#not poking holes in each other's life rafts like what are we DOING

[telumendils]

why are some folks so desperate to frame a 1 to 1 oppressor to their oppression??? is it not enough to know we all suffer under the cis perisex hetero patriarchy????? i ask u.

[virginlimbs]

On the film “Us” by Andrew Haworth

Us is the greatest movie of the decade and I have seen it five times so I figured I owed it a review.

When I saw Get Out, my audience was quiet and disturbed the entire runtime but cheered at the end. Us had people jumping and laughing the whole time, but when it got to the end: silence.

My sister turned to us and said, “I loved it until the ending.” I wasn’t sure what to think. The ending hit me like such a freight train that I was in denial. There was no way they were switched, that didn’t make any sense.

We talked for an hour outside the theater unpacking the implications of the ending. As we talked, we realized the ending not only worked, it made the movie even better.

The movie begged me to watch it again, and I obliged. I went to a different theater and saw it in Dolby Prime and told the person next to me to stop talking. I was not fucking around. This movie was a powerful object and it demanded respect and thought and patience.

Details that were cloudy the first time came into horrifying light on a rewatch. Red’s opening monologue, which at first seemed like scary gibberish, was now full of pathos and horror. I had seen what it was like down there. I knew the rules of the world. And now I had to picture a fully conscious woman performing her own C-section.

I saw the movie twice more in theaters. I was so drawn to it, like we were te-(glottal swallow)-ethered together. The week of its release, it was all I talked about with people. “Have you seen Us?” “It’s about capitalism.” “No, that theory’s bullshit.” There were people who were as shaken as I was, and as overjoyed that a movie this powerful and exciting and thought-provoking could exist and be released and make a bunch of money. And then there were people who wondered why there was an escalator in an amusement park.

None of their hole-poking diminished my enthusiasm for the movie. I knew I was being tested by God *looks up and cries* and it was their loss. But it was a frustrating and thankless task to try to convince them otherwise. We had seen the same movie. Unpacked the same ending. But they were hung up on details, questions left unanswered. They felt the movie was pretentious, alienating, and implied they were dumb for not getting it.

Us would only be condescending if it explained its world in full. Like Star Wars, it is so steeped in such a rich mythology that if you get on its wavelength, you will not worry about why certain things in the background are not explained. You will want to watch it again and again to figure it out, and the mystery will excite you. Us is ambiguous about certain things, but not others. The characters are clear. The family dynamic is clear. And the message is clear. For every “us”, there’s a “them”.

I get it. Us either REALLY works for you or it doesn’t. And I have no interest in trying to convince naysayers. I have a lot more fun talking with people who actually liked it. But when I turned it on this fifth time, wanting something I’d seen before as I digested a pint of ice cream after a long day of work, I was under its spell once more. And I couldn’t just sit there and let it wash over me. Every shot was full of meaning or an interesting idea and they bubbled up in my head until the idea of a relaxing evening was out the window and I was frantically taking notes on my phone. I’ve read a lot of articles about this movie. I’m in no way an expert, but I have a lot of thoughts about it and a lot of enthusiasm for it. It moves me and brings me so much joy and reminds me why I fell in love with making and watching movies.

On a technical level, it’s unsurpassable. Shots are poetic but never flashy, always in service of a story beat or character reveal. The shot compositions are in the tradition of classic Japanese movies, and the final shot even mirrors the ending of the great Sansho the Baillif (which I saw yesterday for the first time.)

There is not a score that is quite like the one in Us. The music feels like it has been around since the beginning of time. And the I Got Five on It remix? Come on.

I love every performance so much. Everyone understands their character so well. Everyone feels like a family member. You feel every awkward moment, every victory, every horrified stare. And Lupita Nyong’o gives the greatest performance(s) of all time.

The script is generous with its humor and its horror. And in any other movie, all of this would be plenty to make an enjoyable ride. But Us gives you so much more, so much you didn’t realize you needed. I’ll do my best to tie all of this together, but here’s what I noticed this time around.

Chronologically, Red and Adelaide meet as children. The tethered chokes her, pulls her down, handcuffs her to the bed, and waits for her to wake up so she can give an evil grin and rub it in her face that she gets to leave. This is not a quick, desperate act to get what she wants. It is malicious and sadistic.

