Why didn't she come forward before now?

I hear it again and again and again.

Why the allegations now?

Why didn’t she say she was raped back when it happened?

How can we believe her, especially when her name isn’t even public?

My rapes were very real. My rapist lives free. No charges were ever filed. I tried to tell some adults in my life, but they didn’t want to hear it.

And? For the past couple of decades, I’ve tried to pretend what happened to me didn’t matter, doesn’t matter. But it did. And it does.

Even if the allegations are never voiced, they bubble up in other ways. Perfectionism. Promiscuity. Alcoholism. Depression. Repeated abusive relationships. Self injury. Drug abuse. Suicide attempts. You see, the pain has to go somewhere.

And healing? Healing from sexual assault is a lot like a prolonged version of pouring hydrogen peroxide on a wound. Sure, it cleans out the dirt and debris and other unhealthy gunk, but it hurts like hell in the process. And it doesn’t mean a scar won’t be left behind.

I posted about a rape allegation against a presidential candidate yesterday, and the chorus of accusation-questioning and victim-blaming began. (I’ve been following this case for months, but I didn’t post about it until now because I couldn’t bear to read these sorts of comments.)

Why didn’t she come forward sooner?

Doesn’t this seem opportunistic?

Who is paying her to say these things?  

When someone accuses another of robbery, we don’t see these questions. We don’t ask what they were wearing, why they were hanging out with the types of people who rob others, if they said no clearly… no, we understand that it’s a violation when someone steals someone else’s wallet.

But when a man violates the body of a woman, all of a sudden her credibility is the primary concern.

When I was in elementary school and a boy from my speech therapy group grabbed my hand and put it on his crotch? I was told I shouldn’t have been on the corner of the playground where adults couldn’t see well, the implication that my location stripped me of the right to be safe from sexual harassment.

When I was in sixth grade and a boy on my bus rubbed his hand on my rear or between my legs as I walked by? I was told I needed to sit closer to the front of the bus so he wouldn’t be tempted, the implication that I somehow asked for the attention as I walked by.

When I was in eighth grade and was caught kissing my boyfriend in the schoolyard after the final bell? The teacher lectured me about how I should have known better without saying a word to the boy, the implication that boys will be boys but girls have to be better.

When I was in high school and went to my friends’ youth group? I heard lessons on sexual purity about how guys are visual creatures so it’s the responsibility of young ladies not to be teases who lead them on, the implication that if anything happened sexually – with or without consent – the girl was to blame.

And those lessons don’t include the words said to me by an adult when she found out about the first time I was molested: “Things like this don’t happen to good girls.”

And those lessons don’t include what I learned with each rape: “Your body can be taken from you at any moment.”

These lessons, they’re taught young. They make up rape culture. And they don’t even include the comments we read about victims, the questions about credibility, the way they’re put on trial as much as the offender. This misplaced blame grows into something more insidious: shame.

Truth says what happened to you was disgusting. Shame says you’re disgusting because of what happened to you.

Truth says this is one part of your life story. Shame says this defines your life story.

Truth says even when trauma was caused in the context of a relationship, healing is found in relationship too. Shame says no one can ever know what happened and still love you.

Truth says the offender did a bad thing. Shame says you, as the victim, are a bad thing.

Why don’t women come forward earlier? Because speaking this truth is hard, and because shame runs deep. Because investigations include invasive exams that are often retraumatizing. Because sharing the details of what happened to me with my husband and therapist is hard enough, but doing so with officers and lawyers and other strangers makes me want to throw up. Because justice might be no jail time at all or such a measly sentence that it feels like a whole ‘nother assault. Because sexual predators often seek out kids and adults who lack the internal and external supports to fight back, both during the assault and afterward.

Fighting shame and speaking truth requires others. We can’t do it alone. My people – my husband and those close friends who believe me and believe in me – are God’s ambassadors to my hurting heart when I’m swallowed by the pain of my past. But everyone doesn’t have people like mine. And that’s part of why every victim doesn’t become a survivor. Suicide, overdose, homicide, and so on… that’s the end of too many of our stories, far more statistically than the general population.

So why didn't she come forward before now? I don't know her exact reasons. I do know mine. But, honestly, I think we should all be amazed – given our culture – that any victims ever come forward instead of questioning those who do. 

"You aren't pro-life anymore, are you?" they ask.

