Southwest Conference Blog

About Alabama, and Georgia, and Ohio, and…

I thought maybe I should write about that time I needed emergency contraception and the gift of the website that helped me get something that would work for my body. A woman called soon after I clicked that button to confirm my information and calmly, professionally, compassionately asked questions to make sure the prescription they were overnighting would work.

I thought maybe I should write about my friends who have been raped, and the stories we tell behind closed doors. At 25, we could still talk about trauma more than twenty years old.

I thought maybe I should write about making sure young women in my congregation going off to college know how to not get pregnant, to not take open drinks at parties, and hearing what happened any way.

I thought maybe I should write about the trust that Planned Parenthood would help newlyweds and graduate students access contraception and the task of accompanying friends through lines of people accusing her of murder when she was doing everything she could to not get pregnant at a time that a pregnancy would have been financially devastating.

I thought maybe I should write about buying a pregnancy test for a scared youth sponsor, a woman in her mid-30s who would was still unsure of how to care for her body.

I thought maybe I should write about the people who whisper “abortion” through tears years later in their pastor’s office. I thought maybe I should write about the people who whisper “abortion” with fear of judgment with no regrets about their decision.

I thought maybe I should write about the women who I kicked out of the church office as they so proudly talked about their plan to intimidate women seeking abortion. They weren’t quite as proud of their plan to offer enough incorrect information that it was too late for her to obtain an abortion when she found her way to a provider. I thought maybe I should write about the two very conservative women from my church who witnessed that exchange and the grateful look in their eyes as they pronounced, “That’s not right. You don’t know what happened.”

I thought maybe I should write about the fact that I have never been raped, or sexually assaulted and still, if someone grabs my wrist, a panic arises so deep inside of me I am yelling within seconds; somehow my body knows this movement spells trouble for so many women.

I thought about writing about those things.

I thought about writing about those things but you could read similar stories in a few million places on the Internet.

I thought about writing about those things, but why should I have to tell stories of pain in order to convince someone that all those other women and I are actually autonomous humans, too?

And instead of writing those things, I think I will share Janet Ruth Heller’s poem about Deborah, the prophet and judge of Israel:
It is not recorded of Deborah
That she settled down with Barak,
Raised a tribe of Children,
And left off judging Israel.

We may be mothers. We may be wives. We may be many things. But today, I am longing for women to be able to just be.

An Easter Story

by Abigail Conley

In the days before Easter, I was bombarded with Church—not my own church, but advertisements from the many churches hoping I’d show up there on Easter morning. They wasted advertising dollars on me, for sure, but it was also a reminder of all the anxiety of holidays in the church. Will there be enough food? Will people show up? What if we’re not packed for Easter? Like it or not, Christmas and Easter become the days we wonder if our churches measure up. Those are the days all our anxiety about our future can easily come to rest.

So here’s an Easter story that has absolutely no flash and is full of resurrection and is one of the best Easter miracles I’ve ever witnessed.

On Easter Sunday this year, our lone thirteen year old handed me a handwritten announcement. It was a carefully written invitation to her school’s production of Music Man. This is the first time she’s offered an invitation in this way, even though I know there have been several other plays and musicals. The adults sitting in front of her in worship have told me we should make sure she knows she can sing in the choir.

One of the performance dates is on my calendar. I have no doubt the production will be terrible in all the ways that middle school musicals are and wonderful in all the ways that middle school musicals are. I typed the announcement in this week’s email knowing full well this invitation is wonderful and terrible. I typed the announcement trusting that there will be another adult or two who show up just because this kid from church invited.

Most people don’t know this kid is in foster care. Hesitantly, we hear bits and pieces in prayer requests about other siblings and biological parents. Some people connect the dots while others don’t. Mostly, it doesn’t matter either way. I know more of her story because I’m her pastor, but I can’t share most of it. It’s not mine to share and, well, foster care.

