What I Learned This Seminary Semester

I like to do What I’ve Learned posts periodically, especially during chunks of my life where so much is happening all the time. My life has been like that this semester since we recently moved to a new place, started at a new church, JD has a new job, I started seminary, we are looking for our first house, and now we are getting a new car.

When I imagined moving here, I thought about how uneventful our life would be for a few months because we wouldn’t have many friends or routines, but I was so wrong. I feel like every weekend has been packed with events: traveling, house-sitting, so many dinner dates, house-hunting, concerts, the State Fair, seminars, family get-togethers, etc.

On top of our social life, I started graduate school—a long-time dream of mine, especially seminary, and I’ve gone from being the teacher to being the student again. In a seminary that is very different from the school I taught at for the past 3 years, and very different from my undergraduate experience, my life this semester has been bursting full of challenging ideas and joy and existential crises—all the things you’d expect from seminary.


I began the semester with a post about the permission slips I gave myself as I entered into graduate school, and I have referred back to those slips from time to time over the past few months, mostly when I’ve been feeling defeated or discouraged. I will end the semester with a post about what I have learned in my first semester of graduate school—but it won’t really be about the content I’ve learned because that would be 10,000 words long and you would stop reading soon after this paragraph. But it will be all the other lessons that accompany actual classroom learning.

1. Just because you entertain an idea does not mean you are married to it for life. One of my students last year wrote an essay about a group she was in where they discussed ideas from different religions and philosophies, and she wrote about how enriching that was for her because it gave her a safe place to think about things she had never dared to consider. And she didn’t feel pressured to think one or the other, but she was simply encouraged to think. I thought about that essay a lot this semester, especially during my existential crises.


It gave me permission to allow myself to read controversial theologians without anxiety because no one was going to zap me for reading it; global warming wasn’t going to speed up just because I had considered an idea vastly different than what I thought I believed. Because if I’m going to invest time and money into graduate school, if I’m going to do seminary, then what is the point in being there if I’m not going to go into it fully open?

For my very first essay in theology, I talked with my professor about what I was wanting to write about it, but I was full of anxiety because I wasn’t exactly sure where I landed on the topic, and I didn’t want to say something heretical or untrue of what I believed. He told me that I may not agree with what I wrote two years from now, and that’s okay. I may not agree with it two weeks from now, and that’s okay. This essay was to work out my own theology, and it was just a step in the process, not the end result. That was so freeing to me because it allowed me to take risks without feeling like my house would come crumbling down.


2. Physical activity is a safe place. Going for a walk, working out at the rec center, doing yoga in the living room, taking Lucy to the park—all of these things that require my body to move have been ways to let my mind recharge.


I read for hours every day and think about crazy things (2nd century heresies, process theologians talking plurisingularity, the construction of the Hebrew Bible, and ecofeminism and its connection to theology, to name a few), and when my brain is full, I need to move my body.

I started going to work out right after my classes in order to clear my head, and that has been the best idea I’ve had with how to spend my time. This semester I had a 6 hour stretch between two of my classes, so working out before tackling homework was a good fit. I’m not sure how next semester will bode with time allocation, but I know doing some kind of physical activity will be a part of my schedule.


3. We learn from people not like us, and find out that perhaps we are more alike than we thought. I knew this on an intellectual level going in, but I am surrounded by people who have had very different faith experiences than me (some very similar—shoutout to the all the former Southern Baptists) and who think about God in very different ways. Interacting and taking part in discussion with my peers has made my rate of learning in the classroom exponentially higher.

I learn so much from the discussions with my classmates. 10 years ago Ashley would have been frightened to discuss theology with people who believe so differently, but now it’s like checking out books from the library without reading the back cover and being pleasantly surprised every time.

In these discussions, it’s been beautiful to see how much common ground we have. We may have different worldviews, but our worldviews intersect a lot at places like a desire for peace, a desire for justice, a nerdy fascination with Christianity’s relationship with power in history, compassion for others, mutual love for rockstars like Anne Lamott, and so on.

4. Existential crises are normal, so just breathe and go for a walk. There have been quite a few moments, especially in my first month, in which I walked out of class feeling like I didn’t know which way was up or down. I would lay in bed wondering if everything I knew was a lie and was I even real?

