are compatibility and complementarity at odds?

Owen Strachan has penned an interesting piece in which he states that perhaps nothing has been more damaging to male-female relationships than the notion of compatibility. He opens with this thought: “Compatibility. Has any concept done more to hinder the development of love?” Such a statement must surely have in mind a narrow working definition of compatibility, something along the lines of a Match.com profile and the self-serving search for the perfect soulmate. And I get how that's not healthy. But in complementarian marriage, is the desire for compatibility out of place? In the minds of most, the two terms Strachan juxtaposes would be defined briefly like this:

Compatibility: what is shared between a man and a woman

Complementarity: what is different between a man and a woman

So, do these two ideas live in opposition to one another? We find a carefully constructed story in Genesis 2 that I believe addresses this question directly. It is a story in which God creates man, notes he needs a suitable helper, then commands him to give names to every living creature. The animals parade by: ostrich, camel, alligator. Adam obediently names each one. It must have been a very long line of creatures great and small, as Adam “gave names to all livestock and to the birds of the heavens and to every beast of the field”. Yet none of them is a suitable partner for him. Though half of them share his maleness, none of them share his humanness. They are beautifully formed, but they are not formed in the image of God.

Imagine Adam’s state of mind as the animals parade past him: “Ostrich: not like me. Camel: not like me. Alligator: not like me.” He becomes increasingly aware that, though surrounded by God’s good gifts, he is in a very fundamental sense, alone. You and I know what the solution to his aloneness will be, but the text takes its time establishing that his state is “not good” before pulling back the curtain. Before Eve can be prepared for Adam, Adam must be prepared for Eve.

And then, after a brief nap, Adam awakes. And there she is, at last.

Adam bursts into poetry:

“Bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh. She shall be called ishah (woman) because she came from ish (man).”

Don’t miss what Adam is saying. After the animal parade of one not-like-him after another, at last he sees Eve and rejoices that she is wonderfully, uniquely like-him.

“Same of my same, same of my same. She shall be called like me because she came from me.”

The Bible’s first word on man and woman is not what separates them, but what unites them. It is a celebration of compatibility, of shared humanness. Ours is not a faith that teaches “men are from Mars and women are from Venus”. Rather, it teaches that both man and woman are from the same garden, created by and in the image of the same God, sharing a physical, mental and spiritual sameness that unites the two of them in a way they cannot be united to anything else in creation. Before the Bible celebrates the complementarity of the sexes, it celebrates their compatibility. And so should we.

To make how-we-are-different our starting point is to reinforce the tired idea that men and women are wholly “other”, an idea that lends itself neatly to devaluing and objectifying, rather than defending and treasuring. It is the very idea that fuels the cultural stereotypes of the incompetent husband and the nagging wife. I push away and discredit what is not-like-me. I cling to and elevate what is like-me. Compatibility is what binds us together, like two Cowboys fans finding each other in a sea of Eagles jerseys.

No one goes on a first date and remarks, “Wow, we had nothing in common. I can’t wait to go out again.” Same-of-my-same is what keeps man and woman in relationship when differences make them want to run for the exit. Same-of-my-same is what transforms gender differences from inexplicable oddities to indispensable gifts. Because my husband is fundamentally like-me in his humanness, the ways he is not-like-me in his maleness elicit my admiration or my forbearance, instead of my disdain or my frustration.

Compatibility. Has any concept done more to nurture the development of love?

So, no, complementarity and compatibility are not at odds. And it is precarious to pit them against one another. Compatibility is the medium in which complementarity takes root and grows to full blossom. Until we acknowledge our glorious, God-ordained sameness, we cannot begin to celebrate or even properly understand our God-given differences as men and women. This is the clear message of Genesis 2, so often rushed past in our desire to shore up our understanding of what it means to be created distinctly male and female. But we cannot rush past it, any more than Adam could rush past the parade of animals that were not-like-him. As Genesis 2 carefully reflects, a world which lacks the beauty of shared human sameness between the sexes is a world that is distinctly “not good”. But a world in which compatibility undergirds complementarity is very good indeed.

FAQ: should I curtail grandparent gift-giving?

I know, I know…several years back you read that blog post about getting your kids four things for Christmas, and your inner minimalist shouted “YES.”

Something they want, something they need, something to wear, something to read.

Done and done. It was a formula that allowed you to simultaneously be a parent who was awesome and a parent who had more time for Elf and eggnog. You made your minimal shopping trips, wrapped your minimal gifts, and placed them under your minimalist tree, awaiting Christmas morning when your kids would gently unwrap their four treasures (“Remember, kids, Jesus only got three gifts.”) and thank you effusively for not over-indulging them like all the other parents on the block.

But then, the doorbell rang, with a tone less “Silver Bells”-ish and more like the death knell of your conservatively sugared sugarplum dreams. And Gigi and Pappaw exploded into your living room bearing half of Walmart, wrapped in packages that in no way coordinated with your brown-paper-and-twine aesthetic. Their eyes burned with the crazed expression young parents everywhere recognize as a sign of OGS - Over-indulgent Grandparent Syndrome.

The gift haul was mind-boggling. Packaging materials and crumpled paper blocked every exit. There was much squealing, but none of it seemed associated with something to read. Surveying the aftermath, you began mounting your resolve never to let this happen again. Gigi and Pappaw must be stopped.

