What if the storm rages on?

Reflecting on the gospel/lectionary reading (above) this week, I wrote down this: 

I don’t think faith is being unmoved by the storm—I think faith is being willing to acknowledge that there is a storm. 

Time and time again in scripture, in countless myths and holy books, in our favorite movies, and books and songs; the moment that a main character becomes a hero, or at least becomes the protagonist/main character, is when they have the courage to acknowledge that there is a problem, and that it is bigger than they can fix on their own. 

One of the things faith has taught me is that the problem is always bigger than me; pain, suffering, struggle, injustice, death, rejection. But in acknowledging the largeness of something, we also acknowledge our piece in being able to confront it—and the first step to confronting any problem, is recognizing that a part of it (or most of it) may be out of our control. 

While Jesus is arguably the main character in the gospels of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, as he dies and raises and leaves the earth, the person “calming the waves and the wind” is gone. Initially, that thought scares me; because the parachute, the last ditch button to fix-all, has left. 

Even after a miracle happens, or joy breaks through pain, the answers to our problems become less simple, less near to us. But faith calls us to recognize them anyway; to call to God in the midst of the storm, to ask for “peace”. 

And then, faith calls for *us* to be the protagonist—the main character. 

In a world that is as muddled as our own, and as scary as the times we are in now, sometimes “being the main character” doesn’t look so heroic; grieving; crying; saying hello to someone on the street; challenging the racism, or transphobia, or homophobia, or judgment of others in our own hearts. Sometimes “being the main character” looks like joining marches or protests; other times it looks like being present in the moment we are in, quiet and honest, with the people around us. 

Many times, our response to pain and injustice aren’t the same as Jesus, because we aren’t Jesus—we can’t feed the 5,000, or raise someone who unjustly died from the dead. We can’t make a man walk, or calm the storm. 

But if we hold to the truth that there is God in us—truth, goodness, love, and hope—and if we believe Jesus’ greatest act was coming to earth as a manifestation of God, then maybe our biggest act as “people of faith” is being here, with people, the same way God was. 

The presence of God (love, joy, kindness, sorrow, justice, hope) in us is irrefutable. We are endowed with the longing to be present for those around us, and for ourselves; in joy, in pain, in justice, in hope.

Even if this is our only miracle—even if the storm rages on and no one says “Peace!” to the wind, or “Be still!” to the waves—even if our only “gift” or help, is being present in the pain, while the wait seems endless and the anguish continues, perhaps this is the greatest miracle of all.

Grace and peace in any pain, joy, sorrow, or hope you feel this week.

May love and truth meet you there—to sit, to rest, to act, to stand up—even if the storm rages on.

Gay...or Christian?

Two years ago, I wrote the post below (and filmed the spoken word above), fearing a lot and hoping for a lot more. I felt the need to come out in something more public because of the leadership and faith I had in and to the Christian church, and to Jesus specifically. 

It's been a wild few years, but I will say what's scary now, isn't whether there's space for me -- it's what I will do with the space I've made for myself, and the space others have made for me. 

Here are links to a few other posts from that time, in case they're helpful.

1. I came out too soon--and too late (and why that's okay)
2. FAQs + TYs + Why I Felt Safe Going To Church Today
3. On #NationalComingOutDay (2017)

With love and brownies and probably ice cream too, 

Lauren

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April 15th, 2016:

My  name is Lauren, and I love chocolate. I love wearing black lace dresses, and climbing fences in my white high tops; I love seeing how people find hope in darkness. My name is Lauren, and I am also queer/gay/not straight (among many other things, as we are much more than the boxes we create for ourselves).

My life goal? To stand/sit/cry/laugh/speak with others in their darkest moments; and if I'm lucky, to do the same in the joyful ones. Currently, I am trying to stand/sit/cry/laugh/speak for and with myself.

Light could not come into closet, so I'm stepping out. 

With love and all the other gooey stuff, 

Lauren

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Also, here's my "it's going to be okay" playlist. Because it's going to be okay.

BOOK RELEASE!

Our book is finally here! The US Edition has officially released today, and we invite you to engage with our stories, our hope, and our communal journey as a body of believers. 

Link here for more information, or find us on Amazon and at Barnes&Noble. 

The Way We Talk About Civil Disobedience Matters

An act of civil disobedience is powerful. 

It refutes laws that are unjust. It disobeys in protest. It calls out injustice. 

And.

