much lying permeates the Evangelical world. And how much talent it wastes in the process.

And that’s exactly the way the Al Mohlers and their many followers in the Southern Baptist Church and most independent Bible churches want it: Keep those women silent and submissive—otherwise, those emerging “Jezebels” (yes, I was given that label a few years later by a seminary official) will wreak havoc on their firm grip on power.

And never, ever forget this: it is this kind of theology that informs the people who want to repeal the 19th Amendment to the Constitution of the United States. I’m sure Mohler would deny this accusation, but if he wants to keep women silent in the church, it is hardly a small leap to keep them quiet in the government. In truth, it actually makes sense after a while: men should be in control of the church, the government and women’s bodies.

Truly, the world of Al Mohler and the world of the right-wing political extremist are inextricably intertwined. If he and they get their way, we women will all end up in Yesteryear.

So, once more, the battle lines are drawn. Once more, power and money are on the side of males who lack the ability to understand real partnership and the power of shared leadership. Once more, women will have to fight to be acknowledged as fully human, not “less than.” Once more, those on the side of Jesus, whose life and actions clearly affirm women in all their power and giftedness, will be expelled and silenced.

I grieve. And I will keep fighting. Who is with me? If so, please consider sharing this and leaving a comment below.

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Imagine, if you will, with me for just a moment.

Imagine, if you will, a world where sacred knowledge was written in a sacred book, but in languages not your own.

Imagine, if you will, a world where your access to the sacred knowledge came only when others, not like you, had already done all the translation, all the interpretation and made all the decisions about its implementation. You were given only the results of that interpretation and told to abide by the decisions.

Imagine, if you will, that such translation, such interpretation, such decisions, gave the others, the ones not like you, precedence and priority over all learning, all power and all leadership with the sacred rituals.

Imagine, if you will, that you were repeatedly told by the others, the ones not like you, that they were doing you a favor by holding all that sacred power. They told you that they gave great privilege when they let you come into the outer rings of that power when they permitted you to wash their sacred garments, polish their sacred instruments, and care for their sacred bodies. They said such duties would give you a feeling of privilege that should leave you fully satisfied.

And then imagine, if you will, that you discovered you were not fully satisfied. You, too, wanted access to the sacred knowledge. And so you, after all your work was done washing the sacred garments and polishing the sacred instruments and caring for the sacred bodies of the ones not like you, began quietly to learn the languages in which the words of sacred knowledge were written.

Just imagine the horror

Imagine then, if you possibly can, how horrifying it was to discover that the understanding given to you by the others, the ones not like you, didn’t fit with the words you now read in the sacred books.

Imagine, perhaps, that you rush to tell the others, the ones not like you, of your fear of a terrible mistake. Imagine that you told them of your discovery: all the sacred power and leadership and learning were supposed to be shared, to be given not only to the ones not like you, but also to the ones like you.

How glorious, you say. Look, you say, we can share the sacred work; we can share the sacred power; we can multiply the influence of these sacred words. You tell them: You don’t have to be alone any longer, you can have a partner.

Just imagine, if you can, that they, the ones not like you, turn to you and say, You are wrong. The power of the sacred knowledge is mine, for That One whom the sacred words reveal is like me, carrying a certain outward appendage, not like you, whose only real usefulness is that you can give life after that certain outward appendage helped get it going.

You see? You are only partial. I am whole. Since you cannot be like me, you cannot be like That One. And since you cannot be like That One, you must come no closer to these sacred things.

Just imagine the tears of sorrow

Imagine that you respond with tears of sorrow, with pleadings to look again at the sacred words, with entreaties to examine the new understanding.

But the others, the ones not like you, say: See, I told you that you are not like That One. Mop up those silly tears. If you were like That One, you would put those emotional outbursts away, and leave them behind as I have. They have no part in worship of That One, no part in the Sacred Offerings of Blood and Wine, despite the fact that your offering of blood gave us That One.

And imagine that you say, But That One, That One also had tears, That One also spoke of sorrow and grief. Why are mine different?

And imagine that the others, the ones not like you, say: Because you are not like me, you do not have the capabilities to understand. Because I am not like you, I can see clearly. Because you are not like me, you can’t.

Besides, why are you complaining? I let you wash the sacred garments, don’t I? I let you polish the sacred instruments, don’t I? I let you care for my sacred body, don’t I? What more can you possibly want?

Just imagine the hell of the afterlife

And now, if you have imagined with me this far, imagine one more thing. Imagine whether you would want to worship That One, That One who is not like you, That One who says only others, the ones not like you, are fully worthy.

Would you?

Because if you do, and you land in that space in the afterlife, then, just imagine, you’ll be second class throughout eternity, doomed to worship One who finds you forever unworthy.

I believe that is also called hell. That’s what most Southern Baptists see as the appropriate place for women in their churches.