But must they? Have they really torpedoed Christmas? Looking back on my own experience with dearly loved OGS-sufferers I can see how quick I was to point out the symptoms of their illness: extravagance, impracticality, frivolity. But I was much slower to acknowledge the symptoms of my own illness. It turns out I was actually infected with a pretty serious case of FPS – Fretful Parent Syndrome. It showed itself in three beliefs that, looking back, were absolutely off-base. I offer them for your consideration, with the benefit of a little hindsight, in case you’re thinking about dropping the hammer on the grandparents:

1.   My kids will be spoiled by this.

No, they really won’t. They may indeed look forward to Gigi and Pappaw’s visits for less than selfless reasons, but grandparents don’t typically spend enough time with grandkids to permanently impact their consumption patterns. Your children’s attitude toward material possessions will not be shaped by the way they spend one day in December. The vast majority of their formative days will be spent under your influence, not that of their grandparents or anyone else. If you teach and model delayed gratification, practicality, and others-focus twelve months out of the year, a few hours of extravagance at the hands of a grandparent will be a fun memory instead of a life-altering event.

2.   I have to control this.

No, you really don’t. Resist the urge to start placing restrictions on grandparent gift-giving. Yes, it’s true that a donation to the college fund would have been a more practical gift than a studio-quality Darth Vader costume, but grandparents see gift-giving as a way to connect with their grandkids. Because it is. Gigi and Pappaw want to give a tangible gift that will bring them to mind each time their grandchild uses it. Even if they lack a sense of moderation in the gift-giving department, they are entitled to give the gift of their choosing. If it is not dangerous, illegal, immoral, or an ongoing financial commitment on your part once it is given, you don’t need to step in. Controlling what or how much grandparents can give communicates a lack of graciousness on our part, one our children may pick up on. By placing requirements on grandparent gifts, we can inadvertently model a different, but equally ugly form of entitlement to our kids.

3.   I’ve been upstaged by this.

No, you really haven’t. This is a hard one to trust, especially when Gigi and Pappaw have outspent you by a magnitude of seven. But the grandparent relationship and the parent relationship are simply not in competition. When you refuse to let competition enter your thinking, you allow your child’s love for a grandparent to be what it should be: an extension of their love for you, not a threat to it. Your children will not compare their relationship with you to their relationship with Gigi and Pappaw any more than they would compare it to a relationship with a sibling, friend, or teacher. Don’t fall into the trap of believing you are competing for their love, on Christmas or any other day.

How can you know if you are free from the grip of Fretful Parent Syndrome this Christmas? I knew I was headed for recovery when I was able to welcome grandparent gifts without judging them, bemoaning them, or restricting them. I learned to express genuine gratitude, both in front of my kids and in thank-you notes. And I learned to relax in the knowledge that materialism is kept in check in the everyday moments that God has entrusted to parents.

Perhaps most importantly, I learned to keep in mind that grandparents themselves are a gift to our children, a vital part of the wider circle who will cheer for them through the sun and storms that lie before them. No insecurity of mine should jeopardize that relationship or dictate its terms. More than that, my willingness to defer to their gift-giving choices sets an example for my own kids that you’re never too old to look for ways to honor your parents.

Minimalist parents everywhere, I salute your desire to shepherd your kids toward simplicity. Do your best to pair it with forbearance toward silver-haired, soft-hearted spenders with whom you share a physical resemblance, a last name, or, at bare minimum, a deep love for your kids. Should you find this difficult, eggnog will help.

for these, thy gifts

I didn’t want them.

It wasn’t just them, I didn’t want any pets. With a house full of small children, the thought of taking care of one more living thing was more than I could face. The hermit crabs had been bad enough.

It wasn’t a thousand nagging requests from the kids that did me in, it was their resigned acceptance. On a visit to their Grammie’s house to see her new litter of pug puppies, they were stalwart. They cradled them, they giggled delightedly, they stroked their little round tummies and twirled their little curly tails. But not one asked if we could take a puppy home. Not a single completely-transparent-kid-hint was offered. Not even a mildly pleading facial expression. Mom doesn’t like dogs. Case closed.

Covered in the downy fluff of puppies cute enough to break the Internet, not one child asked. It was official: I was a terrible mother. The kind of mother whose “yes” was as peculiar as a solar eclipse, but whose “no” was as predictable as sundown.

Tess and Tilly looking spiffy, Christmas 2014

We brought home two. Two! Based on our child-to-puppy ratio, it seemed like the only safe course. We had more love to give than one puppy could absorb. So Tilly and Tess came to live at our house, and I began the decade-long discovery of the absolute joy of saying “yes” to pet ownership. I doubt there are two more photographed dogs in all the world. They have been dressed in doll clothes, Halloween costumes, wigs and Christmas sweaters. Good grief, no – we didn’t buy them outfits – people kept giving them to us. It was like the whole world was conspiring to make me say and do things I had sworn I would never do.

For ten years, those two comical faces have brought more moments of sheer joy and laughter to our home than I can count. Bred to be lapdogs, their favorite activity has been to loll around on a cushion on the fireplace hearth, bedecked in rolls of fur-upholstered fat, eyes closed to drunken slits. We nicknamed them Gluttony and Sloth. Their constant snoring has formed the white noise underlying the sound track of our home. Their liberal and eager affection has been our welcome at every homecoming.

Last night, Tilly drew a last ragged breath and grew still. The fireplace hearth framed her as it had so often before. Twelve to sixteen years - that was what Google returned the day I checked life expectancy for the breed, the day before they came to live at my house, when I was still trying to talk myself into it. Not ten, twelve to sixteen.

“A dog is all the work of a child, but it doesn’t take care of you in your old age.” My mantra prior to the Day of the Incredible Double Yes. Me, always eager to preach a sermon no one needs to hear. Things I said that sounded good at the time.

Had she been work? I don’t remember that part. I won’t remember that part. But I will certainly remember the rest. I wonder – how many other gifts have I rejected as a burden and an inconvenience, the recipients of my hasty No? I thought she would be a threat to my comfort. In classic last-shall-be-first fashion, she became a source of it. I did not expect the joy of having her; I did not expect the grief of saying goodbye. The grief, or the gratitude. Thank you, Father, for these Thy gifts.

Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? And not one of them is forgotten before God.

