My Journey: Chapter Now

Human Sexuality, My Journey, Uncategorized

It’s been a minute since I’ve given any personal updates… or, really done much writing at all. Things have been kind of hectic what with Covid, and feeling as though the earth is spinning off its axis. I have recognized,  though, as my articles continue to be shared, that things have shifted over time and an update is past due.  

Many of you know me as someone who writes, among other things, about human sexuality. My articles are often shared within Christian circles. And,  because the “voice” is vitally important to gaining credibility, I am often introduced as a pediatrician who is also a Christian, who is straight, who is a Mom. 

Others of you know me through work circles or friend circles or in the community where we have raised our children together and attended church together and spent hours at the ballfields together. Some of you entrusted your children to me. Many of us have laughed and cried and grieved together. 

The point is, our connection points are diverse. Much has changed; much remains the same. And, as the twists and turns in my path have led me into places that I wouldn’t have imagined, I want to share parts of my journey with you.

Where to begin? That is really difficult, since I don’t fully grasp how and when things have unfolded within me, truly. As I share my story, I suspect how some may hear my words. There are those who will say, “It was obvious. We knew all along. I’m not surprised.” Some will celebrate change; others will reject my decisions, and me. I am okay with that. I am not sharing anything today for acceptance or validation, but for authenticity. And, for that outside possibility that there is another person out there who may feel my words resonate deeply and may realize that my voice is their voice as well.

Who can understand the mind and heart? Who can understand the opening and closings of its gates and doors? Why it withholds information for decades and then decides to peel back another layer unexpectedly, miraculously?

For lack of a better starting place, I will begin around high school. I grew up super active in a southern Baptist church, played all sports, the piano, was in the band, and wanted to be a doctor. Yet more than anything, I wanted to be a wife and a Mom. In those days, in the Deep South, raised in the church, you certainly couldn’t be a Mom without being a wife! Nor would I have considered it. Mike and I talked about that sometimes in our later years. How our kids have the freedom to look out at the world and make choices we never knew existed. So it’s simply impossible for me to say what I would feel and think, as teen Joani, given the choices that exist today. I only know that from my earliest memories I wanted to date and marry a godly man and have children. 

As the years wore on, and as my career expanded, family remained my highest priority. We were a happy family in many ways but struggled deeply, behind the scenes, as do so many within the church. One of my greatest frustrations remains the recycled church-words given to us, over and over and over again. And yet, just as teen Joani cannot process her alternate outcomes, neither can adult Joani think through how it would have looked, to have been authentically counseled. We did our best, to love each other in the midst of unrecognized emotional and religious trauma, and to love our children well. We are so proud of our girls, and proud of the deep and abiding friendship that we believe will last a lifetime.

I’ve often wondered, as I look around church pews: how many marriages are being held together by a thread? By peer pressure? By the fear of the loss of community, of status? By the dread of the shame that would accompany failure? I know that stress… that pain… that fear. I lost a section of my brain to it, in the form of a hemorrhagic stroke. The pressures, to maintain the status quo, are very high. 

A vital step in my journey, now a number of years ago, was meeting a young man who led me to reexamine my beliefs towards those who are gay or trans. As I addressed those long held beliefs head on, immersed myself deeply in scripture and eventually became fully affirming, while still imbedded in a non-affirming environment, those who know me well will not be surprised to know that I didn’t remain silent. And my lack of silence would cost me my positions as a Bethel Bible teacher, as a deacon, and would eventually lead me from the church entirely. There are some things that, once seen, you simply cannot unsee. A blind man who was healed by Jesus said it this way: “One thing I do know: I was blind but now I see.” (John 9:25)

Being on the outside of the Church looking in has been the most freeing experience of my life. I’ve often said that I’ve heard enough sermons to last me from now to eternity. Sunday mornings without church are simply glorious. As to me and God… and Jesus…well, I’m pondering that. If it’s real… we will work it out. If it isn’t, that’s okay too. I simply have to get the Church out of my system in order to see.

But I digress. Sort of. 

Despite all the changes… and there had been some big ones… I was still entirely unprepared for the next revelation from this mind of mine that seems to enjoy delivering surprises.

A few years ago, I was enjoying coffee with a friend when suddenly I realized a shocking fact: I was attracted to her.

Yes… her. At the age of 53. Prior to that I had never, to my conscious knowledge, been attracted to a woman. It shocked the hell out of me. It seemed at once tragic and complex and miraculous – as sexuality so often can be. I wracked my brain to think back, trying to recall every woman I remembered, to see if I could conjure up a recollection of attraction. Nothing. 

I did the only thing that I knew to do: talk to Mike. Despite our struggles, we remained, then and now, good friends. He supported me then, and supports me now. To this day, I have no idea why my brain kept this secret for so long. I do know that it would have been entirely unacceptable in my childhood home, my community, my church. 

As an example: one prominent family in my home church growing up had a gay son. On the day he died, most likely of AIDS given the era, we had a Christmas service for the entire community. His father was a leader in the service. His death was never acknowledged before, during or after the service. Being gay was simply not okay. And so, it is entirely possible that my brain was doing what brains often do: being protective. 

Brains are crazy and complex and miraculous that way.

The “why” of it all is, of course, theory. What I do know, though, is that I am able to walk through life authentically for the first time ever. I am able to look people in the eyes and not look away. If they share a vulnerability, I am able to share in kind. I do not feel defensiveness or insecurity or bitterness arising unbidden, as they did for decades.

I like women. How strange and exhilarating and freeing, to say out loud. I am content. I am happy. I am me. 

I will always love my ex-husband. While my sexuality is not what ended our marriage, it certainly did not make things any easier. I am so incredibly grateful for his support and friendship. We shared Thanksgiving together with his family, with no awkwardness. I think we will remain close friends our entire lives; I sure hope so. I am so very glad that he is the father of my girls. 

And I am so incredibly excited about the future. I have never realized, until this part of my brain opened up, how I long to pour my love into another person just as they are and watch them grow and expand. I’m only just beginning to learn how that feels, and she is pretty damn amazing. For those of you out there who have followed a similar path, you probably understand: the same part of my brain that protected me also kept me slightly shut down. That is no longer the case. I feel wide open. Free. Authentic. Whole. Me. 

So… that is Chapter Now. I hope you will stay tuned, for whatever comes next. 

Do Stuff

Blogging While White, Uncategorized, , ,

Like many of you, I alternate these days between feeling numbness, grief, exhaustion, and rage. It feels like the ocean on a windy day… you make it through a big wave, but you don’t really have time to get the sand out of your swimsuit because you sense another one is coming.

So I’ve made a personal pledge, to stay in this human race for the long haul. To do that, I’m gonna alternate between three things. That is, unless my therapist adds more. ?

Learn stuff.

Do stuff.

Feel stuff.

Today, in a morning of reflection, I’ve done a bit of all three.

Seneca Village was a place of refuge where black people carved out a quiet and prosperous existence in New York, relatively free from the daily discrimination that existed in the nearby city. Half of its residents owned property or homes. In order to qualify to vote, a black man must have $250 and have a place of residence for three years – a tall order. Of 100 black New Yorkers eligible to vote, 10 lived in Seneca Village. In the mid-1850’s the city acquired the property through the eminent domain law, displaced 1600 people, reimbursed them what was believed to be significantly undervalued prices for their homes and property, and created Central Park.

Refuge, gone. Community, gone. 10% of black voters, gone. Hope, gone.

That bit of enlightenment led me to reflection… to grief. My tendency in those moments is to DO STUFF. But first I need to feel stuff. To feel the pain of homes destroyed. Of pots and pans discarded. Of a small leather shoe left behind. Of an empty beer bottle from a night long past, of friendship and shared joy. Of shattered dreams. Of good people, clawing their way upward, ever so slowly…. only to be dragged back down and placed underneath the boot of a white man.

Today, I’ve tried to simply do what is within me to do. When I learned about Seneca Village, I read more and then reposted it in hopes others would learn, too. And then, my smart friends taught me more: additional times in history that have escaped our white history books. Not just Tulsa. Events that I will learn more about, and write more about.

A fundraiser for Equal Justice Initiative crossed my Facebook feed this morning. I’ve long admired Bryan Stevenson, and have many times talked about visiting EJI and the Rosa Parks museum, both an easy drive from Chattanooga. So I posted a fundraiser for EJI… and got out my calendar to get serious about a road trip. Small steps. Baby steps. But steps, nevertheless.

Learn stuff; feel stuff; do stuff. In no particular order. But keep doing them, over and over and over again until we begin to shake our history of white supremacy and begin to slowly emerge as a nation of unity and diversity. With our black and brown brothers and sisters leading… celebrated… honored… as they so deeply deserve.

I Am Infected Too

Blogging While White, Uncategorized,

A few days ago, after I finally got up my courage to watch the George Floyd video (and here’s another confession… I still haven’t managed to watch it start to finish…) It triggered me, as it should have, and I wrote a Facebook post and then a blog post,https://joanileajack.comi-cant-breathe/ It led to grieving, outrage, and good discussion on how to move forward from friends from many different backgrounds and ethnicities.

But then something happened.

I made a mistake, borne of my own family tree. The family tree that descends not from the man on the pavement; the family tree that descends from the man with his knee in his neck. It was totally innocent, and I corrected it immediately.

But in correcting it, I also covered it up. I didn’t want anyone to see what had happened. Especially not since I’d just written this Facebook article and blog post that had gotten lots of “likes”, proclaiming me as one of the good guys.

But that’s the thing with this sickness. It lies, so subtly, inside us… and it keeps spreading unless exposed.

So although I haven’t seen it on any of the “top 100 lists of things you can do to help black people”… here’s MY strategy to help stop racism:

I’m going to keep a picture of that hate-filled, disgusting knee-on-his-neck creature, with who-knows-what is going on with his hand in his pocket. I’m going to look into his eyes frequently. And when I sense anything within myself that could in ANY way, ANY shape, ANY form that could somehow be associated with the same sickness that he shares… no matter how subtle… no matter how innocent… no matter how mild… I’m going to expose it. I’m going to treat it like the most dangerous disease imaginable (because it is), and I’m going to watch for symptoms like we’ve been watching for COVID symptoms. And if I think I might possibly see them… I’m going to err on the side of caution. I’m going to open myself up wide and tell everyone, “Hey, I think that I might possibly still have some of this disease. I thought it was gone… but the damn thing is incredibly resilient and stubborn and hard to get rid of… and the one thing that seems to finally kill it off is to expose it.”

So… here’s the exposure.

In the comments of my Facebook post, someone I know well and respect commented that the looters had nothing to do with George Floyd, but were just looking for a party. I know he has the utmost respect for black lives, but I was afraid that comment would be misunderstood by my black friends. So I responded that while that may perhaps be true, suppressed anger also has a tendency to eventually boil over, and that if those kids had the image of George Floyd’s face burned in their brain like I did, maybe things burning and breaking were just a release of that anger. But… that the next day, he would still be dead… and tomorrow, another black or brown person would be as well.

I thought it was a good answer. And my white friend and I continued a good, respectful discussion.

But a black friend responded, very simply, with something that absolutely took my breath away. A picture of white people, looting. Duh.

My automatic assumption, without thinking… without any need to evaluate it… was that black people were the ones looting.

When I saw that a minority-owned business was destroyed, and that they had placed a sign indicating “Minority Owned” in the window, I was so sad, wondering, “Why? Why would people in the neighborhood destroy THAT business?”

When I saw the police district burning down, I felt righteous anger… and I thought, “They are right. Black people have been held down too long. They deserve to burn that building down.”

When I saw windows smashed, and heard of merchandise stolen, I thought, “That’s wrong… but those black kids are just over it.”

