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In the October 8^th 60 Minute story featuring Geoffrey Hinton, a British computer scientist now called the God Father of AI, artificial intelligence, Hinton reported believing AI could bring enormous benefit to humankind yet also warned the AI systems may be more intelligence than we know and could even take over. It led me to speculate on what, at least at this point, I’d imagine AI could NOT do.

I wonder, for example, if it could venture into the Forest of Arden with the banished duke, as in Shakespeare’s As You Like It, to find, “tongues in trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything?”

Would it ever desire to collect rocks as many children and adults do and, just maybe, wonder why? Indigenous folklore tells us stones are the home to the hidden folk, the mythological world of the fairies, gnomes, trolls and forest guardians. It’s why British sculpture Andy Goldsworthy says, “There is life in a stone. Any stone that sits in a field or lies on a beach takes on the memory of that place. You can feel that stones have witnessed many things.”

The fairies, in particular, have been behind the scenes weaving their magic across time. When the late renowned botanist Dr. George Washington Carver was asked how he could talk to the little flower, he answered, “Through it I talk to the Infinite. And what is the Infinite? It’s that still small voice that calls up the fairies.” And the Sami people of Northern Europe believe their joiking, a ritual practice of spontaneous singing engendering a spiritual connection with the whole of life, was a gift from the fairies and elves of the artic lands. 

Will AI be able to converse with the hidden folk or with the Infinite budding the flower? Will it be able to sing a love song to the tiny fledging pine, howling woodpecker or serenade the moon spilling starlight over silent fields of snow?

Will AI be able to hunt with the eagles as 13-year-old Aisholpan Nurgaiv does, a Kazakh girl from Mongolia, who trained to become the first female eagle hunter in twelve generations in her nomad family?

Will AI have the capacity for a love as wide as one like Simone Weil? A well-off secular French Jew, Weil was so affected by what was happening to other, less protected, people under the Third Reich in World War II, she’d decided to live as they lived and died of hunger.

For whom or for what would AI be willing to die?

And what of the mythical hero’s journey highlighted by the late Joseph Campbell? You know, the one we humans embark upon when we begin a relationship, start a business, create the next amazing thing, the journey that inevitably brings us to confront what stands in the way of our success, those inner demons and dragons, to, in the end, emerge victorious?

Will AI be able to recognize and slay its own digital dragons?

And though AI may be able to categorize and critically analyze all the great works of art that have ever existed, will it ever be able to stand in front of just one of them and be held breathless, barely able to whisper “ahhhhhh?”

Will AI ever be able to join with others to build a braided bridge? Communities on either side of a canyon in Peru do. Every year, the Q’eswachaka Bridge is rebuilt using traditional techniques since the time of the Incas. The communities gather to weave, tie and haul braided rope to build the bridge that will carry all of them across the canyon. And at the end of three days, there’s a grand celebration. 

Will AI ever know the feel of rope rubbing across many hot callused fingers?

If we’re curious enough to leave behind futuristic possibilities, just for a while, and venture into the Forest of Arden we just might find there what makes us fully human. We may remember that thanking the fish for its life is the greatest blessing, and turn at the apex of danger and beauty, life and death, with wide stretched arms. We just might start to notice the sacred in apples, on the face of the one bagging our groceries, and in the silent communion we feel with those who are suffering.

And before we know it, we just might find ourselves, like the Sami, bursting into song. For we know now we’re an integral part of the whole. We’re ready now to build a braided bridge and to invite those who live across the canyon, whoever they may be or however they may believe, to join us in building this bridge, one that secures safe passage to all when crossing a great chasm that divides us.

Who knows? Perhaps AI would map the same techniques used by the Inca, or not. No matter. In the Forest of Arden, the real gift would be to sit together and build the bridge, one braid, one tug, one haul, at a time.

Who’d of thought a doll could cause such a fuss. Barbie, the movie, reveals for some the true existential crisis in the feminine experience while, to others, shadows demonic messages capable of transmuting all Godliness into evil. One can only wonder how 11 ½ inch of hard vinyl can cause an entire universe to turn pink, with blushing delight or raging anger. 

This quintessential feminine beauty made her debut in 1959. White, blond, shaped to perfection in just the right places, flawless in every way so, of course, always smiling. After starting out as a teen fashion model, she went on to have a host of careers: astronaut, Air Force Pilot, Major League Baseball player, Presidential Candidate, even a rapper, among others. Yes, apparently this quintessential beauty was fully capable of being anything she wanted to be. Oh, and let’s not forget, she also had the quintessential boyfriend, Ken, who of course was handsome as ever and fully content to be her, yes, always smiling, sidekick.