In His hand is the life of every living thing.

Ten years of a good dog. The Creator numbers my days, and he numbered hers as well. His goodness takes so many forms. Sometimes, delightfully, that form has a wagging tail. Farewell, little friend – we feel your loss keenly.

O God, for all creatures great and small, for this small creature we have cherished, we give Thee thanks.

For the gifts you have granted at our childlike request, we give Thee thanks.

And for the gifts we did not want, for the veto of our No, this day we give Thee thanks, O God.

fight like a girl

Women's History Month is drawing to a close. Each year I think about posting about it, but March always seems to be such a busy time that I never get one written. If you've followed my writing, you know that I care a great deal about the messages the church sends to our daughters, so I didn't want this month to pass without taking the opportunity to help my readers think along those lines. Since I haven't had time to write, I thought I'd point you toward a teaching I gave recently in which we spent some time looking at women's history as recorded in the book of Exodus.

A few weeks ago I had the opportunity to address a group of college women on the topic of how they should view their importance to the church. My main point was this: 

Women, you are not an afterthought. What you contribute to the mission of the church is not of secondary importance.

I talked about the female empowerment message of the "Like a Girl" ad that ran during the Super Bowl, noting that female empowerment messages transcend Super Bowl ad campaigns. The Bible, in fact, paints a compelling picture of what it means to fight like a girl.

This is a message given by a female to a female audience, so it covers some ground you might never hear preached from a pulpit. But that's exactly why women teaching women is such a needed layer of discipleship. If you're a guy, don't let that scare you from listening along. If the church is to embrace a strong vision of womanhood, both men and women will need to value it.

You can watch or listen to the 35-minute message here:

{ Fight Like a Girl }

on suicide, gratitude and compassion

The past few weeks have brought headlines that ask us to grapple with our deepest hurts and fears. Among them was news of the death of Robin Williams.

Christians can be clumsy when it comes to deciphering mental health issues. A thousand voices rushed to weigh in on the selfishness of suicide. Some mused on how a death like Williams’ illustrated the emptiness of life apart from a relationship with God. Those who expressed sorrow over his death were scolded for their blind adoration of celebrity, and even called racist or provincial for grieving a headline less grievous than others that vied for our emotional capacity last week.

But I openly admit that it hit me hard.

Maybe that’s because my former pastor (the one whose message led my son to Christ) put a gun to his head.

Maybe that’s because I helped my dear friend clean out the apartment where his father answered hopelessness with finality.

Maybe it’s because depression and mental illness know my family.

The sentiment that best captured the way I felt about Williams’ death (and the response of others to it) was expressed by my cousin Amy on Facebook. She said simply:

“For those of you who judge suicide, feel grateful.”

Yes, grateful. Because if you are able to sit comfortably in judgment on it you cannot have sat next to its casket and recognized its face as that of someone you loved. Only someone able to hold suicide at arm’s length could write and post some of the things that were written this past week. We are so quick to process tragedy out loud and online. I wonder if a few decades from now we will have learned a more measured approach to broadcasting our thoughts.

Those who know suicide also feel grateful, though for different reasons. We feel grateful for the time we had and for the memories we hold. We feel grateful for the irreplaceable contributions those we have lost made to our lives and to the world. And we feel grateful for the solace of shared understanding among the community of those who know that suicide is not simple, that it invalidates neither the gift of a person’s life nor the love we felt for them.

We buried Amy’s brother, my cousin, in the frozen ground of February. He was not a coward. He was not selfish. He was brave and giving, brash, bright and beloved. He was a gift.

At the very least, anyone who has ever known the lightness of heart a Robin Williams monologue could infuse ought to find room to grieve his loss. If laughter is the best medicine, Robin Williams was an exceptional doctor. As with all the best medicines, we learned to our sorrow that the cost was dear. If you choose to judge him, please have the courage of your convictions never to laugh again at another of his brilliant contributions. We have all laughed at his expense, whether we knew it or not.

So forgive me if I mourn him. I cannot keep his story at arm’s length, and my guess is that many people you know cannot either. They have been fighting for their breath this week, avoiding the evening news, quietly coaching themselves to do the next thing and to cling to whatever healing they have found. So if you don’t know suicide as they do, be grateful. And let your gratitude prompt you to pray for the comfort of those who mourn. Those are words which we can never speak too hastily, and which we will never have cause to regret.

on daughters and dating: how to intimidate suitors

I have two teen-aged daughters, so it was with some interest that I read a recent post entitled “Application to Date My Daughter”. It was pretty funny, playing on the idea of the stereotypical shotgun-toting father and the mortified daughter as they negotiate the tricky terrain of a first date.  Then Christian bloggers grabbed the concept, and for the most part, these versions were funny, too. There were some common themes: slouchy-panted unemployed suitors, dads breathing out Chuck Norris-inspired threats. I didn’t lose my well-developed sense of humor until I made the tactical error of glancing at some of the comments. And then I was just flat-out sad.

Here is the comment that made me the saddest, posted by a well-meaning young Christian father:

“Bro, this is awesome. My daughter’s only 2, but I am printing this for my fridge. Thanks for your godly example.”

Oh dear.

Okay, joke’s over. Bro. Let’s talk strategy for a second. Is that all you’ve got? You need a better plan than these low-level intimidation techniques. After all, she’s your DAUGHTER, for Pete’s sake. So let’s talk frankly about what you need to do to guard her interests when it comes to dating. Instead of brandishing a shotgun or breaking out an application, you need to build a wall.

That’s right, you heard me – build a wall. Go all “Rapunzel”. Build it so high that only the strongest of suitors can scale it. But don’t wait until your baby girl is a teenager, Bro  – start now. Start yesterday. There’s no time to waste.

build a wall

In Song of Solomon 8:8-9 we hear a family’s hope that their young sister will grow into a woman of strength and dignity. Can you guess what metaphor they use to describe that kind of woman? A wall. Their sister assures them in verse 10 that she is indeed a wall, complete with towers. Her statement indicates an assurance that she is not only strong, but able to defend herself against any unworthy suitors. That’s what you want, Bro – you want a wall.

