I went to the same school from the time I was 4 years old until I graduated high school at age 18. I remember almost all of my teacher’s names (there is one I wish I could forget because she was so horrible, but alas). I was wildly involved with my school for as long as I can think. I was one of only two junior cheerleaders the school ever really had and I was hooked from then on.

I started cheering for those Crusaders when I was 7 years old and kept on going right through grade 11. I was a decent student, but probably could have applied myself better, especially in high school. In grade 4, in the horrible teacher’s class, I was seated in the very back of the classroom and had a terribly difficult time doing math problems. My teacher told my mother I was probably developmentally behind the rest of the students and I was promptly sent to Ms. Prichard, the school’s remedial teacher.

She was amazing. “Yes, your daughter has trouble with math,” she told my mom. “But she’s not stupid. She just can’t SEE the blackboard!” So I got glasses and, on recommendation of Ms. Prichard, I wound up in piano lessons with Mrs. Moore. Apparently being able to read music while playing the keys was going to help my math skills (teaching me to multi-task, essentially). I fell more and more in love with music and continued to harbor a hatred for my grade 4 teacher and math.

Junior high was an horrific existence, as I believe it is for about 90% of humanity. Mean girls, Queen Bees, bitches, and all that. It was stupendous. I made the cheerleading squad the summer before grade 7 and didn’t look back. I showed those horrible girls who never thought I’d make it…and I have Danielle, Casi, and Jodi to thank for that.

This is when music really started to take hold of me. I went to school and tolerated the studying so that I could cheer and sing. Some of the best memories of my childhood involve music. I refer back to Jodi, whom I practically idolized as a kid. She was practically perfect in every way. She sang, she cheered, everyone loved her, she was smart as hell. I still want to be her. The first time I heard her sing, I knew I wanted to be a part of that. So I fought tooth and nail to make into the show choir by grade 9…not something that was terribly common back then. And damn if I didn’t make that choir for grade 9 and every year thereafter.

High school itself is a bit of a blur. I excelled in history, languages, and English. I barely made it through any of the left-brained classes. Honestly, it was torture for me, some of the classes. I can fully admit now that I cheated my way through one of my classes (which will remain unnamed) and I don’t really feel bad about it. The teacher didn’t give a lot of us a fighting chance.

But I made it through high school and made my way (very unwillingly) to Strathmore, Alberta, Canada where I spent a year in a discipleship program (read: Bible school). I met some really great people and amazing friends and learned a lot about myself, but not much about what I wanted to do with my professional life.

So after a summer in Mahtowa, Minnesota, I went to a small (Bible) college in Bemidji, Minnesota. Probably my worst imaginable decision to date. I hated nearly everything about being there. I hated school. I hated how mean some of the people were. The one really great thing about that year is that I met my best friend a few weeks after school started. She was and continues to be a constant source of support and reality checks.



But I couldn’t fathom going back to that school. It’s the place where I first learned what crying and heartache really looked and felt like.

So I came home to Colorado.

And took a LOT of time off.

Then I decided to (sort of) declare a major in Music Production and started my core requirements at Red Rocks Community College. I did several semesters at RRCC and at some point changed my major to Social Work.

Then I quit. Mostly, just gave up. I wasn’t finding myself, I was involved in some crappy things, and generally had no direction.

So I got some random office jobs here and there. During one of those jobs, I met the girl I refer to as my “Colorado best friend” and she told me, in no uncertain terms, to “get off [my] ass and do something with [my] life.” So I enrolled in a “real” college: Metropolitan State College of Denver, as a Sociology major. I worked really hard at that school and somewhere in the meantime managed to get my bridal consulting license. I changed majors AGAIN, this time to Hospitality and Event Planning (yes, it’s a real degree and it’s incredibly hard). I did that for a few semesters before taking on a course that was so far outside my skill set, I actually cried in my professor’s office.

So I changed majors again, this time to English with a Spanish minor.

I did several semesters at MSCD as an English major and absolutely loved my Spanish classes. But one class in particular, Intro to Journalism, turned me off to the school for reasons that are inexplicable to me.

I just wasn’t being challenged at that school. It’s not a bad school, certainly don’t take that away from my experience. I has some of the best programs out there. But their English program just wasn’t my style or speed.