Where does that come from? Why did I assume, in every instance, that black people were looting? The protests were clearly of people from many different ethnicities… so why did I automatically assume that the violence came from people of color?

White friends… did you make the same assumption? If so, is that as terrifying to you, as it is to me?

I reposted that picture, but even now, in thinking about it, I can’t breathe. Tears are starting to gather in my eyes, but then I remember a black person saying, “I don’t want to see another fucking white tear….” and I immediately dry it up. I remember a white friend, very active in the fight for a long time, saying sternly to herself, “Stamina. Dry it up, Woman.” So that’s my own new mantra. “Suck it up. So your ancestors were assholes. So you still have asshole assumptions. Deal with it. It’s not about you.”

This disease. It is still in me. It causes me… someone who is naturally pretty objective, and who generally considers many perspectives and angles… to have a very large and dangerous blind spot. It causes me to make assumptions that are harmful and hurtful to people of color.

There are FAR more compelling reasons for those outside the neighborhood, and those who believe black lives do NOT matter, to have destroyed minority businesses… to have burned buildings… to have caused looting. And, once my perspective shifted, that is precisely what I have begun to recognize. Eye witnesses, from every protest I’ve been able to read about from Facebook accounts and news accounts, state that the protests have been peaceful initially. And the violence has always started AFTER the protests are over. They seem to be promoted by a combination of white supremacists and antifa… violent terrorist groups who have no interest in anything other than causing harm. And certainly from those outside the affected neighborhoods and cities.

But the point of THIS post is to confront my own disease. To own it. To expose it. And to promise to myself, and anyone who cares to listen, my personal decision for What I Plan To Do In This Fight… for as long as it takes.

To heal myself first. To search deeply for any signs, like when the dermatologist tells you to do a full body search for any signs of skin cancer. Except this search must include the soul. It must include the times when… ESPECIALLY when… I passed. When no one knew of the offense. When I got away with it. Because those are the times when the disease is the most dangerous.

That’s when I’m most like that cop. I bet he passed, too. I bet a lot of people thought he was polite, and charming. I bet few people recognized the beast within him. And while I don’t think I’m anything like him… if I have the tiniest molecule of the same disease… if I have a single cell remaining from the family tree that he and I share… I want it gone.

So that’s my story. That’s my heritage. And I will own it, over and over and over again… until I believe that I am clean enough to actually do some good in this fight.

I Can’t Breathe

Blogging While White, Uncategorized

After wearing an N-95, breathing is no longer something I take for granted. So when I heard bits and pieces of the George Floyd video… and saw the signs… and realized he literally said, “I can’t breathe” until his dying breath… I just couldn’t. I was donning my N-95 everyday, and I needed to take care of patients. I had to breathe, and so I couldn’t look… because I knew it would break me.

But finally, this evening, I watched. I looked. I stared. I zoomed in the pictures. I stared at the arrogance of that cop, with his entire body weight on his knee, on top of the neck of a dying human… with his hand casually in his pocket, like some fucking GQ superman white supremacist pose. Or… something. What was he doing with that hand in that pocket…?!?

I looked at the face of George Floyd… dying, or perhaps already dead. Smashed into the concrete. Pushed up underneath the car. I tried to imagine the discomfort of being pushed down onto pavement… how uncomfortable it is to have “road burn”, an abrasion caused by pavement. It hurts, very badly. I tried to sit with the human on the pavement, who cried out to his Mama… I tried to imagine him as a little boy… as a high school kid… as a young man working in his job as a security officer. I wondered if he’d ever fallen in love. If he liked dogs, or cats. If he had a favorite food. I grieved.

But mostly, I simply tried to breathe. Because now that I’ve seen, I cannot unsee. The grief of George Floyd’s death hurts, so badly. But even harder to unsee is the casual, evil hatred in the face of that cop. I don’t even know what to call him. Person isn’t right. Policeman is way too lofty. Creature, maybe.

What leads a person to forcefully drive another human being into the pavement… place his entire body weight through the point of his knee onto that person’s neck… hold it there for 7 minutes while he cries and pleads that he cannot breathe… hears his cries slowly become quieter and more desperate and finally stop… checks for a pulse and finds none… and keeps his knee on his neck for nearly THREE MORE MINUTES AFTER HE HAS NO PULSE? Who does that to another human? Why?

What leads three other humans to watch this behavior? To allow it without intervening? To cooperate? To participate? To continue these behaviors despite surrounding onlookers pleading with them to stop? Because of a forged $20 bill???

No. Hell NO. This did not have one fucking thing to do with a counterfeit bill, or anything else that George Floyd did or did not do. It was not because of how he held his hands, or the tone of his voice, or whether his eyes were too direct. It was not because he was disrespectful or because he posed a threat. From the moment he was captured as their prey, there was likely not one damn thing the man could’ve done to save his own life. Nothing. He was caught in a trap, by hunters, and he was a dead man.

I can’t breathe… we can’t breathe… because we are sick. We’ve been sick for centuries. Our sickness began when we stole humans from their home and families and brought them forcibly to our nation. It spread throughout our country along with them, as they were paraded in chains, past our courthouses and our churches and our homes. It was buried deep into our souls and our DNA and passed down to our children, when our wealth was built upon their backs… when they were stripped of identity and family and livelihood and land… became our property… made to serve us and our children. The sickness turned deadly when we began to believe that God was on our side… when we decided that Jesus was a white man… when Scriptures were twisted to believe they favor those in power rather than the oppressed.

We are sick. I can’t breathe.

This sickness has led to unspeakable rage… unspeakable anger.

I’m not speaking of black anger.

That anger is rampant, for sure… but black anger, even when it gets out of hand… even when it goes too far… it’s on the side of angels. Black anger has at its source injustice.

White anger, though, is completely different. It stems from unspeakable shame. It stems from a history we’ve refused to own. From sins we’ve refused to acknowledge, much less redeem. White anger comes from that deep shame of knowing, deep down, that you’re wrong. It comes from reaping what we did not sow. Actually… that’s not quite right. In truth, we didn’t reap OR sow; black slaves did both for us and we took the proceeds.

So you take centuries of this sickness… this shame… this buried wrongness. And white people try as hard as possible to cover it up, and justify it, and explain it away, and hope that eventually we will just get past it. But it’s still here. We are still sick. We still can’t breathe. We are so fucking sick. So fucking ashamed. So fucking angry. And our sickness manifests itself through the knee of a cop, onto the neck of a black man, with his nose smashed into the pavement. Those are the symptoms, the manifestations, of this disease. George Floyd is the latest victim, at least that we know of.

I will sleep tonight unable to stop seeing the image of terminal illness. It looks like hatred. Casual, evil, sick hatred. It has been borne and bred and cultivated for centuries. It is a sickness that spreads far more easily than coronavirus, and is far more deadly.

I can’t think. I can’t unsee. I can’t understand. I can’t breathe.

Kneeling is Patriotism Too

Blogging While White

When it comes to our beautiful flag, and how we honor our ancestors, a great deal of the response depends upon from which perspective you have historically viewed the flag, the wars, and the events.

For many, descended from brave, courageous soldiers, the flag is a priceless, sacred symbol of freedom and faith and courage… the inaliable right for every person to live out their own lives and shape their own destiny… filled with such meaning that the only possible response is to stand with hands over hearts.

For those with a great deal of heritage from the ancestors who kidnapped humans from other countries in order to grow and prosper our country, and had the blasphemous arrogance to proclaim themselves owners of human beings created by God, then the flag would more likely represent a trophy of power. This perspective reveres the flag as a  symbol of our right to  lay claim to whatever we can take through force, and make it our own, to use for our own good.

And for those with dark-skinned bodies, with more heritage from those who were stolen from their homes, shackled in chains, and forced to work the field and the docks and anything else that needed working… who lost their families and their lives and their identity… and who have lived for centuries with the anger and injustice that has nowhere to go… then the flag would be quite complicated.

If the first glimpse of the flag that your ancestors had was from the perspective of shackles and chains, then it may be quite difficult to proudly stand in its honor.

If you are paralyzed with fear for your husband or teenaged son to drive, walk, work, barbecue, dine out, shop or study, for fear that he may be shot for being assumed to be a criminal, then it may be hard to reconcile “land of the free” with your experiences.

The complexity of these emotions may well lead to a posture of humility rather than power; of lowering your face rather than raising it; of wounded protection and prayerful contemplation, rather than pride.

Given the diversity of experiences and perspectives, I ask you: who the HELL are we, any of us, to mandate which ancestors we will honor and acknowledge? How can we possibly claim the proud stance of our courageous ancestors is more important, more patriotic, more American than the humble posture of our stolen ancestors who provided the economic prosperity and security that each and every one of us enjoys to some degree? How can we fail to recognize and admit the impact of those ancestors, and their descendants who walk among us today, who view the flag not as the sacred symbol of freedom, but as a symbol of power and arrogance and the right to take by force whatever we want?

And how can we stand aside, when these appropriately diverse expressions of honor are shamed and attacked? Our most powerful leader has stated, “If they cannot stand proudly for the flag, then maybe they shouldn’t be in this country.” Oh, the irony. The bitter, painful irony. Because that statement — likely entirely by accident — contains a profound truth: historically speaking, were their ancestors given a choice, most wouldn’t be in this country. But they are, because we kidnapped them, brutalized them, brought them here, claimed them as our property and built a nation with their hands and backs and blood and sweat and tears.

And now, rather than appropriately acknowledging our sins, we would instead compound them by mandating that they stand to honor the flag that represents freedom? Really?

Our young nation is fractured… the fissures appear daily, and the tremors rock us regularly, and the lava of our deep-seeded anger and insecurity and guilt and shame and injustice spews out all over us.

I submit to you, though, that perhaps these fractures are less about democrats vs. republicans, or left vs. right, or conservatives vs. liberals, or Baptists vs. Muslims. I submit that, perhaps, our fractures come from the profoundly differing groups of ancestors that we have yet to appropriately acknowledge and own. (And there are plenty of ancestors that I haven’t even touched on, such as those who lived on this land before we ever invaded it to begin with…..)

The pain and guilt, for me, lies in the fact that I have benefitted tremendously from each of these groups of people. I have an amazing family, and am secure and content. My career is both a calling and a passion. From the earliest age, I was blessed with education and love and stability and discipline and hard work and perseverance and stubborn, single-minded courage. While I have worked extremely hard to reach this place in my life, I am acutely aware that countless others throughout the world have worked far harder than I to achieve far less… and that it is their blood in my veins that has led to much of my success and security.

My path of blessing is littered with countless human bodies as stepping stones.

My freedom and security and economic advantages and independence are a result of the courageous men and women who have laid down their lives on my behalf. Some of these men and women fought for my freedom; others lost their freedom to become the enslaved workforce for the economic stability of our nation. Each group of people bled for me, in one way or another… each have passed down through generations the sacrifice and pain and values that their lives characterized… each has provided a portion of my DNA, my heart, my mind, and my soul.

My ancestors died on the battle field and in the cotton field. They died at the end of the whip, and they died as the one wielding the whip. My ancestors stole and imprisoned other human beings… and my ancestors were stolen and beaten and made the property of another.

The atrocities and inhumanity of slavery does not and cannot diminish the courage and bravery of our war heroes. And the incredible courage of those who fought for our freedom does not and cannot erase the unspeakable evil of the first human traffickers.

And so, to those who have fired weapons on my behalf… who have seen enemies and friends cut in half by bullets… who can never fully escape the sounds and smells of war… and whose families are impacted for a thousand generations by your courage and sacrifice and tragedy:

Thank you. I do not, nearly enough, acknowledge your sacrifices and express my gratitude. I will try to do better to remember all that you have given to me and to those I love.