Now Adelaide’s got a family. But she feels scared and maybe a little guilty, like most people who’ve committed a crime and have to keep running. She can only express this in half-truths to her husband, how she’s worried the “mirror girl” might come back. On our second viewing, we realize she’d be coming back for revenge.

Red’s parents were very lax with her which allowed her to wander off. Adelaide is protective and paranoid, like a drug dealer or the Irishman, someone who cannot enjoy to the fullest what she has fought so hard to win because she knows what’s out there. She knows what could happen to Jason if he gets curious about that funhouse.

Enter Red. Adelaide’s worst nightmare. The girl she trapped down there finally found a way out, and she’s pissed. She moves like a ballerina, calculated and efficient.

The Wilson family dynamic is so well expressed through their actions and teamwork and love for each other in this scene. Adelaide grabs her kids, yanking them out of frame away from their tethereds, keeping them safe. She cares so much for them and just wants to survive.

In comparison, Red is unfeeling and sadistic. Her husband and children are her pets. She has trained them like dogs to move at her command: a horrifying hand gesture and clicking of the tongue. She even pets Pluto as he stands on all fours by the fire. They are tools, like scissors.

She hates her family because they are not her choice. They are horrifying reminders of the world she was dragged down into. And Adelaide’s family is a reminder of what she could’ve had, so she resents them as well. She doesn’t care if they die, she doesn’t see them as surrogate children, they are a “fuck you.”

But her outlook makes total sense. She was taken from her normal world and trapped in a nightmare. Forced to have sex, give birth, mimic the privileged actions of the girl up above with whatever surrogate was available underground.

“The shadow hated the girl.”

Gabe interrupts her monologue. He thinks we’re still in a weird home invasion movie. These are random dopplegangers, the only ones, and they’re just crazy. But Adelaide knew this was going to happen all along.

“You want ME, right?”

The family is split up to fend for themselves. But apart from Red, the other tethereds are just under orders from up top. They have no personal stake in this, they just like killing. Red is the only one who has a score to settle. She wants to take her time, rub it in Adelaide’s face just like it was rubbed in hers.

Jason realizes early on in the closet that he can control Pluto, but Pluto cannot control him. Pluto has to move Jason’s arms up and down physically to mirror his. This is frustrating for Pluto. Jason saves this information for later.

Everyone escapes their tethereds, for now. They hop on the boat, their previous laughing stock, now their life raft, and head to the only other house they know. As the boat drives away, Jason is the one we hold on as Red stares at him. She is getting the idea to kidnap him to lure Adelaide to her. This is the advantage she has over Adelaide, how untethered she is to emotional baggage. Jason is just a tool for her to manipulate how much Adelaide cares for her children.

“They look like us.”

“They don’t even know that yet.”

Earlier in the film, Adelaide tells Zora to turn her phone off and go to bed. Zora waits for her mom to leave the room to secretly use her phone under the covers. Later, when Adelaide needs Zora’s phone to call the police, Zora pretends like she doesn’t have it to avoid getting in trouble, but Adelaide knows she does. Adelaide’s not dumb, she’s just a mom stuck between trying to raise her kid well and letting her have fun. These are sweet games we play with our parents and the subtext is “I love you.”

The white family, on the other hand, is full of hate. Their kids do not play these cute games. “Just because we’re in our rooms doesn’t mean we’re sleeping.” They are filthy rich with a backup generator and they are miserable and they die the quickest. This, even more so than Get Out, is perhaps Jordan Peele’s ultimate comment on white horror films. Their characters last for less than ten minutes while the Wilsons survive the whole movie. And when Elisabeth Moss asks Ophelia to call the police and it plays “Fuck Da Police” as her tethered slits her throat, it’s a master filmmaker taking back years of stereotypes and tropes, stomping on them and proclaiming that there is a new era of horror underway, horror so full of ideas that you (like me) will have to watch the movies 5 times.

The murder of the white family is the most hardcore scene in any horror movie of the decade. It is truly shocking how matter of fact it is.

