My Papaw is no longer living, may God rest his soul. But if he were, I am certain he would be ashamed of what has become of the Grand Old Party. Papaw was a hardworking business man with stories for days of growing up on a Louisiana farm with dozens of cousins. He always spoke to me and my cousin about hard work, individual responsibility, and the value of a dollar.

My papaw fostered within me a sense of accomplishment and pride in any work I was doing. When I grew up and became a voter, these values, to me, reflected the heart of the GOP.

So what changed?

If you pressed me for an answer to that question, I’d have to say it was Donald Trump.

At some point in the last eight years I started to realize that my family members were deviating from the conservatism that raised us. With each new story of a disgusting joke, sexual assault allegation, or racist soundbite I would watch for a shift — Would they take their Trump flag down? Might they stop sharing Trump’s outlandish messages on social media? Could they be trusted to talk about social issues without parroting his deceitful talking points?

For some – too many – of them, the answers were no, no, and no. And that is the heartbreaking place we find ourselves in 2024.

Donald Trump has amassed a following of millions who believe everything he tells them, will do anything he asks, and even cause harm and distress to their own families for the sake of his mission.

There is no word for that besides “cult,” and that’s exactly what it is.

Donald Trump is going to be the Presidential nominee for the Republican Party. His influence will only grow, and the impact on our families will continue to be traumatic. Here in Arkansas, it’s especially difficult to confront the loss.

Trump’s face is on billboards across the state and the gospel of his elusive plan to make America great is preached in many of our churches. “Do you believe the 2020 election was stolen?” is a litmus test when political conversations arise. Answer a definitive, “no,” and you might lose another friend, or miss your chance to make a new one.

I know I am not alone in the complex grief of losing a loved one to the cult of Trump. There are thousands of us in states like Arkansas. We aren’t trying to change anyone’s mind— we just want our people back.

The post Losing Loved Ones to the Cult of Trump 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.

Ever since the reversal of Roe v. Wade, I have just felt a sinking in my soul. This has perplexed me because I am pro-life: I do believe that life begins at conception, and I have also volunteered at a crisis pregnancy ministry in their care center. I think that God has given me the burden of so many women who are terrified, indignant, or just angry at the ruling. I know also that this is a pivotal time for the church in the way Christians proceed from this place, and I fear and see that in many ways the response has not been Christ-like and may turn people away from Jesus.

The purpose of this writing is not to argue my position on Roe but to lay out a path for Christians in the light of Roe. The right to an abortion will now be decided by individual states. But the support and care of women in these situations is firmly in the hands of the church…or at least it needs to be.

In church recently, I was blessed to hear the testimonial from a young woman who at age 19 found herself with an unexpected pregnancy. Raised in a church and youth group, she knew that the last place that she could turn was her church as there would be no grace for her there. By the grace of God, she kept the baby with her life forever altered for the better. She cast a vision for how the church in the future could care for mothers in similar situations: Mentorship, grace, and community. Unfortunately, many churches offer none of these and instead focus on the shame. It is not difficult to figure out how Jesus would have responded to an unwed mother in crisis.

I have some first-hand experience with mentorship, grace and community. For 3 years, I volunteered at a crisis pregnancy center in Fayetteville, which is an amazing place, which seeks to support women who make the choice to have their baby. During the pregnancy, women would come to our clinic to watch videos about the birthing process. After pregnancy for 8 months, they would continue to come to learn more about child rearing. As a care counselor, I listened, prayed with our clients, formed relationships with them, and just loved them. Clients earned “mommy bucks” for coming, towards which they could use to purchase diapers and other child-related items that were donated to the cute store on site. Each and every week, we were all witnesses to the transformation of these women through the love of Christ.

There was one client who I was blessed to befriend. She was not married and definitely did not expect her pregnancy. She made the hard decision to keep the baby, separated from a huge group of unhealthy people, and began the process of making her life condusive and healthy to raising a child. After she graduated from our program, we continued to stay in touch. I would receive regular texts from her with questions about her then 1 year old. Sometimes she asked my advice about financial matters. Sometimes she had questions about God. Without question, God used this child to grow this woman up: To clean up her life, help her make better choices, buy a house, and begin down a road of faith. Her parents deceased, she regularly tells me that I am the one person she can count on in this life. It is an honor. She really doesn’t have anyone else pouring into her life except me. I feel like this is what I am called to do as a Christian: Not to lecture and not to shame but to support, love, and encourage.

