Archive for the 'Heal' Category
May 15th, 2008 -- Posted in Grace, Heal, Learn, Read, Speak, Write |
If you caught my Ebenezer series (which ended with this final post), you’d be interested to know that the final chapter, removed from my book under threat of termination, is now published in this month’s Kenneth Burke Journal under the title, “Publish and Perish?: My Fundamentalist Education from the Inside Out.” It includes an explanation of those events leading up to that chapter’s expunging.
March 20th, 2008 -- Posted in Eat, Grace, Heal, Remember, Speak |
In Christ alone my hope is found;
He is my light, my strength, my song;
This cornerstone, this solid ground,
Firm through the fiercest drought and storm.
What heights of love, what depths of peace,
When fears are stilled, when strivings cease!
My comforter, my all in all—
Here in the love of Christ I stand.
In Christ alone, Who took on flesh,
Fullness of God in helpless babe!
This gift of love and righteousness,
Scorned by the ones He came to save.
Till on that cross as Jesus died,
The wrath of God was satisfied;
For ev’ry sin on Him was laid—
Here in the death of Christ I live.
There in the ground His body lay,
Light of the world by darkness slain;
Then bursting forth in glorious day,
Up from the grave He rose again!
And as He stands in victory,
Sin’s curse has lost its grip on me;
For I am His and He is mine—
Bought with the precious blood of Christ.
No guilt in life, no fear in death—
This is the pow’r of Christ in me;
From life’s first cry to final breath,
Jesus commands my destiny.
No pow’r of hell, no scheme of man,
Can ever pluck me from His hand;
Till He returns or calls me home—
Here in the pow’r of Christ I’ll stand.
Gavin’s been having a rough time lately. I think he’s teething all this incisors and molars at once. He’s crabby. He wakes up at 5:00 am every morning. He whines a LOT. His nose runs. He’s kinda klutzy. He eats two breakfasts every morning.
And well, he reminds me of me. This is a hard time for him. He feels lousy and he’s learning and growing so much. It’s exhausting. And sometimes Daddy has to just take over (because he’s stronger) and hold him tight and say, “Gavin. Stop. Rest.”
God did that with us over the last year. He held us through our developmental disequilibrium. We might have bellowed, “NO!!!” but He just picked us up and firmly carried us through. No power of hell, no scheme of man — not even my own short-sightedness, foolishness, and total inability — can ever pluck me from His hand.
And now that it’s all over, we can assure you that there is life after fundamentalism. That sphere of influence is really very, very small, and we continue to chuckle that Christ is way bigger than a single city block!
At each step, God was there. Each monument reminds me that “the Lord has helped us thus far.” Our daughter’s death stripped away cultural clichĂ©s and showed me my Christian colleagues at their very best and God at His most loving. Praying for Isaac proved that God listens and answers prayer. His birth and babymoon taught me how much God loves me. Finding our parenting “sea legs” (despite what I had foolishly concluded as a grad student) further reminded me to listen close to the Holy Spirit and to see through my sons my own total inability and dependence on Christ. Our reading showed us a more robust and more biblical Christianity than we knew in our microculture. Publishing my dissertation was also a thrilling and unexpected (though scary) answer to prayer. Gavin’s birth reminded us that God is faithful so that we can be happy and bold in His love as we approach His throne saying “Abba Father!”
Then there are the monuments built with sharp, heavy stones. The outings, little and big. The meetings. The chapter. The document. The ultimatum. And the resignation. Each incident revealed brokenness of corporate policy, an occluded climate of communication, and a culture steeped in graceless punishment that seems as likely to continue as it ever has. As frightening as these boulder-like Ebenezers were, each was a firm hug that pulled us closer to God and pushed us further along in His plan.
But it’s not really about Grant and me or even a small segment of fundamentalism. It’s about the Church at large and a brewing Awakening, I believe. I’ve heard from so many fellow alumni and friends whom God has gently but dramatically led out of the movement. Jerry Bridges‘ recent theological transformation mirrors ours. And Michael Horton, too, urges a move from the Christless religion of distracting rules to a Christ-centered discipleship that lives out the Gospel. It’s happening.
Writing these Ebenezers have been a therapeutic Lenten exercise for me. I feel unburdened and relieved. The message that has been stuck in my gullet for years is out. It’s done. No need to save it to a CD-ROM either. ;) I’m not moving it.
If I were to describe this argument within the theory I built in my book — the notion of a romantic separatist rhetoric — I’d probably say that I was the friend that dared to talk about the debutante’s beauty treatments. The henna rinses, the tummy tucks, the tattooed eyeliner — things that were not natural but were desperate attempts to prop up a fading beauty.
Take the cover art, for instance. It’s Edwin Long’s Vashti. I know that after Campaign 2000, Bob Jones University felt very much like Vashti did when the King wanted her to traipse before his drunken guests. While her ladies-in-waiting are pleading with her to just buck up and go out there and do her duty, she pulls her shawl tight to her chest and trembles. But she won’t budge.
Vashti was stuck. It was either strip or hide, she thought, and she chose hide. We know that neither was the best option. The best option came from a plucky but God-fearing gate guard and his cousin, an unlikely Jewess princess who saw God in every interaction. With boldness, Esther defied convention and propriety and spoke plainly. She stood up to injustice. When the courtly customs threatened her life if she didn’t hush, she dared to speak.
Although I was stopped at every turn, what I wanted to say to fundamentalists in my book is that their beauty isn’t in them at all or in their products or productions. Their spiritual success isn’t stuck between their own purity and the world’s debauchery. As believers, our beauty is wholly in Christ. And that’s not just a clichĂ©; I’m trying to describe it in the most unclichĂ©d way I know how. It seems to me that everything the Lord has brought my family through — from our time at Indiana University to the birth of our children to our forced resignations from Bob Jones University — has pushed us to saying that very thing. Our whole story proves that God (not us!) can take the ugliest and saddest things and make them beautiful and joyful.
You talk to anyone who has left fundamentalism — and many of you have written me and called me to share your similar experiences — and the transition is very much the same. It’s tough. You lose most of your friends from your previous life. You know that people are concluding the worst about you (and a few are brazen enough to tell you how thoroughly terrible you are). People pass unproven supposition around as fact. You hear about how everything you touched is treated like evidence in a “crime scene.” You get paranoid. You get official letters describing the ongoing punishment that your once-friends are now documenting in their files. And your precious family gets the brunt of the stress those letters cause. You feel the icy chill from those you used to laugh with and cry with and pray with.
And then, after all that, you’re told to keep your mouth shut about it. If you do talk, all sorts of spiritual calamity will fall upon you, they say. You can only bring problems up privately, you’re told, even though you did — to no effect. No examples exist in Scripture of speaking out against injustice, you’re told. . . . what Bible are they reading?
I realize now that those demands for us to “shut up!” are really no different than those who say “Aren’t you over that by now?” to moms of babies in Heaven. There’s a fear of big, sad feelings. There’s a fatigue in hearing the same old thing. And there’s the dread of being jinxed if you hear it too much. But those of us in the middle of hardship need to work through these big feelings. It’s a mourning process, and shutting up guarantees you’d get stuck in crippling denial or embittering anger. No, I needed this expression of sadness to move me to the Acceptance stage.
And I believe the Body needs it too. These sort of injustices hurt the Body of Christ both extrinsically and intrinsically. We enable the abusers by refusing to name their sin for what it is. And refusing to plainly unmask our pain before the Body, we victimize those around us who are hurting too. Is the problem that we shouldn’t talk about it or that we don’t know how?
I’ve since learned that the sort of ultimatum we were given is par for the course at BJU. A seminary faculty member received a similar ultimatum just before ours for speaking positively about the English Standard Version in class. I sat near some other former colleagues in church and remembered that in recent years they, too, had been told to shut up or get out. I wanted to cry. That’s a horrible way to run any business, especially with Christian brothers and sisters. And it’s pure tragedy — desperate attempts to purge unruly elements and reach perfection.