Back in the earliest days of my blogging, I wrote that abortion was the single most important position for me in voting decisions. It seems I’m not the only one. According to Gallup polling, 21% of voters say that a candidate must share their view on abortion to get their vote (and it goes up to 23% if you’re pro-life). Another 46% say that abortion is one of many important factors in making their voting choices.

If this issue matters to you, you’re not alone.

I don’t want to argue who is or isn’t pro-life in this post. I’ve previously blogged about my position there. Instead, I want to dig deeper into the issue at hand. What are we talking about when we discuss abortion in politics?

I mean, really, can we pause to talk about the issue? I mean, without yelling and formulating responses before we even listen? I’ve put my thoughts out there in some less conventional ways lately, and the backlash has been ugly. I’m not talking about dialogue and debate. That’s healthy. I’m talking about name-calling and insults and attacks.

The debates and dialogue? They’ve pushed me to research more deeply and think more critically. The insults and attacks? They’ve helped me discern where boundaries are needed when people have revealed the limits of their grace with me.

Both have had their benefits. But can we all agree, as we move forward, that debates and dialogue are preferable? We don’t all have to agree, but we can disagree without being disagreeable. I know we can. I’m sure of it.

Now, onward…

Who is getting abortions?

Generally speaking, low-income women are. In 2014, 75% of those getting abortions fit in that category (with 49% below the poverty level and 26% below 200% of the poverty line). This is why I strongly advocate for supports for those in economic distress. If abortion is a symptom of poverty, then we ought to target the cause, right? That makes sense to me.

While reducing teenage pregnancy rates is necessary for a variety of reasons, that demographic makes up fewer abortions than I would have guessed prior to digging into the numbers. Only 12% of those getting abortions in 2014 were teens, with only 4% being teens under age 18. Obviously, we shouldn’t abandon our efforts to continue these decreases, but 96% of those getting abortions are adults, with 88% age 20 or older.

I could continue to break down the trends for you, but here’s a helpful fact sheet for that. My purpose here isn’t to rehash all the current figures when those are readily available elsewhere.  

Are abortion rates dropping? Why or why not?

Abortion rates are decreasing, and that’s something to celebrate. No one thinks abortion is ideal, even if they don’t share my view that life is created at conception and should be protected from the womb to the tomb. When abortion becomes less common, we can call that good together, even if we disagree on political approaches, right?

In 1991, the rate of abortion was 26.3 per 1000 women, but by 2011 that had dropped to 16.9. And the ratio of abortions per live births is dropping too, from 27.3 abortions per 100 live births in 1991 to 21.2 abortions per 100 live births in 2011. By every measure, abortions are becoming rarer, as well as safer for the mother.

Are stricter laws behind the change? No. This decrease is happening both in states that have enacted stricter laws and those who haven’t.

Charmaine Yoest, president of Americans United for Life and a woman who I highly respect (having met her in DC this past January when we both spoke at the Evangelicals for Life conference), suggested that this is due to changing attitudes about life and abortion. I do think that’s part of it. More Americans called themselves pro-life in the past few years than ever before since Roe v Wade.

But that trend has shifted, with last year’s Gallup poll showing that for the first time in seven years, more Americans identify as pro-choice than pro-life. (That said, we’re still falling within the historical trends for both views.) Yet abortion rates are still dropping. So I don’t think an attitudinal shift fits as the primary force behind this good news.  

Returning to the issue of state laws, Yoest’s organization has been a driving force behind abortion restrictions, yet the only states with increases – Michigan and Louisiana – restricted abortion and yet saw their rates rise. In fact, 5 of the 6 states with the largest recent decreases in abortion rates were blue states in which few abortion restrictions exist and pro-life sentiment is lower than the rest of the country.

So what are these states doing differently?

Simple: They’re providing comprehensive sex education shown to decrease unexpected pregnancy rates, they’re offering supports to those in need so that raising a child (or another child) is more feasible economically, and they’re ensuring access to birth control which can prevent unplanned pregnancies. (In fact, all states are under the Affordable Care Act. Research shows that universal health care coverage leads to lower abortion rates, and increased access to birth control – especially more effective longer lasting kinds - lowers abortion rates). I consider these to be pro-life policies, as they both affirm born lives and reduce abortions of unborn lives.