My church is a financial sponsor of this pregnancy center, and some people choose to volunteer there. But their program often reaches capacity, and the timing on the classes doesn’t always fit people’s schedules. In this post-Roe world, I can imagine that these types of clinics are going to be busier than every. So instead of moping in my post-Roe funk, I have taken some positive steps within my own church to have a conversation about reaching out to women in crisis the way Jesus would. What if my church was where women with unplanned pregnancies came first? What if we could pair women with a mentor for support and to walk along-side them? Could we help women in crisis to find community that would truly transform their lives? Are we qualified or trained? Heavens no. Have we raised our own kids and have a heart for others? Absolutely. And are we willing to shower women with the same grace that we have received in our own lives? The possibilities are limitless.

To me, this is the correct definition of pro-life: Valuing the life of a fetus as we walk along-side and love the new mother and child. Are there other systemic issues that need to be addressed. Absolutely. The list is long from paid maternity leave, affordable child-care, and quality and available childcare. None of these should be political issues, and I call upon Congress as well as the General Assembly to tackle each and every one if them in single-issue bills without other amendments attached. I would venture to say that any politician that opposes abortion but is not willing to make the systemic changes is a hypocrite and does not deserve to have a voice on this issue.

I know that there are many other thorny issues related to abortion such as the life of the mother, rape, and incest. Legislators who have made policy without accurate medical information or considered the social/emotional/financial concerns of new mothers have not made good laws: They have simply imposed their views on others without taking care of women and children the way Christ would have. Furthermore, the dogmatic approach that does not address these issues is generating anger and resentment towards the church and Christians.

In closing, my heart is a little less heavy now that I know what I can do to help. I know that I am called to serve and to love. It is a good place to be. The storm is undoubtedly going to continue to rage around this issue. I am going to do what God has shown me to do, and I would be honored if you would create a movement where you live to support women and children in Arkansas. Arkansans, we are likely to have a bunch more babies in the coming year! Who will be Jesus in the flesh and walk alongside these neighbors. The answer is not someone else’s mirror: It is in your own.

The post Possibilites appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

I’m not a professional dog trainer, but I do live with dogs. And I put that in italics because I truly mean it. The dogs I live with are not just accessories; most of my day and night are arranged to ensure they are cared for and have what they need. As a former farm kid, the lesson that animals come first because they can’t do for themselves sticks with me. The dogs, in return, care for me, booping me when I’ve been at my desk too long, making sure I get out every day and move around, and making me laugh when I take myself too seriously.

It’s a symbiotic relationship. 

When Chester came to live with us, he was very anxious. He wouldn’t stop circling the house, moving from room to room, in constant motion like a shark. I followed him around until I finally managed to put my hands on his back, and he leaned into me, realizing I only wanted to pet him. These days, I can’t sit down without him there, either snuggling up under my arm on the couch or creating canine origami in my armchair. While it can be a bit much, the level of satisfaction I get from his trust in me more than makes up for any irritation.

Chester’s coping mechanism is to carry a toy in his mouth, pretty much any time he’s anxious. To strangers, his toy habit is precious and they think he’s just showing them his baby. But I know that he’s got a toy in his mouth because it keeps him from putting his mouth on whatever is causing the anxiety. He does love his babies, though, and he’s always excited when they take a trip through the washer and dryer. He waits for me to open a dryer full of them so he can  have a baby party in the hallway. 

Chester does have a threshold — we all do. The threshold I’m talking about is that point where no matter what coping mechanism he uses or how he communicates his anxiety if I don’t listen, he loses it. Once I paid attention and recognized the signs that he was near crossing that threshold, Chester hasn’t lost his marbles. We’ve built trust, Chester and I, and we listen to each other.

I have my own threshold, as well. And, while I have developed some pretty good coping mechanisms, that doesn’t mean I am never near my threshold when it comes to anxiety. I’m just (most days) a pretty high-functioning person with anxiety. Lately, though, due to a number of factors, I find myself teetering on my threshold.

My family is going through a large transition right now, in part because my wife’s employer finally nudged her just enough that it put her over her threshold. That story isn’t mine to tell, but I will say that while our decision to move back to the central part of the state and leave her full-time position as a hospital physician was made quickly, it wasn’t. We’ve been talking about the need for something to change for well over a year now, and it just took a small, seemingly insignificant thing to tip us over the line.  

We’ve been through big shifts before — medical school and residency, for instance. When we moved back to Arkansas, we decided it was time for me to stop traveling so much for work and to shift my attention to writing, which was always the plan. As someone who always took pride in being able to take care of herself, and who always worked, sometimes with a side-hustle, my retirement from higher education was not a smooth transition. I struggled with identity issues — for so long, my work in higher education was the largest part of my identity. Five years later, I am finally comfortable answering the question “what do you do?” without hesitating or first explaining that “I used to be. . .” Now, the answer comes out: I’m a freelance writer and editor. But still, in this transition we’re making, I find myself flailing again in new and awful ways. 

