“It’s all about relationships” is not a cop-out

Over the last year-plus I’ve had dozens of conversations with people working to address inequity and inequality. They are scholars, nonprofit leaders, politicians, activists, ministers, business owners from a range of political, religious, and cultural backgrounds. Some make well into six figures doing what they do; others get by only a little better than those in the underprivileged communities they serve.

When we talk about the wealth and opportunity gap in San Antonio, we talk about a dizzying range of problems and a just-as-dizzying variety of potential solutions. But one idea, one theme, one solution comes up more than any other: “It’s really all about relationships.”

I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard that line come from the mouths of one of those people. And again, it doesn’t matter what their station in life is, their skin color, their political commitments. I’ve heard it from middle-aged, white, ultra-conservative Christians who live in all-red suburbs; I’ve heard it from queer activists of color who live in urban cores. Often it’s after we’ve discussed everything else—solutions that are promising and already working but are also big and complicated and slow-moving. It’s a line that brings things to a close, or adjusts perspective, or delivers a caveat to whatever else has been said. It’s really all about relationships.

What these people share is a conviction that the reason inequity and inequality are so bad in this country and getting worse is that we’re almost never actually confronted with the problem in any meaningful way. We hear data about inequality and injustice. We read stories. We form opinions. But we never personally interact with the problem—we don’t have physical, embodied, personal experiences of people who are not like us. Our neighborhoods, and thus our lives, are socially, economically, and culturally homogeneous, and we’re tricked into believing that the world basically looks like whatever our lives look like. This is particularly true in western cities that have been built for cars and where there is almost no opportunity to have a significant encounter with someone who is not a lot like you.

Still, it’s hard not to hear It’s all about relationships as soft, sentimental. The kind of thing people say when they’re not sure what else to say. Or even a cop-out, because the chances of wealthy and poor actually forming meaningful relationships are so slim.

But usually, the folks I’m talking to have operationalized this issue. They’ve experienced the power of unexpected relationships themselves and have realized how that experience reframes everything. One has moved into an extremely low-income neighborhood. One chooses to pastor a church in a low-income area. One runs a program that delivers food and other support to the poor, and she requires all (usually white and wealthy) volunteers to become mentor-coaches for people in her program. (She tells me that she’s pulling a trick—the wealthy people are the ones who end up feeling coached as they enter into these relationships.)

This is slow work, a person and a relationship at a time. But it’s a strategy that people who think about, write about, and work on inequity should take seriously. If people who are on the front lines of this issue are saying this, how do we make sure we’re hearing what they’re saying? How do we scale a solution like this?

Young, Broke, and Uneducated in Texas

Texas is one of the fastest-growing states in the country, and it’s growing in ways that belie its national reputation: it’s both an incredibly youthful state and and incredibly non-white state.

In his (utterly fantastic) new book God Save Texas, Lawrence Wright points out that in the city of Houston, for example, almost 40 percent of the population is under 24 years old, and “more than half that youthful cohort are Latino, and nearly 20 percent are African Americans.” Similar demographics (though trending more Hispanic) can be found in San Antonio, where I live.

But Wright points out another fact of this youthful cohort: this group is “the most likely to be undereducated.” Also, they’re often poor: “One in four Texas children lives in poverty.”


I find this state of affairs troubling to the point of terrifying. People talk a lot about how much Texas is booming — lots of good jobs, growing industries, open for business and all that. A couple weekends ago I drove from San Antonio to Dallas, passing through Austin and Waco, and in all four cities cranes dot the skylines. The growth narrative is real.

But our growth is uneven, which is to say inequitable — the increases we’re experiencing are not going to be good for very many people, relatively speaking. We’re investing in growth with tax incentives for developers and jobs creators, but we’re not also investing in our children by ensuring they are educated, well fed, and living in safe homes and neighborhoods. In these measures — how much we spend on education and attending to the needs of the most vulnerable — Texas ranks near the bottom.

We’re building roads and buildings and new neighborhoods; we’re remaking our urban cores. A lot of this work is good and necessary. But if we don’t change how we plan for a future Texas led by today’s young people, we’re also laying the groundwork for a future tragedy.

And as Wright puts it: “These failures will have national consequences, since one out of ten children in the United States is a Texan.”