My mind would flash back to a poet I read in 20th century Spanish Literature in college who talked about life as one long dream of God—which meant God was asleep and not paying attention. What was his name again? If you know the poet, let me know.

I cried because it was as though I was floating like a plastic bag through the air (I had always thought that simile was stupid, but I was wrong, Katy Perry. It’s actually quite apt). I cried because I missed my friends and my church and my favorite taco place. I cried in anxiety, in grief, in stress, in exhaustion.


But do you know what was most helpful to me in sliding me along those existential train tracks? Ordinary things like taking Lucy for a walk. Or chopping vegetables. Or folding laundry. Or spending the day outside. In the midst of my plastic bag experience, what brought me back to earth was doing ordinary life things.

5. There should be a day, if possible, when you do not touch your schoolwork. Sometimes, that’s impossible (take Thanksgiving week—so many words to write), but if you can work your schedule out, set aside a day where you can lay in your bed in your pajamas watching Netflix without a shred of guilt. Or you can spend hours with your family and friends because you don’t have to get back to Augustine. Better yet, stay offline so you don’t get worked up about politics or see a Gilmore Girls spoiler.


6. Read something completely disconnected to seminary (which I suppose seminarians could argue that all things are theological, but let’s tune us out for a moment). I’ve read a few novels that never mention God or theology or homework, and they have been good for me. Some things I’ve read: Lila (okay, so this one mentions God) by Marilynne Robinson, The Namesake Jhumpa Lahiri, What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty, Paper Towns by John Green, and Rosie by Anne Lamott.


Next semester, I plan to read through the Harry Potter series. When I start stressing about theories of justice or Pauline arguments, I will retreat to Hogwarts. Nothing bad ever happens there, right?

7. Often it is better to listen, especially when you are new to a conversation. It has been a tough year for all of us. And the last 4 months have been especially disorienting, heartbreaking, challenging, frustrating, etc. With the continued police shootings of unarmed black men and the Trump presidency and all that it means for my friends, I have been able to participate in conversations about race, gender, sexual orientation, privilege, economic and social justice, and oppression. If my mind wasn’t blown by plurisingularities before, it was in these conversations.


The most significant thing I’ve learned is that when I am new to the conversation, it is better to listen. It is better to hear from people who know about these things first hand. It is better to listen to what is said and what is not said.

I have bought a stack of books recommended from these conversations and read articles and blogs that my friends post because I want to know more. I have the privilege to stay ignorant, but I don’t want to.

I have also been a part of many conversations about faith, God, tradition, and scripture in which the views being discussed are new to me. Sometimes I want to say, “But I know the right answer!”

But more often, I want to remember that perhaps there is more than one right answer. Perhaps being right is not what matters. Perhaps there is no right answer. Perhaps I don’t understand what right means. Perhaps I don’t get to decide what is right. Perhaps I don’t understand the conversation if I care about being right. Perhaps this conversation is not a problem or a question that requires an answer. So I listen.


There were many things I learned this semester, but I will end at 7 because it’s a holy number, and I make lots of nerdy theological jokes like that now.

Closing a Chapter

JD and I moved away recently from our people in Austin, away from our church, away from the place that we twirled around in joy over babies that we subsequently lost. I struggled with how I was supposed to leave a place that felt connected to the short lives I had held, how I was supposed to “move on”, whatever that means.

As a culture, we are not very good with ritual. We don’t mourn well. We are often uncomfortable with grief, shifting from side to side, waiting for tears to stop and sniffles to cease. Because of this, there’s not really a way to mourn the loss of a baby in utero. Part of this is because there’s debate over when life begins. Part of it is because women experience the loss differently. Part of it is because we are a culture that is shiny and perfect, and things like miscarriage mess with that image. It doesn’t fit into the cultural narrative that dictates much of our life.

But that doesn’t stop us from desiring meaning in our losses, for needing a way to mark a loss. It just means we’re not good at it.

I wanted to share what I’ve done to mark the losses because I know (personally and based on statistics) that many women experience miscarriages. As I’ve shared about mine on the blog, I’ve been astounded by the amount of people who have said, “Me, too.” For some reason, I feel compelled to write about my miscarriages on a public blog, but not everyone shares it with their Facebook world, so to get this response is humbling, heartbreaking, and unifying. These little lives have changed our lives, whether we talk about them or not. I have chosen to talk about them, and I wanted to share the ways I’ve marked their presence in my life.