Here is what I do know though: we are doing something right if any thirteen year old can hand an announcement to her pastor and trust it will be well received. That’s not just about the pastor, but a church that loves her and welcomes her and is interested in her life. We are especially doing something right if that kid has all of the baggage that comes with being in foster care and still can learn to trust her church.

The announcement is now tucked away in a special folder I keep full of notes and cards and letters to go back and look at on the hard days. They are little stories of resurrection, one and all.

So here’s to churches with one thirteen year old or one seven year old or none of those who celebrate any way. Here’s to churches with not quite enough bulletins or way too many and will make do either way. Here’s to the beauty that comes with community—as lovely as the woman headed back to the tomb, as lovely as a potluck breakfast with too many carbs. Here’s to all of us who live in the promise of resurrection, for Christ is risen, and we are rising, indeed.

A Christian response to anti-Semitism

by Talitha Arnold

Friday is the first night of Passover, the joyous celebration of God bringing the Jews from slavery into freedom. Today is also Good (or Holy) Friday, the Christian commemoration of Jesus’ death at the hand of the Roman Empire. For both Jews and Christians, this is a deeply holy day.

Tragically, the Christian Holy Friday has often been a time of holy terror for Jews. Throughout the centuries, the remembrance of Jesus’ suffering and death served as an excuse for Christians to inflict that same suffering and death on Jews. A Jewish friend recalls from his 1950s boyhood that he never went outside on Good Friday to avoid being beaten up by neighborhood boys because “the Jews killed Jesus.” Such beliefs are still prevalent. Recently, an acquaintance asserted, “Of course the Jews killed Jesus. The Bible says so.”

No, it doesn’t, and we Christians need to pay attention to how we tell the Good Friday story, especially in this time of rising anti-Semitism. Affirming our faith and seeking to follow in the ways of Jesus Christ should not lead to the prejudice and bias that fosters discrimination, fear and violence.

So how can we Christians tell the story of Good Friday? We can tell the truth that Jesus’ crucifixion was a Roman execution meant to strike fear and suppress opposition. Thirty years before Jesus’ death, the Roman Legion crucified 3,000 Jews to stop a rebellion in Galilee. When Christians tell Jesus’ story, we need be clear that the religious leaders of Jesus’ time were responsible for the well-being of their people, living under the shadow of a brutal and oppressive regime. Many were justifiably concerned with anyone who put their people in jeopardy by challenging that regime.

We can affirm that Christian scriptures were written over decades to different audiences with varying degrees of familiarity with Judaism and different relationships with the Roman Empire. When we speak of Jesus’ last days, we can tell the truth that the Gospel writers were trying to establish a new religion and therefore sometimes disparaged or vilified those who opposed them.

We can also underscore that the Gospels don’t agree in their portrayal of that opposition. As noted above, some Jewish leaders understandably feared Roman retribution, not just for themselves but for their people. Some opposed Jesus for theological reasons and believed he was undermining the faith that had given their people hope for generations.

Still others opposed Jesus for less virtuous reasons. In Jesus’ time, as in ours, unholy and unhelpful alliances existed among political, economic and religious leaders. Jesus’ advocacy for the poor, the vulnerable and the outcast — which was deeply rooted in his own faith as a Jew — may have been welcomed by some leaders and by the people, but it put him at odds with many in power, especially those at the top.

Moreover, the Gospels of Matthew, Mark and Luke often distinguished between the religious establishment and the people. Their Gospels also acknowledged diverse opinions toward Jesus among the leaders themselves. In contrast, three decades later, John’s Gospel was written primarily from a “you’re either for us or against us” perspective.

Hence, John spoke only of “the Jews” with little distinction between leaders and people or recognition of the diversity among the leaders. John also absolved the Romans of almost any responsibility for Jesus’ death. In Mark, Pontius Pilate turns Jesus over for crucifixion because he wishes “to please the crowd.” In Matthew, he literally washes his hands of the situation. But in John, the Roman imperial governor pleads Jesus’ case — an odd perspective, given the Roman Empire’s brutal response to religious resisters.

