Get Him! In Defense of Justice

Alex was all of five years old. Her sibling had done something to her, I don't remember what, and she was scandalized. She pointed up the stairs where the hardened little criminal had disappeared, and she looked at Brett, her eyes blazing fire. "Get him!"
He was 'got.'
And that was the end of that.

I keep waiting for a hero to emerge amid all the gore and the horror and the wickedness of the Kermit Gosnell story.
Maybe a mother who sat up and said, No.
Maybe a co-worker who stepped between him and the baby and said, No.
Maybe a repentant Gosnell who fell to his knees and said, No.

But no. Not one person came forward to defend the children. Every party in that room was a violent aggressor against the life of one defenseless human being.

Put aside for a moment that there were no heroes in that room. Put aside the fact that Gosnell, to be strictly fair, was merely the hired gun. Put aside for a moment this fuzzy sense of right and wrong which divides the aggressors into the Heinous and the Hurting. Put aside for a moment the fact that no one in that room at any time was compelled to be there--no one, that is, except the child.

Put all of this aside because this is as close as I dare get to this line. Put all of this aside because, while few of us know anyone who earns their keep as a hired gun, many of us have friends who have done the hiring. And we are not so naive that we don't understand that for every precious friend who has found repentance and reconciliation, there are ten more who have not.

Put all of this aside and just stick to the facts of the trial straight up:
Kermit Gosnell is the Philadelphia abortionist who is on trial for murdering abortion survivors by snipping the tops of their spinal cords. In other words, he beheaded them.  Babies. He beheaded infants.

Now I'm making the same demand Alex made. Get him!

I only regret that Gosnell has but one life to give.

And that is the travesty of justice here. If justice were swift and sure in this country, Gosnell would have been executed after his first murder. (And let's not quibble over the location of the murder; inside or outside the womb makes no difference to God. As one friend put it, that's merely a matter of geography.) But justice was not swift. And Mr. Gosnell went on to kill who knows how many people.

So let's say I was an optimist. Let's say the judge in the Gosnell trial did not pre-screen jurors to get rid of pro-lifers. (He did.) Let's say this trial is not full of anti-child irony. (It is.) Let's say the jury returns a verdict of guilty (they won't), and the judge gives Gosnell the death penalty. (He won't). He will still only die once. Justice will not be served. But it's what we'll have to settle for. The place, the only virtuous place, where we can rest in all of this is that God is just. He will not be mocked.

But hark! What is that sound? Oh my stars, it's the Mercy Brigade, sounding for all the world like a chorus of frogs. Yeah-but. Yeah-but. Yeah-but. They're the ones who positively twitch when I say, "God is just."
Yeah-but. Mercy triumphs over judgment.
Yeah-but. God is merciful.
Yeah-but. While I was still at enmity with God, Christ died for me.
True, all.
And yet, God is just. Let it be. Stop twitching. Add nothing.

God
is
just.

King David knew about justice. He and Alex shared much of the same understanding. Here's what the simple five year old and Man-After-God's-Own-Heart both get about justice.
1. There is wickedness in the world which requires a justice that gives no quarter.
2. We do NOT have authority to exact that justice ourselves. (Remember David's stricken conscience when he cut Saul's robe?)
3. Someone does have that authority: our Father.
4. We may appeal to our Father, who will respond because He is just.

Alex said it the way a five year old knows how. "Get him!"
David, the poet-psalmist, was a mite more articulate:
"Oh that you would slay the wicked, O God" (139:19)
"Pour out your indignation upon them, and let Your burning anger overtake them."(69:24)

To be sure, imprecatory prayers must be approached with caution and humility. I admit that I don't trust my indignation and my anger to be purely righteous. I admit I have cried furious tears over this. I admit I have to daily do a heart check. But I also admit that while some of my acquaintance may feel compelled to pray for Mr. Gosnell's soul...my heart is just not there yet. I realize I risk what you think of me when I say this. But this is the place where I am right now. When I think of those who are oppressed and in need of mercy in this case, I think of the babies.

And for the sake of the blood of the babies which cries out from the ground for justice, I am praying on their behalf. I will be their voice before the Throne.