And to those whose ancestors were stolen from your land… who were brought here in shackles… whose dark bodies provided the very framework for the current balance in my checking account… who were brutalized and yet have managed to largely integrate into the society of your captors… and whose families are impacted for a thousand generations by your courage and sacrifice and tragedy:

Thank you. I do not, nearly often enough, acknowledge your sacrifices or express my gratitude. I will try to do better to remember all that you have given to me and to those I love. I will work as hard as I can to give you the respect and equality that you have earned and deserve.

And to those who take pride in the power of ancestors who claimed other human beings as property… who see the flag as a symbol of white supremacy… and who believe that you can stake claim to anything or anyone that you choose:

You are wrong. I am ashamed of you and your ancestors… and I am ashamed of the parts of me that came from them. I am ashamed of the benefit they brought me, and I am ashamed of the prosperity that I have received because of their brutality. And yet, I refuse to bury them, or hide their story. I choose to own them as a darkness in our past that cannot be overcome unless it is appropriately acknowledged. I choose to own that I share a portion of their DNA. I will seek daily to recognize it for what it is – the self-centered, self-serving lie that I have an inalienable right to take someone else’s rights away, if I choose to do so. The arrogant belief that I carry a higher value than another person who God breathed life into, simply because of the color of my skin or the geography of my birth.

For each person who lives and breathes, I support and applaud your right to remember the sacrifices that your ancestors and the generations of your family have endured. If you choose to remember those sacrifices by standing proudly and singing loudly, I will stop and place my hand over my heart in order to acknowledge how much it means to me. And if you choose to honor your ancestors by kneeling, then I will kneel alongside you, in a posture of humility and reverence and respect for what you have given to me and my family.

But if you choose to mandate that I, or anyone else, must honor our ancestors by your rules, then you are self-identifying as the descendent of the human traffickers. You are proclaiming that your rights of expression are greater than another persons; that by simply waking up and breathing, you have the right to lay claim to the thoughts and expressions and complex emotions of another human being, simply because you desire it to be so. You are refusing to own our complex ancestry because it is uncomfortable. You are not living in the home of the brave, but in the wasteland of cowardice.

My challenge to myself, and to all who have taken the time to read this, is to honor each person as the God-breathed creation that they are. To be fully human, even if that forces me to accept aspects of my humanity that I loathe. To emulate the courage and perseverance and faith of ALL my ancestors… and to recognize and refuse to feed the characteristics and values that would destroy all that they fought for.

Fissures and cracks do not heal over night, and lava does not easily recede. Nor do the scars of our hearts and souls and bodies. But we must begin, one step at a time, to acknowledge our whole history… with the faith and courage of our forefathers as the beacon that we follow… and the expectation that authentic wholeness is worth the sacrifice.

A Challenge To Kneel

Blogging While White, Uncategorized

Over the past few years, through observation of my own friends and colleagues who are African American in particular, and any non-Caucasian ethnicity in general, I have felt a personal challenge to learn and grow. I’ve solicited opinions and, typical of me, bought lots of books. Ta-Nehisi Coates. Edward Baptist. Angie Thomas. Joy Jordan-Lake. William Rhodes. Most impactful, most recently, has been Austin Channing Brown’s “I’m Still Here: Black Dignity in a World Made For Whiteness.”

What began as an effort to learn about “them” has turned into learning about me. It has not been pleasant. I have literally put down books for days… unable to tolerate the intensity and turmoil within me. Can this possibly be true? Could I really have missed something so important, and for so long? Am I complicit?

First came the realization of the destructive, oppressive, anything-but-free foundation of the formation of our nation. That led to a change in my perspective of the confederacy, the South, and the behavior of my own ancestors. Distrust followed, first of our historians and educators and political leaders for rewriting history to make it more palatable for (white) school children. Then distrust of the universal Church: HOW in God’s name could a faith based upon personal repentance and led by a Christ who gave his very life for the oppressed, so blatantly and unrepentantly cater for centuries to the oppressor?

If all that wasn’t enough, it just kept getting more personal. I found out first that I’m not nearly as “woke” as I thought – not nearly enough to casually and arrogantly toss out the term as though I deserve it. And then the most devastating of all, at least so far (as I am certainly not done) is the shifting of the very earth beneath me, as I face the fact that I daily, hourly, participate in deeply ingrained, personally beneficial, and incredibly oppressive institutional racism. And… I think if I’m honest, really… it’s not just institutional. It’s the real deal, inside of me, imbedded so deeply in my core that though I keep digging, I’ve yet to reach the bottom.

I am a racist.

There are lots of stages to this journey as a successful and privileged white person. And as I work through them I have the great fortune (not blessing, as it wasn’t obtained divinely nor honestly) of putting down my books and wearing my white skin around, with all its benefits. But to elaborate further on my “pain” would miss the point entirely. That’s a less important story, for another day.

The more important question, for me, becomes, what will I do about it? How do I begin to allow guilt and regret to become repentance and change?

I’m working on those answers, in personal relationships and work-related efforts and a life-giving life group called Manasseh.

But publicly, I am challenging myself very simply: to kneel.

When I see a sports person kneeling, I will join them, whether in my home or at a sporting event.

I will kneel, not in protest, but in humility and repentance.

I will kneel in honor of those who paid for my success with their lives, their backs, their hands, their families, their children. Whose blood drenched the soil and nourished every crop that has ever nourished me.

I will bow my head for those who died yesterday or last week or last year… and those who will die tomorrow… for driving or shopping or having coffee or barbecuing or walking or breathing while black.

I will bow my head for every person who in classrooms and board rooms and work rooms must have every idea validated by a white person.

For I know that posture matters more than words. Standing indicates honor, yes – but also pride. And I cannot yet express pride in our nation, until we have the courage to face our failure and our sin.

Kneeling and bowing indicates humility. That’s where I need to be.

And as I kneel – knowing my tendency for pride and arrogance and stubborn refusal to give up what I consider mine, regardless of how deceitfully it came to me, I will pray these words:

“We have taken and stolen and hoarded possessions and bodies and rights and money and homes and power and validity. We have hurt and oppressed and injured and killed. We have ignored and deflected and pretended and lied and revised.

We are wrong. I am wrong.

Give me eyes that see. Forgive me. Change me.”

Will you join me in this personal challenge, in whatever manner your soul directs you?

Off The Island: Loving and Leaving Church (Part 1)

From My Soapbox, My Journey, Religious Trauma

A number of years ago, while still in private practice in community pediatrics, I was deeply imbedded in several different corporate leadership roles. I was, as they say, “Drinking the Kool-Aid” — young and eager to prove myself, involved in many different areas, with several mentors that I admired. But then, something unexpected occurred. There was a disagreement within the leadership regarding the salaries of physicians at my own practice site… and so I recused myself from the meetings until it was all sorted out.

As I stopped attending meetings every night, I underwent an unanticipated and dramatic perspective shift. From the outside looking in, I suddenly had eyes to see things that others had been trying to warn me about. A deeply flawed system, previously invisible to me because I was simply looking from way too close, soon came into focus.

The perspective shift would have lifelong implications. It was the very first step towards a major career shift, and would eventually land me in my current role in academic and obesity medicine. As someone imminently blessed with a role that is equal parts career, calling, job and passion, I am occasionally astounded to remember how easily it may have never happened… but for a self-imposed exile that unexpectedly gave me clear eyes and a fresh perspective.

It was my first experience with being unable to see the forest for the trees. When you’re so close to a situation, you just can’t see the big picture. And sometimes, that leads to bad decisions, not because we lack courage or decision-making skills, but simply because we cannot effectively see. For the first time, I understood what it means to say, “I was blind, but now I see.”

And so, years later, when I would experience something eerily similar with the church (initially my church… and then eventually the Church), I shouldn’t have been shocked. And yet, I was once again astounded to find how differently things look from the outside, as opposed to from within. And, it would’ve been hard to be much more “within” than I was at the time — church officer, close personal relationships with each pastor, youth discipleship group leader, prayer group leader, teacher. Present any time the doors were open. (And when they weren’t, I had a key!) But far deeper than the roles of service were the relationships. For 18 years, through most every circumstance imaginable, these had been my people, my pack, my confidants, my conscience, my mentors, my family.

But once again, circumstances unexpectedly intervened. A young gay man whose life and example spoke volumes to me (you can read about it in My Journey: Michael Alan.) A passage in Isaiah poking fun at people worshiping a god of our own creation (see Isaiah 44:14-20). A deep dive, isolated from books or people, into the scriptures regarding human sexuality. Then a deep dive into the scientific research available ( Unfolding Miracles: Human Sexuality and The Jury is In: The Science of Human Sexuality). Several Christian Moms with gay children willing to share their stories (Matthew and Alex ).

As my perspective began to shift, the passage from Isaiah, in particular, haunted me. I returned to the words over and over again, ending with, “Yet he cannot bring himself to say, ‘Is this idol that I’m holding in my hand a lie?” (Isaiah 44:20) Unwelcomed questions began worming their way into my mind and heart, and they seemed an awfully lot like the soft, still voice that I’d learned through decades of faith needed to be given attention. I noticed that my path to success at work, and the path to leadership at church were eerily similar… despite church having quite a different written mission statement. Very tentatively I began to ask myself, “Am I following God, or following people?”

And then, the final blow: an ill-fated meeting, at my request, with a highly respected church leader. With Mike at my side, I poured out my heart: what I had discerned from the Bible regarding sexuality; what I had learned from science with my knowledge and experience as a physician; and what I had learned through example after example of faithful Christian families who’d been knocked off their feet by the realization that the same faith, the same rules, the same example, had produced both straight and gay children. Families who fit no “profile” touted to cause such things. People who were also church officers, teachers, even pastors themselves. People who had faithfully followed the advice of the church for decades, patiently waiting for change that never occurred, and learning to hate themselves and their sexuality as a result of their perceived failure to be good enough. I shared how I had finally confronted the disturbing possibility that I’d had it wrong for many years… how it followed the same blueprint of humility and repentance that I’d been taught by this very body of Christ… and shared that my beliefs were changing about God’s view, and the biblical view, of human sexuality. A change that I believed was not only blessed by God, but initiated and carried out by the Spirit.

My experience seemed to be the trifecta of revelation, deeply steeped in decades of training in how to discern God’s voice: revelation through his Word, through his creation (science), and through the witness of his people. And, combined with my own 18 years of service and faithfulness to this particular church, and my experiences as a physician, I truly thought I would be heard. As someone with a tendency to get ahead of myself, I imagined this meeting leading to others… a wider audience… a new opportunity to minister… a shift in the church approach.

I was wrong. Incredibly, laughably wrong. My beliefs and witness were dismissed out of hand, and an old, dusty denominational policy pointed to as evidence of my wrong thinking. A policy that I had read so many times it was nearly memorized; a policy that was so out of date that I knew of no one in the church who actually believed all of it. But it didn’t matter; God had allegedly spoken, decisions had been made, and there would certainly be no additional discussion based one silly woman’s experience.  I was, instead, counseled that given my differences with established church and denominational policy, I should withdraw from teaching a class that I had trained for two years to teach. I was informed that I had fallen into the trap that so many do: of being blinded by compassion.

As tears dripped onto my shirt, this church leader said, “I’m sorry. I know you’re disappointed…”

And the fire within just lit me up. I looked directly at him and said, “I’m not crying out of disappointment. I am grieving for this church that I love so dearly. I am weeping for the people you have hurt and will continue to hurt. You are labeling something sin that may well not be sin… and you are representing God in the process. That is an extremely serious offense.”