The Wilsons arrive and Adelaide is taken captive. The kids go in to save their mom.

Jason puts on his mask as he grabs a weapon to make his first kill as if that will absolve him of what he is about to do, rather than accepting his ability to kill as part of himself. Zora, not wearing a mask, rolls her eyes. She’s accepting who she is. Jason immediately removes his mask after killing Elisabeth Moss.

Jason watches Zora kill the second twin and beat her way past being dead. She is her mother’s daughter. Jason’s arc is beginning to illuminate: he is slowly noticing how violent his family is. Could that be inside him as well?

“We’re Americans.”

Weapons used in the film:

Golf club

Baseball Bat

Flare gun

Scissors

Boat motor

Geode

The stick you use to move logs in fire

Once they’re in the fancy house, Gabe wants to settle down. They’ve made it. But Adelaide knows they have to keep running. Capitalism! But everyone’s excited to drive the fancy car.

Jason sees his mom kill one of the twins.

Umbrae hops on the car and Zora slams on the breaks, sending her flying into the trees. Adelaide leaves under the guise of making sure she’s dead. But when she sees defenseless Umbrae, hanging upside down from a tree, laughing but clearly bleeding to death, Adelaide does nothing.

She sees herself in Umbrae, ruthless, doing anything to survive and get ahead. But she also sees the daughter she would’ve had if she had stayed down there. This is also why she’s so upset about Pluto dying. They are all her children. She has grown up and matured in real society with real parents. She is a mother and her heart is full. But Red has the heart and mind and priorities of a 9 year old. She doesn’t want kids. She wants parents.

Jason backing up to kill Pluto is like in the Matrix Revolutions when it’s revealed that Neo has powers outside of the Matrix. It is a great, haunting, ambiguous moment that I’m sure made a lot of people frustrated in the theater, just like the Matrix Revolutions.

Then Red naps him. Her gamble worked, and Adelaide was distracted by caring about all these kids.

Adelaide goes after him. The shot on the beach when she sees the line for the first time? COME ON!!!

Us is very biblical. Abraham. 11:11. “God is testing me.” Jason holding up his arms like Jesus on the cross as he backs Pluto into the fire. Red becoming a religious figure to the tethereds. Red has CREATED a mythology for the tethered, but of course neither her nor Adelaide know what really created them. Humans play God in her theory about government experiments. And “God brought us together that night.”

Adelaide has spent her whole life trying to forget the tunnels. Red has been forced to spend her life trying to make sense of it. Her social learning ended at 9 years old. Her theories about government experiments seem based on sci fi movies she probably caught on TV as a kid, right before she was pulled down there.

No one was there to guide her. She became tethered long after the “experiment” had been abandoned. She believes in God because her parents probably took her to church and she’s latching onto any explanation. But the situation is unexplainable. Does it matter if it’s a government experiment? There are many aspects of the film that imply it might be supernatural. We can only see it how she sees it: God testing her as she becomes the savior of the tethereds.

But the important detail she skips past because she really doesn’t have any proof of it until this past night is that the tethereds are not monsters. They are products of a nightmarish environment. If given a chance in society, they can learn to talk and function normally and dance. The film doesn’t even imply that there is a good twin or a bad twin. Both are capable of violence and vulnerability.

Red steals the word “tethered” from the Hands Across America commercial at the beginning.

Cutting between the tethered stuff mirroring the above ground stuff? Pure cinema. Get the fuck out of here. Adelaide having a whole stage to dance on while Red is forced to run into walls is the perfect visual metaphor for every idea the movie is throwing at you.

“If it weren’t for you I never would’ve danced at all.”

Red hugs Adelaide as she plunges the stick into her.

You are forced to remember Red has the mind of a nine year old as she whistles a mouth-full-of-blood rendition of itsy bitsy spider. Then Adelaide strangles her to death.

Adelaide laughs with relief when Red is dead because now she is free to enjoy the life she had always imagined without looking over her shoulder. Their tethereds are all dead. Jason can run free.

“The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout

Down came the rain and washed the spider out”

Jason puts on the mask at the end, keeping Adelaide’s secret. He’s horrified by the realization about his mother. Earlier she told him, “Stick with me and I’ll keep you safe.” Now she smiles. They’re driving through a post apocalyptic wasteland. He doesn’t really have a choice. He’s sticking with her.

