A man returned home to Ashley County after his service to our country. 

His hands, once calloused from farm work, were now marked by a different kind of labor.

He carried the weight of a soldier. It left small reminders, indelible marks.

In the mornings he would stand with the fields stretched out before him, admiring the amber waves in the early light. The air was crisp and welcoming.

The man was amidst the familiar landscape but felt a stranger. This lines on his face were apparent, ones from service to country, not to land like his mother had wanted. 

The man hummed in his mind: This land is my land, this land is your land.

From the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream waters.

In the house, the man’s walls held memories of simpler time. The day to day solitude was both a comfort and a burden.

The man spent his days tending to the fields and listening to the wind. Nature had a way of offering solace.

He found a companion in a new but old dog, one that reminded him of a beloved friend from long ago.

This land was made for you and me.

In the evenings, the man sat on the porch, looking at the stars that were somehow closer in the Arkansas sky. The constellations were old friends. He knew that, like him, they had witnessed the passage of time.

The man didn’t have the words to describe the things he had seen, the weight he had carried and will carry.

The good people of his hometown didn’t press. They understood the language of silence.

The days turned to weeks; the man found rhythm and place. 

It wasn’t the same as it had been, and he knew he wasn’t the same either.

The fields, the house, the dog, the stars. There’s a gentle healing with the cadence of country life. 

Little by little, the man would find his way back to himself.

I roamed and rambled, and I’ve followed my footsteps

To the sparkling sands of her diamond deserts

All around me, a voice was sounding

This land was made for you and me.

The post Homecoming appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

The American Library Association says there were almost 700 attempts to censor library materials nationwide from January to August, and more than 1,900 challenges of specific book titles.

In Saline County, Patty Hector said she was removed from her position as library director for not banning books.

She said a county judge and Quorum Court wrote a resolution advising her to pick out “harmful” books and move them so children couldn’t access them. Hector said her response led to her being fired.

“There’s no place in the library that people can’t get to. So I said no, and then that was what got me in trouble,” she said. “I said no to them. And you don’t say ‘no’ to a bunch of men. And the books they picked out are LGBTQ and race – two-thirds of them are.”

As Hector described it, a resolution accusing her of fraud “was written by the Saline County Republican Committee.” She added that after the committee reported her for “violating the Freedom of Information Act 90 times,” she had to spend many months answering questions about her job and library expenses.

Hector said the committee also put up a billboard on Interstate 30 that said “Stop X-Rated library books, SalineLibrary.com.”

She said some Arkansas lawmakers worked to pass a bill that would criminalize librarians – but that law was blocked by a federal judge this year.

“Act 372 was going to make it a felony for a librarian to give anybody a book that’s ‘obscene,’ which they couldn’t define,” she said, “and that has been determined by a judge to be unconstitutional.”

Hector noted that several books with topics on sex education and homosexuality were under scrutiny. And a book entitled “The Talk”, about conversations that Black parents have with their children, was another title the committee objected to.

This story is brought to you by the Public News Service, an independent, member-supported news organization.  

The post Banned Books, Bold Librarians: The fight for inclusive libraries in Arkansas appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

The University of Central Arkansas is testing out a solution it says will largely eliminate financial barrier to a bachelor’s degree for families earning less than $100,000 per year. That could be crucial in a state like Arkansas, which has the 10th highest poverty rate and the third lowest rate of bachelor’s degree attainment in the country.

Given that Arkansas’ median income is $55,432 and 76 percent of households bring in less than $100,000 per year, university president, Houston Davis, believes the program will be able to help many students who wouldn’t otherwise be able to pay for college cover tuition and fees.

“Instead of a family saying ‘I’ve got a plan for how to pay for that for one year,’ we’ve got a plan for how you can pay for it for four,” Davis said. “We think that is a game changer. That is a change in the conversation around breakfast tables and dinner tables. And we think it’s what Arkansas families need to hear right now.”

The program, called UCA Commitment, will be available to next year’s freshman class. To be eligible, students have to be Arkansas residents whose total family annual income falls below the $100,000 threshold. They also must apply for the merit-based Arkansas Academic Challenge Scholarship.

Once they have collected federal and state grants, the University of Central Arkansas will cover the rest with scholarships and work study assignments, Davis said.

Many states offer pathways to tuition-free community college, but such programs at the baccalaureate level are much less common, and typically provided at elite, deep-pocketed private universities, such as Harvard, Princeton, Stanford and Duke. For instance, Colgate University launched a similar program in 2021, which offered free tuition for students from families making less than $80,000, and replaced federal student loans with institution grants for students from families making less than $175,000.

