Prostitutes & Virgins

Rahab was a prostitute. She had sex with people in exchange for money, goods, or other services. The Bible isn't clear on what the preferred form of payment for prostitutes was. It is clear on the fact that Rahab was important. She helped spies escape from Jericho, and so was saved during the invasion of Jericho, along with her household. If stereotypes about brothels and houses of ill repute are true, then she might have managed to save a few more prostitutes in the process. You can read most of her story in Joshua, if you like. She is remembered as a helpful prostitute more than anything else.

Yet, in Matthew she's listed as an ancestor of Jesus, in Hebrews as one of the faithful role models, and  in James as one who was saved by her works. It would seem that prostitutes, in all their impurity, have a place in the reign of God, maybe even a place of honor.

I need that reminder this week. Some time last week, news of a young bride presenting her father with a certificate of her virginity started making the rounds. I've been in the world of purity pledges and True Love Waits. I've been in the world of "Jesus doesn't care what I do with my penis." I don't think either is a healthy approach to sexuality. However, the full discussion on a healthy approach to sexuality is for another day.

Instead, let me say this: there's a biblical precedent for abstinence until marriage. I'll easily concede that. But let's be clear that precedent is geared toward women. Without apology, these women were property. They didn't come with certificates of authenticity, but they might as well have. "Proof of virginity" comes up a few times. Her virginity, after all, made it easy to know her husband was the father of her children. Dad wouldn't have to worry about someone else inheriting his property. Property of all sorts seems to have been a big concern. Most of the rules about virgins and marriage are tied directly to that world. The awesome seminary phrase I like to pull out to discuss this is "patrilineal endogamy." The short version: men owned property and transferred that property to other men. End of story.

Our daughters, our sisters, our wives, our best friends Women deserve a better story. A story that isn't about their relationship to men. A story that doesn't reduce them to their sexuality. Yep, unabashedly this is a healthy dose of feminism through a Christian lens, in part because Christians suck at telling women they do matter. I'm pretty sure no institution has so firmly held on to traditional gender roles as the Church.

In another few weeks, churches will be telling stories of a virgin giving birth to the savior of the world. Some of them, like my church, will be nervous talking about a virgin birth because science. Others will be worried someone might actually use the word "pregnant" in worship. Most all of them will be a little nervous in talking about conception and childbirth and other things often relegated to private realms, or at least to the realm of women.

We will once again be reminded of the fact that our tradition says our savior was born of a virgin. We will once again see images of a young woman, pure and chaste. Let us not forget, though, that Matthew's gospel, the author who was most adamant that Mary was a virgin, is also the one who tells us of the prostitute in Jesus' lineage. Somehow, the person who worried far more about Joseph than Mary, telling us Joseph would just divorce her quietly, can hold the tension of a prostitute and a virgin    together. More than that, he proclaims it as Gospel.

Maybe, just maybe, we can also learn to tell the stories of prostitutes and virgins side-by-side. Maybe we can even remember the stories we've inherited name both as beloved children of God. Maybe we can live a faith that has room for both Rahab and Mary.

God is Not Done Yet

God is not done yet. That's my one line confession of faith. It's not the one I made at baptism or that admitted me into membership in any church, but it's what I come back to time after time. I'm just going to go ahead and say that up front.

And I need to say that up front because about every six months, I go to one meeting in particular that makes me give up on Church. That meeting, it's pretty much a guarantee. Actually, a lot of meetings with the larger denomination pretty well convince me that I should just give up. I'll pay some money to a career counseling firm, turn my résumé into something that makes sense in the business world, have plenty of money and weekends free. 

I don't think I'm alone in the reasons for why, exactly, I think I should give up on Church. There are remarkably few people like me at most of those meetings. I'm younger, which I can deal with mostly, except when I realize how radically different our worldviews are. What I care about is decidedly from those around me; it's partly generational, partly worldview, and partly just me. I don't see "it's church" as a reason to feign interest, or to accept mediocrity. Let's not even talk about gender and issues there.

Since that's a lot of me talk that maybe doesn't make a great deal of sense, here's a conversation from a recent version of that meeting that I often use to convey why, exactly, these sorts of meetings make me give up on Church:

Very nicely dressed, sweet elderly lady: "You're the new pastor at Chalice?"

Me: "Well, I've been there well over two years, so I'm not really new any more." 

