Having traveled across the United States, talking to those who are fierce advocates, both for and against a woman’s right to legally accessing an abortion, we’ve recognized a few areas in the conversation that would benefit from dissection. Not for the purpose of refuting one side over the other, but merely to help us shine a light on how we can effectively communicate our thoughts, even when it comes to the most incendiary topics. In most cases, we’ve found it boils down to three things: 1) talking past one another, specifically having absolutely no interest in listening to what the other person has to say; 2) using and applying a belief system not held by the other party; and/or 3) as a follow up of the second point, applying a doctrinal belief to someone’s life who has absolutely no desire for you to do so.
I want to take each of these points, dissecting them from both sides of the debate, and suggest a way to engage in HEALTHY conversations that will move us towards a Christlike posture reflecting the love of our Savior, and not the hatred and condemnation of the Pharisees.
The first point is actually the easiest to address and it takes us straight to scripture. The world will know we belong to Jesus by the expression of our love for one another. (John 13:34-35) I have raised this point during many of my conversations with those holding an anti-abortion position and, without fail, 100 percent of the time, their response is always the same: I’m loving the baby. And while I appreciate the heart behind this response, there’s a glaring flaw in the rationale: Loving the baby doesn’t preclude us from loving the woman carrying the baby. As Christians, we don’t get to choose who we’re called to love and equally important, the laws of man should never dictate the limits of our love.
To hold a “pro-life” stance means you not only advocate for the life of the unborn, you chase after the heart of the woman carrying the child. You advocate for the life of the prisoner on death row because you believe in the power of redemption, and you never settle for children being detained in cages, separated from their parents… no matter which administration created the laws, implemented the laws or upholds the laws. Because when we label ourselves “pro-life,” we don’t get to pick and choose which lives are worthy of advocacy. As Christians, we hold that God is the judge. (Yet, so often we like to step into those shoes. Some of us walk in them quite frequently… to the point we’ve worn holes into them.)
And PLEASE hear me out. I’m not advocating for those who oppose abortion to stop opposing it. What I’m asking is for you to take a hard look at HOW you’re opposing it. What I’m asking is for ALL of us to look at what a TRUE “pro-life” stance entails. And then filter that through the absolute radical existence of Jesus and the gospel… and his call on our lives to love others. This is an important conversation the church needs to have. Desperately. One of the more interesting points of contention on our trip thus far has been the level of defensiveness (and divisiveness) surrounding this topic… on both sides of the issue. But, if we can get to a place where we’re willing to listen to opposing views, be open to the possibility (*cough, cough* PROBABILITY) that we all have something to learn, and remind ourselves that Jesus calls us to care for EVERY life, no matter the circumstances… if nothing else…. the tone of our conversation will change. As will the witness we are providing to a watching world.
Points two and three go hand in hand… and this has, by far, been the MOST contentious point of discussion across all topics we’ve dissected. From a Christian perspective, the “pro-life” stance is based on the belief of life beginning at conception. As a Christian, I hold this belief. But I also recognize that many people don’t, including many in the church. (Again, check your response to my last sentence.) But, here’s something I find incredibly interesting: None of those people, despite being “pro-choice” believed in elective abortions being performed in the third trimester. And most had a hard time with elective abortions in the second trimester. And, on the flip side, not every anti-abortion proponent referred to abortions as infanticide. (And, as a point of clarification, abortion is not infanticide. While I understand the heart behind this argument, I would contend that using the verbiage is intentionally inflammatory and does very little, if anything, to spur on any helpful dialogue.)
As I close, I want to revisit the first sentence in this post: So how do we end abortions in our country? It wasn’t really a fair question because the truth is simple. We won’t. Even if the Supreme Court reverses Roe V. Wade, and every judge appointed to the bench is a staunch, “pro-life” conservative, abortions will never end. But that doesn’t mean the circumstances surrounding a woman’s (or a couple’s) choice can’t change.
And I believe this is where the Church can have the most profound impact when it comes to drastically reducing the number of abortions taking place here… and around the world. My next post, will be the final one in this series. I will share my own personal views and will propose a solution to help us move in the direction of Christ’s love.
I’ve been sharing my story for years, as the Lord prompts me. Almost always when I hear a woman confess her abortion under a heavy cloak of shame. (And it’s incredibly important to know the difference between guilt and shame.) Almost always, it’s after they hear the story of how Jamie and I chose to keep Sydney. And the words of these women are almost always the same, “Your story has a good ending, but mine doesn’t.”
And this is a problem we have created… in the church.
