"So what are you now? You've changed."

I’m a liberal. I’m a conservative. I’m pro-life. I’m pro-choice. I’m pro-abortion. I’m anti-woman. I’m anti-baby. I’m anti-adoption. I’m pro-adoption. I'm too secular. I’m evangelical. I’m damned to hell. I’m leading others astray. I’m progressive. I’m not progressive enough.

It’s amazing what my more controversial blog posts have led folks to say, huh?

If they aren’t outright labeling me, people are asking questions. Am I still a conservative Christian? Am I still evangelical? Am I a secular humanist now? Am I a Democrat? Am I a Republican? Am I still pro-life if I’m voting for Hillary? Am I still a Christian at all, if I hold the stances I’ve made public lately?

I find the conversation and questions to be a bit curious. For starters, very few people have asked these questions of me before now. Previously, it was just fine as long as I kept my mouth shut. I’m not sure if assumptions were made about my beliefs or if a don’t ask don’t tell sort of policy was in place.

I’m done with silence, though. And I’m done with letting people assume a false reality about me. I’m using my voice faithfully and honestly and vulnerably, even when it might get me in trouble. (As I recall, some religious folks weren't too keen on Jesus after all. So the cries to metaphorically crucify me for speaking truth and justice and love as I try to be more like him? I'm not intimidated by those.)

I will answer any questions that you have, but I won’t answer questions about labels. If you ask me “am I evangelical?” I will probably ask you what you mean by that. I would say that I absolutely am, in that I believe that we are called as Christians to evangelize, to share the gospel with a world that needs good news, and to represent Jesus in a way that makes others want to know him. I believe we all need the light and hope and healing God offers as we often chase after things he never intended for us.

But if you mean evangelical as in the way that I vote or the way that I treat a certain demographic or the rules I adhere to concerning who is and isn’t welcome in this Christian club of ours, then I don’t think that I am an evangelical after all. (I’m not alone in shrugging off this title. I recently signed this evangelical statement against Trump’s campaign. Even Russell Moore recently wrote about how this election cycle has him hesitant to self-describe as an evangelical.)

So am I an evangelical? I say yes. You might say no. And that’s why I’m going to ask for clarification the next time someone asks me where I set up camp.

Please, don’t think I’m being snarky here. I understand that theology and stances matter, especially coming from someone who might be inviting me to speak at their conference or partner with their organization on a writing project. I get that you might need to check some things with me. I am more than happy to offer answers toward that end. But I don't think labels serve us well or offer the clarity we want.

The second reason this discussion is curious to me is that none of my recent stances or posts are anything new. I haven’t voiced them, but I have believed them long before going public. Nothing is new here, except for my decision to be vocal on less than safe topics.

So if you felt like I was acceptable or well-reasoned or worth reading before, well, then that’s still me. Nothing has changed there. If you thought I was a woman of God, seeking his wisdom through a regular rhythm of scripture reading, prayer, and worship, none of that is different. (If anything, I'm spending more meaningful time in those practices now.) If you felt like I was adept at expressing why the inclusion of people with disabilities and mental illness in the church isn’t just a social issue but is one that is tied to the very essence of what we believe about Christ and whether or not we treat his words like they are really true, I’m still that person. 

I get that I have outed myself as not aligning myself with some people’s versions of what Christianity is, of how Christians should vote, of who Christians should love, of what Christians should say about race, and of how Christians should treat the LGBTQ+ community, but I believed all those things before. Reading between the lines of my posts, you’ll see that. If you look into my friends, you’ll see that. If you ask my neighbors, you’d know that.

I haven’t hidden my beliefs completely, but I held them quietly. I did it out of fear, out of privilege, out of a desire to not rock the boat for the church I used to attend and the ministry for which I used to work, out of the intent to speak to the broadest groups of Christians with a message of inclusion for people with disabilities… but I’m done being quiet. I’m done standing by when I see people justify, invoking Christ’s name, stances that I oppose because of my Christian faith. I’m done being a white Christian who, in the words of Jim Wallis, embraces being white more than being Christian. I’m done shrinking to make others more comfortable and to avoid controversy. I’m done saying this doesn’t affect me, because as a member of humanity, it does.

