Moorings


Keep us tethered to Your Being, O God. Shelter us in the storm. Hide us in the shadow of your wings. For our little boats are drifting from you and the storm is growing fierce as the sky darkens. Have mercy on us. Keep us safe.

The riverfront in Oriental is dotted with marinas and boatlifts and slips. Boats of all ilk sit in river water tied to poles or anchors or piers. Ropes, chains and cables connect to moorings sunk deep into the river bottom. Pilings of concrete with rebar have little hook eyes or cleats ready to receive and hold a boat. Boat owners count on sturdy moorings, stable piers and poles to keep their boats in place when the storms come.

Unsecured boats slip from moorings. They are tossed about like toys in howling wind. They follow currents to uncharted waters and shoals that threaten. Strong moorings secure a boat with enough slack to ride out a storm without being lost to it. After the storm, we ride through the county and see the boats that have broken loose. They litter the marshes and sink in helplessness to the bottom of the river.

Lyrics of the old hymn by Charles Tindley, Stand By Me, come to mind. “When the storms of life are raging, stand by me. When the world is tossing me like a ship upon the sea, Thou who rulest wind and water, stand by me.” From a different century, a hymn prayer rises as plea to God to stand with us, those in trouble, those who are feeble and old, all of us who fail, and all of us who are misunderstood. Old timey words resonate for a world that seems increasingly unmoored from its foundations.

Human beings are tossed in turbulence, snatched from jobs and families. Our world seems increasingly dangerous as rhetorical arrows pierce civility and our moorings fray. Loss of a boat is a first world problem. The loss of human kindness, generosity, stability and core values is measurable and will impact civilization for a lot longer than we can know.

Years ago when I started writing this little blog, I had a vision that there was a reader somewhere who needed a word of hope, a word of assurance that all would be well. Here is that word for you. All will be well as we are moored to Christ and in Christ. Yes the storms will come and we will be tossed and hurt. We will lose friends and jobs and money and health. But God has not moved the pier. God is still God. It is we who have lost our mooring, we who must awaken to Holy Presence.

This week I have been reading Rachel Held Evans book, Inspired. She devotes her book to new looks at Wisdom and Resistance stories in the Bible. She opens the section on Resistance with the story of Bree Newsome, a young South Carolina woman who scales a flagpole in front of the SC State House to strip the Confederate flag down. One act of resistance, one letter of complaint, one call to an elected official, one vote, one small act of kindness will begin to attach us again to the best of who we are as God’s Beloved.

The stormy voices of hate will be drowned and sunk in the growing chorus of hope. Moorings matter. To what or to whom are you moored? When have you felt lost in the storm? What is your small act that can change the world for good?

“In the midst of tribulation, stand by me, When the hosts of sin assail and my strength begins to fail, Thou who never lost a battle, stand by me.”

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Target Practice at Pierson Point

Ordinarily the POW! POW! POW! of gunfire a few backyards down the road does not chill me like the shots did last Sunday afternoon. There are guns down here at the river. Locked up, taken out sparingly for sport target shooting. Hand eye coordination is required to hit the little tin target hanging on the tree. No harm; no foul. Second Amendment in action, for that time when we need a well armed militia here on the Neuse.

Daddy did not have guns. My husband has never owned guns. I am afraid of guns. There is no particular righteousness in this. Many in my family and many of my friends are gun owners. They know when deer season starts and the gun racks on the backs of trucks are filled with rifles and shotguns. The camo hats and jackets come out and the deer don’t stand a chance. There is the sport of the chase, a great bonding experience for those who share the thrill. I get that.

There is something altogether different happening in the mass shootings that seem to be a regular happening in our country. Believe me, I know the arguments: “Guns don’t kill, people kill.” “We need better mental health systems to stop violence.” “ Video games are the problem exacerbating violence.” I don’t disagree with any of those statements; one excuse is as good as another. But we dance around the issue that is the most controversial: there is too much availability to buy military style assault weapons, and big magazines of ammunition, there are no checks or stops for cross referencing who is buying munitions of mass destruction right beneath our eyes.

Will enough ever be enough? Jesus promises PEACE. My peace I give to you not as the world gives… that’s a good thing, because the world doesn’t seem to want peace. Our elected officials are complicit in the fact that many of their campaigns are funded heavily by the NRA. Their continued silence and inaction speaks volumes about how they want the money to keep their places of power more than they want to serve the nation and work to address this gun problem we have in America.