Here’s the problem with shotgun jokes and applications posted on the fridge: to anyone paying attention, they announce that you fully expect your daughter to have poor judgment. Be assured that your daughter is paying attention.  And don’t be shocked if she meets your expectation. You might want to worry less about terrorizing or retro-fitting prospective suitors and worry more about preparing your daughter to choose wisely. And that means building a wall.

Instead of intimidating all your daughter’s potential suitors, raise a daughter who intimidates them just fine on her own. Because, you know what’s intimidating? Strength and dignity. Deep faith. Self-assuredness. Wisdom. Kindness. Humility. Industriousness. Those are the bricks that build the wall that withstands the advances of old Slouchy-Pants, whether you ever show up with your Winchester locked and loaded or not. The unsuitable suitor finds nothing more terrifying than a woman who knows her worth to God and to her family.

too strong?

But here’s a hard reality: if you raise that daughter, she’ll likely intimidate her fair share of “nice Christian boys” as well. Because a decent number of those guys have some nutty ideas about what it means to be in charge. I’m amazed and saddened at how often I hear young single guys say of bright, gifted single women, “Wow, she’s so strong I don’t think I could lead her.” At which point, too many bright, gifted single women begin to consider ways to “tone themselves down” or “soften themselves a bit”.

Raise a strong daughter, even if – no, especially if it means potential suitors question whether they can “lead her”, whatever that means to them. You’ve just identified those suitors as ineligible, without so much as an application process. Leadership is not about the strong looking for weaker people to lead. It’s about the humble looking for those whose strengths offset their weaknesses and complement their strengths. Strong leaders surround themselves with strong people, not with weak ones. Rather than finding the strengths of others threatening, they celebrate them and leverage them. This is Management 101, but I fear young Christian men and well-intentioned Christian parents of daughters have gotten a little fuzzy on the concept.

put down your shotgun

I often think that if we scrutinized our parenting with the same intensity we plan to turn on our daughters’ prospective suitors, we’d stop speculating about shotguns and applications and start building that wall. So, my well-meaning father of a two-year-old, please don’t hit “print” on that application just yet. Instead of cross-examining the man your daughter brings home, cross-examine the man who brought your daughter home from the hospital. She does not need the belated braggadocio of your intentions to protect her from slouchy-pants fools when she’s a teen. She needs you to hitch up your own and invest in her character - now.

So put down your shotgun. Pick up your Indian Princess guide book, or your coach’s clipboard. Take a seat at a tea party. Teach how to change a flat and start the mower. Discuss politics and economics and theology. Compliment a new outfit or an A in math. Tell her you think she is absolutely beautiful. Kneel at a pink chenille bedside and pray your guts out. Raise a daughter with a fully loaded heart and mind so that a fully loaded shotgun isn’t necessary. She shouldn’t need you to scare off weak suitors. Let her strength and dignity do the job.  Resolve to settle for nothing less than the best protection for your daughter. Resolve to be the kind of man you want her to bring home. Resolve to build a wall.

“What shall we do for our sister in the day when she shall be spoken for? If she be a wall, we will build upon her a palace of silver…” Song of Solomon 8:8-9

our children, our neighbors

If you asked me the single-most important insight that has shaped my parenting, it would be this: “Children are people.”

It seems self-evident. Clearly, they have arms and legs, ears, noses and mouths enough to qualify. But the idea of their personhood goes far beyond just possessing a human body. It goes to the core of their being and speaks to their worth. Children bear the image of God, just like adults. Well, not just like adults – it is true that they are developing physically, emotionally and spiritually at a different rate than adults, but their intrinsic worth and dignity does not increase or decrease depending on the rate or extent of their development. As Dr. Seuss has famously noted, “A person’s a person, no matter how small.”

If you asked me the single most misleading statement I have heard with regard to parenting, it would be this: “The Bible is relatively silent on the topic of parenting.”

On the surface, this statement appears to be true. When we think of “parenting passages” we typically think of those that explicitly mention parents, children, authority and instruction: Deuteronomy 6, the fifth command in Exodus 20, spare the rod and spoil the child, train up a child in the way he should go, children obey your parents in the Lord, and a smattering of other verses. We may even throw in the example of the Prodigal Son or the parenting woes of the patriarchs for good measure. But other than these, few passages mention the parent-child relationship specifically, leading many to conclude that, for the most part, the Bible must leave us to figure out this parenting thing on our own. An understandable conclusion.

Until we remember that children are people.

Because if children are people, then they are also our neighbors. This means that every scriptural imperative that speaks to loving our neighbor as we love ourselves suddenly comes to bear on how we parent. Every command to love preferentially at great cost, with great effort, and with godly wisdom becomes not just a command to love the people in my workplace or the people in my church or the people at my hair salon or the people on my street or the people in the homeless shelter. It becomes a command to love the people under my own roof, no matter how small. If children are people, then our own children are our very closest neighbors. No other neighbor lives closer or needs our self-sacrificing love more.

Suddenly, a great deal of the Bible is not silent at all on the topic of parenting.

Recognizing my children as my neighbors has impacted the way I discipline them, the way I speak to them, the way I speak about them to others. It has required me to acknowledge how quick I am to treat those closest to me in ways I would never treat a friend or a co-worker. It has helped make my children objects of my compassion instead of my contempt. I am better able to celebrate their successes without taking credit for them, and to grieve their failures without seeing them as glaring evidence that I’m a terrible parent. Recognizing my children as my neighbors has freed me up to enjoy them as people rather than to resent them as laundry-generating food-ingesting mess-making fit-throwing financial obligations.