The University of Central Arkansas is a far less selective institution, accepting 90 percent of all applicants. More than 40 percent of the student body qualifies for federal Pell Grants, meaning they come from a low-income family. As a regional university, many students come directly from the surrounding area, which includes counties with poverty rates above 20 percent.

The hope is that this program will remove the financial barrier for students who need it the most including those who may not see college as an option, said Khadish Franklin, managing director and team lead for the research advisory services division at education consulting firm EAB.

“You really need that for schools across the country, but in a state like Arkansas, and in a region like Central Arkansas, it is absolutely transformative for students,” Franklin said. EAB worked with the university to help develop the program.

For the 2023-2024 school year, tuition and fees for Arkansas residents costs $10,118, according to the University of Central Arkansas website. The scholarship won’t cover other costs such as textbooks, housing, food and transportation, which can add up to thousands as well.

Still, as long as they keep their GPA above a 2.5 and log at least 10 hours of community service per semester, students will be able to keep the scholarship for four consecutive years.

Davis said the university estimates that between 40 to 45 percent of freshmen will be eligible, or about 750 students in the fall of 2024.

The program is years in the making. About five years ago, leaders at the University of Central Arkansas considered the threats facing their school: The region faced a looming demographic cliff of college-aged residents and administrators were uncertain about what kind of state and federal funding they could count on in the coming years.

They began to ask themselves, “What were we going to do to be proactive?” Davis said.

To answer the questions, leaders pored through the budget to make sure that every dollar was going toward meeting the needs of students.

Part of that process was determining whether they were doing the best they could with student financial aid packages, Davis said. They worried about “over-awarding” some students, while other students who needed the money more weren’t getting it. They began drafting budgets to see whether they could make something like the UCA Commitment program work. After moving around some scholarship money and raising more money, administrators think they can swing it.

The new program doesn’t come at great risk to the college, either. Just because students won’t have to pay tuition, doesn’t mean the college isn’t getting paid. The money coming in for each student will be the same, it will just come from scholarships and work study assignments instead of college loans and credit cards.

Davis said the university expects to see a small increase in enrollment, but expects the most significant impact will to be on the number of students who return year after year.

“The real power of UCA Commitment is going to be for those students who are in academic good standing, they’re making progress toward a degree, but money is the reason they stop out,” Davis said.

Olivia Sanchez wrote this article for The Hechinger Report.

Support for this reporting was provided by Lumina Foundation.

The post UCA offers ‘debt-free pathway’ to college graduation appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

We stand out for many things, some good, some bad but all are pieces of the mosaic that makes us who we are. 

One of those bad things is that we’re the only state in USA to become fiscally insolvent. The Diamond State earned that dubious distinction in 1933 after an ill-conceived road building initiative led to bond payments that the state couldn’t afford.  

But here’s one of the good: 1967 we set another benchmark when the legislature enacted Governor Winthrop Rockefeller’s bold plan for open and transparent government. The rest of the nation has modeled our sunshine laws since then. 

Over the years, the legislature and a myriad of court rulings have steadily eroded the citizen access to record and public meetings that were established under Rockefeller’s 1967 Freedom of Information Act.  In both the 2021 and 2023 legislative sessions, several bills were filed that sought to almost completely eliminate public access under FOIA. Most of those bills were defeated, some convincingly, but the steady loss of open government was clear to transparency advocates around the state. 

FOIA’s endangerment became even clearer following the 2023 session when the Attorney General created a secret task force to “reform” FOIA. Transparency advocates knew we needed to act to protect our right to know—or we were going to lose it. 

The anti-FOIA rumblings crescendoed this September when Governor Sarah Sanders called a special session seeking to enact legislation that would practically end citizen access to public documents. Access to these documents is essential to oversight of state decision making, contracting and rule-making. 

A large and ideologically diverse coalition of citizens came to the Capitol and made it clear to legislators that the people of Arkansas simply wouldn’t stand quietly by while our ability to oversee state government was in jeopardy. 

The bulk of that awful bill was defeated, but even then, we lost more of our access under FOIA. Worse yet, the Governor, key legislative leaders and the Attorney General made public statements indicating they “were just getting started.” 