Ignore the look from the sweet elderly lady.

Very nicely dressed, sweet elderly lady: "We haven't been there since the building was dedicated."

I nod nicely in response. 

Very nicely dressed, sweet elderly lady: "I wonder something. When we were there, they were talking about moving the chairs to face the opposite direction. Did they ever do that?"

Me: "I haven't moved the chairs since I've been there, but I don't know what they did before."

Very nicely dressed, sweet elderly lady: "Well, I thought you might have seen pictures."

Me: "No." Because there are about seven hundred things more important to the history of the church than how chairs are or are not arranged. You know, things that are relevant to ministry and the future of the church.

I hope that adequately conveys the reason I now go home from these meetings to watch Netflix accompanied by chocolate and wine. 

Ok. Rum or tequila, actually. It's how I avoid actually sending in my résumé. 

I know, most certainly, that I'm not alone in my occasional desire to give up on Church. I know many people who have and who are. I know your reasons may be very different from mine. 

But, at the end of the day, I remember that deep confession: God is not done yet. 

When I see the kids who don't have adults to take care of them, people barely scraping by, illness, loneliness, church people worried about the arrangement of chairs--everything that makes anyone wonder, "Where is God?" then I confess: God is not done yet. 

I need that reminder from the Church because I'm pretty sure I'd forget if I were left to my own devices. God is not done yet is not my confession alone; it's a confession born from the faith handed down to me by many faithful before me. It's written in every story of healing, in every letter to a church, in every prophet's words: God is not done yet. All the things that break my heart break God's heart, too.

And so I hope, I pray, I confess: God is not done yet.

The Anniversary of a Death

A year ago today I walked into a hospital room. I didn't know when I got in my car that day that I would receive news that death was near. I found out after I donned a gown and gloves, according to protocol for that unit, and walked down the hall. His family was gathered. The machines would be turned off; I would have been called soon. And so we settled into that hospital room. We prayed, we sang, and then we waited. We waited for several difficult, beautiful hours. I was not there for many, but not all, the hours of waiting. 

The pain of those moments is real, but I'm often amazed at how fully sacred texts speak promises that cannot be forgotten in those moments, "But we do not grieve...as others who have no hope" (1 Thessalonians 1:13). I've been present at deaths several times. It remains amazing to watch people of deep faith walk into death without fear. There is grief, to be sure, but it is not a hopeless grief. Christians are, after all, a resurrection people. 

I'm one of the people who is less certain about what comes after death. I'm not banking on eternity or bodies rising from the ground. My confession about death is this: whatever comes after, God is there. On a good day, I believe that we are only more fully in the presence of God. But I am always aware that my grief is a hopeful one. 

The funeral sermon for that man was punctuated with the line from scripture, "Well done, good and faithful servant." It's from Matthew 25, a vision of the final judgment, when Jesus names all the things that those who follow him do. For a retired chaplain and pastor, it was well-suited. I imagine, though, it would have been well-suited even if he'd chosen a different vocation. 

His stoles, a sign of the office of clergy, now hang on my wall and occasionally around my neck; his wife gave them to me a few weeks after his death. They are a deep reminder of the great cloud of witnesses that holds me now (Hebrews 12:1). I am certain that cloud of witnesses only grows larger with the passage of time. 

On this difficult, but beautiful, anniversary I cannot forget one of the great gifts of the Christian faith: we do not grieve as those who have no hope. We trust in and occasionally live in the the thin places, where God could break in and fully take over at any moment. We are never too far from the holy, for God calls us to be partners in what God is doing in this world. By virtue of our name, Church, we are called out to a holy purpose. The Christ who has called us and bound us together remains with us; the Spirit breathes new life into us with each passing day. We do not grieve as those who have no hope for we are resurrection people, trusting that life can and will overpower death at any moment. 

Today, I am so grateful for this cloud of witnesses.

Lost Cards and a Hot Dog

"We're usually the Pharisees." It's a terrible reminder when reading through the Gospels, but one that must be uttered often. "We're usually the Pharisees." In my mostly Anglo, mostly middle-class, I'd-guess-half-of-us-have-post-graduate-degrees-congregation, yeah, we're usually the Pharisees. We're the teachers, the people with at least some power. We're not usually the ones asking for help. We're not usually the people caught in vulnerability; money (or credit) usually fixes our vulnerability.

