I was invited by the Center for Public Justice to speak via Zoom this Thursday, October 26th. With Psalm 23 as my center, I’ll be talking about the abundance and tenacity of God’s provision, with a specific lens on community and communal care. You can register here if you are interested in joining me!
My theological praxis was overturned by a woman with an infectious smile and a halo of ringlets cradling her face. Thank you,
, for declaring that you are “God’s favorite.” I don’t even remember the context surrounding those words — honestly, you’ve typed or uttered that phrase way more than once. I luxuriated in your comfort with yourself and God. A blanket of soft down were those words; a porch swing gently swaying; the smile of a mother staring down at her baby-child. Such warmth. Such nearness.No terror. No worm-like self-loathing.
I remember the first time I tried Karla’s phrase in my mouth, to taste that God-love. It tasted of bitterness in a cloying-sweet shell, because I didn’t believe it. I “knew” a version of God who saw me as a benign nuisance. I saw God seeing me in the same way my 4th grade teacher or the Southern Baptist preacher did; surprisingly articulate but barely palatable. God held me like the Queen Consort held that little girl. You remember that photo?
I imagined (in my gut, you know?, where the fear lives) God to be an IRS agent to whom I owed polite, distant deference, and enough detail to be remembered in the moment but forgotten in the long run. It is calamity to be in the cross-hairs of God, right? The kind of love I heard God gave, after all, felt like socks for Christmas sent from wealthy strangers, or a switch from the backyard for my own good—better to disappear.
God’s Favorite was scourged and stripped and lynched. Better to make niceties and hope against an audit.
But that same Favorite crept into the messy corners with love that felt like a bottle of wine and some cash (what you need, when you need it, in just the way you need it, you know?). Loving strong, like a dead man raised intent notice each petal on a lily of the valley, each bruised reed; raised with senses attuned, and willing.
The year we moved to our new house, I lamented that I wouldn’t see the doves who nested on our old porch each Spring. Then cardinals began building a nest in the bush right in front of our living room window. Their eggs tucked safely; their young, hatched and faithfully fed, their co-parenting in full view without my having to even open the front door.
I cried two weeks ago, looking at the bank account and knowing what was coming due—whispering, “please don’t stop paying the tab.” The way that writing fee suddenly got paid? Like I whispered right in God’s ear.
And this weekend, walking and seeing deer snacking on grass and wild turkeys strolling in the field—the witnessing of wild beautiful disruption in the midst of my mundane—coaxed me toward grasping the tender love truth: I am, indeed, God’s favorite.
I had an encounter with the Spirit this weekend I won’t even try to explain but will share the summary of: we are God’s favorite. We are. We’re holding hands with a Savior whose body bears the scars of the worst this world has to offer—I am not describing shallow faith. He knows the terrors, too. The abuse. The pain from people who can’t taste love in their mouths.
To speak of abundance in a time of acute suffering is tenacious work.
A holy imagining that both cradles and mourns the memories of murdered children (in Gaza, in Israel, in Ukraine, in Ethiopia, in Nigeria, in Syria, in Brazil, in Illinois, in Texas, in too many places) and resurrects them through remembrance. We honor them by honoring the children who still breathe by lavishing them with love and fierce protection. We resurrect their memories by making war uncomfortable, planting peace through policy change and protest and diplomacy. We insist that dignity is for all, not just the rich, the well-connected, the violent bullies.
The encounter with the Holy Spirit this weekend left me with my very first laugh line and isn’t that just the way joy would mark me. As a little girl, no lie, I hoped for my wrinkles to be the deep lines from laughter after a life rife with grinning opportunities I took and took and took. I am way more vain now, but I see the poetry in this fine line; a promise kept and offered at the perfect time.
The audacity of being God’s favorites, even now with our bills and broken bodies and mourning shrouds, is a prayer, a meditation of “on earth as it is in heaven” recited daily. I am the Favorite of One who considers the lilies in occupied land, One who paradoxically speaks peace to those far and near. So are you.
I can’t explain it, but I know it’s true. I have tasted and seen.
I love the cash and bottle of wine, just what we need for today. That is such an honest, faithful way to articulate navigating this scary world with whatever trust in God we can find. Beautiful writing.
This writing is just divine. Thank you ❤️.