Except for the days that it hasn’t. And on those days, I must be reminded again what Scripture teaches about loving my neighbor, confess that I haven’t loved my child that way, and begin again. And Scripture provides ample help. Here are just a few "unlikely" parenting verses that point me back to neighborliness on the days that don’t go as they should:

When I want to correct my kids with harshness:

Proverbs 15:1

A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger.

When I want to lecture them:

James 1:19-20

Know this, my beloved brothers: let every person be quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger; for the anger of man does not produce the righteousness of God.

When I want to make them make me look awesome:

Philippians 2:3-4

Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility count others more significant than yourselves. Let each of you look not only to his own interests, but also to the interests of others.

When I find meeting their needs to be an imposition:

Matthew 25:37-40

Then the righteous will answer him, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’

When I want credit for how hard I’m working as the mom:

Matthew 6:3-4

But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. And your Father who sees in secret will reward you.

When I don’t want to extend forgiveness for their offenses:

Ephesians 4:31-32

Let all bitterness and wrath and anger and clamor and slander be put away from you, along with all malice. Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ forgave you.

When I’ve completely lost sight of the forest for the trees:

2 Timothy 2:24-26

And the Lord's servant must not be quarrelsome but kind to everyone, able to teach, patiently enduring evil, correcting his opponents with gentleness. God may perhaps grant them repentance leading to a knowledge of the truth, and they may come to their senses and escape from the snare of the devil, after being captured by him to do his will.

That last one is on a note card on my fridge. 

It is true that our children are God-given responsibilities we are to steward. But we will only steward them as we should by remembering that, first and foremost, our children are people we are to treasure. When we treasure our children as our neighbors, we remove from our discipline any hint of condemnation, shame or contempt. We alter our language to communicate love and value, even when we must speak words of correction. And we replace our prayers of “please fix my frustrating child” with prayers of “please help me to love the little neighbor You have placed in my home, even as You have loved me.”

Fred (“Mister”) Rogers understood well the value and dignity of children. An ordained Presbyterian minister, he spent his life preaching the beauty of neighborliness on public television to small people: “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood…Won’t you be my neighbor?” His message is a good one for parents as well. Children are people. Our own children are our closest and dearest neighbors. Mom and dad, use each “beautiful day in the neighborhood” to show preferential love to the neighbors who share your roof. And be encouraged: the Bible overflows with help for you.

What passages of Scripture have most benefited you as a parent? I’d love to know.

don't you know what causes that?

The Fam 2002

Today, a friend passed on to me a blog post entitled “Top 10 Ridiculous Responses Regarding My Third Pregnancy.” As a mother who has four children, all of the responses on the list were familiar to me. As a mother who had four children in four years, I could think of a few more that didn’t make this girl’s list.

She left off “Were you born in a barn?” and “You need some hobbies.” And another favorite, almost always asked in the grocery store: “Are they ALL yours?”

My kids are all teenagers now, so I remember these comments with a smile. They don’t offend me – I understand that most people don’t have a file folder for people with “larger families”, although a family of six is not extraordinarily large. It doesn’t bother me to be mentally filed under “Hillbilly”, “Catholic” or even “Mormon” – people are just doing their best to process reality. I remember flying to Cincinnati one Christmas with two lap children and two in car seats. A sweet young Mormon couple on the next row carried on a knowing conversation with us for most of the flight before realizing we were actually just Southern Baptists with no sense of moderation. We deplaned leaving them as baffled by our family planning as our Southern Baptist friends were.

Over the years I’ve developed some responses to these repeated awkward questions. For example:

“Don’t you know what causes that?” – “Clearly. We’re so good at it we should patent the process.”

“Are they ALL yours?” – “No, I just think WalMart is so fun that I go pick up extra toddlers to bring along with me.”

“Is your husband getting snipped?” – “Already has. It was a non-event, really – nothing a bag of frozen vegetables couldn’t mend. Can I serve you some more peas?”

The trickiest one to answer, in my case, is, “Did you mean to do that?” If I say, “Yes, who doesn’t want four kids in four years?” I’m basically insane. If I say “No”, I’m an idiot. The truth is, I’m not sure what my answer is. The question itself implies far more control over conception than even I can claim to have.

And that’s the real reason we should be careful about these kinds of questions. Yes, they’re funny, and yes, I’m a big fan of self-deprecating humor, but it’s not me that these questions can hurt. It’s my friends and family who know with great clarity that conception is a miracle because it is one they have not experienced. It’s the people I love who ache for fertility to be their scandal.

During the Four Years of Much Pregnancy, my dearest friend was infertile. She came to my baby showers and listened to the jokes. She came to my hospital bed four years in a row to hold the latest Wilkin. She cried tears of joy for me, but I know she carried her sorrow with every casserole she brought to my home. I would have.

So I suggest that we stop saying these things to the woman whose arms are full of children for the sake of the woman whose arms are not. Because the answer to “Don’t you know what causes that?” is not a what, but a Who. I don’t know why God gave me children effortlessly and withholds them from others who would make fantastic parents, but I know this: Fertility is not a curse, it is a gift. It is a scandalous miracle.

So the next time you see a mother with a herd of small progeny, just say “What a blessing!" And maybe offer to help her get those groceries to the car. Or offer to put her kids through college. Any or all of these responses would be just fine.

authentic worship, hands down

A few years ago I was in a worship service with a Tambourine Lady. No one else in the service had brought a tambourine, much less decided to play it during the singing. No one else had moved to an open space to find room to sway and to jingle. Like the lone apple in a bowl of oranges, Tambourine Lady took her place among us. I am thinking of her now.