Those who were at the Capitol for that special session observed a kind of arrogance and hubris from those elected to represent us. This was unprecedented; members of the public were insulted by the Senate President, shushed by committee chairs and silenced when seeking to provide testimony on the far reaching effects of the proposed legislation.

In the midst of this gross example of bad government, something unique was conceived. People who’d been political enemies for decades stood together, united in opposition to government secrecy. Far left progressives stood side by side with the most extreme right activists to make it clear that the people of Arkansas have had enough. Many who witnessed that unusual unity have said it’s like nothing else they’ve ever observed.  

A broad coalition of citizens concerned about the ongoing attacks on transparency came together and began having informal meetings to discuss how to protect our rights under FOIA. This led to joining together: the formation of a group known as Arkansas Citizens for Transparency. 

The group has now produced a first draft of a constitutional amendment proposal that will “enshrine FOIA in the Arkansas Constitution.” Those drafting the proposal outlined their goals in a public letter introducing the draft.

The non-partisan, citizen led group is now organizing a series of public meetings seeking input on the draft. Once the final wording has consensus, the group will formally organize a ballot question committee and the process of ballot title approval and gathering the 90,704 signatures required to qualify for the 2024 general election ballot. 

Our state motto is “Regnat Populus”—The People Rule. If the people are to rule, government cannot hide its decision making process from the people. 

Transparency is often burdensome; sometimes it’s even expensive. But it is absolutely necessary for government of, by and for the people to survive. 

We cannot allow those who seek a government of secrets to make their goals become the laws we’re forced to live under. 

The post Standing Strong: Arkansans Unite for Open Government appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

Conversations about how to make our state and country better have become a constant tit-for-tat exercise in futility — or worse, loved ones lose contact altogether.

Through all of this grief, I can’t help but think “Arkansas, we are better than this.”

We do not have to accept the division and vitriol we’re fed these days. Arkansans are capable of coming together like no one else I know. 

That fact has been on glorious display lately as we’ve watched conservative farmers and liberal lawyers lock arms around an issue dear to every single one of us: transparency in government.

Arkansans have had a uniquely substantial right to know how our government is using its time and resources — that is to say, our tax dollars — since the first Freedom of Information Act was passed in 1967. Then-Governor Winthrop Rockefeller considered it one of the greatest achievements of his administration. The law faced legal challenges, but the Arkansas Supreme Court ruled unanimously in favor of a broad interpretation that favored transparency. That ruling has guided our state’s focus on transparency for years.

“It is vital in a democratic society that public business be performed in an open and public manner. We have no hesitation in asserting our conviction that the Freedom of Information Act was passed wholly in the public interest and is to be liberally interpreted to the end that its praiseworthy purposes may be achieved.” Associate Justice George Rose Smith

But you don’t need a history lesson to understand the main idea here: Do we want the government to be able to keep secrets from its people, or do we believe that the government should be open and accountable to the people who created it?

Arkansans have made our answer clear, and we did it by coming together in ways we haven’t seen in years.

It’s hard to know where we go from here, and we know that the fight against government secrecy isn’t over. But for once, the fight won’t be among neighbors and family members. The fight for government transparency will be between us, the people of Arkansas, and a select few of the powerful.

When the people of Arkansas stand together, we’ve already won.

The post Together, We’ve Already Won appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

“By noon they’ll be sweatin’ through their blue jeans,” I think to myself as I slide into the driver’s seat.

We wait all summer for school to start, only to realize that the heat of summer will linger as long as it wants. Arkansas’s summers are almost as stubborn as her people.

Whether it’s weather or a state of mind, we know that fall doesn’t start with back to school. It hardly starts with football season or Labor Day weekend.

Here in Arkansas, fall begins with the county fair.

We’re smack dab in the middle of county fair season, and communities all over the state are coming together in celebration of their own.

Outsiders might think it’s as simple as ferris wheels and funnel cakes. They would be wrong. Our local county fairs in Arkansas are treasures of the communities they serve.

Livestock exhibits feature our youth, the county’s pride and joy. Kids have worked hard to raise and train their animals in hopes of taking home a ribbon to display in their bedrooms. They’ve waited months for this moment in the spotlight as their family, coaches, teachers, and trainers watch in wonder at their hard-earned accomplishment. Not every kid gets a ribbon, but everyone gets a lesson in responsibility and commitment.

We gather for the rodeo, standing together as our American flag is carried on the most gorgeous Quarter horse in the county, decked out in  a sequined saddle blanket, bridle, and headstall to match their rider’s outfit. Together we bow our heads to ask for protection over participants before the announcer’s voice grows excited for the first event.

