A Theological Limp

life is brutal. God is faithful. it's weird.

I recommend listening to this whole album, but especially this song while you’re reading the words I wrote here.

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Our cat woke me up at 5:30am. I had hoped to sleep in before a busy day of visiting a church, but a random burst of pre-dawn, bed-rattling zoomies jolted me from slumber. How my husband slept through this, I have no idea. Meanwhile, I was forced to blink awake when everyone else in the house was still in Dreamland (besides Juniper of course). Rather than lay there with my thoughts, which have historically made bad bedmates, I came to my office to read distract myself.

The rain finally came today. It wasn’t nearly as much as we needed, but I’ll take it. This summer has been a brutal one. And the sun has been pretty relentless too.

It’s been a weird week. It’s been a weird year. 

if she's gonna wake me up before sunrise, she has to take pics with me. that's the deal.

Last Friday, I wrote about the ache I have for God to find me. I unspooled a knot of thoughts in that post; ones that have tangled themselves up around the core of me for nearly six years. I hit ‘publish’ and watched people promptly unsubscribe from my substack.  

No clarifying questions. No asking where I was coming from. No wondering about how or why I arrived at where I did. No taking time to seek out my heart on the matter. They just left. It was as disorienting as…wait for it…being jolted awake by cat zoomies at 5:30am.

Maybe they left because finances are tight right now (I’ve had to do the same before). And I completely support that. Maybe they left because they weren’t comfortable here anymore. No one is owed me an explanation for leaving. Whatever their reasons were, I wish them well.

And listen, I know it can be tricky to say, “Yes! I’ll pay for these words or I’m happy to support This Person by subscribing!” and then This Person writes words that make you feel squirmy or ones you downright disagree with on a fundamental level. Being someone who pays (or even just follows) to support someone’s work when you might not personally agree with all of their work is a maze many of us are having to navigate. Maybe the people who unsubscribed felt slighted after finding out I didn’t align with the version of me they had in their head? I don’t know. Is betrayal too strong a word for that online experience? I can’t think of a better one.

I might not have an accurate name for it, but I suspect the emotion those people felt when they read my words was the same feeling I had when I’d realized they’d left. It’s jarring for both sides. There’s been all too much of that happening in the last 6 years. We’ve all done it or been on the receiving end of it.“You don’t agree with all of me so I can’t agree with all of you and ‘this corner of the internet ain’t big enough for the both of us’, etc.”

We’re all a bit shaken up and wary, aren’t we?

I know it can be good to listen/read from/subscribe to people who don’t believe like you do, but there’s a line where it become unhealthy and steals your peace. That line sits in different places for everyone. I just know I wouldn’t want to steal anyone’s peace.

I’m having to live this out as we attempt to find a church home. I don’t want my peace stolen either.

»»»»»

Sitting groggily in the office, I tried to get my mind to unfocus from everything in life that’s frustrating me. It wasn’t working. I opened up social media. That didn’t work either. My eyes shifted around the room to a pile of books to my right. I picked up my copy of The Understory by

Lore Wilbert

. Her words reached out from page 150 and took hold of my hand. 

“I no longer want to live in a house of mirrors, where every human reflection-though distorted-still resembles me. I want a museum, a portrait gallery, a library, where every bit of my world is distinct and beautiful in its own right. I am learning not to look for ways to be on the same page but instead to envision the wholly distinct story of another's life and work.

Instead of asking, "How closely do we align?" I am learning to ask, "How much room is there in this relationship or environment for those who disagree?" I am learning to ask;

"Can we disagree and still–somehow–grow together as neighbors?"

— Lore Wilbert, The Understory 

It was as if God walked into my office and said, “I found you.” And hope sprouted.

It wasn’t in the pages of the Bible. It wasn’t in a church building. It was in the words of another woman¹ (whom I’ve never met) also wrestling with her faith like Jacob in the Old Testament. Aren’t we all, in some ways at least, walking around with a theological limp after grappling with what is holy?

Reading what Lore wrote healed something in me. This is the place I’ve been trying to articulate I’ve arrived at but didn’t have the words. Or I should say: this is the place God has brought me and He used Lore’s words to help me realize that. "Can we disagree and still–somehow–grow together as neighbors?" This is where my heart is on the matter.

And yet, I’m still limping. 

»»»»»

I’d been in my office for an hour. It was miraculous that everyone was still asleep at 7am. We had church later and I don’t know how I feel about church yet. So many things in my personhood have shifted in the last few years. What Past Breanne would want in a church isn’t at all what Present Breanne would want. I can see why people are confused and uncomfortable to the point of up and leaving the spaces I show up in. Hey, I’m confused and uncomfortable too. I get it.  

And then I did the same thing I always do when my brain starts to feel off: I took my dog for a walk. The sun wasn’t quite up yet and I wanted to get ahead of the heat. I text Jonathan (still asleep): “I’m taking Billie to the park because she’s gonna be crated while we’re at church. I didn’t want to wake you.”

Outside, the sky was blessedly overcast. It was still far too warm and humid for the poor choice I made to wear sweatpants, but I persevered. At least the sun wasn’t beaming direct star-heat onto my skin. It was almost bearable (kinda). There was no one at the park but us, not a human in sight. Good, I needed a break from humans this morning.

I hooked Billie up to her long line and let her hop out from the van. Watching my dog be so eager to do anything I ask her to do is a gift I get to open everyday. She doesn’t question what or how or where, she just makes like Ruth and goes where I go. I love that about her. 

We walked the loop of pavement that meanders through the park. I saw robins, thrashers, northern flickers and a lone female deer down by the pond. Billie tried to chase a rabbit. I’m not fit by any means, but we walked a mile before breakfast so that counts for something, right? My brain started to organize itself out of the incoherency of anxiousness that had piled up. That counts most of all. 

Eventually we came back to the house, sweaty but calmer. I took a quick shower. I fed the kids and the dog their respective breakfasts (the cat had already hers because she woke up at 5:30am, remember?). And then, we did that thing all families trying to leave the house with small children do: chased each other around with clean socks, hairbrushes and half-eaten sausage biscuits until we tumbled out the door and into the van. 

When we got home from church the rain came. Did it soften what the scorching sun has baked into cracks and dust? Barely. And yet, I breathed a sigh of relief. Sometimes it’s nice to have a tangible reminder that what is now won’t always be forever. 

This week, hope came in the form of reading words that mirror my own journey, taking a walk with my dog and rain desperately needed on dry earth. It wasn’t nearly as much as I needed, but it came nonetheless. Life is brutal and God is faithful. One doesn’t cancel out the other. It’s a weird tension to live with. 

What is won’t always be. On one hand, this is an admittedly scary truth. But on the other, it’s a beautiful one too. 

I’m learning there’s room to hold both in my hands. 

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1. Lore also says in her book, ‘The Understory’: “If I sit with uncomfortable ideas long enough, they begin to feel not so uncomfortable to me. I used to want to neatly file away ideas, deal with concepts as though they were math problems instead of human problems. Theologian Reggie Williams says, "Our neighbor is not an idea," by which he means we engage them not merely as minds to be changed but as people who need the love of God to permeate their lives. Jesus lived his life on earth dealing not with a series of problems but with a community of persons.”

I can’t recommend this book enough.