(Side note: I’m not opposed to abstinence, as some accuse when I’m talking about contraception rates. My husband and I both received comprehensive sex education – including but not limited to abstinence – in our youth, which we found helpful. We both chose not to have sex prior to our honeymoon, based on our religious convictions, believing that the Bible teaches that sex is intended within the boundaries of a committed marriage. Those beliefs haven’t changed. But I don’t see how keeping kids ignorant by limiting their sex education to abstinence makes sense. Research supports that, showing that comprehensive sex education is more effective in reducing teenage pregnancies, abortions, and STIs than abstinence education alone. The data is overwhelming, so I can’t link it all. You can start by reading this and this and this and this and this and this.)

In other words, these states aren’t focusing on the where and how of abortion. They’re targeting the why. And they’re changing that, through economic, educational, medical, and social means. (Thankfully, this can continue to happen no matter who is elected president, though I don’t see much hope in the Supreme Court making a significant change here. Even if Roe were overturned, the issue would revert to the states. The most effective pro-life government actions, like the Prevention First Act, aim to reduce abortions by preventing unplanned pregnancies. Again, it’s changing the why that brings change, not attacking the where, when, or how.)

What about birth rates?

As I mentioned above, some anti-abortion advocates are arguing that abortion rates are dropping because more women are pro-life. But if more women were choosing life, then birth rates would be rising. They aren’t. In fact, they’re dropping, starting in 2008 as our country hit hard economic times.

The drop in birth rates is a contributing factor to the reduction in abortions, of course. If fewer women are getting pregnant, fewer will seek abortions. That’s basic math. But abortion rates are falling more than birth rates, so something else is going on.

(For example, from peaks in 1991 and 1988 respectively to 2010, teenage birth rates dropped 44% while teenage abortion rates dropped 66%. We expect to see those drop in unison, though the greater drop in abortion is greater than birth rates, so other factors seem to be at play here. Research shows that sexual activity among teens didn’t decrease in these time periods, though, so that’s not it.)

Birth control is a considerable factor here, along with other methods of family planning (and, for teens, a delayed start of sexual activity compared to the past). Some anti-abortion advocates argue that birth control isn’t as effective as abstinence. That’s true. But 68% of women at risk of pregnancy use birth control consistently. Those women only account for 5% of all unexpected pregnancies. Meanwhile, 18% of women of childbearing age use birth control inconsistently. They make up 41% of unplanned pregnancies. Finally, 14% of women use no birth control or take long gaps in use. The most unintended pregnancies – 54% - are to those women. In other words, if education, supports, and access were improved for the small subgroups of women who aren’t using any birth control and who use it inconsistently, then we could reduce the vast majority of unintended pregnancies.

I often hear my pro-life friends argue that abstinence is better than birth control because birth control can fail, even among those who use it perfectly. But when we only teach and promote abstinence, what happens when that fails? More unplanned pregnancies are the end result there than when birth control fails. In that 14% of women who take no birth control, leading to 54% of unplanned pregnancies, some of them were following a path of abstinence. So it would be just as logical, then, to argue that the failure rate of abstinence is concerning too.

Giving kids only one tool for avoiding pregnancy doesn’t mean they’ll use it; it just means their toolbox will only include one possible strategy.

Giving kids knowledge about ways to protect themselves against STIs and unwanted pregnancies doesn’t make them promiscuous; it makes them better educated. How is that a bad thing?

But don’t pro-choice folks want abortion up to 40 weeks of pregnancy?

Well, first, the pro-choice group isn’t monolithic, much like the pro-life group isn’t. I can’t honestly say that all pro-choice advocates oppose this, just like I can’t honestly say that all pro-life advocates oppose charging mothers with a crime if they get an abortion. Outliers in both camps hold extreme positions. That’s true of any issue. (And I’ve written and spoken out about those extreme anti-life folks who even suggest that post-birth abortion is a good choice.)

But this question is based in propaganda instead of reality. It’s easy to say anyone who voted against bans on partial birth or late term abortions is a monster who wants to kill babies. It’s harder to dig into the issue further, to discover that most of those votes were cast out of a concern for maternal or fetal health, as such bans lacked provisions for those abortions to be an option in cases in which the mother’s health is in jeopardy or the unborn baby is diagnosed with a serious fetal abnormality.

(And? I don’t really understand why we’re discussing partial birth abortions. They’re illegal. They were banned in 2003, with the Supreme Court upholding that in 2007.)