Alongside the lack of gun control we live, there is the growing unleashing of hate and racism, white nationalism and bullying coming from the highest office in our nation, and nobody seems to want to control it. It is such hypocrisy when the president, who spews hate in ever other tweet says, “We must condemn racism, bigotry, and hate however they show themselves.” He must not read his own tweets.

There is a deep spiritual problem in our country. We have lost our way and are tumbling down a deep hole into a darkness I have not seen in my lifetime. A few gunshots in the back yard remind me of the freedom that is America. What are reasonable controls for gun ownership? My car is licensed; I have to take a test every few years to see if I am competent to drive. Who is driving this conversation about guns? Where is money driving it? Will the violence ever end?

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Pondering Privilege


Nobody wants to talk about privilege; nobody wants to hear about it. But the issue of privilege – white privilege; and more often in America, white male privilege – appears to be front and center in the issues of the day, whether we want to think about it or not.

A film from the 1980s, Free Indeed, was a low-budget teaching tool about what privilege is and how we are partakers of it, we who are white. A little woman gathered a group of teenagers asking them questions like: How is it you have what you have while so many people of color do not? The answers were typical. “We must work harder. We must be smarter.”

In a 30-minute lesson, non-critical, not-guilt producing, not accusatory, a teacher explained the invisibles of privilege, the unaccounted-for advantages of being a white majority that so many of us remain blind to, even as the world browns around us. The tensions rise as privilege is defended. We see it play out in today’s politics and cultural events. 

In America, for a lot of our history, to be born white and male gave advantage to people that they did not work for or earn. In America, white women had advantage via their white male husbands to create a layer of privilege that even without voice or vote, gave them a certain status that was unearned, but enjoyed by many. (Witness: The Help).

As women and people of color found voice there began a push back against systems that protected old status and ingrained privilege, what had been hidden was being revealed, and a new light was shining.

It does not take much to see how privilege works. We are privileged in the court systems. We are advantaged in school choices. Our children will go to the best schools, even if we cheat to get them into those schools. (I will miss Lori Loughlon on Hallmark.)

I have been pondering privilege for years. In eighth grade I read a book, Black Like Me, written by John Howard Griffin, an “American race activist.” It was a seminal book for me. I am not in black skin; I am not a person of color. I was not poor. I was in a good school. The Black Experience is not my experience, yet reading this book about a man who somehow darkened his skin to live the experience of Black people, shaped my early thinking about how much of my own life was not earned, deserved, or chosen. I was born into this.

Privilege cuts across many lines. Race, surely is at the top. But there are also gender, socio-economic, education, and geographical differences that somehow separate us.

I have an example of this. Several years ago, I had a conversation with a white high school friend about the dances we used to have at the Ayden Recreation Center. I told my friend how much I used to enjoy dancing with him and asked him – boldly, 50 years after the fact – “why did you never ask me out on a date?” His response shocked me, “You lived on Terrace Drive. I lived on the other side of the tracks. I could not cross that.” Even where I lived, which I had nothing to do with, had a privilege that separated me from one of the best dancing partners I ever had. How much does privilege continue to separate us one from another?

The conflict that Joe Biden and Kamala Harris had on the debate stage the other night frames the contemporary struggle. I am not going to re-litigate that, but I think what I will say is that it is incumbent for us/ me to recognize the privilege that is mine – as an American, as a white woman, as an educated person, as a person who can afford health care and child care and dental care and groceries and a nice home. This is not all because of my particular goodness or my hard work, or my intellect. This is because I just happened to be born as me. Of course my hard work and good choices enhanced and amplified this, but others work as hard as I and still struggle.

Recognizing how privilege plays into my life, and listening to the pain of those who have little privilege is a step in the right direction. It may be too little too late, but hearing Jesus tell those of privilege, “ those to whom much is given, much is expected,” is a clarion call to action. My life cannot be the free ride of privilege. I am called to right the world that begins at my front door. I pray forgiveness and reconciliation for all people. I pray in hope that one day we all will share God’s abundance as one people.

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Moonstruck


Fifty years ago on July 20, 1969, Neil Armstrong and the Apollo 11 team landed on the moon. I watched all day and night on a small black and white television holding an almost one-month old baby girl in my arms. She has no memory of this night and all the celebration and tears and ticker tapes surrounding the most incredible feat of aerospace development the world had ever seen.

