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.

My journey with lung disease began in the Spring of 2022 as I noticed subtle changes in my heart rate, energy level, and appetite.  I also developed a wicked cough that became much worse at the end of the year.

As a self-employed Illustrator and Graphic Designer, I am accustomed to working extremely hard and hustling non-stop.  It’s typical for me to end my year exhausted and burned out.  This was different.

My doctor visits didn’t reveal any obvious culprits.  Some bloodwork indicated that I had low iron.  I was prescribed iron supplements and spent the next two months trying to function in an incredibly compromised state.  

By the end of 2022, it was obvious that I was getting much worse.

In January of 2023, I began a series of lab work that went on for weeks.  I had dozens of vials of blood taken as well as numerous chest X-rays and C/T scans.  The x-rays and scans revealed my lungs were enlarged as well as my lymph nodes.  My physician had various specialists involved and they all came to the same conclusion-they had no idea what was going on.

By February I was clearly fading fast.  My body wasn’t accepting food and even the most basic human activities required prep work and recovery.  Showering demanded I store up my energy, sit in the shower and do my best to avoid fainting. 

I’ve always been a very independent person.  Realizing I could barely rise from the toilet without help was a profound and shocking blow.  

As I saw my doctors multiple times per week they witnessed my unspooling in real time and became increasingly concerned.  On numerous occasions, they debated hospitalizing me simply to stabilize me and keep me alive.  Without a diagnosis, I wasn’t given any sort of treatment since whatever they prescribed could potentially make my condition worse.  

I’ve jokingly told people that I may not have been at death’s door, but I was certainly walking down the hallway.

The sensation of losing yourself bit by bit every day is equal parts terrifying and liberating.  Rather than feeling raw terror, as you might assume, I felt an unexpected sense of calm.  

This isn’t to suggest I wasn’t scared or unnerved but somewhere within myself, those feelings were combatted by a sense of peace and determination.  During this period, I was adrift from time and any shared reality with the world.

My daily existence was stripped down to its most primal essence.  I was focused on my wife, and my kids, doing what I could to survive and accepting my lack of control over the matter.  

Most of this time I was alone, bedridden, and isolated, with my life existing almost exclusively in my mind.  I lacked the energy to read, or verbally communicate easily.  This time was mainly spent taking inventory of my life and utilizing tools I’d developed in therapy to remain positive and grateful.

I prepared final goodbyes with family and friends, considered my obituary, and did what I could to make dealing with my unfinished business as easy as possible for my wife and kids.

At this time, I was placed on full-time oxygen which stopped my fading and provided a small amount of stabilization.  My Pulmonologist ordered a surgical biopsy to finally determine what was occurring in my lungs.  I was also ordered to have an endoscopy to diagnose my worsening cough and a colonoscopy to rule out cancer.

On Tuesday, February 28 I entered Washington Regional Medical Center to have my endoscopy and colonoscopy.  Due to my dependence on oxygen, these procedures had to be done in a hospital with anesthesia.  Despite waking up with ten minutes left in my colonoscopy (Yes!  You read that correctly!) the procedures went well.  

I entered WRMC on Thursday, March 2, and had a surgical biopsy of my lungs that was done with the DaVinci surgical robot.  Thanks to this technology my surgery was less invasive than I’d feared.  The recovery was still extremely painful and due to issues with my drain port required my staying in the hospital for 4 days.

The following weeks involved a painful recovery from surgery with a comical low point of my waking up to my drain port wound leaking like the world’s most disturbing garden statue.

Once my diagnosis was found I was immediately placed on an extremely high dose of steroids.  

Within a week I felt the effects of the steroids.  Although still severely limited I no longer felt like I was fading, but that I was coming back to life.

The lung disease I’m fighting is relatively mysterious and there aren’t obvious answers for me.  I have no idea what caused the disease, or what my long-term prognosis is.  Living with ambiguity is part of my life now.

I’m learning every week what I can and can’t do.  Although I see progress, it’s small, incremental changes and my desire to get back to normal must be controlled.   My limited state is what’s normal, for now at the very least.