The reality is that 2/3 of abortions are before the gestational age of 8 weeks, according to the CDC. More than 90% are before 13 weeks. Only 1.3% of abortions are after 21 weeks, most occurring before 24 weeks. In 1997 – before the partial birth abortion ban – 0.08% of abortions were after 24 weeks; with changes in laws, I expect it would be lower now, though figures are hard to find. In other words, we’re talking about 1,000 deaths a year in this manner. Is that a tragedy worth discussing? Yes. But in the scheme of the more than 1 million abortions each year, why are our debates focusing on this sliver of cases, particularly when they’re more likely to involve significant fetal diagnoses incompatible with life, babies who aren’t expected to live no matter what?

Wait, I thought you advocated against abortions due to disability?

I do. My husband and I were never in that position (and we won’t be, as we opted for the permanent birth control method of a vasectomy for him a few years back), but we talked about what we would do. We both feel strongly that we’d carry a baby to term, even if he or she had a condition incompatible with life. I was moved by Angie Smith’s powerful book I Will Carry You about their family’s experience with that decision. But? As strongly as I believe that any viable pregnancy – including those in which a disability is present – should be carried to full term, I believe that there is no single right answer when an unborn baby receives a diagnosis that is fatal.

To me, it’s similar to when a family decides to pull the plug on life-sustaining machines for a loved one relying on them. Some families choose to make that decision right away. Some families hold out for a while. Each has their own unique reasons. The difference here is that the womb is the life-sustaining vessel for the baby who is expected to die before birth or very shortly thereafter.

Do some miracles happen in which a child lives much longer than expected? Certainly. Can every single day and moment be precious then? Definitely (and the story of Eliot, my friends Matt and Ginny’s son, proves that). Do some miracles happen in which a person is unplugged from life-giving machines and then is able to live without those helps? Sure. Do most families who choose to keep their loved one plugged in longer say that the extra time was valuable to them? Yes.

But these are painful and personal decisions. Just because I would make one choice doesn’t mean I think it’s the only acceptable option. Stories like this and this and this and more demonstrate the agony of these decisions. It’s not easy peasy like some make it all sound.

But I do know and love some precious children who were declared to have conditions incompatible with life but who didn’t die. Their parents chose to continue the pregnancy. They were born. And they are delightful children! Yes, they live with disabilities, but that isn’t a measure of their worth, is it? That isn’t a measure of whether or not they deserve life, is it? Can you look at this joyful child of mine and say that her chair or diagnosis of cerebral palsy means her value is diminished?

We chose her name carefully. Zoe means life. Amanda means worthy of love. We knew the world might try to tell her lies about who she is, so we wanted even her own name to declare that she is a life worthy of love, no matter what anyone else says.

And I know there are people who argue that her quality of life isn’t enough. They look at her wheelchair and shake their heads. The last neurologist to review her records prior to our adoption said, “This child will be horribly devastating.” But they are wrong. Zoe Amanda is more than enough, she rocks her wheelchairs, and no one has ever thought of her as horribly devastating since those awful words were spoken.

We need to change how we think and talk about people with disabilities. But we don’t change these perceptions through law. No, hearts are changed in other ways.

Consider, for example, the rates of abortion for unborn babies with prenatal diagnoses of Down syndrome or other disabilities. I’ve written about this in depth previously. It’s not okay with me that unborn babies diagnosed with Down syndrome are nearly twice as likely to be aborted as those without such a diagnosis. In the most recent comprehensive research review on the topic, the author wrote, “Evidence also suggests that termination rates have decreased in recent years, which may reflect progress in medical management for individuals with Down syndrome and advances in educational, social, and financial support for their families.” He elaborated in an interview with The Atlantic,

“Families have significantly more educational, social, and financial support than they had in the past. For example, from a social standpoint, women of childbearing age are from perhaps the first generation who grew up in an era where individuals with Down syndrome were in their schools or daycare centers — perhaps not the mainstream integration that we see today, but still a level of exposure that was very different than in generations prior. They grew up watching kids with Down syndrome on Sesame Street.”

In other words, it isn’t laws or court rulings that are decreasing abortion rates for children with prenatally diagnosed disabilities. It’s policies and programs available – from medical care to education to social supports and more – that affirm their lives after they are born. When we show that there are places in our country in which people with disabilities are welcome and loved, expectant parents feel more confident in choosing life instead of abortion when faced with a diagnosis for their unborn child.

So what does this all mean politically?

Under Democrat administrations, abortion rates have dropped. And the myth that a Republican president will end abortion or overturn Roe v Wade? Well, it’s been 45 years. In that time, we’ve seen 9 Republican House majorities, 10 Senate majorities, and 5 terms of Republican president. And? None have been successful in ending abortion. We’re insisting on doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. That’s insanity, not wisdom.