When we talk about civil disobedience, the way we talk about it matters as much as the act itself.  What is its history? Who practiced it? Why did they practice it?

Henry David Thoreau took part in civil disobedience in 1846, and went to jail (he wouldn't pay poll taxes, because of his opposition to the Mexican–American War and slavery). He represented a minority/outside-voice, and used nonviolent action (and arrest) to show it.

The Boston Tea party was an act of civil disobedience, and one of the acts that sparked the beginning of the United States. Members of the colony of Massachusetts snuck onto a British shipped and literally dumped all the cargo (tea from England) overboard. Why? Because they didn’t want to pay taxes to a power that did not hear, know, or see them. 

The very fabric of this nation of immigrants, the United States of America, was built on the civil disobedience of a minority, to a major power. That is our history. 

Some things to note, as we look at a few more examples.

The Women’s Suffrage Movement (mid-1800s to 1920) was also built on civil disobedience. Women marched, took part in hunger strikes, and went to jail. The Underground Railroad, with some of the most famous conductors being Harriet Tubman and Frederick Douglass, is another prime example of civil disobedience, which continued operating until the end of the Civil War (1865).

Let’s stop and consider something. The “Women’s Suffrage Movement” began when Harriet Tubman (in the 1850s) and The Underground Railroad was in full operation. 

Question: Whose “Women’s Suffrage Movement” was it in the 1850s?

Answer: White women. 

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Question: Whose “Women’s Suffrage Movement” was it *not* in the 1850s?

Answer: Black women. (Or Black people, for that matter.)

When white women in the United States were (admirably) fighting for the right to vote, black women were fighting for the right to live; literally, for the right to be free (eat, breathe, and work on their own time, let alone vote).  

Here is a blindspot I want to point out (which many of us are aware of in theory, but not in practice):

In the United States (and many places in the world), humanity for white folks (or those that can pass as white) comes first; and the humanity of black and brown folks comes last. 

Okay, Lauren. You made a point about race in the United States. Who cares? 

Well, the point above is important; not for our past, but for our present. 

It is important for my white, progressive, advocacy-hype friends (me included); for those showing up at your local community's actions; for those wanting to advocate and be present for the marginalized folks they show up for*, read ahead.  

Getting arrested for a few hours, I’m sure, is a scary thing; I haven't been, so I can't say. But I imagine it is an uncomfortable experience, and a world many have never seen; it is a fear of permanency in loss of image, or tainting of record. This is an important experience to process for anyone practicing civil disobedience. 

But the act of participating in civil disobedience for black and brown folks vs. white and white-passing folks is inherently different.** History tell us this.

As white and white-passing folks, we must remember that our place of solidarity and action-taking is not for the story, or self-fulfilling feelings. For many, a few hours in jail is all that must be endured. Processing happens. You sit. You leave. 

But the experience is different for non-white folks. The story of racism in the US and its part in the enslavement, lynchings, killings, and now imprisonment of an outrageous amount of black and brown folks, is close. The stories of routine traffic stops turning into last words. The stories of segregated bathrooms and schools (stories that are barely fifty years old - the age of some of our parents). 

This does not mean that our hope and action is bad; but it means we are offered an extra moment of recognition and solidarity. And in that, we are engaging with the truth that (again) life and action in the United States is not the same for everyone. 

The way we tell our stories matters. The way we engage with our advocacy—and the reason behind our advocacy—matters. 

Because civil disobedience for white and white-passing folks again reveals the privilege of whiteness in the United States. It offers us the chance to stand with our siblings in action, but it also offers us a moment to consider how much more actions like these could cost them. 

It offers a moment of communal understanding, where we stand together, take hands, and walk forward—offering our body for our sibling’s, and remembering that this act (in and of itself) reveals a privilege, and broken system***, we must acknowledge. 

_________________________________________________________

Notes (marked above by "*"):

*POC events and things are not for white folks' consumption or disengaged entertainment. We get invited to spaces (if we do), because we are trusted to know that this may be a sacred place, that we are visitors, and that we (as white folks) get to take part only if we are invited. 

**We must always remember that while nonviolent action may seem the highest ideal for people of a particular faith, the pain and trauma which create a need for more physical action are real and true as well, and they are a result of prior violence inflicted, and an attempt to create equity from said-violence. 

***More intricacies reveal themselves within this broken system that bring nuance to the conversation of race and oppression in the United States, which were not included in the discussion above. Some of these include class, sexual identity, and gender identity.

