No More Frozen Super-Powers!

The last day of the first month of 2014 is upon us, and it feels... Frozen!

Over these last hours, days and weeks, I have been dreaming, deciding and dedicating myself to the kind of year I want to have for me and my family. Mentors, guides and Goddesses have patiently, and with vigor, infused me with encouragement, tools and practices to integrate into my business, passions and daily life. All of it intended to get me to where I want to go and be the person I am meant to be!

Ah, the hard part. Where is that again, and who is she?

Smack in the middle of all of this beautifully gritty inner work, my cursed iphone beeps with a text. I have a love-despise-you-demand-too-much relationship with my technology, and text messages are a big part of it. “Mom!” my tech-savvy-loving kids chirp, “You got a text!”

“Okay,” I mumble under my breath, hoping they'll move on and leave me in peace. Under my nose she holds it; that annoying phone attached to the most lovely 11 year old arm that leads to the sweetest and mischievous smile that I adore. “Don't want you to miss it” she says spunk-ily.

I look down at the text and – am – surprised. Happily and pleasantly elated. A text from a former student who was one of those unique ones with whom you build a lasting friendship. His mother had died unexpectedly the year before he was in my university class, and we connected deeply. Since his graduation we have kept in touch; he knows my kids and husband and whenever we are near, we grab a beer together.

Text: “Please tell me you've seen Frozen!”

“Really?” I think, “that's what he wants to know?” Not a huge fan of the Disney “princesses-please-handsome-prince-save-me-movies” I groaned. I had already said there was no way I was going to see what looked like a plot-less, insipid animated film about a goofy snow man. Uh-uh. Nope.

Text back: “Why?” That's all I wrote.

Tick-tock. Beep. I grab the phone.

Text: “Because I thought of you through the ENTIRE movie. You HAVE to see it. I won't tell you why, but trust me and let's talk after. This movie IS YOU!”

Hmmm. A silly, princess Disney movie is me? Harumph. I did trust my former student. He knew me well. There had to be more to it. My kids did want to see it. Alright, it was set. We were going.

I laughed, I cried. Seriously, I did. After the film, I sent a text to my former student.

Text: “Just saw Frozen. You were so right! I am Elsa!”

Tick – not-even-time-for-a-tock. Beep.

Text: “You are SO Elsa!!!”

A few weeks later I am relating this story to my not-blonde hair-stylist (she wanted to be sure I made that clear) who I have know for over a decade. She has witnessed the evolution of my life, belief system and of course, my hair. She knows me. At the “I am Elsa and You are so Elsa” part of the narrative– she laughs quizzically. When I see her a few days later, she jumps in immediately.

“Alright, this has been bothering me ALL weekend. Why on earth would your former student think you were Elsa? I totally do not get it. Please, tell me what he meant! Why are YOU – the energized, social, funny, stage-loving AmyJo - like Elsa?”

Here's why.

Elsa is the symbol of the “good-girl” who is told (and agrees) to suppress, hold back and reduce her great, amazing, incredible and magical super-essence-powers for the comfort of everyone around her. She does it to maintain the system in which she was told was the "right way" to live. If she allowed herself to feel her powers, she was told, and let them freely expand and be used, there would be fear and danger. For the sake of keeping everything in line within the expecatations of the old story, Elsa, as do "good-girls" everywhere, complied. Until she couldn't hold it in any longer. And that's when things get juicy!

Frozen is about anything but! It is a narrative of defrosting and exposing the truth. It is about the prescribed “good-girl” finding her freedom in the love of a good man. Oh wait, sorry. Years of Disney and religious programming. No, no, no. That is NOT how this story ends!

Elsa is released into the FULLness and universe-tingling connection with HER super-powers because of her sisters LOVE! Oh ya! Uh-huh. That's right! Sister LOVE and Sister POWER!