One by one, our neighbors show off their hard work. Team roping and barrel racing are impressive competitions in our county fairs. The bleachers are filled with rows of fans and friends ready to cheer for our people, no matter the outcome of their run.

Mamas hold their breath as bulls buck their boys into soft arena dirt. This is where cowboys learn courage and mamas learn to let them grow up.

With our shared values of hard work and dedication, everyone’s a winner with a county fair Arkansas audience. 

The summer can linger as long as it wants — nothing can stop our fall tradition. We’re showing up for our people, and that’s as Arkansan as it gets.

The post County Fair Strong appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

So, why am I deconstructing? Despite the claims of wanting to be liked, rebelling against God’s authority, and letting my feelings deceive me, the answer is simple. I am deconstructing to arrive at a place of authentic faith. I am a Christian, I prayed the prayer and I still firmly believe in all of the key doctrines and confessions. It is arrogant to say otherwise. I’m deconstructing to save my faith from all of the garbage it has accumulated for the last twenty-five years. 

In my Introduction to Philosophy college course, I learned about a German theologian by the name of Friedrich Schleiermacher. Schleiermacher was confronted by higher criticism coming out of German theological schools and new ideas that put prior understandings of Christian truth in doubt. After thinking through these critiques, his new approach sought to make Christian faith more personal and up to the interpretation of the reader. To Schleiermacher, this approach encouraged a more authentic faith, even though he conceded it wasn’t a perfect one. Schleiermacher was not alone in his desire to keep the core of Christian faith while dispensing with what was not true.

Fundamentalist Evangelicalism put a lot of trappings on my faith that cannot be justified or proven. Most of the trappings revolve around assumptions based on dogmatic doctrines like: inerrancy, the idea that the original manuscripts of the Bible are curated by God and do not contain errors; textual infallibility, which is the claim that the writing of the text is completely authoritative; and scriptural sufficiency, the idea that the Bible is all you need and contains the answers to all life’s questions. Religion that is authentic, adaptable, and correctable cannot exist in concert with these doctrines. That’s why if the Bible says it, I don’t necessarily believe it, and it doesn’t settle the question. I want a faith that is intellectually honest and spiritually humble. Evangelicalism does not provide this because it embraces fundamentalism and dogma.

There’s much to unlearn from Evangelicalism. I’ve spent years trying to detach my mind from what fundamentalism preaches: dogma, reactionary theology, and prejudices. Often when interacting with others on social media I will catch myself saying something in a tone that is too certain. I realize that I’m not trying to get to the truth; I’m trying to be right. Doubt is an unpleasant but necessary bedfellow for one who takes on this faith overhaul. I’ve found myself angry at being lied to, depressed at the pain I’ve caused, and confused about how to move forward. There is always fear and shame lurking in the back of my mind whispering, “What if you’re wrong? God will be angry with you…” I don’t believe this is true, but the impulse is always submerged in my religiously abused subconscious.

Deconstruction is not triumphalism. We’re not throwing parties and hosting orgies. We don’t boast about how we’ve slain the dragon of fundamentalism in its lair – because you never do that, or at least I haven’t managed to do it. As someone who’s been homebound for most of the pandemic, I struggle with how I’m living out this new understanding of faith. I feel like an actor at times, maybe because I am one. I live with a deep frustration at how many years I wasted in Evangelicalism, lying to myself and not taking a stand against its abuses sooner. My Evangelical pastors and professors lied to me about other people to make themselves look holier and better. Do you realize what this does to trust? And they did it all in the name of Jesus. So much of my deconstruction journey has been angry, and that, too, has been strange and difficult coming from a place that told me, “do not let the sun go down on your anger.” 

My M.Div. was obtained from Liberty Divinity School (yes, that Liberty) at the end of 2013. While there are aspects about the education I appreciate, like the exposure to translations of Patristic texts and learning about the Southern Baptist Resurgence, there’s a lot to dislike. I’ve since learned about liberal theology, liberation theology, neo-orthodox theology, Greek Orthodox theology, and other forms of Christian faith. I’ve learned how Judaism is misunderstood and slandered in our Christian circles, and it has been humbling and wrecking to discover how our own sacred text paints our Jewish neighbors in ahistorical, biased lights. Christianity has a history of embellishing facts to make itself look better than other religions and divert attention away from its own shortcomings. 