I think about my friends who did these tragic things to me personally, and I must repeat to myself that they are stuck like I was and sometimes still am. They don’t know anything but tragedy, and even their reading of Scripture reifies that Gospel-less view. The reason they insisted I hush is because, whether consciously or not, they believe their veneer is a righteousness that must be preserved at all cost. I know that no matter how they much they insist, strive, lash out, primp, clam up, white-wash, and tantrum, that’s not where their Hope lies. I know who they are because I know Whose they are. The system is bad, but in Christ God’s people are good. I tried in this telling to peel off that veneer in a way that still leaves them and me safe and together in Christ alone.
Although it may look very different than it does in tragedy, comedy still allows for critique. Grant always stops me here and says, “Speak that plain.” In tragedy, we kill off our evil enemies or ourselves in order to purge our own sins and reach an ordered perfection. We silence, punish, expunge — all variations on “killing” — so that we can feel secure in our propped-up purity. Of course that fails (both Kenneth Burke and Romans tell us it will!), and we start it all over again. Comedy is different. It’s not a postmodern, warm-and-fuzzy, “can’t-we-all-just-get-along,” mindless tolerance. Neither is it a “smile-at-all-costs” feigned ignorance. No, in comedy, our enemies are not evil, but mistaken. They need to be taught rather than punished. Their faults reveal our own shortcomings.
I wrote that book trying to expand and document Kenneth Burke’s notion of comedy. I always sensed that only Christ could bring a lost and dying world to a comic mindset, but I didn’t know how to say it all. That’s the chief argument in the unpublished chapter. Every one of these Ebenezers accentuated that point. Every one has tested, expanded, and nuanced that expression of comedy. When Elise died, I heard other parents of stillborns talk about how their children were “too good for this world, so God took them.” And I knew that was wrong. That was Burkean tragedy. Unwittingly, of course, those parents were describing their children’s deaths as a vicarious and purgative sacrifice for our messed-up selves and our miserable world. I kept wrestling in prayer: “God, how do I make this into a comedy. . . . giving birth to a child I’ll never see smile in this lifetime?”
When we studied how to parent our sons, I was struck again with how many of these conservative Evangelical gurus were actually arguing that spanking purges sin from our children! Pearl says it, Ezzo says it, and even Tedd Tripp (who really should know better) says it. I knew that couldn’t be. That was enacting tragedy in the home. That was a Gospel-less, works-based, man-centered focus. Christ was the ultimate sacrifice and the end of sacrifices. Christ is the Hero, the Ultimate Comedian! And while Burke imagines the shadows of the idea, his agnosticism prevents him from really running with it.
And you’ve seen many blog posts about that very thing. My daughter didn’t die to cleanse me of my guilt. Christ’s grace transforms tragedy into victory. Just like God took dirt and made it a living soul. . . . just like He takes a sinner dead in trespasses and sins and makes her a joint-heir with Christ. . . . just like Christ conquered death and sin in the resurrection, God took Elise’s death and transformed it into something beautiful. That’s what I prayed for way back when. That’s what this whole story is — the beautiful thing that God made in the midst of some very difficult times.
Throughout this last year, however, I would actually laugh out loud at these Ebenezers and pray, “Okay, God. You’re really making me run with this, aren’t you? Okay. . . . how do you act like a comedian when you’re the counter-agent (a.k.a. scapegoat or villain) in someone else’s tragedy?” In other words, when you’re being abused, where’s the Gospel then? It’s most certainly not in rolling over and sacrificing yourself because that’s another kind of tragedy! I’ve talked about it a little bit, and there’ll be more to come. More that couldn’t have been said without saying all this first.
That is why I had to say it all. Because I know that the living out the Gospel changes every interaction — even when someone is scapegoating you.
These posts are not passive or cynical. I’m working very hard to be a comic critic in these Ebenezers. I’ve discussed only those interactions that reveal official policy and formal organizational communication. The interpersonal, private stuff is not here. I’ve tried to be true to the Holy Spirit, to myself, and to those fellow Christians who, even though they hurt me, are deeply wounded too. They don’t see it. I didn’t either when I was where they are. And I know what the reaction will be from those in my previous life. I’ve already been called “petty,” “silly,” and clearly “unsaved.” Interestingly enough, the comments to my “The Ezz and I” post reflect the response on a small scale: misreading the texts involved, misunderstanding my point, denial, blaming, and top-down put-downs. Neither group can see themselves as separate from the system, and that’s tragic.
These posts, too, should put to rest those accusations that we didn’t go to the people involved. We did. At every turn. Often. And it didn’t change a thing. The message from the system was still the same — “Shut up!” Where do you go to confront a bad system? So many people are hurt and even driven from God by the abuse that passes for spirituality. And those who stay are driven to silence. No more. It’s not that we should stop talking about the problem; it’s that we should talk in order to stop the problem. And we must talk in a way that foregrounds the Gospel — in truth, in love, and with a clear understanding that we are dependent on Christ’s completed redemptive work.
I’m still wrestling with how to describe the Gospel as Comedy within a rhetorical idiom. I’m not saying that I always did it right, and I am sorry for the tragedy I participated in. I was wrong . . . often. But by telling this story completely and publicly, by reflecting the feelings that tragedy induces, by remembering that even the agent of tragedy is himself mired and mistaken, by seeing myself in other’s tragic actions, by critiquing with hope for change, I believe that imagining a rhetorical theory of the Gospel is possible.
So Purim — that celebration that remembers God’s working through Esther to save her people caught in a corrupt, abusive system — has just begun here on March 20, 2008 at 7:41 pm. Esther is a favorite among rhetoricians (believing and otherwise), and our best reminder that God acts in often unobtrusive ways — but He does always act! We’ll be making Hamantaschen to celebrate today and maybe you’ll join us. And while we’re folding those pastries to look like Haman’s hat, I’ll be telling Isaac and Gavin (and myself) about Esther’s brave and outspoken confidence in God. What would happen if we all acted like Esther — resisting tragedy and living out the Gospel? How would God use our words that were true, full-of-grace, bold, and comic? I’m eager to see how God can transform our aching, forced, stuck, trembling, Spirit-ignoring silences into something that robustly and truthfully praises Him. Stay tuned. . . .
Glory to God, whose sovereign grace
Hath animated senseless stones;
Called us to stand before His face,
And raised us into Abraham’s sons!
The people that in darkness lay,
In sin and error’s deadly shade,
Have seen a glorious gospel day,
In Jesus’ lovely face displayed.
Thou only, Lord, the work hast done,
And bared Thine arm in all our sight;
Hast made the reprobates Thine own,
And claimed the outcasts as Thy right.
Thy single arm, almighty Lord,
To us the great salvation brought,
Thy Word, Thy all-creating Word,
That spake at first the world from naught.
For this the saints lift up their voice,
And ceaseless praise to Thee is giv’n;
For this the hosts above rejoice,
We raise the happiness of Heav’n.
For this, no longer sons of night,
To Thee our thankful hearts we give;
To Thee, who called us into light,
To Thee we die, to Thee we live.
Suffice that for the season past
Hell’s horrid language filled our tongues,
We all Thy words behind us cast,
And lewdly sang the drunkard’s songs.
But, O the power of grace divine!
In hymns we now our voices raise,
Loudly in strange hosannas join,
And blasphemies are turned to praise!
March 16th, 2008 -- Posted in Grace, Heal, Remember, Speak |
I now recognize my reaction to that Friday the 13th meeting was much like a battered wife. I was numb. I was trying to be positive, but honestly I was just glad that “beating” was done. I began to brace myself for another horrible year. I didn’t know how I could endure it.