Thanks to my wife I have very good health insurance.  However, even with this insurance, we face a mountain of bills and economic uncertainty.

If my treatment doesn’t go well, I may have to go to specialized clinics that deal with this specific disease.  Although I expect a year or more of recovery to see what my “new normal” is I have no idea when I’ll be able to work again or how we’re going to deal with the financial challenges ahead of us.

What I do know is that with my phenomenal wife by my side and the support of my wonderful family and community, I’ll find a way.

Being able to receive the incredible amount of love I’ve been given during this experience has changed me forever.  Outside of survival my focus going forward is sharing that love as much as I can because no one survives alone.

Chad Maupin has been an Illustrator and Graphic Designer since the Clinton Administration. To learn more about his work visit www.big-bot.com. You can also find him on social media: @bigbotdesign.

To donate toward Chad’s medical costs, visit his Go Fund Me page.

The post No One Survives Alone appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

I am often asked what drives me to fight so hard for public schools. The people who ask me this are usually introspective types who read books like Finding Your Why by Simon Sinek, or perhaps Pastor Rick Warren’s Purpose Driven Life. I recommend both of those books as well as a fair amount of introspection. And I love people who ask me honest questions. But I am never asked that question by public school teachers; they already know. Because every public school teacher knows a James.

James grew up in an old clapboard house his father inherited from his father, on land they did not own but were allowed to farm. He was the oldest of 4 children. His mother was a homemaker and his father a driller for the gas company. His few clothes were patched and his hair was often greasy. He slept with his siblings in a cold, drafty room with a high ceiling under a pile of quilts.

For a child in poverty, James was pretty well-fed. His father grew a huge garden, and they raised their own beef and hogs. They gathered eggs from hardworking hens. James had a BB gun by the time he was 4 and hunted squirrels with his uncle. His mother fried them up just like chicken to eat with mashed potatoes and gravy.

James also scoured the Ozark Mountains for rabbits and quail that the family ate. He fished in the Arkansas River for their supper. A few years later he would hunt deer and learn to dress it himself.

On his first day of school, James wore a shirt his mother made him. She dropped him off at the Cecil schoolhouse, which had 2 classrooms. James was with grades 1 though 4, and the class next door had 5th-7th. Between the 2 classes there were 97 students. 97 for 2 teachers.

James cried all day. He didn’t know anyone. He didn’t even know how to tie his shoes. He did know the alphabet because his mother taught him.

James says his 1st grade teacher was nice, but it’s the teacher next door, Mrs. Lyla Crawford, who made a bigger difference in his life. I guess she had bus duty because when the last bell rang, Mrs. Crawford noticed how sad and scared he was while waiting for the bus. So she took his little hand in hers and walked onto that bus with him and sat down. She patted the seat for him to sit beside her. And as mile after country mile passed James snuggled up next to Mrs. Crawford. He even laughed a little bit while they talked. And when he got off the bus, James told his mother he loved school.

James went on to County Line for high school, and then to Arkansas Tech, the only one in his family ever to go to college. After that he earned his master’s degree at the University of Arkansas. The world opened up to him and he became a history teacher, bus driver, junior high principal, then an assistant superintendent. I guess he really did love school because he gave 40 years of his life to educating children in public schools in Arkansas.

But that’s not all he did.

James is my dad. I am living proof of how public school — and specifically the teachers a child encounters there — can change the trajectory of a person’s life. And it is never just that one person. In our case, my dad’s education changed what my brother’s and my life would have been and is still changing the lives of his seven grandchildren.

Every public school teacher has taught a James. And I say public school teacher because public schools are the ones who serve the children in poverty all over this state. At the end of the day, James is why we fight for teacher raises to recruit and retain people fleeing our profession. He is why we fought the LEARNS Act. We know that vouchers won’t fix education because vouchers don’t fix poverty — they just exacerbate it. And when public schools are hurt, James gets hurt. James, and all of the children like him, as well as all of the other lives their lives touch for better or worse in the future. 

I fight for public schools because it is personal to me. Our state government holds in its hands the power to change the lives of children like James every day, which in turn changes the lives of their families for generations. It is a sacred privilege and responsibility. But instead of addressing the poverty that plagues our schools and communities, our lawmakers deliberately choose to leave children like James behind, for their own personal gain.

