Old Attitude: when they go low, we go high.

New Attitude: when they go low, we step on them.

(And really, that should have been our attitude all along. Too late now…)

FAFO.

John Pavlovitz wrote this public letter to Carrie Underwood based on her recent decision to perform for the incoming Trump regime. While it speaks directly and specifically to her, I find that it also speaks about everyone who supports this monster in any way, especially the Christians. He puts is far more eloquently and powerfully than I could, so I’m reprinting it here. See the original on his site:

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Dear Carrie Underwood,

I hope this finds you well.

I’m writing because I’ve heard you speak eloquently about your Christian faith in the past, watched you perform a song about the beautiful mystery of baptism, often listened to your now-ubiquitous invocation for Jesus to take the wheel: to guide the life you live and to let his will direct your path.

I also know that you’ve been a role model for girls and young women all over this nation, obviously well-aware of your influence on them.

Given these things, as a former pastor and the father of a girl myself, I wonder how you reconcile your personal faith with a performance at the Inauguration of Donald Trump.

As a woman and professed follower of Jesus, exactly how do you make sense of using your tremendous gifts to celebrate an adjudicated rapist;
a man accused by dozens of women of assault, harassment, and misconduct;
a man who has boasted about taking elemental body autonomy from the girls and women of this nation;
a man who once said that if his daughter were not blood relation, that he might be dating her?

I’m curious to hear you explain what message you think it sends to millions of survivors of sexual assault, who will watch you contribute to the coronation of a human being whose entire life, business history, and political career have been marked by the most vile, dehumanizing, and misogynistic language about and behavior toward women?

This is to say nothing of his 34 felony counts, his many indictments for high crimes, his near superhuman inability to speak truthfully, or his continual verbal attacks on immigrants, LGBTQ human beings, people of color, and all Americans who did not vote for him.

And as a declared Christian, how can you share the announcement of your participation in this event, while in real-time, California burns and millions of its people are in the most dire need—and he is spewing a steady stream of social media insults, disinformation, and abject hatred?

Where is the Jesus in any of this, Carrie?

And perhaps above all of that, just precisely what in the teachings of Jesus make it acceptable to partner with Donald Trump on any level?

Where have you seen him love his neighbor, help heal the sick, feed the poor, welcome the stranger, care for the least of these?
When exactly have you witnessed him embodying the peacemaking, humble, kindhearted directives of the Beatitudes?
How precisely have you seen Donald Trump live a love and compassion that bear any resemblance to Jesus?
I’m not being rhetorical here or trying to insult you, I’d really like to know.

I understand you have boys of your own. I’m wondering when they grow up, if you’d like them to emulate Donald Trump, if you’ll approve of them treating women the way he has, if you’d be proud to have them speak about people the way he does.

Carrie, I don’t know you and so I can’t judge your heart or declare your motives or evaluate your faith and wouldn’t attempt to. I can only tell you what I see from where I stand (Jesus called it, describing the tangible fruit of someone’s outward actions.)

And what I see from here, is an incredibly influential, talented woman who has chosen to wear her faith proudly on her sleeve—also choosing to use her gifts for an event devoted to perhaps the most predatory, most divisive, and least Christlike human being on the planet. As someone who spent decades learning and sharing the teachings of Jesus, none of it makes any sense.

So, if you’re able, with some specificity, please share with me,
with the tens of millions of Christians in this country,
with the women who are being legislatively silenced by him,
with the immigrants and refugees and foreigners he is persecuting,
with the poor and elderly and vulnerable he is preying upon,
and with the people of California and North Carolina whose unfathomable suffering he is exploiting and exacerbating right now—exactly how you feel Jesus is steering this decision.

Because from the outside, it feels like a horrible disconnect.

– John Pavlovitz

I take it back.

Well, almost.