We made the decision that we are not going to buy another house in our transition back to central Arkansas. While the current market situation is one reason, as is our decision for Doc to take some time off to focus on her board certification which means we are budgeting in new ways, the main reason is we don’t know where we’ll wind up. We made the decision to rent, something we never thought we would do again. It didn’t take long for me to hit my threshold. 

I get that we are not the typical renters. We’ve owned two houses together, and Doc has not rented since 1996. I’ve not rented since 2004. We’re in our 50s. We have no kids. We’re financially stable. But, just getting in the application pool was a nightmare. Even though we’re married, we were told repeatedly that both of us had to fill out applications that included a background check and credit check. That’s not a problem, but what is a problem for me — freelance writer, remember — is that they require all applicants to make at least 3.5 times the rent per month in order to even be considered. It doesn’t matter that one spouse makes more than 10 times that amount after taxes and other things are deducted — if the freelance writer only makes X dollars in steady assignments and Y (which varies as it’s royalties on novels that run six weeks behind), that’s a problem.

We literally had a realtor contact us that she needed my “check stubs” for my work, despite having Doc’s for the last quarter. Without our full tax returns, basically, they wouldn’t actually process either of our applications. We withdrew them and got our $100 back. But, the “we need Angelic’s pay stubs” took me over the threshold into a meltdown. 

Thresholds are part of our culture’s marriage nostalgia. The image of the groom carrying the bride over the threshold of their home or church still pops up over and over in movies, for instance, even though few people are aware of the superstition that his doing so prevents “the chance of her stumbling, which would anger a group of ancient household gods.”

My domestic work seems to calm those ancient household gods pretty well. When your spouse works 80+ hours a week and could be called out at any time to go deal with work, you get to do all of the household management. In addition to writing and my own research projects, I literally pay the bills, buy the groceries, plan and cook the meals, deal with the bug guy, and arrange house maintenance on a 104-year-old house. I’m the one here to meet with the electrician when he comes out to wire something. I’m the one who makes sure the dogs get exercise, who buys the cat his expensive prescription food that keeps him alive. When we had a pool, I was the one who made sure we could actually use it.

In the past, I would have been cast as a housewife. And, honestly, I’m fine with that title. But I’m aware that in the eyes of those who are running for office in my state right now, I’m not a wife at all. Sarah Huckabee Sanders has been very clear that she believes states should be able to decide whether to recognize same-sex marriages. Likewise, Leslie Rutledge has repeatedly shown her disdain for marriage equality in the natural state. Both of them say they are all about protecting families and “American values.” 

As long as the families we’re talking about fit their narrow definition of family — they don’t want to protect my family. We’ve been legally married since 2007, but not all states (not even the federal government) recognized our marriage. In 2013, Section 3 of The Defense of Marriage Act fell in the ruling on United States v. Windsor, and in June of 2015 the Obergefell v. Hodges case led to a 5–4 ruling in favor of marriage equality, making our marriage legal in all 50 states. Our rental struggles took me back to the years of having to do fancy footwork when I was married in some states and not in others.

Edie Windsor and Thea Spyer were together for decades. They built a life together. Before Spyer’s death, they made the trek to Canada to get married. When Spyer died in 2009, Windsor was hit with inheritance taxes on Spyer’s estate, which she willed to her spouse. The hitch was DOMA, which kept the federal government from recognizing their marriage, even though New York, their state of residence did recognize it. Like Windsor and Spyer, we married in 2007 in Canada, and when DOMA fell, we became legal under federal law, but not under Arkansas law. 

Like Windsor and Spyer, we’ve built a life together over the last 18 years. The difficulties we’ve encountered in the last few weeks remind me I’m invisible to people like Huckabee-Sanders and Rutledge.  I remember protesting as Mike Huckabee held his Covenant Marriage rally on February 14, 2005, Dani holding a huge heart with “I can’t marry my Valentine” written on it. Dani and I met in Little Rock, protesting efforts to keep us invisible and keep us apart. And now, 18 years later, I can only wonder what Huckabee-Sanders and Rutledge have planned for Arkansas after November. The recently leaked draft opinion by Alito certainly sets the stage for those who want to bring down marriage equality to do so, and lots of us are already worried about rights being rolled back.

For the summer, though, our focus is on moving into our rent house and regrouping. Here’s hoping that the cardboard boxes don’t have to be used for protest signs, but maybe I’ll order some markers just in case. 

The post <strong>Threshold</strong> appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

If you read my first article entitled, “Little Did We Know,” you are aware of how I view the fundamentalist takeover of the Southern Baptist Convention between 1979 and 1990. If you have not, I suggest you do so before continuing with the following. It will help with context. 

The purpose of this piece is to introduce to you the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship (CBF). 