Whether intentional, or not, we’ve created a culture in some of our churches where the “success” stories within the congregation become idolized. One of my friends calls it “ill-famous.” She refers to it as having an illness, or an exploitive sin, that a church can leverage to their advantage. (And she would know, because her family’s story has been requested for use by her church on multiple occasions… including a building campaign.) Unbelievable as it might sound, it goes something like this: If you’ve been healed from a disease, overcome a significant obstacle, or freed from the grips of horrific sin… your story is a commodity that can be used (exploited) by the church. And, obviously, the repercussions of this can be devastating to the church body, as a whole. As one person on the road described it: If you have reoccurring sin you just can’t seem to conquer, or some “almost-unforgiveable-sin-that-OF-COURSE-Jesus-will-forgive-but-the-church-will-NEVER-forget,” you become a second class citizen of sorts. It’s like Nathaniel Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter. You are forever known by the sin you committed.
When asked why I don’t share my story more, the truth is pretty simple. I’m not interested in dealing with a lot of judgmental Christians with HUGE planks in their eyes… on an issue Jesus had already dealt with. Like the Apostle Paul wrote to the Galatians, I’m free for freedom’s sake. Period. Plus, self-righteousness disguised as holy righteousness isn’t something I have the patience for. (And for the record, neither does Jesus.)
But then I started listening to more women share their stories. And men. Would it surprise you to know that 54% of the women who had abortions in 2014 were identified as Protestant or Catholic? Let that statistic sink in. Over 50% of the women who had abortions in 2014 were professed Christians. Stop right now and take inventory of your thoughts at this exact moment. Are you reflexively questioning the salvation of these women? Were you overcome with anger and judgment because of the decisions they made? Or did your heart grieve for them, NOT from a place of superiority, but from a place of compassion?
When we first got on the road, Sydney and I had the chance to speak with a long time pregnancy care advocate based in Ohio. She had spent an extensive amount of time with young women who chose to terminate their pregnancies. (She also spent time talking to the Church about tangible ways they could help women facing unplanned pregnancies, but I will focus more on that in the next post.) At one point in the conversation, she told us that many of the women looking to terminate their pregnancies were professed Christians; and when asked about their decision to go through with the abortions, almost all of them had the same response:
“Jesus will forgive me, but the Church won’t.”
I STILL remember that moment. Sydney and I were sitting on the sofa in the RV and both of our mouths dropped open at the same time. So many thoughts were going through our minds and we were eager to ask so many follow up questions, but, first, had to recover from our stunned silence. This statement is profound, and in my experience (and the experiences of so many other men and women I have met), painfully accurate. Christ will forgive us for our sins, no matter how heinous they are, and never hold them to our face as a reminder of who we were. The Church, on the other hand, hasn’t had the best track record with extending grace when it comes to having children out of “wedlock” or to those who have had abortions. (See my Scarlet Letter reference above.) Honestly, the choice is rather simple: you can choose to take the pregnancy to full term and deal with all the whispers from within the church, or you can terminate the pregnancy and suffer in silence.
But, either way… you suffer.
When you think of the mission and message of Jesus, this is an incredibly damning indictment against the Church… and should give us great pause. (And this issue isn’t limited to the subject of abortion.) If I’m being honest, I imagine several people read the line “many of the women looking to terminate their pregnancies were professed Christians” and scoffed at the notion of anyone calling themselves a Christian while even CONSIDERING an abortion, let alone HAVING one. And here lies the problem.
Well… one of them anyway.
Years ago, Jamie and I shared our story with a local pastor. I remember the look of confusion that came across his face. He then asked, with genuine sincerity, “But, weren’t you guys Christians?” It was completely unfathomable to him that we would even consider abortion as an option if we professed Jesus as our Savior. (Ironically, he didn’t question our salvation when it came to having sex outside of marriage.) I’ve also had a young man look me in the eye and tell me there’s no such thing as a “pro-choice” Christian. (And before anyone COMPLETELY loses their minds, pro-choice DOES NOT mean pro-abortion. It would be SO MUCH easier to argue a “pro-life” stance if it did. This is something I’ve come to learn on this trip. And something I will talk more about in the next post.) Or that you can’t be a Democrat and a Christian because those two “positions” are diametrically opposed… most likely because of the pro-choice stance that many in the party adhere to. But, would it surprise you to know that 29% of Democrats consider themselves “pro-life”? Or that 21% of Republicans label themselves as “pro-choice”? (Click here for the stats.)
