There is a scene in one of my favorite movies, Forrest Gump, where Forrest and Jenny are adults standing outside of the now-abandoned home that she was raised in. It holds horrible memories for her, and she begins to fling rocks at it. She pitches several rocks at the house before falling to the ground in tears. Forrest stands there, he is present for her. But he doesn't try to tell her not to feel bad or convince her not to cry. The statement he thinks in the moment, "Sometimes there just aren't enough rocks." I've always thought that was a poignant moment in the movie. Today I think I understand Forrest's sentiment as one of bearing witness to Jenny's suffering. Without blinking.
In life, shit happens. It ain't pretty. There's not any way to dress it up or make it more presentable. The fact of the matter is that shit happens. Sometimes it happens to us, and sometimes it happens to people we love, too. And if I'm honest with myself, I don't know why shit happens, it just does at times. And if I'm really honest with myself, the not knowing of it all has always been one of those things that makes me angry with God for his silence and with myself at my own helplessness.
This week, among the normal hurting people I meet in my practice and guardian work, I've been confronted with two people I love going through horrible stuff. One's parent is hurting badly and is ill. The other is being confronted with cancer and a child who has his own health challenges. Both of these women are good people. They care for others, are loving and good folks. And the parent of my friend, he is a good guy, too. He has spent the better part of life loving and nurturing others. There is no rhyme or reason for these things to be happening to these people. They are hurting, I am at a loss for how to help. I so want to think of articulate things to say that will be comforting and helpful. I want to somehow come up with a solution or fix to the issues that are simply not able to be fixed. It just seems so cliche to say, "Gee, I'm praying for you."
And this is where Forrest comes in. All I can do in response to my friends is to offer my presence and my witness. I can be a witness to their suffering, to their strength and maybe to their love. When I was at Baptist college, I heard a lot about "witnessing" to other people. What I think was meant by this was evangelism...the idea of telling other people about Jesus. This was always a turnoff to my sensibilities. I didn't mind loving people, spending time with them, walking or talking with them...but mentioning God, Jesus or my faith because I was obligated to was not something that came naturally to me. It still doesn't.
When I talk about bearing witness in this context what I really mean is being fully present to another's suffering. Offering myself, all of who I am, to be present and faithful to this person and their pain and sorrow. This is not easy. In fact, I will venture to say it's a hell of a lot harder to bear witness to someone's pain than it is to offer a "Jesus loves you" and walk away. Bearing witness requires relationship...it requires risk. The risk of looking foolish, or not being able to find the words, the risk of rejection. It requires living in relationship to other people so that their suffering is my own... my pain is their pain as well.
I was trying to write a letter to the parent who is hurting, and all I could think to say was, "I'm sorry you're hurting." and "I love you." There are no other words. What's happening to these folks isn't fair. I have no words of wisdom that will heal them or make things better. But I can bear witness to their pain. I know that sometimes there just aren't enough rocks. And that while shit happens, sometimes joy happens. Somtimes healing happens, too. Not because I, or anyone else, found the right words, or prayed hard enough or did anything more than bear witness to suffering. And we hoped and prayed with the person hurting. And added our voices to those everywhere who are crying out for mercy and peace.
Despite all the pain I see and feel at moments, I still believe God hears us/loves us/wants our healing. That He/She is in this very moment bearing witness to our suffering, and working to bring about our healing. I am compelled to believe this because of the healing I've experienced, the healing I've watched others experience. But rather than treat faith or God or being a Christian as a passive, observation kind of sport, I have to believe faith is meant to be participatory. I cannot sit by and watch my brother suffer without hoping with him/loving him as he is/praying for his healing. I cannot help but be his witness when he cannot bear his own truth. And all I can say is I'm sorry you're hurting. Let me sit with you. Let me hold your hand. I love you.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Easter
Another Easter Day is drawing to a close, and I find myself feeling thankful. This Easter started like most have in the past, a joyful celebration in church. The kids enjoyed their time at church, and Rudy was more attentive than usual, asking me about different parts of the service for the first time. Easter actually started for me last night at the Easter Vigil service I attended at the Cathedral. As usual, it was my favorite service of the year. Those age old stories and words repeated are moving and the experience in the cathedral was a delight to my senses. Different voices, different places, but each year I find the commonality of our shared story. My grandmother came to me in the service, and I was moved to tears. A line I've heard spoken many times over, "Be what you see, receive who you are" brought things into focus for me. I awoke this morning feeling refreshed from the experience last night, and ready for this day to be here.