Finally admitting that the SBC takeover was complete, and with any thought of progressive Baptists maintaining or reclaiming a place in the denomination having been scuttled, a group of bruised and battered, and now former Southern Baptists, met in Atlanta in 1990 to forge a new identity. And while a new “brand” of Baptists was given birth, raising the child proved not to be so easy.

In advance of CBF’s annual General Assembly in Orlando, Florida in June of 2000, the late Robert Parham wrote an op-ed special to the Orlando Sentinel, a ten-year retrospective. In Robert’s typical, succinct, get-after-it style, he said, “Leading Cooperative Baptist Fellowship members is like herding cats, while leading Southern Baptist Convention folk is akin to driving cattle.” 

And there, my friends, you have the difference.

In truth, under the leadership of Texan Cecil Sherman, the first few years of CBF’s existence were spent largely reacting against what was considered the worst traits of the SBC. . . which, I suppose, given my own retrospective, was natural, if not necessary for these leaders in order to forge a new identity. For example:

In keeping with historic Baptist principles, the fledgling CBF refused to refer to this new entity as a denomination. Hence, the word “Fellowship.” Later, the term “denominetwork” would be introduced, but it never really gained traction. Though Southern Baptists have historically claimed the title of  “convention,” there has never been a felt need to shy away from being referred to as the largest Protestant denomination in the world. In fact, it is a matter of great pride to many. After attending a dozen or so annual convention meetings, if I had a nickel for every time I heard a speaker refer to the great Southern Baptist Convention, I could have retired much earlier than I did! The young CBF would have none of that.

CBF would vow to own no property. The SBC owns six seminaries, now led by those who either were involved in the fundamentalist takeover or were influenced or trained by those who did. Though it has since substantially diminished in size – as have many of the old denominational entities – the SBC still maintains a large publishing concern, sends thousands of missionaries across the globe, and holds sway over individual state conventions. . . what my late friend Robert referred to as the “minor-league teams.” CBF does indeed commission “field personnel,” and has state and regional organizations, but does not control what they do, nor tell them what to say. That has not been entirely true of the SBC.

In 2000, for example, the SBC adopted the revised version of what is called The Baptist Faith and Message, its doctrinal treatise. Prior to that time, any doctrinal document, such as this, was simply a guide to generally-accepted belief. With the advent of a new millennium, and the SBC now firmly in the hands of fundamentalists, that all changed. To remain a SBC missionary, whether national or international, this document had to be signed as an act of loyalty, something that had never, ever been required before. I personally know some who, sadly and with great difficulty, gave up their work rather than give in to such coercion.

CBF would not own agencies but would partner with like-minded institutions and ministries. One of the unforeseen and truly positive results of the SBC-CBF division, at least from my viewpoint, is CBF’s approach to theological education. Rather than own seminaries, which in the SBC operate under controlled and tight theological mandates, CBF has chosen to partner with a number of institutions that have been formed in the last thirty years, many of them affiliated with established universities and educational institutions. There are too many to mention in this piece, but I will give you a few examples: McAfee School of Theology, affiliated with Mercer University in Georgia; Truett Theological, associated with Baylor University; Baptist Seminary of Kentucky on the campus of Georgetown University; Campbell University Divinity School in North Carolina. Notable institutions such as Duke, SMU, and TCU have “Baptist Houses” where they train Baptist students for ministry. CBF of Arkansas’ partner institution is Central Seminary in Kansas City. But, CBF does not own them nor dictate how they operate. That, in my mind, is a major, and important, distinction.

Another distinctive of CBF life is its elevation of women in positions of leadership. I mentioned CBFAR’s affiliation with Central Seminary in Kansas City. Central’s former president is Molly Marshall, who was fired from the faculty at Southern Seminary in Louisville, my alma mater, for –  you guessed it – being a woman. And a smart, strong one at that! Molly once served on the staff of my former congregation in Little Rock, Pulaski Heights Baptist. Central is now led by Pam Durso, who for a number of years was president of Baptist Women in Ministry (BWIM). Prior to my coming as Interim Executive Coordinator of CBF of Arkansas, for more than two and-a-half years I was the interim pastor of First Baptist in Memphis. I am proud to say this vital congregation has now called Kathryn “Kat” Kimmell as Senior Pastor. 

Chuck Poole was once asked why his church in Jackson, Mississippi ordained women as deacons and ministers . His answer was simple: “We ordain women because we baptize girls” (Galatians 3:27-29).

Walter B. Shurden is a Baptist historian, the retired head of the Christianity Department at Mercer University, alma mater to my two children. “Buddy,” as he is known to his friends, published a book on Baptists’ Four Fragile Freedoms. They are:

Bible Freedom

The Bible is foundational for individuals and congregations. Every Christian has the freedom and right to interpret and apply Scripture under the leadership of the Holy Spirit. The wisdom and counsel of the larger congregation should nurture individual believers as they seek to interpret and apply Scripture.