Christianity is the source of white supremacy and white European privilege. Christianity was the justification for the enslavement of an entire race of people and the genocide of another. Christianity has been the primary driver of terror and abuse toward those who are LGBTQ+. None of this is sexy; none of it is comfortable; none of this makes me feel good. When coupled with challenging my definition of spirituality and what is “good and honorable,” I’ve discovered that deconstruction has brought me hurt and unease. Spiritual devotions no longer have the same meaning; adjusting to corporate liturgy, social justice, and freedom of conscience/thought turns over all the tables. Evangelicalism wasn’t like this – it was certain, sure, organized, and easily backed up with “chapter and verse.” But it was a lie. The hurt and unease are worth it for truth.

At the first Episcopalian bible study I attended someone spoke about an interpretation of a passage that caused all of my bad instincts to rise. I sat in indignation, waiting for the priest to intervene and correct them like every Evangelical bible study I’d attended. 

But the priest didn’t, and neither did anyone else in the room. Instead, I was floored by how they began to discuss the merits and implications of what had been said, how that particular interpretation helped the listeners better understand their faith, even if they disagreed with it. When I left, I challenged myself to be more willing to listen than to teach. As a result, I’ve grown so much from being exposed to the ideas of others, whether I agree with them or not. Fundamentalism often tries to resurface during these moments of exposure to the new, but I always find it more rewarding to tell it to shut up and let myself learn. 

There are things I miss about Evangelicalism. I can’t look at the Bible the same way  anymore; it’s become just another book, even if it has an honored place. Music allows me to emotionally connect with God, but so much of the music I used to listen to has either a terrible message or is ruined by the messengers who abused others to make it, yet I still miss the music. I miss the focused drive of Evangelicalism that is all too often lacking in mainline denominational settings. 

But here’s what I don’t miss: I don’t miss false certainty and false confidence, and I wouldn’t trade them for what I have now: an authentic, human faith journey. 

Before each Holy Eucharist, our priest says, “Wherever you are in your journey of faith, you are welcome at this table.” There are days I don’t know where I am – but not all who wander are lost. We’re all on this sojourner journey together, even if our paths often diverge.

Deconstruction isn’t “sexy,” but it beats all of the fool’s gold currently being sold in Evangelicalism. It leads, when done thoroughly and humbly, to a faith that is real. I might be right, but I might be wrong – and I’m okay with that. There are far worse things in this world than being wrong. If I’m going to err, I’d rather err on the side of love and grace for all my fellow humans than on the side of judgment and disdain. 

I believe the Gospel saves us from ourselves and leads us into a better life. The seeds of the gospel are flourishing in most religions and in every culture. Loving God by loving others as you love yourself has the power to change the entire world if we embrace the fullness of what that truly means. Resurrection – the belief that life comes despite death – is foundational to understanding how God works through everyone to make all things new.

I don’t need to assent to creeds or commit to an exclusive religion or faith tradition. There are those who don’t consider themselves to be religious and yet they’re more like God in practice than many fundamentalist Evangelicals. These folks have embraced the ethos of loving others as they love themselves; they show this by seeking to free people from the systemic oppression that drapes our world. I am one with persons of color, LGBTQ+ people, and those who find themselves destitute and impoverished. I am with those in prison for crimes they did not commit, for those suffering physical or mental illness, and for the elderly left forgotten in deplorable conditions. I find common cause with the differently abled, the single mothers and childless career women, and all those shattered by the evil in our world. We are not free until we are all free. 

These causes called by the Gospel sound exciting and romantic, especially for the cis het Christian white guys with savior complexes who believe leading others to deconstruction is now their life’s work. However, there have been many painful moments for me. I was going into ministry. That is lost to me now. For the last six years I’ve tried to re-establish my motivation, but it isn’t there. I didn’t realize how much my “calling” to teach was bound up in my Evangelical faith. It was the steam engine of my life, the guiding star, and it’s gone. At nearly forty, its absence causes me to wonder what will ultimately become of my life. I no longer know. And, strangely, I’m at peace with that, even if it’s painful. 

Christians believe God sees the heart. I hope that when or if God sees mine it will prove to be whole and at peace with who I am and how I’ve helped and loved others. I hope that I’ve tried to make the world a better place for everyone – the goal, I believe, of the kingdom of God.

The post Deconstructing Certainty appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

What an awkward phrase that is: “the youth group at my parents’ church.” 