The 1960s were a remarkable time to be alive. Whether you liked them or not, John Kennedy, and Martin Luther King were at work inspiring a generation just off the heels of World War II. The hope of America was rising as at long last the issue of racism was being openly addressed and reckoned with. There were great impulses for righting wrongs and elevating what was best among us.

Women were finding voice; love was in the air and Woodstock was being planned for August of that same summer of ‘69. As a young woman, I remember being more hopeful for a future with peace, love, and justice. I was confident that American ingenuity, hard work, creativity and brilliance would solve problems that would protect the earth, feed the world, and see to it that the goodness and blessing of America would ripple out into all the world, till every child was educated, every person, regardless of color, ethnicity, or gender had voice and safety, education and health care.

What changed from 1969 till now? Hope never fails us, yet hope seems illusive in the rancor and ugliness we see all over the country, and all around the world today, lingering wars, increasing disparity between wealth and poverty, vast division in education. Ignorance grows fear. Fear grows anger. Anger kills hope. Ultimately, all of these differentials of wealth, education, privilege, begin to divide us into our tribes and camps and echo chambers.

Hate is measurably increasing in our country; we even have such conflict in the church we are being driven apart. Somehow, reflecting on the moon landing of 50 years ago has reminded me of the optimism rising in those years after WWII, the war that would end all wars.

I know these years were not the good old days for all people. Too many were still without rights and a share in the American dream; but there were people fighting for them. In those days, the people fighting for full human rights for all people were not called Socialists, they were called justice seekers who worked and lived to right-size the world once and for all. They were people moonstruck with hope that God was in heaven, and humankind was working to conquer the imponderables.

The phase of the moon today is waning Gibbous. She is growing smaller in her cycle of light. But in a little while, she will rise again for us to wish and hope and dream on. We need another small step for humankind, forward into wholeness, healing and blessing for everyone born. Watch the moon tonight. Be moonstruck with renewed hope for who we can be as God’s Beloved.

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Enough Mud

How much mud is there in the world? We seem to find deep pits of it everywhere and we continue slinging it at each other, one blob after another, until we are covered in it and baking it on in the heat of the summer sun. Republicans sling against Democrats; Democrats against Republicans. Alt-Rights against Far Lefts, even now calling each other names like Communists and chanting things like, “Send her home.” The people slinging mud might look like adults, even leaders, but all I see is the mud pit with little children dirtying each other, smearing each other until someone cries or someone gets hurt or snuffed out.

It’s everybody’s fault that we cannot get anything done. Most of our egos are so bloated it’s easier to blame than to fix. What ever happened to serving the common good?

Many people last Sunday in worship heard the story of the Good Samaritan, from Luke 10. One of my clergy colleagues remembered a sermon Bishop Marion Edwards had preached on this text. Read the Text: Luke 10:25 – 37. Bishop Edwards taught that that there were three responses to the man in the ditch: 1. There were the robbers – those who wanted what the man had and took it. 2. There were the Priest and the Levite – those who wanted to keep what they had and not give it to the man who was injured. 3. There was the Samaritan – the one who said, take what I have. I will take care of you.

This morning on my Facebook feed there was a reposting from a person I do not know, but who sounded like the Priest and the Levite in the story. She said, and I quote: “Immigrants, not Americans, must adapt. Take it or leave it. We speak English, not Spanish, Lebanese, Arabic, Chinese, Japanese. Therefore if you want to become part of out society, learn the language. This is not some Christian Right wing political push, because Christian men and women, on Christian principles founded this nation. If God offends you, then I suggest you consider another part of the world as your new home, because God is part of our culture. This is OUR COUNTRY, OUR LAND, AND OUR LIFESTYLE. IF YOU AREN’T HAPPY HERE LEAVE.” End of quote. Actually, this is an edited quote; the rant was longer that what I felt like typing.

I felt mud covered just reading this post. But this is not the only post full of vitriol, mistrust and hate that appear frequently in my social media. The story of the Good Samaritan, alongside the other readings of last Sunday speak to a kingdom where every life is valued, every person welcomed and fed and taken care of. I for one am tired of the mud from the evangelical church, from my state senators, from evangelical Christian leaders who have broad platforms, and from a president who never seems to hit his lowest point. No one owns God; and so far as this land being “ours” first it was God’s. Then it was inhabited by native peoples from the eastern shores of America across the continent who were brown people. We just shoved them over, never learning their language or even their story.