Not enough to revise and rewrite the title of this post, but I wrote it with a weary eye, and an element of histrionic rage that doesn’t accurately betray our actual state. In truth, over the past few years I’ve come to embrace and appreciate winter’s stark and barren beauty, the way it forces us to pause and take stock, how it stills the world with its inhospitable environment, chasing us inside, to the interior of our homes and minds. Winter refuses to let us escape, sometimes quite literally. 

Because of that, we must make sure our inside worlds are just as beautiful and inviting as the outside one. Winter has often instigated moments of contemplation and self-work. When and where otherwise I’d be outside frantically scrambling to get the yard in order or figuring out how to keep a messy mound of fountain grass within bounds, at this time of the year I can calmly look out over whatever remains and think fondly of the garden without exerting myself more than leafing through a few seed catalogs. 

And so I retract the title of this post, taking out the ‘insufferable‘ part and simply acknowledging and accepting the way of winter. 

PS – Candlelight helps. 

A gift from a dear friend to commemorate our Purple Reign weekend, this cup provided me with a moment of a happy memory, something a winter day often requires. The heart of the season of slumber beats silently beneath its snow; it is at this point when we need our summer memories. Swirling in the warm tea of the winter present, summer’s heat returns in the palace of memory I’ve erected for just such occasions. 

It is often the moments of preparation that I recall – the days leading up to a visit from friends or a gathering for dinner – and they’re the moments that come to mind as soon as the friends depart. Little pockets of down-time spent waiting for others to make the moments matter – and it is then that I realize so much of life is spent in solitude. I’ve never been sorry about that either. 

I grew up sucking my thumb

and that has made all the difference.

A full Wolf Moon exudes its pull for longer than one night, bleeding into the week that follows and extending its spell and power. I captured these shots as it was on the rise behind a gnarled pine tree in a January sky. Winter moons are somehow more magical than many other moons, their light often magnified and reflected in the snow and ice that provides some solace at this darkened time of the year. 

As the Wolf Moon rose, I stepped into its light, and though the air was cold, I didn’t shiver. On this night, I remember that much of our worry and stress is merely the mental machinations of our minds working overtime. It isn’t necessary, it isn’t even real, it’s simply the power of negative possibilities taking up space in our heads – and that’s always been a choice, even if it doesn’t feel like it. Breathing in the fresh air – so magnificent after a day stuck inside – I understand that all the silliness that we humans create to distract and amuse, to make money and make noise – it’s all so foolish, and has absolutely no bearing on a night like this. The moon will glow no matter who the President is, the sky will thrill no matter what jobs we have, the stars will shine no matter who is left in our lives, and we can soak in that beauty, piss on it, or ignore it. I choose to soak it in, hold it in my heart, and hang onto a little bit of hope. Even in the desolation of this winter, a spring awaits. 

Wolf Moon by Mary Oliver

Now is the season
of hungry mice,
cold rabbits,
lean owls
hunkering with their lamp-eyes
in the leafless lanes
in the needled dark;
now is the season
when the kittle fox
comes to town
in the blue valley
of early morning;
now is the season
of iron rivers,
bloody crossings,
flaring winds,
birds frozen
in their tents of weeds,
their music spent
and blown like smoke
to the stone of the sky;
now is the season
of the hunter Death;
with his belt of knives,
his black snowshoes,
he means to cleanse
the earth of fat;
his grey shadows
are out and running – under
the moon, the pines,
down snow-filled trails they carry
the red whips of their music,
their footfalls quick as hammers,
from cabin to cabin,
from bed to bed,
from dreamer to dreamer.

This candle was a gift from a favorite co-worker and friend, and personifies the office environment for so many of us. A bit of passive-aggression, a bit of snarkiness, and all of it cloaked in pseudo-professionalism. A program manager once remarked that I was a word ninja in the way that I could cut someone with a few well-crafted phrases, and they wouldn’t even know it until they thought about it later that night. 

Thankfully, most don’t dwell after-hours on what I’ve said during any given day. Snark flies best when it flies under the radar. 

Seen on the socials:

“Are you a top or a bottom?”

A centaur, thoughtfully: “I think about that every single day.”

#TinyThreads