This is not okay.

We are the ones who stand between a corrupted government and our children. We are the Lyla Crawfords, the ones who see them and refuse to leave them behind. And we are not going away.

Elections are in 2024. And actions have consequences. Just like when we give out report cards and a student has failed to do what we asked—they fail the class. Arkansas Strong is keeping track of the legislators who ignore their teachers. They are failing our state.

There are 30,000 teachers in this state and every one of us has a sphere of influence. Families, students, and parents who support us; communities that depend on us to lead. If we stick together and vote, we can decide who represents us, ousting the ones who have failed Arkansas.

This is a long game. And we are in it to win it — for the sake of our kids, and for generations to come.

The post On What Drives Me appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

I remember crossing the street to my grandpa’s house, my little sisters trailing behind me as I walked the familiar route. Pretending that the paved road matched the scene around me, morphing it into a huge river that the trees bent to in my mind. The sway of the leaves dared me forward. Glancing around and holding out my hand to stop my sisters, our adventure began. Jumping and running, before finally, the final pass materialized ahead. The biggest part of the river, shimmering black with mystery, with two looks to my left and to my right, to check for the zooming alligators who could strike, we darted across. Now safe and satisfied with our journey, we skipped past the remaining trees and threw our wishes into the pond we passed, arriving to, at last, our destination. These memories, among others, solidify our state’s alias. Arkansas is the natural state, and natural indeed. As forests flourish and mountains tower, our beautiful state is no doubt bursting with the lovely scenes of the untouched world. Looking closer, however, one would find there is something deeper. Arkansas is also naturally inclined to other aspects: that being a natural strength within its geography as well as its community.

Naturally Strong

The strength of Arkansas cannot be defined in concise and definitive natures. In fact, the strength presented in the state is quiet and subtle. The strength can be hard to notice when it becomes routine. This is precisely the case in Arkansas. Looking around the state, diversity is everywhere. Not just in its flora and fauna, but within its communities. People who have suffered great loss walk each day like they always have. Leaving their scars to heal and buds to blossom. The beauty in this routine is that it’s found everywhere here. People get up, go to work, and come home. Maybe they are trying to make a living, or achieve their dreams, or maybe provide a better life for the ones they love. Regardless, one thing remains true, here in our state, everyday we grow. That is our strength, despite the failure, despite the pain, we continue to grow. The soil does not bend around the roots, they have to pave their way. Arkansans know this, the people here are not defined by their soil. They push past the dirt, and even move rocks. They start in one environment, but they do not end there. A mother working hard for her children, learning and fighting, becoming the sturdy cornerstone which builds her family. A child maturing around the broken parts of society becoming a trailblazer and blunting the blade of blame in our world. This comes so naturally because it is all around us. It is built into our homes, families, and people. Here in our state, we become: we grow. 

Not only is growth important for each of us, but each of us is important for growth. Our communities build our structure. The leaf and the stem may seem nothing alike, but they are connected through their plant, they need each other. We grow together, and we are strong together. Arkansas may not be for everyone, but it is for anyone. We may seem different but we are connected through the way we live. Our clothes or habits may separate us on the outside, but everyone tries their hardest to make tomorrow better than yesterday. And while our identities in our hearts do not always agree, Arkansas is a place to listen to the different rhythms of pulse. Here the landscape drips with scenery envied by the sunsets themselves; effortlessly splendid; but it is no match for the inhabitants. Walking downtown where I live, everyone is so warm to each other. Even on the worst days, an individual can still summon the strength to smile at a stranger. This simple strength shows again. We build one another up, and if they fall we lend a hand. When tornadoes destroy homes, neighbors and friends help rebuild. When a pandemic strikes and panic threatens to invade, our families of all kinds hold together. All of this exists as naturally as breathing. Our kindness is not plastic and our love is genuine. Even as times get difficult, as they have the past few years, we have never lost our sense of what matters and never given up on the fellowship within our borders. 