Because John’s Gospel has been the main text used in many Good Friday traditions, Jesus’ death often has been framed solely as the result of the “old Jewish religion” resisting the “new (and better)” Christian faith. From there, it’s only a small step to the “bad Jew, good Christian” thinking that’s often permeated Christianity from its beginning.

Yet as scholars Marcus Borg and John Dominic Crossan observe, if the Jews as a whole wanted Jesus dead, why do Mark and Matthew state that the leaders needed to arrest and kill Jesus “by stealth” or that they were worried about a “riot among the people?” Perhaps the real opposition to Jesus that led to his death was rooted less in religion than in the leaders’ fear of losing power or status. Such fear is a human trait, not limited to any particular religious or ethnic group.

As Christians, we need to tell the truth of the Good Friday story. The story of Holy Week is not about the inherent evil of a particular ethnic or religious group. It is simply the all-too-human story of vested power (political and religious) that is threatened and then responds with force and violence.

The Jews didn’t kill Jesus. Fear and hatred did. Neither is the sole domain of any particular religious group or faith tradition. The question isn’t “who” killed Jesus but “what.” We Christians need to remember that this sacred week.

The Rev. Talitha Arnold, senior pastor at United Church of Santa Fe, wrote this for the Interfaith Leadership Alliance.

The Labyrinth of Lent

by Jocelyn Emerson

For me, Lent is a time to slow ourselves down, to ponder, to wander, to contemplate, to be still. Lent is a journey. Each Lenten journey is different and unique.

For me, the Labyrinth is a beautiful metaphor for the Lenten journey. You start at the beginning following the path set before you. Depending upon which style Labyrinth you walk, you twist and turn, sometimes facing the center (your goal), sometimes turning away from the center. If you stay on the path, trusting its wander way, you will end up in the Center — the center of your heart, the center of your soul, that sacred place where Spirit resides within you. Each step you take on the labyrinth is an invitation to prepare for the center — to slow, to deepen, to open yourself to the movement and presence of Spirit.

As you enter the Center, your walk has prepared you for being fully in the Presence of the Sacred. You are invited to commune with the Sacred. Stay there as long as you would like, Pray your questions and await answers. Release what no longer serves you. Heal. Sing. Be Still.

When you are ready, with gratitude in your heart, you follow the same path outward. Each turn toward the Center an opportunity to embody deeper gratitude for the blessings you received. Each turn away, an opportunity to prepare to re-enter the outer world, to integrate what you received in the Center with your ordinary life.

This is the Lenten journey. You have an opportunity this Lenten season to journey to the center of your Heart. What is there? What are you cherishing? What needs healing? What needs releasing? What are the shadows hiding? What is the Light illuminating?

I hope this Lenten season you will journey deep into the Center of the Center of the Center of your Heart.

image credit:
Jocelyn Emerson
Purple Adobe Lavender Farm Labyrinth
Ojo Caliente, NM

Remains

by Davin Franklin-Hicks

How do we make sense of an internal commitment to love while the external world is spewing so much fear, and so much hate?

These are my efforts to reconcile that reality.

Anger, fear, and hate exist as a demonstration of futility. These emotions and states of mind are finite, limited and diminishing. It can feel powerful. It can feel easy and safe. It can feel certain and strong. It is the very opposite of this, though.

These states of mind and emotion have the largest taxation on our soul. It’s exhausting. They cannot be sustained and leave us lonely, empty and lost.

Anger, fear and hate occur when we are idle and reactive.

Love is cultivated and nurtured in our skillful, intentional actions.

Love is powerful. It can be steady, understated and quiet. It can be fierce, passionate, charged. Love holds us, replenishes us again and again.

While hate languishes and grapples and clings and begs and wails and cries as it dies…

Love remains.