And, so it was that in Barbie Land all the women were Barbies, beautiful, powerful and in charge of their destinies, and all the men were Kens, supportive, and constantly vying for attention. Perfect. Pink. Sweet as cotton candy.

I know a lot of people, particularly women, will recognize the ironic juxtaposition here.    

I did. For, in the movie, even as Barbie leaves Barbie Land for the real world to get help for her unbearable existential crisis, flat feet, Ah!, and then discovers Ken stowed in the backseat—well, I knew exactly where this was heading. And, in spite of reminding myself, “She’s only a doll!” it still made my insides churn, “I don’t want to see her loose power—even if she is pink!”  

But, true to expectation, in the real world, Barbie finds her herself out of place, her wily ways suddenly invisible, attracting stereotypical sexist reactions wherever she goes. Ken, of course, finds his mojo, complete with mob-towering shoulders, helped by a white furry coat, and a dismissive deal-with-you-later look. He’s in charge now.  

And just like that, I felt the flip sides of matriarchy—patriarchy, each the same coin. And, for me, one of the movie’s great take-aways: in gender hierarchies, one group is always losing.

This led me to another great take-away: the passing suggestion to introduce an Ordinary Barbie. This Ordinary Barbie would have more realistic qualities yet, presumably, still be able to pursue her dreams without the weight of pink perfection. This felt to me reachable, attainable, even possible for every little girl, or boy, for surely there’d also be an Ordinary Ken.

As a Boomer, I was a young girl when Barbie made her iconic entrance. I remember her smiling from inside the cellophane covered pink box. I was beyond doll-playing stage so never wanted a Barbie but, really, never would have. She just looked too different from me, perfect, like one of those in-crowd girls in school, and lived out fantasies I’d never imagined. I didn’t feel it’d be cool to be her or not be her. She just wasn’t anywhere in my world.

But an Ordinary Barbie? Now, that may have lit a spark. One that looked like most girls and gave off a vibe of regardless of what you look like, you too could find some kind of beauty and awesomeness—maybe just by being yourself? Ah?! Imagine that!

And perhaps such a doll could help unravel all those contradictory messages voiced by real world Gloria, part of the mother-daughter duo who returns to Barbie Land with Barbie. Arguably, the most potent scene in the movie, she exclaims, “It’s literally impossible to be a woman. You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never be selfish, never fall down, never fail, never show fear, never get out of line. It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you!”

But, wait. It seems Barbie might just share the same sentiment. In the end, she leaves Barbie Land to go to the real world because she just doesn’t feel like Barbie anymore and wants to know about being real.

Can we dare to think iconic Barbie could actually become Ordinary Barbie? Could we imagine her feeling the full emotions and contradictions of being human: the messiness, inexplicable joy, raw rage? Better still, could we imagine each little girl discovering, through her Ordinary Barbie, that all such feelings come and go but she, long after her Ordinary Barbie is put away, remains her beautiful, awesome self?

It’s a thought. After all, in the movie, it was decided Ordinary Barbie could actually make money.

Ah, but just maybe she could make something much more important: dreams, real dreams, for real girls in the real world—all as they each munch on their own pink (of course) cotton candy.   

Anyone can enjoy a good fairytale to escape the stresses of the day. The problem comes when the boundaries are blurred between fantasy and reality. Such is the case with Baker Mitchell, founder of the North Carolina public charter school, highlighted this week when the US Supreme Court declined to hear the school’s defense of its blocked requirement that girls wear skirts. In Reuters June 26^th article by Andrew Chung, Mitchell said the school offers a traditional-values-based education designed to preserve chivalry, with women “regarded as a fragile vessel that men are supposed to take care of and honor.”

Say . . . what? Fragile? Really? If it weren’t so systemically dangerous for girls and women, I’d actually feel a bit embarrassed for a public admission revealing such an unveiled ignorance of women, of the stark realities facing many daily, and of women’s ongoing quest for equality and autonomy—to be seen, heard, counted.   

Clearly, it’s Mitchell who’s in need of an education. While he might imagine his own vessel fired in some kiln full of visions of knighthood rescuing damsels in distress, many women, particularly those representing over half of our nation’s poor, have no such luxury to indulge in imaginary flights of fantasy. There’re too busy making lunches, dealing with irate bosses because the bus was late again, and hoping there’s one more box of mac and cheese for dinner.