[scatteredenthusiasm-blog]

Order, Disorder, Reorder: My Experience with an Ongoing Spiritual Transformation

I have been so intrigued with Richard Rohr’s three phases of life: Order, Disorder, and Reorder. Order is the belief system and rules that were passed down to you when growing up, Disorder is when those beliefs are challenged and fall away, and Reorder is a new life on the other side. 

Order, Disorder, Reorder is the pattern of growth, transformation, and any story worth telling. Here’s how I have seen it play out in my life the past 18 months...

ORDER

Order was being the youngest child born into a Christian family. Order was having my nursery decorated in a Noah’s Ark theme before I could even crawl. Order was spending Sundays in children’s church before I could even walk. Order was church on Sunday morning and every Sunday night. Order was learning Bible stories before knowing how to read or write. Order was eating goldfish after singing Jesus Loves Me. Order was drawing Zacchaeus up in the tree, a wee little man was he. Order was felt-board Jesus.

Order was boring hymns that sounded 1,000-years-old – maybe they were. Order was the booming voices of older men in baggy suits singing Rock of Ages, and the woman in the pew behind me holding the note a half-second too long. Order was the organ-player putting her heart and soul into every note. Order was a church-wide dinner in the gymnasium on Wednesdays before the midweek service.

Order was memorizing the Westminster Shorter Catechism for Kids, reciting them to my Sunday school teachers: “Q. 14. Where do you learn how to love and obey God? In the Bible alone. Q. 15. Who wrote The Bible? Holy men who were taught by the Holy Spirit.” Order was being freaked out about questions 10 and 11: “Q. 10. Where is God? God is everywhere. Q. 11. Can you see God? No. I cannot see God, but he always sees me.” Order was keeping it to myself like everyone else.

Order was attending a Christian school from Kindergarten through 12th grade. Order was learning colors, and words, and numbers. Order was learning how to write my name with an oversized red pencil. Order was seeing the same faces in class that were in Sunday school. Order was trying to make friends laugh during naptime, and getting in trouble for doing so. Order was just trying to make it to recess.

Order was a weekly Bible verse memorization for 13-straight years at school. Order was weekly sword drills, seeing who could find the chapter and verse the quickest. Order was winning the 4th grade sword drill competition, with the grand prize being – yes, you guessed it – a new and sharper “sword.” Order was more concerned with the “what” and “where” in scripture, not the “why.” Order was learning about the Bible the same way as learning our country’s 50 States and Capitals.

Order was being taught a literal six-day creation story with no room for an alternative theory. Order was every teacher giving a disclaimer when science videos hinted at the Earth being 13 billion years old – “Oh, before I press play, the stuff at the beginning about evolution and all is obviously not true, but the rest of the video is pretty good.” Order was hearing the same stories at church and school, giving no reason to question it because it was often coming from the same people.

Order was authority figures always having all the answers, regardless of the topic. Order was Bible teachers answering existential questions with the same certainty as questions about the Periodic Table. Order was having P.E. coaches tasked with teaching Bible classes. Order lacked mystery and the unknown. Order was building walls around me without my knowledge.

Order was then attending a large public university, but quickly finding a group that fit inside those walls. Order was having the same beliefs preached every week, but in a different state by different faces so that it felt like newer ideas. Order was meeting new people outside of the walls, but always returning and locking the door behind me. 

Order was moving to Chicago and meeting people from all different backgrounds, which didn’t poke holes in the mortar of the walls, but rather revealed the actual existence of the walls. Order knew to find a church immediately to ensure that friends would be on the same page, but even then Order started to look dated. Order was a small group that had open and honest discussions, but often the group’s honesty wasn’t to Order’s liking.

Order was moving to Nashville where it felt safe and sound. Order was reconnecting with old friends and making new friends that fit comfortably back inside of the walls, which put Order at peace. Order was going to a new church where the music was better and the people dressed well, masking that message hadn’t changed since the felt board. Order was still hearing preachers talk about who was in and who was out, how single people “needed to be rescued,” and how all were welcome, but with an asterisk next to “all” so large it could be seen from outer space. Order’s walls began to get exposed by personal experience, and the views from inside were bleak. Order became old and stale.