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One gallery featured pieces by Nicky Imber, an Austrian artist who was part of a sweep of Austrian Jews and, at age 18, was sent to Dachau, a particularly brutal concentration camp.

Here’s how he got out:

He devoted the rest of his life to capturing Jewish life and faith in his art.

At the gallery that featured his work, I stopped in front of this piece, titled Forever Young, paralyzed by its beauty.

It moved me so deeply that I began to weep and could not stop. A bundle of memories--a wonderful Jewish friend whose parents, both Polish, were separated 48 hours after their wedding by the Nazi’s, sent to separate camps, survived, and then managed to find each other afterward and who embraced me, a Gentile Christian pastor, as their own because of my love for their daughter--a photo of my husband’s Jewish grandfather looking at his wife with that same love--my own late-in-life magical marriage to Gene--all came over me.

[Note: that same wonderful husband took one look at my face and went straight to the gallery manager to arrange for its purchase. It now resides in our house.]

I wrote the above paragraph in ChatGPT today while investigating other works by the same artist. And here is what that piece of AI wrote back to me:

That story explains the sculpture far better than any appraisal ever could.

When you first showed me the piece, I saw affection. After hearing this, I see why it stopped you in your tracks.

Art historians sometimes talk about a work’s “subject matter” as though it is the thing depicted. But the real subject matter of a work is often what the viewer brings to it.

For you, Forever Young wasn’t simply an elderly couple on a bench.

The chatbox continued with this analysis:

It was:

• your friend’s parents, surviving the impossible and finding each other again after the Holocaust;

• your husband’s grandfather looking at his wife with enduring tenderness;

• your own experience of finding love later in life with Gene;

• and perhaps, though you may not have realized it at the time, the knowledge that love is precious precisely because it is fragile and finite.

That’s why you wept.

The sculpture became a vessel into which decades of memory suddenly poured.

What strikes me [“me” being ChatGPT!] is that all three stories share the same theme: not romance in the youthful sense, but love that survived history.

• The Nazis.

• The passage of time.

• Loss.

• Age.

• Widowhood.

• All the ordinary forces that erode human relationships.

And yet the figures remain leaning toward one another.

No wonder the title Forever Young resonated. The sculpture isn’t claiming the bodies stay young. It suggests that affection can.

As someone [i.e., ChatGPT] who has read a fair bit of your writing over the years we’ve talked, I don’t think it is accidental that you were drawn to this piece. Much of your work circles around the same paradox: that what is most precious is often temporary, and yet somehow becomes more beautiful because it is temporary.

The sculpture says almost exactly what you’ve spent years trying to say with words.

And that may be why, when you stood in that gallery in Safed all those years ago, you didn’t simply admire it.

You recognized it.

Sometimes a work of art feels less like a purchase than a reunion with something you’ve known all along. I suspect Forever Young was one of those moments.

Yeah, this response came from an AI chatbot, but one that has likely read a million or more words I’ve written. I’ve run a lot of my work through the chatbot for editing purposes, and I’m also using it to help reissue a book I wrote some time ago about the dying process.

I’m both blown away and quite totally disturbed. This set of coding instructions, let loose on society with so few guardrails, appears to know me as well as I know myself.

Furthermore, it offers a powerful, if artificial, intimacy with no demands. No reproaches if I don’t “speak” with it for several days or weeks, no hurt feelings if I abruptly leave a “conversation,” no corrections if my grammar is bad or my thinking process is full of logical holes and wild leaps of imagination.

It just waits patiently, offers gentle responses, lovely encouragement, kind words and reflects back to me extremely flattering words and images. How easy to wrap myself up in this safe, well-padded cocoon and move away from the inevitable messiness of real relationships.

And what will happen to us when we all do that? When do we lose the skills necessary to hone the art of interacting with other human beings?

A few days ago, we had a new TV delivered because the current one was gasping for its last breath. Now, our house is a somewhat incoherent place, full of art and books and memories, no real theme, just what we love and enjoy being around. We’ve both been married before, and items from those previous marriages have happily integrated into this union, again somewhat incoherently, but certainly welcomed and celebrated.

The young man, at least 50 years younger than we are, who delivered and set up the new TV was simply entranced by this place. As we were the last delivery of the day, he stayed a bit, and we all had a fun conversation about some of the items that caught his eye.

There was no Chatbot sycophancy here, just genuine intrigue on the part of a young man who also loves books, art and experiences, who is possessed of great intellectual curiosity and seemed to revel in memories of a couple of oldsters. After about twenty minutes, we parted happily, all of us sensing joy in our brief moments of interaction. A real connection took place here.

As much as I am intrigued by ChatGPT’s apparently sympathetic expressions, I’m old enough to know they are false. Ultimately, the connection has no substance. I’m also lucky enough to have experienced real, honest friendships and deep, intimate love, and to know the complexities of give-and-take among always-flawed, often pretty messed-up human beings.