Message: Women - We are sisters one-and-all! We are ALL Anna and we are ALL Elsa! As we openly LOVE each other, AFFIRM and CELEBRATE each others' powers – we are personally released to live in them FULLY! And when we do, we melt away the fear of failure, the anxiety of being good enough and the idea that we need to measure up to the perceived perfection of another. We are FREE to write our own story, claim our super-essence-powers and LOVE the world, our kids, spouses, friends and most poignantly, ourselves.

No more Frozen Dreams or Dormant Powers! Turn up the HEAT of your inner super-essence-powers that are already part of you and experience the soaring melody of the bad ass POWER you already possess AND melt away anything that keeps your from connecting with your inner fiery licks of power!

To quote Elsa, “Let it Go!”

Text: “You are SO Elsa!!”

Transformational Author Inspiration!

Amazing time on retreat in the San Francisco Bay Area, then in Baltimore, Maryland! Now I am just integrating all the amazing learnings and experiences.

The Goal of Getting Good; Comparisons Suck

When was the last time it happened to you? I am gonna go out a limb and guess it was some time this week. At least once. Maybe twice. Perhaps even more than that. I know because it happens to me too. It used to happen more than it does, and still, in all the amazing progress and freedom I have achieved, I run into it. Bam! It hits me square in the face, or more typically for me, in the abs, legs, or bank account.

The more vulnerable I am, the more easily it occurs. Vulnerable in the sense that I am not rooted in the complete truth of my own amazing good core. Vulnerable because I am open to the suggestions that on  my own, as I stand now, I am not enough; not good enough, fit enough, pretty, smart or successful enough.

We are trained to engage in the game. I call it “The Wheel Of MisFortune.” The more we allow ourselves (because we do) to run on that wheel, the faster it spins and the harder it is to get off. The cycle of comparison continues to go round and round, conjuring up a variety of people, aspirations, targets and goals for us to measure ourselves against. The harder we run on the Wheel, the greater the rate of MisFortune, where you and I look at the lives, looks and goodness of another against which we will never win. Ultimately we are exhausted people, pretending to be all that we think we should be, while believing we are none of it.

The reason we do it is simple. Since we were young we have been told a story about what it means to be a good person, an upstanding American, a desirable woman and solid man. Our stories differ slightly depending on religion, culture and traditions, but much of what we have been told is the same. I call these stories our “Shape-Scripters;” powerful narratives that literally shape us. They tell us how we ought to look, behave and think about who we are, and who other people are, and if they are good.

The main theme connecting all of our Shape-Scripter stories is that you and I have to do something other than simply be who we are, to be considered good, desirable, acceptable and whole. On our own, in the skin we were born in and the bodies in which we exist, with the mind we conduct and the spirit we continue to nurture – we are not enough. We need something else from beyond our basic selves to prove our worth and value to the world. We need to be thinner, wealthier and more popular. The cars we drive, the clothes we wear, the restaurants we frequent and the sports we and our children play all contribute to what is assessed and judged on “The Wheel of MisFortune”.

Yuck! Enough already! Time to slow down the Wheel of MisFortune, get off and discover a new way!

You can decide to get off. Here's how to begin. The minute – the moment – the exact second you decide that You Are Good, the wheel will slow and you can turn your attention from others to your Good Core. The more you practice and rehearse owning your Good Core, the less the Wheel turns until you get to a point where it slows enough to get off completely.

I know this is true. I know it works. I have done it myself, coached hundreds to do the same and observe daily how it transforms the lives of my own family and children. It takes practice and commitment to rewrite your Shape Scripter and let go of the memorized idea that on your own you are not good. And it can be done. Are you ready?

Today – for this moment and time – start here. Before you get out of bed and before you go to sleep, say this: I am good and have the power to make more good for myself and others.

That's it. If it's too long, keep it to three words: I am good. I am good. I am good.

It is not sacrilege nor is it hypocritical. (Interested in what Jesus thinks of your Good Core? Find more here). It is perhaps the most authentic truth that can “reveal-utionize” your life!

Take the Journey to Your Good Core!