And he casually, confidently, patiently and arrogantly responded, “Well, perhaps so. We will all have to stand before God someday and be held accountable.” To this day, his patronizing tone and lack of recognition of the gravity of representing God is terrifying to me. My internal reaction to that cold, confident statement was one that I cannot adequately articulate; I was utterly, thoroughly repelled. I simply wanted to be gone.

On that day, hurt and shocked, Mike and I didn’t realize that we would never again attend that church regularly. I didn’t yet know that I would resign as an officer… and then, in an amazing display of “You didn’t break up with me, I broke up with you!” have the elders inform me that they had voted to accept my resignation not for this term, but for life. We didn’t yet realize that the blow struck that day would have such far-reaching impact… and the distrust would spread first to other churches, and then to the Church, and eventually even to a large segment of Christianity as a whole.

It was our first experience with a crude description of the Church, ironically shared with me months before by a pastor, who, using far cruder language than I’m choosing to print, said: “You’ve never really been screwed, until you’ve been screwed by another Christian.”

Oh, how true that is.

Years later, though, I am so incredibly grateful for the experience. I can now say, once again, “I was blind, but now I see.” But not perfectly; not even close. I’m just another imperfect human, muddling my way along, longing for what I can only get occasional glimmers of. And the best way to be blind is to be certain you can see! So even as I write these words, I’m acutely aware that there’s probably something right in front of me that I’m missing. Something that is so close to my nose that I can’t see it. But each time I re-learn this lesson, I relax just a fraction more. It’s okay, to mess up… in fact, it is inevitable.

So now, with my faith largely intact but the practice of it vastly different, I’m a different person. I’m far less certain in what I know but far more comfortable in my own skin. I’m much more curious about those who have walked a different path, with a genuine desire to listen and learn… and contrary to what I was always warned about, such curiosity does not, in fact, cause all my beliefs to quickly disappear. Rather, honest discourse with others strengthens sound belief while shedding light on shallow, lazy assumptions.

From my vantage point off the island, I love Sunday mornings! Many Sundays I revel in the quiet of my home, the contentment of my own heart and soul. I reflect. I listen a lot. The birds are often my choir. Or sometimes, my dogs howling at a siren that passes by! I worship, all day long — with my family, and with my friends, and with fellow travelers. And when I lay myself down on Sunday nights, I always, without fail, breathe a prayer of thanksgiving for this journey, for this peace, for this glorious contentment.

Sometimes, my heart is drawn towards not just worship, but a worship service. It turns out that they are not, in fact, the same thing. In those times, we drive down to The Mission, and walk into Father Paul’s open arms… always with a big hug and a smile, whether it’s been a week or 4 months. (It is more often the latter rather than the former). He knows my story… he knows our pain… and he has continued to say, for years now, “You are welcome here, whenever you come and for however long you stay.” Thank you, Paul.

From my vantage point as an outsider, I’m way more compassionate and forgiving of those who have lost their way. I recognize their courage… I recognize that only a hair’s-breadth difference of circumstance separates us. I’m drawn, like a moth to flame, to those in need, to those who are the outcast, to those who are marginalized. I don’t see them as a project, but as a potential friend… someone to learn about and learn from… someone with beautiful, unique, eternal value.

I have a more authentic relationship with my husband and my girls, my colleagues, my friends. I take myself less seriously. I play more. I laugh more. I take a Zumba class, and I watch myself try to dance in the big long mirror at the front of the room, and I see quite clearly how ridiculous I look… and I am thoroughly happy with such a clumsy, unhindered expression of life and joy.

And I hope. I hope for redemption of old relationships… for redemption of the Church… for growth and reconciliation and maturity and humility and repentance and forgiveness and compassion. I hope for ordinary people to take the extraordinary step of examining the idols and golden calves that so deeply permeate the institution of the Church. I hope for the hungry and the homeless to take priority over the rich and the powerful. I hope for the people to matter more than the issues.

I don’t worry much, what those on the island think of me. I love them, still. I admire and respect, if not all, certainly the majority. I see the guarded look in some, and I remember how it felt, to try so hard to play the right game, and I hurt for them. Others, though, seem genuinely content… and for those friends, I am happy that they are content and are where they are supposed to be. I don’t think we all follow the same path… but I do hope that somewhere down the line, the differing paths sometimes intersect.

I hurt a lot, too. Outside of the boundaries, beyond the walls… there is so much need. I hurt for those who have been harmed, without relief or resolution. I hurt for those who are alone and lonely. I hurt for the pain that humans so casually inflict upon each other. Sometimes I feel like I’m on the front lines of a war… with casualty after casualty arriving, with not nearly enough bandages.

And I cuss a lot. At ignorance, and stupidity, and entitlement, and selfishness, and arrogance. And most especially, at ignorant arrogance. That’s my least favorite. I behave very badly sometimes.

So… this journey, while certainly not a walk in the park, has been extremely fulfilling. I have a bit of faith left, perhaps around the size of the seed of a small orange. I have hope… at least when I remember not to turn on the news! And I am learning, with the tiniest baby steps, how to love and be loved in return.

[In Part 2 of this post, I turn from my own journey towards my perspective of the Church from the outside looking in.]

Off the Island: Loving and Leaving Church (Part 2)

My Journey, Religious Trauma, Uncategorized

In Part 1 of “Loving and Leaving Church”, I described my spiritual journey of leaving the church. If you would like to have some context for the perspective and opinions in this second piece, you can click here https://joanileajack.comoff-the-island-loving-and-leaving-church-part-1/ to read it first. Nevertheless, they both stand on their own reasonably well… so I will give you, the reader, the final decision-making power!

Those who know me know that I can sometimes state things rather bluntly… and I fear that is likely to be the case here. When I witness people in pain, I get on my high horse, and what often follows is a passion-laden volcano erupting, with little thought for the consequences! So I want to take a moment, before I get to that point, to speak to my many, dear Christian friends who worship in church every Sunday:

My dear, beloved, treasured church friends… I care for you, I love you, I respect you, and I do not write words designed to hurt you. I have no desire whatsoever to see those who are my friends feel attacked. The good times and the bad times and the in-between times that we have shared together — and there’s LOTS of them —  mean so much to me. You have helped form me, you are a part of me, and you matter to me. You always have, and you always will.

But while I am not trying to be hurtful, you will likely feel hurt anyway. The reason I am moving forward despite that likely outcome is that I must give voice to the hurting. Your feelings, while important, are not my highest priority in this writing — neither in trying to trample them nor in trying to protect them. Rather, my highest priority and deepest desire is to validate the feelings of the outsider, the harmed, the excluded. It turns out that there’s lots of wisdom on the outside, and I’d like to share it as best I can. My perspective is as flawed as any other human, but it is mine.

So. After loving and leaving the church, and after a long period of working my way haphazardly through the stages of grief, I find myself gloriously happy with life as an outsider. And, as shouldn’t surprise anyone, I also find myself with some opinions! In no particular order, these are my thoughts on the Church, from the outside looking back in:

God’s people are still in the practice of building their own golden calf to worship, just as their ancestors did. The story from the Old Testament is both hilarious and heart breaking: when Moses ascended the mountain to meet with God face-to-face, he was gone a long time and the Israelites feared he was dead. So in his absence, they built a huge golden calf to become the object of their worship! (What the whaaaaa…..?) Crazy at it sounds, the practice is ongoing, although a bit less literally.

It’s a sneaky bastard, this golden calf. It masquerades as all sorts of things: church leaders, congregational growth, budgets, small groups, preaching topics, family values, denominational policy, leadership, service, pastors themselves… the list is literally unending. But the absolute, single greatest attribute of a golden calf is its certainty. People worshiping that damn calf know EVERYTHING: what God says and means; all of his attributes; where the money should go; what job you should take; THE meaning of a Bible passage; who can be granted membership and who should be kept out; who’s worthy of leadership; even what color the carpets should be.

My usage of the golden calf is just a metaphor, of course; one human effort to put words to our tendency to attempt to control ourselves and those around us and our environment and our past and our future and even our God. Being human sucks, often… and so it’s our nature to invent ways to gain some sort of security and safety and certainty. And if you can then lend deity to your certainty, then you feel REALLY certain!

The problem, of course, is that perceived certainty is just that: a perception. Feeling certain has no real correlation to actual truth… but it sure feels like it does. It’s kind of like being in Neyland stadium, in the middle of 100,000 people who all agree… until you realize a few days later that despite how great you felt on Saturday, the team actually isn’t very good. Oddly enough, the very Bible that is so often touted “in no uncertain terms” itself points out repeatedly the pitfalls of such arrogance. I personally don’t think God gives a rat’s ass how your policy describes him.

We have all sorts of ways to help ourselves feel safe. And then, you get cancer or ALS or your Mom has a car accident or your spouse commits suicide or your child is transgender or someone shoots your brother at a concert. Suddenly we realize the blinding truth that it doesn’t do an ounce of good to have a million people who agree on the truth, or a strong retirement account or a gun in the dresser. Suddenly, shit just got real.

Uncertainty is life; life is uncertainty. And faith is hard.

But here’s the beauty of life on the outside: for those of us wandering around between golden calves, off the island, disenfranchised, lost, whatever you want to call us…. we find that uncertainty actually binds us together! It turns out that people who are afraid and unsure can be amazingly compassionate and wise. People with tattoos and earrings and crazy hair are often quite grounded. People wearing head coverings have remarkable humor and insight. People with all sorts of skin tones are incredibly sensitive and smart. People who appear aloof and unfriendly will often give you the shirt off their back. And when we no longer have to make a “lost or found” judgment about every person we meet, it turns out that most people are so damn cool. They say and do and think and believe the most amazing things… it turns out that, contrary to what I thought for a very long time, I actually LOVE PEOPLE!

It’s when church lets out, and all the certain people start pouring their arrogant certainty all over everything, that I start to prefer dogs to people. For someone who’s a follower of Jesus, I find that I often dislike Christians.

Which brings me to my next observation… one that I’ve hesitated to verbalize for fear of unintentionally hurting someone. And yet, of all the things we’ve learned after leaving the island, this one has by far been the most impactful. So, with a feeling a bit like stepping off a cliff, here goes:

I believe that the modern day practice of the church tithe is mostly bullshit.

(Sorry. I seriously meant to just casually step off the cliff. But then, before I knew it, I just jumped right off and did a cannonball!)

Here’s the thing: most people who are attempting to enforce the tithe are just normal humans doing the best they can. They are doing what they’ve learned, and they aren’t trying to cheat anyone. But they’re staring so closely at the trees that it’s incredibly difficult to see the forest.

From my experience, the concept of tithing was one of the most harmful aspects of life within the church. It messed me up, badly: it messed up my view of God, the role of the pastors, my role as a follower of Christ, and my view of those outside the church. It messed up my ability to manage money wisely. And, if all that isn’t enough, it also prevented me from learning how to depend on God.

I want to be very careful, here, to clarify that I do NOT believe that any of the churches I have ever attended were using the tithe as a means to rip off people. I believe that, by and large, pastors and church leaders are as much a victim to this system as they are its beneficiary. But I still believe it’s mostly bullshit.

The principle of tithing in the Old Testament was a methodology to remind the children of God where the plants and animals came from that fed them. Maybe they watered it, maybe they planted it, maybe they cooked it, maybe they raised it — but they didn’t MAKE it. God did. So an important way to keep that first in mind was to give one-tenth of it back to God. Sometimes, depending on the passage, it was given to the priests as compensation; other times it became the food for a great party; and others it was simply burned as an offering and not used in any other way.

Surrounding these tithing principles throughout the Old Testament are lots of other principles — some are wise, and some are confusing, and some are truly bizarre. I’ve both learned and taught the principle of why God’s people couldn’t wear a robe made of two different types of cloth… but I still don’t get it. And don’t even get me started on some of the darker principles. I’m not going there because it would get us too far off topic.