Grant’s response was exactly the opposite. Talk about rising to the occasion! I was stunned. It seemed to me that the Holy Spirit was empowering him in an unusually resilient way. It was impressive. I don’t know if I’ve ever told him that, but wow!
On Saturday, he happened to find a job listing for a male voice faculty position at North Greenville University. He mentioned it to me. I was too numb to respond. Whatever, I thought. Keep dreaming.
On Sunday morning, he leaned out of the shower and said, “Listen. Pray about that. I can’t get that out of my head.” Me? I thought in an Eeyore voice, “Okay. But why bother?”
On Tuesday, he submitted his CV. A week from then he had an interview, an audition, and a job offer. That evening, while the kids romped in the Burger King playground, we just stared at each other. Is this it? Is this what we’re supposed to do? Leave? We put out a fleece, and now it’s soaking wet. It’s a miracle that the position was even open at this late date and it’s a miracle that they want Grant to have it?
We crunched the numbers. He’d earn enough there for me to stay home with only a nominal difference in the pay from our dual incomes at our then-current employer.
But still. We had vowed to ourselves and insisted to God that we couldn’t “break our contract.” That was the ultimate sin in that world. Your name was less than mud if you did that. Derision, disgust, and damnation fell on you if you “broke your contract.” I even know the code in the campus database for those who “break contract.”
It hit me later than Grant, I think, that the cards would always be dealt in their favor on that one. We couldn’t come out with a good reputation in that broken system. They had erected that hedge, so they get to maintain it.
From a friend’s counsel, we realized that with that ultimatum they had changed our contract. We had complied with every one of their requests — from blog posts about campus food to book recommendations to internet forum participation to dropping accepted chapters from published works. But silencing our conscience was too far. Another friend reminded me of Luther’s admonition that our consciences must only be captive to the Word of God. We could never let the over-sensitive and over-spiritualized indenture to a customer base trump the Holy Spirit. We were taught better.
We were sick about leaving our students. Just sick. But just like when a plane is going down, you’re supposed to put your own oxygen mask on first and your child’s on second (because you are worthless to help him if you are passed out on the floor), we realized that we were no help to them or to our sons if we seared our consciences. They were God’s after all. Not ours. God would take care of them.
But look! God had gone ahead — way ahead — and prepared a place for us. No moving, no enormous upheaval to our lives. So many answers to prayer intersected at this one event. God’s best was right there. For us!
And two weeks from the ultimatum, we resigned. God had pushed us out, but He’d given us a very soft place to land.
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble.
Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way,
though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea,
though its waters roar and foam,
though the mountains tremble at its swelling.
Psalm 46:1-3
March 13th, 2008 -- Posted in Grace, Heal, Remember, Speak |
Whate’er my God ordains is right:
Holy his will abideth;
I will be still whate’er he doth;
And follow where he guideth:
He is my God: though dark my road,
He holds me that I shall not fall:
Wherefore to him I leave it all.
Whate’er my God ordains is right:
He never will deceive me;
He leads me by the proper path;
I know he will not leave me:
I take, content, what he hath sent;
His hand can turn my griefs away,
And patiently I wait his day.
Whate’er my God ordains is right:
Though now this cup, in drinking,
May bitter seem to my faint heart,
I take it, all unshrinking:
My God is true; each morn anew
Sweet comfort yet shall fill my heart,
And pain and sorrow shall depart.
Whate’er my God ordains is right:
Here shall my stand be taken;
Though sorrow, need, or death be mine,
Yet am I not forsaken;
My Father’s care is round me there;
He holds me that I shall not fall:
And so to him I leave it all.
My dear friend often reminded me of that song during that difficult year. I was totally unfamiliar with it. It has a different character than I was used to hearing in so many gospel songs in my slice of the world. It wasn’t saying that I let God take care of me. It was saying that God just took care of me. Amen.
That summer, after we had submitted the document but before we had gotten a response, I participated in a bridal shower with my colleagues. It felt so good to be with them. I never told them that because I didn’t want to gush, but I had felt so isolated that previous year. It was just nice to chat about silly things like vacations and dishes. We did talk about the changes that were to happen in the coming semester. A friend I’ve known for forever tossed out a little comment: “Take it from me. It doesn’t matter if you put in your resignation before Feb 1st or after. If they consider you a lifer, they’re always going to react badly to your leaving!” That was another room-spinning moment for me. I felt like I had been punched in the gut, but I couldn’t figure out why. We were staying!! We were committed for the long haul. But I couldn’t shake the comment.
We were out of town when we got the email response to our statement. The whole thing is a blur now. I think we were in Tennessee or Missouri. I just don’t know. Their response: they had “some concerns.”
It hit us both between the eyes. That’s it. We’re done. It was just a question of when. We both repeated over and over and over — “But we will not break contract. Not on your life. No sirree!”
After what seemed like an eternity, we all had the second meeting. On Friday the 13th (of July). Another ominous day.
We were handed one copy of a lengthy, single-spaced document detailing their response to our statement. And the presentation of their explanation began.
1) We were orthodox. Yes, thank you. We knew that. William Combs, J.I. Packer, Louis Berkhof, B.B. Warfield, Augustine, and the Apostle Paul are pretty good foundations.
2) “They” only disagreed in emphasis. Fair enough. I understand.
This criticism, in essence, came down to the fact that we were, according to them, “too Reformed” for their comfort — or for their presumed customer base’s comfort level. This point is important to understand no matter what the Campus Store sells: any optimistic predictions that the organization’s new administration is growing more tolerant of Reformed-leaning ideas are simply groundless. We know from the conversations with the very top echelon that that is not the case.
To further prove that particular point, when my husband was relishing the goodness of a gracious Sovereign, one of the gentleman seized upon what he thought was a loophole in Calvinism. “If grace is so irresistible, then why do you need to talk about it at all?” he said. I started to laugh because I recognized this sophomoric attempt to trip up TULIP. But Grant was truly just rejoicing in a good God and wasn’t trying to push doctrine or argue Calvinism (that’s how overtly Reformed we actually are). He tried to understand the question and finally just responded with, “What are you talking about?” while I continued to shake my head.
Like many, I was hopefully optimistic that a change for the better was taking place under BJU’s new administration. And as reluctant as I was to admit it before, during, and immediately after the meeting, I now see that really very little has changed in the last 81 years in the way that organization handles intellectual differences, faculty development, interpersonal disagreement, and administrative egos. Stories from the disenfranchised are legion, and if you compare our story to ones from 30 years ago, it’s plain to see that nothing’s changed. The direction that the meeting was about to take that unlucky July afternoon made that abundantly clear.
Somewhere at that point in the conversation, I asked for the document from Grant and flipped to the last page. Don’t know why really, but I knew the clincher was going to be there. . . . and I found it:
3) “If you cannot hold your position without openly promoting it in spoken or written communication to colleagues, students, or others at a distance from the University, we would have to come to a parting of ways.”
There you go.
I interrupted the conversation and asked what “openly promoting” meant. The leader of the discussion said, “How about changing that to ‘proselytize’? That’s what’s in the Faculty Handbook.” I nodded and said, “Okay. I understand that, but this is still different. Before you all had said that we needed to keep these things out of the classroom, and I understand that. But this? What are the boundaries here? I don’t want to mess this up.”
And — no joke — we got a shrug. No explanation. No nuance. Nothing. Just a shrug.
I was reeling. Clearly they weren’t going to tell us. It was more vagueness. The same gentleman, who at my February meeting was so clearly blunt, was now being cagey. Now I had the deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression.
I do remember one other moment vividly. My husband was in rare form. He took off on Galatians. It was beautiful. “Paul doesn’t mince words there. He says that if you put yourself under a rule-keeping system, you ‘fall from grace.’ That’s sobering.”