Flutters to the Tummy

I want to write. I need to. The will to do so is eking out of my fingers that are itching to get words flowing from my mind to the keyboard and on to the screen. It’s been too long; too much time reading of papers written by students and not enough time writing my own.

It is good to read the voices of others. To hear the vocabulary chosen by someone you know only as student, yet who share some of their deepest thoughts, questions and hopes. It is an exercise in listening – even as it’s done apart – physically away from the speaker. Writing gives room to mull over the sentiments and ideas expressed; space we don’t find when we are face-to-face.

Reading the work of others feeds my writing spirit and after a while, it demands something of me. Requires I stand to attention and give into the urge to be the one putting down the thoughts swirling in my mind that can flutter down into my heart, spirit and sometime, stomach.

When the wings of thought reach my tummy, they can transform into the proverbial butterflies of unknown anxieties, or, those I know too well. Those narratives of old stories I have learned since childhood: you know, the ones memorized growing up, the “old tapes” my parents would call them. The phrases that sometime echo unwittingly from my brain and move effortlessly to finally morph into the fear in my gut. The “you can’t really do this” or the “it will never happen for you” followed up by the “did you really think it could?” sentiments that play and rewind, play and rewind.

I was asked recently, if I were to write a new story for myself, what would it be? The idea was to replace the old that doesn’t work. I thought about it a lot. Again. It’s not a new concept, this rewriting my narrative that tells me who I am. In truth I have done more editing of my learned story than most: having moved from an ordained pastor to an avowed atheist who continues to find beauty and meaning in ritual, litany and spirit work. I have changed plenty. And still, I ponder the question because I find that those old routines and systems can be dogged. They come alive at moments when I am most anticipating something good: a new opportunity, a completed goal, an affirmation from an unexpected place. That’s when the terrible growling of the historic negatives rise up from the deep place of old, their ugly melody reverberating in my ears.

So I wrote it down, my new story. The one I was going to be telling with bold confidence in place of the other. It went something like this: I attract abundance. Good things happen to me. People are drawn to me. I am a powerfully positive presence. I impact whatever I do with intellect, grace and energy. I am capable, experienced and highly qualified. People want me on their team. I am strong: in body, in mind and in spirit. I am a people person. I easily build relationships. I am adventurous; risks are worth taking.

As I read back over it, my eyes moved to the writing in the upper left hand corner of the page. It said simply “New Story”. I closed my eyes and breathed deep. Something was off. It wasn’t right. I knew what it was. Turning my pencil on end, I rubbed the eraser over the word “new” and wrote in bold, strong letters “MY”. My story. This is my story and it has always been my story, how I have lived and experienced the world.

The truth is I don’t need a new story. The one I have lived consistently throughout my life is more than enough. I merely need to reclaim it. Reclaim it from the realities of the world and from what honest and open living does as we grow and learn. Experiences can have the affect of altering our perception of self, of trying to replace our own voice with another, and sometimes the shouts from the surrounding world can be harsh and loud. Too often, it is the words and narratives of others who shape the story we tell ourselves about what we are capable of and how we interact. In truth, however, those can only continue as my story, if I concur.

And I do not.

My story is about an incredible woman with a rich, diverse life that has experienced the most amazing acts of human good and progress and endured the harm inflicted by the insecure, threatened and awkwardly powerful. The result is a wise, skilled, authentic woman who is all those good things of strength, capacity, brilliance, energy and charisma, wrapped in the most elegant blanket of knowledge and experience.

Waiting for affirmation of this from others is often where the old flutters turn into anxious butterflies. So don’t. Don’t wait. There is no reason for it. The trappings of societal proof that our story is real is one of the big lies we think we need to have to authenticate our story. And here is the good, FULL news: our story about who we are, how we live, what we are capable of, and how we want to offer the fullness of ourselves to the world, stand true as long as we say it does.

It does not matter if we have a twitter following the likes of Ashton Kutcher or Facebook traffic that shoot off the graphs. It does not change our story if we get the job, are invited to speak or sell thousands more books. Our story is ours to own, to claim and to live FULLY into. No. Matter. What.