The first memorializing thing I did was a write a letter to my babies. I did it one Saturday morning before JD woke up, and it took me ten minutes to write the word goodbye. I sobbed about as hard as that first night that I lost them. In the letter, I shared memories of telling JD I was pregnant. I told them that we had planned to raise them American-Hungarian, so they would have been weirdos in both countries. I told them how much I missed them, how much I loved them.

For a few days after I finished, I didn’t feel much better. I thought it was going to be some magical spell that made me feel ready to move on with my life, but that’s not what happened. I just felt like I had a hangover.

But it was an important marker because I had acknowledged in writing, in something I could hold onto, that they existed and mattered to me. That they still matter. That they are a part of our family story, and I will not forget them.

This opened the door for further exploration of marking these losses, so I eventually decided to get a tattoo. I struggled with whether this was impulsive, but after discussing at length with JD and my therapist, I felt like it was what I wanted to do to carry them with me. I realize not everyone is up for ink, but I had already had a tattoo, so this was not much of a stretch for me. I bounced around a couple of ideas, but I finally settled on a wild poppy flower.


When JD and I were in Greece, we visited a place of ancient magic, Delphi. It was a sports arena, a temple to the gods, a place of freedom for slaves, and a stop for the wanderers with questions People went there to ask oracles their most important questions, and instead of getting an answer or advice or a fortune, they received a riddle. Their answer was open for interpretation and ambiguity, just like poetry. This response to deep, dark questions was what I was seeking, too, more than a pat answer or Bible verse.

We ran our fingers over the stone walls that held contracts assigning slaves over to be slaves to the gods. The idea was that if you freed a slave, people could just enslave them again. But if you gave a slave over to the gods, they could not be enslaved by someone else, and lucky for the slaves, the gods were not known for calling up their slaves for duty. Essentially, these slaves were free women and men.

On our trek up Delphi’s hill, the lush green surrounded us and we gazed up at the fog-obscured mountaintops, trying to envision the gods looking down on us. As we walked, we found a lone, red poppy flower. I snapped pictures of it, I wrote a poem about it, I stared at its black eye, begging for a riddle. It was thin, papery, delicate. This little wildflower was juxtaposed with the mighty ruins of Greece, and with these images, this place burrowed itself into our hearts.

Thus, the poppy tattoo. I put it on my arm, so that when I do finally carry a baby of my own, I will be carrying my other babies, too.


This was the second marker.

Finally, I knew that a few days before we moved, I had to pass through my first due date. With my first pregnancy, my due date was June 26. With my second, October 11. JD and I brainstormed one evening a few days before the first date what we should do to remember them. What was “us”? What was something that we could find meaningful and intimate in our remembrance of these lost would-be lives?

We settled on lighting a single candle (wild poppy scent) and playing the few songs I had listened to over and over right after the miscarriage. We cried together in the darkness, and mourned what would have been on that day.


After these three things, I don’t feel like I am suddenly ready to move on with my life. I don’t feel much stronger when I see pregnancy announcements, or big baby bellies, or little, wiggly bodies with their little toes and little fingers.

But I feel like I have marked my babies’ presence in my life. I have said, “You were here. You changed me. I am different because you existed. I will not forget you.” It was important for me to be able to say those things in some form or another.

This is probably the last post I will dedicate to talking about my miscarriages, but I felt like it was an important one on which to end.  Not everyone grieves a miscarriage or a loss like I have, and not everyone will mark theirs in the same way, but this is what I’ve found to be comforting and meaningful. Just like a memorial service marks the passing of a great life, so these small things have marked the passing of these small, yet significant would-be lives.

If you have a lost a baby, what have you done to mark their passing? How have you remembered them?

Permission Slips: Graduate School


When we moved back to Texas after living in Arkansas for a few years, I needed to change my driver’s license. I had let it expire in Arkansas, and since we were moving to Texas soon anyway, I didn’t do anything about it. Then I dragged my feet in going to the DMV, and so when I finally sat down in front of the DMV clerk to get it changed, my license had been expired for an embarrassing amount of time. I wasn’t too worried because I had let my license expire once in Texas when I was in high school, and nothing happened when I went to renew it except a scolding, so I expected to waltz out with a new license, having not learned my lesson.