The New Testament, though, undergoes quite a shift, with many passages, especially by Paul, touting the “freedom from the law” of the New Testament believers. Jesus himself was quite the radical, often turning accepted beliefs onto their head… but then stating, “I do not come to abolish the law but fulfill it.” That passage, thanks to my great mentor (thank you, Don!!) remains the pivotal passage in all the Bible to me, and I never read any sentence without trying to understand how Jesus and his teachings fulfill the passage. So my understanding and application of the tithe is based on my attempt to understand how Jesus would fulfill that concept today.

Jesus speaks of money all the time; hundreds of times, I think someone said. (I should probably stop and research that, but I’m really just too lazy.) But he did NOT tell people to give it to him. He did NOT say, “If you give money to me, you’re giving it to God.” He didn’t pass an offering plate. No, when Jesus talked about money it was most often teaching its peril, usually criticizing the church leaders and the rich. He was usually imploring his audience to stop trying to use money to provide security and certainty. Stop trying to fill up your barns and your savings accounts. Where your treasure is, that’s where your heart is — so stop wasting it trying to buy your own immortality, and instead invest in something that’s worthwhile.

Do you get it? He was saying that money does NOT provide security; and yet the church tithe is often used to provide security for a congregation. Jesus says that money too often makes us blind and deaf and stupid, because we start to feel certain and powerful and secure. And that’s often exactly what happens to churches:  the tithing requirement makes them bigger and more powerful and more certain… and paradoxically, more dependent on people, and therefore weaker and less trustworthy. The same holds true for individuals within the church. While the Bible teaches humility, the church hierarchy usually looks quite similar to that of a large corporation. Those who give the most money feel entitled to have more influence.

It isn’t unlike the influence of drug representatives on the medical institution. While we very much want to believe that our treatment recommendations are separate from gifts we are given, the proven facts are that receiving gifts makes us more likely to favor the giver. Perhaps pastors and church leaders are above such human tendencies… but it is very unlikely to be the case. In my experience, pastors often feel held hostage by their large donors… sometimes even to the degree that it impacts sermon topics!

We shouldn’t be surprised, though… not if we are actually reading the words of Jesus regarding money. You can’t serve two masters, no matter how hard you try. And it is my belief that the tithing system within the modern church has become so imbedded that it has paralyzed its influence and strength.

My favorite passage about money and Jesus is when the tax collectors came and said he owed taxes. So he sent out a disciple to go find a fish, and said there would be a gold coin in its mouth. That’s exactly what happened… and they used it to pay the tax! It’s a bizarre story, but I love it because it’s irreverent, and a bit nonsensical, and I think he did it all with a gleam in his eye. I think he was thumbing his nose at the authorities who thought they were the ones in power… and I think he was thumbing his nose at money in general. If he were a teenager, I think he would end the whole story with a shrug of his shoulders and a dismissive, “Whatever…….”

Instead of following the principles of Christ regarding money, I believe the Church has performed a huge bait and switch. Your local church has become “the store house” alluded to in the Old Testament… meaning that anything you intend to give to God has to come into that store house. (But in a bizarre twist of irony, churches keep tearing down the “store houses” and building bigger ones!) Burning one-tenth of your animals and crops as a sacrifice to remember who made them, has now been switched to writing a check for 10% of your gross salary to the church to be used for salaries and programs and outreach. Giving the first fruits of your time and talents to God means serving in the church. And if anyone questions the validity of using an Old Testament principle, there’s a widely-used slam-dunk answer: “Jesus said to give EVERYTHING to God; I’m letting you off easy because I’m only asking you to give God 10%.”

The beneficiary here is obvious: the local church, most especially wealthy-people churches, have guaranteed income. Just take the estimated income of your membership, multiply it by 2-5% (to be conservative) and you have a church budget. Any time you run short, just preach about the 10% thing, and everyone will squirm because they know they’re cheating, and the offering for the next few weeks will be a lot higher. The most effective aspect is the subtle, and constant, implication that church equals God and God equals church.

There’s a certain practicality about the system that’s attractive. And, were leaders transparent, followed the same system but called it what it is – a membership fee or a donation – then it would work quite effectively.

But when you equate yourself with God, that’s a very big deal. When you say giving to God means giving to me, that’s a very big deal. When you say withholding from me means withholding from God, that’s a very big deal. That’s a bait and switch that I do not believe is supported by scripture… and I believe it is at the heart and soul of the emerging loss of trust in the Church. Saying that God equals the local church isn’t biblical; it’s blasphemy.

Jesus did NOT say giving your money or time to the church means you’re giving it to God. Actually, he said that clothing the naked, visiting prisoners, and feeding the hungry means you’re doing the same for God. Not “write a check so the elder who represents me can best discern which people need clothing and feeding and visiting.” No, YOU do those things. Yourself. Take care of the people who need to be cared for.

I’m not gonna lie: when we stopped tithing I was pretty superstitious about it. Even though I felt like we were following what God was leading us toward, this little voice in my head really thought that one of us would get sick, or I would get fired, or all our cars would disintegrate in the driveway. Why did I feel that way? Because I was not following a principle of faithfulness; I was following a principle of coercion.

But on the outside of the tithing system, an amazing thing has happened: I don’t care if a program is Christian or not; I don’t care if a person is deemed worthy or not; I don’t care if it’s tax deductible or not. I give where I see need. I give to whom I want. Sometimes I give a bunch to one person; sometimes I spread it around. Sometimes I don’t give anything to anybody… I don’t know if I’m discerning during those times or just grouchy!

But here’s my prayer, any time I actually think to pray about money (which, admittedly, isn’t that often): “Teach me to give everything away”.

Because, to me, THAT is the radical principle Jesus was trying to teach us. Don’t limit yourself to 10%… don’t limit yourself to money… don’t limit yourself to a specific church or organization… don’t even limit giving to possessions. Just give. Everything. All of it. All of you. To whoever has need. Don’t make your life about taking and protecting and nesting; make it about giving and living and loving.

About a year after we stopped tithing, I got a bonus at work. Just before we got the check, I had thought of several people/places I would like to give money to. And, of course, I also thought of several things that needed doing around the house, paying bills, credit cards, etc. So as I was driving down the road, I was calculating in my head how much I could use for each category. It was mainly a math exercise, shaving a bit here and adding a bit there.

Except I realized something exceptionally cool: in my mind, without any particular thought about percentages or anything else, I was subconsciously shaving off money from expenses and house repairs, so that I could add a few extra dollars to the people I wanted to give it to. For the first time in my life, I legitimately wanted to give it away.

When I realized what had happened, I pulled over to the side of the road and had a good, ugly, happy cry. I felt a huge burden lifted. My old church self would’ve said I was freed from the law on that day. My new self said I was free from all that crap, and DAMN it feels great!

So what would it look like for churches to practice the same type of principle? I think the congregation would look at themselves and figure out how much it would cost to pay salaries, and keep the lights on. Then they would look at the number of people that are involved and decide if that’s feasible. And then they would either keep programs/staff at that level… or cut it back. A dear friend of mine was pastor of a church that decided it doesn’t think paying a full-time pastor is the wisest choice… and he agrees! If you don’t have money for a three course Wednesday night dinner for the entire congregation, then don’t have one! That’s how our home budget works, in fact, and it seems pretty wise.

As to giving it away, Jesus gave us great principles for that. We, the people, are the body of Christ. We are best positioned to give and to clothe and to visit. I don’t care how much church leaders pray over the distribution of money; they aren’t the ones working in the hospitals and the construction sites and the law firms and the schools and the restaurants. The body… the people… are the ones best positioned to give away their resources wherever they see fit. And the role of the church is to equip them to choose wisely.

Would people get greedy and keep it rather than give it away? Probably. Do churches get greedy and spend it on staff and programming and reputations and buildings? Certainly. Humans are humans. We are basically stupid most of the time. But, when allowed to operate freely and authentically… we are shockingly compassionate and giving, too.

Finally, my third perspective of the Church from the outside centers around how members are accepted and leaders are chosen.

Church membership and leadership decisions often reflect the desire for certainty, control and security rather than reflecting Christ.

Reminds me of a joke I heard somewhere: “What’s the difference between a country club and a church? Well, the country club has golf. And it’s a lot less expensive…” A bit harsh, but there’s certainly a nugget of truth there. The best way to identify the values of a church is not by reading their mission statement; it’s by taking a look at their members and leaders. If they’re white, wealthy and straight, that isn’t an accident; it is a reflection of maintaining the status quo. And that’s fine for a country club, it just isn’t what Jesus taught for his followers.

Few things, in my experience, have caused more harm than the church practice of exclusion as a method to control behavior. It is in general the main means of discipline within the church, and this held true in my own case as well. Correction within the church is largely emotional: exclusion from the group via membership, removal of privileges, or removal of service/leadership opportunities. In retrospect, it’s kind of funny to me that my “penalty” for wrong thinking was that I was no longer allowed to spend all day Sunday in meetings… I was no longer allowed to shovel mulch into the church gardens… I could no longer show up 3 hours before church services to remove ice from the parking lots… I was no longer expected to give 10% of my gross income to the church.

Well, darn!

But at the time, it hurt like hell… and that is so often the case with those excluded from membership or service. It is remarkably effective. Remember our earlier discussion: the church, intentionally or not, sets itself up as God’s representative. Giving to church equals giving to God, so being excluded from the church feels very much like exclusion from God. Feeling unworthy to serve church feels very much like being unworthy to serve God. Being separated from church feels like being separated from God.

Church families too often follow this principle as well. Countless children have finally found the courage to confess to their Christian parents that they are gay or transgender… only to be kicked out of their home and find themselves on the streets. If you think this is an exaggeration, you’d best take a walk outside the church walls and look around. This happens every. single. day. And too often, it happens with the blessing of the family’s small group or pastor or Sunday School class.

I heard the story of an amazing, inspiring couple a few weeks ago. This beautiful woman shared her story of telling her Christian family she was gay… and being told, at the age of 16, that she would never speak of it again or else she would no longer have a family.  So she followed their instructions; she prayed and she trusted; she met and married a godly man, trusting that the attraction would eventually follow. Next came reparative therapy… and more prayers and tears… and more churches enforcing silent obedience or else risk exclusion. Decades later, with grown children, these amazing people are facing a daily challenge that few of us can imagine, as they navigate life as a mixed-orientation couple.

How many sit in the church pews, unable to share their true selves? How many church leaders and members are living a lie, putting forth the appearance of correctness? And what is the cost of this pervasive focus on outward appearance and control?

In my last post, I said that on the outside looking in I cuss a lot more. Stories like these are why. The pain that the church has caused and is causing makes me SO DAMN MAD. And so, to those who have been excluded, who have felt less-than, who have been shunned, who have been silenced, here’s what I want to say to you. Here’s what my heart so desperately wants you to know:

You are important, and you are unique, and you are beautiful, and you have incredible value that you cannot even begin to understand. Your thoughts and ideas matter. Your tendency to agree or disagree matters. Your voice matters. Your authenticity is vital to creating a better world. You are the only you that we have… and we need you. I need you. With you, I am more. Without you, I am less.

If anyone claims to represent God, they are a liar. No human being can represent God. No pastor can represent God. No church elder can represent God. They are human beings who, like Paul, “do not do the things I should do, and instead do the things I should not do.” Sometimes they give good advice, and sometimes bad. Sometimes they receive inspiration from God, and sometimes they claim to but are mistaken.

Any private organization can rightly decide who gets in and who does not — whether a church or a country club. But what they cannot do, and what we MUST NOT ALLOW, is any hint that human actions represent God. They do not. Only God represents God. To pretend otherwise is blasphemy.