A Quiet Place Is a Parable About Family


A Quiet Place is a family movie. We’re hearing that it’s a post-apocalyptic horror movie, and it’s really effective at being that, but it’s real power–and its potential for staying power–is parabolic. It’s a taut depiction of the challenges families face, and even more so the unique journeys of individuals within families. Whether you’re a son or a daughter or a mother, father, brother or sister, A Quiet Place might have something to say to you.

Plot summaries and full reviews are plentiful elsewhere, so I just want to articulate a few (spoiler-filled!) reflections on what A Quiet Place has to say about families, especially about traditional family roles, the strength of mothers, and how we treat our most vulnerable children.

It’s surprising initially how much the husband and wife in the film, played by director John Krasinski and his real-life spouse Emily Blunt, fall into traditional male-female roles. From the very opening sequence, the film establishes that the father is a protector and provider, while the mother is a nurturer and caretaker. We don’t yet know a lot about what this family of five is going through, but we know they’re in a post-apocalyptic landscape, fending for themselves. They may be the only family on earth — or even a first family of a new earth, which reinforces the symbolic weight of each of their roles.

The husband/father, Lee, is almost a paragon of manliness. He reminded me of Michael Landon in Little House on the Prairie. Rugged, handsome. Tender toward wife and kids. He’s something of a scientist, but also something of a farmer. A skilled hunter-gatherer. A strategic thinker. It’s amazing how little of this comes off as corny or over-done — even his beard and broad shoulders are idealized types. But again, this is a parable, and parables work in types.

Meanwhile, the wife/mother, Evelyn (note the first three letters of her name), also falls into a traditional role. She cooks, she cleans. In a pivotal scene, when Lee goes off with his son to do some hunting-gathering, Evelyn stays behind with her daughter. (They are now a family of only four.) We see Lee teaching his son to trap and kill; we see Evelyn pinning shirts to the clothesline.

So the film had me thinking: Is it really embracing these old-school gender stereotypes?

But by the end of the film, much of this is upended. Not contradicted, but rather extended and complicated. The father remains heroic, even as he reaches the final limits of what he can do for his family. But the mother emerges much more fully by the final frame.

Indeed, a huge portion of the third act is devoted to Evelyn and to depicting her struggle and her strength. Again, she’s been left behind, and it becomes clear why the film arranged to leave her alone. It’s not only to ratchet up the tension when the monster inevitably terrorizes individual family members, one at a time. It’s also because it’s crucial for us to experience Evelyn in her solitude.

Things work differently for different families, of course, but for so many mothers, the experience of motherhood involves considerable loneliness. Much of the work of mothering happens alone. Perhaps there’s pleasure in this solitude; there’s also undoubtedly pain in it. At one point, we see Evelyn sitting alone in a room, reflecting on the loss of her son and weeping. We’ve not seen her mourn before now, when everyone else is around—her agony is private.

Later, Evelyn goes into labor, and she has to fend for herself and her new baby against the monster. (Emily Blunt is always good, but her performance in this sequence is  stunning.) Labor pangs start right as the monster is on the prowl. Because the one rule with this monster is that you can’t make a sound, she has to endure the suffering of childbirth in absolute quiet. She’s also injured her foot and is bleeding profusely. Evelyn has to suffer some of the worst pain a body can suffer–all without making a peep. And she does it, with an awesome display of determination and power.

Watching her wore me out.

Because so much screen time is invested in depicting her strength, the finale makes sense. In the last moment, she cocks her gun to take on the coming monsters, and we do not doubt that she has the power to protect her children and survive.

Finally, there is the daughter, who is deaf and who is the center of this story. (The wonderful actor who plays her, Millicent Simmonds, is deaf, too. Much of the dialogue in the film occurs through American Sign Language.) This movie has a lot to say about how we regard our disabled children — how we care for them, and how much we have to learn from them, and how ultimately, in the end, they might save us.

Go to see a well-made horror flick. That’s what I did. But unlike a lot of horror films, there’s not much sinister here. On the contrary, there’s a benevolent parable about people who find themselves in families, and what people in families can do for each other.

Things I Am Learning About Grief

It’s been nearly 4 weeks since my mother died. The hardest question to answer is the one everyone keeps asking: “How are you doing?” I do not know how I am doing, exactly, but I am starting to learn. I am beginning to understand a few things about grief, and it’s helping me know what to expect on the road ahead.