However, as I looked around while the clerk entered my information, I was unprepared for what it meant to let my license expire across state lines. Because my license was from another state and it had expired, the clerk informed me that not only would I have to retest for my license, I would also have to attend Drivers Ed. DRIVERS ED. I felt the dread sink from the top of my head down to the pit of my stomach. I taught sophomores, and many of them were learning how to drive, and all I could think of was that I would be classmates with my students. I was a new teacher that year, and I was desperately trying to prove myself. I pleaded with this clerk, who had been transfigured into the one person who could save me from humiliation and hours of boredom: what about my Texas license that existed before the Arkansas license? Isn’t there anything we could do?

I’m happy to report that she was an angel of mercy that day because even though technically we couldn’t use the Texas license, we did, and all I had to do was get my picture taken to be issued a new license. May the Lord rain down blessings on her for the rest of her life. May my pride and procrastination be cursed to hell.

Of course, this story could be framed as a lesson for not making assumptions, for doing things in a timely manner, for extending people grace, for pride going before a fall, etc. But to me, it’s a moment in which the hierarchy of authority with my students almost became flat before I was ready for it. I was almost a classmate to a group that I was supposed to be in charge of and imparting wisdom upon and bestowing knowledge on, etc. I think back to this moment as I sit here on a Saturday morning, getting ready to begin some pre-homework for class in the coming week.

I begin a graduate program on Monday. Many of my seniors from last year will begin their first year of college on Monday, too. Former students will begin their second and third years of college, and they probably feel like old pros at this point, which makes my 26-year-old self feel a little old.

I’ve been reflecting on this parallel course with some of the best 18-year-olds I know for the past few weeks. As a new student again, I feel small and bright-eyed and timid.

I stare at my campus map looking for the right office and I consider getting new rain boots as I step into another puddle.

I search Amazon for the cheapest book option and I stand alongside 7-year-olds at Target as I choose a pencil bag.

I twiddle my thumbs and try not to stare at my phone compulsively so that I can look welcoming for a new friend.

I wonder about making friends.

About class discussions (I’m used to being the facilitator, not a participant, and I suddenly regret making the quiet chime in over the past few years).

About looking stupid.

My mind reels from the deluge of information and interactions at orientation, and I chatter incessantly to JD about the things I’m excited about and nervous about, and I wonder if I will be able to fall asleep on Sunday night. The hierarchy has finally become flat.

Last Christmas, I read Brene Brown’s newest book, Rising Strong, and in it, she talks about writing herself permission slips for certain seasons of her life. I latched onto this idea the moment I read it, and I wrote permission slips for myself for grieving, for teaching, for moving to a new place.

They have been significant in letting myself feel my feelings instead of saying to myself, “You shouldn’t feel this way! You shouldn’t do that!” It is good to come back to these slips in the midst of stress and noise and deadlines because they hearken me back to the time of hopefulness and perspective and stillness.

Now, I write permission slips for beginning graduate school. I think these apply to undergraduate school, too, and as I type out, “I give myself permission to look stupid,” I think warmly of my students, especially the ones who may be afraid to get a B in a class, or afraid to speak up in a heated class discussion, or afraid to raise their hand and give an answer they are unsure of.

It’s okay to be afraid. You can still be brave if you feel afraid.

So for new students, for those who are beginning something new, for myself, here are my permission slips:

I give myself permission to…

Be really nerdy (color-coded notes? Yes, please. Giddy laughter over readings? For sure).

Get to class early.

Not know the answer.

Feel stupid.

Be wrong.

Change my mind.

Fail big time.

Fail little time.

Be uncertain of my belief.

Look up big, fancy terms that my classmates or professors may use.

Be myself.

Be an introvert.

Find other introverts.

Practice being an extrovert from time to time.

Connect with others instead of compete with them.

Speak up.

Stay quiet (but not forever!).

Remember fear is normal.

Remember being brave means showing up and trying, even if I still feel afraid.

“Remember ego feels pushy and afraid, and calling feels kind and free” (Emily Freeman)

Remember everyone is coming from a million different places and respect that.