Soul Freedom

We are each accountable to God individually without the imposition of creed or the control of clergy or government (and I would add, denomination). This personal experience with God is indispensable to the Christian life and necessary for a vital church. This is sometimes described as the “priesthood of all believers.”

Church Freedom

Baptist churches are free, under the Lordship of Christ, to determine their membership, leadership, doctrine and practice. This is sometimes known as “autonomy of the local church.” Individual churches should work together to achieve goals that one church by itself could not reach, (hence the presence of organizations like CBF of Arkansas).

Religious Freedom

Everyone should be able to worship (or not) as they feel led without unnecessary interference by the government. Just as religious freedom involves the freedom to practice religion, it also includes the freedom not to practice religion. If you can’t say “no,” your “yes” is meaningless. The separation of church and state affords an important constitutional protection of religious freedom for all.

Having noted the differences between the SBC and CBF, the question then is begged: why do so many Baptist churches remain affiliated with both? That is indeed a good question, and this is the only answer I can provide: old ways and habits, not to mention affiliations, die hard. Many of my former congregants simply found it too difficult to walk away from what they had known all their lives, even though what they had known no longer existed. With the desire to serve Christ locally and internationally, the SBC provides comfortable and familiar channels by which one can be a part of the “Baptist way of life and faith.” Even if you aren’t Baptist, you may have heard of Lottie Moon and/or Annie Armstrong, two women for whom international and “home mission” offerings historically have been named. Interesting, isn’t it, that these major offerings are named for women who could not preach in many a Baptist pulpit?! They could “speak,” but not preach, an important distinction to many SBC’ers. The Cooperative Program, a central fund endowed by individual churches to support agencies and finance the work of missionaries (see my previous article), is deeply embedded in the SBC, not to mention broader Baptist, psyche. It is hard to throw away old wineskins in favor of new (Mark 2:22). 

I refer back to Robert Parham’s earlier remark about herding cats. If you get the idea that I think CBF is perfect, please. . . no. We’ve made our fair share of mistakes, which may just be the subject of a future article. After all, confession is good for the soul. It has taken us years to put the old wineskins behind us in favor of the new. But I can think of no better way to be Baptist in today’s climate. Perhaps, some time down the road, a new and superior way of thinking and doing will come along. I leave that to the next generations to consider. As it is right now, for all the reasons I have enumerated – and more – I choose to affiliate with the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship, and invite you to join me in the journey.

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I was born-and-bred in the Southern Baptist way of life, and had learned that the SBC was a wide theological tent. There were those encamped in what was considered both the extreme left and extreme right, but by and large Southern Baptists dwelt in the huge middle… some to the left of center and others to the right, but still the center. What held us together was our common love for missions and sharing the gospel, reflected in what was known as the Cooperative Program. 

SBC churches were encouraged to give a portion of their income to the Cooperative Program (CP), and from this central fund missionaries were supported, agencies received their funding, and seminary students like myself were provided essentially a free theological education. As a graduate of the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky, I felt my master’s degree was an excellent springboard for what I hoped would be a long and fruitful pastoral ministry.

Little did we know what awaited us in Houston. I was sitting with Randel Everett, my best friend during our days at Ouachita Baptist University in Arkadelphia, high in the upper reaches of the Astrodome. Randel had gone to seminary in Fort Worth, and we hadn’t seen each other in several years, so we were enjoying our reunion. It came time for those who would nominate presidential wanna-be’s, and Adrian Rogers’s name was brought forth. Rogers was pastor of the huge Bellevue church in Memphis, and was, as both Randel and I agreed, unelectable because he was on that extreme right to which I earlier referred. He would not be an attractive choice for that large center which I also mentioned. With our paper ballots in hand, little did we know…

Shift your focus, if you will, to the city of New Orleans. Several months before the Houston convention, two other right-wing extremists, Paige Patterson, once pastor of First Baptist in Fayetteville, and Paul Pressler, a judge in Houston, met at the Café Dumond in NOLA to plot their political takeover of the SBC. How best to move this huge denomination to the right where they could control her destiny? It could only be accomplished through electing their man—and obviously, it would be a man—to the presidency. The president of the convention had the power to determine who would serve on the various committees, commissions, and agencies that made policy for the SBC. Not only was there power to be grasped, but millions of dollars and properties as well, including two large encampments and six theological seminaries. The Sunday School Board alone had its very own zip code in Nashville. There was a lot at stake. It would take time to accomplish their purposes, Patterson and Pressler agreed, but it was worth it for the sake of what they felt was the spiritual goal of “saving” the convention from liberal destruction.