After church, I took my kids down to see my parents this afternoon. First, we met up with my niece and nephew out on the farm where I spent a lot of time as a child. My grandparents have been gone for well over a decade, but the farm remains in the family. I take my kids there several times a year, and we wander the same fields and paths I wandered when I was their age. I show them the cows and explain the growth of the crops in the fields to them. We fish in the ponds and I tell them about my grandmother. The woman who adopted my father when he was orphaned at the age of 6, remains the one member of my family of origin that I will miss until the day I die. She was kind, affectionate and nurturing. I loved spending time in her presence, although we often sat in silence. I would sit at her table and watch her working, or follow her outside as she completed chores. She sheltered me, cared for me and loved me. I was the only granddaughter she knew very well, and she never let me forget for a moment that I was smart, capable and special. She had a lot of hopes for me, and I worked hard to make her proud of me.
In the spring of 1997, her husband, my grandfather, died unexpectedly. He was 87 years old. For the next year, I tried to hang on to my grandmother with all my might. I had just completed college, and had begun law school. I came home often to help my father care for his mother. I taught her how to drive again, at age 86, and made sure she knew that I thought she was smart, capable and special. I loved her presence and who she was, but in the end she died in the summer of 1998 from a broken heart. Once my grandfather died, she didn't know who she was or how to be without him. I had heard stories like this, but I watched her live this one. She had no medical condition that could be diagnosed or treated, but she hurt. Her heart hurt. She wanted to go home. And ultimately, she did. I never really mourned her death. I simply shut out the sadness, and got busy with my own life. Every now and again I would think of her, but mostly I tried not to. The pain of her absence was too much to bear. At every station of my life after 1998 - graduation from law school, marriage, the births of my children, I felt her absence acutely.
In the summer of 1988, my grandmother and I experienced our only impasse. I confided in her that something awful had happened in my life. It was beyond her ability to cope. I could see it in her face, I had hurt her speaking my truth. At that moment, she was the only adult in my life I trusted. She was the only person I could think of to go to when I was scared, alone and hurting. But, ultimately she did not know what to do with my pain, my shame. It would take years for me to talk about the experience again, and to this day I struggle to find the words to be able to talk about what happened. She and I never spoke of my confession again. It created a distance between us though, an unspoken hurt. I blamed her for not helping me, and I think she looked at me differently, perhaps that was my projection, but I went from being her beloved to a stranger she didn't quite recognize.
Ultimately, she died not knowing that I had long since forgiven her for not knowing what to do, for being scared of the truth. This past year, I have been struggling with that experience, and praying for some guidance in how to deal with the old trauma, the old shame that seems to be so deep that it permeates who I am, who I have become. While therapy was somewhat helpful, I think it really has taken unearthing the "stuff" of it all to help give me some clarity and ultimately some compassion with myself. That same compassion has spilled over, and I am finally able to see the whole experience from her perspective. There was nothing in her background, in her life experience she could draw from to know what to do, how to be or who I needed for her to be in that moment. I was a scared, broken child. She was a gentle woman who had lived an incredibly sheltered life, and was very likely as scared as I was in that moment.
Today, I took new flowers to my grandmother's grave. I've been doing this a few times a year for the past few years, but today I really wanted to go there. I felt something different and wanted to physically be close to where she is. I've dreamt of my grandmother a few times in the past few months. I feel her presence with me. It seemed fitting on this Easter to go back to the church where she was a matriarch and attended for 87 years. The place she was baptized, confirmed, married and eventually memorialized, where she is buried out back in the family cemetery.