I think a solid, even if small, dose of vulnerability would do us all some good. I got one yesterday, in fact. I woke up feeling like death on a Triscuit. Not sick, not anything tangibly wrong, just overall bad. I eventually dragged myself out of bed, showered, and decided to grab food on the way to work. Yes, there was food in my house, but ordering food alone seemed like too much of a challenge. My desire for not breakfast food coupled with time of day meant that I stopped at QuikTrip. (I enjoy gas station food far more than anyone should.) I ordered my sandwich, filled up my drink, then went to pay. Standing at the counter, owing all of $4 and some change, I realized my wallet was empty except for my driver's license. 

Empty. No cash. No cards. Nothing. Now, this should have really surprised me. I have a phone case that's also a wallet and it needs to be thrown away. I've dropped cards out of it a few times lately. But really, why bother with something like that until it's absolutely necessary? I was hopefully they had merely fallen out in my car, so I left my drink with the cashier and went out to check. No cards. Because I was in my death on a Triscuit haze and because nothing like this had never happened to me, I still went back in the QuikTrip to explain to the cashier that my cards had not been in my car after all. He just kinda stared at me as I told him I'd have to go home and look for them. I'm not sure what else I expected him to do. This was not one of the best moments of my life. 

A woman standing in line--a line which was now long by QuikTrip standards--said, "Oh, you need to pay for your snack? I'll buy your drink." So I thanked her, grabbed my drink, and headed back home in search of the cards. When I pulled into my parking space, I suddenly knew the exact moment the cards had fallen out. It was the night before, when I'd been talking on the phone. Sure enough, there they were, between my bed and nightstand. 

I did not return to QuikTrip for my sandwich. 

I don't think any of this would have been so bad if not for another story from that same QuikTrip. It happened not long after I moved to the area. I don't know what I'd stopped for that day, but there was a young woman ahead of me in line. She had a hot dog that she was trying to pay for with her SNAP card. I'd never thought of using a SNAP card at a gas station; just like a grocery store, hot food couldn't be purchased with the card. The cashier turned her away.

I was annoyed by the exchange and the delay in line. I was even more annoyed with her when the cashier called to her as she tried to sneak out the door, "I'll need you to pay for that hot dog." Yes, she'd tried to steal it, instead. Paying for it never entered my mind. For the record, it was all of $1.50. 

I've thought of that woman and that attempted hot dog theft many times when I've walked into that gas station, which is one of two that I frequent. I've thought of the friend waiting in the car. I've thought of her black plastic glasses, dirty blonde hair, and don't remember much else. But I didn't consider her vulnerability that day until the last couple of days, even though her vulnerability meant she had only SNAP benefits to pay with. 

For just a moment, I'm glad I wasn't the Pharisee in the story. Now that I've found my cards, I think I'd also be kinder to that lady with the hot dog. 

That Day I (Kinda) Became a Troll

Each Sunday, the class I teach reads together the scripture for the sermon for the following week. This practice is an excellent way to begin my sermon preparation. I also thoroughly enjoy when someone calls bullshit. 

You read that right. It happens with some regularity--especially when offering a traditional interpretation of scripture or some portion of the Bible we're not crazy about. Yeah, we can openly admit that we'd like to ignore some of the Bible. And we can call bullshit. It's one of my favorite things about ministry in this place, actually. 

To be fair, when I needed to call bullshit in a sermon, I used the more worship appropriate "horse feathers," but I still did it. Actually, I think the ability to engage and question scripture is one of the most profound callings of Christian faith. So the other day, I found myself sorta, kinda becoming one of those trolls that so regularly cause me to roll my eyes.  In this case, a college friend (haven't seen each other since graduation, but his picture from a hike with our group from our capstone course is in my office) had posted on Facebook that Kim Davis' ridiculousness is the beginning of even worse Christian persecution.

Friends, I do not regularly engage in Facebook debates. They rarely go anywhere productive. They turn vitriolic incredibly quickly because these discussions happen outside the confines of any sort of community. Yet, someone needed to call bullshit. So I did--knowing that I did it with people who would likely be offended if I actually said (or typed), "Bullshit." 