So I changed schools yet again and dropped the minor.

My major changed slightly from Metro to University of Colorado – Denver, but not much. I went from English to English Writing. I love editing with every fiber of my being and while I don’t really care for some styles of writing, I figure I should know how to write before I tell someone else how to.

For the last two years, I’ve been at UCD, loving every very challenging second of it. My GPA is the highest it’s ever been, even while taking a full-time student course load and working a9-to-5. I’ve even declared a minor again….Sociology (a previous major, if you’re able to keep up with all of this madness). I’d taken a ton of sociology courses previously so my current adviser recommended that I take the one remaining course I needed and officially declare it as a minor. “Might as well get the paper since you’ve done all the work!” he told me.

And here I am, four short months from a graduation that’s taken me 11 years, 5 colleges, and 5 majors (let’s not talk about the money right now) to accomplish.

I’ve been in school for so long that I often do one of two things: 1. wonder what I’m going to do with all my free time; or 2. flirt with the idea of getting my master’s/teaching certificate because I can’t imagine my life without school and stress.

I think I’ll just get a massage instead.

Japan took me by surprise. The possibility of something, anything being as old as the things I saw there never even crossed my mind. My brother, Daniel, while living and teaching in Kyoto, had done some research into the sites he would take Todd (my husband) and me to during our visit to this mysterious and magical country. We were happy to have our own tour guide for at least part of our adventure. Trying to figure out what to see and where to go on our own could have turned ugly.

*********************************************



1397. The United States wasn’t even an idea yet. That’s when Kinkaku-ji made its mark in Kyoto.

I thought my heart stopped when I first laid eyes on this place. “It’s a right of passage for Japanese students to visit this,” my brother said. The air felt cool on my skin, as if peace itself was breathing on me. History rustled through the leaves of the trees. Centuries of kami rippled through the lake.

Zen. A word I said innumerable times that week. I don’t think a word has yet been uttered that can describe the serenity, the peace, the calm that I felt.

Nirvana. Maybe if Kurt had passed through these gates, things would have turned out differently.

I’m tall in Japan, even at my mere 5-feet-5-inches. “You can’t understand how huge it is until you’re looking at it.” My brother tried to prepare me, but nothing really could. Standing in front of a structure that massive certainly put “me” into perspective.

Three separate fires destroyed Tofokuji. Four times, the Gates to Nirvana have been re-built. The current temple has been standing since 1425. Columbus hadn’t even started thinking about his voyage yet.

“I feel so small here,” I said. My stature in the country was obvious, but my ability to comprehend the magnitude of its passion and history fell short of what it deserved.

Sight-seeing never lends itself very well to personal reflection. There’s always too much to see, too much to take in. So how did I manage to steal away nearly a half-hour simply to…consider? I thought I understood the idea of a Zen garden. It seems like a pretty easy concept to grasp—

pretty trees and flowers, sand to play with, pathways. Easy enough. The quietness overcame me in a way that, for the first time in my life, didn’t frighten or disturb me. It felt good. It felt right. I didn’t have any striking moments of clarity. The busyness of my life melted away. So this is what “just being” feels like. I want to live in that place.

I was alone with my thoughts in the garden. I have spent many years trying to find balance and order, sometimes forcing it. I have talked big talks about designing my home in a feng-shui manner. But when I stood in the center of this garden, full of sakura and tiny streams, rolling lawns and prayer temples, it all seemed so silly. As if my American mind could possibly understand the depth of Japan’s way of life. The whole garden reeked of longevity and of a balance that I could never achieve. To no one in particular, I said, “I don’t want to leave this place. I want to ‘get it’.” A group of Japanese school girls passed me on a walkway back to the main gates of the garden. “Ohayo gozaimasu!” I said to them with a slight bow of my head. Good morning! They giggled and greeted me as well which, according to my brother (whose students just happened to be mostly girls), indicated that they were thrilled I had spoken to them in Japanese…using Kansai region dialect, no less. I love it here!