"Let them be put to shame and dishonor who seek my life!
Let them be turned back and disappointed who devise evil against me!
Let them be like the chaff before the wind, with the angel of the Lord driving them away!
Let their way be dark and slippery, with the angel of the Lord pursuing them.
For without cause, they hid their net for me;
Without cause, they dug a pit for my life.
Let destruction come upon him when he does not know it!
And let the net that he hid ensnare him; let him fall into it to his destruction.
Then my soul will rejoice in the Lord, exulting in His salvation.
All my bones shall say, O Lord, who is like You,
delivering the poor, from him who is too strong for him, the poor and needy from him who robs him?"
(Psalm 35:4-10)

This intercessor prays fervently for her family.
This intercessor prays compassionately for the sick and the hurting.
And sometimes this intercessor prays with a fire in her belly and a blaze in her eye over the wicked.
Kind of like David.

The Good Life

We went to a party today. And when I say party, I don't mean the sanitized Christian kind where there are...Christians. I mean PARTYYYY party. One of Brett's old co-workers had turned 50, and she was throwing a big bash out at the lake house. She even invited Brett and me--and our whole family. She loves our family.

So, we went. It's always the kind of outing I have to mentally gear up for. I mean, I love her; I really do. But the crowd is not made up of our people. It's 'them.' 'They' are mostly aging yuppies, every family comprised of two immense professional salaries and precisely zero children. Zero. They drive two fabulous cars, live in 4,000 square foot homes in the most coveted parts of Austin, and jet-set around the world when they're not working hard at their very top-tier positions at major corporations.

And then, there's us. We drive the fifteen passenger Blue Whale. When we open the door, children spill out like ants out of an anthill.  We look like Ma and Pa Grape driving up in our jalopy and arriving in that queer little scene from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang...the one where they ask, "Where are all the children?"

The live band is playing cover tunes from Clapton, the Doobies, and Skynyrd...and I know all the words. I start 'dancing. and singing. and movin' to the groovin' and Brett laughs. The kids are watching all the adults dance with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Non-plussed, they make a bee-line for the pool, where I let them get in as far as their shorts' hems will let them. The almost four-year old gets soaked anyway. While most of the grown-ups stick close to the band and the booze, our family actually takes advantage of the activities. Brett plays boccie with the littler ones while Eliza and I do the bean bag toss. And I don't mind telling you this is not a bean bag toss for the faint of heart. We fail miserably and collapse on the back deck, where I serenade Eliza with Margaritaville. (Hey, I didn't start it; I'm just singing along with the band.)

It's fairly noticeable to me--and I think to all the guests, but maybe I'm being overly sensitive--that our family is lurking together on the outskirts of this party. We can't even get the kids close enough to the birthday cake because it has some, uh, 'visuals' we don't want the kids to see. So we stay back far enough to not offend innocent eyes but close enough to join in the birthday well-wishes. (Isn't that the line we always try to toe with the world? Stand back far enough to protect whom we're called to protect...but get close enough to bless whom we're called to bless...)

So, who are these people? Well, we go way, way back with a few of them from Brett's days at IBM. One of them even came to our wedding almost 25 years ago. Brett's known some of them longer than he's known me. We've seen them through multiple last name changes. Our host babysat for us back when we had a modest family of four, and she was between husbands. She is one of the few who has children, two of them, and Brett knows the both of the fathers. Simply put, there is nothing, just nothing, we have in common with these people.

And yet, they are very kind to us. We get warm hugs from the ones we know. They compliment us on our 'beautiful children' and ask earnest questions. They know we're a little odd. They know we homeschool, and I don't work, and we don't agree with President Obama. They know we're Christians, and we go to church. Still, they invite us to birthday parties and summer parties and New Years' Parties. They ask us to come sailing with them, and then they spend time teaching our kids the ropes. They make sure they have ice cream sandwiches on hand for the littler ones. I mean, they are really, really kind to us.

But there's something a little sad about it all. At one point, while Brett was mingling, Eliza and I took the kids to the play scape. I filled her in on who was married to whom, who used to be married to whom, who came to our wedding, who Brett worked for and with at various times. And she said, "It's kind of sad. They have lots of stuff but no kids. They think they're living the good life. But we're really the ones with the good life."