While Mitchell touts, in Ben Finley’s June 28^th, Associated Press article, that his school reduces the gap for racial and income disparities in test scores, he appears to show little awareness or appreciation for the home environments and daily struggles that go on behind the scenes in the homes of those children, homes headed mostly by women.  

And, rest assured, these women are no damsels. They wake up every morning caged by unsurmountable circumstances yet push through another day, silently standing on the graves of their own forgotten dreams. As a minister, I’ve sat with these women and seen into their vessels, clearly weather-worn but remarkably sturdy.

It might do Mitchell well to come out of his fantasy, put down his golden sword, and sit awhile in the unending turmoil, oppressive stress, unrelenting challenges and emotional depravity these women endure daily. If so, he might just see right before him, not helpless, weakened, one-dimensional damsels waiting for the prince to arrive, but infinitely multidimensional women: gritty, messy, hard-core, achy, angry, no-shit-can’t-give-up women, who’ll do anything to make sure their kid gets a birthday present or has a gift under the Christmas tree. Women who often fight alone, every day, to be all things to their children, with little left for themselves, in a society where many just look away.    

If he dared to look, he might see Rachael who scours thrift stores, and garage sales in fancier neighborhoods, for first-day-of-school clothes for her children, and who cuts coupons from tossed paper inserts hoping there’ll be enough money for food. She no longer knows where her children’s father is, though her oldest son still asks at bedtime. He remembers a story they used to read and it’s still his favorite. “Read it again, mom,” he pleads, “just one more time.”

Or he might see Michelle and her daughter who has a chronic illness. Though Michelle works fulltime and her husband balances two, sometimes three, jobs, they can’t afford health insurance. After laying her daughter to sleep, she knows another restless night is coming. “Please don’t let me miss another day at work,” keeps her at the edge of an abyss where she knows there’s no safety net. Still, she gets up each morning, weary and worn, and does another day.   

And cutting across socio-economic divides, he might see women like Susan everywhere. Susan desperately wishes summer will pass so she can stop wearing long sleeves to cover up her bruises. Her pastor tells her the problem would right itself if she could just be a better wife. A pretty young woman, she frequently endures subtle inappropriate touches, and the probing eyes of strange men, much like coyotes anxious to feast on the lone fawn strayed from its mother.

I would say to Mitchell, and to men of similar ilk, you may want to cast we women as damsels, lift us up only to label us like paper dolls in some fairytale, but don’t ever presume us to be fragile! You’ve not earned the right—not even in your fantasy world—for every day we women rise up to fight, again and again, battles you’ve never known.  

Perhaps Mitchell thought that calling us such would leave us giggly, fanning our blush as damsels rightly should? Ah, but the reality is quite the opposite. So, on second hand, it might serve him well to stay guarded by his own flights of fantasy because, in the real world, he just might discover what he fears most . . . that we women are more resilient, more powerful, than he could ever imagine.  

This Op-Ed was published in the Union Leader, June 23, 2023.

“You were wild once here. Don’t let them tame you.” Isadora Duncan (1877 – 1927)

ISADORA DUNCAN used her bare feet to pioneer a new dance form — modern dance — paving the way for the likes of Martha Graham. Girls and women today, particularly those associated with the Southern Baptist Convention (SBC) and distraught over recent changes in church policy, might well benefit from contemplating such a spirit; one courageous enough to defy the conventional norms of her day to make her mark.

And courage it will take as the SBC — the world’s largest Baptist organization representing roughly 47,000 churches — has just moved to ban all churches with female pastors, making them, in my view, one of the most dangerous environments for our children, especially girls but also for women of all ages.

Citing biblical “authority,” the ramifications of this decision essentially mean that the male leaders have now taken it upon themselves to speak for God in all matters of church leadership. Females who may have heard the call to lead or may hear it in the future are warned not to trust such a heretical message. Instead, they should trust them, now representing the true “messengers” of the SBC as it is they alone who can discern the right path.

How tidy . . . and exploitative, enslaving, and purely misogynistic.  The decision is aimed at keeping women locked into social roles strictly defined by their patriarchy.

And it’s already having a profoundly damaging effect on our teen girls of faith. Consider the June 15th CNN story, “Southern Baptist Convention Votes to Uphold Removal of Saddleback Church Over Women Pastors after Appeal by Rick Warren.” Linda Barnes Popham, pastor for 30 years and ousted at Fern Creek Baptist in Louisville, Kentucky, recalls how a 14-year-old girl sought her out in the crowd and just “wept and wept” in her arms, telling her, “I’m 14 years old, and when I was 11, God called me to be a minister. And now I can’t do that in the family that I love.”