Study things that intimidate me.

Cry when I’m stressed out.

Make mistakes, and then apologize.

Set things aside when I need to rest.

Listen to my body for cues.

Take naps.

Take care of myself through exercise, sleep, down time, coffee, chocolate, puppy time, etc.

Binge-watch Netflix when I’m tired.

Try new things, even if I end up not liking them.

Stutter when I get excited.

Ask a million questions.

Verbally process things.

Let ideas stew inside for awhile.

Get a B in a class.

Be frustrated.

Make unlikely friends.

Make likely friends.

Take time making friends.

Freak out, but then calm down.

Be honest.

Be vulnerable with safe people.

Wait for safe people.

Take a moment to accept myself instead of hustling for approval.

Be gentle with myself when I fail, fall, rush, shame, or frustrate myself.
May we give ourselves permission to be human and to experience new things in our own way. May we not lose ourselves in the waves of change, but rather learn how to swim. May we be patient and gracious with ourselves always.

Permanent Markers

The first year I taught in Austin, I had a chalkboard. I felt like it was a rite of passage—chalk on my pants, in my nose, on my books, and occasionally on the board. Then at the beginning of my second year, I got whiteboards—glorious, shiny, used, dirty whiteboards. I didn’t care that I had to put two whiteboards together to make a reasonably good size board. I didn’t care that the left side had a three-inch tear or that the right side was covered in scrubbed permanent marker stains. They were not chalky. They smelled of Expo. They were mine.

My third year began—the year that you think you’ve got everything figured out (ha!), and the day before school began, I stared at the right side of my board and thought, “What kind of moron used permanent marker on a white board? What kind of idiot thought it would be wise not to read the one word on the marker that could have prevented this mess?” I huffed elitist-ly and organized my syllabi and went home, ready for my year of saving the world and inspiring every single student Robin Williams style.

The next day was a blur as all first days are. I wore heels, so my achilles was blistered, and I drank too much coffee, so my hands were shaky, but I was having a great time giving the “I don’t take no crap from nobody” speech (don’t worry—I didn’t say crap or use a double negative). I wrote reminders on the board with a fancy new, blue marker, the smell of First Day jitters and fear filling the room. As the last student shuffled out with a nervous giggle, I patted myself on the back for a job well done. This year would be a breeze. These kids would stay in line. They would never dare to cross me and all the parents would respect me. I am teacher, hear me roar!

Around 6:30 pm, I started gathering my things and remembered I needed to change the information on the board for the next day. I slipped off my shoes for one last heel stretch, and started running the eraser over the board until I realized with horror what I had done. The shiny, blue marker I had used to write things like “No late work!” and “Happy First Day of School!” was in fact a permanent marker. Here I was, the moron, the idiot.

I started sliding the eraser frantically over the markings, trying to recall all the Pinterest posts about permanent markers but I was drawing a blank, which unfortunately was not happening on my board. I summoned the help of the teacher next door, googled remedies, and scrubbed until my arm was sore. The markings, while dulled, were still very clear all over the board. I gulped, wiped some sweat off my brow, and went home.

The next day before the first bell rang, I pondered what I would say to the kids about the board. They would notice it, I knew. Should I blame someone else? Should I make a joke out of it? Should I offer bonus points for the person able to get the marker off? I shook my head. I knew what I was going to do.

As the first class settled into their seats, I reminded them of the speech from the day before: I expect excellence. I don’t take no crap. Then I pointed to the board and told them what happened—the smug feeling of a new marker, the horror as I was about to walk out the door, the sore arm and rolodex of excuses.

And then I said this:

“If you are worried about messing up this year, about failing big time, about looking like a fool, don’t worry. You won’t be the first one. I have made the first mistake for you. I have looked like a fool first—we still have the very public evidence of it staring you in the face. If you are wondering what will happen if you make a mistake, I’ll tell you right now. I will point to the board. Don’t worry about making a wrong move or looking stupid. I have done it first for all of us.”

The kids, in true teenager fashion that many teachers will tell you about in tears, nodded their head empathetically and said things like, “It’s okay, Mrs. Dargai. It was an honest mistake. The blue actually looks really nice. I’ll look up how to fix it. What’s the lesson today?”