I can handle disagreements. I can take questions. I’m even okay with criticism.

But this is me, and it’s always been me. So, please, don’t try to back me into a neat box or tidy category. I don’t think it works when we try to do that to God, shaping him in our image instead of seeing everyone as crafted in his. And I don’t think setting up divisions and persisting in who’s-in-and-who’s-out thinking serves Christ or his church well.

Since my first political post went semi-viral around the same time that we switched from a Southern Baptist church to a United Methodist one, the backlash from all sides has been a little overwhelming. My conservative friends (and strangers) have said that I'm not one of them anymore, while my progressive friends are ready to welcome me in open arms to their side. Meanwhile, I'm not comfortable with either, nor am I convinced that we do the church any good by dividing ourselves into such dichotomous camps. Some real fallout has occurred in relationships and opportunities, but I don't regret anything I've written or said.

This is me. Someone recently suggested that I was trying to be the next Jen Hatmaker or Rachel Held Evans, but that’s not true or fair (though I have been moved by the words of both of those fabulous women). I’m simply trying to be the most honest and authentic Shannon Dingle as I can be as I follow the one true God who has transformed and continues to transform my heart to be more like his.

I love Jesus, and I love people. That’s enough labeling for me. 

a big change for our family

I have loved my church for a decade. I still love it. 

But we’ve been visiting another church for a few weeks. We’re not sure it’s home, but it’s feeling right for now. We’re being loved well by the people there and being fed God’s word.

You might be wondering, weren’t you being loved and taught well at your other church? Yes. We wouldn’t have been there for 11 years if that weren’t true. 

This shift happened fast, much faster than we expected. Church friends, we genuinely wish we could have told everyone ourselves, as we know hearing about this on social media instead of from me will sting if we’re close.

I’m truly sorry for that.

As we just officially communicated to all the Access Ministry families and volunteers about our transition yesterday, we know this sort of news will spread quickly. I’d rather put the news out there from me in this impersonal way rather than have you hear it from someone else.  

Why? That’s a valid question, and the answer is complex. (Again, let me say that we love our church. If you’re hoping for juicy gossip behind this change, you won’t find it.) The three basic reasons are racial representation, sensory issues, and adoption transitions:

• Racial representation: When we joined our church, we were newly married white couple. Now we’re a multiracial family by transracial adoption, with half our family made up of people of color. A few of our non-white children are struggling with feeling like church isn’t a place for them because they don’t see people in leadership who look like them. With racial tensions in this country at an all time high in our lifetimes, we’ve decided it isn’t healthy to raise our children - two white, three black, and one Asian - in a church whose leadership and membership is more white than their school, their city, or the faces that influence them from their favorite TV shows. Lee and I both consider our faith to be more central to our identity than education or politics or entertainment, so it hasn’t sat well with us to know that they see people like them front and center in those arenas but not the one that matters most to us.

• Sensory issues: One of our children is being evaluated right now for what we expect to be labeled as high functioning autism. One way this shows up is sensory overload. For the past year, we’ve been realizing that church literally hurts for him. The sounds, lights, and chaos of a larger church environment are experienced as pain by this child. Our church has accommodated us the best they can (I even wrote about it here), but we’ve seen this kiddo grow to hate church. All the accommodations we can offer simply haven't been enough. In three visits to a smaller church, though, we’ve seen a huge change in this kid’s attitude on Sundays, both before and after church. Even Saturday night was easier last weekend. Meanwhile, I pulled into our long-time church’s parking lot for a quick stop a week or so ago, and he started rocking back and forth, covering his ears, and crying, whimpering that he “didn’t want to go into the big loud church.” That was the moment for us that made us decided to have a faster transition that we planned. We’d hoped to alternate between churches for a while as we sought discernment from God. That’s clearly not going to be wise. Furthermore, our son's reaction offered the confirmation we needed to keep moving forward with this change.