When the Church Gets It Right

by Abigail Conley

It’s the week of church meetings of a different sort. The United Methodists are meeting to figure out their relationship with the LGBTQ+ community. The Roman Catholics are meeting over their sexual abuse scandals. I never know if people who aren’t clergy are as aware of these sorts of meetings. They always blow up my social media and then some.

I don’t discredit the importance of these meetings. I can only begin to imagine the pain wrapped up in the meetings. Like many people, I have my own share of church-inflicted trauma. There are styles of prayer that will make me physically ill because they remind me of a different sort of church. There are songs and styles of preaching that do the same. I mostly keep away from them now, though some trigger pops up unexpectedly every now and then.

And yet, I remember this: it was the church that taught me to trust people.

Strangely, wonderfully, hopefully, transformingly: the church taught me to trust people. I say people because I still don’t know what to do with the institution, and that’s another conversation entirely. But if I begin to count the people who cared for me and honored the covenants I was born into, there is no end.

I think first of Ruth, seemingly ancient in my mind. Her hair was always done in a French twist, which fascinated me as my family sat behind her in church. I remember talking with her, which means she bothered to talk to me as a child. I remember the feel of her hand on mine as it grasped the back of the pew. The endless patience I recall from elementary school had to be there all of my life, including when I played with Cheerios to make it through worship as a toddler.

Truth be told, it’s probably my fault that the children’s sermon at my childhood church was short lived. The pastor didn’t really know what he was doing when he started that particular addition to worship and I gave lots of unhelpful answers and so it only lasted a few weeks. That same pastor, though, gladly fulfilled my requests of him at church potlucks: black pop only and help removing the devil from my deviled egg. He shook my hand at the door, too.

Maybe it seems weird to name those simple things as honoring covenant, but to me they are. People cared about me, took care of me, and made space for me because we were church. The breadth and depth is astonishing now.

Randy both taught my Sunday school class and let me rollerskate down the hallway with his daughters. Kenny and Sheila had long ago lost control of their house when the third kid was born, and so they hosted all of the kids in the church for sleepovers. We played crocodile on their king-sized waterbed—an absurd game of someone lying in the middle trying to knock everyone else off the edge—and ate blueberry pancakes in the morning. We piled on wagons for hayrides and Kenny misjudged bridges so we had to get off and walk. Still, they kept us safe along the way.

It was this strange world of people who were different than family and different than just being together in a small town. I say that because these people were still there long after I left a small town, just there, choosing to be church.

The church where I was ordained took care of me as a seminary student long before they ordained me. Elizabeth, in charge of the children’s Easter egg hunt, pressed $20 for gas into my hand because she knew it was a long trip to the church in a time when gas prices were very high. They asked if I needed help buying tires for my car and packed up extra pizza to take home. When I had the youth van rental charged to my credit card, a reimbursement check was waiting for me when I got back from the event. They gave me every reason to believe them, to trust them, day in and day out.

And I think of the other things they got right. They loved the gay kid in a church that wasn’t ready for any conversations about becoming Open and Affirming. They made space for the adult with Down syndrome. Occasionally, there was the hot mess at a board meeting because, well, that whole wrangling with institution thing. But each and every person taught me trust, simply by existing together as church.

I skipped over the people in college, the church I attended as a teenager, the churches I have served after ordination. Each adds its own flair to the larger picture: these are people who live into covenant in ways that would not be possible except for the Spirit among them. And I trust them—indeed, with my very life in the vocation of pastor.

Many of us find ourselves tied to the church in spite of a million things. Some days, I’m one of them. More often, I am overwhelmed, dazzled even, by these church people who faithfully work to reflect the Christ they serve. I am humbled by the gift of trust they gave to me, and I hope to share with others. It is my deepest hope that, with God’s help, the lasting memory will be all the times the church got it right.