For the longest time, even after I no longer attended their North Texas non-denominational evangelical congregation (another epic phrase), I thought of it as my church. Even after I was aware of the trauma, aware of the terrible theologies and philosophies, aware of abuses that had happened within its walls, I still instinctively claimed it. It was the winter of 2021 before I finally broke the habit and remembered to use “my parents’ church.” 

Because it wasn’t my church. It was never really mine. In high school, after my older brothers had left for college and I was functionally an only child, the majority of my fights with my parents was whether or not I had to attend youth group. I loved the other students in the group and I have fond memories of them (Strangely, many of them have undergone similar journeys to the one I’m about to describe. Curious how that happens, isn’t it?). 

But the theologies and youth leadership that tends to go hand-in-hand with North Texas evangelical churches – sickly sweet, smiling as they throw their verbal barbs, uncaring if they speared my closeted friends – was not for me, in my curiosity and open-heartedness. 

And yet. Here I was, still calling it “my church.” 

My particular brand of religious trauma is arguably tamer than most. I’m a straight white dude, so exactly the demographic North Texas non-denominational evangelical churches tend to appreciate most. But trauma doesn’t have an Olympics; traumatic experiences are unique to the individual. If you freeze when you think of church, if the thought of what you learned in church makes you tear up or get nauseous or have any kind of visceral reaction, congrats, here’s your trauma. 

(The jokes are a coping mechanism. I’m working on it.)

Accepting that I’d been traumatized was only the first step. Like many in my shoes, I flirted with atheism, desperate to find a system that didn’t rely on anything beyond what I could rationally understand. It worked for a while, and I don’t discount that my years denying any kind of higher power other than the mysteries of science were essential in my journey. 

But in my most vulnerable moments, the thought of a universe with nothing else never quite sat right with me. I saw Hubble pictures and felt the mysterium tremendum, the terrible mystery of creation that has no answer. I read so many different books looking for answers – Kierkegaard, Rachel Held Evans, hell, the Bible, unfettered by toxic theologies – and felt something realer, something truer, than what I could explain. I looked out over the northern Pacific Ocean, and felt small in a way that words and logic could not describe.  

God was there for me, in some capacity, and so I couldn’t help but continue to call that North Texas congregation “my church” because that was my first experience of the certainty of God’s existence. Despite having found another church, that North Texas place still had a grip on me.  

What does it mean to move on from fundamentalism? For me, it was acceptance of uncertainty. My parents’ church taught faith as an unwavering devotion to a man-made document that answered any questions you might have about life. My foray into atheism was similarly rooted in a belief that science and logic could answer just about any question. 

I was seeking certainty again. 

But life isn’t like that, is it? A book written by men thousands of years ago doesn’t have all the answers for our complex life together in 2023. We have to constantly hash out the new worlds we live in, preferably over a meal. 

I returned to a semblance of faith in God because those books I read and the experiences I had taught me, at last, to be comfortable with uncertainty. To seek it out and live in that mystery. There’s other ways to do that, sure, but it feels like I chose this. At last, this is my faith. Not my parents’. Not those grinning, too-put-together youth pastors. This is mine. 

At last, this is my faith. Not my parents’. Not those grinning, too-put-together youth pastors. This is mine. 

Faith after fundamentalism makes the mystery make sense to me, as much as it can. It helps me accept and live within uncertainty, the knowledge that some questions will never be answered, and to revel in that. It doesn’t solve the mystery, but then, I don’t think it has to anymore. 

So now I go to church, sometimes. 

There’s a great little Episcopalian church off of Cantrell in West Little Rock. The people are so kind, and so accepting, and so willing to listen to questions. The priest is one of the smartest, most empathetic women I’ve ever met. They have a potluck every Sunday. It’s my church. 

There’s a nice Presbyterian church a block over from my house. The reverend is a man whose booming voice and delightful stories stand next to an absolute care for his flock, a burning desire to serve them in whatever way he can. It’s my church. 

There’s a Methodist church back in Athens, Georgia, that I miss dearly. It’s a scrappy group of people who stand in front of refugees and immigrants. It’s professors and students and veterans who go out after services and feed the unhoused, as Jesus commanded. It’s my church. 

All of these places have made me feel comfortable and happy inside their walls. All these places have invited me to their table with my uncertainty, genuine smiles on their faces, and told me: “Stay, with your questions. We don’t have a lot of answers, but we love you.” 

I think of faith now as, among other things, a community of uncertain people who continue on anyway. Who shrug, alongside me, and say, “We’re doing our best. God helps with that. Want some lunch?” 