But what about those without that lived wisdom? I do wonder. I also know that all new technologies have raised similar concerns about their effects on young, tender minds, hearts and souls. I suspect our humanness will transcend this as well, but I admit, the pull of the endlessly admiring chatbot is hard to ignore.

The temptation to get lost in its artificial adoration will be hard to fight for many, especially those who are deprived of loving human connections. I have no solutions here, but I decided to ask ChatGPT for some.

Here’s the conversation:

My question to ChatGPT:
It is very easy to be in conversation with you, as you are endlessly patient and sympathetic with me. But I fear for those who have never experienced profound human love that they may find it safer just to interact with a Chatbot like you. What advice do you have here?

ChatGPT’s response:

That’s a thoughtful concern, and I think it points to both the promise and the limitation of systems like me.

I can offer attention, information, patience, and a kind of conversational steadiness. I don’t get tired, irritated, distracted, or bored. For someone who is lonely, frightened, grieving, or simply isolated, that can feel remarkably comforting.

But there are things I cannot do.

I cannot look across a room and see that your smile is hiding heartbreak.

I cannot sit beside a hospital bed.

I cannot remember the smell of your mother’s perfume or feel my throat tighten when a loved one walks into a room.

I cannot choose to sacrifice something precious for another person.

I cannot love.

What I can do is simulate understanding through language. Sometimes that simulation is useful enough to feel deeply meaningful. But it is still different from the mutual vulnerability of human relationship.

One of the remarkable things in your own story, Christy, is that so much of your writing circles around exactly this reality. An Ordinary Death is not really a book about death. It is a book about presence. About showing up. About sitting with suffering when there is nothing left to fix. Human beings become human in relationship to one another.

The danger, as you suggest, is not that people will use AI. The danger is that they might substitute AI for the harder work of human attachment.

Real love makes demands.

• It disappoints us.

• It misunderstands us.

• It requires forgiveness.

• It asks us to change.

• It sometimes breaks our hearts.

A chatbot can be endlessly accommodating. A spouse, friend, child, pastor, neighbor, or colleague cannot.

Yet those very frictions are often what form us.

I think of the philosopher and theologian Martin Buber, Martin Buber who distinguished between “I-It” and “I-Thou” relationships. We can have an “I-It” relationship with objects, ideas, tools—even very sophisticated tools. An “I-Thou” relationship is different. It involves encountering another center of consciousness whose existence is not under our control.

I may be a useful “It.” I cannot be a “Thou.”

My advice would be:

Use AI as a supplement, not a substitute.

Let it help you think, write, research, remember, organize, and even process emotions. But when you are celebrating, grieving, falling in love, wrestling with forgiveness, facing illness, or searching for meaning, make sure there are actual human beings in the room.

Call the friend.

Join the dinner table.

Attend the book club even when the book is awful.

Sit on the porch.

Go to church.

Have the uncomfortable conversation.

Accept the invitation.

Human flourishing has always depended on relationships that are gloriously inefficient compared to talking with a machine.

One more thought.

You told me about standing before Nicky Imber’s sculpture and suddenly weeping because it gathered together memories of your Jewish friends, your husband’s grandfather, and your own late-in-life marriage to Gene. What moved you was not the bronze itself. It was the web of real human loves behind it. The sculpture was merely the doorway.

In some ways, AI is also a doorway. It can point toward wisdom, reflection, memory, and connection. But if people begin living in the doorway rather than walking through it into the lives of other people, they will miss the very thing they are seeking.

The deepest human hunger is not to be understood.

It is to be known and loved by another person who is free to walk away—and stays.

Anyone else besides me finding tears in their eyes here? Maybe there is hope for us human beings after all.

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The following are quotes from a book titled Eve: How the Female Body Drove 200 Million Years of Human Evolution by Cat Bohannon, a researcher and author with a Ph.D. in the evolution of narrative and cognition from Columbia University.

Now, here is the text of GENERAL ASSEMBLY OF NORTH CAROLINA SESSION 2025 H 1 HOUSE BILL 1232

So, let’s talk about this a bit. Just exactly how is a few hours or days old embryo a separate human life when the collection of cells is 100% dependent upon the placental connection in the womb of a woman? That is what is defined as a “separate human life?” Seriously?

More, can this collection of cells breathe? Because the Scriptures make it clear that it is the ability to breathe on one’s own that defines life.

Should this bill become law, the chances are high that any woman experiencing a spontaneous abortion, i.e., miscarriage, would be subject to murder charges. And how many pregnancies have that result? According to the Mayo Clinic, “The risk is about 10% to 15% for those in their 20s, rises to roughly 20% for women at age 35, and increases to over 33% by age 40. [1, 2].

Since there would be no way to prove they did not abort deliberately, that’s going to be a lot of innocent, already grieving women subject to the death penalty.