1. Grief is a time machine.

Every few days, what everyone calls “a wave of grief” will crash over me. When it does, and when the tears come, a familiar feeling accompanies them: I’m a little boy left behind at the store, or lost in the woods, afraid that I’ll never see my mom again. I knew that feeling a time or three as a child, that momentary terror, that gasp of I am alone. The grief resurrects those moments, transports me to that feeling I had at 10 or 12 years old. I suppose my brain is summoning up something it can recognize, something it can pin these pangs to: my childhood self, afraid that he’s been left alone for good.

2. Grief is a mansion, not a room.

Things get worse before they get better. This surprised me. I thought the biggest pains would be immediate—watching her die, the torture of a funeral, the first few days without her voice. It turns out those pains were precursors. They were pointed and time-sensitive; they belonged to the events of her passing. Now a new pain has developed, the pain of permanent loss. Every day brings a fresh set of reminders that she’s not here. She can’t get on the phone when I need her after a hard day or before a tough meeting at work. She can’t receive the text with the photo of Bel goofing or Henry at baseball or Lou on roller-skates or tonight’s dinner prep. My reflex is to reach out to her, and now the reflex is no good.


The grief is a not a new room I’ve entered; it’s an entire mansion. Every few days, I stumble down another corridor. There’s more to explore. I hope to map it all soon, have it sized up, but I am coming to accept that this will take some time.

3. Grief is hard on the body.

It is the plug coming out of the drain. It is the slow leak of a tire. I feel as though I’ve taken lethargy pills. Things in my life don’t matter any less to me now; I’m not despondent or despairing. It’s just that I feel like I’m taking in less oxygen—all action is taxing. Writing this short reflection is hard, every sentence a struggle. I started to google “chronic fatigue syndrome” the other day, thinking something else must be going on with me. I did an inventory of what I’m eating, how much sleep I’m getting, how much exercise. But no, it’s just the loss. Grief is a deep dive, and it’s taking a while to reach the surface. Soon, I hope, I will breathe normal again.

4. Grief is not sadness.

I have whole portions of days where I don’t feel sad at all. I know this essay is sad. I should probably put a picture of Eeyore at the top. But I would not have known before now that grief is a foundation for emotions of all kinds, including joy: sometimes missing her makes me remember her goodness, her gifts, the ways she’s loving me still. I tell stories about her and smile. My kids quote one of her funny phrases and we laugh. This, too, is grief.

Sadness comes and goes. Grief is a constant companion.

5. Grief can make you inconsolable.

That word means something fresh to me now: inconsolable. I’m not without consolation overall. Lord knows I have been given comfort in spades, and I’m grateful for it. My wife, Michaela, is a wonder. My sister, Kaysie, is a saint. My kids and Kaysie’s kids and our extended families and our friends and on and on—we can turn in so many directions for comfort. We have especially the comfort of the memory of our mother, Dawn, who was as good a person and guide to this life as we could have ever hoped for, and we’ll be following her lead for years to come.

Still — at times, when the wave crashes, for a few moments, or sometimes for hours, the pain is a wound that has no salve. There’s no hug, no words, no prayers that can bring it to a close. It just is, and it stays that way for a while. You just have to breathe, and wait, and move your body around a little. Eat and drink. Eventually the pain lifts. The comforts settle back in, and you give thanks and keep going.

Okay, that’s all for now. I may add to this list over time.

Lil’ ole me

another smiling My most recent book is The Prayer Wheel, a historical devotional co-authored with the religion journalists Jana Riess and David van Biema. Over the years, I’ve published essays, profiles, news reports, Q&As, and books and movie reviews — plus occasional blog posts and listicles. My work has appeared in a range of publications including the Wall Street JournalWashington Post, CNN.com, NewsweekFinancial Times, SlateChristianity TodayKilling the BuddhaBooks and Culture, Patheos, and The Shambhala Sun. Not all of my pieces are listed on this site, but some of my favorites are listed under “Some Things I’ve Written.”

Most of my writing is about religion and something. I have a Ph.D. from Boston University in religion and literature, and my main interests have been with the intersection of religion and the movies, or sports, or politics, or novels. For my dissertation, I studied the relationship between Hollywood and contemporary Christianity by looking for Christian villains in film. (There were a lot of them).

I’ve published a memoir, My Faith So Far: A Story of Conversion and Confusion. I also wrote an ebook, The Tebow Mystique. I tweet, but mostly I read.

If you would like to get in touch, please see the Contact tab to the left.