The leader responded: “But Grant, you don’t understand. Paul is talking about a specific problem with the Judaizers. You can’t apply that to today.”
What?!! ::checking ears for ‘taters:: What did you say? Are we all fundamentalists in this room or mainline liberal Protestants? We were so stunned by the comment that we asked for clarification in several follow-up email messages. Despite those repeated attempts, it seemed we could not pin him down on the issue.
The rest of the discussion about the document was fairly academic. Grant and I really couldn’t come to any conclusions because we needed to read their response and talk it all through. But it seemed that all was to end pleasantly enough.
But then, like all our other Ebenezers, it turned rotten. I’m getting sick again just thinking of it.
The leader appeared to be nonverbally wrapping up the meeting and turned to the other gentleman saying, “Is there anything else?” Now, this was somewhat disingenuous because they admitted later that they both knew that there was something else — together they had been “praying about how to handle this situation” earlier.
The second gentleman said, “Well, there is one matter I wish I didn’t have to bring up. . . .”
::eye roll:: Anyone reading who’s been a student at BJU knows that this is just the scripted cue for lowering the boom.
He continued, “A staff woman had been doing some internet research on modesty, and she came across this blog post at ‘True Womanhood.’ And there was a comment you made there: ‘This is so interesting. I have to admit that I thought of you all while I was getting dressed yesterday. I was wearing an “uncheckably” lower neckline that was still, IMNSHO, modest. Christian liberty rocks.’ So . . . what do you have to say for yourself?”
Huh? Nothing. What’s the big deal? They obviously thought they had me in some embarrassing position. I wasn’t embarrassed. The leader of the meeting was feigning dismayed surprise (as if this were his first hearing of it) and then utter disappointment. I still wasn’t understanding the reaction.
But then I had this very sick feeling. . . . After that vague ultimatum about “others at a distance from the university,” I realized that this was all connected. It all the same big ball of wax.
I cried. It was too much. It was too personal. It was too petty. My sweet Prince Valiant came to my aid and explained to them what I meant in that post: that modesty is internal, that you can be immodest even if you “check,” and that it’s an issue between you and God.
I was so disgusted with this ignoble behavior. I finally burst out, “I knew something was up because I was getting a lot of hits on my statcounter from this IP address. I knew that someone from campus was googling me. A lot. . . . Why didn’t you send that staff woman to me? Why are we talking about this here at all? This is exactly the kind of gossip that I’ve been subjected to all year. This is the same-old, same-old. YOU should have sent her right to me instead of encouraging gossip and tattling by bringing it up here. I’ll tell you, I know exactly how the students feel.” I shook my head and clenched my jaw.
That thought kept ringing in my head. This. This is what Grant and I were objecting to from the start really. The gracelessness of a system that justified all sorts of secrecy, lying, and cruelty simply because of who was doing it. A system that claimed to be parental but was simply punitive. We had heard about it from our students. We had read about it in those books. And now we were getting it first-hand, in living color, right before our eyes, right from our friends. . . . I pray I never forget how that feels so that I’m never tempted to do it to another human being. I know who that “staff woman” is, and I continue to be terribly disappointed in the whole mess.
My outburst stunned them. I didn’t hear much else except a misinterpretation of James 3. I could only stare as I listened. My mind was reeling. I heard the Scripture used not as a corrective for those of us riddled with our total inability to save ourselves, but as a club to shut me up and as a prop for an ideological house of cards. “Classic spiritual abuse,” I thought, stunned at the irony. The book that I first read in denial I now was seeing demonstrated before me. The very book that I bought as a gift for this gentleman just a year before.
We left the “Holy of Holies.” Smiling and joking because that’s what you do after a whippin’. You learn to do that.
March 6th, 2008 -- Posted in Grace, Heal, Read, Remember, Speak, Write |
“Aslan a man!” said Mr. Beaver sternly. “Certainly not. I tell you, he is the King of the wood and the son of the great Emperor-Beyond-the-Sea….”
“Ooh!” said Susan, “I’d thought he was a man. Is he–quite safe? I shall feel rather nervous about meeting a lion.”
“That you will, dearie, and no mistake,” said Mrs. Beaver, “if there’s anyone who can appear before Aslan without their knees knocking, they’re either braver than most or else just silly.”
“Then he isn’t safe?” said Lucy.
“Safe?” said Mr. Beaver. “Don’t you hear what Mrs. Beaver tells you? Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he’s good. He’s the King, I tell you.”
C. S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe
It all started when . . . in a push to build mentoring relationships and in a series of Management Sessions in the Fall, 2005, we were exhorted to share with our students and colleagues what God was doing in our lives.
It all started when . . . in a Faculty Meeting in Spring, 2006, we were urged to come to the new administration with any suggestions we might have. I nudged Grant at that time and grinned, “There it is. There’s our opportunity.”
It all started when . . . I believed both those things — that they wanted us to talk horizontally about God’s work in our lives and they wanted us to talk vertically up the org chart about suggestions we had to bring the school back to its moorings.
God was still working in all that — in my naive optimism and their less-than-sincere exhortations. And when God works, it’s always good even if it is unsafe for systems, prejudices, organizations, and powers. And even if it feels unsafe for all of us wrapped in His arms, I have to keep reminding myself that God is good. Always.
In December, I signed the contract for Baylor to publish my dissertation. I had prayed about it. A lot. And I knew it was a good thing and a chance of a lifetime. I knew that it was good thing for a school seeking accreditation to actually have some peer-reviewed published scholars on the faculty. I knew that I’d kick myself if I dropped the ball — especially after only an idle threat from someone who hadn’t read it. If it’s publish and perish, so be it!
Now, in case you’re wondering and as a matter of record, I did talk to the author of the book personally — the book that was the subject of my still-in-process chapter as of the October 16 meeting. I shared my concerns in a very casual fashion in the Summer of 2005. I don’t believe he remembers. Another colleague, in order to stimulate discussion, emailed my blog post on the subject to a group which included the author. The author emailed me personally saying, “You don’t really understand all the issues involved, and I hope you don’t share this with the students.” So even though I had no idea way back when that this would blossom into a full-blown chapter, open discussion was just not an option. That was clear. I was dismissed as uninformed and told to be silent. But . . . it’s my academic research. Why should I be quiet about that? Talking about research is how you improve it.
And long before signing any contract, I did communicate a “down and dirty” version of that chapter to the Powers that Be in March 2006 just before Gavin was born. It was much more pointed than the academic critique. My IU professors taught me well that the best rhetorical criticism is self-criticism. And if I didn’t actually submit that chapter or if I changed its purpose or focus, I wanted those concerns at the very least to be heard internally. My email was met with a very cordial and agreeable response. It seemed to me that we agreed. I even saw some subtle changes in focus during In-service that Fall, and one of my superiors asked me for a bibliography on the subject so that he could educate himself. I’m not kidding!! All was well.
But after that October Doomsday meeting, I was no longer the go-to-gal on such matters. That email to the Powers that Be was also discussed at length in that meeting, and I was again told how wrong I was: how I didn’t know my religious history (uh. . . . a Ph.D. minor in Religious Studies isn’t enough?), how I only studied religion at a secular school (What? I took 8 semesters at BJU just like the rest of us in this room!), and how I was just plain ignorant. Mind you, just a few months earlier, the leader of that meeting was coming to me for advice on how to inform himself. But something happened between the beginning of September and October 16th, and I was now considered dangerously ignorant.
And by February, I was getting some really icky vibes from those higher on the food chain. It was weird. Grant actually approached someone on his side of the building to ask if there was some move to edge me out. “We’re a team! You get both or neither of us!” he said. His contact understood but had heard nothing.
The vibes were so strong that I took the bull by the horns. I sent my more-edited-and-now-nearly-final manuscript to a friend who was as high up the corporate ladder as I had influence. He agreed to read it, and I knew he would.