I’m standing at the front of the room, just to the left of the podium I will shortly stand behind to speak, and my body language is completely wrong. It’s a fairly small room, so the fact that my hands are at my sides is particularly evident, even though everyone else is on their feet as well. From behind the keyboard you repeat your plea that we be free in our worship, that we let go and throw our hands in the air, let go of worry about what others might think. Come on, ladies, let’s raise every hand in this place to the glory of the Lord. Be free.

The music swells, the singing grows louder. My arms stay conspicuously at my sides.

It’s a beautiful song, a God-exalting, glory-laden chorus, suitable for the throne room itself. I am deeply moved.

No one will judge you here. Raise your hands to your Father! Every hand!

Oh, man. I try to focus my thoughts away from the possibility that eyes are watching me through that sea of upraised arms, wondering why their retreat speaker is so uptight. I half expect to glance up and see my hands, like two traitors, mutinously occupying the space above my head. But no, they seem to be still in their usual place. Think about the God of the song. Think about the God of the song. Don’t worry about it - just worship.

The chorus, one more time. Okay, sure, three more times. I hear a faint jingling sound in the back of my consciousness.

Sweet, earnest worship leader, I hope I haven't let you down. Your job, like mine, is hard: we ask people to step outside what is comfortable. I gather that you may have recently flung off the fetters of conservative worship, and that’s tremendous. I say that without irony. But there's something I need you to understand.

Authentic worship means to me exactly what it means to you: the freedom to worship as the Lord leads. I have traveled the length of the denominational spectrum. I have been instructed to kneel, shout, laugh, fall over, chant, throw my hands up, take off my shoes, sway with my neighbor, and dance like David danced. It was a long trip through myriad worship styles, and participation was not always optional. My hands are at my sides for the same reason yours are thrown in the air: because I am free - free from the expectations of any of my fellow worshippers, free to worship in whatever posture the Spirit leads.  The truth is, I do occasionally raise my hands, but never when told to by a worship leader or a lyric. Because of my history, nothing could be more inauthentic, nothing less free.

So for me, and I suspect for a few others, authentic worship looks a little different than it might for many – a little less demonstrative. Let’s just say you’re never going to sustain a tambourine-related injury standing next to me. It would grieve me to know that you felt dishonored by my failure to participate in the manner you encouraged.  But it would grieve me more to know I had traded authentic worship for the comfort of conformity.

Tambourine Lady understood that. And taught me that. I am her, in my own way.

You are dead right – we must be free in our worship. Sometimes freedom raises its hands, and sometimes it sways and jingles. And sometimes freedom stands quietly and trembles. Believe me, it is entirely possible to have your heart in your mouth and your hands at your sides.  What you see is not fear or hardness. It is worship unbound.

a holiday parable

“If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense. Nothing would be what it is, because everything would be what it isn't.” 
- Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland

On the first day of November I looked out my front window and saw my neighbor stringing LED lights over every inch of his shrubs. If you’re thinking November 1 is a little early for Christmas lights, you’re exactly right. My neighbor is Hindu, and as I later discovered, the lights were being strung in celebration of Diwali, the five-day Hindu festival of lights.

For the next week and a half, every time we passed each other on the way to get the newspaper, he greeted me with a loud “Happy Diwali!” This was bewildering. Not wanting to offend, I replied “Happy Holidays!” the first several times, but after awhile I honestly didn’t know what to say. Was he trying to make a point? I was pretty sure he knew I was a Christian.

Then came the afternoon I bumped into him outside our neighborhood coffee shop. We exchanged greetings (“Happy Diwali!” “Ummm…yeah, you too.”), and then I asked him what coffee drink he liked to order. He glanced toward the store.

“It turns out I’m not ordering anything after all.”

“Really? Why not?”

He pointed at the words “Happy Holidays” painted across the storefront windows. “What a cop-out. This place is not getting my business.”

Now I was really confused. Did my neighbor expect a store that did business with people of all backgrounds to hang a “Happy Diwali” sign in its window? Just what kind of holiday was Diwali? It must be a pretty mean-spirited one if you can’t patronize stores that don’t specifically acknowledge its occurrence. I went home and looked it up online: “Diwali is a five-day celebration of brotherhood, involving firecrackers, lights, the wearing of new clothes and the exchanging of gifts and sweets.” What did any of that have to do with boycotting businesses? It didn’t sound mean-spirited at all.

During the five days of Diwali, my neighbor did indeed wear new clothes – tee shirts with different messages about the true meaning of Diwali and its rightful place on the calendar. There were yard signs to let us all know what times his temple would be holding services. And the twinkle lights? Think Vegas.

Here’s the weirdest part: for eleven months out of the year you’d never know a nice guy like him could be so oblivious to other peoples’ beliefs. I wanted to gently sit him down and read him the parable of the Good Samaritan – I wanted him to see that being a good neighbor involves treating others with respectful care, even if their beliefs are not yours.

But I don’t think he’d get it – after all, he’s not a Christian.

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All parables have a message. Can you guess the message of mine? Click {here} if you need a bit of help. To my Christian brothers and sisters, a very Merry Christmas. To my neighbors of every persuasion, the happiest of holiday seasons.

choose hospitality

On November 6, 2010 I tweeted the Most Regrettable Tweet of my mediocre social media career. In anticipation of the holiday season, I decided to weigh in on hospitality. The tweet was a flawless blend of selective memory and self-righteousness, designed to heap condemnation on the heads of my followers under the guise of offering wise counsel. It was a verbal “selfie” snapped from my best angle, positioned to make me look very, very good. Let’s have a look at it, shall we?

Note the double-whammy: if your house isn’t orderly on a daily basis, you will withhold hospitality from others and set a bad example for your children. Moms everywhere, be encouraged!