That is worth writing about! Write your story. Reread it often. Listen to the words you chose to describe your power and knowledge, the discoveries you have made and the joys and hurts you have experienced. Be bold in telling it like it is: with all of what has given you the complex, complicated, beautiful, dynamic and wise person you are. Take the space your written story gives you to ponder the character you have developed in you – and Celebrate It Now!
<a href="http://www.hypersmash.com">HyperSmash.com</a>

Mom's Day Fun

This Mother’s Day I celebrate and hopefully say good-bye to, what has been, a Season of Lice; little critters that climbed onto the heads of the blond-haired beauties who share my DNA but none of my dark hues.

It all began when one of my 10 year old twins began complaining about an itchy scalp. Oblivious, I looked through her head, saw nothing and queried her about rinsing out shampoo and conditioner fully. I wasn’t even thinking of lice. That happened to “those other people” who I never considered being among their number. My daughter rededicated herself to rigorous hair-rinsing and the problem was solved. Or so I thought.

Days later driving home from school, the same 10 year old twin said, “Mom, Cynthia told me I had bugs in my hair.”  Slightly perturbed at such audacious words from a young fifth grader, I remained steadfastly ignorant and on to home we went.

As I began putting away bags, backpacks and sweaters, my other twin decided to play gorilla and was intently searching through her sisters’ scalp. The high pitched scream was the first interruption signaling the disruption to come.

“Agh! Oh my god! Mom! Mom! Mom! Bugs are crawling all over her head!”

She was doing the creeped-out –squiggly dance while at the same time shouting at the top of her lungs. The twin with the crawling scalp screamed as well. Mayhem ensued.

Running into the living room I shouted “Stop the screaming! Oh, my gosh,” I lectured, “Do not scream about this,” I repeated several times. There was no cause to bellow, I reasoned, it wouldn’t help anything. I walked over to the now whimpering long haired blond and applied fingers to hair. Pulling away the layers of golden strands, I saw, OH MY GOSH, massive amounts of moving bugs!

I screamed! “Agh! Oh my god! Oh my god!” I screeched, louder than both daughters, who now began to wail. Abandoning any modicum of calm, I yelled to my 13 year old son “bring the ipad! Look up lice! Get me some pictures of lice!” He did and we quickly understood that our day had shifted irrevocably. What we didn’t yet understand was that so would the next two weeks, and on into repeat performances for the next few months.

Moving my fingers through the jungle of her thick hair, I tried to smash, pull or otherwise decimate the nasty little critters while my son read aloud from the CDC website. When he got to “the way they live is by feeding on the blood of the host” my daughter screamed, jerked her head up and away from my hands, catapulting the precariously perched Kleenex full of the culprits into the air and all over the hardwood floor. And so it began.

My husband and I spent the next 4 and-a-half hours shampooing, rinsing and pulling small metal combs from the base of the hair shaft through long lengths of hair that inevitably got caught backwards into the comb. Tangles yanked at our daughters’ scalps (yes, both had the little buggers), and cries and whimpers accompanied the exploits of Alicia Silverstone in Clueless, which we played for distraction. After hours of this intimate, painful, but necessary action, I took one look at my son and said to my husband, “Shave him”.

I have decided that lice are a life lesson. So much of what their presence brings can be applied to a variety of realities that we encounter.

-          Be flexible. Always. Living in a strict routine that speaks of safety and control is a false net of security. It simply does not exist; not in pensions, portfolios, jobs, organizations, memberships, friendships and even marriages. We cannot predict what is going to come at us each day. This uncertainty can be as exciting and full of unknown positives as much as it can bring lice and other unwanted events.

-          Interruptions can offer new perspectives. My kids changed their routine entirely because of the lice. They slept downstairs in make-shift beds and loved every minute of it. It felt like a two week long slumber party. They took on greater responsibility, stripping their beds each day and learning how to start their daily load of laundry. For days they were gentler with one another, carefully checking each other’s heads and assuring that they were “clean”. 