We who are Christian claim to be washed in the Blood of the Lamb and cleansed and born anew in the waters of Baptism until we are clean from the inside out. I pray the life giving water of grace will rinse out our mouths and our hearts until we are right with God and right with each other, like Christ wants us to be. I pray that our silences, our blindness, our vitriol will be washed away and we will be free to be whole people who care for each other and for this fragile creation we all call home.

Dry mud cakes and turns to dust. Dust to dust. Life is too beautiful and too brief to bury each other in the mud. What would a world that lived with generous abandon, abundant forgiveness, acceptance, and fearlessness look like? Maybe it would look like the kingdom of God.

Sent from my iPad

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Slippery Slope Christianity


Over the past weekend, a highly elected North Carolina official preached in the Cornerstone Church in Salisbury, NC. The quote from his sermon that is stirring controversy is this: “No other nation has ever survived the diversity and multiculturalism that America faces today because of lack of assimilation, because of this division, because of this identity politics.” First let me say, I don’t doubt this man’s sincere faith, however misguided it might be. All Americans are given freedom of religion. It’s what our founding fathers wrote in the Constitution.

What gives me pause is that other sincere Christians were sitting in the pews, hearing a message that is not grounded in anything Jesus said, or taught, or lived. And there were probably a few nodding their approval of a speaker who is using a pulpit to begin his campaign for Governor of North Carolina. From what I read of this man’s talk, it seemed all about ginning up distrust for the other, skepticism about multiculturalism, and fear of pluralism.

When hegemonies are lost, people rise up in fear. Historically the hatred that is born of fear manifests itself in nationalism and religious piety that excludes, villainizes, and persecutes any one who threatens status quo power or pushes back at systems that work better for the few than for the many. This is what is going on in America today as people of color, people of gender difference, and women – who have only had voting rights for about 100 years, are rising up to say, not so fast you who would work to disadvantage, silence, or suppress any of us.

For such rhetoric as was preached in the Cornerstone Church in Salisbury, NC, pandering church folk who are just there to praise Jesus, is slippery slope Christianity. Where do we think this will grow the kingdom of God on earth as it is in heaven?

Diversity is God’s design. Just look out the window and see the birds of the air and the plants of the garden and the river that flows right in front of me. The birds fly and sing their own song, the plants bear their unique fruit, the fish and crabs inhabit the same river. All creation, the whole biosphere is diverse, different by design, yet symbiotic and interdependent in its coequal-habitation. To say that nations have not survived diversity is simply not true.

When we look at Japan, Korea, Germany under Hitler, and others who have worked to eliminate diversity, people have experienced great suffering, pain and ultimate loss. So, Mr. Candidate for Governor, and any who preach nationalism and exclusion, how do we speak to a diversity that is edifying for all people, enriching the blessing that is Christianity at its purest and America as its best?

We can love one another as God has loved. We can listen to one another until we hear the cry of the needy. We can seek common ground, realizing that we are all in this life together for better or worse. We can lay down our pride and self-righteous rhetoric.

Sliding down slippery slopes often ends in a crash. I speak from experience. Neither the church nor the government will fare well sliding down slippery slopes that take us off the path of righteousness, fairness, justice, and kindness. Dignity and diversity, acceptance and productive co-existence will grow a truly great America and a truly faithful church. This is more than political; this is life.  

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Lisa is 50


If either of us had died before today, I would not have been able to celebrate this day, the day of my beautiful daughter’s birth. June 26, 1969. I was 23. Tom was on active duty in the National Guard. Water broke. My mother in law took me to Wilson Memorial for what would be a long, hard labor. Spoiler Alert: She was worth it.

When Lisa was born, the Viet Nam War was on. There was an international race to the moon happening. The Civil Rights Movement was moving into high gear. Women’s Liberation was a rising movement. Woodstock and Hippies; big time rock and roll. It was a dynamic, confusing, yet exciting time. This was the world into which Lisa was born.

Lisa almost came out talking. She was engaged and interested in the world from the beginning. She was the prettiest baby in the nursery, perfectly shaped head, beautiful nose and eyes. Bald…mostly, which lasted almost three years. Good thing she had a pretty head.

Her nursery was pale yellow with white trim. We had bought a used crib and rocking chair. Her little dresser was one my family had, painted white with little blue drawer pulls. The curtains I made had little ducks across the hem. Blue throw rugs and a changing table finished the room.