Church: The Dangers of Insulation, The Joys of Inclusion

I often hear churches talk about their spiritual communities and friend groups as if they are islands we’re meant to build our lives on. 

I’d like to challenge that notion (and offer a hopeful addition to it).

Let me be clear before I start: I think we stand for similar things. This includes a solid community of faith folks; people to pray with, who sometimes share our particular faith (or do not), and who stand for similar goals of communal justice and redemption.

But too often, this is where the message ends.

It is left within the context of bible studies and Sunday church meetings, or Saturday service projects; but is this form of moving through the world still a closed one?

Does it move through the world with [church] walls blocking a full view of the state of the people around us, and their needs, hurts, and hopes? Are those outside of the “community” merely apart of a dutiful mission, and not instead a mutual, equally beneficial, and intentional community too? 

We don’t always see a protest or a community forum meeting as a form of prayer or faithful action. We don’t always see Black activists or DACA protests as their own sermons; we don't always see these things as necessary in our human embodiment and existence as faithful people; as something to listen to and commune with and take part in. We don’t always see these things as their own space of bible-study, of prayer, of a kind of living faith, and not a compartmentalized form of belief. 

Moving through the world with church walls and stained glass windows stacked around our bodies misses the experience of Jesus in the everyday, in the very depths of who we are as human beings - created for love and service and justice; something found in every person—Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Mormon, Atheist, Agnostic. There is, absolutely, an image-bearing beauty in all people, which reflects truth and hope embodied (the kind we find in our own holy scriptures).

If we are not aware of those around us—the people outside of our bible studies and service days and Sunday mornings—we are missing the continuation of the Gospel as it breathes today; which I deeply believe, is an interfaith experience and movement toward service, justice and inclusion. 

Insulated existence misses the point. And I think it misses Jesus.

Is your neighbor, your brother, sister, sibling, only those who profess Jesus’ name? Is your neighbor the activist fighting for families that aren’t heard? Is your neighbor the homeless man, more than a Saturday project? Is your neighbor the atheist person who—like the rest of us—wants a friend to commune and talk deeply with (not in a church)? Is your neighbor someone who wants to be heard, and not spoken at? Is your communion limited to the blood and bodies that you understand? 

Whose blood and body are you willing to stand with?

These are questions and challenges as much to me, as they are to you.

While Jesus had a stable group of people, his stable group was not the point, or the goal. They didn’t define his ministry, or the people he was drawn to. Jesus sought out and spent time with those who were not the religious or outwardly faithful. 

Jesus’ life was built around and a commentary based on those who were outside these traditional religious and social groups. And yes; the disciples followed him. But where did Jesus, himself, actually *go*? Who did he seek to surround *himself* with, as he moved from place to place, need to need, group to group?

His life and words are a testament to the dangers of insulation, and the joys of inclusion. The dangers of an insulated group, and the joys of love and fellowship without stipulation.

Take that however you will. 

Jesus continually challenged the borders of the social and spiritual church, and stepped over lines. He spent most of his time with people who were not considered worthy by any religious or social institutions. 

Where would Jesus be today? How would he spend his weeks? Though I think he may stop by a bible study every so often, (and certainly spend time in prayer and silence), I also believe he’d be marching; engaging with community social groups and forums; eating dinner with the supposed “faithless”.

I end with this scripture.

Luke 11:42-45: 

“Woe to you Pharisees, because you give God a tenth of your mint, rue and all other kinds of garden herbs, but you neglect justice and the love of God. You should have practiced the latter without leaving the former undone.

Woe to you Pharisees, because you love the most important seats in the synagogues and respectful greetings in the marketplaces.

Woe to you, because you are like unmarked graves, which people walk over without knowing it.”

One of the experts in the law answered him, “Teacher, when you say these things, you insult us also."

Jesus replied, “And you experts in the law, woe to you, because you load people down with burdens they can hardly carry, and you yourselves will not lift one finger to help them.

Woe to you, because you build tombs for the prophets, and it was your ancestors who killed them. So you testify that you approve of what your ancestors did; they killed the prophets, and you build their tombs.

Simple Kind of Love

Oftentimes, the weight of life seems to overtake the freedom.

Love can feel like a distraction from the awful things happening in the world; it may be used as a tactic to subdue and turn away. But love is also moving things forward. It is inextricably tied to justice, and in this way, it can be the most active and political thing in the world.