Spiritually banished from her calling, what does such a girl do or feel when she sees a boy her age called to ministry being lifted up and celebrated? What questions might ooze from this festering? “Why am I not enough?” And perhaps most heartbreaking, “Can I really trust the voice of God in my life?”

I have some personal authority to speak to this issue. I’ve been a minister since being ordained in 2005 and founded a church in 2011 — not just any church but one representing a new paradigm in ministry, an interfaith church. I’ve often said, “I’m so glad I’m not in charge of my life as I could’ve never seen it evolving in this way.” Yet, every time I paused or questioned, I learned to trust the voice of God and followed one step at a time. Nothing would have been possible without that voice leading the way.

Graciously, I’ve been blessed to have the full support of my husband of 40 years. This is why I stand shoulder to shoulder, resolute, proud, tall and true, with all young girls and women called to church leadership and with all the men in their lives who rise up to support them.

As I think of the SBC leadership, I fear for the future. How long might it be before it’s decided that just as women should not lead men in the church, they rightly shouldn’t lead men in any context?

Contemplating this trajectory, I can only surmise how truly frightened such men must be — terrified in fact — to contemplate being around strong, faith-filled women. Why else go to such means to silence and control them? This ironically speaks to just how powerful they know the women in their lives are or could be given the chance.  And they are right about that. We are powerful.

I say to all girls or women in the SBC who feel called to church leadership, follow in the spirit of an Isadora Duncan, or another woman who inspires you. Hold close and treasure the scriptures that have long whispered to your aching heart. Throw off your shoes, take to the path God has set before you and let your feet tell the story! Shout out your soul’s joy, free on the wind, far and wide!

Dance! Oh, lover of God! Shake off the judgements and decrees placed upon you. Dance long until you feel your untamed spirit return again — that Spirit made in the image of the Creator. Dance barefoot until you are again wild and free.

Published in the Concord Monitor, New Hampshire’s State capital newspaper, June 13, 2023.

Few topics stir emotions like gay pride. And many stem from religious roots. Protestant Christians, in particular, are deeply divided. While some churches welcome LGBTQ+ members and clergy, many more fundamental denominations strictly denounce lifestyles outside the bounds of traditional gender identification, rolls and practices.

Yet, all claim to believe in Jesus and the Bible. Nonreligious Americans also fall across a wide range on the opinion spectrum. There seems no bridge wide enough to carry us all.

Well, maybe. Recently I saw a scene from the movie “Come Sunday” that caused me to wonder. The movie tells the story of the downfall of evangelical megastar Bishop Carlton Pearson who once was a Republican activist in the Bush Senior White House, a guest on The 700 Club, host of a national TV show, and a jet setter who traveled the world lecturing to fundamentalist gatherings.

His downfall? Not an affair, embezzlement, or corrupt activity. No, his heretical crime was he stopped believing in hell and in God as the inventor of this customized torture chamber into which billions of people would be thrown simply because they’d rejected him, perhaps loved him through a different religion, or hadn’t been saved.

Yes, this was the God whose message he’d long preached but it’d all come undone watching a story on the evening news about the Hutus and Tutsis returning from Rwanda to Uganda. Simply, he couldn’t reconcile the starving mothers and children, with flies in the corners of their eyes and mouths, being sentenced to hell at their deaths—forever. It was a seminal moment and there was no going back.

In a final scene, Pearson comes face to face with a young man who’d long followed him on the well-trodden road to Christian salvation, one who’d struggled, and tried again and again to make himself different so that maybe, just maybe, he could get saved.

Reggie was a gay, Black man, who’d been diagnosed with lymphoma and was dying. He’d bought the warning of the torture chamber and was begging Bishop Pearson to give it one last try, to try and save him. Yet, his impassioned plea was inextricably woven with a clear sense of who he was . . .

“You know, I figured something out, Bishop. You know how you used to tell me, ‘Reggie, just stay strong, that doing gay and being gay is two different things.’ That was bullshit. I’m gay. It ain’t no choice. It just is. It is what I am. It’s who I am. And now God’s going to send me to hell for it . . . God’s gonna punish me for it all. I try so hard to get saved. Different people tried and it just never worked. But you could get me saved, right? I mean if anybody could do it you could do it. Will you do it? Will you? Cause God’s going to send me to hell.”