I had never held a newborn baby before. Had only babysat once. It has always been amazing to me that a very well credentialed hospital would send a perfectly good baby home with somebody like me. Fortunately for Lisa, her daddy had done a lot of babysitting. She lucked out there. Even with months of colic, our little family thrived.

We never talked baby talk to Lisa. And she never talked baby talk back. Even as a toddler, she would arrange her dolls in chairs around her little yellow nursery and teach or preach. When she would coax the dolls into singing she would shout, “Now we sing the Shirt Song. Hit it!” She always new lyrics, wrote lyrics, sang with gusto.

Lisa was the best big sister in the world. She was a trustworthy caregiver. She would pick her baby brother up and lay him across an open magazine because she thought he looked bored. All through school, she took care of her brother. Only in the past few years, usually around Thanksgiving, have we heard some of the stories of their high school antics. Statute of Limitations had run out, so telling the stories was OK.

To have a daughter is a blessing. Daughters keep us on our toes. Daughters have magic powers to wrap their daddies around their fingers. Daughters to aging mothers are a growing blessing. I have watched Lisa grow into a wonderful human being who cares about others, her neighbors, her community, her family. She is gifted as a cook, a writer, an artist, a friend, and she can still sing the lyrics of most any tune you name.

On this, her 50th birthday, I give deep thanks to God for letting me be her mama and for giving me years to watch her grow into the person she is today. And I give thanks that she has lived to this her Fifth Decade, which I expect she will know to be her best decade. She is a blessing in the world. Happy Birthday, Lisa. I love you.

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Bible Words


On Thursday night of Annual Conference, Rev. Greg Moore led us through an experience of creating spiritual friendships, showing how such practice works as the basis of new church development. It was pretty amazing that through a few questions and prompts, four strangers could sit in a circle and open themselves in ways that by the end of our time together we knew each other more than just casually. We have even communicated with each other since that initial meeting. Imagine such coming together as people of God.

At the very end of our time together, our last question triggered a response from one of our four that I have thought about and prayed about since last Thursday. Essentially hers was a response of pain in feeling like all the LGBTQ issue had been thrust upon traditional people in hurtful ways. My new spiritual friend asked, “Where is LGBTQ written or even mentioned in the Bible?”

The buzzer rang and our time was over before her question could be unpacked. I expect there are a lot of people like her who have trouble when more is required of their faith than the Bible has words for. Thursday night was not the first time I had encountered this mindset.

Several years ago I was facilitating a labyrinth workshop in a small church in eastern North Carolina. A group in the church wanted to build a community labyrinth on a piece of property where the old parsonage had stood. What was supposed to be a two-hour workshop ended up being like 3 and a half hours of Christian Apologetics that ended only when I called time. The question that night was, “Where is the word labyrinth in the Bible?”

Bible words seem to matter in the Bible Belt. Truth is there are a lot of words that define our faith that are not black and white in the Bible. Trinity is one of them. Sacrament is another word. Confirmation is another and there are a slew of others not written, but lived out in traditions in the church and the ongoing experience of the Living God.

Revelation did not end just because the canon was closed. Through all the ages, God has acted and we have known God’s movement among us. New words and new practices have been incorporated to tell the ongoing story of God as lived out in Jesus. As God’s faithful, we accept that God is not finished inviting and pressing us toward the Kingdom on earth as it is in heaven and we live with joy into that glorious future.

I sat in that little Thursday group in my full regalia as a progressive Christian. My rainbow boa and stole surely were a give-away. My hope is that I was part of a fresh wind that is blowing us toward the love and acceptance of all people, one in the spirit, one in the Lord. The Bible Word that speaks most loudly to me is LOVE. Love for all people and all creation. Welcome the stranger – it’s there in black and white. Love your enemies – yep, that’s printed. Do not be afraid – that one takes up a lot of ink. When Jesus says, “Let us love one another, for love is of God. God is love.” Those are words to live by.

Nels Ferre, a theologian of the 1940s, wrote a little book, The Sun and the Umbrella. Ferre talked about umbrellas we humans put up that block the Light of God. When he talks about the Bible being the umbrella that keeps us from seeing God, I think he is talking about how we use the Bible as an end rather than a means. The Bible is an entry point for hearing the story of God told through faithful hearers.