The leaders of the right-wing takeover movement felt the denomination should reflect their views, not that of those who were in the center or the left. And so, for the very first time in the history of the convention (at least for the very first known time), raw politics was used to get their way.

Based on the size of a church’s membership and gifts to the Cooperative Program, each congregation was allowed to send a certain number of delegates (called “messengers”) to the convention meeting. Except for very small congregations, many if not most churches were allowed the maximum of ten messengers. Annual convention meetings, especially when a presidential election took place, would see thousands of Southern Baptists assembled in one place. This gave rise to the saying that when they were in town there were two things Southern Baptists would not break: the Ten Commandments and a ten-dollar bill. 

The leaders of the right-wing takeover movement felt the denomination should reflect their views. For the very first time in the history of the convention, raw politics was used to get their way.
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Patterson and Pressler arranged for like-minded churches to send their full equivalent of ten messengers, and they came literally by the busload. And they all voted in lock-step as they were instructed by zone captains dressed in navy blazers and red ties. Not only was Adrian Rogers elected, but on the first ballot, a rarity in SBC life. I turned to my friend Randel in utter disbelief, and he said to me, “Hyde, we’re in big trouble.” And then, those messengers who voted for Rogers were loaded back on their buses and sent home. They were not in Houston for the regular convention proceedings but for the purpose of voting for their man. As I said, it was a show of raw politics, never before seen in Southern Baptist life. Little did we know…

It took a decade, but it happened. Fundamentalism eventually became the capstone of the Southern Baptist Convention. Rogers was followed by a lineup of like-minded fundamentalists who kept the momentum going: Bailey Smith (an Arkansas native and fellow OBU alum), Jimmy Draper, Charles Stanley, Jerry Vines, and Morris Chapman, all pastors of large churches which, ironically, had a history of giving little or nothing to the Cooperative Program. During the decade of the 80’s, people like me worked to overcome the gradual takeover of our denomination, but by 1991 the battle was over and we acceded to our loss. We were a people without a denominational home, for the SBC no longer reflected our collective values.

What to do next? If you have stayed with me thus far in this narrative, perhaps you will be interested in my next piece that will tell you about the birth and life of the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship. 

The post Little Did We Know appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

The Simpsons aspect is hilarious when thinking about it without that context. Every time he doesn’t understand a reference, which is of course multiple times in every episode, he searches the internet to help him get the joke. He’s 11 and hitting Wikipedia to search for the presidential election of 1912.

“What is the 8th commandment?“

“Who is Drederick Tatum?”

“Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints”

He’s really into the musicals Rent and Six right now. Obsessed might be too strong of a word, but then again, it might not. We’ve been through phases of Hamilton and In the Heights and Come From Away, but right now it’s all Rent, which debuted in 1996, and Six, which takes place in the 16th century.

“Henry VIII bastard sons”

“Anne Boleyn”

“Mark Cohen’s sweater”

“Different kinds of sweater stripes”

But last Friday he searched for “March For Our Lives.” The day before that he searched for “Robb Elementary shooting”. The day before that he searched for “Arkansas school shooting.” And the week before that, before Uvalde, he searched for “Marjory Stoneman Douglas.” Before Uvalde. Before 19 more kids and two more teachers were shot and killed in another school shooting, my son was thinking about school shootings. And the week before that, he searched “grocery store shootings in Arkansas.”

He’s not going to bad sites. He’s not doomscrolling. He’s not scared to go outside. But he is acutely aware that these things happen. And happen with frightening regularity. And he carries that every day. At age 11.

It is incomprehensible to me that the trauma we are inflicting upon millions of kids through this omnipresent, background thrum of terror, hanging over them like the Sword of Damocles… that THAT isn’t enough for us to do something. THOSE KIDS, the victims of merely the threat of this scourge, should be enough to demand our immediate action.

It shouldn’t take dead children.

It shouldn’t take staggering statistics.

It shouldn’t take graphic, heart wrenching reporting.

Our kids Googling where they are most likely to get shot and killed, mixed in among their searches for Miranda Cosgrove and Top 10 Mario Games and funny cat memes… that should be enough. It’s incomprehensible that it’s not. That scores of actual dead children aren’t, either? Well, that’s just evil.

These kids are living on a planet that we are trying our hardest to destroy. We have enough resources to rid the world of hunger, and take a big bite out of poverty, but we just… don’t. They are getting a reprisal of the Cold War complete with the threat of nuclear winter. And on top of all that, their parents and grandparents, in what we love to call The Greatest Country in the World, refuse to take even the very first step toward stopping this plague of our own making.

They should never, ever forgive us.

We should never, ever forgive ourselves.

