What Kind of Christian Are You? Part 3: Doula Lama Says Love is the Absence of Judgment

I have tackled exclusion in my last post, but as I eluded to, this is a symptom of a greater illness. One that's roots are deep and twisted and often very ugly. Its bark is jagged and sharp and its branches are barren and fruitless. And like the serpent, it deceives us. Eating of its fruit causes us to believe we are God. I am referring, of course, to judgment. Luckily, for many, it is curable.

Mother Theresa said that when you judge someone, you don't have time to love them. That is because, like serving two masters, it is impossible to simultaneously do both. There is no greater commandment than love. If we, as Christians, believe that EVERYONE (yes, even that guy...you know the one) was made in the image of God, then to judge them is to judge Christ. We all sin and fall short. ALL of us (you, me, AND that guy). And there is no hierarchy of sins.

While judgment is something that knows no bounds, I have seen how this rears its ugly head in the choices that parents make regarding the birth of their baby. In an unpredictable occupation where there are hardly ever any “right” answers, all any of us are left with sometimes are best guesses. Hindsight is not an art form, but a resource left for the lucky. It is for those that are less than brave who wish to sound intelligent after everything is said and done. All of us have the benefit of looking back and seeing where mistakes took place after the fact, it is the discernment and wisdom that it takes to make these decisions in the first place where courage truly lies. And unfortunately, informed decisions often rely too heavily on biased and imperfect sources.

I see this in raising children. It took most of us at least two (or three) decades to become 'adults' and only a few short years to forget about what it was like before then. How quickly we forget what life looks like through the eyes of a child! And how fast we are to judge them for their lack of experience or knowledge. Then, with tongues that cut like a sword, we tell them they are wrong for acting like us and that their opinions and feelings only count when they are taller. We are the first image of God that our children meet. What kind of God are we portraying to them?

And lastly, the imperfect people who make up the church. We are saved by grace, not because of the idols in our heart, but in spite of them. Therefore, there is no need for pretension. In fact, there is no room for it. Other Christians and non-Christians both know better and we are committing an injustice by pretending anything else is the truth. Perfection makes Jesus irrelevant, when in actuality, He is the point.

So, what kind of Christian am I? The fumbling sinner, saved by grace, who only occasionally knows some of the right answers and even less often puts them to use.  

What Kind of Christian Are You? Part 2: The Theology of Loud-Unintentional Consequences of Being a Hip Mega Church

For some of you who have been Facebook friends with me for a while, this is mostly going to be a repeat. Sorry. I am lazy like that. For those that are just getting to know me, grab a cup of coffee and dig in...

As you may know from my last post, we have been church shopping for nearly two years. After being a part of a failed church plant followed by relocating from the midwest to the suburbs of Seattle, we have found a common thread of exclusionary behavior in a place where everyone should feel safe to be themselves. Before you think I am picking on a specific part of the country or any particular church, let me assure you that this is not a post written about only the coffee-loving, thick-rimmed glasses wearing, Prius drivers. This story is as much metaphor as it is literal. It is one small symptom of a greater illness running rampant through the hearts of many Christians, of which I am one. An illness I plan on exploring further in this series while tackling the definition of what it means for me to be a Christian.

Our daughter loves to play with her siblings, is the first to say she is sorry when she makes a mistake, and likes to surprise us with snacks she has made when she knows we are having a bad day. She also has a very rare type of hearing impairment. She can not hear lower frequencies (like a car coming towards her) but she can hear beyond a zero decibel in the higher frequencies. This makes life very interesting for her and those around her. Essentially, she can hear a whisper from across the room better than she can someone standing next to her-especially if that someone has a deeper voice.

We have tried many things to remedy the situation. While hearing aids help increase the volume of speech, they also increase the sound of all the higher frequencies and background noises making them not annoying but physically painful to wear. We have tried an FM system, but she can't stand the way it feels in her ear. Surgery would likely do more harm then good. At this point she relies on a combination of speech (lip) reading, a little ASL, and her charm to navigate the muddy waters of communication skills. Despite her struggles, we continue to find the humor in all things (like the looks we get when we insist she has a hearing impairment while she is wearing ear plugs).

So that brings us back to our Sunday mornings. Getting six people ready for church can be taxing for any parent. When you add the fact that over half of our house also has ADHD, there are days when all I can do is repeat Phillipians 4:13 over the sounds of lost shoes, wrinkled clothes, meltdowns (some of which are even the kid's), and breakfast that refuses to make itself. All this while convincing our daughter to be brave. Trust that maybe this church will be different. That her needs will be met and that her environment will be safe. That it is ok to ask for help...or your mom.

Which is why we do our research. We listen to podcasts. We read reviews. We visit the church at least once if not twice ahead of time without our kids, especially following our experience on Christmas Day. We talk to the head of the children's ministry and those that will be her teachers. We make arrangements, plan, teach, describe, explain all before our daughter even sets foot in the building. We try to do as much as we can in order to set everyone, not just our daughter, up for success from the beginning.