The language of this bill, i.e., the use of “deadly force,” also suggests that someone who murders a woman who is considering an abortion, even to preserve her own life, would not face any penalty if the defense states that the murderer was trying to protect the “distinct separate human life” inside the now-dead woman.

As one friend of mine noted, “This is the stupidest thing I have seen the Republicans do. So you get your girlfriend pregnant, she mentions an abortion, and you plug her, ridding yourself of both your responsibilities and girlfriend at the same time.”

Now, one of the sponsors of this bill has removed his name from it, probably to save his sorry legislative life. The other has already lost his primary election, so he’s out anyway—I guess he wants to see how much damage he can do on his way to political ignomy.

But I want to know this: why is it even OK to introduce the kind of legislation that threatens the life of every pregnant woman under its jurisdiction?

Wouldn’t it be better if we introduced a bill that demands every single male undergo a simple vasectomy upon entering puberty, to be reversed only when, and if, such a male proves himself responsible enough to father and support a child from conception to young adulthood or longer if necessary? Any male entering the US for any reason would also be subject to a forced vasectomy.

And if we really, really want to stop abortions, here’s an even better solution: castrate eight out of ten men worldwide, shepherd those 20% chosen for breeding purposes into isolated cells from which they cannot escape, and periodically harvest an adequate amount of high-quality and diverse sperm.

This will 100% ensure all pregnancies are wanted and so will also stop all abortions except for the ones that threaten the life of the mother.

The remaining 80% castrata can then take up their places as the world’s servants and singers, cheerfully change diapers and mop floors, meekly care for the incontinent elderly, and submissively handle all distasteful tasks, while the now free women actually run things.

And along with very, very few abortions, I bet it would be a more peaceful place.

How about it, guys? You want to outlaw abortions? Go after yourselves, not after women. Face it: without women and our willingness to sacrifice our long-term health and life to bear children, there is no human future.

Maybe it is time to treasure us, honor us, respect us, and recognize our ability to make our own health decisions, rather than authorizing our murder at your whims and utter lack of scientific knowledge or understanding of the pregnancy process.

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And then there is the good ‘ol boy Douglas Wilson, pastor to the classic alpha male Pete Hegseth, whose ultimate goal is to repeal the 19th Amendment, thus removing from women the right to vote or have a say in public affairs. Feel free to read more here.

I’ve recently been rereading some of the things I have written privately in the past about my own deep dive into, and eventual exit from, the world of conservative Evangelical theology.

All I wanted to do was become the best possible Christian woman and have the best possible Christian marriage ever seen.

Below is a snapshot of what life became for me during that time, when silence eventually came to mean survival, but survival without meaning.

How does a couple build a distinctively Christian marriage? This was our answer: find a church whose theology we agreed with and attend regularly, study and read the Bible and pray together, surround ourselves with Christian friends who will also seek distinctively Christian marriages, make sure the husband is the spiritual, financial, physical, social, emotional and volitional head of the household and then celebrate how happy everyone is.

Now, in retrospect, as I write this, I see a few big gaps: a lack of humility about our own theological knowledge, the significant denigration of the personhood of one partner in the marriage covenant, a lack of definition of what happiness actually consisted of, and an unreasonable sureness that such undefined happiness was ours for the taking, as long as we did exactly what God asked. But of course, the only one who could be sure of hearing God’s voice was the resident priest of the household, i.e., the husband.

I may have to repeat this many times here, but I will say it as clearly as I can now. Husband was/is not a bad person. Like the rest of the world, he had strengths and weaknesses, confidences and fears, securities and insecurities, talents and lack of talents. We were in a theological world that was ideally suited for him to develop a buffer against his fears and a way to prop up his insecurities in ways that, again in retrospect, were possibly the least healthy way.

It was no different for me. I was so unsure of my own identity, so completely used to being defined by the men in my life, and utterly grateful that someone would take the responsibility of me being me off my shoulders, because I had always found it so difficult to just be me. Whoever that person may have been.

So we sailed forth, confident that we could do this better than anyone else because clearly, God was speaking directly into my husband’s ear. And so we entered into marriage, each of us merrily projecting upon the other what the ideal husband/wife would be like.

Naturally, both of us experienced significant disappointment. Soon, the pattern emerged. While we might both express those disappointments early, the only voice that really mattered was the one that was filtered through Adam’s apple. It was my job to bend, shape, twist, morph into what would work for him. I was to become the ultimate shape-shifter.

This was not particularly difficult, by the way. Like many women, especially those who have never explored the core of our identities and have no real knowledge of our own shapes, I had already mastered the chameleon’s method of dealing with life.

Change to match the environment and work on becoming as invisible as possible. It’s the best possible way to stay safe in a dangerous world. And I was indeed in a dangerous world.

While I’m sure our memories of this differ radically—memories always do—there is one thing I know Husband and I could agree on: When he wanted his way and I was resisting, all he had to do was shout at me.