The post The Search for Answers appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

Debate in the United Methodist Church

The United Methodist Church (UMC) is known for being one of the more progressive protestant denominations in the United States and will be voting on whether to recognize same-sex marriage and LGBTQ clergy next year in the upcoming General Conference. The result of this decision is expected to split the church in two, as this has become a hedge issue among conservative and progressive Methodists that just won’t result in a verdict that leaves everyone happy. For some conservatives, it’s been a factor that encouraged them to leave the UMC entirely. For progressives, we see it as an overdue and necessary step towards the formal inclusion of queer people into the body of Christ.

These kinds of debates aren’t necessarily “special” to the UMC, but it is ground zero for a new divide in American Christianity: An increasing split between self-described “Conservative” and “Progressive” Christians who view the scriptures from different lenses. Conservatives tend to be more literal and fundamentalist, while Progressives are less literal and are becoming more affiliated with a movement known as “Deconstructionism,” referring to the practice of revisiting and rethinking long-held beliefs of the Faith. Many in the Deconstruction movement are adherents of “Liberation Theology,” emphasizing the liberation of the oppressed from social, economic, and political power structures; with the movement having roots in Latin American Catholicism. Pope Francis is a notable Progressive, specifically on economics. As stated above, I’m in the “Progressive” camp, just so you’re aware of my bias (If the title didn’t give it away). It’s also important to note that being a “Progressive Christian” does not necessarily correlate to being a political progressive, and vice versa.

The UMC is not just limited to being relatively liberal on gay rights. The church recognizes women as pastors, has spoken in solidarity with the Black Lives Matter (BLM) movement, and the necessity of the eradication of global poverty. As a kid, I saw so many amazing people in my church get involved with the United Methodist Committee on Relief (UMCOR) or other service projects in the U.S. and globally. During the pandemic, the UMC has spoken forcefully in favor of church members receiving vaccinations and listening to health experts, while also advocating for government leaders to be responsive in getting vaccines to rural, impoverished, and non-white communities. While no denomination or church is perfect, the UMC has done an amazing job of recognizing something I don’t really see from most other churches: social justice and faith in action are both essential to and intertwined with the Gospel.

Progressive voices of the faith

In my life, I’ve cast 3 votes for President: Hillary Clinton, Elizabeth Warren, and Joe Biden. What do these three flawed politicians have in common, aside from the obvious? Yes, they are Democrats, but they are also highly religious. I can hear the rage comments now… “Killary isn’t a Christian/they believe in abortion/they’re with the devil…”

While mainstream American Christianity is dominated by the Southern Baptist and Evangelical traditions, which at this point are as firmly rooted in the Republican Party as low taxes and AR-15’s, the idea of Democratic politicians being religious is a foreign concept to lots of voters on both sides. Separation of Church and State is engrained in the minds of progressives, and most conservative Christians tend to think that supporting policies like reproductive choice or same-sex marriage means you’re not actually a Christian. (Or at least you’re going to have an uncomfortable conversation with the big guy after death). Many Catholic Bishops openly criticized President Biden’s right to communion because of his pro-choice politics, despite him being a devout Catholic and a regular attendee to mass. Clinton and Warren are both UMC members, with Warren invoking the Gospel of Matthew’s Parable of the Sheep & Goats as the basis for her politics; and Clinton speaking candidly about her daily devotional during the 2016 election, titled “Strong for a Moment Like This,” written by Rev. Dr. Bill Shillady.

As I mentioned earlier, the mainstream American church is dominated by the influences of the Southern Baptist and Evangelical traditions, firmly planting the politics of the Church on the right of the political spectrum. While Jesus belongs to no party or ideology, I cannot begin to describe both the short- and long-term harms this is doing to the Church. The obvious is Donald Trump, and the relative indifference of the Church to his egregious assaults on political norms and democratic institutions. However, it goes so much deeper than the behavior of the former President. Senator Ted Cruz, the poster-boy of Evangelical Conservatism, lead an effort to invalidate the 2020 Electoral College votes. In Arkansas, GOP State Senator, and candidate for Lt. Governor-Jason Rapert-is renowned for his inflammatory statements on twitter, while professing a fervent and zealous devotion to Christ. Should I even mention Jim Bob Duggar? Republican politicians and ideologues have been prone to problematic behavior and policies, including the demonization of immigrants, mocking movements for racial justice, and labeling any social welfare spending “socialist,” all while invoking Christianity in the same breath.