*******************************************************

I want a house that sings to me. I want to live in a place where music surrounds me no matter where I go. Walking the floors of Nijo Castle, I felt artsy and full of life. The three of us removed our shoes and shuffled through the hallways. Todd’s left sock had a hold in the toe and mine were thin and grey. Daniel seemed to be the only one adequately prepared for the chill of the wooden floors. The three of us were so obviously American, but my brother, six feet tall and blond, seemed to float so easily through Japanese culture; it was as if Kyoto itself had taken up residence in his bones. “The floors creak so you know when someone is coming into a room,” Daniel explained. “It’s for protection.”



Brilliant! I thought to myself. And also a little ironic.

Something so beautiful is actually intended to warn against an attacker.

What an ingenious alarm system.

Japanese technology has impressed the world for longer than I can even comprehend.

I still want a house with floors that sing. I want to walk into a room and create a brand new musical masterpiece with every step, every day. For the rest of my life. I thought about all of the history contained within the confines of the palace as the three of us stepped outside into the courtyard, full of vendors. I smelled something familiar, yet strange. “It smells like a carnival out here!” Todd said. That’s it! I thought to myself. “That’s botamochi,” my brother told us as he bought us all the sticky sweet rice ball dessert. “It’s basically the Japanese equivalent of a funnel cake.” Nijo Castle is where I first tasted how truly sweet Kyoto could be. It was hot and sweet, it burned my mouth, and I wanted more.

*************************************************************

1593 saw the beginnings of the beautiful castle of Osaka. What was America doing that year? It had hardly taken its first breath at that point. Settlements were barely established and this is what the Japanese were up to.

Civil unrest, bombings, and neglect all but destroyed the castle. When the castle first came into my view, I wasn’t sure what to think. I spent much of my time on the castle grounds in silence.

The history of the castle is seemingly a parallel existence to that of the Japanese people themselves. Yet they still stand, unchanged and more beautiful, more sturdy today than they were yesterday.

Mystery is a word that describes Japan most accurately for me. I spent my time marveling at what I have learned from them and what I need to, should learn, but still can’t really grasp. What would be the point of surrounding yourself with dirt and grass on one side and water on the other? No on really knows what the purpose of the dry moat is, though someone explained the possible physical logistics of this. I’ve all but forgotten. I continue to wonder: is there a deeper, meta-physical meaning that I should be trying to understand?

For the first time in my entire life, I found myself not wanting to rush home after a week away. Traveling, while thrilling, is exhausting. Here, in this place, surrounded by kind and mysterious people and places, I felt…something. Maybe it was zen. Maybe it was peace. Whatever it was, it felt right. My urges to rush about and see everything minimized in Japan. Rather, I wanted to seek out the deepest, most serene places I could and spend my time marveling and considering. Japan is a special place and will hold a piece of my heart forever. My outlook on life changes and evolves every time I go back to those memories.

So here’s a question that was posed the other day in my Argumentation & Logic class: What is the point of going to university?

You may think the answer is simple. I did, too. Until my professor got involved. She tends to complicate things, but I guess that’s a good thing especially for the type of class it is.

Is the point to prepare yourself for a career? Most of us would say yes. Having a degree generally makes you a more viable candidate for certain positions, that’s for sure. For my husband, his college education definitely prepared him for a career. He went to what my professor calls a “vocational college” meaning that pretty much every course he took would have a pretty direct impact on his future career. He is a computer science major.

I, on the other hand, am an English writing major with a Sociology minor. Clearly, neither of those are really going to help me for future careers. Maybe if I was also getting a teaching license or continuing to grad school, it would more obviously be a career-directed major. But it’s not. It’s a liberal arts degree. Most liberal arts degrees tend to mold the mind more than the career. I know a few philosophy majors…but really, how many paid philosophers are there in the world anymore? How many anthropologists?

And, maybe, in the grand scheme of things, there aren’t all that many professional writers out there.

So what the hell am I going to school for? What is my education preparing me for, really?

In my estimation, while I’d like to be a professional writer (for Vanity Fair, if I’m allowed to be choosy), the reality is that I’m being prepared to be an effective communicator. I’m learning how to speak well and write with authority. I’ve seen the benefits of this at my own job a number of times already. I’m learning the best and most compelling forms of communication for any number of scenarios that I might one day find myself in. I’m better understanding how to choose my words for said situations. I’m honing my writing skills so that I can make fundamentally sound arguments for any position I take.