Be the change you wish to see.

by Sandra Chapin

How many of us feel that there are things in the world we’d like to see changed? I celebrate those who speak truth to power, those who hold up a mirror or focus a spotlight on actions that do harm, that limit opportunities for some of us to live full and dignified lives – who are routinely dismissed as having little, if anything, of value to contribute. Other harm to people on a global scale is ongoing as decisions are made, or avoided, in regard to climate. Our kinship with animals and plants is cast aside.

The scope of social justice issues is wide. I include the need for an attitude adjustment in our everyday interactions. I promote tenderness and gentleness. I’ll try not to be too icky sweet about it.

Let’s start with cute pet videos online. Recently Spence showed me a video on his phone of a cat reclining in a drowsy position and a human hand entering the scene holding a small teddy bear. The bear is nudged against the kitty who responds by reaching out its paws to grasp the bear in a hug that melts the heart. Awww. It’s just so sweet! Not icky. Even the stoic among us who disdain showing emotion would surely smile on the inside.

I am not a cat owner (is there such a thing as a cat owner?) but…

Most people would be moved by the simplicity of the act, the relationship of animal and human with a common ground of nurture and comfort. Cat and human (and teddy) are engaged in this tender and gentle moment. My take-away is to pose a question: Am I missing similar human-to-creature encounters? Not to be touching wild things, but to be aware of eye-contact as a gentle exchange of regard. To appreciate the lean and luminous lizard. For the lizard to appreciate not getting squashed by me – as if I could move that fast.

Sharing the earth with lizards and lions.

My next story is about a couple (humans) of mature years who I see often at Panera Bread. I go there to pretend I’m at a Parisian cafe composing some great work. They have a different agenda. They get coffee and sit at their favorite table and then proceed to work on a cross-word puzzle. I never see them speak, yet with heads together each takes a turn at the puzzle, even sharing the pencil. I can’t tell what the rules are. What pattern do they follow? Do they move in sequence – across, down – or scan for a category of expertise? Does he start a word and she complete it? Silently for more than an hour they sit in this back and forth manner. Seamlessly. Lovingly.

I am not in a coupled relationship but…

Watching them makes me calm. And curious. What is it like to be part of a pair that (I assume) has been evolving for years and years? I know couples who do not demonstrate such tenderness, at least not in front of others. Couples whose interaction hint at problems unresolved and a staying together more about habit than respect.

Over time I have struck up an acquaintance with this couple. They are as sweet as they appear. Not given to excessive conversation. That’s not why they come to Panera. Seeing their choreography with the puzzle I believe they have not had a cross word between them. That’s the lens I choose when I look at them. Real human to human contact can be prickly, and I remind myself that friendships need to be tended. Like my coffee at the cafe, better when sweetened and stirred. When we hold a person gently in our heart, it is easier to hold more and more.

Speaking truth to power. The Bible is full of it. Consider the prophet Nathan confronting King David with a story of a poor man and his beloved pet lamb, and a rich man who wanted lamb for dinner but not one from his own flock. (2 Samuel 12:1-9) Nathan’s words brought David to his knees.

Actions communicate truth. Jesus washed the feet of his disciples. They were confused and protested. Servants or slaves performed this lowly chore, not a person held in high esteem. (John 13:1-15) Was Jesus confronting the power of privilege which can erode relationships and unravel a community?

In speech. In action. In attitude. Be the change you wish to see.

Blessed by Science and a Capacity for Awareness and Awe

by Jim Cunningham

Through science I have come to realize that I have been blessed for 13.8 billion years… now that is a lot of blessings. If any one of multi-trillions of events did not happen just so… I would not be here today. All of it gift, miracle, and blessing!.

Through science, a research geneticist taught me that it is likely that 78% of human egg/sperm unions do not result in a live birth. Most fail in the first days to six weeks. So when I was conceived my chances of being born alive was 22%. I call that a miracle, a blessing, a gift!