-          Upturning what had previously been static creates a sense of dynamism that we can too easily forget is inspiring and edifying. Lice require a life change: every sheet, pillowcase, linen, towel, hoodie and stuffed animal has to be dealt with. Linens washed and dried every day, stuffed animals bagged and stowed in the garage. The bedrooms stripped bare. In doing all of these chores, we realized how much we had. The kids were reminded of the comforts they had and my husband and I, of the years of love represented by each stuffed creature. Our static routine was no longer, and there was a different level of energy that we shared.

-          Those cultural no-no’s that cause us to feel ashamed and can morph into fears of whispers behind our backs are straw figures. The worry we assign to what other people think, and our good inner power we give away when we do, is a waste of time and energy. Life happens to all of us. The specifics of how it plays out are as much a mystery of unpredictable events as what we think we can make happen. Live your life and don’t worry about the others.

-          When faced with a situation that seems embarrassing, don’t be. Stand tall in your own story and if it carries with it a societal shame card, throw out that deck and make your own. What we fear whispered about us, is often something many people experience. Since our Season of Lice, I have encountered numerous people who’ve had the same story to tell, including Amy Ahlers (Best Selling author of “Big Fat Lies”) and Sheryl Sandberg, COO of Facebook and “Lean In” author.

-          Ultimately  we are not in control, AND, we are made of tougher stuff than we think! 

Thank you, Season of Lice, and Good-bye!

Happy Mother’s Day!

Name Your Label and Live It

Jason Collins is gay, Black and an NBA Pro. After reading his heartfelt, touching article, it seems as though the only label he wants to be known for is the last one.

Words of wisdom, Mr. Collins. As the world weighs in on his choice to “out himself” publicly, he will need all of his FULL strength to maintain it. Already I have read a variety of commentaries lambasting Collins. He made a big deal out of something that ought to be private, seemed to describe himself as “the other kind of gay man” and doesn’t deserve the title of “courageous” because he waited until his career was safe to do it. As long as the story remains in our immediate pop-culture view finders (which we all know won’t be long; short attention span, we Americans), people from a variety of different perspectives will try to foist their idea of what label Mr. Collins ought to accept and they will do so with zealous entitlement.

When I was a pastor, I preached about the importance of naming. Names have deep meaning in scripture and can be powerful clues to the interior message of a text. In the Old Testament story (Numbers 12:1-16) where Miriam was made a leper for her questioning of Moses, while Aaron, her partner in crime, got away clean, her name became a map to a deeper truth. Miriam means bitter, strong, and rebellion, each of which she employed in her interaction with her brother Moses, but not in the traditional telling of her story. Miriam’s name was a key that helped me unlock the power of who she was, as well as the patriarchal preferentiality of the Bible. The take I had on this ancient story was so unique that I earned a top grade from a notably hard professor, thanks to Miriam’s name.

Names are revealing. A few weeks ago I experienced what it was like to be screeched at via email. A former member of my congregation and non-profit had replied to an email in which I had asked why she chose to no longer support the work I was doing, as it continued the good work that she had enjoyed for years. The first sentence of her reply was “You spelled my name wrong AGAIN!! Even though I SIGNED it correctly in the email!!! You, who always said names were so important, spelled it WRONG!” She was right, I had and she was right too, that it was a name I routinely spelled wrong. And yet, there was more going on in that verbal assault than the importance of leaving out or putting in a silent “e”. This time it wasn’t the misspelled name that was the clue, but rather the written temper tantrum around it.

Names inform our identity. They are the manifestation of the invisible umbilical chord that literally connected us to our parents and still does to our heritage, DNA and shared narrative. Yet it isn’t in the spelled name that the story is told, but rather the context in which the name was given and lived-out. Our names expose where we came from, our family systems, how we handle conflict, love and anger and how we were taught to think, believe and relate with others. 