The reality is that 1 in 5 pregnancies ended in abortion in 2011. That’s tragic. I’m not okay with that. But I want us to have real conversations about this instead of clinging to sound bites or repeating failed methods. Politically, I don’t think either side has it right.

(And Christians? Of those abortions, 17% are to women who identify as mainline Protestants, 13% to evangelical Protestants, and 24% to Catholics. As we’re railing against the world, more unborn babies are dying in our wombs than in those outside our faith.)

In other words, I’m not writing this to tell you which way to vote. I’m not writing this to champion a party or candidate. I’m not writing this to point to any side as having it right. I’m writing this to encourage us all to dig deeper and talk about the substance of the issue instead of the sound bites.

So are you pro-life or not?

I’ve written about how I reject most labels. I still do. But pro-life is one that I will always claim. I am pro-life. Or, more accurately, I am pro-lives.

I believe the life in the womb is valuable. I believe the life of the infant is valuable. I believe the lives of refugees is valuable. I believe the hundreds of lives lost in Haiti and dozens lost in the US in the recent hurricane are valuable. I believe the lives of people of color are valuable. (And I believe Black Lives Matter.) I believe the lives of immigrants are valuable. I believe the lives of people are valuable, regardless of their abilities or disabilities. I believe the lives of pregnant women are valuable. I believe the lives of our LGBTQ+ friends valuable. I believe the lives of Muslims are valuable.

I believe our value rests in our shared humanity, not what we do and who we love and where we live and who we worship and what our abilities are. If that makes me radical, so be it.

And I believe the life of Donald Trump and the life of Hillary Clinton are valuable – not because of what they’ve done but because God created each of them with intent – which is why I will criticize their words or positions when warranted but will never engage in hateful rhetoric or name calling against either. Doing so would devalue their lives. Doing so would make it clear that I am only situationally pro-life.

No, I’m pro-life. Period. Full stop.

I would like to be able to vote for someone who believes in the value of all lives from the womb to the tomb, and both major party candidates fail to meet that standard. I am grieved by the lives lost to abortion, and I disagree with those who dismiss those as less than anyone else’s life. I am grieved by the stance that says abortion has to be our primary issue in voting, though, because it treats born lives as less valuable than those in the womb.

(Side note: on that last point, I am particularly pained by these attitudes from evangelicals. I can’t fathom how we expect those who don’t believe in Christ to hear from us that God loves them as we vote against their care and rights, upholding the lives of the unborn as being more worthy of our attention and advocacy and votes than they are. My heart hurts when we rally for kids like Zoe to be born but then don’t rally for their care and education and dignity as fellow image bearers of God. This shows a hole in the gospel we’re presenting.)

I think parts of the Republican platform affirm life and other parts deny it. I think parts of the Democrat platform affirm life and other parts deny it. My pro-life stance is a major reason why I’m unaffiliated with either party.

I’ve shared previously who I’m voting for and why, but that’s not what this post is about. This post is about showing how much more complex the issue of abortion is than either party would have us believe. Pro-life and pro-choice, anti-abortion and pro-abortion, and any other labels you’d like to use all exist on a spectrum. No political party has the market cornered on life.

So what am I? I’m #prolives.

I am #prolives. I won’t exalt one group of lives over another. At times, I will have to make hard choices when I vote, because I rarely see a holistically #prolives candidate on my ballot.

Please, as you vote and advocate and use your voice in all the beautiful ways you can, remember that we’re all in this together.

The lives of those who agree with you? They’re sacred. The lives of those who disagree with you? They’re sacred. The lives of those who share your passion? They’re sacred. The lives of those who are apathetic to what you value? They’re sacred. The lives yet to born? They’re sacred. The lives already born? They’re sacred.

My life? It’s sacred.

Your life? It’s sacred.

Let us treat one another as sacred beings, acting in a #prolives way of living and loving.  

Why the outrage now? And what can we do next?

By now, you’ve heard Trump’s latest scandal. His words led me to make the image below and post it – along with my personal story of sexual assault – on Facebook. And then I took a Xanax, because his words plus my own PTSD created a physiological anxiety that couldn’t be quelled without pharmaceutical help.