Science has taught me that I began as one cell and after a multitude of cell divisions and specializations, I am born with 1-5 trillion cells and as an adult have some 25 to 100 trillion cells. Wow. Miracle! Blessing! Gift!

Each day also a gift and blessing. Each breath and heartbeat a gift and blessing! If I were to go to bed and count all my blessings… well, I would never get any sleep.

I remember hearing a story where a student asks his Rabbi, “What is the key to a spiritually healthy life?” It happened to be the Rabbi’s day of silence but not wanting to disappoint the student, the Rabbi wrote on a piece of paper one word… “Awareness.” The student looked puzzled and asked, “What do you mean by ‘awareness.?’” The Rabbi again wrote one word on a paper, “Awareness!” The student said, “I do not understand? Please, I really need to know what you mean by ‘awareness.’ !” Finally, the frustrated Rabbi breaks silence, “When I say ‘awareness’ I mean awareness, awareness, awareness!!!”

I pray that I may never lose my awareness of 13.8 billion years of gift and blessing and miracles!… that I may never lose my awareness of the gift and blessing and miracle I am… that I may be keenly aware of the vast number of gifts and blessings and miracles I am privileged to enjoy every day of my life. I awake, aware that just waking to another day is a gift and blessing and miracle followed by millions more before I lie down to sleep… each breath, every heartbeat, seeing, hearing, tasting, touching, speaking, ability to use my hands, to walk, to think, to learn, to read, to eat, clothes, food, water, a roof over my head, heat, air conditioning, medicine, a bed, pets, rocks, trees, gardens, air, diverse humans who share the journey… even pain and suffering, and oh so much more!

Awareness. Awareness. Awareness.

Thank you to the source of it all… a source I experience and call GOD.

When You Wish Upon a Star

by Sandra Chapin

Stars. Fascinating things. How many – beginning with our evolutionary ancestors – have looked up in wonder and awe at the night sky? Maybe more than the number of visible stars above (around) the earth. The capacity to wonder is one of the gems of our evolved minds.

“When you wish upon a star…” Familiar with that Disney tune, sung sweetly by Jiminy Cricket, faithful companion of Pinocchio? The 1940 animated film is itself a gem, and the song is a part of our culture. My faithful companion Wikipedia tells me that the American Film Institute ranked “When You Wish Upon a Star” seventh in their 100 Greatest Songs in Film History, one of only four Disney animated film songs to appear on the list…

Are you wondering about the other three?

at 19, “Someday My Prince Will Come” from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937)
at 62, “Beauty and the Beast” from Beauty and the Beast (1991)
at 99, “Hakuna Matata” from The Lion King (1994)

So easy to get lost in the details, isn’t it?

When you wish upon a star
Makes no difference who you are
Anything your heart desires will come to you

I know there is power in positive thinking but I take these lyrics as poetry, not as a formula. A cricket’s poetry, but I mean no disrespect. I prefer Dianne’s supporting statement: “Make it come true where you are.” Some human involvement (that means you) is usually needed to see the desires of your heart come to pass.

One of 12 calligraphy designs drawn by Dianne Müller

“At First Congregational UCC in Longmont, Colorado, I was asked to make some plaques with my own versions of upbeat sayings to display in different rooms of their Christmas Homes Tour. When that was done, I put them on a wall for the Talent Show, arranged like a clock with 12 plaques around the center Title page: Attitude Platitudes.”

Wishes. Desires. Leads me to New Year resolutions. I got into what Jocelyn wrote in her “Minister’s Meditations” for this issue of the View. Rather than put my focus on specific goals that I must achieve for a happier life (goals that meet their doom over and over again), I will turn my attention to the “qualities” that I can associate with my heart’s desires.

Example: Instead of chaining myself to my laptop to write the novel that will become a screenplay that will be awarded an Oscar and end up listed with the American Film Institute as a movie of worth (whew), I will give myself over to my creative impulses wherever it leads me, creative being the quality of choice.