We met on February 16. He was very much a gentleman, and he treated me as a friend and a peer. He offered some constructive criticism overall which I was glad to have (scholars thrive on that). It was a good meeting, and I still appreciate his tone and his time.
But. . . . (you knew that was coming, didn’t you?) There was the matter of that last chapter — the one I added after my dissertation defense. In sum, he said:
1) “There’s a different tone to that chapter.” Well, yeah. . . . I was all sweetness and light before. I’m kind of more pointed and, to be honest, more critical. So yeah. . . .
2) “We can’t have faculty criticizing ______’s theology.” Now, I objected to this one. I said, “I am not criticizing his theology. I have no room to criticize theology. That’s not my schtick. I’m criticizing his rhetoric. That’s what I do!” His response, “People won’t know the difference.” Okay. . . . maybe. But . . . so? I’m an academic. It’s not like I’m writing for the Times. This is really dull stuff.
3) “You’re misunderstanding him. You need to talk to him.” I had. By this point, on two occasions. Intellectual dialogue about rhetorical nuance was not going to happen. We tried. And while I am an advocate of empathetic criticism, I’m not beholden to the approval of the rhetor. That’s just not the way it works in any critical method. And I appreciate that the author may not intend to say what he is saying, but I don’t have access to that. No rhetorical critic has access to intention (if you want to really discuss it, we rhetoricians would argue that even the producer of rhetoric may not know his own intentions. We don’t really care about intentions. That’s for a rhetor’s therapist, not for the critic.). We only have words (do we have to check with Lincoln before critiquing his “Gettysburg Address”?). But why all the defensiveness over this guy’s writing? It’s a public offering; it should be able to withstand scrutiny. That’s the way it works! If the organization really wants to enter the academic fray — if fundamentalists really want to make scholars like they claim — then let’s do it!
Besides, I critique all sorts of people in the book. And none of them are upset. Why all the hullabaloo over this? Reminds me of another bad reaction to academic research from a closed community.
And I’m still baffled by the insistence that I keep my opinions to myself. We criticize other believer’s ideas all the time — John R. Rice, John MacArthur, John Piper are just a few that come to mind. The Body can improve with those criticisms because we all learn better how to edify each other. Iron sharpens iron. So . . . again, what’s the problem?
4) “He’s not speaking for the University. These are his own words, not the school’s.” Uh. . . . does he know that? Seriously though, I didn’t speak up about this at the time. But uh . . . the University publishes his book. The Bible faculty edit and endorse it. Students are required to read it at many crossroads. And it doesn’t speak for the University? I think that’s like some recent endorsements that don’t speak for the University either.
Also notice that while I, as a lone faculty member, do speak for the university in my critique, the author of the book does not. The more I hear this argumentative trope, the more I realize that it really is an avoidance strategy — anything to avoid the scrutiny of the customers.
5) And lastly, “If you publish this last chapter, you will be fired.”
There it was. Well, at least this guy was blunt and to-the-point with me. That was a relief.
I said, “Okay. I appreciate your being honest with me. My real purpose in that chapter is to take Kenneth Burke to task. I think he gets it wrong, and I really want to talk about that.”
He responded with, “Well, he’s an agnostic, so, of course, he’s wrong.”
I ignored that comment because it was missing the whole point. “I’m not devoted to that particular representative anecdote to reveal Burke’s mistakes. Do you have any other ideas for BJU texts?”
We brainstormed a little, but my friend seemed somewhat reluctant. To me, he seemed to simply want to press the point that nothing had changed rhetorically for the organization. I knew that wasn’t the case since I had studied it intimately, and there were plainly not the same outreaches generated as there were prior to Campaign 2000. I understood then and now that it was very important to him as a member of the new administration that everything was the same as before.
I finally said, “Okay — if I can get that last chapter out, the rest is okay?”
“Yes.”
“Okay then. I will go call the publisher right now. And I will contact you as soon as I know something.”
I did have a fleeting thought at this point that made me chortle inside: “Do you really want me . . . uh, independent?”
So I called the publisher. I was scared to death. I hate phones and I hate asking for favors. I braced myself for another brow-beating. Sigh. . . . But God took over. Here was this man down in Texas who didn’t know me in the least, and, I tell you, he treated me just like a Christian sister. I needed that. He put down his more official, professional tone and said, “Camille. . . . let me tell you. I’ve been there. Take my advice — don’t cross ‘em. I remember being in a similar situation years ago, and I’ll never forget a man poking his boney finger in my chest and saying, ‘We will destroy you!’ It’s not worth it, Camille. It’s not. You and I know that you’ve written something with integrity. It’s a good thing. And it can still be good without that last chapter. It’s okay. We can take it out. It’ll delay things a little, but it’s okay. . . . I’m so sorry you’re going through this. Marty and I were just talking the other day about you and I said, ‘Does she really belong there?’”
I laughed. But surely it wasn’t as bad as all that, right? Nah. . . . that was his story. That’s not my story. These are still my buddies, right? This is still my home.
::crickets chirping::
Hello?
I did decide to drop the chapter. I assumed that those who needed to read it had already read it. Now I’m thinking that it will be the basis for another whole book.
Well . . . I’ve kind of been a tease about this, haven’t I? Okay. I won’t build it up any further. You can read it for yourself. Here’s the chapter: “Just Two Choices on the Shelf: Growing Grace or Killing Self.”
March 2nd, 2008 -- Posted in Grace, Heal, Remember, Speak |
October 17 at 1:00 PM. Don’t ever call me or email me or meet with me on that day at that time. Everything ominous happens then. It’s like the Bermuda Triangle of days. I’m officially crawling under the covers forever and aye on that day at 1.
In 2006, I had had a feeling for two weeks before October 16 that I had become a persona non grata. You can kinda sense those things. People would turn the other way when they saw me in the hall, avoid giving me straight answers. When they did face me, all I saw was that deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression. I kept trying to talk myself out of it. In time, I realized that that instinct was spot-on accurate.
I was called to a meeting — alone — with two other people above me on the food chain. I asked the nature of the meeting. I was told that “it was a student matter.” That was not at all true.
So on October 17, 2006 at 1pm we three met. It was raining cats and dogs that day. We were all soaked. My feet were so wet that the shoe polish had bled on to my hose.
The meeting was clearly all about me. It was stated that I required a student to read VanVonderen’s Tired of Trying to Measure Up. Well, no. . . . I had given it to him as a gift because he was . . . well, tired of trying to measure up!
I was asked the nature of the book. It seemed that one of the gentlemen had read the Amazon reviews because he had the buzz words down without their actual context. Their leading questions were trying to get me to admit, it seemed, that I had disobeyed orders about bringing my parenting views into “the classroom.” I said flat-out, “No. I have not. You told me not to.” It’s not a parenting book anyway; it’s a Christian devotional. We discussed VanVonderen’s theology, and it finally came down to my saying, “Look — I’m the only one that’s read this book, so this discussion isn’t really going to be productive. But I can get you both a copy!” ;) Soon after I volunteered to stop recommending the book and to send people to Galatians and Romans instead. One gentleman burst out in a spontaneous but knowing chuckle. The other said absent-mindedly, “Uh . . . yeah, that’d be good.”
Next came those infamous internet forum threads. These gentlemen were not pleased with my posts. They described me as “caustic.” I was really kind of stunned by that, and I said so. I said that I was trying to keep things on task. In hindsight, I think what had happened is that they had only read the last thread I had started and never saw what led up to it. I can imagine that it was not in their interest to read all the threads, but my perspective and intentions were never solicited. I was told that I was simply a “young mother” (I was 38!). “We are still getting letters about this, Camille. But don’t worry — we’re defending you.” I wish I’d asked for more information, but I was in get-out-of-here-as-quickly-as-possible mode. An information-gathering interview it was not. The leader of the meeting expressed that he wished it’d all go away. I think that this was my cue to volunteer to delete the threads (I found out later that another faculty member had been required to do so at that same forum). I wasn’t going to volunteer that. I was fulfilling a promise I’d made, and I was going to see that through. I simply joked, “Oh, the servers’ll crash some day. Don’t worry.”