Order, however, was important and necessary. Order was learning right from wrong. Order was learning safe from unsafe. Order was great friends, mission trips, camps, lock-ins, white-water rafting and ski trips. Order was sports, movies, television, (heavily-guided) reading, singing, bad dancing, dating, and parties. Order was performed and taught by lovely people with good intentions. Order needed authority figures to have authority, just not the absolute kind.

Order was missing one key ingredient: curiosity. Order would encourage curiosity, but only if it fit within Order’s walls, because Order didn’t like to be challenged. Order had curiosity and mystery on a retractable leash, letting them have the feeling of running wild until they reached the threshold, then they were violently whipped back, returning to their origin.

Order was necessary because Order is always the beginning. Order is not to be tossed out, but for growth to occur, the walls of Order must come tumbling down.

DISORDER

Disorder doesn’t start with an explosion. Disorder begins like the first few sprinkles of an approaching storm, causing the glassy lake to lose its smooth reflection. Disorder is ripples, not waves.

Disorder, however, won’t start or go anywhere without the companion that Order kept on the leash: curiosity. Disorder has its learner’s permit, but it is not allowed to drive anywhere without curiosity in the front seat. Disorder will knock on the door relentlessly, but curiosity has to unlock the door from the other side. Disorder, for some, knocks on the door for years, exhausting the tenant who won’t let curiosity near the deadbolt. Disorder is the vehicle, but curiosity is the fuel.

Disorder began with an innocent book about a guide to creating a life worth living. Disorder knew I wouldn’t realize that it was spiritual at first, but later I would realize that everything is spiritual. Disorder knew that Order had installed a more passive approach to living: our time on Earth was a waiting room for the glory that’s to come, so speak the party line until you advance to the next level. Disorder needed to show me that the glory was here and now, and that God was looking for co-creators saying, “Psst – this is a gift, and you’ve had it the whole time.”

Disorder needed to start with adjusting my mindset before hitting the road. Disorder didn’t try to change my lens, but rather reveal the existence of the lens. Disorder turned on the lights, exposing just how high the walls towered overhead.

Disorder then tapped on my shoulder when my Uncle, a pastor of a large church in San Francisco, opened the doors of his 20-year-old church to the LGBTQ+ community, fully affirming and inclusive. Order had taught me for years about who was in and who was out, but with no research other than an authority figure saying, “Well, the Bible says…” Order loved to keep things black and white, stifling any resemblance of a counter-argument on such topics.

Disorder began by asking me not what I believe, but to consider why I hold certain beliefs. Disorder wasn’t trying to change my mind right off the bat; it just wanted me to be open to the idea of a change of mind. Disorder was setting the stage; ripples, not waves.

Disorder doesn’t force your hand, but it won’t do the dirty work for you.

Disorder was a book about re-examining scripture’s view and the history of the church’s relationship on the LGBTQ+ community, cracking the mortar of Order’s walls as I flew through each chapter. Disorder was then another book on the same topic, then another, and then podcasts full of stories from this community that had been treated as less than human by the church forever. Order had taught me a narrow, dualistic view that turned away so many, and doing so “in the name of God.” Disorder showed me that we are all beloved children of God, with no exceptions, and we have been the whole time – no matter what.

Disorder was always asking the question, “If so, then what’s next?” If Disorder stops asking that question then it’s no longer in the room, and you need to go open the door and let it back inside.

Disorder was then Rob Bell’s podcast with Richard Rohr about the Alternative Orthodoxy, causing me to write page after page of notes on the skinny balcony of my old apartment. Disorder was tearing through the rest of his podcasts, some causing me to accidentally sit through red lights while in deep thought, others leaving me teary eyed thinking about how I had spent the last 25 years treating this sacred life like a pit stop. Disorder was giving me a whole new approach on how things progress, on how the whole thing moves forward. Disorder cracked the foundation of the walls.