So no, my degree isn’t vocational. Not by a long stretch. And my husband’s degree is one of the furthest from liberal arts you can get.

If you have a degree, what is it in? Why did you get it? What did it prepare you for?

If you don’t have a degree, what do you think the point is in getting or not getting one?

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I am a mere three days into the most stressful semester of my collegiate career. I’ve opted to take 12 credit hours during the 8 week semester using the following logic: I’d rather torture myself for 8 weeks than for 16.

Honestly, I’m not all that concerned. I took three classes last summer so how bad could it be to add one more to the mix? In my estimation, not very. I already have people looking at my cross-eyed, wondering how I manage to keep up with myself and my life. I had a friend tell me once, many years ago over dinner, that if I stopped to think about how crazy it is what I’m doing, I’d probably kill myself. So just don’t think about, keep plugging along, and finish.

That’s how I’ve been pursuing my degree for the last few years.

I started to get incredibly stressed out today over my Argumentation & Logic class, which is probably going to be the most challenging of all my courses. I have three chapters to read and close to 15 assignments to complete, all by Sunday at midnight. I almost had a nervous breakdown, but took some deep breaths and said to myself what I’ve been saying for years: Just do it. It’s got to get done, so get it done.

Then I got a really big reality check and smack to the brain.

I reviewed the required assignments and discovered that, in reality, I only have one chapter to read, three assignments to complete from said chapter, and two other fairly low-key assignments on top of that.

Why was this a reality check?

I learned the hard way (again) that I need to slow down and make sure I’m fully understanding what’s being asked of me. So many times, I find myself doing far more than I need to. Don’t get me wrong…sometimes going above and beyond is good, essential even. But when it comes to schoolwork, facts are facts. I’m only being graded on the work that’s assigned so (logically) I should only do the work that’s assigned.

I feel like I’m learning this lesson time and time and time again. Apparently it’s something that I desperately need to have drilled into my head. My thick, Type-A skull just doesn’t get it sometimes.

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In approximately 14 hours, I’ll be leaving on a jet plane heading for Paris by way of Miami. We have a 5 hour layover in Miami, but sadly, it would cost nearly $100 to get a cab to and from the airport to South Beach. So we’ll be stuck inside the Miami International Airport, my husband playing Foursquare (I will not, since I’m leaving my phone at home…but now I’m reconsidering that) and me drinking margaritas laced with Tylenol PM so that I can survive the 8 hour flight to Paris.

I have many unfinished blogs up in the queue here. Many things to say and talk about. Since Paris is basically shut down on Mondays, the husband and I may spend some time drinking champagne and writing at whatever quaint Parisian café we stumble upon. And I’ll be catching up on the extraordinary amount of pleasure reading I’ve been missing out on the fast last several months.

Until next time…

An interesting topic was brought up the other night. Work ethic.

Any time I hear the term “work ethic” I seem to cringe. Why? Because I’ve been accused of having a crappy one. My generation, in fact, has been accused of having some of the worst work ethics in the history of humanity. (Just wait until they see the NEXT generation, right?) We seem to often get accused of taking the easy way out or not sticking with something for longer than a nano-second or just plain being lazy.

I’m not quire sure what to call my generation.

Gen Xers are usually those born between 1961 and 1981, so I fall into that category, but 30 years is a bit broad.

Generation Y or the Millennials are those born between 1982 and 1995 (or 1796 and 1996 if you’re from Canada, but that’s just making up for the old exchange rate, I think).

I was born in 1980. I think I’d fall more into the Millennials than the Xers, but I also don’t like the idea of being lumped together with the likes of Justin Beiber. So I just don’t know what to officially consider people my age….the Techies, maybe? I have no idea.

But I do know that I’m part of the first generation to really grow up with computers at our disposal. Most of us probably had our first experience with computers in junior high, but there are people like my husband who have been around PCs since he could sit up on his own. We’re the first generation for whom our children likely will not surpass our technological knowledge and understanding. We’ll be able to keep up with them…heck, they might even have to try to keep up with us!