Names are different but similar to labels. Most of us don’t name ourselves any more than we choose the family in which we are born or the belief system or structure of that family. Sometimes we choose labels; usually they are thrust, propelled or thrown over and on us. I was born into Lutheran Christianity. I did not choose that label, even as I became an adult in the church and sought ordination. I would be hard pressed to claim an independent, free-thinking choice of Lutheran Christianity. I was raised in it, taught it from my first day on this earth and breathed it every moment of each day. Choice would mean that I knowingly decided this was my system of belief and faith of preference, on my own through deliberation and study. My narrative doesn’t come close to these criteria. I inherited the belief. And still, in accepting the label, I told a story to anyone who met me, which would then be wrapped up in whatever their name and history informed how they would associate with my label. Phew. Complicated stuff, and when acted out unconsciously, becomes divisive and irresponsible.

We use names and labels as a way to avoid taking responsibility for our grown-up, mature, adult identity.  Both offer us loads of excuses as to why we are the way we are, why our lives turned out how they did, why we run with a certain group or pledge allegiance to another. Labels are a lazy way to shun personal responsibility for the consequences that accompany our memberships and loyalty to groups, organizations, faiths and institutions. They are easy routes to cutting off going down the road of introspection that gives us the power to both love ourselves as well as declare our weaknesses.

Last week while I was speaking to a group of women about the role religion plays in the on-going inequity of women in society, a woman interrupted and said, “But you’re an atheist, right?” If I agreed I was an atheist, my talk would have been more comfortable for her because “atheist” told a story that meant my knowledge, intellect and understanding were not valid, especially when applied to a religious critique. To get me to agree that my label was “atheist” meant she could have distanced herself from the hard reality that the church she loved and the system it perpetuated, devalued women, even today. It was easier to label me than take responsibility for her identity.

My former congregational member used her anger over a misspelled name to distance herself from owning her choices and claiming her identity. It was easier to spew anger at me over a silent “e” than it was to openly admit a change of opinion and place.

Living full of yourself is responsible living. It is growing up. It is to live consciously, fully awake and aware; thinking and choosing who we intend to be and how we will live, relate and believe. To live full is to claim your right to write your history and future, knowingly choose your labels, determine your systems of ordering and take responsibility for the realities that come from it. 

When we agree that our voices alone will label who we are, we can no longer blame or eschew the consequences of those labels and names onto another.

Mr. Collins did right by himself. He chose the time and process for how his news of his sexuality would be known. The “Gay” label is still very much under scrutiny in our world and nation, especially in the machismo arena of sports. It was smart, wise and yes, courageous for Mr. Collins to take control over the information. It is, after all, his life and he is the only one who gets to decide what labels actually fit him. If he wants to primarily celebrate his prowess as NBA Pro that kicks serious fouling ass, that is his FULL prerogative. As a responsible, mature adult living FULLY into himself, he gets to choose and reap the benefits and consequences.

Just like you and me. Live Full!

Religion's Male Preference: Let's Be Honest

Bravo to Sheryl Sandberg risking to live Full of Herself!

I am proud of the controversy stirred up by her best selling book “Lean In”. If you’ve seen her famous TED talk, you’ll recognize much of the book. It expands from those points and offers pages of well researched studies and statistics.

I am so pleased about the fray the book has pulled from the mythic tapestry we have laid over the subject of gender equity. We need some messiness around the topic of what it is honestly like for women in the work force, and in the structures and traditions of our society.  For too long young women, middle-aged and older, have ignored the reality that today, still, in 2013, women are less valued than men. It’s time we talk about it, even when we don’t want to.

This is not a new idea. In fact, it’s knowledge we’ve had and swept under the rug by the very gender stuck with getting rid of dirt we don’t want to see: women. In agreeing to do the clean up for Patriarchy, women have ourselves to blame for being stuck with our hand on the broom handle: and not because we can hop on it and fly away.

In reality, our wings have been clipped, to keep women solidly on the ground of undervalue and underachievement and we have been part of making it happen.