Disorder then introduced me to a whole new world of thought leaders, some religious, some not: Liz Gilbert’s Big Magic (both the book at podcast), Richard Rohr’s books and daily meditations, Suzanne Stabile and Ian Cron on the Enneagram, The Liturgists, Science Mike, Rachel Held Evans, Glennon Doyle Melton, Peter Rollins, Peter Enns, Brene Brown, Mary Oliver, Martha Beck, Mark Nepo – a list of names that would be a spooky hell dream of my conservative past. Disorder also gave me teachings from other religions, challenging me to connect the dots of what I had previously thought of as off limits.

Disorder gave me so many podcasts and books that challenged me to rethink every single thing I had been taught growing up. Disorder had me back on that skinny balcony reading Love Wins, crying as I turned each page thinking about how certain I had been that people in the “out” crowd were destined for an eternal, boiling fire by a monster, judgmental God – and all of the times that I prayed that this God wouldn’t send me there too; what kind of loving God would do that? Disorder was turning the ripples into waves.

Disorder wasn’t going to airlift me to safety out from inside Order’s walls as they crashed around me. Disorder left me in there and made me watch every last brick come crumbling down from the inside. Disorder wasn’t interested in the easy way out.

Disorder was sleepless nights, leaving me replaying all the ways that my previous beliefs hurt people when I thought I was helping. Disorder was an interior journey, demanding me to mine the soul to its core.

Disorder was brewing inside of me every second of every day, but it hadn’t bled into my surroundings yet. Disorder still had me at the same church, but leaving every Sunday upset and bitter at what felt a room full of people missing the point. Disorder made every church service and Bible study feel like I was showing up for a game in the wrong color jersey. Disorder then turned to cynicism, telling me that I’m the only one in this town – or even this part of the country – that thinks this way.

Disorder had me church hopping for a month or two, but it was only a distraction from the truth – I didn’t really want to find one. Disorder turned into taking a break from church, because why go somewhere for an hour and a half knowing that it’s just going to piss me off when I could stay home and watch the previous night’s SNL?

Disorder turned me bitter towards any people or organization who didn’t see things the way I did now: friends, family – aunts, uncles, cousins; previous schools, classmates, teachers, churches, pastors. Disorder ping-ponged back and forth from anger at how limited the belief system I was taught growing up to despair, making me wonder if any of it really mattered anyway.

Disorder had taken everything I had been told to be true and buried it in the rubble.

Disorder wouldn’t call the cleanup crew right away; it let it sit for a while as I laid watching the dust settle on the destruction. Disorder knew that I needed a break.

Disorder leaves you bloody and broken, because it knows the desire and hunger for growth is at its highest when you are at your lowest. Disorder knows you are most open to new life when you are at complete death.

Disorder then placed me in the front seat, tossed the car keys to curiosity, and hopped in the backseat. Disorder knows its time isn’t over – in fact, it’s never over – but it knows to lay low for a bit.

Disorder was and is to come.

REORDER

Reorder is harder to write and put into words because Reorder is still very new. Reorder is less of a reflection like Order and Disorder, but more like a stream of consciousness because Reorder is unfolding right now.

Reorder isn’t on my DVR. Reorder is live on the air.

Reorder found me in the rubble, but it only came after me because it saw that I was still holding onto curiosity. Reorder knew that as long as I had curiosity then I would be willing to answer the question, “What’s next?”

Reorder is being made new, not hitting the restart button. Reorder is a new birth, not reaching for the defibrillators.

Order is Palm Sunday. Disorder is Good Friday. Reorder is Easter Sunday. Reorder isn’t naïve though, it knows there are more Disorders to come, and in fact it welcomes them. Reorder doesn’t fear future Disorders because Reorder has experience as an ally; it knows how the cycle works. Reorder doesn’t exist without Disorder.

Disorder and Reorder are like the oars of a canoe. Disorder is when the oars come up out of the water, readjusting the paddle to a new angle. Reorder is when they re-enter the water and propel you forward; you can’t go anywhere without both working in perfect harmony.

Reorder is the one step forward to Disorder’s two steps back.