Love is the way we counteract fear; love is the way we stand to hate. 

It is not flimsy, it is not tepid, though at times, it is scared; but love moves forward anyway.

At it's best, love is the loudest (and most subtle) thing in the room.

Find my friend's video/song below to see freedom outweigh the fear and hate. Consider what role love (romantic, platonic, communal) plays in your resistance, your existence, and your thriving.  

Latinx Female Theologians: Finding a Mirror

Information like this is often easily overlooked, lost, or altogether forgotten.

This article gave me energy and hope; it is a list of Latinx Female Theologians. Two of them were Cuban women. And I can't explain how special it feels to see their names, the cities they were born in, and their journeys toward academia and scripture, that made me feel whole and seen and affirmed in my own journey. 

I am not formally studying anything; not enrolled in a seminary; still too far in debt and too short before payday to see the reality of graduate school as anything other than "far".

And yet; here are women with names like my mother, stories like my grandmothers; women who studied and spoke and loved the same things as me.

Here's to finding representation hidden in the corners of society (or, when we're lucky, finally on a big screen - shoutout to Black Panther). 

You are here; your story is full of purpose, and if you do not at first see heroes who came before you, with similar stories or dreams or accomplishments, remember: you may be carving a path (into a hard and unforgiving stone, perhaps), for someone else who follows close behind. 

Keep walking. (And read the article below.)

18 Latin American Female Theologians You Should Know About

"She studies, and disputes, and teaches, and thus she serves her Faith; for how could God, who gave her reason, want her ignorant?"

Florida Shooting: Why Emma Gonzalez (and every other group experiencing injustice) is shouting

I know this has been shared many times.

But *this* is why people start shouting: Because the pain is too much; the injustice is too much; and the ability to effect change is too near (and yet too far in the grip of high-seated hands).

Maybe it can be better heard from the mouth of a teenager; maybe this feels less threatening; maybe the kneeling or protests can make more sense; maybe our communal and individual prejudice and racism can be more deeply uncovered. (I have it, we have it; it’s not in using slurs, it’s in the way the system functions, and the way we - unknowingly or knowingly - do not challenge it.)

Those in pain start shouting, because they must. It is the realization that all the times before—all the tears and quiet words—were never heard.

Mental health, gun control, Black Lives Matter, Clean Dream Act, prison reform; the manifestation of good trying to prevail can make us uncomfortable. That is the point.

Pain should not sit well with us. It should, in fact, make us squirm.

Listen to Emma’s full speech below.

Florida student Emma Gonzalez to lawmakers and gun advocates: 'We call BS'

Below is a full transcript of her speech: We haven't already had a moment of silence in the House of Representatives, so I would like to have another one. Thank you. Every single person up here today, all these people should be home grieving.

The Paradox of Love (Grief): On Florida, Ash Wednesday, and Valentine's Day

The paradox of love is what it holds. Its large hands, and fragile body. Its reckless joy, and insurmountable grief. The paradox of love is what it holds. The ways it can be stretched, torn and reborn; and the ways it breaks at the slightest touch. The paradox of love is what it holds. A laugh set free and a neverending cry. 

The paradox of love is what it holds; both the ashes of what has been lost, of what can be lost, of what will - someday, without a doubt - be lost; and the fire of what endures in flames today; of what is made new by fire; of what the fire illuminates.

The paradox of love is the way it frays, and rearranges itself. The paradox of love is that it is never so far from grief, that it cannot imagine its sting. The paradox of love is that its joy is contextualized by its range of sadness. The paradox of love is that its death and resurrection - and a life before those things - are all part of the story.

The paradox of love is that we are too broken to give it, and in our brokenness we somehow give something whole, something pure, something that bears witness to a hope beyond the breaking.

The paradox of love is that it is always at death's door. It is always taking its last breath. It is always at the gates of Endings, always at its last moments; and when it survives (even beyond loss); when it survives (sometimes just the memory); when it survives (sometimes just the pain), we cauterize the deep, ever-present wound, with this truth: the paradox of love is that it ends, and does not end, all at once.

Grief is an expression of love. Let it breathe.

Grief is an expression of love; what was lost; what was never present; what was hoped for and never found. Let it breathe.

Grief is an expression of love. Grief is an expression of love. Grief is an expression of love. 

It is okay to sink in it. But please.

Keep breathing.

__

The photograph above broke my heart. The words above are what came out. 