The conversation went exactly as I thought it would, including a typically terrible debate on same-sex marriage. Have I mentioned how annoying I find it when people ask me if I've read a particular Bible verse? For the sake of Moses, Peter, and sweet 8 pound baby Jesus--YES! I've read the entire Christian Bible on multiple occasions. I've read the apocrypha. I've read large chunks of the stuff that didn't make it into the canon. I can tell you the difference between the Christian and Jewish orderings of scripture. If you really love me, please buy me an English translation of the Ethiopian Orthodox Bible because I don't have an extra $300 lying around right now and it's the largest of any Christian canon; I'd love to own a copy. But yes, I've thoroughly read this book I'm prone to geeking out about. Any way, back to that day I behaved kinda troll-like. 

Sometimes, those sorts of conversations are worth it. Most of the time, they would be better in person. But here are a few things I truly believe, going in and coming out of that usually avoided conversation:

• We should be talking to people who are more conservative and more liberal than we are, especially if they share our faith. We might find we use the same words to talk about different things. My troll-y self knew we had different sets of beliefs about what we mean when using the word "Bible" for example. We do a great disservice to ourselves, though, if we can't figure out how to at least talk to each other--even if we walk away pretty sure the other person needs some divine intervention. 
• Community matters. This goes hand in hand with the first one. We should be in and maintain relationship with people different from us. It might be people we once sat alongside in class. It might be the neighbor whose music drives us nuts. But we need those bonds of community to help us continue conversations. 
• Conversations should continue. The least troll-y thing I did was say something to someone I would be glad to see in real life. If something is one way, then it's not conversation. The conversation matters. We can listen to ourselves talk all we want on any given day. It doesn't actually do much good. 
• Speaking up matters. Side conversations came from the primary conversation. They were good conversations, too. They were needed conversations, too. On social media, in coffee shops in grocery store lines--you never know who's listening. You never know who might need to hear what you're saying. You never know when, exactly, the Spirit might create something amazing.
• Speaking up matters differently if you're you're privileged. I've been told I'm going to hell for a variety of reasons, but never because of my sexual orientation or gender identity. I'm a little farther right on the Kinsey scale than some, but decidedly a cisgendered, heterosexual female. I also can keep my temper in check when others can't. That means I'm highly unlikely to end up in tears or feeling absolutely terrible when someone gets nasty in a fight about same-sex marriage. I care about the subject deeply, but it's not a conversation about the validity or sinfulness of my relationship. I owe it to my friends for whom those things are not true to speak up when they can't--and to move aside when they're ready to speak. 

So there's my confession from the day I kinda became a troll; sometimes, you just have to call bullshit.

 

Restoration: a Midrash

There is a Jewish tradition of midrash: storytelling that fills in details and provides explanation that the biblical account does not offer. This is one of my favorite kinds of interpretation to read. I usually don't share sermons here, but this past Sunday, I wrote a sort of midrash of my own, about the hemorrhaging woman and Jairus' daughter. You can read the biblical account in Mark 5:21-43; this is my interpretation of that story. 

What do you do with a love story gone wrong? What do you do when everything falls apart and ends up terribly, terribly wrong?

She got up terribly tired this morning, as she had every morning for what seemed like forever. Walking to the window, with the warm light of early morning streaming in, she wished for the life she had dreamed of. She wished for the life she had promised with the man she loved. Some days, it seemed like yesterday that the tiredness had set in—not the deep exhaustion of days like this, but the hopeful tiredness of a baby on the way. She couldn’t help but glance at her hands, hands that had recently begun to show fine lines. They bore the marks of these almost 12 years alone. They felt empty, most of the time, left empty by the baby taken from her, a baby now nearly grown, and terribly sick.

Her body shivered from the exhaustion of illness, as she sank to sit by the window, waiting for the strength to gather her breakfast. The warmth of the sun sank into her body, lulling her into sleep, there in her tiny home.

A knock at the door woke her. Out the window she saw a familiar face.

“Joanna,” she called. The woman turned, and rushed over the window, reaching through to hug the woman she had served for so many years—first as a nanny, then raising her daughter when she couldn’t.

“Joanna, how is she?” And the elderly woman’s eyes welled up with tears at the question. She had hoped to ask first how this woman she loved was, before she broke her heart even further.  She tried to sort out how to say that the little girl was even worse, but the tears began to flow as she remembered: days without food, barely drinking, seeming to grow smaller and smaller in her bed, barely moving. As her tears broke into sobs, they spoke the words she could not. The eyes she stared into filled with tears, too, as the whisper came, “She’s going to die, isn’t she?”