So… I guess I can now climb back off my soap box and bring these musings to a close. In summary, I think my overriding perception from off the island is preoccupation of the church institution with itself; arrogant certainty of God’s favor;  refusal to recognize or admit harm and wrongdoing. And as a result of all of these, profound loss of trust and relevance from the rest of the world. It hurts me, to see the distrust of the Church from the outside. It hurts me, to see that it has become largely irrelevant to the rest of the world. But I understand why, and I have turned my attention away from trying to effect change within the church, toward those outside who have been harmed.

My perception of all the outsiders, though, is an intense gratitude. Whether disenfranchised Christian… Muslim… agnostic… Buddhist… all of the above, or none of the above… you all have restored my faith in humanity. You are my people.

And maybe, just maybe… the Church has left the buildings.

 

Posture of Courage

Blogging While White, From My Soapbox, Uncategorized

Years ago, on Memorial Day, one elderly gentleman taught me a vital lesson in courage. With veterans of all ages in full military dress lined across the front of the church, we closed with the national anthem. This man stood, ramrod straight. Tears leaked from both eyes, trickling their way through the wrinkles covering his face. His right hand, now consumed with the tremor of Parkinson’s Disease, covered his heart.

As he stood facing this large crowd, the position of his hand worsened the tremor. His hand was flopping uncontrollably, beating against his chest. The emotions of the moment played their way across his face: grief, shame, vulnerability… and determination.

Oh say does that star-spangled banner yet wave?
O’er the land of the free, and the home of the brave….

He maintained his posture until the last words of the anthem died away.
Despite the betrayal of his body… despite the likely temptation to simply drop his hand from his heart… he would not yield. The posture of hand over heart during the singing of these sacred words represented too much; there was too much at stake.

This man’s posture of courage represents, to me, all the warriors who have paid the ultimate price on my behalf. He represents my ancestors who believed in this upstart of a nation… believed in freedom and the right of a human being to carve out their own existence… believed that faith and bravery were enough to surpass insurmountable odds and oppression. Who left behind wives and parents and children and jobs and homes, and slogged through mud for months on end without appropriate food or water or clothing or medical care. Who died from disease, injury, starvation, dehydration. Who died from broken hearts.

They had far fewer weapons and numbers and supplies, but superior hearts and courage. They would not yield; there was too much at stake.

Since those early days of courage, the number of heroes continues to grow. Brave young men and women walk away from their families, their careers, their homes and all that they hold dear, in order to protect you and me. Many lose their lives; others lose their minds. Their Moms and Dads and siblings and children lie awake at night, bereft by their absence, tortured by the possibilities. The impact on these families cannot be measured. The price cannot be calculated. The gratitude can never, ever be enough.

I have never fired a weapon to protect myself; I have never been attacked in any manner. I have no idea how it must feel to have flesh ripped apart by a sword or a musket ball or a bullet or a cannon or a missile. I’ve never seen a loved one return home in a box, draped with an American flag. I haven’t lost a child or a parent or a spouse to a war… nor have I experienced the stark terror of families whose loved ones are regularly placed in harm’s way. Seated in a leather chair, I make foolish comments of “firing a shot across the bow” or being “battle weary”. In reality, I have no clue what it feels like to shoot or to be shot; I know absolutely nothing of the weariness of battle.

I benefit every day… every moment… from the sacrifices of those who walked before me. I am immeasurably blessed. And incredibly fortunate. And ridiculously lucky. I’m so incredibly grateful for these courageous ancestors who sacrificed on my behalf, and passed down a legacy of faith and courage and persistence that sustains our young nation to this day.

How I wish these were our only ancestors. But they are not.

Before, during and after these brave warriors fought for our freedom, a far less virtuous battle raged. These other ancestors of ours may have envisioned that they were fighting for our country as well, seeking a work force to bring about prosperity. But whether misguided, or ignorant, or evil, they fought not for freedom, but against it. These ancestors were raiding other countries, kidnapping dark-skinned bodies, ripping them from their land, storing them in the bottom of boats, and bringing them in chains to our nation. They claimed them as their property, and then as our property. At the time the words to our national anthem were penned in 1814, our nation was filled with slaves that were the very antithesis of what the words represented.

Ponder that, for a moment: While we fought for the freedom of our fledgling nation, human beings stolen from other countries became our self-proclaimed property. Simply because our ancestors said it was so.

As we raised high our flags, celebrating our freedom and honoring the courage and heroism of our brave ancestors who bled and died for us… other ancestors led the kidnapped humans, in shackles and chains, right past the waving flags. Some cities passed regulations mandating that these shackled, stolen human beings not be led past the city halls and public places, preferring that they pass at night or through more isolated venues. They sometimes walked thousands of miles to reach the destination that our less virtuous ancestors chose for them… areas in need of bodies to become the work force that would bring about incredible prosperity. Prosperity that you and I enjoy to this day.

And so another group of our ancestors are the reluctant ones — these stolen prisoners who became the backbone of the workforce of our nation. They grew tobacco and cotton and rice; they fixed broken things and tended to animals; they loaded cargo on docks and ships. The elderly and children cooked and cleaned and tended to the homes of their owners. Some fought side by side with our courageous, soldier ancestors, while others tended to the needs of those who were fighting in the war. When the war ended, most returned to the ownership of their kidnappers… or those who paid their kidnappers for the right to claim ownership of another human being.

In this strange and foreign land, they developed relationships and built families and gradually integrated themselves into the culture of their captors… only to be ripped apart from one another by rape or murder or the auction block or the whim of their self-proclaimed owners. They left behind wives and parents and children and jobs and homes, and slogged through mud for months on end without appropriate food or water or clothing or medical care. These ancestors, too – just like our brave soldiers – died from disease, injury, starvation, dehydration. Many died from broken hearts. Many lost their minds.

After a century of forming the economic framework of our nation with their hands and backs and lives, they were eventually freed from captivity… without education or homes or property or families. Often with their hearts, minds and souls irreparably wounded.

I have never been stolen from my home, taken to another country and forced to work for someone else. I have never been considered the property of another. I have never seen a parent or child or brother or sister hanging by their neck from a tree. I do not have generations of injustice and anger and hurt and unspeakable pain flowing through my veins. I can shop anywhere, barbeque in any zone of a park, drive at any time of the day or night, neglect to renew my license plate without ever being stopped or questioned, and work on my computer in coffee shops regardless of purchases… and it is extremely difficult for me to accurately imagine a world where I would be unable to perform these ordinary activities without fear.

In medical residency, we described ourselves as being “slave labor” to the hospital. At the time (30 years ago!), I was paid 22,000 per year and provided medical insurance, 12 days of paid vacation and unlimited food when on call. I was not torn from my family, nor was I the property of another. I was not enslaved in any form or fashion; I was in training for a lucrative and fulfilling career. I made such statements out of arrogance and stupidity.

I am immeasurably blessed. I am incredibly fortunate. And I am ridiculously lucky. Hard as I may try, I can never, ever… ever… ever begin to understand. Nor can I possibly repay the debt, or right the wrongs.

But what I can do… no, what I MUST DO… is own it. I must own not just the ancestry of courage and faith and bravery; I must also own the ancestry of evil and cowardice and arrogance and unparalleled greed. And I must acknowledge and celebrate the often ignored ancestry: those stolen human beings, who tamed the land and unloaded the cargo and sacrificed their bodies to build a nation of incredible wealth. I must divest myself of the misled and barbaric notion that these ancestors are less-than; or that they have any less of a claim to this country that they helped build.

Those of us with white bodies so desperately wish to emulate the courage of our brave forefathers, and so desperately wish to distance ourselves from the cowardly kidnappers who are also our forefathers. And yet, the blood of both runs through our veins. And as long as we only celebrate one portion of our ancestry, while repressing and ignoring the others, then we cannot become whole. We are functioning as early pubertal adolescents, too afraid to face our mistakes and our insecurities and our own human depravity… and with the arrogance and petulance to act as though we already know everything we need to know.

When it comes to our beautiful flag, and how we honor our ancestors, a great deal of the response depends upon from which perspective you have historically viewed the flag, the wars, and the events.

For many, descended from brave, courageous warriors, the flag is a priceless, sacred symbol of freedom and faith and courage… the inaliable right for every person to live out their own lives and shape their own destiny… filled with such meaning that the only possible response is to stand with hands over hearts.

For those with a great deal of heritage from the ancestors who kidnapped humans from other countries in order to grow and prosper our country, and had the blasphemous arrogance to proclaim themselves owners of human beings created by God, then the flag would more likely represent a trophy of power. This perspective reveres the flag as a  symbol of our right to  lay claim to whatever we can take through force, and make it our own, to use for our own good.

And for those with dark-skinned bodies, with more heritage from those who were stolen from their homes, shackled in chains, and forced to work the field and the docks and anything else that needed working… who lost their families and their lives and their identity… and who have lived for centuries with the anger and injustice that has nowhere to go… then the flag would be quite complicated. If the first glimpse of the flag that your ancestors had was from the perspective of shackles and chains, then is it surprising that it is difficult to identify with the strains ending in “land of the free, home of the brave”? The complexity of these emotions may well lead to a posture of humility, of lowering your face rather than raising it, of wounded protection and prayerful contemplation, rather than a stance of pride.

And so I ask you: who the HELL are we, any of us, to mandate which ancestors we will honor and acknowledge? How can we possibly claim the proud stance of our courageous ancestors is more important, more patriotic, more American than the humble posture of our stolen ancestors who provided the economic prosperity and security that each and every one of us enjoys to some degree? How can we fail to acknowledge the ancestors, and their descendants who walk among us today, who view the flag not as the sacred symbol of freedom, but as a symbol of power and arrogance and the right to take by force whatever we want?

And how can we stand aside, when these appropriately diverse expressions of honor are shamed and attacked? Our most powerful leader has stated, “If they cannot stand proudly for the flag, then maybe they shouldn’t be in this country.” Oh, the irony. The bitter, painful irony. Because that statement — likely entirely by accident — contains a profound truth: historically speaking, they shouldn’t be in this country. But they are, because we kidnapped them, brutalized them, brought them here, claimed them as our property and built a nation with their hands and backs and blood and sweat and tears.

Our young nation is fractured… the fissures appear daily, and the tremors rock us regularly, and the lava of our deep-seeded anger and insecurity and guilt and shame and injustice spews out all over us. I submit to you, though, that perhaps these fractures are less about democrats vs. republicans, or left vs. right, or conservatives vs. liberals, or Baptists vs. Muslims. I submit that, perhaps, our fractures come from the profoundly differing groups of ancestors that we have yet to appropriately acknowledge and own. (And there are plenty of ancestors that I haven’t even touched on, such as those who lived on this land before we ever invaded it to begin with…..)

The pain and guilt, for me, lies in the fact that I have benefitted tremendously from each of these groups of people. I have an amazing family, and am secure and content. My career is both a calling and a passion. From the earliest age, I was blessed with education and love and stability and discipline and hard work and perseverance and stubborn, single-minded courage. While I have worked extremely hard to reach this place in my life, I am acutely aware that countless others throughout the world have worked far harder than I to achieve far less… and that it is their blood in my veins that has led to much of my success and security.

My path of blessing is littered with countless human bodies as stepping stones.

My freedom and security and economic advantages and independence are a result of the courageous men and women who have laid down their lives on my behalf. Some of these men and women fought for my freedom; others lost their freedom to become the enslaved workforce for the economic stability of our nation. Each group of people bled for me, in one way or another… each have passed down through generations the sacrifice and pain and values that their lives characterized… each has provided a portion of my DNA, my heart, my mind, and my soul.

My ancestors died on the battle field and in the cotton field. They died at the end of the whip, and they died as the one wielding the whip. My ancestors stole and imprisoned other human beings… and my ancestors were stolen and beaten and made the property of another.