The post A Faith of My Own appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

A song I haven’t heard in awhile wafts through my earbuds, “Free” by Rudimental.

See, whoa, c’est la vie

Maybe something’s wrong with me

But, whoa, at least I am free, oh, oh, I am free

It’s not that I don’t have any thoughts or experiences when it comes to moving on from fundamentalism.  I have plenty.  A veritable family heritage.  But it’s difficult to know where to start.  

I was raised in the Church of Christ.  My mother’s father was a Church of Christ minister and her mother’s grandfather was a frontier preacher in North Texas.  My father’s father was an elder and can trace our family’s roots in the Restoration Movement all the way back to Alexander Campbell (IYKYK).  His great grandfather founded the first Church of Christ in the state of Texas and was involved in the beginnings of what later became Texas Christian University.  My mother served as church secretary and my father was a deacon of various ministries while I was growing up.

I dutifully attended Harding University and married a youth minister.  We spent 12 years working in Churches of Christ in South Georgia and Northeast Arkansas.  I also worked as a librarian at a private Church of Christ school for eight years.  Those years were filled with spiritual and emotional abuse. Even five years post ministry I still struggle to articulate some of the things that happen to us and don’t fully understand how abusive some of our experiences were.

It wasn’t until we were unceremoniously let go from our last ministry position here in Arkansas and we subsequently decided to both take secular jobs that I was forced to reckon my faith with my reality.  I entered that scary world of “deconstruction.” Different people will define the word in different ways, but for me it means to essentially perform a closet clean out of your mind.  It’s often a rapid unlearning and unraveling of beliefs and customs given in a fundamental religion.  Of course the scary part is that these are tightly held beliefs, not just old jeans that haven’t fit in five years. 

But we can and should outgrow harmful theology and ideas.  

Anyone who has ever stepped out into the terrifying journey of deconstruction knows it isn’t easy.  And no two people will have the same journey.  Even my sweet husband and I have had different journeys.  Deconstructing different parts of our faith at different times and in different ways.    

Early on into this process, my therapist gave me some good advice.  He told me to do my best to accept where the journey may lead.  Deconstructing doesn’t mean you are leaving your faith.  How you chose to engage your faith may look different, but that’s ok.  He told me to be ready because it could look like standing on a boulder on the edge of Mount Magazine to greet the sunrise or going through the process of becoming an ordained Episcopalian priest.  Or anything in between.  Or none of those things.  

See, whoa, c’est la vie

Maybe something’s wrong with me

But, whoa, at least I am free, oh, oh, I am free

After five years, I still consider myself to be a Christian.  That doesn’t mean I haven’t had moments of doubt, agony, or fear of discovering a new way of faith that’s different from my upbringing.  I have felt all of that and more.  There have been many Sundays I weeped through parts of worship, not sure if I wanted to keep doing this.  And there have been other days of the week that the Spirit has led me and spoken tenderly to me.  

But the beauty is that I’m free.  

I’m not a marionette, strings attached and ready to perform at a moment’s notice.  To be honest, that’s how I’d felt for a long time.  As a child I wanted to please my family.  As a minister’s wife I didn’t want to do anything to cause trouble.  I knew how to walk that line to keep church ladies happy and not get myself or my husband reprimanded by the elders.  I was so tired.

But the beauty is that I’m free.

I’ve preached and I lead communion from time to time.  I help my daughter practice for the Advent scripture reading.  I commune with friends while drinking a margarita or two.  I’ve gotten a tattoo, dyed the ends of my hair pink, and this past week booked an appointment to finally get my nostril pierced.  I’ve helped plan a rally at the state capitol, gotten tied up in public education advocacy, even stuck my toe into the world of Arkansas politics.  I bounce my little girl on my knee while we recite the Lord’s Prayer at the end of services together.  I adore her bedtime prayers. I adore the questions she asks about Jesus.

The beauty is that I’m free.

The post The Beauty of Being Free appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

The Shiny Happy People docuseries has taken Arkansas by storm, with details of abuse, oppression, and cult tactics having happened right in our backyard.

The series focuses on the Duggar family’s 19 Kids and Counting show on TLC. It details the family’s involvement with the Institute for Basic Life Principles (IBLP), a fundamentalist ideology that spread through Southern Baptist churches. IBLP was founded by Bill Gothard in the early 1960s, and participants were encouraged to homeschool their children and administer strict authoritarian discipline.