As the students filed out that day, I realized that this was it. The board, the markings, the speech, the responses. This was grace.

When Love Helps Clear the Fog


My feet shuffle across the kitchen floor as I reach for coffee and make my way to the table. It’s early Saturday morning, the neighborhood is lazy in bed, quietly holding reverence for the sacred weekend. He’s still sleeping—we sometimes laugh that our college selves would not believe that 9 AM is a glorious Saturday sleep-in.

It’s chilly—we left the A/C on too high last night, and now the windows have fogged up. June mornings were still bearable, but July mornings become too hot too quickly. Lucy, tail wagging as always, presses her nose against the glass door to the backyard, confused why she can’t see out the window. The fog obscures her sight, and she runs to the front window to check out the garbage truck. Her frustrated whine tells me that she can’t see out that window either.

The morning after a big fight leaves my mind foggy. My eyes are swollen from tears—fight tears, grief tears, fear tears—and my head hurts worse than an all-nighter. I let the steam rise from the mug, wafting into my nose as I gaze at the wet window, thinking about all the things we said to each other in the darkness of the night.

When it’s dark and late and your life was pummeled this year and all you see is one big moment of transition in the next, the fear is great, the hopeless panic a slick water slide to Despair Falls.

The sleep was short and fitful, my eyes angry and my nose blocked as the sun woke me up. I pretend for a moment, at the table with Lucy’s head on my lap, that I’m the only one that exists. That I have no contact with the outside world because I can’t see them and they can’t see me. The fog blocks our views, and I’m in the house by myself. I find a little comfort in thinking that I’m safe, if only for a moment.

Nothing has felt safe. People get divorced over fruitless baby attempts, but we have fought hard to hold onto each other. My body feels like a death trap, and my future as obscured as the backyard through the fog-filled window. What will become of us? I wondered through the night.

Some nights I scour the internet reading about my chances to deliver a healthy baby, and other nights I drown out my fear with one more episode. Every night, he waits for me, with me. He holds my hand and strokes my hair. If he’s scared, he doesn’t say anything.

This stretch of time in our lives feels like a leg of a trip, and we’re unsure when we’re taking off for the next leg. We’re just wandering around the airport, trying to find signs that we understand, dragging our bags behind us, trying to keep in good spirits, wondering if we’re going to be able to sit down and take a breath soon. But we’re holding hands. He won’t let go—there’s a fierce grip telling me that he’s not letting me get lost and we’re not going to get separated from each other, and even if we wander the airport for the rest of our lives, we’ll wander together.

I sip my coffee slowly as I consider this metaphor, stroking Lucy’s head as the fog begins to fade away on the windows. I can hear him stirring in the room, and when he opens the door, as I predicted, he walks the long way around the table so he can touch my arm on his way to the coffeepot. We are are going to be okay.

My Choices as a White Woman

I am a middle-class white woman, and I live a life of privilege because of the color of my skin. I have never been followed around in a store. I have never been called a hateful, derogatory name pertaining to my skin color and culture. And I have never, ever feared that a police officer would kill me.

Because of something I have no control over, I am afforded with choices:

1. I can choose to protect vehemently my privilege and imaginary superiority. By doing this, by claiming that all those black men killed were disobeying the law, or that none of the police officers were at fault, or that we don’t know the whole story, or that everyone in prison deserves to be there, or that those black people should pull themselves up by their bootstraps, I am no better than the screaming bouffant-haired women in the photos from Little Rock Central High School on the day of desegregation. I am no better than the many people who put their kids into white-flight schools when black children integrated with white children. I am no better than the supporters of the policemen who used dogs and fire hoses to shoot down protests and enforce ungodly laws of segregation and prejudice and hate. I am no better than the cross burners and face-spitters of the bell-bottomed era (and if we’re honest, the current era in some parts of the country).

If I choose this option of vitriol, I am choosing ignorance and hate and violence. I am cultivating a culture that pulls the trigger in the face of innocent black men. I am supporting a justice system that puts black men in jail for offenses that white kids commit as rites of passage with impunity. I am supporting death rows with innocent and/or unlawfully charged men and women. These are the consequences of my choices.