Her nod caused the tears to fall from her friend’s eyes, too. They took hands through the windows, and let tears fall, weeping for the child they both loved.

Joanna’s words broke silence, “I have to go. They’ll soon miss me. And I need to be with her.” This was their arrangement after all—Joanna would stay in the house where her mistress wasn’t allowed. Joanna would come as often as she could to this tiny house on the edge of the city, sharing news of the daughter who had to be left behind.

Left there, in her home alone, she gathered all the strength she had to get up, wash her face, change her clothes. There was a fire in her eyes that everyone would have suspected had long since burned out. She had a plan. Although the town had chosen sides with her husband, she’d still heard what no one would speak to her. They talked in the market like she wasn’t there. The servants who had followed her from her father’s house to her husband’s house, like Joanna, spoke to her when they could. There’s a man, they said, who is traveling here. And they told stories of the man named Jesus, traveling around, stories she’d heard of other people—but never so many stories from so many people. Never quite so many stories of demons cast out, of people healed, of boats that didn’t sink in storms, of a man who seemed like the prophets of legend.

And he was supposed to be in the town today.

She might catch him if she hurried. He, at least, would not know her story. He might be willing to help even her daughter. And so she shut the door, steadied herself with her cane, and hurried over dusty roads into the center of the town. Each step drained her strength. Each step made the bleeding that never stopped worse. Each step cost her dearly. But she took each one in the hope that this man named Jesus could do something.

Sooner than she had managed in years, she was near the synagogue, where he would surely be headed. But there was a crowd blocking her way. There was a crowd everywhere. The streets were full of people, pushing and shoving, too many people, many from out of town, crammed into a tiny space. She pushed her cane into the ground, steadied herself, trying to see what was going on.

And as soon as she did, her heart sank. Of course, Jesus was at the center of all the commotion. Of course, he was why crowds had gathered. Of course he was with the synagogue leader, her husband, Jairus. The impossibility of her mission became immediately clear.

How could she approach Jesus? How could she have any place here?

Suddenly, the weight of all that the town knew was heavy on her heart. These people were not her friends. They were the people who knew.

They knew she and Jairus had married, despite their families wanting them to marry other people. They knew it was only after many, many arguments that their families agreed. They had laughed at the young couple for talking about love so much. They knew.

They knew how long it was before a child was born. They, too, held the suspicion it was because they had defied their families. They knew that the child was fine, but her mother was not. Her mother never recovered from childbirth, kept bleeding long after the time she should have. They knew that for months the mother and child lived in the servants’ quarters, apart from the main house, hoping it would get better.
God, have mercy—they knew. They knew she left her husband’s home as soon as her child could eat solid food, weaned or not. They knew he gave her back her full dowry. They knew she had spent it all, a small fortune, searching for a cure. They knew the synagogue leader would not keep her in his house any more, but refused to divorce either.

She wished she could shout out what they didn’t know. They didn’t know that she was the one who refused to let him leave his place of honor at the synagogue. They didn’t know that she chose to leave her daughter in what would be viewed as the more respectable household, the one that would give her daughter a chance. They didn’t know that she was the one who refused to destroy everything they had worked for.

They didn’t know nearly as much as they thought they did. They didn’t know that they never stopped loving each other.

She looked at Jairus, there in the blazing sun, pushing through crowds, dragging Jesus along behind him, and knew he was as desperate as she was. He had to be, to go find this man and drag him along, undoubtedly to their daughter’s deathbed.

Hope that she hadn’t felt in a long time welled up inside her. The love for this man and their daughter that had kept her going for 12 years made her push just a little closer in the crowd, hoping to touch the man who might help her daughter.  He’d never know in this crowd, of that much she was certain. She needed some connection to her daughter’s only hope.

And so she pushed and prodded, tired though she was. Just as she was giving up, a man moved. He saw her and knew—not that she wanted to touch Jesus, but that he didn’t want to touch her. He jumped back before he thought, and she put out her hand, almost grabbing Jesus’ arm. She wasn’t strong enough, and barely brushed his robe before he went on his way.

But something happened. What exactly she didn’t know. In that instant, something changed. The exhaustion that had been present for so long left. What had been true about her for 12 years wasn’t any more. Something had happened, something wonderful.