Bishop Pearson tries to tell Reggie he doesn’t need to get saved, and that, “When the time comes, you’ll be with Him.” But Reggie isn’t convinced.

Then, something happens. Pearson leaves behind explanations and ministerial posturing. It seems, perhaps, in that decisive moment he remembered the new commandment Jesus gave in John 13:34, “Love one another as I have loved you.” So, sitting close, face to face, with Reggie’s voice now cracking, he simply begins to sing softly, “Jesus loves me this I know for the Bible tells me so. Little ones to him belong. They are weak but he is strong.”

And then Reggie, choaking back tears, joins in, “Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. Yes, Jesus loves me. The Bible tells me so . . .” And it felt to me that this pure, unmitigated, expression of love might just be the only thing capable of rescuing Reggie from the fear of hell.

Most of us, whether we consider ourselves religious, spiritual but not religious, or have long left the whole thing behind, have either experienced or witnessed the power of love. Maybe someone saw, affirmed, something beautiful, worthy, in us we couldn’t quite get to ourselves. Maybe there was someone who showed us about the kind of love that could reach beyond those we get, like, agree with, live like or love like. If so, we know we were the lucky ones.

Yes, it’s decidedly more difficult when looking at those we’ve come to believe are so vile or evil they deserve scorn, alienation or even eternity in hell. But it makes me wonder how our national conversation might shift if more of us could start with the basic premise that each of us, regardless of who we are, is worthy of love.

Who knows? Perhaps, together, we could build that bridge after all.

[For the complete story, see the 2005 interview (Transcript 304: Heretics) from This American Life, and Pearson’s book, The Gospel of Inclusion, Reaching Beyond Religious Fundamentalism to the True Love of God and Self.]

Everyone who was anyone already knew that Jack was the Keeper of the Squirrels. But hardly anyone knew he liked to collect acorns for the fireplace mantle at his grandparent’s wilderness camp, 3 Feathers.

And absolutely no one knew of the mysterious visit he received one day from the Spirit of the Acorn. Jack didn’t tell anyone as he thought it was all pretty weird! It happened one day on the dusty, gravel, drive right in front of the old cabin.   

He was out exploring when he heard, “Hey you! Up there! It’s me down here. I’m an acorn and have come to give you a special message. Listen up! I don’t have all day!”

Jack was startled and looked around to see if anyone had heard the talking acorn. But no one was around.

“Quick! We’ve only got a few minutes so pay attention,” said the Spirit of the Acorn.

Jack thought, “Oh boy, this is really looney.” But the Spirit of the Acorn kept talking.

“Now. You may not know it but I’m going to grow to be a mighty oak tree right here in this very yard. I may be little now but, one day, I’m going to stand really tall and strong.”

“Okay,” said Jack not believing he was talking to an acorn, “but what about my little pine tree over there my Uncle Mitch gave me, the one I planted several years ago?”

“Dude! We’re gonna grow up together and be best friends. Cool. Uh?” Jack wasn’t so sure.

“So, why are you talking to me?”

“Because I want you to know that, just like me and your little pine tree over there, you were made in a special way by the Great Spirit who already knows all you can be when you grow up. You may be little right now, but the Great Spirit has given you all you need to grow tall, strong and kind. Who knows? Maybe one day, you’ll visit us and see how tall and cool we are too!”

“Anyway,” the Spirit of the Acorn continued, “work hard and learn all you can but always remember the Great Spirit has made you in that special way. No one can ever be just like you and be who you are. Pretty cool, uh?”

Suddenly, Jack heard voices. “Shhhhhh!” he said as he quickly picked up the acorn and tucked it into his pocket hoping no one had heard them talking.

But later that night he thought, “I’m gonna find a special place to bury this acorn to help it grow big and tall just like me. And maybe one day I’ll come visit and get to see the mighty oak tree and my little pine tree all grown up.” And Jack did think that’d be pretty cool.

And the Spirit of the Acorn smiled.

This Opinion article was published by the Concord Monitor, our NH Capital’s newspaper, on April 30, 2023.

“The bond of our common humanity is stronger than the divisiveness of our fears and prejudices.” Former President Jimmy Carter

In the spirit of full disclosure, expressed in my opinion piece last year, I’m proud to be what some might call “woke.” But, even more importantly, as an Interfaith minister, I’m challenged to try and at least understand views different from my own, especially when I strongly disagree.