2. I can choose to be silent in the wake of racially-motivated violence because it doesn’t affect me or my closest friends or most of my neighborhood. By doing this, by scrolling quickly over the videos and hashtags, by keeping my mouth shut and my mind closed to discourse, I am no better than the many white folks who tell their kids to stay close because there’s a black man nearby. I am no better than the Christian schools who provided safe haven to the white children during desegregation and who barred people of color from admission to their universities. I am no better than the people who sat in the diners and averted their eyes when sneering men and women spit and shoved the black men and women at the counters. I am no better than those who remained silent when the policemen used brutality and cruel, inhumane methods to remove black men, women, and children off properties. I am no better than the people who saw the cross burnings and never said a word of comfort or sympathy or solidarity to their black neighbors.

If I choose this option of passive silence, I am choosing ignorance and cowardice and injustice. I am cultivating a culture that ignores the many, many videos detailing unlawful police action. I am supporting segregation, unbalanced scales, and oppression. I am supporting the status quo of racial profiling and thickly drawn lines of hate and prejudice. These are the consequences of my passive choices.

3. Or in my place of privilege, I can choose to use my voice to call out from the wilderness for justice and protection for my black friends. By doing this, by claiming that black lives matter just as much as my life matters, just as much as police lives matter, I can join others to help tip the scales of justice back to even keel. I can stand, hand-in-hand, face-to-face, side-by-side with those who are routinely profiled, systematically imprisoned, and tragically killed. I can say, “This is not right. I condemn these racially-biased actions. I call out these prejudicial words and laws and court judgments for what they are.” I can open my eyes to see that when we advocate for the the lives of minorities–Hispanic, Black, Muslim, Asian—we change all lives.  I can proclaim the hard message that we suffer when we’re oppressed, but we also suffer when we are oppressors.  We were not made to be tyrants, to live lives of privilege over others, of prejudice and hatred and fear.  When we wield our privilege around like a weapon or a shield, the poison spills onto us, too.

If I choose this option, I am choosing solidarity, unity, love, justice, equal pay, equal rights, equal enforcement of laws, courage, community, life, etc. I am cultivating a culture of accountability for all and justice for all. I am supporting racial integration and reconciliation. I am knocking down the status quo of racism and painting over the lines of hate with a sign that says, “You are my friend.” These are the consequences of my choices. But I have to actively make a choice.

And how cowardly I am if I choose not to defend my neighbor.  How shameful it is not to care that my neighbor is suffering and dying and living in fear at the hands of others.  How ungodly it is of me to not step in front of my neighbor and say to the oppressor, “No more.”

Communion Thoughts: This

Yesterday, JD and I shared meditations one last time at our beloved church. We move on Thursday, and we wanted to be able to say goodbye to the collective church. I mean, there’s a reason we drove 30 minutes downtown each Sunday to see people that live on the other side of Austin. Here’s what we said.



On our first day at church, it took us 30 minutes to get out of the auditorium—not because this place was so crowded that we were elbowing our way through a mob, but rather because so many people made a beeline for us to introduce themselves because we were new.

Over the course of our time here, we studied what it meant to be an apprentice to Jesus, and we shared our stories and our doubts with one another in the ever-changing balcony class.

We experienced hospitality from many members, whether it was a shared bowl of edamame at Pei Wei, or it was the exquisite cuisine and company of famed cooks in the congregation.

They celebrated with us in our great joys of new jobs and pregnancies. And then they mourned with us when we lost our babies, and they held sacred space for us to grieve by showing up at the hospital to hold our hand, coming over to bring us dinner, texting us every day to check in.

In a similar way, as Jesus reclined at the Table with his friends, they celebrated Passover, they reminisced about their adventures together, and Jesus prepared for the most difficult part of his journey. It was that night that he held up the bread and the wine and said, “Do this in remembrance of me.”

He took these common sacraments from the Table to symbolize a broader moment. When he said, “Remember this,” he wasn’t just talking about the taste of the wine.

He was saying remember how we cared for one another…

remember how we shared meals together…

how we walked miles together…

how we live side by side, hand in hand together.

Remember this moment where we are all here together.

Today, we raise our glasses in celebration of what the Table of God has looked like to us here.

As we leave our sweet church, and share this meal with other members of God’s family, we will remember this.