How many of you have an elevated heart rate right now? Creating the bullet points for all your arguments against what I just posted. I assure you… it’s okay. Remember, We’ve been doing this for 10 months and we know all the points and counter points. But, this isn’t about winning an argument. It’s about chasing after hearts. It’s about Jesus. For those who are chomping at the bit to say Jesus was against murder, I would respectfully remind you about his stance on hatred in our hearts being tantamount to murder at our hands. His words. Not mine. AND PLEASE HEAR ME OUT ON THIS: We’re NOT trying to change anyone’s stance on anything. All we’re suggesting is that NO MATTER your political affiliation, or your stance on the issue of abortion, how we communicate the love of Christ to those facing the choice of abortion is the most important thing we will ever do when it comes to the issue.
As Sydney likes to say, “We’re trying to save two lives here, not just one.”
After leaving the Good Friday service, it took about 12 hours for me to accept the Lord’s answer to my fleece. But, there was one glaring problem: If He was calling me to share my story with others, I’d probably need to share it with my husband first.
About 30 years ago, I made a conscious decision to give myself a fresh start in life. A reset, of sorts. And I didn’t meet my husband until almost 10 years AFTER that reset… far removed from the shackles of a past I was determined to leave behind. But, now I sat on my bed trying to figure out how in the world I was going to share this story with my husband. What was I going to say? How would he react? We hardly ever fought. I mean, after 17 years of marriage I can probably count on one hand the times we’ve fought. I didn’t even know how to prepare myself for any type of confrontation.
The only thing I knew to do was pray and then to ask someone else to pray, which is exactly what I did. I called my friend, Anna, confessing my need to tell her something… but, needing to tell my husband first. I asked her to go somewhere alone to pray for me, to pray for my husband. I asked for her to pray until I texted her that my conversation with my husband was over. She told me she would and I knew she’d hold true to her word. Anna, despite not knowing the circumstances, understood both the sincerity and severity of my request.
I remember telling my husband that I needed to talk to him; it was urgent and cleaning would have to wait. I remember telling the kids they could watch a movie and that cleaning would have to wait. I remember the kids being thrilled with the indefinite postponement of chores. I remember feeling like I was going to throw up. I remember crawling into bed and wrapping myself in the blankets. I remember telling my husband the entire story.
I grew up in an abusive home, something my husband knew. My dad was a controlling, sadistic alcoholic who physically beat me and my mom, usually when he was drunk. But sometimes, especially when he was angry, alcohol wasn’t required. In middle school, social services got involved. Briefly. But, also the consummate sweet-talker, my dad convinced the social worker that my cry for help was nothing more than a kid looking to be “spared from the rod.” A funny comment from a man who refused to go to church because he didn’t want to associate with hypocrites. But, the irony was lost on the social worker because she didn’t bother asking if my dad even went to church… or asking for my side of the story, or asking to see the bruises on my body.
One night, while calling home to see if I could stay a little longer at a friend’s house, I could hear things breaking in the background. I could hear my dad in a fit of rage. The last thing I wanted to do was go home, but the last thing I could do was leave my mom there to fend for herself. By the time I got there, the house was destroyed. Picture frames torn from the walls, glass broken everywhere. My dad was still reeling and my mom was still making excuses for him. It was the same song and dance we’d been doing for years. But, I was tired of this dance. I was tired of living in fear. Honestly, I was tired of living. Period.
So, I left.
At seventeen, I left home. For a couple of weeks, there were friends whose parents took me in because they were sympathetic to the situation. But, I never wanted to overstay my welcome. I spent weeks sleeping wherever a bed, or couch, was offered. I stayed in my car. I asked my friends for whatever food they could spare during lunch. If there was enough, I’d save some for dinner. As the weeks turned into months, my friend circle began to change; all my “church” friends stopped talking to me. I started hanging out with an older crowd, which led me down a destructive path.
At the age of 17, I found myself pregnant and homeless. And in a horrific twist of fate, my parents offered me a chance to come home, under the best possible circumstances. My dad was being transferred to an office in Texas for the remainder of the school year. My parents told me I could return home, without having to deal with the presence of my dad…. but, only if I wasn’t pregnant.
Being pregnant wasn’t an option. I mean, what would the people at church think, right? This was a genuine response. (And after hearing the stories of so many others, it’s a common theme from within the church.)
I remember sitting in my car outside of the abortion clinic, watching women walk in. Watching them walk out. Curious if their countenance would change. I noticed a woman sitting in a beach chair outside the clinic, a Cool-Mate cooler to the right of the chair. She was reading a book, but every time a woman passed on the walkway to the clinic, she would look up and say something. Sometimes the interaction was longer than others. Eventually, I got up the nerve to go in. I convinced myself this was a necessary decision for survival. I needed to graduate high school and get out from under the control of my parents. But, I had to pass by this woman and her cooler first.