So, I make it a practice to regularly check in on a variety of news outlets. And over time, I’ve discovered something I didn’t expect, a common thread: fear, particularly a fear of fascism.

In general, those aligned with the far-right, point to fascism being played out through such means as censoring free speech, misusing the FBI and DOJ against opponents, attacking the Bill of Rights, particularly the Second Amendment, dismantling traditional family values as well as undermining our nation’s founding principles and biblical heritage.

Those aligned with the far-left, point to the escalation of fascism through the rise of Christian nationalism, highlighting the censoring of free speech as well, eliminating reproductive rights, reshaping freedoms and options for women and girls, heralding white supremacy, the patriarchy, and by marginalizing minority populations.

Both sides favor the term fascist to describe the other and, as a result, fear exactly the same thing: being politically controlled, losing the freedom to live as they choose.

Sadly, many on both sides, fueled largely by social media prejudicial name calling, stereotyping and right out bullying, have come to accept, even desire, the possibility of separating from the other to happily cohabitate with those they deem like-minded.

Is it any wonder in this climate we could find Carter’s words to be simply platitudes from a bygone time? Well, maybe not. Because both sides are, in part, influenced by differing religious and spiritual underpinnings, I offer one small snapshot, one brief experience, I shared in my 2018 TEDx talk, that still leaves me with hope. I call it, “The Mormons and Me,” and it happened not that long ago.

One balmy afternoon, I was relaxing in my hammock when I heard voices.

“Excuse me, ma’am.”

I looked up and saw Mormon missionaries coming onto my patio. Now, normally, I avoid all forms of proselytizing and politely turn visitors away as quickly as possible. But, on this particular day, I was feeling quite spacious and found myself inviting them to sit at my patio table.

As the conversation began, they casually asked what I did. “I’m an Interfaith minister,” I said. “I serve the Tree of Life Interfaith Temple in Amherst.” A silence. And then there was that look we Interfaith ministers often get when announcing our calling.

“I’m not sure what that is,” said one of my visitors. “Are you Christian?”

“I believe in Jesus and in the Bible but I also believe God is expressed through all religions. You see, I’ve spent many years studying the major world religions and experiencing their spiritual practices. Everywhere I’ve landed I’ve found God. So, in the end, I became an Interfaith minister because I couldn’t choose one faith over the others.”

Then, hesitantly, “You believe in Jesus and the Bible but have you been saved?”

“Oh, my God, yes! A million times every day!”

Another pause. I sensed this was not a scenario covered in their missionary training. Then, I decided to use the lull to ask something I’d always wanted to know.

“I can imagine it must take such courage and conviction to take your faith door to door. Could you tell me more about that? I’d love to know what brought you to God and to sharing your faith in this way.”

They each gladly shared their stories and it felt truly wonderful to listen. What seemed like only a few minutes turned into an afternoon’s leisurely visit in the summer’s shade. As our time ended, I was no closer to becoming a Mormon than they were to becoming Interfaith but we were able to part amicably, sincerely wishing one another well.

We’d shared something deeply personal, our search for true meaning. And while our journeys had led us to different conclusions, we’d discovered together our common humanity, and had connected through our mutual love for God. As I watched them walk down the driveway, I felt, “They’re my friends, my brothers.”

Fascism? Not when there’s a table where people of different beliefs can sit together, share and truly listen. Yes, it can be challenging, even a bit disarming to recognize glimpses of ourselves in others whom we may have thought to be so different. Yet, it can also be freeing and liberating allowing fear and prejudice to dissipate, making room for some new connection we may not have thought possible.

Yes, I believe there is hope — one table, one conversation at a time.

It was something about those smiles, all bright and shiny on the young faces of the girls of SOLA, aired on 60 Minutes, February 26, 2023. SOLA is the Afghan word for peace and also stands for School of Leadership Afghanistan. Its founder, Shabana Basij-Rasikh, was featured on the program and she impressed me as a kind of girls’ warrior, the embodiment of stealth courage, infused with a clear sense of purpose, the kind that rises to the surface when one is unwavering, fully committed, to a cause. Her cause? Educating Afghan girls to become leaders in their chosen fields. Today the school is thriving in Rwanda, following a harrowing escape from Afghanistan in August of 2021 when US troops were abruptly withdrawn, and the country fell into chaos.

As the young girls were interviewed, they shared their dreams for the future. What did they want to be? A surgeon, architect, politician, spy (made me chuckle) to name a few. I was struck by their faces all lit up with the innocence of, “The world is my oyster. Anything is possible!” But, in the next moment, my heart sank when I was reminded of the status of all the girls and women still left behind living under Taliban rule. No education beyond the 6^th grade. No venturing outside alone. Must always be fully covered.