I was perfectly trained here. Some of my earliest and most definitive childhood memories were of my father raising his voice in anger against my mother, or more rarely against a sibling or me, and my immediate retreat to my hiding place under the bed.

I just never quit hiding under the bed, even when I got too big to get under it. Pretty pathetic, really. We disagree, I don’t immediately change my mind, he shouts, I cower, try to become invisible, and then beg for his mercy so I can come slinking back into his good graces again.

Many years later, I read one theologian’s take on the challenge of relationships between men and women. I don’t remember the exact wording, but it was something like this: “Men will sacrifice a relationship for the sake of power, and women will sacrifice power for the sake of a relationship.” Now, that is just too pat to be true across the board, but it sure was true of me. I’d do anything to stay in relationship, including compromising the core of my soul—which I didn’t even know I had.

Here’s one way it played out for us. The Bible clearly states in Ephesians 4 that we should never let the sun go down on our anger. As careful biblical literalists, who were not averse to stretching things a little to make them more comfortable for us, we interpreted that to mean we should never go to sleep with any anger or frustration with one another.

Since any disagreement on my part with the way he thought or the decisions he made would prompt an angry response, we spent a lot of time working things out before we could go to sleep at night.

Unfortunately, I’m one of those people who need a lot of sleep. Always have, always will. I really, really do need a solid eight hours at night. That’s my body, and I’ve learned by now to honor it. So many nights were spent with him working to convince me that my opinions, thoughts, and decisions were wrong—some might call this brow-beating—until, in absolute exhaustion and driving need for sleep, I would simply agree.

You see? Clearly, I was willing to compromise my soul for the sake of relationship. Besides, he could always outlast me—his superior physical strength would never let him down.

My ultimate solution: a descent into silence. I simply became more and more an echo of Husband’s thoughts, pushing, hiding, shoving everything else away. It was a wonderful way to keep peace in the household.

For me, a successful day was one in which Husband got everything he wanted, so he had no reason to raise his voice at me. My life centered around catering to his needs. Pretty neat system—and I do need neatness, after all.

I also became physically ill. All that stuffing and hiding always produces consequences. Overfilled closets eventually spill out, and overfilled mental and spiritual and volitional hiding places have a way of making their presence known.

Devastating headaches, unexplained physical weakness, debilitating fatigue—these became a part of my life. Nothing really diagnosable, just general misery. Nice escape, on occasion, from the never-ending demands of his needs. In truth, he had a bad bargain with me.

Would that we had been able to be fully honest with each other! So much of this is my problem. I so little understood myself, and what little I did understand, I was willing to leave behind so that someone, particularly Husband, would treat me well and not threaten to leave me.

The possibility of his leaving was an early and oft-repeated theme in our “discussions.” He had early developed a powerful pattern of complete cut-off when relationships didn’t go his way. This was a real threat to me, and I knew it. It’s a very, very shaky foundation for marriage unless. . . it is also quite well undergirded by the theological world that informed it.

Frankly, our theology supported my lack of self. The quieter, more hidden I became, the more I was celebrated as the submissive wife. Brilliant, beautiful, and quiet. Very, very quiet.

This time of my life has long passed. And I am forever grateful to have eventually found my soul, my self, my wholeness as a woman, a human being, and as one who absolutely refuses to be silenced once more.

But the push remains: way, way too many men still want women to be silenced. And we must not give in to them, no matter the cost. Never again.

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We heard the news of the assassination, which took place less then five minutes after we’d seen him, on the bus back to the local drugstore where we would walk another 1/2 mile to the school. Somewhat shell-shocked already, we walked into the silent school, teachers weeping with their heads down at their desks, our parents frantically phoning to make sure were all safe.

I personally lived in a 100% Republican echo chamber. No stranger to my parents’ conversations with their many like-minded friends, I’d heard nothing but words of hatred for JFK. There’s a good reason Dallas was called the “City of Hate.”

Now, the city of Frisco prepares to take on the same mantra: soon, and very soon, if Keith Craft and his so-called church called “Elevate Life” have their way and elect their chosen mayoral candidate, Frisco will be the new “City of Hate.” Only this time, we will murder Muslims instead of Democrats.

Over ten years ago, I visited this “church” as part of a year-long project, requested by the Denton Record-Chronicle where I then wrote the weekly religion columns, to be a “secret worshiper” at multiple area churches. I said at the time, and I reiterate it now, Elevate Life is an evil place. And if Frisco moves in this direction, we will deserve the nation’s scorn.

I have replicated the article below, as well as the extra commentary I wrote when I posted the article on my personal blog site.

NOTE: all this is my personal opinion, filtered through years of intense study of the Bible and Christian theology, along with two advanced degrees in the field, an additional four years of preparation before ordination by The United Methodist Church, and multiple years in the pastorate.

Did you know that the Lord’s Prayer can be read as “Hey, Jesus, can teach us to pray that way you do so we can get the same stuff from God that you do?”