To this day, I remember so much about my conversation with her. She got up from her chair and said that she had been watching me for as long as I had been watching her. She then asked something I would have NEVER expected.
She asked if she could pray for me.
When I said yes, she grabbed my hands and moved in close. Too close. Her forehead pressed against mine. I braced myself for what was about to come. I was raised in a church where Sunday morning announcements included the phone numbers of elected state and federal officials you needed to call to make sure your voice was heard. I was prepared for the back-handed prayer of condemnation to hell because I was about to commit the unforgivable sin. I was ready.
But, it never came.
Instead, this woman prayed a prayer that would one day save my life. She prayed that I would experience the Father’s love in a real way. No matter what I decided, she wanted me to know that God would love me as much walking out of that clinic as He did when I walked in. No matter what I decided.
That was it. She didn’t try to change my mind. She didn’t throw scriptures at me or call me a murderer. She didn’t show me horrible pictures. She just showed me compassion. She showed me love.
She showed me Jesus.
Years later, I would find myself spiraling down a path of crippling depression, wanting to end my life. (And before anyone starts “explaining” my situation as some form of PTSD. It wasn’t. I spent a lot of time in counseling as a part of my healing process… healing from ALL the trauma of my childhood. Let me save you from your arrogance and/or ignorance. This moment, unfortunately, stemmed from other circumstances far beyond my control and had absolutely nothing to do with this situation.) In my darkest moment, I remembered the woman sitting outside the clinic. I remembered her talking about a God I never knew, despite being raised in the Church. A God that loved you… no matter what. In that moment, I called out to that God. I told Him that if He really existed, I needed Him to take this consuming darkness away. He had to end it, because if He didn’t, I was going to.
And as soon as those words escaped my mouth… it was all gone. The darkness and despair, the depression. All of it. Inexplicably gone.
I wish I could sit here and say that in that moment I dedicated my life to the Lord who saved me from myself. But, truth is… in that moment, I thought about ALL the times I was taught about God’s love for children. I thought about the horrors of my childhood and wondered where God was all those years. Instead of being overwhelmed by His love for me, I became overcome by my anger towards Him.
So… I ran from God. Hard and fast for almost 10 years. Around the world, literally… and then to Maine.
I sat on my bed, finally through the whole story. Tears rolling down my face because I just shared years worth of trauma to a man who never signed up for it. I had no idea how he would take it. My husband is an internal processor, a pretty extensive dialogue takes place in his head before any words cross his lips. I, on the other hand, am an external processor. I need words to be expressed vocally, especially in these situations.
But all I got from him was this quizzical look, as if every word coming from my mouth had been in some indistinguishable language. The expression remained on his face for an uncomfortable amount of time and I used every second of the silence to brace myself for every possible response… except the one he gave me.
“Deirdre, I’ve known… I’ve known for years.”
I’m sorry, WHAT?!?! How in the world could he know? And, more importantly, how was it even possible for me to have absolutely no clue?
My husband then went on to explain how years ago, while packing up for our move, he came across a box filled with letters and pictures. He didn’t recognize the contents and began searching for a clue. From the few things he read, my husband was able to piece together my story. But, instead of bringing the contents of the box to my attention, he quietly placed them back onto the shelf.
Immediately, I placed myself in his shoes. I can, quite confidently, admit that if the roles had been reversed, my actions would not have been the same. NOT. EVEN. CLOSE. I would have brought the whole thing to his immediate attention asking how he could have possibly kept something so monumental from me. I, most likely, would have felt entitled to know every detail and demanded as much. At the end of the day, I would have expected a complete confession and then (possibly) extended grace…. maybe. I wish I could say that my response would have been different, but I know myself pretty well.
Thankfully, that was NOT how my husband responded. And when I asked why he never said anything to me, his answer was simple… but profound.
“That was from atime in your life before you knew me.That’s not who you arenow.”
And, just like that, for the first time in my entire life, I understood how Jesus REALLY sees me. I came to a place of TRULY understanding what he accomplished on the cross.
For years, men in the church… leaders in the church… shamed my husband because of his “lack of leadership” on the home front. They blamed me for not being submissive. They questioned his lack of interest in leadership opportunities at the church, opting instead to watch the babies of the young women I would teach. They never once saw how much of Jesus my husband REALLY was. (Confession: Neither did I… because I believed the lies so many propagated in the Church, whether through their words or actions.) My husband was the first to serve in the most “undesirable” positions. He saw my giftings and did everything possible to make sure I used them for the edification of the body… even if that meant being covered in the spit up of a child that wasn’t ours.