Woe to those using the Church for hate

I know people who have left the faith entirely, because of the sheer disgust they have felt watching the Church not only be silent, but often engrained in, the politics of the right. Let me make clear that there are millions of good people who find themselves on the conservative side of the fence, and their politics & faith are just as valid as mine. The issue is that not nearly enough of these people have spoken out against the increasingly cruel politics and the cult of personality surrounding Donald Trump. This is only accelerating the decline of Christianity in the United States, with irreligion on track to be the majority religious consensus as early as 2035. While there are certainly problems on the left, the political marriage of mainstream Christianity to the Republican Party will continue to push away from the faith those who cannot accept Donald Trump as the face of the party of supposed Christian values.

Progressives are also hesitant to talk about faith in the pursuit of the policies and justice we seek for society. We are warry of sounding “churchy” or alienating voters from our message who don’t profess Jesus. After all, Progressives are much more religiously diverse than Conservatives, and many Progressives don’t subscribe to religion at all.

But at the core of Progressivism is representing the interests of ordinary people. From collective bargaining and tackling gross inequality to addressing the impacts of systematic racism and the necessity of environmental preservation, there are massive overlaps in values between Progressives and people of faith (in particular, the Christian kind). However, only about a quarter of Americans identify as liberal or progressive. What gives? Well, you’d be surprised how few Christians know about the overlap in values. The Christian-Right has done a phenomenal job of turning so many Christians into one issue voters: the issue of abortion.

When bringing up abortion, it’s important to make two points crystal clear: (1) There are valid views by people on both sides of this issue, and (2) most Americans fall into the category of “Pro-Choice with conditions,” i.e. favoring the legality of abortion while also supporting limitations that restrict later stage procedures, such as late term abortions. A slim majority of Christians classify themselves as “Pro-Life.” What the Right won’t tell you is how Pro-Life we Progressives really are. We support policies that mandate sexual education based on science instead of abstinence, and easier access to birth control, so that teens are knowledgeable about sex and can prevent unwanted pregnancies. We advocate for economic policies such as higher minimum wages, access to affordable healthcare, and educational opportunities via college or trade school that give young adults economic mobility; allowing them to start a family, without falling into deep financial distress.

Too often, the issue of abortion is only seen as a moral issue instead of an economic one. There are thousands of young women who simply do not see a viable financial path to having a child, and the tragic realities of the Foster Care system too often do not leave adoption as an alternative either. While Conservatives are prone to stop the conversation at birth, Progressives should talk more about how we actually have the solutions to making abortion unnecessary, without taking away a woman’s right to bodily autonomy. And that message should be directed towards Christians, who for too long have been written off by Progressives as simply being closed-minded or religious bigots.

Progressives: get out of your bubbles

The elitism of the Progressive movement is also a major problem to its success and is a reason why Democrats are prone to only win elections when the opposition is just insanely bad. (Remember “basket of deplorables?”) Progressives tend to be city-dwellers, stuck in their blue bubbles and sipping their chardonnay, worried about issues like global warming (albeit, a valid concern), while people in the middle of the country are living paycheck to paycheck and seeing the talented youth of their towns meander to big cities for job opportunities and like-minded values. You just can’t really worry about global warming when you’re not sure how to pay for the necessities. While there are still plenty of poor Democrats and affluent Republicans, new trends show that Democratic congressional districts are becoming more urban, wealthier, and formally educated. Republican congressional districts are becoming more rural, poorer, and less formally educated. There also happen to be more districts that lean GOP than DEM in their Cook Partisan Voting Index (PVI). So how can Democrats (Progressives) fight this elitism and win elections? Head to the Church.

In Christianity, we are taught that we are all made in the image of God. There is value in every single person. And though the Church has done plenty of horrible things while it has been a power structure (Crusades, Inquisition, persecution, hanging out with fascists, etc.), the Church’s roots are those of humble origins. Jesus, a brown refugee, and working-class man, stood in defiance of the religious and political elite of his day; He began a movement of mostly women and slaves that would turn into the world’s most dominant religion, built on a foundation of radical love. This shared recognition of the value of human life, and our commitment to seeing through social and economic justice, means that Progressives not only have a home in the Church, but the Church needs Progressives to be a political voice of the faith. If not, Progressives will continue to be a minority in this country for the foreseeable future, and the Church will continue to only be associated with the problematic political right. For Christianity and Progressivism to survive for the long-term, it’s time for the Left to go to church.

Sources

• How America Lost Its Religion – The Atlantic

• “Pro-Choice” or “Pro-Life,” 2018-2021 Demographic Tables (gallup.com)

• The Age of Deconstruction and Future of the Church – RELEVANT (relevantmagazine.com)

• What is liberation theology? – U.S. Catholic (uscatholic.org)

• Hillary Clinton Thinks About Preaching, Bill Shillady Publishes a Book of Devotionals – The Atlantic

• Democrats and Republicans Live in Different Worlds – WSJ

* United Methodist conservatives detail breakaway plans over gay inclusion (nbcnews.com)

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