Three years later, I still cringe remembering that tweet, mainly because I have failed to live up to it repeatedly ever since. I presume my house was clean on November 6, 2010, but it has rarely been so in recent months. Even as I type, I am looking out across a disordered landscape of scattered laundry, schoolbooks, dusty baseboards and chipped paint. That tweet neglected to mention what my house looked like when my children were small, how I would hide clutter in the dryer when guests came, how hard I found it just to get dinner on the table for my own family, much less for someone else’s. So I regret that I proposed to moms a standard to which I could not hold myself.

But more importantly, I regret that tweet because I have come to recognize that the standard it proposed is flawed. It revealed my own lack of understanding about the nature and purpose of hospitality. In my self-righteous desire to offer advice, I had confused hospitality with its evil twin, entertaining. The two ideas could not be more different.

entertaining versus hospitality: what’s the difference?

Entertaining involves setting the perfect tablescape after an exhaustive search on Pinterest. It chooses a menu that will impress, and then frets its way through each stage of preparation. It requires every throw pillow to be in place, every cobweb to be eradicated, every child to be neat and orderly. It plans extra time to don the perfect outfit before the first guest touches the doorbell on the seasonally decorated doorstep. And should any element of the plan fall short, entertaining perceives the entire evening to have been tainted. Entertaining focuses attention on self.

Hospitality involves setting a table that makes everyone feel comfortable. It chooses a menu that allows face time with guests instead of being chained to the cook top. It picks up the house to make things pleasant, but doesn’t feel the need to conceal evidences of everyday life. It sometimes sits down to dinner with flour in its hair. It allows the gathering to be shaped by the quality of the conversation rather than the cuisine. Hospitality shows interest in the thoughts, feelings, pursuits and preferences of its guests. It is good at asking questions and listening intently to answers. Hospitality focuses attention on others.

Entertaining is always thinking about the next course. Hospitality burns the rolls because it was listening to a story.

Entertaining obsesses over what went wrong. Hospitality savors what was shared.

Entertaining, exhausted, says “It was nothing, really!” Hospitality thinks it was nothing. Really.

Entertaining seeks to impress. Hospitality seeks to bless.

But the two practices can look so similar. Two people can set the same beautiful tablescape and serve the same gourmet meal, one with a motive to impress, the other with a motive to bless. How can we know the difference? Only the second of the two would invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, the blind to pull up a chair and sip from the stemware. Our motives are revealed not just in how we set our tables, but in who we invite to join us at the feast. Entertaining invites those whom it will enjoy. Hospitality takes all comers.

why be hospitable?

Hospitality is about many things, but it is not about keeping a perpetually orderly home. So, forgive me, Twitterverse, for my deplorable tweet. I could not have been more wrong. And may I have a do-over?

Orderly house or not, hospitality throws wide the doors. It offers itself expecting nothing in return. It keeps no record of its service, counts no cost, craves no thanks. It is nothing less than the joyous, habitual offering of those who recall a gracious table set before them in the presence of their enemies, of those who look forward to a glorious table yet to come.

It is a means by which we imitate our infinitely hospitable God.

So, three years later, here is my advice to myself as the holiday season begins: Forgo the empty pleasure of entertaining. Serve instead the high-heaped feast of hospitality, even as it has been served to you.

why pastors need women teachers (and vice versa)

I teach women the Bible. One of the things I hope to see transpire in my lifetime is the raising up of many qualified women teachers in the church who will work to restore Bible literacy. But it’s a hope that needs pastoral help to become a reality. I know this help is possible because I have been its recipient, the beneficiary of lavish pastoral input and encouragement. There is little disagreement among Christians that women can and should teach women. But if it is true that the gift of teaching is given to women, how might a pastor properly value, cultivate and employ the gifting of women teachers?

Pastor, I believe you will do exactly that if you carefully weigh two truths.

The First Truth: You Need Her.

You may be the best preacher on the planet, but God would not have gifted women to teach unless their teaching was absolutely necessary to the spiritual well-being of the women in your church. You need her help. Here are four ways a woman teacher can lighten your load: 

1. She is an example you cannot be. When a woman sees someone who looks like her and sounds like her teaching the Bible with passion and intelligence, she begins to recognize that she, too, can love God with her mind – perhaps beyond what she had thought necessary or possible. Women who only hear men handle the Bible well sometimes forget to consider themselves capable of doing the same. Women benefit from seeing a smart, diligent woman set an example of what it means to open the Word with reverence and skill.
2. She brings a perspective you cannot bring. When men teach, they naturally draw on examples that resonate with men. This means women who exclusively hear male teaching will be offered a fair number of testosterone-laden illustrations from action movies and sports. And that’s fine. But a woman teacher might also speak the language of Jane Austen movies and HGTV. And she’ll probably draw a few different observations from the text than a man might. This is not to say she will feminize a text, but that she will likely emphasize those elements of the text that highlight the role of women in redemptive history, or that speak to sin issues women commonly face.
3. She holds an authority you cannot hold. A woman can tell other women to stop making idols of their careers or families in a way you can’t. A woman can address other women on vanity, pride, submission and contentment in a way you can’t. She holds empathetic authority over her female students – the ability to say “I understand the besetting sins and fears of womanhood, and I commend to you the sufficient counsel of Scripture.” She can lighten your load by confronting sins women might resent you addressing at all. She can say things like “PMS is not an excuse for homicide” and not get a single nasty email the following day.
4. She sees needs you do not see (and that your wife probably doesn’t see, either). In the week-to-week arena of her ministry, a woman teacher will gain a feel for the pulse of the women in your church that a staff wife might not. Women have a tendency to present their best selves to ministry wives, but not to female ministry leaders. Pastor, if your own wife is a mystery to you, consider that you might need some help decoding the needs of the female half of your congregation. A woman teacher can give you insight at the ground level.

 The Second Truth: She Needs You.