In that moment, through those simple words, my husband showed me an inexplicable love. He showed me the love of Jesus. And in that moment, EVERYTHING changed.
I woke up the following morning determined to make it absolutely impossible for God to speak to me. (I know. Sitting here, at a RV park in San Antonio, I read that sentence in embarrassment.) I’m not sure if it was arrogance or stupidity. Maybe it was just a matter of complete desperation. But, whatever it was, I had a plan in place.
In a pinnacle moment of maturity, I decided to play sick. Yep. I mean, if I don’t get out of bed all day, just pull the covers over my head, and tell everyone to leave me alone… God can’t possibly talk to me, right?
Everything went exactly as planned until around lunch time, when I heard the chime from my phone buried somewhere in the bottom of my purse. I immediately began kicking myself for not silencing my phone. This text, under any other circumstance would have been the answer to prayer. But, in my current situation, it would lead to my undoing. You see, the text was from a young woman who had been living with our family for months After living as a missionary overseas, she needed a place to land, to find her bearings. For months, I had been asking her to go with us to church. For months, she had passed on the invitation. Then, all of a sudden, out of the blue… yeah, okay, God… she sent me a text asking it I would go with her to a Good Friday Service. (Did I mention that it was Easter weekend?)
Here I was, faking illness, eliminating all contact with electronics and people… well, almost all… trying my best to keep any and all communication with God to absolutely zero. And then I get this text asking me to attend a church service with someone who hasn’t wanted to go to church in months. Something I had been praying for, wrestling with God on, for months. And, THIS was the day He decided to answer that prayer.
And that, folks, is how our God works. His timing really is impeccable.
I agreed to going to the Good Friday Service. But I was arriving late, leaving early and sitting on the back pew. Non-negotiable. (I can’t imagine what thoughts were going through this young lady’s head.) But, understand the predicament I found myself in: I was trying to avoid God… and now I was going to church, arguably, the last place you’d want to go.
Yet, there I was.
I remember parts of the service. It was cast as an ecumenical service. Seven different congregations were participating, most from conservative and/or liturgical backgrounds. But there was one that wasn’t… and that pastor decided to hijack the Good Friday script turning it into one of deliverance, prophetic words, and healing. You could almost see the heads explode one by one, starting with the Baptist congregants, shortly followed by the Anglicans.
Under “normal” circumstances, my head would have probably been pounding too. But, I was just counting down the minutes until the last song would be sung… and I would subtly exit my pew and run back to hide under the covers of my bed until the clock struck midnight. But, as the last song began to play, I noticed Katherine, another one of the young ladies from my discipleship group, at the front of the church. It was hard to NOT notice her, because she was waving to get my attention.
For about five seconds, I contemplated ignoring her. But, I knew something was wrong just by looking at her. And, by the end of those five seconds, I had this horrible feeling Katherine was part of God’s plan. It was the same feeling I get when riding a rollercoaster, about to crest the top of the peak… about to drop three stories with lightening speed.
Katherine lived in downtown Portland, right above the Planned Parenthood. On that particular Friday, protesters paraded in front of the building, holding posters not suitable for young eyes, citing scriptures found in the Old Testament… ignoring those in the New… telling those entering the doors of the clinic that they are murderers. And like so many other Fridays, Katherine walked down to the street and engaged in conversations with those firmly gripping their poster boards and their bibles.
One of the many things I love about Katherine is her heart for those who don’t know Jesus. Even in these moments with protestors outside of Planned Parenthood, she wanted the witness of the Church to reflect the love of Christ. Because of this, she tried to engage one of the protesters into a conversation. She questioned why they relied so heavily on the Old Testament, ignoring the words of love from Jesus that permeate the New Testament. But, like so many times before, the conversation went nowhere.
Finally, one of the women talking to Katherine shared her story, which includes multiple abortions. Almost as an acknowledgement of the impasse, the woman told Katherine that she doesn’t expect someone who’s never lived her experience to understand her position. In part, this woman was arguing that she has more insight, and by default, more of a right, to engage in this form of protest that arguably heaps on more condemnation than anything else.
As Katherine continued to tell her story from the previous hour, I began to feel the crest of the roller coaster fast approaching. As she looked at me, somewhat defeated by her interaction with the woman, I knew the Lord was using Katherine to check off all the conditions I gave Him. She finished her story almost with a resigned defeat, as she said her final sentence, “Maybe she’s right, I’ve never been in these women’s shoes. Why should they listen to me?”