And here is what w e have found over and over again: LOUD church. I mean really loud. Loud music, loud mic, loud mini-movies that are supposed to grab our attention. We have been to two churches in the past month with dB readings close to 90 (yes, there is an app for that). Sustained dB of 90 can cause hearing loss. And for those with sensitive hearing, it can be physically painful. For our daughter, the most brave thing she does all week is try church.

Like any decent parent we have tried making arrangements for her. Repeatedly, we are met with one solution. The solution of all solutions. The one that makes me grit my teeth and pray the Adderall works lest I not be a lady in church. The solution: We would gladly ALLOW her to leave. To come to this room or that. To call you to come get her when the music is on or it gets too loud. Because somewhere in the minds of those in charge, running rampant in many churches, is the notion that in order to build the kingdom you must do so loudly. Preferably with a bouncy house.

So that brings me to the theology of loud. Why? Why must any child be subjected to LOUD beyond reason. Why must my daughter be excluded from a place she loves, one that took us weeks to convince her to try. One where SHE needs to be brave and accept the fact that she is the one with the problem. When there is a solution that seems so simple it is almost laughable.

Please...turn.it.down.

We realize that not every church is going to be able to meet everyone's needs nor are we asking that they make drastic changes to their programs. We get it. But it isn't just our daughter. With the rising epidemic of autism, sensory processing disorders, and other diagnosis, we know better than to think we are an isolated case. Beyond that, kids who are neuro-typical with no hearing issues...Yeah, they think it is too loud too. We know, because we've asked. And because they are humans. With ears.

Turn it down. It's simple. Turning it down does not devalue your program. It does not make you any less hip or relevant. It makes you welcoming and approachable for the kids left in the other room. The ones that so badly want to participate but can't because of the noise. The ones that desperately need to hear that Jesus loves them too. That they are a valued part of the church community.

Her older sister, at the age of nine, spoke with wisdom beyond her years today. She sums up what I am trying to convey better than I might have. Why would they ask her to go to a room by herself while at the same service they talked to us about how everyone has the same worth in God's eyes and everyone deserves to be treated with respect?

So what kind of Christian am I? As I said previously, sometimes it is easier to define things by giving examples of what it is not. I am not an exclusionary Christian. 

What Kind of a Christian Are You? Part 1: How I Ended Up at a Russian Orthodox Church San PantyClause on Christmas Day

Lately, I have been faced with several different variations of the same question. Labeling has its pros and cons, and it is human nature to want to classify things. It seems easier to explain everything when we can quickly put a label on it. The truth is, defining our Christianity, has been part of an ongoing theme in our lives over the last two years. Following our participation in the leadership team of a failed church (face)plant, my husband and I found ourselves relocating from the Bible belt to the upper left coast (Bible armpit seemed a bit judgy) where religious and spiritual diversity abounds. We have learned a lot, and instead of trying to tackle this question in one post, I have chosen instead to split my ramblings into a series. You're welcome.

Finding a church after relocating proved to be no small task. Take, for example, this year's Christmas service. We had recently started attending a new church during advent (read: that time roughly between when you buy the presents on Black Friday and when you give the presents Christmas morning). The new church had Christmas Eve service at dinner time. Four young kids and the inability to plan ahead made this nearly impossible to attend. Instead, after doing some research (read: googled quickly while multitasking), we opted for a Christmas Day service at a church right around the corner. It seemed like a great fit. Christmas morning happens and it looks like FAO Schwarz barfed in the living room once again. With my parents staying with us, my dear husband and I decided to head upstairs to take a nap. We woke up with all of six minutes to dress and hit the road. 

I managed Holy Yoga Pants and a sweater that probably should have been dry cleaned since owning it. And not much else. Possibly shoes. So you can imagine the mutual surprise of everyone involved when we walked in late to a small room full of around 50 people and I am the only woman wearing pants. Most were also wearing head coverings (read: scarves and veils). I had read enough to know that the pastor was from Russia, so I didn't think too much when the first song they sang was in Russian. Then they sang another song in Russian. And another. I was starting to see a trend. The sermon? All in Russian. Followed by some more singing...in Russian. Followed by two awkward visitors Russian out the door (<-see what I did there), in an attempt to avoid making this very memorable Christmas service any more awkward.

Sometimes it is easier to define something by giving examples of what it is not. What we learned this Christmas is that we don't speak Russian (and also read the fine print- if it is in Russian, wear a skirt and bring a scarf just in case). So, what kind of Christians does that make us? Well, I can now rule out the Russian speaking kind.  

The Poltergeist Guide to Your Best Birth: 10 Steps to Having a Water Birth at Home

So those of you who know me, know that I have both an odd sense of humor and a knack for seeing the correlations between things that other "normal" people miss. So, behold: The Poltergeist Guide to Your Best Birth: 10 Steps to Having a Water Birth at Home.