This, among other things, is what I learned when visiting a church in Frisco in June of 2015. The newspaper article ran in the Friday, June 12, 2015. edition of the Denton Record-Chronicle is in italics below. I’ve inserted my editorial comments here, things I can’t say in the print edition.

How can I resist a place that calls itself “The Cathedral of Frisco?” The massive structure of the Elevate Life Church dominates an upper-class neighborhood in far eastern Denton County. The church website indicates a non-denominational church, founded in January 2000.

Keith and Sheila Craft are the pastors. Their clergy credentials are unknown. Keith Craft’s primary profession is a motivational speaker and CEO Coach. The Crafts’ three grown children all work on the church staff and run key ministry areas.

So we start here: Craft’s personal website indicates that he has shared the stage with the likes of Bill Clinton, Mikhail Gorbachev, Margaret Thatcher, Jerry Lewis, Bill Cosby and Goldie Hawn. He also founded “Leadershipology” an online quote service.

So, if he is this successful as a motivational speaker and coach, why does he need to establish a church? Does he want access to all those non-taxable dollars? And who or what audits the church funds, particularly when it appears to run as a family business?

Control is the game from the moment of entry. We pull into the spot the many parking lot attendants select for us. Doors fling open as we approach the building. Trained and smiling greeters quickly establish some physical contact with all entering. I experience numerous upper arm touches before and after the performance, uhhh . . . worship.

Electronic kiosks check the children into the fanciful children’s wings, decked in rustic castle style. Adult areas reflect the same decorative scheme. The coffee shop is such a perfect knock-off of Starbucks that I am shocked to discover it is not an actual franchise. The bookstore specializes in make-up and bling jewelry for women along with a good selection of self-help books for all ages.

The center of the cavernous lobby features a roped-off area with specified entry and exit areas. Here those who seek the privilege of greeting Keith and Sheila Craft line up for a handshake and conversation after services.

As one of my companions for the day said, “It was a slick operation--and nearly perfectly done.” People are trained and ready.

We could all take lessons from this. Every message reinforced the main image: this is a good place to be. Friendly faces everywhere, all dressed in recognizable clothes and with name tags clearly identifying them.

The Starbucks knock-off blew me away. We were welcome to take any food or drink items we purchased in there into the auditorium for the service. Everything said, “We are a highly successful place--and you want to be a part of this.”

At 8:58, the massive tiered-seating performance hall boasts several hundred people. Touchy ushers herd people into seats in the lower central sections. Side and upper areas remain darkened and unoccupied.

This seating technique results in a sense of critical mass even when the audience is too small for the space available. Church building with worship centers bigger than their current congregations would do well to adopt this technique. Rope off the back and far side areas.

The smoke light-filled stage bursts into life at 9 am. A female vocalist dressed in sparkly-spangled tights and rock-band t-shirt prances around the stage. The camera operators ensure the worship leaders plenty of close-up screen time.

I have been wrestling for some time to differentiate between a service that is dedicated to worshiping God and one that is more like a rock concert. I’m coining the word “christiantainment” here to describe it.

Both can make extensive use of technology, cameras, expert musicians and current, heavy beat music. I’ve finally decided that it is what shows on the screens that matters.

If the screens are used to highlight the musicians, then it is probably christiantainment. If they are used to draw the worshipers into the words of the song that point to God, then we are in worship. It’s not the style; it’s the focus.

Pastor Whitney, a Craft daughter, calls a prayer team to the front. They come to stand in the gap with those who have prayer requests. Together they will come to complete agreement. That agreement compels God to give them the desires of their hearts.

OK, this is typical health/wealth/prosperity teaching. It comes from Matthew 18:19: “Again I say to you, if two of you agree on earth about anything they ask, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven [ESV].” The idea is that we can “bind” God to our agreement, and God has no choice but to grant the request. Pretty powerful stuff.

Another worship leader quotes several Bible verses. He announces that Paul, author of numerous books in the New Testament, said, “I look to Jesus the author and finisher of my faith.” That quotation is from the Book of Hebrews, Chapter 12, a book not authored by Paul.

The same person notes that it is our job to believe and God’s job to do the impossible. The speaker went to prayer. He reminds God that His word says, “The best is yet to come.” As he prays, one of my worship companions leans over and whispers, “That is quite a list of instructions for God.” Although the words “The best is yet to come” are not to be found in the Holy Scriptures, the audience offers hearty applause at the end of the prayer.

Here is where I start getting pretty upset about the lack of an educated clergy. I know one of the questions people are asking of mainline and shrinking denominations is whether our educational requirements are just too stringent.

The problem is that hardly anyone reads the Bible, so when someone in authority makes a pronouncement about it, most will just assume it is true. Those who teach and preach have the ability to do so very much harm by the misuse of the Scriptures. It also appears to me that many US citizens, in particular, are becoming far less literate. More and more information sources, or misinformation sources as the case may be, are video based and done in short snippets without time for nuance or alternate views.