Strength is deeper than utility, it is perseverance brimming on stubbornness. More than natural diamonds are made in Arkansas. Our future leaders, mothers, fathers, and models may be pressurized at times, but coal was meant to grow into something stronger. And, diamonds are used to refine those around them. Here in Arkansas, our strength is drawn from our past, used in our present, and determines our future. I believe Arkansas will continue to grow and exemplify strength to all who visit through its people. After all, Arkansas inspires and kindles the flames of the future: naturally, of course. 

The post Naturally Arkansas appeared first on Arkansas Strong.

• Our government only survives with an informed electorate.

We have to be informed citizens.  We have to pay attention to current events, political activity, issues, candidates.  We have to be discerning in our news intake.  We have to recognize propaganda.   We have to constantly think, “Who is telling us this information, and what do they want us to think/do/feel?”  We have to engage our brains.  We have to also remember that it’s not always about ME but about US, and we need to think from not only our perspective but from others’ perspectives.  

• Government is a SOCIAL CONTRACT, not a BUSINESS.

Government is not meant to make a profit.  It is not meant to squirrel away money.  It’s not meant to squander it, either.  Government officials MUST think of ALL their citizens, not only their party.  They must allocate tax revenue to use for the best of their society, not for the most privileged or the most powerful.  Creating a surplus from federal funds meant to improve lives of all citizens during a pandemic and then handing it to the richest of its citizens isn’t good governance, as an example.  It doesn’t benefit the majority or the most in need.  We have to think collectively.  We have to think of each other, not just those who benefit us financially or politically.  We must remember that the opposite of governance is anarchy.  

• Our elected officials must EARN our VOTE.  They must be ACCOUNTABLE to ALL our citizens, not just their party.

We have the responsibility to vote in officials who will work to benefit all our citizens, not just hold a spot for the majority of the party.  Celebrity does not equate to good candidacy.  Just because you recognize the candidate does not qualify him/her as a deserving candidate.  We must listen to his/her words, actions, history.  We need to elect citizens who actually live among us, live in our state, interact with our citizens.  We must elect officials who are concerned with the issues of the majority of our citizens, not just the most powerful and the wealthiest, the lobbyists with the most influence.  We must pay attention to the words and actions of candidates, not just the designated letter behind their names.  Who will represent us the best?  Who has spent the most time among the citizens of the state?  Who seems the most engaged with issues which impact our daily lives?  Whose ads seem the most genuine, positive, issue-oriented?  Campaigning for education which impacts all our students and then advocating vouchers which benefits 8% of the students in the state isn’t best representing the citizens of one’s district.  Not living in the state in which you’re campaigning and holding no public appearances or town hall meetings in the years of your term does not best benefit your constituents.  It benefits you.  Not showing up for a sponsored debate in the state is lazy.  It’s entitled.  It doesn’t speak well for us, the voters, who let a candidate get by with such action.  We should demand accountability.  We should demand a platform.  We should demand and pay attention to debate.  We as informed voters need to pay attention to the words and actions of our elected officials.  We need to vote for the people who best represent all of us.  

• We Are A Democracy.

It’s been said on some media that we are a constitutional republic as a rebuke when someone states that we are a democracy.  These two terms are not mutually exclusive.  A constitutional republic, which we are, is a TYPE of DEMOCRACY, which we also are.  A democratic government relies on its citizens to dictate policy through elections.  We must be an informed electorate.  We must recognize these terms and the fact that we are being manipulated by people trying to divide us with misinformation according to these terms.  Reference the first bullet.

• One of the tenets of our democracy is egalitarianism:  One person, one vote.

In order for our government to function effectively, we must vote.  We must allow every citizen to vote.  We must make it easy to vote.  We must not limit voting.  Everyone’s vote must count and count equally.  Manipulating the vote is un-American; laws which limit voting in minority areas are un-American.  The current Arkansas proposal #2 limiting the access to citizens’ initiatives on the ballot is essentially un-American.   In voting for it, we are ceding our power as voting citizens.

• Another tenet of our democracy is Majority Rule.