And just like that, in the house of the Lord, on Good Friday, the Lord spoke in a way I couldn’t deny. I remember feeling sick, as I grabbed the pew to steady myself. Conversations were going on around me, but I couldn’t hear them. I couldn’t hear anything except the voice in my head, a volley of expletives and questions. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Katherine broke through the verbal tennis match in my head with a request for me to drive her home. And somewhere between the walk back to the car and my key turning the ignition, I became lucid again. I didn’t even make it 100 yards down the road before I pulled off to the side and asked Katherine to take out her calendar. I told her I thought God spoke to me through her and that I needed her to hold me accountable. I asked her to make a reminder on her phone, two weeks from that day, to check in with me. To hold me accountable. I apologized for being vague and explained that I couldn’t tell her anything more, but that I would explain everything in two weeks.
But, it didn’t take two weeks. It didn’t even take two hours. By the time I pulled into my driveway, I knew what the Lord was calling me to do. He was calling me to share my story. But there was one problem. No one knew my story.
So before I could share my story with the world, I’d need to share it with my husband.
Four years ago, about halfway through seminary, my life changed forever. Radically. I grew up in the church, had been studying and teaching the Bible for years, but for the first time in my life I was about to see Jesus in a completely different way. Or, maybe I should say, for the first time I would come to a transformational understanding of how Jesus sees me.
One of the requirements for my particular degree program was a 30 week concentration in spiritual formation. The requirement, though time consuming, was relatively simple: meet with a local ministry leader once a week for mentoring. At the end of the 30 weeks, I would present my mentor with a project entitled “My Story”; a simple narrative of my testimony.
I still remember that fateful day, sitting at my local Starbucks, presenting my paper, clearly and concisely sharing my testimony with a woman brave enough to take on the job of mentoring me. It’s wasn’t a job for the faint of heart. But, this final meeting was easy. I’d given my testimony a hundred times, learning to keep it sweet, simple and too the point.
Box checked. Moving on.
Or so I thought.
That night I tossed and turned for hours, but sleep eluded me and I had absolutely no idea why. Did I consume too much coffee after 4:00pm? Were the kids okay? Did I forget to lock the doors? It went on for hours. And then, out of nowhere, it hit me. Almost like God was talking to me. (He wasn’t. At least, not audibly.) Maybe I was talking to myself. Whomever was behind that still, small voice… my deep subconscious was breaking through with four simple words:
“That’s not your story.”
I’m sorry. What?!? What do you mean it’s not my story? Of course, it is! I’ve told it a hundred times, if not more. The Carry On Project was based on that story. I mean, I LIVED it.
But, then, almost like an answer to what I thought was a rhetorical question, the Lord brought the story, ready to be told, into focus. This wasn’t a forgotten tale repressed in the cob-webbed crevices of my mind, nor was it a story I chose to ignore. It was just so far removed from my life… decades removed. Before I knew Jesus. (Yes, you read that right. It IS completely possible to be raised in the church, even be baptized, and have absolutely no idea who Jesus is.) And for someone who had first hand experience of how the church shoots it’s wounded…
Yeah… no thanks. I’m good.
But, the Lord was unrelenting and the turning point finally came in a moment of frustration as I screamed in my pillow, “For the love of Jesus.”
It was almost like the Lord answered, “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”
So, I did the only thing I knew to do when faced with a decision I didn’t want to make. I pulled a Gideon and threw down my fleece. But, this was no ordinary fleece, mind you. This fleece had points and sub-points. In no uncertain terms, if the Lord wanted THIS to be “my story” then He needed to make it UNDENIABLY clear.
Here were my conditions (laughable, I know): #1 He needed to clearly confirm this was the story I was called to share; #2 He needed to clearly articulate WHY I was the one to share it; and #3 He had to do it within the next 24 hours.
Yeah, I know. I have some nerve, right? Questioning the Lord of all creation? Giving Him a timeline to meet MY demands? Who the heck do I think I am?
Truth: in that moment… Jonah. Ready to run as far away from Nineveh as possible. And, thankfully, the Lord extended to me ALL KINDS of CRAZY GRACE. Because He answered all of my questions by the following night.
Lesson for today: When you try to paint God unto a corner, He might just blow that corner up.
Over the next five or six posts, I’m going to dive deep into this topic of abortion. Today I’m sharing Sydney’s journey with The Carry On Project and what we’ve experienced on the road. In the subsequent posts, I’ll share my story with you, tying up this series with a look at the conversation surrounding abortion in the Church and the ministry the Lord has called me to as we move forward. But, first… Sydney.