“Who touched me?” The moment of joy was broken as soon as it began. Jesus’ words silenced the crowd, “Who touched me?”

“How could he know?” she thought.

“How could you know?” the disciples echoed.

“There are people everywhere,” she thought. “He couldn’t know it was me.”

“There are people everywhere,” the disciples echoed. “What do you mean who touched you?”

The crowds fell silent. She felt herself walking toward him, moving easily for the first time in years. In front of him, staring into his eyes, choosing not to look at her husband, she knew he head healed her. She fell to her knees and said, “It was me.”

And he knew. He knew more than anyone in the town ever had. “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace.” She didn’t move at all, for servants were approaching. With confusion in her eyes, seeing those people gathered there together, Joanna choked out, “Your daughter is dead. Don’t bother the teacher any more.”

She looked to the Teacher, knowing how much he had already done that day. Her eyes met his, and she turned to follow him. Jairus’ eyes filled with fear as he looked at his weeping servants. Jesus’ words barely registered in his mind, “Do not fear; only believe.”

The crowds, already confused by what had happened that day, easily stayed behind as a small group traveled on to the home. Peter, James, John, Jairus, Jesus, and this woman went into the room. Mourners shouted they came near, mourning and wailing so loudly they barely heard the commandment, “She is not dead; she is sleeping.”

Just the six went into the room, where the little girl barely made a ripple in the covers. Just six people went into the room that smelled of sickness that had lingered for many days. Just six stood in silence , waiting for what would come next.

But just five saw Jesus take the hand of a child, and speak, “Little girl, get up.”

Just four knew for sure something like that could happen at all.

Just three were amazed by the power of the one they had chosen to follow.

Just two were given back their child.

Just one saw her entire life restored in a day. Just one understood what God-among-us could do.

As God treasures her, holding even her name a secret, may we treasure her story and remember the many who are like her.

Oh.

This past Monday, I ordered food delivered to my office. My car and I had a fateful half hour on Saturday, so it was at the dealership. The joy of living in a world where people will bring me things I want to wherever I am is great. But I digress. This isn't about the wonders of delivery service--at least not mostly.

The delivery driver, not surprisingly, got lost. Somehow the directions I put into GrubHub didn't make it to him. He called, so I knew when he pulled into the parking lot and I walked out to get my food to save him from walking inside. That plan didn't work.

Instead, he grabbed his bags and followed me in, chatting the whole way. I, left to my own devices, am not a chatter. At about 3 minutes, I'm done. But this guy clearly wanted to chat. About pretty much anything. So as I was searching for a pen to sign the receipt and wondering how on earth I'd get rid of him, he kept chatting.

Then, he looked around my office. I'm rather enamored with my office décor. Far fewer people than I'd like read the poem about Deborah and want to have a conversation about that. I'm guessing most of them don't know the story. Again, I digress. My pizza delivery guy was looking at the signs behind my desk. They're all pro-LGBT in one way or another. He honed in on the one that reads, "We believe Arizona is read for the freedom to marry."

The people who made those signs got the reality of a conservative state. Talking about freedoms might get you places human rights appeals never would. It's the same way we talk about revenue rather than taxes. Some things just work better than others. It's also entirely possible that pizza delivery guy would think Why Marriage Matters Arizona, the organization that made the signs, is a conservative organization.

So he asked, "Freedom to marry?"

And I answered, far more focused on wanting my food than thinking about anything else, "Oh, that was from before same-sex marriage was legal."

Then time slowed down in a different way. I realized I had just said something that, well, could have all sorts of results. I was suddenly glad the secretary was there, too. Eventually, I saw my response register on his face. "Oh," he said, and quickly left the building.

There have been very few times in my life when I felt someone's disgust in response to me. On Monday afternoon, though, I did.

I live in a world where I forget that's possible. I forget that being fully who you are isn't always ok. I forget that my straight, cisgender voice matters for changing that. I forget people can be made to feel uncomfortable or unsafe in their own spaces. I forget the weight of everything that "Oh" implied.

Because, for me, you what happened?  I already told you almost everything. After pizza delivery guy left, I thought about it for a couple minutes, had an "Oh!"  of my own, and then sat down and ate my salad and cheesy bread.

So I am reminded we are not done with welcoming all God's children, with raising our voice for all God's children, with using our privilege for those who do not have it. Here's hoping for the Reign in which "Oh" carries little weight.