I pray for these women, and all the families and students affected by this tragedy. I also urge you to call your Congresspeople. Sensible gun legislation is not a party issue; it's a human-life issue. To all my pro-life supporters; this is a pro-life issue. 

resistance

1/21

Below, find a spoken reading from the Lectionary, followed by a short reflection. For a written copy of the scriptures read each week, click here.

May peace, which passes all understanding, guard your hearts and your minds. Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

esteemed guest, join me

© Lauren Ileana Sotolongo

 

 

 

 

 

embodiment

1/14

Below, find a spoken reading from the Lectionary, followed by a short reflection. For a written copy of the scriptures read each week, click here.

May peace, which passes all understanding, guard your hearts and your minds. Amen.

 

healing

1/7

Below, find a spoken reading from the Lectionary, followed by a short reflection. For a written copy of the scriptures read each week, click here.

May peace, which surpasses all understanding, guard your hearts and your minds. Amen.

 

 

 

 

 

 

On Turning Temple Tables

Find me on Instagram, @laurensotolongo

For a preview of posts, see poems and photographs below. 

@wildgoosefest was...wild (see last video)

“Love” #poem

PYNK // This goes out to anyone excited about @janellemonae & @tessamaethompson today (THEY ARE OFFICIAL). This is how I feel. Also my shirt was french-tucked, if anyone asks. #pride #pynk

“Linger” #poem 🍃

BASEMENT HANGS // Just some queer beauties, hanging out and communing with the divine. We drank wine, ate bread (bagels), gathered and led together, and shared a meal (and mimosas). Here’s to a little pop-up #qbasementchurch 🌈 link in bio for the reading / a mini reflection from this week #faithfullyLGBT

“Anxiety” #poem

Voted in my first primary election!! 🇺🇸🇨🇺 For years I thought the system was beyond saving and my participation was useless; and while some of that is true, my perspective was a very privileged one. I realized that I am a part of the system too, and some people are trying to work within it to change things. I’m proud to vote and exercise the right my parents and grandparents left Cuba for, even if it took me a bit to realize that (especially) the small stuff/elections matter. So, today I tried not to be a 💩 with my vote, talked with my lady + friends about who and why we were voting for people, AND I even met some of my neighbors! (Rochelle was the nicest election worker, and also lives a block from me.) Here’s to understanding the brokenness and impossibilities, and believing in goodness and hope anyways. **If you need me, I’ll be listening to “Americans” by @janellemonae**💃🏽🦄🏡

12/30, Minh-Win-Situation: I took a shower without worrying about where I was, or who I could trust. I got to rest. Take a breath. Eat Vietnamese food. Hear Vietnamese. Play ping-pong. Correction: be schooled at Table Tennis. Tonight was a deep breath. Being in familiar company, with homemade food, and a warm shower. Tonight, was a deep rest. And this road has shown me the soft spots that my heart snuggles up to. Here's one; friendship. #LaurenCharmMeetsSouthernAlarm #thejourneyto2k17

A photo posted by Lauren Sotolongo (@laurensotolongo) on Dec 30, 2016 at 9:47pm PST

12/30, Alabama: This roadtrip has felt like a friends #greatesthits review (volume 1), and so many golden souls—who I've met over the last two years—call this city/state home. So when I drove through downtown Birmingham, I felt an odd and intimate connection. It's like meeting your best friend's OTHER best friend; it's a kind of strange (but familiar) intimacy. Thank you to those #rolltide/#wareagle/#other AL hearts, and the lessons they've taught me about love/grace/community. The ways they challenge me to become a better ("not ugly") person, and the ways we've broken and grown into a beautifully tangled—somehow still persevering and hopeful—group of humans, surely shows that these connections are holy wires, connected to a bright and hopeful future. Thanks, Alabama. These last few years, I've found a sweet home in the hearts of those you sent my way. #thejourneyto2k17 #LaurenCharmMeetsSouthernAlarm #surely

A photo posted by Lauren Sotolongo (@laurensotolongo) on Dec 30, 2016 at 6:56pm PST

12/29, Serendipity: Three girls—who worked at an Alaskan fishery, three years ago—happened to be in the same southern city, tonight. 🐟🐠🔪⚔️ #naknekforever #fisherylife #thejourneyto2k17 #salmonorbust #LaurenCharmMeetsSouthernAlarm

A photo posted by Lauren Sotolongo (@laurensotolongo) on Dec 29, 2016 at 9:09pm PST