Out of the mouths of babes...

We left a little early. The almost four-year-old was a bit tweaked because the band was still playing and, therefore, the party wasn't over--and I have no doubt there was a lot more partying to come. Alas, we had to get kids home and bathed and ready for church in the morning. I waved across the party to get my host's attention while she was dancing. I blew her a kiss, and she blew me one back.  And that was the end of that.

The good life. God has given us such a good life. And I'll take my Blue Whale over their imports; I'll take my ten kids who make my life full over their jet-setting; I'll take our frugal spending over their two incomes. Most of all, I'll take the gift of rest that comes with knowing what Jesus has done for us over being consumed by the cares of this world. We are living the good life. I can't think of a better one.

We prayed for them tonight. As I tucked each child in bed and prayed, I was overwhelmed with this thing called the good life. And I was overwhelmed by how much I want these friends to have it, too. I want them to find rest in salvation. I want them to come to the Cross and find the Good Life.

Maybe that's why we keep going to these things. It reminds me to pray for them.

For we are the aroma of Christ to God among those who are being saved and among those who are perishing, to one a fragrance of death to death, to the other, a fragrance from life to life...2 Cor. 2:15-16

Mystory

At first glance, I lead a rather boring life. Wife. Stay-at-home mother. Then I add a few more details. Wife--to pastor. Stay-at-home, homeschooling mother--to ten. Now, I'm no longer boring; I'm weird.  But I've always considered my life somewhat of a blessed adventure. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Even so, I wonder if there will be a time when I settle down and try on 'normal' for a while...like maybe doing a stint as White House Press Secretary...or as a professional golfer. And just as I begin to see 'normal' on the horizon, I hit this bend in the road. 'Normal,' it turns out, if for other people's stories.

I live in a home populated largely by little folk. And my home shows the signs of this wee population. My walls, normally a cheerful yellow, have taken on a hazy dinge from about four feet down. My crisp white woodwork is neither crisp nor white. The worn carpet on my stairs has done battle with a legion of sippy cups. My fingerprint-plastered windows are an FBI dream.

That's okay, I keep telling myself. Life is getting normal now. Our youngest child, on the verge of his fourth birthday is getting taller, smarter,...cleaner. Soon we can replace carpet and paint.

Our possessions are simplifying, too.  After twenty-one years, we finally said goodbye to diapers. (You've probably noticed a dip in your Pampers stock. And I was on the verge of urging you to move your money to Matchbox.) I'm down to one napper, no diapers, and exactly one plastic Winnie-the-Pooh plate.  That kitchen petrie dish, commonly known as the high chair, has long taken up residence in the attic--you know, for the grandkids. I have no burp cloths or boppy pillow. And somewhere in the dark recesses of the garage,  I think, there lurk one playpen and the dilapidated remains of a stroller. I think.

Then there is my typical day. My homeschool time is spent less on ABC's and more on discipleship. I spend my free time reading, blogging, volunteering at speech club, being a friend to my adult children, studying theology, and worrying about politics. In our last family photo, every member of the family is standing on his own two feet.

My peers are in the 40-55 year range. Most of them have graying hair, kids in college, and hot flashes. None of them have little plastic Winnie-the-Pooh plates.

And then there's me.
Moi.
I have graying hair, too.
I have kids in college, too.
But my uterus apparently had a neon sign flashing, "Vacancy!" And suddenly the world is moving in super slo-mo, and I'm staring at that telltale horizontal line on the stick (you know the one) with my mouth hanging open.

Uhhhhhh....

I'm 45, and I'm going to have a baby. Wow!
Early signs of pregnancy are already setting in. My steel-trap brain has turned into a colander, and I'm dropping all kinds of balls.
My hair has taken on the delightful texture of a wired-hair dachshund.
At some point, I'll need to buy new maternity clothes because the ones I have left are circa 1800. And the hottest thing out right now are maternity skinny jeans.
Nice.
So my choice will be to either look like Laura (yawn) Ingalls or Beyonce.
Pregnancy in a Pringles can. Yippee skippee.