I told her I was sorry for not being able to let got of my anger with her sooner, but that I wasn't angry with her anymore. And I wasn't angry with me anymore either. That I've forgiven both of us for not knowing what to say or do in that moment. I told her that I still loved her and thought about her nearly everyday. I thanked her for loving me, for being my shelter in the storm of a lonely childhood. I told her that I so wished she had lived to see my children - her great-grandchildren, but that I understood why she wanted to leave this earth. Mostly though, I told her that she didn't need to worry about me anymore. I whispered to her that I knew she was scared for me, but she didn't need to be anymore. That I was strong, that I had survived, and that I had found some peace in this life. That the God she clung to in her lifetime had delivered me from my sorrows, and gave me such joy this Easter. That while I'm not certain where she is or what she's up to these days, I wanted her to have joy in her heart. That while I was lost for a time, I have been found. I have been able to open my hands and receive who I am.
After church, I took my kids down to see my parents this afternoon. First, we met up with my niece and nephew out on the farm where I spent a lot of time as a child. My grandparents have been gone for well over a decade, but the farm remains in the family. I take my kids there several times a year, and we wander the same fields and paths I wandered when I was their age. I show them the cows and explain the growth of the crops in the fields to them. We fish in the ponds and I tell them about my grandmother. The woman who adopted my father when he was orphaned at the age of 6, remains the one member of my family of origin that I will miss until the day I die. She was kind, affectionate and nurturing. I loved spending time in her presence, although we often sat in silence. I would sit at her table and watch her working, or follow her outside as she completed chores. She sheltered me, cared for me and loved me. I was the only granddaughter she knew very well, and she never let me forget for a moment that I was smart, capable and special. She had a lot of hopes for me, and I worked hard to make her proud of me.
In the spring of 1997, her husband, my grandfather, died unexpectedly. He was 87 years old. For the next year, I tried to hang on to my grandmother with all my might. I had just completed college, and had begun law school. I came home often to help my father care for his mother. I taught her how to drive again, at age 86, and made sure she knew that I thought she was smart, capable and special. I loved her presence and who she was, but in the end she died in the summer of 1998 from a broken heart. Once my grandfather died, she didn't know who she was or how to be without him. I had heard stories like this, but I watched her live this one. She had no medical condition that could be diagnosed or treated, but she hurt. Her heart hurt. She wanted to go home. And ultimately, she did. I never really mourned her death. I simply shut out the sadness, and got busy with my own life. Every now and again I would think of her, but mostly I tried not to. The pain of her absence was too much to bear. At every station of my life after 1998 - graduation from law school, marriage, the births of my children, I felt her absence acutely.
In the summer of 1988, my grandmother and I experienced our only impasse. I confided in her that something awful had happened in my life. It was beyond her ability to cope. I could see it in her face, I had hurt her speaking my truth. At that moment, she was the only adult in my life I trusted. She was the only person I could think of to go to when I was scared, alone and hurting. But, ultimately she did not know what to do with my pain, my shame. It would take years for me to talk about the experience again, and to this day I struggle to find the words to be able to talk about what happened. She and I never spoke of my confession again. It created a distance between us though, an unspoken hurt. I blamed her for not helping me, and I think she looked at me differently, perhaps that was my projection, but I went from being her beloved to a stranger she didn't quite recognize.
Ultimately, she died not knowing that I had long since forgiven her for not knowing what to do, for being scared of the truth. This past year, I have been struggling with that experience, and praying for some guidance in how to deal with the old trauma, the old shame that seems to be so deep that it permeates who I am, who I have become. While therapy was somewhat helpful, I think it really has taken unearthing the "stuff" of it all to help give me some clarity and ultimately some compassion with myself. That same compassion has spilled over, and I am finally able to see the whole experience from her perspective. There was nothing in her background, in her life experience she could draw from to know what to do, how to be or who I needed for her to be in that moment. I was a scared, broken child. She was a gentle woman who had lived an incredibly sheltered life, and was very likely as scared as I was in that moment.