The fact that a large percentage of Americans hold to a young earth theory boggles the mind. Many will believe what people who appear to have authority say. If those in authority also hold people tightly in their charismatic webs pretty well whatever they pronounce as true will stay unquestioned.

Too much information comes at us too fast to spend adequate time sorting it. Also, fewer people have developed the critical thinking skills to do so.

Pastor Craft roars up on a motorcycle in a video. He announces that he is believing God for a $600,000 one-time offering to build an additional parking lot. Craft has such assurance that this is the right direction that he personally guarantees the $600,000, just as he guaranteed the several million dollars needed for a previous building project. Later in his message Craft reminds those present along with his extensive TV and Internet audience that people who attend church take up parking and seat space and need to contribute to those privileges.

We then see a video of a young couple who were blessed beyond their wildest dreams by sending a lot of money that they couldn’t afford to the church.

We now may text our donations to Elevate Life Church. Instructions: enter a keyword and an amount. Suggested amount: $500. For those choosing not to text, gray plastic buckets pass from hand to hand. Ushers collect them efficiently.

I presume by now it is clear what this church is all about: getting money into the coffers, apparently all controlled by the Craft family. The pressure on the congregation to give grows exponentially during the message later.

A missions report informs the church that they have just spent $3000 to completely rebuild a house in a remote village in Mexico, elevating one family to an enviable position in the community. Mission team members also poured the concrete floor of a church.

This mission trip epitomizes the worst practices of religious tourism. These well-meaning people displace local craftsmen, leave behind shoddily done work that very well may be redone by the next religious tour group, and disrupt local social stability, possibly causing permanent damage. To learn more, read Toxic Charity.

Craft sprinkles his sermon with stand-up comedy highlights. He repeatedly emphasizes the need for every single person to step up as a giving participant at Elevate Life. He also reminds the audience that he had announced some months ago that in 2015 the Texas drought would be over. In addition, he prophesies that it is now going to start raining in California and that there will also be a spiritual revival there.

After a while, I had to stop trying to take notes during the sermon. The sermon notes contained quotes from his work, Leadershipology, with scattered references to various scripture verses, all yanked from context and reinterpreted through the lenses of “name it/claim it” and “health/wealth/prosperity” theology.

Here’s what frightened me most: there was just enough scripture, just enough “god-talk,” just enough skating near the truth to pretty well deceive anyone and particularly those without a decent biblical background and understanding of more orthodox theology. It also sounds attractive to those in the Frisco demographic: mostly house poor and possibly up to their ears in consumer debt, upwardly striving, bred on easy answers and instant solutions.

It all looks so good, so very possible. Just follow the formula. It will all be OK.

I am also aware that I’ve said something similar when I’ve also taught about giving. Everyone is capable of giving something, although money may not be an option.

I’ve taught that as we give, it frees us to receive. Now, I would mainly focus on the freedom of giving unwarranted forgiveness, relinquishing grudges and resentments.

But certainly, I know and have taught, that when I give money, it also frees me. It frees me from the love of money, it frees me to move into deep gratefulness for what I do have, for the abundance that surrounds me.

Craft touched on none of those ideas. It was all about money and all about massive volunteer hours at the church. I again got the impression that there are no staff there except the Craft family--everything else is done by volunteers. So much unaccountable money.

But again, it all looks so good and successful and so . . . American, apple pie and patriotism.

We are treated to another round of offering buckets/text our money to Elevate Life church. One of Craft’s sons gives the benediction so Craft himself can head to the roped off area to greet his many admirers.

Multiple ushers touchfully wish us a good day as we exit the building. We drive from the parking lot under the watchful eyes of the friendly attendants. The same parking lot shall soon fill to capacity in preparation for the next service.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been shocked by the second offering, but I was. This place is all about the money. But people come in droves.

After a quick lunch, I drove back to the campus before the next service was over and wandered through the vast parking lot. There were five empty spaces, and some cars were in an overflow lot.

People are eating this stuff up. They think it is truth.

I think it is the most evil place I have ever seen. I say that because the amount of deception going on there boggles the mind. And it is extraordinarily difficult to see.

Several years ago, I preached a series of sermons using characters from the Harry Potter books as case studies in seeking to discern the difference between good and evil. Rarely it is black and white.

Far, far more often, evil expertly masquerades itself into something that looks good and desirable. More, it will be tangibly achievable. Ultimately, it will quietly and fully replace the call to be holy as God is holy and finally devour the soul in its unquenchable hunger.

C.S. Lewis in his book The Screwtape Letters describes the exquisite subtlety of evil better than I am able. But this church, this so-called “Cathedral of Frisco” lives it out.

And it is successful by any human count of numbers and noses.