There is still quite a bit of technology that I’m not aware of and don’t understand at all. Things like the Smartboard, which is apparently this really amazing tool that teachers all through Denver Public Schools are using. I heard about it the other evening from two of my friends, both who work in education. It’s some pretty impressive technology that I didn’t have growing up. Hell, it was exciting when we got white boards in my school and could stop using those God-forsaken green chalkboards. I’m still a little unclear as to the purpose of the iPad, but I’m coming around (I don’t want one, but I am starting to understand why someone would).

So what does all of this have to do with work ethic?

I, along with many people my age, tend to spend a great deal of time on the ol’ interweb. We just do. Anything we want to do, find, see, or buy, we can get on the internet. It’s our amusement much of the time (case and point: ThisIsWhyYoureFat.com / TextsFromLastNight.com / PeopleOfWalmart.com / Endless.com …need I continue?). But why are we on the internet all the time?

Honestly?

Because we’re finished with our work. It’s true. We’re just that efficient. I’m not saying that other people aren’t. I’m just saying that I know how to finish my work quickly and effectively. I know how to do things with the least amount of effort output.

I know. I know. That last one doesn’t sit right, does it? However, aren’t we all supposed to be working smarter and not harder? People who sit and stare at the same document for hours boggle my mind. What are you doing? What do you need to figure out?

Technology has certainly made my generation remarkably more efficient, to be completely honest. And what’s so wrong with that? When did it become not okay to be efficient? I dare you to look at my inbox or my desk. My work is done. I’m trying to find more work. I don’t WANT to be bored stupid. In fact, I like the days when I’m too busy to take a lunch. I wish I had more of those days. I like feeling productive.

Just because I can finish something in a third the time it takes someone else certainly doesn’t mean I have poor work ethic. It usually just means I know my keyboard shortcuts much better.

But if technology has the ability to make someone more efficient, there has to be another side to it. Technology can also make us unimaginably lazy. I’ll be the first to admit that I rely really heavily on technology to do the work I hate, specifically: math. Microsoft Excel is my best friend, but sometimes, it has really bitten me when I’m working. I get going too quickly and trust a computer too much and I end up looking like a fool. I’ve actually been told, by my boss, on two separate occasions that I have GOT to slow down and make sure everything is correct. That’s a pretty big wake-up call.

I can be the most efficient person in the world, but if I have to do the same task three times because I wasn’t bright enough to slow down and double check the first time, am I really being all that efficient?

The answer, I assure you, is NO.

So the next time you see me playing on the internet, don’t get mad that I’m “not working”…consider for a moment that I’m finished with my work. Consider that I might just be really efficient. And I promise I’ll start slowing down to make sure I’m doing my work right the first time.

In this post, I’m referencing one of my favorite authors, Donald Miller. He’s a brilliant writer and a pretty decent theologian.

The reason I’m referencing his post, You Become Like the People You Hang Around, is because it was posted shortly after I wrote a piece about taking control of your life. Miller’s musings were in a similar vein as mine. It’s okay, perfectly normal, and sometime necessary to eradicate toxic people from your life.

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con·serv·a·tive

–adjective

1. disposed to preserve existing conditions, institutions, etc., or to restore traditional ones, and to limit change.

2. cautiously moderate or purposefully low: a conservative estimate.

3. traditional in style or manner; avoiding novelty or showiness: conservative suit.

lib·er·al

–adjective

1. favorable to progress or reform, as in political or religious affairs.

2. (often initial capital letter) noting or pertaining to a political party advocating measures of progressive political reform.

3. of, pertaining to, based on, or advocating liberalism.

4. favorable to or in accord with concepts of maximum individual freedom possible, esp. as guaranteed by law and secured by governmental protection of civil liberties.

__________________________________________________________________________

I blame this post entirely on my grade 9 math teacher, in a good way of course.

I mentioned the other day that I think it’s funny how conservative I was in high school and how seemingly liberal I am now. In response to that, a friend asked me how and why I felt that way. I said that I find myself being far more open-minded to a variance of issues and options than I ever would have been in high school. Some people had similar reactions as I did to their lives, but my algebra teacher set off a fire-storm in my head.

“Being conservative doesn’t mean being closed-minded,” she said.

My brother said something similar (though I’m of the opinion he just likes to start arguments with me lately).