Silenced. Hidden. Invisible.

It’s interesting to me that we can spend billions of dollars to support the freedom and sovereignty of Ukraine (which I fully endorse) but leave behind, turn away from, half a nation’s population to live in tyranny, imprisoned in plain sight. Are they not as worthy of a commitment from the free world as the people of Ukraine? Who fights for them in equal measure?

I suspect many contemplating this life under Taliban rule might try to quickly dismiss any rising discomfort with such well-accepted notions as we shouldn’t be interfering with the religious norms and practices of other countries. I confess I too, at times, have felt the same. Until I saw those faces, the shinning ones. And, by contrast, the covered ones I couldn’t see but so wanted to.

As an interfaith minister, my life’s work has been about finding unity in diversity. I’ve often said it’s fundamental that we strive to at least respect religious differences even when we personally disagree. But to enslave girls and women, making them prisoners in their own homes, and to deny them to be seen or heard in any regard outside of their cells, well, is simply not okay and must NOT be tolerated by the free world. And such enslavement cannot be allowed to thrive behind a fictitiously created shield of professed religious legitimacy. In my view, this is not so much about the religion of Islam, which has brought us many beautiful sacred teachings and practices, as it is about the sanctioning of pervasive gender-based exploitation. It’s an egregious abusive of power. Pure and simple.

And as I looked at the images of the women of Afghanistan completely covered, I could only wonder what is being lost to us. The Native American Ute have a saying, “God gives each of us a song.” I think of our unique song as that which naturally draws us toward what we love. It can be a vocation or avocation. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that when we are moved to do what we love, we naturally come alive, and our soul’s song goes out to serve all around us in ways we may rarely recognize.

What songs are being lost to us hidden just behind the veil of the Burqa? What dreams lie dormant waiting for fresh air, fertile ground, and the light of day? Recalling the dreams of the girls of SOLA, what new medical advances may be germinating? What engineering wonders wait to grace the sky? What speeches remain unspoken, ones that could move and inspire many for generations? And, what skills, creations, inventions, works born of struggle, sweat and wonder, wait just beyond the veil? We cannot know.  

Imagine with me for a moment a young girl or woman you love, how it might feel to see her locked away hidden from sight, her voice hushed and monitored; to imagine just how hard she tries to stand again each day struggling under the weight of oppressive helplessness; yet we pray, hope beyond hope that, still, she clings fast to her dreams, the ones that can’t fail to make her shine, if only in the dark, secret shadows, of night.  

Perhaps, if we could imagine, it would spur each of us to become a girls’ warrior so, never again, could a shinning face be dulled and hidden, a dream banished, and no song could forever remain unsung.  

Sometimes something happens that brings what’s left, when all else falls away, to the surface. Like one of those pearls resting in the ocean floor suddenly being loosened to rise up. Exposed. Pure. Treasured.

We had such a time over the holiday season. I won’t go into the details, but I will say that, most blessedly, all is well now. But I’m still holding that precious pearl close.

Over the holidays, my dear husband made me the most beautiful card. He’d painted a cabin scene and wrote the sweetest words. I’d been thinking I’d like to do something special for him this Valentines. Then, most unexpectedly, an idea came from watching the Super Bowl—well, sort of. It all started listening to Chris Stapleton sing the National Anthem. Amazing.

When I was young, I used to listen to a lot of country music in the vein of Don Williams, Kenny Rogers, the Judds, and Vince Gill. It’d been a while but there was something about Stapleton’s sound that made me look him up. That led me to a YouTube video of him singing, “Whenever You Come Around,” at a CMT Giants event honoring Vince Gill. And when you smile that smile, the world turns upside down, whenever you come around. Oh my. Trouble is, though, unless you already knew the full lyrics, you’d miss a lot. So, I looked up the original version recorded by Vince Gill. Beautiful.

And as I listened, I cried. Sometimes a good ole’ country song says just what all the lofty musings can’t. Suddenly, I could feel behind my gray hair, wrinkles, and sagging skin that young woman who could blush and giggle anytime he’d smile that smile. And all these years later, that smile, from across the room, can still make me smile that young woman, yet shy-like-a-girl, smile. So, I wrote a poem for my sweet husband called, “When You Smile That Smile.” I won’t share it all here but will share just the ending . . .