The opinions of the majority should dictate the law.  Gerrymandering congressional districts to limit minority votes is un-American.  Using the filibuster to limit the proposal of laws that the majority of the country wants enacted is un-American.  Holding open judicial seats until one’s party can control appointments is un-American.  The Hastert Rule in Congress of not proposing laws unless the majority of the majority will vote for them led to not proposing law unless the President will sign it.  Both ideas go against the American ideal that each branch of government is equal and independent, and that the Founders created a system of checks and balances in our government so that no one branch gained an undo amount of power over another.  Ballot initiative #1, which would give the state legislature the ability to call themselves into session, goes against this tenet and is essentially un-American.  We need to vote for leaders who are concerned with the majority of the citizenry, not leaders who have tried to manipulate the system to gain power.  

No democracy can exist without an informed electorate, said Thomas Jefferson.  The less we understand about our government, the more power we cede to those intent on steering us away from a democracy.  We have a job to do.  Use your power to vote accordingly.  

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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.

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Part of it is certainly personal. As I have written elsewhere, Syd and I decided to end a pregnancy after it was found that our baby had anencephaly. He had and would have no brain. We were offered options and chose the option to induce labor. It was heart-wrenching and right for us. If we were in that situation today, we would have no options other than to wait until the baby was born, and if born able to breathe, wait for him to die. Those who don’t know us and exhibit little to no compassion for us would have made the decision for us. 

I think, too, of a teenage girl I once met as a social worker. She was not able to speak and had limited movement due to significant developmental impairments. It eventually became clear physically that she was the victim of significant sexual abuse. I remember thinking to myself that if I did nothing else in my professional life, being a part of the effort that helped protect her from further abuse would justify my career. She thankfully was not pregnant, but a girl in her situation today in Arkansas who was pregnant because of sexual abuse and assault would have to go through pregnancy and have a baby. Where is the justice and mercy for such a girl in that?

But it’s more than personal experience that fuels my distress, although that would be enough. I think it’s also connected to how I think about the world. The assumptions I make, conscious or not, and the beliefs I have about people that are challenged. 

Here’s one assumption: I was born in 1962, and in my lifetime there has been uneven but persistent progress in equality and justice in areas of race, gender, sexual orientation, and gender identity. Historically, the pace and quality of progress has been breathtaking. It has not been simple or easy, and we are far from a place to rest and be satisfied, but it has been significant, life-affirming, and life-saving. It has also contributed to a backlash as hard-earned rights and benefits are now being taken away. This abortion decision is the most recent and perhaps audacious example but it fits in spirit with recent efforts to take away medical care from trans youth. Purposely causing harm and human suffering in service to another value or principle which undermines the full humanity of those harmed. Separating immigrant children from their parents is another recent example. 

To be honest, I expected and expect resistance to progress in areas of social justice. However, the amount of dismay I am experiencing lets me know that deep inside I didn’t expect that we would so consciously and aggressively go backwards. I don’t want to live in a place of cynicism and expect nothing but the worst from others, but the assumption of progress that my lifetime had led me to expect is changing, must change. How much remains to be seen as I search for a reformed narrative. 

I realize, at least to some degree, that a factor in my distress is my privilege. I have not lived in the world as a victim of trauma or violence. And I am a middle-age, white, straight, Christian man and not part of a historically marginalized or mistreated group in this country. I have benefitted from the benefit of the doubt from others more often than not. This has certainly impacted how I make sense of the world. My life experience has suggested that it was reasonable to expect better from people and the government than this. For so many others, that is not the lesson in their life experiences. 

I have tried to live giving others the benefit of the doubt regarding their intentions—trying to assume good intention until proven otherwise. This has been a helpful stance most of the time. In my experience, most people most of the time are trying to figure out the “right” thing to do, to do “good.” How we define “right” and “good” is very subjective, of course, and often self-serving, and no one I know is above self-interest bias in this area. 

In a world where elected and appointed leaders appear increasingly more blatantly interested in power and control, willing to rationalize immoral behavior and devise rationales to safe-guard self-righteousness on a grand scale despite the human costs, how much of this “assumption of good intentions” approach can I maintain? It need not be an all-or-nothing, either/or approach. The Good Book says to be as wise as serpents and innocent as doves. I’m feeling the need for some re-calibrating, but like most people with their assumptions and beliefs, I would rather not. 