On New Year’s Day three young women on Good Morning America were discussing a similar approach to the year ahead, each having selected an inspirational word for personal direction:
Impact.
Pause.
Pivot.
Intriguing words, yes?

Let’s consider these words attributed to the Hebrew prophet Joel.

“In the last days it will be, God declares, that I will pour out my Spirit upon all flesh, and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy, and your young men shall see visions, and your old men shall dream dreams. Even upon my slaves, both men and women, in those days I will pour out my Spirit; and they shall prophesy. And I will show portents in the heaven above and signs on the earth below, blood, and fire, and smoky mist.”

Acts 2:17-19

I read this more as poetry than prophesy, carried for many years in the memories of an ancient people. Poetry deemed sacred over 2,500 years ago.
I mean no disrespect.

Visions. Dreams. What the long lineage of humans have been experiencing over and over again. And seeing signs and wonders above and below.

Don’t get lost in the details. Follow your own trail of wonders. Your own pathway to the stars.

My Spouse’s Transgender Story!

by Charlie Cunningham, with Jim Cunningham

I am proud to be married to Charlie for 24 years now. Charlie’s transgender story began six years ago. In the fall of 2017, I was the Interim Pastor for Preaching and Pastoral Care at Church of the Redeemer in Westlake, Ohio. On the first anniversary of their vote to become an ONA congregation, I invited Charlie to share Charlie’s story. At the time very few people knew Charlie was my spouse. This is what Charlie shared and with Charlie’s permission I share it here.

Hi, my name is Charlie. I am a pretty average person…although many might disagree. I also live with an incurable chronic illness. About 5 years ago I realized, after a lifetime of suffering, that I am transgender. I was born Charlene, a girl who loved things like skeet shooting and motorcycles and cars. The doctor even told my parents before I was born that I was, indeed, a boy. However, Charlie is my legal name now.

Up until the moment I came to the realization that I was indeed a man, I suffered from treatment-resistant depression. For over forty some years, I was so depressed that many days I could barely function. After my discovery, the depression lifted immediately.

I started out as many transgender female to male transgender people do. I hoped that one day very soon I would be able to pass as a man. I started on my path of transition, beginning with a double mastectomy. Next were male hormones. I was on my way. After a few months on testosterone, it was very clear that I was becoming sicker and sicker from the testosterone. For a while I was even wheelchair dependent. My plans changed immensely at that point. I could no longer take the male hormones that would change my appearance and voice to that of a man. I would never have facial hair and my body would never take on the physical changes of a man. My bodily transition was over.

I have no breasts, but my features still look female. Due to this, I am under scrutiny and wonderment from the people in society that observe me. I have been embarrassed and bullied to the point where I fear for my safety at times. I have been asked to prove my gender on more than one occasion. In hopes of a smooth transition, I changed my name and also my gender on my driver’s license and Social Security. The U.S. government now recognizes me as a male. It is a paradox to look female, with no breasts and be recognized on paper as a male. I now consider myself gender neutral or non-binary. Somewhere along what is a spectrum of gender possibilities. I try to dress as ambiguously as possible to avoid further shaming and questioning glares and stares.

Inevitably people still wonder and stare and this is the life that I live. One of the only places I should feel totally safe in is the church. This is not always true, however. Even in some Open and Affirming churches, I am still judged. I have found a few wonderful churches that love and accept me just as I am and that means the world to me. Thank you for being an Open and Affirming church.

I ask myself, “How can we learn to look at individuals in this world without judgment? How can we just see a soul and a human being without sizing a person up and forming conclusions about that person?” I am still looking for answers to that question and it has taught me to view others in a whole different light…without judgment.

There is one person who has lovingly stood by my side throughout the journey. He has supported me unconditionally and taught me so much about what love should really be. I am so grateful for my husband. I can truly be myself and feel safe at home.

May we all learn to love without judgment. Thank you for listening, and now back to my dear husband, Jim Cunningham.