The atrocities and inhumanity of slavery does not and cannot diminish the courage and bravery of our war heroes. And the incredible courage of those who fought for our freedom does not and cannot erase the unspeakable evil of the first human traffickers.

And so, to those who have fired weapons on my behalf… who have seen enemies and friends cut in half by bullets… who can never fully escape the sounds and smells of war… and whose families are impacted for a thousand generations by your courage and sacrifice and tragedy:

Thank you. I do not, nearly enough, acknowledge your sacrifices and express my gratitude. I will try to do better to remember all that you have given to me and to those I love.

And to those whose ancestors were stolen from your land… who were brought here in shackles… whose dark bodies provided the very framework for the current balance in my checking account… who were brutalized and yet have managed to largely integrate into the society of your captors… and whose families are impacted for a thousand generations by your courage and sacrifice and tragedy:

Thank you. I do not, nearly often enough, acknowledge your sacrifices or express my gratitude. I will try to do better to remember all that you have given to me and to those I love.

And to those who take pride in the power of ancestors who claimed other human beings as property… who see the flag as a symbol of white supremacy… and who believe that you can stake claim to anything or anyone that you choose:

You are wrong. I am ashamed of you and your ancestors… and I am ashamed of the parts of me that came from them. I am ashamed of the benefit they brought me, and I am ashamed of the prosperity that I have received because of their brutality. And yet, I refuse to bury them, or hide their story. I choose to own them as a darkness in our past that cannot be overcome unless it is appropriately acknowledged. I choose to own that I share a portion of their DNA. I will seek daily to recognize it for what it is – the self-centered, self-serving belief that I have an inalienable right to take someone else’s away, if I choose to do so. The arrogant belief that I carry a higher value than another person who God breathed life into, simply because of the color of my skin or the geography of my birth.

For each of these groups, I support and applaud your right to remember the sacrifices that your ancestors and the generations of your family have endured. If you choose to remember those sacrifices by standing proudly and singing loudly, I will stop and place my hand over my heart in order to acknowledge how much it means to me. And if you choose to honor your ancestors by kneeling, then I will kneel alongside you, in a posture of humility and reverence and respect for what you have given to me and my family.

But if you choose to mandate that I, or anyone else, must honor our ancestors by your rules, then you are self-identifying as the descendent of the human traffickers. You are proclaiming that your rights of expression are greater than another persons; that by simply waking up and breathing, you have the right to lay claim to the thoughts and expressions and complex emotions of another human being, simply because you desire it to be so. You are refusing to own our complex ancestry because it is uncomfortable. You are not living in the home of the brave, but in the wasteland of cowardice.

My challenge to myself, and to all who have taken the time to read this, is to honor each person as the God-breathed creation that they are. To be fully human, even if that forces me to accept aspects of my humanity that I loathe. To emulate the courage and perseverance and faith of ALL my ancestors… and to recognize and refuse to feed the characteristics and values that would destroy all that they fought for.

Fissures and cracks do not heal over night, and lava does not easily recede. Nor do the scars of our hearts and souls and bodies. But we must begin, one step at a time, to acknowledge our whole history… with the faith and courage of our forefathers as the beacon that we follow… and the expectation that authentic wholeness is worth the sacrifice.

Unfolding Miracles – Mandarin Chinese Translation

披露出來的奇蹟:人類性學

作者: Dr. Joani Jack 翻譯: Ann Wang

 

Hello, my name is Aidan Wang, I am from Taiwan and currently living here. I am a transgender man, and was going through a tough battle with my conservative Christian church about my identity when I came across Joani’s article: Unfolding Miracles: Human Sexuality. I knew that this would be an extremely helpful resource if it were in Mandarin Chinese, so people here in Taiwan could understand. I promptly asked my older sister Ann to help me translate it so I could send it to members of my church and anyone else who may want to learn more about this. I think that those who reject transgender people do so because they are afraid of what they do not understand. I appreciate how Joani was able to explain it so beautifully not only scientifically (complete with charts and diagrams), but biblically and poetically as well!

 

「想像一下：你一覺醒來，發現這個世界每個人都長得跟你差不多，而你也認為這是一個正常的世界…直到你發現，其實並不是。你身邊的人說黃色是藍色，說下是上。他們說著有關殺人、強姦、偷竊的事，彷彿這些是正當的選擇…而自我犧牲、給予、愛，是不對的選擇。

你開始發現，除了你之外的每個人都彼此認同，所以你懷疑自己是不是瘋了。你認為某人在某天應該會講出一些合理的話…可是這從沒發生過。你能夠融入人群，是因為你看起來就跟其他人一樣，但你知道，在這個世界裡，你每一寸的存在都像是一個外星人。

你知道很快的，某件事即將發生，使得這個世界發現你跟他們不一樣。你活著的每一瞬間都懼怕著你會出什麼錯…並同時感覺很糟糕，因為你一直在假裝成一個你根本就不想當的人。你如果可以真正的置身於這樣的情境當中，去感受那種恐懼和困惑和罪惡感，或許你可以體會於百分之一，我是如何度過每一天的每一刻。」

這是一位善於表達、甜美、年輕的跨性別少女所描述的一段話。這段話對我縈繞於心。數千名我曾經與他們一起分享和哭泣的年輕的LGBTQ的孩子，都以各自不同的方式，向我述說了如同這位年輕女孩說的這段話。這就是為什麼，就算我的一些朋友、同事、基督徒的弟兄姊妹們因此而疏離我，我也無法對於這個話題保持安靜的原因。佯裝無知，就算是用「信仰」來包裝或帶過，仍然是無知。這樣的忽視所產生出的一種「愛」的形式，其實更像是，恨.

也就因為如此，以下是我嘗試使用一份科學病例研討報告並將之寫成的一篇部落格！這篇作品將會比一般部落格文章長很多，但這是必須的。

這一切要從染色體說起。

 

 

我們有23對染色體，其中的一對是性染色體。兩個Ｘ染色體(XX)代表你在基因上是女性。各一個(XY)代表你在基因上是男性。我們的DNA是築起我們身體每一個部份的「積木」，從我們眼睛的顏色，到我們會得到某種疾病的風險。

如此，性染色體就是決定我們人類性別的「積木」。 其他的一些染色體也同時對我們的性別有影響，但是這對性染色體是最主要的。在非常罕見的情況下，有人有可能會多出一個染色體、在一個或全部兩個性染色體上多出一些部份、或是在一個或全部兩個性染色體上少了一些部份。但普遍來說，性染色體決定我們是男生或是女生，並且讓我們開始往很多不同的方向展開發育。

在一個尚未出生的人類嬰兒身上，性染色體最先主導的是嬰兒的體內性器官。這叫做生殖腺性別，指的是男生或女生體內的性器官。男生有睪丸；女生有卵巢。

 

我們看不到這些體內的器官，但天知道它們有多麼重要。它們製造賀爾蒙，並引導男生或女生的外部性器官形成。男生的睪丸生產的主要是睾酮素，而女生的卵巢生產的主要是雌激素。但這兩個性別製造廠製造荷爾蒙的路徑是複雜的…有時候甚至是一條很長的路徑 (好像一份有很多步驟的食譜)，以至於有些東西沒有走得很順利，導致實際被生產出來的荷爾蒙有可能會很不一樣。就算當一切都依照著計畫進行，還是會有少許背離的荷爾蒙被釋放。

下一段：體內性器官，製造睪酮素或雌激素來引導外部性器官以及腦部性別的形成。(如果你不認為這些荷爾蒙的力量有多強大，那表示你還沒經歷過我更年期的任何一次熱潮紅！)

 

通常來說，外部性器官很單純的在孕期前三個月的最後階段就形成了。如果一個嬰兒有陰莖和睪丸，他在出生時就被歸類為男性。如果一個嬰兒有陰道，她就被歸類為女性。這種歸類通常是由醫療團隊在嬰兒剛出生後的幾分鐘內決定的，並且在一個小時內會被正式寫在醫療紀錄裡。但是，或許會使某些人驚訝的是，有時候性別並不明顯…一個嬰兒有可能罕見的在出生時被稱作「性別模糊」，意思是我們從嬰兒的外部性器官看不出來她是男生或是女生。在從前，這樣的嬰兒的性別會被決定於：哪一個性別是最容易透過外部手術來將他的外部性器官整形得「好看」。現今，隨著我們對於「內在」知識的日漸增長，這件事(嬰兒的性別決定) 不再那麼簡單。這將是另外一個改天要討論的話題。

性荷爾蒙的另一個非常重要的部分是形成腦部性別。現今，我們大部分的人不太會去在意有關所謂腦部的性別…但其實這關係著各類的事，包括從我們的腦部被建構的方式，到它是如何運作來證明我們的腦部性別。性荷爾蒙深深的影響著我們是以說出口來思考，還是安靜地思考、我們能否一心多用、甚至到腦內部某些結構的尺寸大小。這些事情是透過高度正確的影像以及功能性核磁共振攝影發現的。單單這個題目就可以在寫出十篇部落格文章！ 但現在，只需想想那句古老的諺語：「男人來自火星；女人來自金星。」當刻板印象將某些行為歸類為「女生的行為」或「男生的行為」，就算我們當中的許多人感覺我們並不符合於這些刻板印象，依然存在的事實是：腦部構造裡存在著重要的、不可逆的差異，是立基於性染色體、體內性器官、以及它們所主導的荷爾蒙。

 

但這裡有個比較微妙的部分。外部性器官在孕期的前三個月就形成了，但是腦部性別要到孕期四到七個月時才完成。 在這兩個階段之間，很多事都可能發生…意思是外部性器官和腦部性別有可能並不如我們所認為的會是「一致」的 (這裡先做個預告 – 過一會兒會再討論這點)。

一旦當性染色體、體內性器官、外部性器官、以及腦部性別都就定位了，接下來即將被形成的就是性別認同。

性別認同是我們心裡意識我們是男生還是女生。這是我們的性染色體、體內性器官、外部性器官、荷爾蒙、以及腦部性別之間複雜的交互影響。這大約是在孕期的四到七、八個月時 (當腦部性別已經完整成形時) 就定位…但是孩子會在十八個月和兩歲之間才將之表達出來。表達能力在三歲左右就發展完成 – 如果你不相信我，可以試著找一個三歲的小男生，稱呼他是女生，看看他會如何回應你！通常 (但不是每一次) 性染色體與內部和外部性器官是一致的。性別認同是在子宮內形成的，並且在孩子年幼時期所表達出來的一個不受意志控制的生理反應 (待會兒再更深入的討論)。沒有證據顯示在小孩出生以後才發生的事會改變他的性別認同。性別認同和性傾向完全是兩回事 – 就像蘋果跟橘子是完全不一樣的。

 

最後一步是性傾向，它的定義是一致性的被異性、同性、或兩性所吸引。如同性別認同，性傾向可能也是在孕期六到八個月時形成的，但性傾向要到孩子的性週期開始後及孩子在青春期時才會表現出來。在青春期早期時，性吸引力有可能變來變去的，但是在青春期後期通常就會定型，無法再改變了。 雙性戀不是時而喜歡男生、時而喜歡女生；他們固定的對兩性都有感覺，只是有時候喜歡男生比較多，有時候喜歡女生比較多(我知道這聽起來很困惑，但就是這樣)。性傾向也是一個不受意志控制的生理反應，並且沒有證據顯示在小孩出生以後才發生的任何事能夠影響他的性傾向。性別認同和性傾向完全是兩回事 – 就像蘋果跟橘子是完全不一樣的。

 