Today, I took new flowers to my grandmother's grave. I've been doing this a few times a year for the past few years, but today I really wanted to go there. I felt something different and wanted to physically be close to where she is. I've dreamt of my grandmother a few times in the past few months. I feel her presence with me. It seemed fitting on this Easter to go back to the church where she was a matriarch and attended for 87 years. The place she was baptized, confirmed, married and eventually memorialized, where she is buried out back in the family cemetery.
I told her I was sorry for not being able to let got of my anger with her sooner, but that I wasn't angry with her anymore. And I wasn't angry with me anymore either. That I've forgiven both of us for not knowing what to say or do in that moment. I told her that I still loved her and thought about her nearly everyday. I thanked her for loving me, for being my shelter in the storm of a lonely childhood. I told her that I so wished she had lived to see my children - her great-grandchildren, but that I understood why she wanted to leave this earth. Mostly though, I told her that she didn't need to worry about me anymore. I whispered to her that I knew she was scared for me, but she didn't need to be anymore. That I was strong, that I had survived, and that I had found some peace in this life. That the God she clung to in her lifetime had delivered me from my sorrows, and gave me such joy this Easter. That while I'm not certain where she is or what she's up to these days, I wanted her to have joy in her heart. That while I was lost for a time, I have been found. I have been able to open my hands and receive who I am.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Maundy Thursday
Tonight I went to church solo - my babies are with their dad for a couple of hours. It's still an adjustment going places without them. I miss them when they are away from me, even if it is just for a few hours. It turned out to be a good thing though that I was on my own. I think I was more able to settle into the rhythm of worship.
The story of Jesus washing his disciples' feet struck a new chord with me. I was so moved by Peter's cry in the Gospel lesson tonight. When he begins (and I say begin, because I think he still struggled with it all) to understand why Jesus is washing the disciples' feet, he exclaims, "Lord, not my feet only, but also my hands and my head!" He wants so badly to accept the love offered by his teacher, that he wants to be washed completely. Not to be only partially washed, he hopes to be fully cleansed. I understand his longing. Once I have tasted the divine, I only want more. Nothing satisfies me more than this. This incredible longing for God is powerful, consuming and a love unlike any other. It overwhelms me with emotion. I am rendered speechless and teary-eyed. And so I, too, want more. In fact, I, like Peter, long for more.
This combined with the sermon I heard tonight makes this day feel different to me this year. In the past, I have always thought of this day as one of a remembrance of the Lord's Supper. However, the sermon preached tonight reminded me of something different. As we turn towards the last night for Jesus on earth - his prayers in the garden - I am reminded that there is something missing. Despite all the growth I have experienced in the past year - it is incomplete.
It's not magic or anything earth shattering. The thing - that thing - is unconditional love. Despite all of what I want and believe and hope for - unconditional love is that thing that still eludes me at times. I want to experience it. Taste it. Know it fully. Be able to participate in the mystery - to love others without restrictions. And at times I catch a glimpse, and I like Peter, cry out for more and for that love to be complete here on earth, here and now. There have been those moments of realization - over time - that I can identify as moments of pure, unadulterated love. The birth of each of my children is probably the most memorable. In the first hours after each of my children was born I held them close to my face. I whispered prayers to God that He/She would hold them, keep them, protect them, love them. Tears fell from my eyes, as the newborn I was holding stared wide-eyed at me. I thanked God for the chance to be their mother, for giving me the gift of a healthy infant after 40 weeks of carrying them inside me. I have never felt the presence of God closer to me than in those moments. I knew immediately what it was to love another person unconditionally. And as strong as my passion for my children is, I know that God's passion is stronger, more full, more complete than mine can be. This is why the yearning will always be with me.