I agree with my former teacher (who, it should be mentioned, is wicked-smaht and I respect her thoughts and opinions a lot), but only to a certain degree. I say that because, for me, as a 16-year-old who had yet to start really thinking for herself, I was incredibly closed-minded. I never would have entertained some of the ideas that I do as an adult. I was the very idea of all the definitions shown above. I held to rigidly conservative standards, I was a traditionalist, I dressed very conservatively, but most of all, I completely shut my mind to the possibility of something else being “right” or “okay”.

I was first really introduced to the idea of thinking for myself when I lived in Canada. This was how the concept was presented to me: Don’t just know WHAT you believe. Know also WHY you believe it.

Ever since then, I have tried to make a consistent effort at really understanding why I believe something. I want to understand the issue, the proposed changes/reforms, and the potential outcomes of all possible options. It should be noted that I am not speaking specifically or only about political issues. Believe you me, there are plenty of those sorts of issues where I fall on every imaginable side of any fence out there.

Examples? Sure.

16-year-old me and 29-year-old me have starkly different views on abortion.

16-year-old me and 29-year-old me would fight all the time about equal rights.

16-year-old me and 29-year-old me are on way different sides of the political aisle.

But whatever, right? We’re allowed to change. In fact, we all SHOULD change. I cannot imagine going through life maintaining a 16-year-old mindset. I’d be hyper-emotional, anorexic, and über-judgmental, none of which are really very appropriate responses to the myriad of issues life throws at us.

So do I think that being conservative means being closed-minded? Yes and no. I think there are conservative people out there who are incredibly closed to any change or progression. I also think there are liberal people who are “live and let live” to the point of near-anarchy. I, myself, live a rather dichotomous life really…social duality in all its glory.

I’m fiscally conservative (just ask my husband), but love to buy extravagant things.

I like traditional gender roles, but I’m the financial manager of our house and my husband does far more cooking and cleaning than I do.

I have a pretty “June Cleaver” wardrobe, but there’s nothing stopping me from dressing like Britney Spears to go to her concert.

I am firm in my faith, but am willing to concede that I could be wrong.

For me, yes, being conservative was synonymous with being closed-minded. My parents are wildly conservative, but they also have 30+years of thinking for themselves under their belts so we can (usually) engage in very open dialogue about plenty of issues. They respect that I have thought carefully about my positions and I respect that the fundamentals they instilled in me have allowed for our continued conversations.

I wonder though…is it possibly to be a Conservative Socialist? If so, then that’s probably what I am.

Probably most of you that read my posts have figured out by now that I am “religious.” I hate that word. It has some hugely negative connotations. I also hate saying that I’m “spiritual” because, for me, it goes beyond that (though I have many many friends who consider themselves as such and I respect them for it). More and more, I find myself leaning toward saying that I am “a person of faith.”

So here are some of the basics:

I grew up in a Christian home.

I love going to church and am pretty involved with my own.

I consider myself to be a Christian.

It’s just that that word, in particular, also has such ugly connotations to some people. Ghandi once said that if Christians really acted the way they claim they’re supposed to, not a person in the world wouldn’t want to be a part of that. Sadly, that is so obviously NOT the case. The problem, I think, is that so many of us claim to live one way (love God, love each other), but we tend to be really judgmental about the rest of the world. It’s difficult to reconcile the faith I grew up in with the faith I’m finding myself in.

I find myself living by the “holy” Golden Rule much of the time: Judge not, lest ye be judged.

As a greater portion of the country knows by now, Jennifer Knapp has come out…both as a lesbian and as a continued “person of faith.” I have been stunned and, well, not stunned by the reaction, especially by the religious community. As soon as I read the article in The Advocate, I had two very distinct reactions: one of pride that someone of her popularity and influence could be so brave and one fearing the backlash from the community that embraced her for so long. Would they still? Would she care if they didn’t? But most importantly, for me, What is my response?

I think I have several responses, honestly.

1. I don’t really care about her sexuality. She’s one of the most talented musicians I’ve ever heard and that’s what I’m really interested in.

2. It’s none of my business. Jennifer chose to come out; no one made her. It was something she felt she needed to do to be honest with herself.