I'm tempted, of course, to look at my story and start comparing it to my friends' stories. But then I start listening to their stories.
One had a complete hysterectomy at 33. No more children. Ever.
One had fertility problems.
One had a seven year window in which she could conceive. That window is now closed. Forever.
I have two friends who always have to have C-sections.
Three more have lamented to me that they wish they could conceive now, too.

And I am humbled into 'Who am I?' Who am I that I've never had a C-section or a miscarriage? or a less than perfectly healthy baby? or a problem breastfeeding? Who am I that I have a hardy womb at my age when my peers have long been done?

Most important, who am I to compare my story to their story...as if my story has anything to do with their story? as if God who created the Universe was suddenly obligated to work from one blueprint? No. My story has nothing to do with their story.
My story is His story.

I cannot make predictions about the future. I cannot tell you how this pregnancy will progress, or who this child will be. But this bend in the road is history.
And it is His story,
His story for me.

So we'll log some more time with spots on the carpet.
And little black fingerprints.
And diapers and potty training and plastic Winnie-the-Pooh plates.
And baby smiles. And tiny fingers and toes.
And first words. And first steps.
And leading another little one to God.

Still, I falter when I wonder if I have it in me to parent vigorously for another eighteen years. I waiver when I think that I cannot be weary in well-doing, that this new little one needs, even deserves, every bit as much energy as my first did. I stand at this bend in the road and wonder what God was thinking, making me a mother again at the same age my mother became a grandmother.

I'm going to be a 50-year-old with a five year old.
I'm going to be 63 when I finish homeschooling.
I'm going to be 90 when this child hits my age; my own parents haven't even broken 70 yet.
Yes, I've spent a fair amount of time doing the math.

For whatever reason, He is saving me from my plans and to His plans. The math tells me that this is going to require daily dependence on Him for wisdom and strength--but then, that's no different from anything else He's called me to.

I saw a picture today. I had caught myself doubting one more time about normal and asking God, "Are you sure..." questions. And then I saw the picture. Another friend was holding her little surprise caboose, whom she had just birthed yesterday. It all came back to me...the smells, the warmth, the feelings, the amazing miracle, the new relationship.

Forget normal. I'm not called to 'normal'; I'm called to 'radical.'
My story is not about normal. It's about Jesus.
And He's got this.

The adventure continues...

Transition

(This post is a little different. This time, I'm going to let music create the mood. So, my dear reader, FIRST, press 'play' on the video above. THEN, let it play while you read. Thanks.)

There is no stage of childbirth quite like transition. No stage requires such focus and such endurance. Shorter than the other stages, still...it is absolutely the most intense part of giving birth.

Transition.
It is the point of the process when a woman's body moves from laboring to birthing. Out of transition comes birth. Out of birth comes the baby. So transition serves a wonderful, miraculous purpose.
But it is not fun.
Not.at.all.

I wish the birthing process was the only time transition occurred. But it's not; transition happens again when your children must undergo the birthing process of adulthood. Like transition, it doesn't last very long. But, like transition, it is intense and sometimes painful. It is also absolutely necessary.

It is no small thing to cross the line from childhood to adulthood. The journey to that place of maturity is hard. And it is hard for a parent to watch. It's like watching your child molt. His desire to be independent is so strong that he doesn't even realize the extent of his vulnerability. Our job as parents is to prepare them as much as we can for this point. We educate them so they can understand the world around them. We disciple them so they can understand their place in the world around them. But we cannot become adults for them. They have to do that themselves; and we have to watch.

I love the movie Thor.
Personally, I find superhero movies to be incredibly inane. Calling people 'heroes' because their bodies suddenly explode into a green mass of muscles or they have a special iron rocket suit is just...insipid. More than that, though, note the complete absence of a moral compass, and we move beyond merely insipid to downright tragic.  As a society, we've inoculated ourselves against genuine heroism by elevating people who may be chronologically old but comport themselves with the self-absorbed maturity of a middle-schooler. (No offense to my middle-schoolers...) In short, Hollywood's heroes have never made the Transition.