I understand now that this is not that moment where the story is complete, where I am made whole. And it will never be complete on this earth. No matter my intentions, I will continue to fall short, because after all, I cannot take it all in this side of heaven. Try as I might to love myself, God, others...I will continue to miss the mark. Not because I'm inherently evil or carry the old Adam with me, but because I am human. And others will miss the mark as well, and so at times I will be faced with the fact that others cannot live up to my expectations, that they cannot love as I had hoped they could or would.
While that news used to dash my hopes and make me spiral into a depression, I don't feel that anymore. I only want the taste of it that I can experience. The moments of grace that make me yearn for more. I want to be able to give and receive as fully as I can, here and now.
I'm liking Peter more and more, and hoping that I too can drop the pretenses and acts, and accept the love of God and the love of others fully and without reservation. That I too can cry out to God that I want to be loved fully and completely. Lord, not just my feet, but my head and my hands. Without reservation. Without fear. Fully. Completely. Here and now. Amen.
The story of Jesus washing his disciples' feet struck a new chord with me. I was so moved by Peter's cry in the Gospel lesson tonight. When he begins (and I say begin, because I think he still struggled with it all) to understand why Jesus is washing the disciples' feet, he exclaims, "Lord, not my feet only, but also my hands and my head!" He wants so badly to accept the love offered by his teacher, that he wants to be washed completely. Not to be only partially washed, he hopes to be fully cleansed. I understand his longing. Once I have tasted the divine, I only want more. Nothing satisfies me more than this. This incredible longing for God is powerful, consuming and a love unlike any other. It overwhelms me with emotion. I am rendered speechless and teary-eyed. And so I, too, want more. In fact, I, like Peter, long for more.
This combined with the sermon I heard tonight makes this day feel different to me this year. In the past, I have always thought of this day as one of a remembrance of the Lord's Supper. However, the sermon preached tonight reminded me of something different. As we turn towards the last night for Jesus on earth - his prayers in the garden - I am reminded that there is something missing. Despite all the growth I have experienced in the past year - it is incomplete.
It's not magic or anything earth shattering. The thing - that thing - is unconditional love. Despite all of what I want and believe and hope for - unconditional love is that thing that still eludes me at times. I want to experience it. Taste it. Know it fully. Be able to participate in the mystery - to love others without restrictions. And at times I catch a glimpse, and I like Peter, cry out for more and for that love to be complete here on earth, here and now. There have been those moments of realization - over time - that I can identify as moments of pure, unadulterated love. The birth of each of my children is probably the most memorable. In the first hours after each of my children was born I held them close to my face. I whispered prayers to God that He/She would hold them, keep them, protect them, love them. Tears fell from my eyes, as the newborn I was holding stared wide-eyed at me. I thanked God for the chance to be their mother, for giving me the gift of a healthy infant after 40 weeks of carrying them inside me. I have never felt the presence of God closer to me than in those moments. I knew immediately what it was to love another person unconditionally. And as strong as my passion for my children is, I know that God's passion is stronger, more full, more complete than mine can be. This is why the yearning will always be with me.
I understand now that this is not that moment where the story is complete, where I am made whole. And it will never be complete on this earth. No matter my intentions, I will continue to fall short, because after all, I cannot take it all in this side of heaven. Try as I might to love myself, God, others...I will continue to miss the mark. Not because I'm inherently evil or carry the old Adam with me, but because I am human. And others will miss the mark as well, and so at times I will be faced with the fact that others cannot live up to my expectations, that they cannot love as I had hoped they could or would.
While that news used to dash my hopes and make me spiral into a depression, I don't feel that anymore. I only want the taste of it that I can experience. The moments of grace that make me yearn for more. I want to be able to give and receive as fully as I can, here and now.