Even if I believe in someone’s good intentions, what happens when their judgment is not good? What does it mean to lose faith in the good intentions of leaders, institutions, and courts—all fallible human endeavors? And what does it mean to grant that someone or some group may honestly want and seek “the good” but that “good” is a human disaster for others? And little to no compassion is expressed or demonstrated for those harmed?  Extreme but contemporary example: the Taliban’s treatment of women and those who disagree in Afghanistan. What does it mean and matter if they are sincere in their beliefs that they are doing the right thing when what is done causes so much harm? 

Growing up, I was taught that the United States was the best country in the world with more freedoms than any other. We were founded on ideals of liberty and equality and defended ourselves throughout history as freedom isn’t free. The country and religious tradition in which I was born and grew up were not in need of major reforms. Perhaps some tinkering around the edges. The big concern was that others did not agree with us and needed to be converted to our way of thinking and living. Individually we were flawed but that was because we didn’t live up to the requirements of our faith and country.  

My adult experience has been a continual adjustment to those worldviews. American history is much more complex and morally complicated as is my religious faith tradition. Both my country and my faith tradition have caused great harm to others with acts of self-serving rationalizations and self-righteousness. Both have also served the greater good and the greater community. There are strengths on which to build and areas of needed repentance. What it means to be a good American and a good person of faith continues to evolve. 

Which brings me back to the present, to today. For most of my life there has been an increased grappling with how we as a people—American people and people of faith—have fallen short and what is needed to make things better if not make things right. But today feels different. It feels like those who have resisted past reforms are saying, “Enough! We know better and we will use all the levers at our disposal to ensure that our version of morality—which serves the historic status quo and hierarchy of whose votes count most, which is mostly us—prevails. We will make the rules that all must follow even if we are in the minority. We will exploit the natural unfairness in our political system and change the rules, if needed, for our benefit. We will tell ourselves that we are saving our culture and country, and because the stakes are so high, we will be justified in whatever means are necessary to achieve those ends.”

Is this a proper and fair reading of the situation? Would those with whom I disagree feel justified in using the same or similar language to criticize my stances? And if so, what does or should that mean?

Seven years ago, the Supreme Court ruled that same-sex marriage is legal and “my side” rejoiced. It was amazing and inspiring. With this decision, what else might be possible for the cause of justice? Nevertheless, for others this was a moral disaster and a harbinger that the country was on a downward spiral.  

Today the script is flipped. For those agreeing with the Supreme Court’s decision on abortion, there is reason to rejoice. It is amazing and inspiring. With this decision, what else might be possible for the cause of justice? Nevertheless, for others (on my side), this is a moral disaster and a harbinger that the country is on a downward spiral. 

The similarities in responses suggest we share a common humanity and not that the decisions were morally equivalent. Humans from different perspectives seek purpose to give their lives meaning and direction. Opposing sides want to “take back our country” but what this language means for each side is very different. 

So, in a search for a new narrative and amidst all the grief and questioning, here is what I believe today, open to be revised tomorrow:

• The present situation is heartbreaking, distressing, and enraging. These emotions come from feelings of loss, disorientation, and fear of losing more. All are real and appropriate to the situation.
• Some assumptions, beliefs, and perspectives will need to change. But not all. Time is needed to sort through in a thoughtful way. 
• The story is not over, even when it feels that way. The story can change and will change. I and we can be part of that change. 
• Change often, usually, takes a long time. “Tipping point” changes are the culmination of a long process. 
• This sucks.
• People can be enormously creative and persistent when they have meaning and purpose. The vision of a more compassionate and just world provides more than adequate meaning and purpose.
• We are called to be faithful, not victorious. We have reaped the harvest of the faithfulness of those who have come before, and we can plant seeds for generations to come. 
• No one gets to choose how and what I think, what I value, and how I find meaning and purpose. And this is true for you, too.
• Those of us who feel dismayed are not alone. In many ways, we are the majority. We are not without assets and support. 
• “Grace bats last.” Thank you, Anne Lamott.  

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