That post been shared thousands of times now, and I’ve had to ban nearly 100 people from my author page for horribly disrespectful comments, most in defense of Trump. Let me repeat that: After I shared a painfully vulnerable history, a variety of Trump supporters chose to argue against my experience and, in a couple dozen of those comments, personally insult me.

I’m not shocked, though I wish I were. But I am confused, not by the comments but by the newly found outrage about Trump’s most recently released misogyny. Where was this before now?

Trump has said other terrible things about women, both in recent news breaks and older stories. In fact, a rape case against Trump – with a 13 year old victim – goes to court in December. So why the new outrage now? Why are the numbers rising of Republicans and Christians denouncing him?

I’m thankful for the Christians who had already said no way to Trump. I signed this statement. I said no to him from the beginning. I stand by that. I still do. (And I think it’s noteworthy that the signatories on that statement are more diverse on many counts, including gender and race, than those often seen in evangelical leadership, but I’ll get to more on that in a moment.)

This week Beth Moore spoke out. I thanked her. Russell Moore continued to speak out. I thanked him again, having done so in person previously. Others are joining them, while some – like Franklin Graham and James Dobson and Eric Metaxas – have sunk in their heels. (I’ll gladly update this post if any of those back down; Metaxas has deleted his initial tweet dismissing the latest scandalous words from the candidate he’s endorsed, so I'm hopeful.)

And then Wayne Grudem, who endorsed Trump as the moral choice for president, took back those words. He admitted,

“Some may criticize me for not discovering this material earlier, and I think they are right. I did not take the time to investigate earlier allegations in detail, and I now wish I had done so. If I had read or heard some of these materials earlier, I would not have written as positively as I did about Donald Trump.”

I am thankful Grudem has withdrawn his support. I’m even more thankful that he admitted he should have done more research before his prior endorsement. He could have retreated from his previous stance with less humility than that.

But? Many sound responses to Grudem’s piece existed well before this week. (The seven I’m linking here are just a few.) Grudem had the opportunity to right his wrong. And he didn’t. Not until now. Why? I’m glad we’re finally collectively saying, “That’s enough,” but why wait so long, after evangelical support for Trump has already tarnished our reputation?

Why is this our breaking point?

Here’s the main difference I see: now the people targeted by Trump's words have my fair skin. These Christian leaders look like me or my husband. In other words, they’re white. They keep talking about their wives or sisters or daughters, who are also white. Now that white women are being debased with his verbal abuse, we relate. We care. We empathize.

In other words, this time we consider the victims of his hate speech and his sexual assaults to be our neighbors, because they look like us. (And, yes, sexual assaults. That is, after all, what his words described.)

Those who he’s previously insulted and verbally defiled – Mexicans and other Latinos. People of color. Those with disabilities. Muslims. Refugees. – don’t look like us or our daughters, sisters, wives, and mothers. And so? Because we’ve defined them as the other, we don’t relate. We don’t care, not in such a personal way. We don’t empathize. We simply change the channel or say, “but abortion…” as if these other lives don’t matter to us too.

In other words, those other times we didn’t consider the victims of his hate speech and his verbal assaults to be our neighbors, because they aren’t like us.

“Who is my neighbor?” a lawyer asked Christ in an exchange recorded in Luke 10.

Jesus didn’t answer that his neighbor is his mother or wife or daughter or sister. No, Jesus offers a story of an injured man on the side of the road, a brutalized victim belonging to a group considered to be different and other and less than and dirty. The priest wouldn’t touch him because doing so would have made him unclean and would have required a return to the temple to cleanse himself. He couldn’t be bothered. Likewise, the Levite passed by.

Then the Samaritan showed up – surprising the audience listening to Jesus (as Samaritans were generally despised by Jews and vice versa) – and became the unlikely hero. He showed compassion, backed it up with action and money, and set a model for us all. And Jesus said to the lawyer, “Go and do likewise.”

I’m glad we’re finally noticing Trump’s hateful words. But I wish we had cared enough for those who aren’t white women to notice it before. I wish we hadn’t disavowed black people, those with disabilities, Muslims, refugees, and so many more as our neighbors by withholding our outrage until now.

In other words, I wish we had all acted a little more like the Good Samaritan and a lot more like Christ.

Take heart, though. There’s still time. We have failed to love God with our whole hearts and love our neighbors as ourselves, but let this be the moment when the Spirit convicts us to confess and repent from our sins.

Let today be the day that we all start listening to the pain of our neighbors.

(All of them, and not just the ones who look like me.)