In 1991, after I returned from serving 23 months in the United States Peace Corps, I accepted a job at my alma mater, a university in northwest Washington as Director of Student Activities. Among the speakers we hired during that time was Naomi Wolf, author of the then famous “Beauty Myth”.

As Ms. Wolf sat around a lunch table with me, female faculty and students, she told us about her next project: Women in Leadership and the lack of young women college students who wanted it. Traveling the nation, speaking and listening to women, she was shocked and dismayed to discover that the majority of women had little to no desire to put themselves out as leaders.

I listened with rapt attention. I nearly had to sit on my hands so that I wouldn’t jump up screaming “I want to! I want to lead! I’ve wanted to be President since grade school! I want to be that leader! I have always wanted to be the leader! I do! I do! I do!”

I did and I didn’t. I was President of my university student body; I was a Peace Corps Volunteer in West Africa; I worked in the Clinton Administration; I became an ordained woman pastor. In all these professional roles I reached for justice, founded organizations that sought equality and changed the governing rules of institutions. I have been a leader; strong, smart, assertive, demanding, committed and charismatic. And I have been crucified for it, by men and women alike.

I was first told I had been crucified on the altar of religious patriarchy while living as an intern in Jerusalem. My American supervisor was a frightening, small and insecure man who despised me the minute he greeted me and my husband at the airport. As months went by it became clear that not only would he not be one of the supportive male mentors Sandberg had throughout her career, but the opposite. His goal was to tear me down. Because of his blatant misogynist actions, I was removed from my position in Israel. As one woman said, “You’re being crucified for being a strong, smart woman who refused to take shit.” 

Through my ten plus years as an ordained pastor, I learned that there is a religiosity of male preference and female diminution; God ordained the hierarchy of men over women. This moves the discussion beyond Sandberg’s assumptions, stereotypes and traditions and into a far more complicated source of the inequity: the divine. God, via Bible and other religious holy books, is understood as elevating men and placing women under their rule, while at the same time warning of women’s sexual prowess and a need to be governed, directed and protected by men. As a result, if a woman pastor is outspoken, ambitious, assertive and insists on remaining a woman, being the powerful woman leader “Lean In” hopes for, becomes a religious struggle.

I love being a woman. I love my red lipstick, high platform shoes and pencil skirts. I like my curvaceous body and long, dark curly hair. As a pastor, I didn’t want to tone down or reject my sexuality. I enjoyed the power of my sharp mind and charisma and my easy ability to speak, motivate and inspire. I was and am a natural leader and the young woman who could barely contain herself in the presence of Naomi Wolf didn’t contain it as a pastor, which led to the end of my leading in organized religion.

In the church there were not male colleagues who gave me a hand up or encouraged my voice. There were not women who joined me in my quest to create an equal place for honest female leadership in the church or in exploring gender neutral language and naming of the divine. In the church, the type of powerful woman I was and would not reduce, was not welcomed. The divinely ordained teaching that women are beneath men is ingrained deep in our collective psyche and is the root of all the weedy blossoms of gender inequity. 

“Lean In” nudges up to the truth that most women who do want to be leaders don’t often make it, but it never fully digs down deep as to why. Religion is not mentioned once as a part of the problem. Sandberg gets a lot right in “Lean In” and still, there is much she does not even broach. Finally, it needs to be said that women do want to lead. There are other women, young, middle and old, who like me, can barely contain our desire to do so. The reality is, however, that the “right timing” or “well placed mentors” along the career route that Sandberg experienced, are rare. For many of us who are in male dominated professions, being a strong woman leader can be the death knoll of our very intention to do so. Simply wanting to be the woman leader is not enough to make it happen, and not only because of conflicts between motherhood and marriage, but because of the deeply seeded belief that women should not rise so high.

We need this book. We need this discussion. We need to disagree, feel uncomfortable and courageously look at our complicity in the reality of what “Lean In” reminds us: women are not equally valued, do not have equal opportunity or choice. Together we need to unearth the roots of Patriarchy, face the truth of religion’s role in it, and move forward to replant the ground of our practices with seeds of balance and equity.