And there was yet more.
“I understand that you’re publishing your dissertation with Baylor.”
Yes. I was. . . . I had told the other gentleman in the room about that (but I don’t know that he necessarily remembered.) And I’d told only a few other people. I still don’t know how or why that came to his attention. Obviously, there was a lot of talk swirling around about me!
“Did you check the faculty handbook about publishing?” Seemed like another trap.
“Yes. I did. It said that if I were publishing outside of my area of expertise, then I’d go to the dean that oversaw that area of expertise for approval. Since this is my dissertation, it is by definition my area of expertise, so it didn’t apply.”
He sat back as if to regroup. It seemed to me that I foiled his attempt to catch me in a sin of omission. He continued.
“And you have a chapter in there about _______.”
“Well, now . . . I’m still in the editing phase. I don’t know what it’s going to look like. I’m still working. I don’t know what I’m going to do. . . . I’d be happy to have you all read it. I really need readers.” I was really wrestling with this writing thing. I needed outside help. And I said as much.
The leader in the discussion put up his hand to stop me and as if to say “no thanks.” He continued and I quote this exactly, “I would strongly discourage you from doing that, Camille. We really like you and Grant, and we wouldn’t want you to do anything that would jeopardize your time here.”
Huh? What? It’s publish and perish? Are you kidding me? No one in the room besides me had even read the original dissertation, so why all the fear and trepidation about it? What did you all hear? What rumors are going around about me? I didn’t actually say any of that. I was just thinking it. He was not distinguishing between one chapter and the whole dissertation. And he was telling me in a very vague, passive-aggressive fashion that publishing at all was putting my employment in jeopardy.
They continued to disagree with me for the inferred direction I was taking in that chapter that they had never read from a book they had never read. I tried to discuss it, but that was not encouraged. I was supposed to just listen, not interact.
The meeting ended shortly after that. I just tried to skedaddle out of there as quickly as possible. I ran to Grant’s office in tears. I cried for weeks. It was a threat. I felt attacked and demoralized. I felt abandoned and betrayed too — especially by one of the gentlemen whom I really believed was my friend.
It all still brings me to tears. I now know that the system does that to good, noble people. It forces them to act like they wouldn’t otherwise — to assume the worst intentions, to betray and bully, and to run from obvious solutions — because no other option seems viable. The kind of Christian community that Paul urges us towards is just not possible in a toxic environment. It’s a bad system. My friend looked so very small and so unlike the man I know he is.
I started my series on Grace after that. Go look at it. I needed to hone in on a benevolent God for my own soul health. And I figured that since The Powers that Be were so closely reading my blog, I’d give them something to read. Nothing like a “captive” audience, right? I know that people have poked fun at that series — more of that gracelessness endemic to sickly system, I realize. I keep repeating to myself that we all are not evil, just mistaken.
Now, just to resolve the issue, some time in March we did all meet again. I needed to interact with the leader of the meeting, and I was frankly scared to. My palms started to sweat just thinking about it (I have an upset stomach right now as I write this!). I didn’t want to get verbally beat up again. I understand that may not have been the intention of the October meeting, but that’s how it felt. And when it became clear that I’d have to meet with him, I needed Grant there. I couldn’t go in alone. Yet the leader of the meeting refused. I simply replied saying, “Grant and I are available at ___.” He continued to insist that Grant not be present. I carbon-copied his superior and emailed back explaining that the last meeting we had had left me feeling “very bruised.” I couldn’t face them again alone. I needed an ally. Finally some time later, the superior responded (On Purim no less! I’ll never forget it!) that “Of course, Grant can come with you to the meeting.”
At that second meeting in March, I explained how I felt back in October. Both gentlemen did admit that they could understand that I felt overwhelmed.
In time I realized what it all was — pure punishment. It was demoralizing and threatening and silencing. This from so-called experts in interpersonal communication. It seemed quite clear that it was supposed to shut me up and shut me down. Kind of ironic in a sense, isn’t it? It was a vivid lesson I hope I never forget. I never, ever want to treat another human being like that, and I never want to treat my sons like that. It was awful.
And it really was the beginning of the end.
With the arrival of Jesus, the Messiah, that fateful dilemma is resolved. Those who enter into Christ’s being-here-for-us no longer have to live under a continuous, low-lying black cloud. A new power is in operation. The Spirit of life in Christ, like a strong wind, has magnificently cleared the air, freeing you from a fated lifetime of brutal tyranny at the hands of sin and death.
God went for the jugular when he sent his own Son. He didn’t deal with the problem as something remote and unimportant. In his Son, Jesus, he personally took on the human condition, entered the disordered mess of struggling humanity in order to set it right once and for all. The law code, weakened as it always was by fractured human nature, could never have done that.
The law always ended up being used as a Band-Aid on sin instead of a deep healing of it. And now what the law code asked for but we couldn’t deliver is accomplished as we, instead of redoubling our own efforts, simply embrace what the Spirit is doing in us.
Romans 8:1-8
February 28th, 2008 -- Posted in Grace, Heal, Learn, Love, Remember, Speak |
I’m calling this Ebenezer “Vista” because nothing quite worked out like I anticipated. And after it was over, it seemed like downgrading to an earlier version would be best.
I’ve got to admit. I’d just rather not talk about this. I kinda get ill just thinking about it all. For my friends, if I’ve told you any of this whole story, I haven’t told you about this. But it’s important part of the ominous sense of dread that built up over that final year.
The summer of 2006 I renamed the “Summer of Isaac and Gavin” because for the first time in my life I was a stay-at-home-mom. It was a new and happy thing for us. My sons and I did “Letter of the Week” that summer, and you can read about all our fun in my archives. I saw a different side of the infrastructure of our county (where are the sidewalks?) and a different side to the interior of my refrigerator (Pink and fuzzy guacamole? How long has this been in there? Ew!!).
It all started . . . with Sean Paddock’s death exactly two years and two day ago now. You probably don’t remember him. He died as the result of some very, very bad parenting. Lynn Paddock, his adoptive mom, suffocated the four-year-old by wrapping him too tightly in blankets to keep him in bed. If you keep up with the trends among Evangelical parenting authors, it should come as no surprise that she avidly followed the worst example available: Michael Pearl.
The Pearls capitalize on quaint Amish icons and natural family living ideals. They privilege an homesteading aura that is very appealing in our McWorld. I get that. I even admire it.
But . . . you don’t have to look very deep to find problems in his advice. In the end, it is heretical. Plain and simple, he denies Original Sin and asserts a sin-free perfectionism for those who are as accomplished as he. He believes that young children are so amoral and so ignorant that they are no different from animals, and the parent’s responsibility is no different than a farmer’s to his livestock. Where that leads him is clear in his explanation of Romans 1:21:
Obviously the 2 year old can’t glory, the 1 year old, the idiot and the retard can’t glory in anything. But those who have reached a place of intellectual maturity will glory and are expected to glory in God.