Let today be the day when we pledge our allegiance to the kingdom of God rather than to any political party.

Let today be the day we heed Christ’s words.

Let today be the day we go and do likewise.

Amen.    

"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. 

No, Mike Pence, adoption isn't the answer to abortion.

Should adoption be the pro-life response to abortion? Mike Pence suggested that last night. Some adoption advocates cheered. I didn’t, because I don’t agree.

Surprised? I get that. After all, I’m a mom of six, four by adoption. And I’ve written and spoken about being pro-life consistently.

I’m passionate about adoption.

I’m passionate about life (even when my view is unpopular among some pro-lifers).

So where’s the disconnect for me?   

It’s simple. Adoption is not the opposite of abortion. Birth is. After a child is born, a variety of outcomes are possible, and adoption is only one. One, for example, is parenting.

If a woman is considering abortion, our response as a country shouldn’t be simply to take her child. Yes, it is helpful for some of us to be willing to adopt so that expectant mothers can have that option if they desire placement of their child in another family. But our first response should be to care for the mother. A genuinely biblical pro-life stance values all life because of the Life Giver. Doesn’t that extend to the mother and not just the fetus? Doesn’t loving our neighbor as we love ourselves mean we don’t decide a woman’s only value is to be an incubator for an unborn child? Our moral, political, and religious imperatives to value life can’t leapfrog over the pregnant one in defense of the one with whom she’s pregnant.

It's simple: do we value life? Or do we just value babies?

Let’s start by admitting that the reasons women choose abortion are many. We’re being reductive if we act as if every abortion would have ended in adoption if the child had been born. Some women choose abortion for children they would have otherwise raised, but poverty or health concerns making pregnancy painful or lack of other supports lead them to terminate. If job training were provided or medical access guaranteed or economic supports available to meet those needs, some of those moms would not only give birth but also raise their own children instead of relinquishing them to another family. Or in the case of abortions chosen because of a prenatal diagnosis of a non-fatal disability, disability awareness and support can help present life as a more viable option (and thankfully research indicates Down syndrome abortion rates are dropping because of such cultural changes, which have been holistically championed by only one of the candidates, Hillary).

Furthermore, there's yet another significant flaw in Pence's words from last night: 

"There are so many families around the country who can't have children. We could improve adoption so that families that can't have children can adopt more readily those children from crisis pregnancies."

Again, we're assuming a lot when we suppose that the crisis in a crisis pregnancy is the need for a different set of parent. But the second fallacy here is that we don't have enough children available for adoption as it is. That's not true, though. For families who want to adopt children, they'll find no lack of opportunity. According to AdoptUSKids.org more than 100,000 children in foster care are legally free for adoption. This process has minimal cost (with tax credits to recover any expenses not covered by the state).

So if we want to talk about the value of life, how about the value of the lives of those children? How about we have a real conversation about how many waiting kids have disabilities, a group which Trump has disrespected again and again throughout his campaign? And Pence wants to rally for a candidate who has supported adoption efforts via legislation, that's great... it just would have to be Hillary.

Abortion involves real women and real unborn children and real difficult decisions.

Adoption involves real women and real children (many of whom are born and have been waiting for families for some time or should be reunited with their first families) and real difficult decisions.

None of these are tidy issues fit for sound bites. Hillary doesn’t want to kill babies. Trump might have changed his stance from when he was vocally pro-choice. But? Neither has a great track record on supporting unborn lives. Only one has a track record of affirming born lives. That’s why I wrote previously about how my pro-life convictions mean that I’m with her. 

So, can adoption be a valid response to abortion? Yes and no.

Yes, because being pro-life means more than just being pro-fetus, and adoption shows a concern for children after birth. No, because adoption isn’t simply a political or moral statement but rather a lifelong commitment to parenting. 

My pro-life beliefs did influence our decision to adopt, but my children’s first parents weren’t a means to an end but rather image bearers of God who we love dearly. And my children aren’t protest symbols or principled statements. They’re my children.

Adoption should be our response to a child in need of a family. Meanwhile, support in a variety of forms should be our response to a pregnant woman in need. Let’s not confuse the two.

Note: I never meant to become a political blogger. I still don’t fancy myself to be that. But I do aim to write about the important things. This? This is important. So is rape and parenting and alcoholism and racism and education and church inclusion and medicine and worship and self-worth so much more. I write about those things too, because they - like abortion and adoption and present presidential election - are topics that matter to me.