You might assume that women teachers just naturally find places to develop and exercise their gifts. Nine times out of ten you’d be wrong. Here are three things a woman teacher under your pastoral oversight desperately needs from you:

1. She needs you to affirm her. Speaking from personal experience, I would never have had the courage to teach had I not been taken seriously by my pastors. Hearing their encouragement and knowing I had their enthusiastic support spurred me to begin exercising my gift despite my own fears and insecurities. She needs you to say “You can do this.”
2. She needs you to sharpen her.  A woman teacher tends to have fewer opportunities to develop her gifting under sound leadership because of the constraints of work or family. She needs you to meet her more than half way. She needs you to shape her theology, to point her to good commentaries and podcasts, to gently critique her, to help her with difficult texts, to be available for questions. And she needs you to offer to do these things before she asks. Don’t assume that her teaching gift will flourish on its own. Pastor her into becoming a teacher who contributes meaningfully to the health of the body of believers.
3. She needs you to cover her. If you wouldn’t let just any man teach your men, don’t let just any woman teach your women. Vet her, and vet her teaching materials, just as you would a male teacher. Once you have determined she and her teaching are sound and valuable, cheerlead for her. Stick up for her if she faces unfair criticism. Vouch for her publicly. Celebrate her efforts and their results.

A Few Good Men. And Women.

None of these points implies (or requires) a disordering of the husband-wife relationship, hers or yours. Obviously, common sense applies to your interactions. We should certainly be wise about collaboration, but we must not be phobic. We must find ways to work together for the common good of the Church.

The Bible charges both men and women to be combatants, teaching and defending the truths of the Christian faith. Women teachers provide an indispensable layer of defense that men cannot through our example, perspective and empathetic authority over women. We possess intel and weapons that men do not, and our contributions are needful. To put it in distinctly masculine terms, “You want us on that wall. You need us on that wall.”

But women teachers need the help of their male leadership. As those uniquely designed to speak truth to others of our gender, we need you to commit to help us “handle the truth” with the seriousness and skill it deserves. In doing so, you follow the example of the greatest Teacher who walked the earth. Help us help you. Give us a place to be equipped for the battle we are both called to fight, to be armed for the watchtower we are both called to defend.

Related Post:

The Complementarian Woman: Permitted or Pursued?

hope for the broken home

I am a gardener, after my mother’s example.

I remember the simple script, hung by a nail next to the sugar canister: “Bloom where you are planted” -  a red geranium sketched in the bottom left corner. It hung in the five-bedroom house, the one with the father who went to work and the mother who made a home and the children who arrived to her greeting after school. It hung also in the two-bedroom house, the one with the mother who went to work and the children whose keys unlocked a silent kitchen and the father who came on Saturdays.

Both houses were mine. When I was nine years old, my parents’ divorce was final, and our family, like so many others, was left to make sense of the aftermath.

The conference ends and a woman approaches me at the podium. She is on the verge of tears.  She has approached me before – no, not her, but ten others with the same question brimming in the corners of their eyes. I have spoken for almost an hour, but she remembers one passing detail: “You come from a broken home. Thank you for saying it.”

“Broken home” - the term is hers, not mine. A single mother, worried that her children will be consumed by the devastation of her failed marriage, that their trajectory is faithlessness, bitterness and sorrow. She sees me and wants to know: how did you bloom?

What formula I can offer? The fracturing of a marriage can look many ways. There are no hard and fast rules for how to cobble together hope. I can only tell my story, one shaped by three gifts my parents gave.

The first, of course, was a great deal of prayer. On my behalf, across many years.

The second was a great deal of selflessness on the part of both of my parents, and my stepmother as well. All three of my parents gave me permission to love and cherish all three of my parents. They treated one another with mutual respect, both in their words and actions. I was not asked to choose one parent over another. When a marriage fails, the resulting web of relationships is not always made up of honorable people. By the grace of God, mine was. I knew they had deep hurt toward each other, that thirty five years later they still do. But I knew they placed my relationship needs above their own hurt.

The third gift, astonishingly, was a high view of marriage. Who would believe it? But no one in my family would say that divorce is a simple solution to a difficult marriage. It never gets easy, never stops aching, never slips completely into past-tense. It is a measure of absolute last resort. Rather than teach me to hold my marriage lightly, my parents taught me to hold it in high regard, to enter into it with care, to guard it with determination.

An incomplete account, of limited help, but my story nonetheless. I feel deep gratitude toward my parents, somehow able to recognize that just because their marriage was a failure didn’t mean that their divorce had to be. Finding their family planted in rocky soil, they determined, as far as it was possible with them, to help us bloom.

I have been blessed with three devoted parents, but I believe - and have witnessed - that even one devoted parent can foster blooms in the desert. Do I come from a broken home? I do. And so do all of us, I suppose. I have known more love and respect, more kindness, more selfless pursuit of relationship in my “broken home” than many know in their traditional families. Take heart in this, mother in the aftermath – a failed marriage does not doom you to a failed family. No malediction guides your course. Surely the grace of God is for homes both broken and intact. Surely, if any of us blooms, we do so by that grace alone.

I am a gardener, after my mother’s example. And my step-mother’s as well, truth be told. I carry a sentimental attachment to a particular flower, tracing back to my childhood, to a sign on a nail next to a canister of sugar. My yard spills over with geraniums. The Victorians assigned a meaning to that blossom - though other flowers symbolize peace or healing, the geranium symbolizes folly.

A fitting emblem for this child of divorce, this child of God. For it is folly to believe that something whole can come from something broken. Yet God chooses what is foolish in this world to shame the wise. He chooses the weak, the low, the despised. He chooses the broken. And these, against all logic, he redeems. Mother of a “broken home”, lift up your eyes. Find hope in the folly of the gospel - it is for you. Ask the Father to give all that is needful, all that is good.

I pray hope and wholeness bud beneath His care. I pray you and those you cherish bloom.