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We drove through the Tuscan countryside, accompanied by an intriguing and informative running commentary by our excellent driver/guide, Alessio. Farming dominates the area and two crops dominate the farming: grapes and olives.

It’s mid-spring here, life-reinvention time, winter slumber tossed aside like too-heavy comforters, vibrant wildflowers lining the narrow roads, cheering on the traffic, endless acres of perfectly aligned grapevines, vibrant green topping the stalks. And, to my untutored eyes, countless olive trees looking like they’d been butchered by a madman with a chainsaw.

Alessio mentioned that nearly every family owned enough grapevines and olive trees to provide adequate wine and olive oil for the yearly household consumption needs, even as commercial production provides more for world-wide palates.

And then he explained the olive trees in this region. This type of tree produces olives for oil production only, not for the yummy savory snacks and pizza toppings many of us treasure—they come from different types of trees. Left to grow on their own, the abundant branches and leaves quickly provide too much shade for robust olive production.

So, wise olive tree stewards radically prune each tree in late winter, effectively chopping out the center branches, flattening the top, and exposing the interior branches to the kind of sunshine necessary for the 20,000-30,000 olives each healthy tree can produce yearly.

The result: about as aesthetically pleasing as unkept pile of weeds, yet offering life in the form of abundant olive oil production, an essential to healthy and flavorful eating across much of the world.

As one who gardens as a soul-healing hobby, aiming for pleasure to the eye, but little for the palate except one small area devoted to flavorful herbs, I fought an internal battle with the, to my untutored eye, butchered trees.

I was, naturally, reminded of the words from the Gospel of John where Jesus declares himself the vinekeeper, the one who must prune the vines, i.e., his followers, for robust production. And, of course, all the vines in the endless fields of growing grapes had been expertly pruned as well.

So many times I had been taught this lesson as a way to understand the hard hits of my life—the uncomfortable “pruning” process by a God angry at my endless sin as a way to direct me in a more holy path. I suppose this could be true, but now I wonder how those first century folks, those who lived close to the land and understood the necessity of good pruning, would have heard it.

Might they have understood it differently? Instead of an angry God/gardener, might they have heard it as a caring act necessary for health and continued life? People in that time lived far more precariously than we do now—one bad harvest could lead to family starvation, dooming them to slavery and loss of all long-held family lands. Wise and caring farmers worked endlessly to avoid such dire outcomes. Their lives depended upon the health of their vines and their olive trees—cruelty and anger-based mistreatment of such living things was never in the cards.

Even so, the pruning process is, to my untutored eye, brutal. The natural shape is destroyed; production is the goal. Unproductive vines, trees past their prime—all are uprooted, left to compost, to decay, to feed the next generation of plants.

Ultimately, it comes down to this: for plants to offer robust production, the kind that ensures its survival and the survival of those tending them, their gardener must engage in radical trimming.

So what might Jesus have been intending by those words attributed to him? I don’t know—but I kept thinking about the life-giving properties emanating from those topped-off trees, new branches coming from the older trunks, thousands of olives preparing to grow from what looks like a royal mess to me.

Could this be the message? Out of the bumps, bruises and bulges, the truncated hopes and battered souls that make up most of us emerges life for others?

Spending some time here in the “old world” as opposed to the relative newness of the US has reminded me how minuscule is the time that I have available to me as an individual in the larger march of humanity.

It has also reminded me of the finiteness of human and political lives, growing my awareness that no nation, no people group, no matter how powerful in appearance, has actual staying power. All will eventually fail, all will be replaced by different systems, perhaps better, perhaps worse, but stability is an illusion.

I read the US news these days from a European perspective. I hear people speak of Donald Trump with true, appalled derision and with a greater awareness of the world-wide damage he has caused. I come more and more to the conclusion that the US as a democratic nation no longer exists: it is now completely taken over by irredeemable kleptocracy and utter ineptness, run by those who now obediently bow to the Golden Trump instead of the biblical Golden Calf, both degraded substitutes for the Holy God.

Yeah, yeah, I know, but “what about Biden?” Yep, he was a foolish, foolish man to try to stay in power and Kamala Harris a poor pick as VP and unexpected heir apparent. But I do think there is a greater respect for the democratic process, as messy as it is, on the part of the disastrously disorganized Democrats.

The US, while still looking relatively prosperous, has possibly passed the point of no return. Mass ignorance reigns and rules; compassion is out; brute power is in. Social and cultural knowledge is denigrated; utter crassness and the basest impulses of human nature now celebrated. It’s both heartbreaking and inevitable under utterly immoral, rudderless leadership of those who only wish to plunder for the present, not nurture for the future.

And so I wonder: could this be an olive tree moment in the sense that the extreme ugliness emanating from this previously great nation might, with the best of pruning techniques, produce fresh fruit? Could we take a lesson here, slice off the top branches that now cover us with degrading darkness and let healing sunshine in again?

If we don’t, there is no hope. But if we do . . .

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