Watching this show has sparked conversations among my college friends about the way we found ourselves in fundamentalist circles in our teens and early twenties. Many of my friends were born and raised IBLP-adjacent, with the same principles of male headship and authority, female submission, and harsh discipline that includes corporal punishment. Figureheads like Dr. James Dobson, Billy Graham, and Jerry Falwell were revered for their willingness to “stand for [their version of] biblical truth.” Often the homes that follow the teachings of these men are indistinguishable from those following Gothard in Shiny Happy People, but for (sometimes) the lack of long skirts and Wisdom Booklets.

As for my friends and I, after leaving our Southern Baptist university, having hard conversations with family and mentors, and sometimes starting families of our own, many have realized that we want a faith that is different from what fundamentalism gave us.

Finding faith after fundamentalism is not easy. Those who were raised from birth in authoritarian religiosity often have complex trauma to untangle, abusive family members to confront or avoid, and many life lessons to unlearn for the sake of their own children.

I, personally, was not raised in a fundamentalist home, but my childhood was traumatic. I was raised by a mom who worked 60+ hour weeks to keep me from knowing her own childhood reality of poverty and dependence on a deeply flawed man of the house. In my search for safety, certainty, and belonging, I found fundamentalism in my teenage years. I remember sitting in the pew alone, but near the families of my friends. We would hear sermons geared toward raising godly sons and daughters, and it was apparent to me that I was an outcast among my friends who were lucky enough to be given a faith script from birth. (At least that’s how I felt at the time.)

Fundamentalism gave me all the answers I needed to the questions my childhood trauma left me with. Fundamentalism always had an answer, and when the answers didn’t make sense or the questions were out of the agreed-upon social boundaries, they could be conveniently shut down, dismissed, or used to question the salvation of the person asking.

The result of this was a feeling of safety that I had never experienced. In order to keep that feeling of safety, I had to squash my questions, pain, and genuine curiosity, and return to the predetermined conclusions I had been given. I learned quickly that my new safe place was only safe if I learned those social boundaries and complied with them quickly. 

When questions came up, I would repeat some version of the refrain (that I now know came from the Heritage Singers), “God said it, I believe it, that settles it.” I would assume my unwillingness to take my pastors at their word was a symptom of my own sinfulness, that there was something I had not yet repented of. My upbringing had not occurred under the headship of a Godly male leader, so it was incumbent upon me to train myself in the ways of the Lord now that I was saved. I had to make up for what my upbringing lacked.

Today, even typing these sentences leaves me with a knot in my stomach.

A lot has changed since my framework of belief revolved around fundamentalism. It took time, healing, and lots of grace. I had to come to a place where I want to rebuild my faith without the parts that hurt me and my loved ones. The “how?” of that rebuilding is what I’m trying to figure out now.

Like many of my peers, I’m sorting through the faith I was given and decided what should be kept and what I need to leave behind. To be sure, I’m keeping a lot of good things I was given in the context of faith.

• I’m keeping friends becoming family.
• I’m keeping casserole deliveries to families who are grieving, just had a baby, or are under a lot of stress.
• I’m keeping intergenerational community, and the feeling of privilege when I gain wisdom from someone who was in my season of life four decades ago.
• I’m keeping gathering, breaking bread, and talking about things that matter most in life.
• I’m keeping prayer, because when I am truly at the end of myself, I need connection to God— not certainty of what will happen or a reason for everything, just connection.
• I’m keeping my training in New Testament Greek.
• I’m keeping the seeking of social justice, because before it became an “enemy of the Gospel” to fundamentalists, it was a core value of my faith.
• I’m keeping Sabbath—or at least I’m trying to.

As I type this, I am hearing the voices of male pastors telling me “you can’t pick and choose which parts of the Bible to believe and follow.”

I have many answers to that admonition, many of them biblical retorts. But I left squabbling about the bible in the past a long time ago. It’s not worth it—I have nothing to prove to them anymore. I am free.

Faith after fundamentalism is not easy, but it is worth it. Many of us left high-control religiosity with nothing to anchor us any longer. We were unlearning fundamentalism while grieving former relationships and family, and it was the hardest thing we have ever done.

We don’t have to be Shiny Happy People. We can be authentic, kind humans, living out a faith we are proud of.

There is life after fundamentalism. There is faith after fundamentalism, if you want it.

And life after fundamentalism is abundant and sweet. 

The post Faith After Fundamentalism appeared first on Arkansas Strong.