Thor, however, is the exception.
Thor is the boy who would be king. But he is impulsive and proud, disdainful of his father's wisdom and quiet strength. Despite Odin's warnings and rebukes, Thor opts to pick fights rather than wage just war;
show off rather than show restraint;
mete out vengeance rather than practice longsuffering.
Though the law of Asgard declares that he is ready to be king, his wise father determines that he is not.

Thor's transition to manhood is the quest for maturity. And his father grieves over his foolishness. But the painful consequences of Thor's brash pride finally capture his attention in a way that none of his father's discipleship has been able to. It's more than a cognitive realization that he has made this mess; it's a willingness in his heart to accept responsibility, to make things right. And with that...Thor becomes a man. He returns to the halls of Odin and restores his relationship with his father--like a man.

My favorite scene is the profiles of the old father in front and the son--now a man--shadowing him.
Thor: There will never be a wiser king than you, nor a better father. I have much to learn. I know that now. Someday, perhaps, I shall make you proud.
Odin: You've already made me proud.

The world tells us that our children are adults when they turn eighteen. But parents who are paying attention know better, much better. They know that where there has been no Transition, there will be no adult.

Children insist that they are omnipotent and omniscient.
Adults realize that we are not.

When do I know that my children have made the Transition?
When they crave counsel;
When they demand accountability;
When they call home and say, "I really need to talk to Dad."
When they stop seeing authority as restrictive and start seeing it as protective.

We recently walked through Transition again.
It was not long...
But neither was it fun.
We sweat bullets watching the process.
It wasn't just questions; it was questioning.
You see the difference?
It was struggle and debate and experiment.
It was sleepless nights and gritty prayer and pounding hearts.
It was steely eyes and and clenched jaws and heels dug in for all of us.
The intensity of the Transition was palpable and unmistakable.

And then it was over.

There was a quiet, "I've learned."
And there was Peace.

A few months later, another very real crisis materialized, one caused this time by integrity...and Brett's phone rang.
"I need to talk to you, Dad."

The two men talked.
My two men.
And I was thinking of Thor again.
Two profiles of men of integrity, the younger borne of the older, both wanting the same good end.

The Transition had occurred.
He had made us proud.

Unshakable

Sometimes, God comes through at just the right time, reminding us of some aspect of Himself just when we need it. But today is different. Today, I'm finding that God was reminding me of an aspect of Himself before I needed it. Yet I, having the frail frame that I do, so quickly forget Who He is at times when I need to remember most of all. He's been bringing up, again and again to me this week, that He is a fortress, that His kingdom is unshakable. The thought returns, or a song goes through my head, or I read a scripture. He's been relentlessly pursuing me on this topic.

God-as-Fortress and Kingdom-as-Unshakable are wonderful, comforting things to meditate on.
But they don't mean a blessed thing if I'm not relying on those Truths when I need them.

Politics.
It does me in. It just does.
It's infuriating. When I stand back and see the problem so clearly, and then watch men who campaign like they have steely spines only to  comport themselves like they have slinky spines...oh, it just gets my goat.
(I'm not bothered by Nancy Pelosi. I expect Nancy Pelosi to behave like Nancy Pelosi. But I don't expect John Boehner to behave like Nancy Pelosi. I expect people who come from the side of the aisle that champions limited government, natural law, and a free market to champion limited government, natural law and a free market. I expect people who prioritize principle over power to prioritize principle over power. I expect people who value tax cuts and budget cuts to embrace tax cuts and budget cuts--not blame the other side for them, like they're anathema. Gridlock borne of integrity is a good thing. But I can't think of anything admirable regarding compromise. This is, of course, a point at which my more politically astute friends sniff at me, "You just don't understand how politics works." Pish posh. I understand how integrity works.)

But this is how I digress. I get worked up by Capitol Hill tyrants, and I start coming unglued from my Anchor.
I forget that God, not Congress, is a my Fortress.
I forget that God's kingdom, not the United States, is unshakable.
I forget that all things, even tyranny and tyrants, work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to His purpose.
And I dropkick Ephesians 4:29 into the next universe.

There has got to be a way to call down wickedness and foolishness and be angry about it. The prophets did it all the time.
More importantly, there has got to be a way to stay anchored to the Author and Finisher of my faith. But I wonder...do other people lose their grip? or is it just me? Do other people feel like their faith shifts like sand?