Part of our RV adventure across the country has included stops to pregnancy care centers as part of The Carry On Project. (You can read more about the project here.) We’ve had the opportunity to visit centers from New York to Texas, sharing the music, but also the heart behind the mission. The ministry, on its own merits, is beautiful. I remember Krissy sending us the unfinished version of Carry On and immediately knowing this song needed to be in the hands of every woman facing an unplanned pregnancy. But, I also remember Sydney championing the song’s other significant ministry… to the Church. Over the last year, Sydney has constantly, consistently, reminded us of this.
She reminds everyone of this.
Sydney has always been apprehensive of The Carry On Project. Not in the mission itself, but in the assumptions others would make. From the VERY beginning, Sydney made it abundantly clear to her management team that she wanted to avoid using the term “pro-life” when describing the song. It was too politically charged and, for those Sydney had a heart to reach, it would be a repellant.
I will never forget the night the publicist called to tell us that CCM Magazine wanted to do a story on Sydney and The Carry On Project. They wanted to use term “pro-life” in the title. Sydney’s response: Absolutely not. The management team was baffled. Why in the world would you say no to that kind of exposure? In her abundant wisdom, and as a foreshadowing of future events, Sydney explained that using the terminology would align her with people and movements she doesn’t want to be aligned with. She was confident the Lord wasn’t calling her to the politics and policy side of the conversation.
But, Sydney also felt called to speak to the Church. To Sydney, Carry On is a reminder for the Church to surround women facing unplanned pregnancies with love and support, not hate and condemnation. Sydney knew there were TWO lives at stake and the best way to save the life of the child was to chase after the heart of the mother. This is the beat of Sydney’s heart… and not just on this topic.
Eventually, Sydney agreed to the CCM Magazine article. I still remember the conversation. In the end, it was one comment that changed her mind: Sometimes (probably ALL the time, in my opinion) the Lord opens a door and we have absolutely no say on the terms… and that’s when our pride can get in the way of us living out our purpose. So, she agreed to have the story run, and then about one week later, during an interview with a radio station in London, her worst fear came true.
God’s timing around the circumstances in our lives the past three years has been impeccable. Spot on. 100% of the time. And this interview, unfortunately (or, fortunately, depending on how you look at it) was no exception. The DJ informed Sydney that the previous person interviewed for her show had also written a “pro-life” song. I wish you could have seen Sydney’s face as she listened to the DJ set up the question. It was a mixture of dread, frustration, and anger, with a tad bit of I-told-you-this-was-going-to happen thrown straight at me. (I remember covering my head with a pillow, praying the Lord would give my girl a double helping of grace and discernment when she opened her mouth to speak.)
Truth is… we were very much aware of the person and song the DJ was referring to. It was written by a male worship leader at one of the bigger churches in Franklin, Tennessee. The focus of the song was different from Carry On, as was the ministry surrounding it. For this other song, the life of the unborn was the focus and a pro-life activist asked the artist to join a few events around the country.
The DJ wanted to know how Sydney felt about creating a song that was part of this pro-life movement taking over the country. A movement that has, at times, brought out the worst in people as they stand outside of abortion clinics with hate-filled signs calling women murders. Sydney has seen this. She has watched mothers and fathers encourage their children to speak words of condemnation to complete strangers… in the name of Jesus.
And without missing a beat, Sydney set the record straight, informing the DJ she wasn’t a part of that movement. Period. She offered no other explanation. She refused to whitewash her answer in an effort to diminish some of the apparent sting. There was just silence. Awkward, long silence.
Sydney LOVES those moments.
So here we are on the road. Birmingham to be exact. Right as Alabama is passing state abortion laws that will undoubtedly make their way to the Supreme Court. As men and women, Lord help us even children, stand in front of abortion clinics holding posters with pictures of aborted babies, calling the women entering these clinics murders and damning them to hell.
All in the name of Jesus.
But through all of that, you have a 17-year-old girl visiting a local pregnancy care center to give them the download cards for Carry On. Wanting to share her story… our story… in hopes that extending love will be more powerful than casting stones. At the clinic in Birmingham, the impression Sydney made was lasting. That evening, one of the women working there made a purchase from our website. She included a note to Sydney saying how impressed everyone in the office was with her poise and her heart for the women entering these clinics.