• Adoption transition: Honestly, we didn’t even see this need until we talked to one of our children after the first time visiting the church we’re currently attending. One of our kids who was adopted at an older age feels like everyone in the old Sunday school class knows their adoption story and remembers when they weren’t in our family. That’s mostly true. Our church friends and their kids - our kids’ future classmates - were excited for us through the adoption process. We were loved. All our kids were celebrated. This was good and right and wonderful (in other words, you did nothing wrong, my friends!), but it created a consequence we didn't expect for some of our darlings' tender hearts. After one visit at this new church, one child told me, “Mommy, I like that no one at this new church knew our family before I was in it.” Wow. We talked about that a little more as a family. I realized that this was a big deal not only to her but another one of our kiddos. Because of adoption and race and disability and other factors, a lot of our kids will experience being othered: treated as different or as if they don’t belong somewhere. If we can minimize a small bit of that, we think that’s worthwhile.

What about families affected by disability at the church we’re leaving? First, let me be direct: we’re confident that Access Ministry wasn’t about us. It wasn’t led by us. It wasn’t centered in us. It is and has always been God’s. As we have seen this coming, albeit more slowly, we have been intentional to raise up leaders to step up in our absence. We are sure this area of ministry will continue, and if you are at that church, the family discipleship team there can answer any questions you have about the transition. But second, we want to share here that leaving Access Ministry is the most heartbreaking part of this transition for us. I love the children and families we serve, as well as the sweet servants who serve alongside Zoe to include her well in her classes. As I said in emails to those groups last night, each of you is one of the reasons we’ve wrestled long with God over this, in hopes of finding a way to stay. While we know this ministry will outlast us, we are grieving over leaving it. 

Why are we sharing this publicly? To be clear, we are not trying to malign our church or create dissent. Also, none of this is brand-new news to our leadership, as we’ve worked with the family discipleship team at our first church to make for a smooth transition. (And we have been so loved by them in that process!) But simply put, we’re a public family. I’m a public speaker at ministry conferences. Before making this move, I had to communicate with a few organizers who have scheduled me to speak at upcoming events in case a change in churches would lead them to change those plans. (If so, we would have respected those changes but not changed what our family is choosing.) 

And? There’s always a chance God could lead us back to the church where two newlyweds found a home eleven years ago. I do see an increased willingness there lately to wrestle with issues around race in a way we didn’t used to. For that, I am thankful. Perhaps the racial make-up of leadership will change in time too. Additionally, the new building plan will result in different acoustics and a different flow that might be received differently by our child with sensory struggles. Perhaps God is leading us away for a season, only to bring us back again someday in the future. We don't know. We don't have to know. Honestly, I don’t really think that’s how this will play out, but we’re open to whatever God’s plan is for our family. We can say for sure that we won’t church-shop for long as we don’t believe that to be biblical or wise. Church membership matters to us.

For now, please pray for us. 

Please don’t worry that our relationships will end when our church membership does. We continue to love the church we’re leaving, and we know our friendships aren’t so fickle that a change in churches will end them.

Please ask any questions you might have. I’d prefer to do so privately. We don’t have any secrets, but I feel like I’ve probably said all I’m going to say publicly here. That said, I don’t want anyone making false assumptions, so ask away. We’ll do our best to offer answers or explain why we’re not comfortable doing so (for example, if it would be sharing too much of a child’s story than we consider fair).

Please trust us when we say this is good and right and positive, even as it is sad and hard and challenging too. 

Please pray for our kids, for whom this change is beneficial but who have already experienced more change in their short lives than anyone should have to.

And please join us in being excited. As hard as this is, we believe God is writing a new chapter in our family’s story. How cool is that?!