所以這整件事就是：染色體主導體內性器官，而體內性器官主導外部性器官和腦部性別。以上所有共同主導性別認同 (大約在三歲時表達出來) 和性傾向 (在青春期末期時表達出來)。

 

 

這個圖表看起來還滿容易懂的，對嗎？其實不然。這當中有很多是令人困惑的…特別是如果我們沒有花時間去好好思考。身為這個社會的一部分、身為家長、身為老師、身為教會，我們沒有花時間好好的來想這些。所以現在讓我們來觸碰其中一些難題。

不受意志控制的反應

到目前為止我已經用了幾次這個名詞，有些讀者可能開始對我感到生氣，因為你們認為我這樣的說法表示人類在性方面是被電腦程式所操控的機器人。你可能在想：「我已經結婚了，而當我看到一個漂亮的女人時，我可以選擇對她有所反應，或者選擇忠於我的老婆。」你這樣的想法絕對是正確的。但是，你其實從一開始就無法受你自己的意志去控制你會被你的老婆（或是這個漂亮女人）所吸引。你就只是被吸引了。被誰所吸引這個反應是不被自己的意識所控制的，但是你可以控制你要怎麼去做。

 

不受意志控制的生理反應指的是，我們的身體會做的一些「不是我們叫它去做」的事。我們的頭腦讓我們在睡眠時持續呼吸、當我們喉嚨裡有異物時身體會自動反應要咳嗽、身體會自動調節我們的體溫、身體會叫我們知道什麼時候要去上廁所、還有其他幾百萬件事，全都不是由我們的意志所控制的。在這些「不受意志控制的反應」啟動時，我們是沒有控制權的，我們只有至少的一點點的控制能力去決定對這樣的反應做出怎樣的反應。舉個例子，當正在教會的主日崇拜中，我因為喝了太多咖啡而想要上廁所，我大概可以控制等到講道結束後再去。但是我絕對無法等到下個星期天再去上廁所！

這也就是要告訴LGBTQ的人他們可以選擇他們的性傾向的困難。要叫一個異性戀的人做到不要發生婚前性關係都很困難了…而且我們知道教會的孩子們與其他的孩子們在這方面是所面臨的困難是一樣的。要叫一個同性戀的青少年永遠都不可以和一位他真正被吸引的人發生性關係，就像是叫你自己永遠都不可以去上廁所一樣。最終，總有些方面需要讓步，而全世界的信仰都將無法阻止一場嚴重的混亂。xu4y7\

延遲的表現

還令人滿困惑的一件事是：一些已成形的事情，卻會在晚一點的時候才被表達出來。看似我們看著一件事情在我們眼前發生；但事實是他它早在很久以前「已經發生」，但這已成形的特性要到一段時間之後才會被顯現出來。可以舉很多這方面的例子 – 較簡單的像是一開始是藍色的眼睛，之後變成棕色的、在年幼時期頭髮是金色的，到了成年時顏色卻變深了。對於這樣的情形，我們想都不用想就能毫不猶豫地說：「這就像他媽媽的頭髮顏色變深了一樣！」 同樣這方面也有比較嚴重的例子 – 像是亨丁頓舞蹈症（一種體染色體顯性遺傳所造成的腦部退化疾病），一種漸進性、致命的疾病，它早在病患出生之前就已存在於基因裡，但是在病患成年前絲毫看不出任何症狀。 另外一個與性別較為相關的例子是外部性器官的大小。這件事在嬰兒出生以前就已經被決定好了，並且在嬰兒出生後（除了受傷或疾病）並不會有所變動。但是這件事要到青春期才被顯現出來…只因為在那之前就還時候未到 。

這就是性別認同和性傾向運作的方式。我們的身體是很神奇的組合，是為了在對的時間提供我們所需要的東西而設計的…所以就算我們的性別認同和性傾向早在我們還在母親的子宮裡被形成的時候就已經設定好了，我們還是會在「到時候」的時間點才將它們顯現出來。

我主張這就是性傾向和性別認同是一種「選擇」被爭執的核心。我們看到一個年輕人宣告自己是同性戀或是跨性別的年紀，通常是在他們青少年或剛成年時期…在一個年輕的孩子會常常做叛逆的選擇的時期。但事實是，這只是他們在這個時候將他們的性別認同和性傾向表現出來讓其他人知道。這是早在很久之前就已經形成，並且在一個人的內心裡他早已清楚的知道自己的性別認同和性傾向。但就像我在文章一開始提及的那般的孩子，他們盡量將自己融入在人群中，試著去辨識出到底是他們瘋了還是其他人瘋了！請想像一下，那會是多麼的孤單。再想像一下，你是否也可能會因為受不了那種孤單，而終將以你想要的方式把自己的真實身分揭露於世…無心去在意你揭露的時間點是否會造成其他人的不舒服。

時機是關鍵

另外還有一個很大的困難點。從嬰兒的體外性器官成形的孕期前三個月，到他的腦部性別成形的孕期的第四到八個月之間，荷爾蒙會有很多變動。這些荷爾蒙變動是會影響腦部性別的發展的…但是在這段期間內，外部性器官已經不可逆的形成了。這表示性染色體、體內性器官、外部性器官、以及腦部性別，並不一定會依照人們所預設般的「配成對」（人類獨斷的將他們最常見到的狀態定義為「正常」）。一個嬰兒或許擁有男生的外部性器官，但他腦部裡控制性傾向的部分剛好是被男性吸引而非女性。 或者一個嬰兒或許擁有女生的外部性器官，但是一陣賀爾蒙的變動就在性別認同形成的時間點影響到腦部，以致這個小孩毫不懷疑的認知他自己是一個男生，不論他的外部是怎樣的器官。 為什麼呢？只因為他的大腦說他是男生。

請想像一下，當你能看到的身體部分是女生的時候，你腦部的最核心卻告訴你，你是一個男生。然後，請想像，你身邊的每一個人一直說你是女生，就算你的頭腦「知道」你不是女生。想像你的父母一而再、再而三的糾正你，提醒你是一個女生。而他們是養育你、愛你的人，以至於你完全無法知道你如何能夠將他們說的話和你內心理解的一致化。再然後，想像一位有數百萬聽眾的知名的牧者 – 例如說，富蘭克林．葛理翰博士 （Dr. Franklin Graham）– 稱呼跨性別的人為「性加害者和性變態」。就算我盡了最大的努力，我還是無法完全的體會到那個地步…但光是嘗試著這麼想像我就流了一身冷汗。在這種狀況下，還有人會懷疑怎麼會跨性別青少年以及成年人面對著天文數字般的憂鬱症罹患率和自殺率嗎？

古老的歷史

我們就快結束了。請再與我一起探討最後一個非常重要的概念：人類曾經對於性別的認知 。以下這張圖表說明在聖經被寫下的時代，人類對性別的認知：

 

 

這就是全部了。這就是他們所能理解的一切。有看到陰莖嗎？這是一個男生。耶！我們的家族姓氏能夠延續了！他會長高變壯，會有孩子跟孫子！讚美神！

沒有陰莖？這是個女生。真可惜。下次再接再厲吧。 那麼就讓我們先教她煮菜做飯， 也許她以後能夠幫別人生小孩。

故事結束。

從那時到現在，我們對於性別有了更多的知識，我們開始添加新的東西… 但是古老歷史的認知實在是太根深蒂固了，以至於我們只能大概把新知識附著在老思想周邊。於是現在，我們現在的認知看起來變成這樣：

 

 

這就像是一棟房子，改建後多了很多加蓋物和多餘的房間，也讓整個建築物的比例都跑掉了。這令我想到耶穌責備他的門徒時說：「也沒有人把新酒裝在舊皮袋裡。」有時候，特別是對於跟從基督的人來說，你必須願意徹底摧毀整棟舊建築物（完全放棄掉舊的想法），然後讓耶穌從瓦礫中重新建立起新的建築。

請先還不要把我視為一個異教徒。除非你清楚的知道我是如何深愛神的話語。除非你知道我當下可以背出超過350個經文。除非你知道上帝的話語如何觸動我、改變我、重新塑造了我。在你將我視為一個異教徒之前，請先思想這段美麗的經文：

東離西有多遠、他叫我們的過犯、離我們也有多遠。(詩篇103篇12節)

詩人在寫下這段經文時，是在人們還認為地球是平的的時代。在當時詩人的想像中，將我們的過犯從東邊遠移到西邊，能移多遠呢？就算是有兩千英哩吧。那就已經很遠了。而當科學家開始發現地球是圓的的時候，他們遭到想要捍衛聖經說法的人的攻擊。但隨著時間過去，人們學會使這兩種說法同時成立。我們了解到，就算詩人以為地球是平的，並不代表上帝也認為地球是平的啊！上帝當時只是決定用人類聽得懂的語言對我們說話。祂也可以就讓聖經從天而降給我們，但是祂沒有這麼做（祂透過人來寫下聖經的話語）。人類的看法在上帝眼中是有價值， 值得信任的。

在我們知道了地球是圓的之後，該如何來解釋這段經文呢？它就變成一段沒用的經文了嗎？不是的 – 它變得更美了！因為我們知道在一個圓球體的世界上，我們永遠無法從東移到西！我們現在知道我們的過犯不僅能夠被移動兩千英哩遠而已；它是要被移到無限遠的地方。是一個無法測量的長度。比我們能夠理解的還要遠的程度。我們可以繞著地球一圈又一圈又一圈地走下去，但將永遠追不上我們的罪。這是多麼棒啊！

所以說，朋友們，我認為這也正發生於人類的性別學。你認為這是一件可憎的事嗎？ 我不這麼認為。我認為這是一個被顯露出來的奇蹟。我認為上帝讓我們用如此太過簡單的概念去了解男性和女性已經太久了…而現在，祂已經準備好要用人類性別學的長、擴、高、深來顛覆我們的認知！

最後，讓我們回到富蘭克林．葛理翰博士（葛理瀚牧師的兒子）。他曾說過：「性別認同是一個人不管它實際上的生理性別是什麼、而只憑他的「感覺」去認定他的性別是什麼。」 (www.thenewcivilrightsmovement.com, Feb. 6, 2016)

古老歷史的性別學認知是，我們的性別是完全並單單的由我們的外部性器官來定義的。這就像是在科學知識發展之前的舊性別學之上，加蓋幾間房間，就稱它為完整的性別學。

但是，如果你選擇依照這種思考模式，那你必須了解

這種認知是沒有醫學根據的，也不是由聖經指出的。聖經從未說：「上帝創造男（指的是陰莖）和女 （指的是陰道）。」是我們人類強加我們的定義於什麼是男、什麼是女。不是上帝說的。

當一位世界級的領袖和福音傳播者選擇使用「生理事實」這句用語，我們會合理的要求他對於「生理事實」這個名詞有很正確的了解。如果他並不符合這項要求，那他就是使人誤解的、不正確的、不負責任的。這不是信心；這是懦弱。

恐懼使我們在埃及被奴役，信心激勵我們走向應許之地。恐懼讓人擔心一個人類的科學家會發現某些會將神從祂的寶座推倒的事，信心讓人願意使用望遠鏡，甚至顯微鏡，去深入的探討問題。在愛裡沒有懼怕…完全的愛給予我們勇氣去張大眼研究我們還不瞭解的人和事，預備好並且迫切的渴望看到接下來上帝還將如何顛覆我們的想法。

還記得在這篇文章起頭提到的那位跨性別的青少年嗎？我不相信她是令人憎惡的，或是一個錯誤，或是擁有不正常的性別。我不相信她是變態。我甚至不相信她是不正常的。我相信她是上帝的創造。我相信她是上帝的啟事中重要的一部分。

我相信她是一個被披露出來的奇蹟。如果你有勇氣這麼做，請張開你的雙眼並打開你的心，來看看她。