When I was young

I ran fast into your arms

Now I am old

But with just a look

Can still come undone . . .

Cause when you smile that smile

And I feel your heart’s tug

I know I’m forever

Just a young woman in love

I’m aware that there are those reading this who, perhaps, have never felt this way. I can tell you there was a time I didn’t either. Both my husband and I had been married before to very good people and, from those unions, had beautiful children. Eventually, though, it was our fate to find one another and, for me, that smile. But we’ve never, not even for a moment, taken what we’ve been blessed to have for granted.

Or, perhaps, you once had such a love but your loved one is no longer with us. Such is the deep price of love I can most clearly feel now since our recent experience. But would I choose to give up the love to avoid the pain? Never. For the pearl, containing both in the darkness of the ocean floor, when it comes into the light, knows only love.

And on this Valentine’s Day I’m remembering too that there are different types of love because, as they say, we’re each a spiritual being having a human experience. True. Many of you have read my books, poems and other writing spilling out my love for God.

But, today, I’m most grateful to my beloved God for giving me this life, this moment . . .

to simply see, one-more-time-please that smile . . .  

the one that instantly makes me . . .just a young woman in love.

This article was published in the Concord Monitor on February 7, 2023

“How do I talk to a little flower? Through it I talk to the Infinite. And what is the Infinite? It is that still small voice that calls up the fairies.” Dr. George Washington Carver

Having been an interfaith minister for almost twenty years, I have hundreds of books in my personal library on a wide variety of theological and spiritual topics. But one short, sixty–two–page booklet, is one of my most favorites: The Man Who Talks with the Flowers: The Life Story of Dr. George Washington Carver by Glenn Clark. It’s the source for this article offered in celebration of Black History Month.  

Most people know GW Carver as the one who discovered over three hundred uses for the peanut and over one hundred and fifty uses for the sweet potato. Some may remember him as a renowned agricultural scientist, a Black man who lived in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries, who always wore a flower in the buttonhole of his jacket—the old, scruffy, black one—he bought for about $2.00.

But few know of his deeply spiritual side and to what and to whom he credited his amazing discoveries. A clue: consider how he started each day.

“All my life I have risen regularly at four o’clock and have gone into the woods and talked with God. There he gives me my orders for the day. After my morning’s talk with God, I go into my laboratory and begin to carry out his wishes.”

And when asked, “You have a habit of talking to the little flower or peanut and making it give up its secrets. How do you do it?”

“You have to love it enough,” answered Carver. “Anything will give up its secrets if you love it enough.” And he added, “When I silently commune with people, they give up their secrets also—if you love them enough.”

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about this love. I don’t think it’s the more common emotional love we’re used to that can grow and wain with circumstance. No. I think the love Carver was referring to is what I would call devotional love—a love so complete unto itself that it needs nothing. For example. when I’m able to listen to, say, another person with this kind of love, my own agenda, thoughts, imagined replies are not playing in the background waiting to chime in. I’m able to be completely present to the one right in front of me because I’m not in the way. Simple, yes but, surely, not easy. But just imagine what might happen, how it could shift our national dialogue, if more of us strived to do this with one another.

For Carver, the ability to extract information from the peanut, sweet potato, clays of the hills, the flower or just to create a heart-space within which another person could land, was directly related to those early morning talks with God. He didn’t need to spend his time searching for approval, agreement or validation from others because he already knew himself to be a child of God of God and knew his Creator would guide him to serve the greatest good.  

He’s best known for being able to talk with the flowers as he felt they were windows through which he could see the face of God. Toward the end of his life, he shared an important message he’d received from a little flower: “It told me there is going to be a great spiritual awakening in the world, and it’s going to come from people connected with you and me, from plain, simple people who know, not merely believe, but actually know God answers prayer. It’s going to arise from men who are going about their work and putting God into what they do, from men who believe in prayer, and want to make God real to mankind.”

While Carver was a Christian, I don’t believe it matters what faith tradition you practice as all religions can agree that God is love. But the life of GW Carver gives us a glimpse into just what that love might look like in real life—emanating from the peanut, sweet potato, clays of the hills, flowers, and, most blessedly, from the hearts of our fellow brothers and sisters.

Can we too imagine loving enough to see all creation as that window through which our Creator speaks? Can we too love enough to join hands across faith traditions, with all God’s children, to create that great spiritual awakening? It just may be, in the end, what’s needed to save us, our world, from escalating chaos and destruction.

But, like GW Carver, I have hope that it’s possible. Why? The flower said so.