1. Contractions begin.

2. Watch some tv.

3. Make some food.

4. Play games at/with the kitchen table.

5. Call your midwife.

6. Get in the tub, with or without creepy children.

7. Transition.

8. Follow your intuition and briefly enter portal to another dimension.

9. Birth baby. Initiate immediate skin to skin contact. Do not remove ghost vernix, it is good for your skin.

10. Invite Grandpa for a visit.

Niggle It, Just a Little Bit: A Funny Title for a Serious Post About Tolkien, Jesus, and Birthwork

While Tolkien was writing his masterpiece Lord of the Rings, he was afflicted with a serious case of writer's block. He woke one morning to find his neighbor had cut down half of his tree. What remained was a gnarly, tangled, dying mass that Tolkien thought was the perfect metaphor for his work. Lord of the Rings was his dying tree. It was half done and he was unable to produce. This was the foundation for his less known work Leaf By Niggle.

In Leaf, we meet Niggle, a struggling artist. His struggles stem from his overwhelming urge to create with such detail that he spends all of his time working on making the perfect leaf instead of focusing on the entire tree. He struggles in a society where art is not appreciated or valued. But Niggle also has a big heart which leads him to almost compulsively help others. This, coupled with the completion of the mundane tasks of his life, causes him to silently curse because he perceives it as a distraction that subtracts time away from what he feels is his true calling-his art.

By the end, we see Niggle on his final journey where he sees the actualization of his beautiful masterpiece, the tree. He experiences each leaf, the deep roots, and every single detail perfectly put into place. He cries out, thankful to be able to experience the tree and forest in all of its glory and wakes to the reality that it was in the mundane tasks and service to others where the purpose of his life hid all along. His calling was not in creating perfect art. Instead, it was in the enduring, lasting love and service to others regardless of the appreciation or recognition that it brought him.

I could write several posts about how this relates to my life. I am sure most people can identify with many of these themes. Most days, the finished masterpiece is my equivalent of all the laundry clean, folded, and put away. Or seeing my kids grow up to be and have everything I desire for them. Or possibly even seeing my Cheerio laden van sans crumbs. I could go on as these are just a few of the idols of my heart.

As a birth doula, this speaks to me as well. I have been struggling with a bit of my own “writer's block” lately when it comes to my role. For a lot of reasons. While I love birthwork, it is often demanding and can be taxing to the psyche. Doulas see things that are amazing and awe inspiring. We also see things that leave us frustrated, confused, or discouraged. Often, we are left to silently pick up the broken pieces of our experience and try to make sense of them. While we all have our own perceptions of what birth is, I think most would agree that it is never something that is mediocre.

Following a post of a discouraged doula this week, I asked the question: What do we do when we have stayed within our scope of practice, when mother/partner/doula have educated themselves and done everything “right,” and yet we witness something-especially something we perceive as preventable-go wrong? What do we do when we feel someone has acted unjustly? Or when they have made prejudicial decisions based on biases?

While attempting to hug it out with another doula, I wrote this:

I just don't know how much of this I want to take on right now. Fighting the good fight is something that I have always done since I was little. We were the only ones on the street with hand-made-by-a-five-year- old Martin Luther King decorations for his birthday. And I am sure I will come around because giving up is hardly an option and certainly not one I have ever been fond of. But for the love of Christ (truly) can we start digging into the roots of all this. They are tangled and dirty and deep, but we need to start somewhere instead of touting our armchair slactivism.

If I am honest, it stings a bit looking back on it now. Maybe it's a bit of piety and judgment mixed in with some truth. The answer I was looking for was not a simple solution. Go here. Do this. Read that. I realize the need for having support, finding someone to process things with, and understanding how my own experiences affect my perceptions. What I was really searching for applies not only to birth, but much of life. Something many of us feel regardless of our occupation or circumstance. What I was looking for was how to come to a place deep within myself to find and satisfy the unrelenting anguish when reality does not meet expectation.

The answer, in short, is to Niggle it. It is to know that there will always be unfinished business. The laundry will never be fully done, our kids will continue to be human, and there will always be one last Cheerio wedged in some obscure, dark crevice in the van. And while this is not to be confused with passively giving up, I find it freeing to know that I am not the answer to any of this. It is a bit arrogant of myself to have thought I ever might have been.

When applying the Niggle rule to birth, it can be equally as freeing. It is to know that I am a witness to one tiny portion of someone else's journey. I am one small leaf in their tree. That Jesus is the one who paints the masterpiece and that I will never truly see the completion of it on this side of life. That the discouraging distractions that separate me from where I FEEL I am being called are actually where I AM being called. That what looks like failure is where there is inspiration and what looks like pain will, ultimately, bring healing.