He’s neither saying that children are totally unable to save their full-of-sin selves nor is he saying that children are naturally good. In other words, he’s neither orthodox nor warm-and-fuzzy. And his bad theology pushes him to some really scary conclusions. He reasons that a parent can do whatever s/he needs to do to a child in order to “train” him — not discipline him since he’s not capable of receiving any sort of teaching. No, Pearl emphasizes training. He continually compares children to animals and overtly suggests that you train a child like you would a dog. For instance, what do you do when your dog has a housebreaking accident? You take him out and hose him down. You may respond to your 3-year-old’s potty accidents the same way, according to Michael Pearl. I kid you not. In his characteristic folksy style, he remembers advising a father to do just that in To Train Up a Child:
First, I pointed out that the boy’s mother, busy with the other children, would, several times a day, pick up this big kid, talk sweet to him, lay him on a bed, take off the dirty diaper, wipe him with a warm rag, rub a little lotion on the chaffed spots and then put a fresh, smooth diaper on him. Dumping in his pants was an opportunity to get his mother’s undivided attention. Now, we understand that there is no guilt or blame in this matter, especially on the child’s part, but there is something quite inconvenient–except for the kid who loved the experience and must have found it the highlight of his day.
So, my suggestion was that the father explain to the boy that, now that he was a man, he would no longer be washed in the house. He was too big and too stinky to be cleaned by the babywipes. From now on, he would be washed outside with a garden hose. The child was not to be blamed. This was to be understood as just a progressive change in methods. The next dump, the father took him out and merrily, and might I say, carelessly, washed him off. What with the autumn chill and the cold well water, I don’t remember if it took a second washing or not, but, a week later, the father told me his son was now taking himself to the pot. The child weighed the alternatives and opted to change his lifestyle. Since then, several others have been the recipients of my meddling, and it usually takes no more than three cheerful washings.
Doug Wilson sums it up:
The first part of the book [To Train Up a Child] reveals a sub-biblical theology on the nature of the child. The innate sinfulness of the child is denied, which leads the Pearls to sharply distinguish training from discipline. Training is what the innocent infants and toddlers get, and is identical to what puppies get when they don’t go on the newspapers. Discipline supposedly comes later when sin enters the picture. While this is not a book of theology, a Finney-like Pelagianism runs near the surface. And while there are some similarities between animal training and child-discipline, the distinctions between the two are not adequately maintained in this book. The result of this confusion is not only heretical, but also offensive to any parents who value the dignity of their children.
There’s more, but I’ll let you research that on your own, if you wish. It only gets more and more sad.
So . . . in the midst of a cyber-mourning for the Paddock family and the heresy that passes for biblical parenting advice, KatieKind stepped it up a notch with a challenge for all the Christian moms participating. She called us all to speak out when we heard Pearl being recommended in our little slices of Christendom.
Sigh. . . . I believe the Holy Spirit made me listen close to her urging. I knew that it was crystal-clear that Pearl was not biblical. I knew that people who supported him just didn’t know the whole story. I promised God that the next time I heard him supported I would say something. I’ve gotta admit — I didn’t think anything would come of it because the guy is a real nut!
Not too long later, I got the flu and was stuck on the couch comforting equally sick boys. So I read. A lot. You know how surfing materializes. That may even be how you settled here.
I landed in a big forum for fundamentalist Baptists. I’d read there a lot previously, but I had never joined. I could join — I could agree to the membership agreement and all — But I just hadn’t up to that point. Again I’m not telling you the name because I don’t want to start a war. I’ve seen that happen too often between blogs and large forums. If you’ve got a hunch, go find me in there. It’s not hard to search.
But, as you can guess from the way I’m telling this story, I landed on a glowing endorsement of Michael Pearl there. My stomach began to churn, and I remembered my promise. ::gulp::
Like a good fundamentalist, I kept my promise. I remembered all the sayings I had been reared on: “finish the job,” “the best ability is dependability,” “the test of your character is what it take to stop you.” I reminded myself that this Pearl stuff was wrong, and if anyone on the planet should be able to see that, I thought, it’s a fundamentalist, right? You with me on this?? Isn’t that what we do? Point out error? I thought that’s what I was taught while I read all those sayings above the chalkboards.
I took a deep breath and joined. The policy of that forum is to accept no anonymous members. You must use your real name and actual in-real-life facts about yourself (this policy might seem harmless enough, but in its working out, it’s not a good thing.). I poked around and found a lot of people I knew from junior high, high school, and undergrad. I found tons of my own students. These are my buddies, right? I should feel right at home. . . .
I pointed out the error in the Pearls as best as I could. It was met with a polite but inquiring surprise. They asked me to present my case, and I did. I joined the ladies’ forum and offered some prayer requests. It was a pleasant experience. I posted a few more opinions here and there. I’m pretty experienced with internet communication, so I know how to juggle some of the potential communication breakdowns.
Then it snowballed. Bad. The whole thing makes me too sick to go back there and review exactly when it all went south, but one poster seemed to be trying to “out” my position on punitive parenting. He asked me point-blank. I avoided an answer at first by joking it off. But he wouldn’t let go. And with Grant looking over my shoulder and cheering me on, I explained there publicly exactly what I told you a few posts back: “spanking is not biblically mandated.”
To keep things neat, I started a new thread with that in the title. It was a blood bath. I tried my best to keep things on task. I wouldn’t answer ad hominem attacks about how I was just a woman, illogical, uneducated, and inexperienced. I mean, I’m not perfect, so there’s always something to pick at (I’m happy to tell you those things, so you needn’t look too deep). I wondered where the forum moderators were! In my experience with internet forums, that kind of browbeating would not be tolerated. My blog statcounter jumped sky-high. I saw people googling me and sniffing me out. In the thread, I tried desperately to focus on the argument from Scripture since that was what I was trying to point out. I thought at the time that I did a pretty good job of that, but based on the outcome, I must have failed.
The thread quickly reached the forum’s 20-page limit and was closed. I have never posted again over there. I just can’t bring myself to.
But here’s the real kicker. A few weeks later I get an email from my then-employer that I was “blipping on the radar” because of those threads. His email was good-natured. I said that then and I’ll keep saying that. He did instruct me to never speak of my parenting views in the classroom (and I never did!). But overall he was friendly and fraternal.
Over time, however, the tone didn’t stay that way. Apparently, “several” letters were coming in to the administration about me and those posts. I don’t know if they were from members of the forum or not. I don’t know what was said. Months later I did find a poster bragging about disagreeing with a female faculty member, but I don’t know if he was speaking about me or not. In the end, I’ve never been afforded the opportunity to face those critics. It’s all been completely anonymous and very threatening.
I was told that those letter-writers wanted me fired.
So it seems, spanking is a fundamental.
February 26th, 2008 -- Posted in Embrace, Heal, Look, Remember, Speak |
Hallelujah! Blessed man, blessed woman, who fear God,
Who cherish and relish his commandments,
Their children robust on the earth,
And the homes of the upright—how blessed!
Their houses brim with wealth
And a generosity that never runs dry.
Sunrise breaks through the darkness for good people—
God’s grace and mercy and justice!
The good person is generous and lends lavishly;
No shuffling or stumbling around for this one,
But a sterling and solid and lasting reputation.
Unfazed by rumor and gossip,
Heart ready, trusting in God,
Spirit firm, unperturbed,
Ever blessed, relaxed among enemies,
They lavish gifts on the poor—
A generosity that goes on, and on, and on.
An honored life! A beautiful life!
Someone wicked takes one look and rages,
Blusters away but ends up speechless.
There’s nothing to the dreams of the wicked. Nothing.
Psalm 112
Gavin, our little White Hawk, made his world debut in an entirely different way than his brother. Instead of inducing at 37 weeks, the docs thought we could wait until 39 weeks and 3 days. And while that was a little stressful for this mommy in those final weeks, all was well. I had quite a bit of “practice labor” — a totally new experience for me! You might have seen us marching around the park or Walmart that Spring trying to coax him out. But he wasn’t going to budge, that’s for sure.
You all who have more than one child know that the second (or third or nth) time you introduce a new family member, the process is familiar but much more complex. We read about being a brother with Isaac. We talked about how we’d have to take care of this new little life in the same way that Mommy and Daddy took care of him. Lots of cuddling and nursing. All of us needed the reminder that the ’sooner you help a crying baby, the sooner he stops crying.’