I'm reading N.D. Wilson's The Chestnut King to the kids. And God, being a relentless God, finds me even there today..
Henry...should have killed Coradin. Caleb would have. His dad would have. Anastasia would have. But Henry had run away...
I feel like Henry. Sure, it's great to think of someone you admire doing the right thing (like Caleb or his dad), but it's a bit more humbling to realize that people who are less mature than you (like Anastasia) would do the right thing with more ease than you would.

Slump.

Where do I go from here? I need to go back to the Word. I need it to anchor me when the waves of bad government spatter over me and take my breath away. I need learn to speak for what is right...while simultaneously keeping my faith in the right thing: the unshakable kingdom of God.

If God's kingdom is unshakable, and I am a citizen of that kingdom, then I need to be unshakable, too.

Am I a Hater?

He wants some angry young men
Ones who can't be bought
Ones who will not run from a fight
Ones who speak the truth whether it's popular or not
Ones who'd give up anything to walk in His light
Rest assured when Jesus comes again
He'll be looking for some angry young men*

Hatred.
Done correctly, it is the mark of true believers. Like love, hatred is not an emotion; it is a conscious choice. And only the true believer can do it correctly, because hatred, done correctly, aligns itself with God. Hatred, done correctly, has one target: SIN. True believers hate sin. They hate it with every fiber of their beings, theirs first...
but all other sin, as well.

Apostates rationalize, hypothesize, and love sin.
Believers hate it.

Apostates rationalize. They tell themselves that God meets them where they are and extends grace in their choice to sin.
Believers hate sin.  They know that God never, never, ever, ever extends grace to sin. Never.

Apostates hypothesize. From their fictional world of Hypothetical Land--out there where Santa and Sasquatch live--they devise all kind of what-ifs that only materialize in one place: their own imaginations.
Believers hate sin.
They know there is no such place as What If.
They know that God rules in the Now and reigns in the Later.
They know He is Lord of Today and Lord of Tomorrow.

Apostates love their sin.
They are comfortable with their choices.
They call good evil and evil good.

But His grace was not intended as a place to wipe your feet.*

Believers hate sin.
They are burdened by sin's weight and grieved by God's wrath.
That weight and that wrath drive the true believer relentlessly to the foot of the Cross.
There they do business with their Redeemer and His severe mercy.
There--and only there--is their grief assuaged and their guilt forgiven.
But the true believer never, ever stops hating...
SIN.

He wants some angry young men
With fire in their eyes
Ones who understand what Jesus gave
Ones who have grown weary
of the world and all its lies
Ones who won't forget they've been
delivered from the grave.
Rest assured when Jesus comes again,
He'll be looking for some angry young men.*

The true believer does not stoop to red herrings and false trajectories.
He remembers that sin handled the whip, wove the thorns, drove the nails, and killed the Lamb.
He hates sin because God hates sin.

So, if you find yourself accused of being a 'hater,' take it as a compliment.
If someones says you're 'unbending,' understand, dear lamb, that means that you have a spine like steel, a face like flint.
It means you have the courage to live by conviction.
It means you have integrity.

While the battle cry of the apostate is, "Did God actually say?" (Gen.3:1)
the battle cry of the believer is, "I hate every false way!" (Psalm 119:104)

The apostate looks disdainfully at the believer and spits, "You're a hater."
The believer kneels at the foot of his Savior, gazes at His wounds, and replies, "Yes, I am."

Well, well, the road to hell is paved with
some impressive alibis.
But unless you thirst for Jesus first,
Man, heaven will pass you by.*

(*Angry Young Men by Randy Stonehill 1985)

Woman, You Are Free

Praise God for His mercy and grace, I am a redeemed complementarian. That is evidence of the Holy Spirit at work in me because I know that without Him, I would be a raging feminist. Why feminist? Sadly, it has nothing to do with the world and everything to do with the church. It's a sad story of extremes. Feminism is the world's attempt to re-define femininity. The Church, rightly indignant about this, wrongly swings to the other extreme and responds with misogyny. Feminism engages in men-bashing blaming manhood for the world's ills. The Church simply reverses the approach and blames women, as if that extreme is more Biblical. Then I, who am saddened and angered, embarrassed and hurt, by the Church's response, swing to the other ditch. See the problem?