Bible Words can hurt sometimes. When they do, that is not God’s intent. God’s intent is that all creation be blessed and bathed in grace for the living out of a purpose set forth in the garden. Every living creature is invited to the feast and it’s a big table that’s been set before us.

My prayer is that with open ears and open hearts we will hear what God is speaking today. I pray it is a fresh word for a groaning world, a unifying, healing word that we would all be one.

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June 6


June 6 is my son in law’s birthday. Bless you, Wayne. Happy Birthday! June 6 was also my Mother and Daddy’s wedding anniversary. Smilax and satin marked that day. Mother was young. Daddy was a young VMI graduate. Their marriage was blessing to at least three of us – my brother, my sister, and me. This day, June 6, 2019 is particular as we remember the 75th Anniversary of D-Day.

When Daddy graduated in 1938, he was commissioned a second lieutenant in the US Army, and sent to Georgia in command of a unit of National Guardsmen activated into duty as tensions were mounting in the world between Germany, Italy, Russia and whoever else who had a stake in control of the world. Daddy was young. Not at all a fighter. He had ended up at VMI because his tenure at NC State had resulted in little but movie tickets and he had a father who expected more of him than film literacy.

My brother was born in October 1941. He was an infant when the bombing of Pearl Harbor happened in Hawaii on Dec. 7. Richard was a baby; Mother was a new mother, and honestly a fairly new wife. The war was in full swing and the US Military were now part of it.

When the buildup of troops for the D-Day Operation swung into overdrive, Daddy and his troop were transported by train from their base in Georgia to Fort Dix, New Jersey. There they would undergo final physical exams before loading onto ships headed for Europe.

It was there that Daddy was pulled from the ranks. His rheumatic heart finally caught up with him. His leadership was compromised by his heart murmur. He landed in a hospital somewhere between New Jersey and New York while his company went on to Omaha Beach. His unit had over 100 percent casualties. If Daddy had been there, he would have been one of those casualties. And I would never have been born.

This day of remembrance and thanksgiving for all who sacrificed their lives, their potential, their families, their hopes and dreams – this day always smacks me with realization of the great gift of my own life and the great responsibility of my life to be a peace bearer and truth speaker in every place in every time for as long as I live.

Life hinges on many decisions, little choices that ripple into the ether. War is fraught with failed decisions and poor choices, huge egos and spiritual vacuums. Those who fight our wars are not usually the decision makers. They are just following orders. God be with those who are in harm’s way today. Guide us all into the way of peace. Amen.

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The Debatables


On the wall of the Visitor Center at Fort Frederica National Park hangs a replica map of the southeast coastline of the US circa 18c. To the north are the Carolinas, which are controlled by the English. To the south is Florida, under Spanish control. In the middle of the map is a tiny sliver of coastline, the sliver we now know as the Georgia coastline. It is called: The Debatables.

From the 16c, Spanish missions lined the east coast from Saint Augustine almost to Savannah. Fort Frederica was built to protect Savannah from any attacks coming from the south. The Debatable land was a buffer between two competing cultures. Either the Spanish would ultimately occupy the Debatable land, or the English would. Three centuries later, I think we know who won and who lost the Debate.

Winning the Debatable Land for the English was the goal. Blood was shed. Lives were lost. Losers were routed out. All’s fair, they say.  Who has the biggest guns? The largest bats? The most arrows in the quiver? The debate ends when one side has enough power to take it all.  

Human notions of power always come down the basic ego trap – I win; you lose. The rise and fall of nations reveals this binary existence. The truth is, don’t we all live in Debatable Land? Ownership, wealth, success are false notions and folly as the water rises and the winds roar. We negotiate and fight and rattle sabers and beat chests for that which in the end is not really ours to own.

Rachel Held Evans in her last book, Inspired, talking about the value of understanding Scripture as story, speaks to the issue of debate as that which enlivens conversation in its give and take. People bring different points of view, honing really good questions, agreeing to disagree, eating and drinking, debating and discussing till the wee hours when the debate stands by itself and the debaters carry on their life together.

In a Debatable Land, all voices count. All sides are heard. Every person is a player. All children are fed. All win. Why are we afraid if somebody else wins? Times are changing in this Debatable Land. The path of debate is there for us to walk. It’s time to drop the win/lose game. It’s time to fuel love, not hate. It’s time to seek gentleness and live generosity. It’s time for plowshares and peace among us. It’s time.

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