I reviewed the upcoming blessed event over and over with Isaac to the point that he’s still talking about it — even with strangers (a.k.a. mall Santas or any friendly person at the Playplace). He repeats: “This is my bruhver, baby Gavin. He was in my Mommy’s tummy. But then she went to the ‘hosapital’ and had a lot of contraptions. And he came out! And then he had papoo.”
The birth wasn’t quite as simple as Isaac says. Gavin was sunny side up. And he, like both his parents and his grand-dads, has a . . . uh, very large square head. You can see our OB explaining as much as he gloves up for the blessed (and forceped) event. 3 hours of hard pushing and a big pair of salad tongs and a nearly 4th-degree epi later, our Gavin was born. And that little trooper was holding his head up before we left the delivery room!
Our babymoon was also a new experience for me. He got to stay in the room with me. He nursed like a champ right away. He slept in my arms. And we all went home as soon as they’d allow (which, I’m convinced, is only after you’ve signed every paper they can dream up).
As my brother has commented before, God used Gavin to heal us even further. I could relax. He was okay. I was okay. I made slings galore! Who cares what people think, right? And that easy-going joy oozes out of every pore. He dances. He sings. He runs. He jumps. He prays!! He devours vegetables. He really lives like the Psalm that Pastor used in his dedication: heart ready, trusting in God, spirit firm, unperturbed. I needed that reminder of child-like confidence in Christ for the year to come.
So there in our arms was this beautiful, snuggly monument to robust, unfazed, happy confidence in God.
February 24th, 2008 -- Posted in Grace, Heal, Read, Remember, Speak |
You can go see it for yourself, you know. My blog post on May 15, 2005. Marty Medhurst — that believing gentleman and very well-published scholar — had posted a call for manuscripts on CRTNET for Baylor University’s Rhetoric and Religion series. And I responded with my dissertation. He said, to my shock, that he was hoping I’d see that and respond. Wow! Me? Color me thrilled!
All went well. After editing and submitting the whole document, he said mine was the only manuscript in the series that had unanimous approval. WOW.
I told one “rising” colleague, a friend. He responded very kindly and fraternally and happily. He, too, is a gentleman. I told a few other close friends too. I think, three or four.
And just for the record, it was in the Fall of 2005 that I double-checked the Faculty Handbook about faculty publishing. Most of the focus had to do with music publishing and recording. The rule for writing was that if you were publishing “outside of your area of expertise” you had to get dean-approval from the dean who oversaw that area of expertise. Well, when you get a Ph.D., your dissertation is the very definition of your area of expertise. And I had mentioned it to those directly above me. So I put that out of my mind. I’m sure the rule has changed by now.
Medhurst and I talked some more. And I admitted to him that because it was over five years since I defended my dissertation, it badly needed an updating. I mean, look at all that had happened in the United States political sphere since. The War in Iraq, Bush’s entire presidency. And how had fundamentalism changed? I no longer heard the moniker “fundamentalist” anymore — not from local pulpits, not from chapel sermons, not from my own students’ descriptions of themselves. I set out to find out the best text to critique and to foreground this subtle shift.
By this time it was the Spring semester of 2006. I was carrying my much-prayed-for Gavin, due for induction in April. It was a little . . . disconcerting for me. I had poured my soul into that dissertation the first time while I was carrying Elise. Many of those pages have her “footprints” all over them — before and after her death. I sighed and cried a lot during that revision. It was healing too — like a second chance.
I read every Bush rhetorical critique I could find. “Meh” was about all I could say. I wondered if Bush’s “political fundamentalism,” as one author called it, played a part in fundamentalists’ disenchantment with the label. Most didn’t fit my boundaries for inclusion in my texts. But they were kind of interesting!
I took a step back. In the 2001 dissertation, I had focused on public, BJU-produced texts that were directed at secular outsiders. I knew things had changed in the discourse (I could feel the change in the pulse of the campus), but new texts were impossible to find. BJU actually kind of shut-up after Campaign 2000 (who wouldn’t?).
Except for one text. It was very small, but it was clearly public, BJU-produced, and written for the secular outsider. And it was a more evangelistic version of an exceptionally important text to student life.
Let me back up again. In the middle of Campaign 2000, I was so disgusted with the bad treatment of fundamentalists, specifically BJU fundamentalists (my homies!!) that I marched into my prof’s office and said, “That’s it! I’m doing BJU for my text for my dissertation.” He laughed and said, “Well. . . . that’s grabbing the tiger by the tail!! Are you sure they’ll let you do that?” When I asked the BJU administration a few months later, the response was, “Are you sure they’ll let you do that?” I still chuckle at those parallel responses.
But here I was in 2006 . . . reaching past the tiger’s tail and for his ruff. Was that little public text for outsiders what I should do? Like all these other Ebenezers, I begged God to push me away from it. To help me find something — ANYTHING — else. I hunted. I looked hard. Nothing else came to the surface. Nothing.
By now you’ve noticed that I haven’t actually told you the name of this book. Although I’m purposely trying to be vague, you might be able to guess. In all these posts, it’s not my purpose to hurt individuals. So I’ve used passive voice and have referred to generic “friends.” If I use an actual name, I’ve asked permission first.
It’s not my intention to offend anyone. I’m blogging. So I’m trying to remember my feelings, my perceptions, my realizations — all how God changed me and mine. I don’t know for how long I’m going to be able to maintain that standard. Although I do know that God wanted me to write that additional chapter, He apparently has other plans for it than to be published in this first book.
But that’s another Ebenezer for a later post.
February 20th, 2008 -- Posted in Grace, Heal, Remember, Speak |
The Ebenezers I’ve described up to now are familiar enough and have been repeated enough that I’m comfortable in describing them. The stories to come, however, are all new. And I don’t know how to say it all yet. I’m hoping that this exercise of re-telling those events helps me in seeing God at work. As much as God had discipled us between July 2001 and May 2004, there was so much ahead. Everything, it seemed, would change.
So God brought us to a place in our parenting that we never imagined, a place that we didn’t even know existed. I can call it different things: “grace-based parenting,” “positive discipline,” “mothering by grace.” But what it means on a practical level is that Grant and I chose to remove spanking from our parenting toolbox. We still discipline, of course, but in the older sense of the term (rather than the contemporary American usage) — we teach. And what does that mean on a theological and philosophical and cosmological level? That we’re still digesting. Living out the Gospel changes every relationship, every interaction, every decision . . . It’s really a move from the tragedy that we humans are mired in to the comedy in Christ we can all enjoy. It is radical.
I had fully intended to never breathe a word about this until my oldest was 18 or so. Or maybe 15. I could see that. But I was going to shut up and parent in secret. Parenting choices are all your own to make, right? And it was our decision, right? No one needs to know.
And then, of course, God changed all those plans. ::more ominous music::
The first public announcement of our being counter-cultural parents was an impetuous decision made on a rainy South Carolina morning. It was pouring. And I was to meet Grant at the BJU Dining Common with Isaac for lunch. I had to carry an umbrella and other things. It was wet and very cold. A stroller, quite honestly, made no sense. But this was tough. There in Ezzoland, did I dare to walk in to the most public and social place slinging my son? Everyone would see and everyone would talk about my radical “marsupial” status. The tongues were still wagging about my silly hairdo from several months prior.
Practicality got the best of me. It was wet and my son needed to stay warm. Forget the gossip, I’m slinging him. And there he went in that little $0.56 ring sling. Snug and warm. Next to me and under the umbrella. I sang quietly in his ear “Raindrops, raindrops, tiny little raindrops . . . in each drop is God’s great love!” as we walked. It was the best walk in the rain evah.