Reorder knows whom it’s dealing with; it has watched me since birth, so it’s never surprised by the handlings of Disorder. Reorder is the feeling of being fully known, and there’s such magnificent comfort in that. Reorder is out of the proving my worth business, it’s not keeping score. 

Reorder is the feeling of Divine connection; maybe Reorder is the Divine, or the closest we can get; maybe Reorder is the difference between being a Christian and being Christian – I don’t know. Reorder is acting my way into a new way of thinking instead of thinking my way into a new way of acting.

Reorder recognizes that the process of Order-Disorder-Reorder is all around us; it’s found in the seasons of the year in the same way as the seasons of life. Disorder was winter; Reorder is spring, aware that it won’t last forever, but knowing it will return. Reorder starts to see the Divine in everything. Reorder has me more interested in art, writing, comedy – any creative pursuit that helps with the ongoing creation of the world, which is when I feel most connected with the Divine.

Reorder is keeping an open mind about everything, always looking through a progressive lens. Reorder has taken this lens to the Bible, sparking a fascination about the Jesus story and what it means to be human than ever before. Reorder is realizing that the writers of the text were incredibly progressive at the time, and the best way we can honor the word is to keep pushing forward instead of trying to revert back to a literal interpretation. Reorder is making it hard for me to even talk to people about anything else.

Reorder is curiosity in action.

Reorder can be small things like seeing a t-shirt that says, “I met God, she’s black,” on it and then being excited when my sister got it for my birthday a few weeks later – a shirt I’m wearing while writing this.

Reorder can’t stomach conversations like: “How’s it going?” “Good, you?” “Good.” “Oh, Good.” Reorder has no interest in the surface level – it demands to go deeper. Reorder wants to know what gets someone out of bed in the morning – what makes them tick – and why?

Reorder can (and will) railroad friends and family with excitement and energy about this new way of being, but unlike Disorder it doesn’t get bitter when the feeling isn’t reciprocated because it knows that everyone else is on their own journey on their own timeline. Reorder knows that not everyone who doesn’t see the world the same as I do is a bad person – they are just as beloved as the rest of us, even when it doesn’t feel like it. Reorder is the constant practice of patience and understanding, but maintaining that an inclusive, progressive approach is the right way.

Reorder is looking back at my Facebook profile and hardly recognizing the person on there, like it was from a past life, often feeling horrified at some of my “This day in history” notifications of previous posts throughout the years, making me wonder, “Would the version of me today even be friends with former me?” Reorder, though, doesn’t wipe it out and start over because Reorder knows that everything belongs.  

Reorder now looks back fondly on Order, and is no longer upset with former teachers and pastors, it knows that they were doing their best with the information they had. Reorder has no desire to go back and change anything because Reorder knows that every Bible class, Sunday school lesson, and chapel service on Thursday mornings led to this specific journey. Reorder, again, knows that everything belongs.

Reorder is my same Uncle telling me about a progressive community like Gracepointe Church in Nashville, a place I had driven by 1,000 times and never noticed. Reorder introduces you to tons of like-minded people, restoring hope when Disorder made you feel like you were alone. Reorder’s excitement has me jumping in headfirst, sometimes forgetting that I’m new there and people don’t really know me yet, but the place felt like home the first time I walked in the building. Reorder is not the feeling of wearing the correct color jersey now, but realizing that the jersey color doesn’t matter, because a true representation of the Kingdom knows no labels.

Reorder longs to be around people who are fully alive, taking on life with the same level of curiosity and passion that Reorder knows so well. Reorder doesn’t have time for the mundane. Reorder is interested in those who have a desire to keep pushing forward, making me want to grab them by the hand and take off.

Reorder is still pursuing ideas that challenge my current way of thinking, understanding that I’m a perpetual student and the learning process is never over. Reorder is answering, “What’s next?” with even more books, poetry, meditations, podcasts – not staying still and waiting for the next Disorder, but rather lacing up my boots and going on the hunt for it.

Order, Disorder, Reorder is the pattern of growth, transformation, and any story worth telling. Reorder has the wisdom of knowing that the pattern really looks more like this: Order-Disorder-Reorder-Disorder-Reorder-Disorder-Reorder, and so on.

Reorder is the restoration of hope, and it has me excited for what’s to come.