I am a woman.
For many years, I was exposed to a toxic attitude that communicated that there would be fewer marriage problems and fewer church problems if women would just submit. But as erroneous, ridiculous, and simplistic as that silly assertion is, when that kind of comment is made by real people, it does real damage to real women--like me. More than that, it displays an incredible lack of understanding when it comes to both headship and the Fall. I know this in my head, but it still wounds my heart. I am thankful for my loving, scripturally grounded husband. More than once, my antagonists have come dangerously close to his protective wrath because he has seen the fallout of this deep, deep wound in his otherwise sturdy wife up close.

I am a woman.
I don't fit in your box.
I despise peasant dresses and frills and anything that makes me look like the 'little woman.' (Honestly, I like smart, chic Chanel suits. But I live in the wrong income bracket for those, so I stick to my jeans and tennis shoes.)
I think Art Monk is a more inspiring Christian than Nancy Campbell.
I detest that the default menu for women's functions revolves around raw vegetables instead of red meat. (Allow me to point out that the 'Daniel fast' was named for Daniel, who was a...man.)
I can't stand it when men refer to their bride as 'the wife' like she's the family pet.
I think it's nifty that you enjoy your new serger, but I'm far more impressed that you conceal and carry.

I am a woman.
But for years I have spiritually walked hunched over like the woman of Luke 13 because I did not and do not fit the assumed model of "Christian woman."
Because I've stood by and listened to the incessant berating of my gender by men who, ironically, refuse to submit to Biblical authority themselves.
Because I do not fit all of the possible implications of what Biblical womanhood might look like.
Because I cook...but I am not a nutritionist.
Because I clean...but I hate to sew.
Because I enjoy coffee with a friend...but large assemblies of females and all those hormones and uteri and tear ducts give me a headache.

Recently, I was again feeling the weight of those expectations bending me low. But my God is such an amazing, protective Father. I guess He thought that enough was enough; it was time for me to be free. As if on cue, a friend found an interview with Pastor Voddie Bauchum, who said this:

"True womanhood looks like Proverbs 31, looks like Titus 2, but it's something else. True womanhood looks like Christ. I think that's something we often forget We're so busy looking at these practical lists of the qualities that women have or the things that women do or prioritize. And we forget that true womanhood really only begins when a woman comes to Jesus Christ in repentance and faith. She is transformed and conformed to the image of Christ. So true womanhood is about Christ-likeness."

In that moment, the shackles of other people's expectations, of other people's ill-informed theology, were shattered. The confirmation of something I had always secretly thought, that Christ--not the Titus 2 woman or the Proverbs 31 woman--is my Role Model, washed over me. The sledge hammer of God's Truth set me free. I wanted to leap up and cheer. Hearing a man of God declare what a tiny voice in my soul has been saying for so long...
It was as if Jesus placed His hand under my chin, looked me in the eye, and said, "Woman, you are free."

I am a woman.
I know my role in my marriage.
I know my role in the Church.
But limiting my role as a Christian woman to Proverbs 31 and Titus 2 is sexist and reductionist.
And I am deeply offended by it.
Has anyone read Titus 2?
Do we know that Titus 2 talks about men?
Do we refer to our men as Titus 2 men?
Of course not. That would leave out the other 65 books and hundreds of chapters in the Bible.

I am a woman.
And I aspire to be a Proverbs 31 woman.
I aspire to be a Titus 2 woman.
But you know what?
I also aspire to be a Proverbs 1 woman.
And a Romans 12 woman.
And a Colossians 3 woman.
And a Deuteronomy 28 woman.

I aspire to be a Genesis-to-Revelation woman.

I aspire to be like Christ.

And behold, there was a woman who had a disabling spirit for eighteen years. She was bent over and could not fully straighten herself. When Jesus saw her, He called her over and said to her, "Woman, you are freed from your disability." And He laid His hands on her, and immediately she was made straight, and she glorified God. Luke 13: 11-13