Here’s the truth: Years ago, I told Sydney that our story might have been a whole lot different if I was met with protesters outside of that Planned Parenthood. Instead, a woman working there listened to me and Jamie wrestle through the pain of this life changing decision and then she told us to go home. Not a story you hear very often, but it’s one that has shaped Sydney’s heart. This woman working at the Planned Parenthood extended love to me when my church kicked me out.
We found ourselves in a very frustrating holding pattern at this point in the story. (I can’t help but laugh at it now. There have been SO MANY holding patterns since this period of time. And a moment of complete honesty: our lives before this adventure were so busy, scheduled… predictable… that waiting didn’t really exist. Even if we put something before the Lord, our petitions weren’t consistent because there were so many other balls to juggle in life. But, living your life in such a way where almost everything depends on the Lord… when your prayers aren’t scheduled, but are a constant flow from your lips throughout the day… it changes how you see this life. It changes how you see your purpose as a child of God, a servant of the Lord. But, we were about to embark on the most trying season of our lives because EVERYTHING depended on waiting…on Him. Even now, we have no idea where we’re going to be in a month. We are going through our savings faster than we want. We are praying for the Lord to make the next step clear. Some nights I can’t sleep. I wonder if I missed something. Would things we different if we were more faithful in some area of our lives?
But, then I remember that He is always faithful, no matter my lack of faithfulness. (Plus, that line of thinking in a form of prosperity gospel, or Christianized karma. Following with Jesus doesn’t work that way.)
We had two weeks before Sydney’s last show in Georgia and no idea how we were going to fill it. (But, the Lord did.) We decided to head down to Alabama to visit another one of my Noonday friends. I went to Uganda several years ago with Melody. We were actually roommates. She and her husband have a wonderful ministry called LIFE Ministries and meeting with them came at the absolute right time.
We met Melody and her husband, Randy, at a local Chick-fil-A in outside of Birmingham. Our time with them was so short, but for the first time since we had been on the road, someone looked at Jamie and I and said, “How is your marriage?” I remember wanting to cry and fighting to hold back the tears. It’s such a simple question, but so profound. Truth be told, our marriage was great. The only time our marriage MIGHT have been better was during our time church planting in Rhode Island. Almost nine months in, our family is closer than ever. But, our time with Randy and Melody helped prepare us for the trials ahead.
Randy hammered home the importance of protecting our marriage. He asked probing questions about our personalities and communication styles, how we handle conflict and prioritize time away as a couple and as individuals. At this point in the adventure, we were still trying to figure out how six people (and a dog) can live in 300 sq. ft. without killing one another. We were winging it, so to speak. But, that wasn’t a strategy for longevity. Randy knew we needed to be proactive in protecting our family in order to give us the best chance of thriving in an absolutely chaotic existence.
The verdict might still be out…but we’re still at it and no one had died yet. I’m counting that as a success.
While in Birmingham, I also made a new, and unlikely, friend… at a local Starbucks. SURPRISE! I had dropped Sydney off at the gym to work out while I went across the street to write. But, I got absolutely no writing done that day. Almost immediately after sitting down and taking our my laptop, this older man took a seat near me. As a die-hard people watcher, this individual intrigued me from the moment he sat down.
First, I’m pretty sure this man knew absolutely everyone who walked into that Starbucks location. (Maybe this is why I was drawn to him! He was ME!!!) This man, Wayne, sat down right next to the table with milk dispensers ands sugar packets… right smack-dab in the path of all the foot traffic, and EVERY SINGLE PERSON STOPPED TO TALK TO HIM. I couldn’t stop laughing. Eventually, he turned to ask WHY I was laughing! Which made me laugh even more.
Over the course of the next hour, I sat with a man who is about as Republican as they come. We talked about politics, abortion, immigration, gun laws. You name it, I asked him his thoughts. And we disagreed more than we agreed. But, here’s the beauty of this conversation: Wayne gave me permission to push back on some of his views… and even conceded to some of my points. And better yet, I gave him the same permission and he pushed back on some of my views… and I conceded to some of his points.
I walked away from my time with Wayne with a renewed sense of hope. We became friends on Facebook, but the request came with one IMPORTANT caveat: I told him that, inevitably, I would post something he doesn’t agree with, politically speaking. I asked him to push against any inclination to “unfriend” me, and, instead, enter into a conversation… offering a different perspective.
Six months later, we’re still friends on Facebook. And we recently found out that we also share the same birthday! I’m convinced that isn’t a coincidence. The Lord is constantly showing us that our connections in faith run deeper than our differences in politics… as long as we focus on nurturing our connections in faith more than exploiting those differences.
But, six months after this meeting, we’re finding this to be increasingly more difficult.