3. From where my faith rests, I refuse to judge her. Period. I am (mercifully) not omnipotent, I didn’t create the universe, and I certainly wouldn’t want to responsibility of determining who is “good” or “right” and who is not.

Jennifer remains, in my eyes, one of the most profoundly influential musical influences in my life. I was talking with my husband about this very topic the other day and Jennifer’s lyrics came to my mind. Her music has been (and I hope will continue to be) deeply personal. I believe that, because she puts so much of who she is into her music, it transcends boundaries that a lot of other “Christian” music simply cannot and does not.

I often struggle with contemporary “worship music” because the lyrics just sound so manufactured and repetitive. They don’t feel personal. I can’t resonate with them. I have a friend whom I used to lead worship with at my church… a brilliant musician and lyricist. His music affects me. It gets me at the core. So it would be easy to say, “Well, his music affects you because you know him.” True. But I don’t know Jennifer Knapp on a personal level. I’ve met her once, shared brief commentary with her on our educational pursuits, took a photo, and went home. I certainly do not know her, and yet her music continues to resonate with me.

Jennifer’s music is like that perfect poem that, every time I come back to it, months – even years – later, says something different each time. She’s the lyricist that people could say, “That’s what I wanted to say, but had no idea how.”

So now, with all the hullabaloo surrounding her, should we completely write off Jennifer and her music?

I should hope not.

Watching Larry King Live the other day when she was being interviewed, I was appalled by some of the things that were said about and to her (mostly by Pastor Bob Botsford). And here’s where my opinion is going to come screaming in to this issue without apology.

I am shocked that someone who would profess to be a studied man of the Bible would come at her with the vengeance that he did. Barking religious rhetoric, interrupting Jennifer, and generally sounding hypocritical. Ironically, one of the most logical statements of the interview came from Larry King himself to Botsford: “Her ‘sin’ may be different than yours, but it’s just different.”

Hmm. Let’s think on that shall we?

Botsford claimed time and time again that “sin is sin” which, if you grew up in a religious home, you know what that statement means. Yet mere seconds after making such a statement, he would back-peddle so that he could sound as if homosexuality was somehow “worse” than all the other sins. Sorry, sir. You cannot have it both ways.

I know that there are already people who are asking, “How can a person be both a homosexual and a Christian?” For me, the answer is more simple than it probably should be. I think those two things, sexuality and religion, are as mutually exclusive as politics and religion. Maybe I live in a much for idealistic world than a lot of people, but I’m definitely of the opinion that there are certain things that don’t have to be in constant competition. Jennifer raised a good question (which was never fully answered) to Botsford during the interview: What if a young girl in your congregation was struggling with identifying her sexuality? Would you really want her to choose between that and her faith?

My question, to follow that one up, would be: What would you do if she chose her sexuality? Would you condemn her? Would you alienate her from the religious life she’s known forever? And then, frankly, what do you think Jesus would do?

I have to believe that Jesus would welcome her. I cannot, in good conscience or faith, sit back and think that Jesus – the man that preached nothing more than love itself – would turn his back on a girl who is trying to come to grips with her faith and her sexuality. At what point are we going to stop seeing homosexuality as such a stigma? At what point can we just accept a person for the simple fact that he or she is a person?

Can you honestly imagine a world where someone who didn’t like pepperoni on her pizza could be ostracized in a similar manner? That a person who suddenly outted themselves as a “person who doesn’t like the color blue” should suddenly be written off even if his writings or music were some of the most profound topics to ever be broached? Let’s not forget that Jesus himself was punished and ultimately killed for simply living a lifestyle that was markedly different from that of the time.

So what do you think? I am actually asking for legitimate responses here.

I’m sure that, from my friends who are also religious/spiritual/etc., there will be eyebrows raised and questions asked about this post. I welcome comments and discussion (graced with civility, of course), and I hope that those of you that don’t have religious leanings will offer your comments as well. What I really hope for all of this is that we can all take a step backward and really consider what we think and feel before rushing to any harsh conclusions. I hope that whatever conclusions we all come to are well-thought and founded in reason and not just what we’ve always believed or been told. I hope that grace and dignity can overwhelm other, less rational reactions.

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