I'm liking Peter more and more, and hoping that I too can drop the pretenses and acts, and accept the love of God and the love of others fully and without reservation. That I too can cry out to God that I want to be loved fully and completely. Lord, not just my feet, but my head and my hands. Without reservation. Without fear. Fully. Completely. Here and now. Amen.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Joy - who knew?
This past week it has occurred to me that save a cranky moment here and there - the primary emotion I feel lately is joy. Not contentment or satisfaction or good...but a real and heightened sense of joy and aliveness and amazement.
When Blaise Pascal had his "moment" - his experience of God, he cried out, "Joy, joy, joy...not the god of philosophers and scholars...the god of Abraham, Jacob and Isaac." He was reading in the book of John, and it just came to him, in the moment. I get that. That overwhelming sense of connection to something greater than myself - that brings a sheer sense of joy.
I find myself without words to describe just how good I feel (although apparently I'm trying). I've started exercising again - and perhaps it's the endorphins...but I almost feel as if I've fallen in love. With life. I'm laughing, smiling and loving everyday. Rather than feel weighed down by all of the responsibility of my life...I just feel joy. As I observe the world around me, I see so much light and love. In the people I know, in the places I visit and in the simple, everyday stuff of life. I have no logical explanations why or why now - but I feel it. And it brings me back to the faith again and again. I feel a sense of the holy in and around and through me that is at once incredible and moving.
On the lighter side, I have been contemplating piercing my nose...which at nearly 35 sounds a little crazy, even to me. It's something I've wanted for a long time, but for reasons of timing and my station in life (read: employers who would've fired me over it), I've never been willing to do it. The funny thing is all the laughter I've had from thinking about this, and the folks that I love who have weighed in on the subject...many years ago I made a proclamation in front of witnesses that I would either pierce my nose or love a man who wore earrings (and I meant more than one) before I died. It was a statement made on a beach surrounded by the love of my friends, and after a few glasses of Chardonnay. At the time I was admiring from afar a man who was serious, conservative (not politically, but socially I think) and who likely would never have worn an earring of any kind. When news of my pending nose piercing circulated among my friends, they've gently reminded of my long-ago statement made on the beach - and I'm laughing still. And perhaps I'm going to have work on one of those options soon. Although I don't know that I'm ready to offer my love to a man right now, with or without earrings, I do feel as if the cloud of my divorce and relationship turmoil is lifting, and I can see a day when I will want to be in relationship again with a man. I'm not against a guy with earrings coming along, but it's not my top priority at this point in my life.
To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what to do with this new sense of happiness. It seems foreign to me. My heart has hurt for a long time - and to feel a new sense of wholeness - of healing - well it's almost a shock to my system.
I think I've spent an inordinate amount of time on self-reflection and contemplation this past year, and it all seems worth it in this moment. To feel the joy of a new knowledge of myself and the love of God. To feel at peace with who I am and who I am becoming. While I know my journey is nowhere near completion, I am enjoying the view these days. I feel the words of Pascal, "O righteous father, the world has not known you, but I have known you. Joy, joy, joy...tears of joy."
When Blaise Pascal had his "moment" - his experience of God, he cried out, "Joy, joy, joy...not the god of philosophers and scholars...the god of Abraham, Jacob and Isaac." He was reading in the book of John, and it just came to him, in the moment. I get that. That overwhelming sense of connection to something greater than myself - that brings a sheer sense of joy.
I find myself without words to describe just how good I feel (although apparently I'm trying). I've started exercising again - and perhaps it's the endorphins...but I almost feel as if I've fallen in love. With life. I'm laughing, smiling and loving everyday. Rather than feel weighed down by all of the responsibility of my life...I just feel joy. As I observe the world around me, I see so much light and love. In the people I know, in the places I visit and in the simple, everyday stuff of life. I have no logical explanations why or why now - but I feel it. And it brings me back to the faith again and again. I feel a sense of the holy in and around and through me that is at once incredible and moving.
On the lighter side, I have been contemplating piercing my nose...which at nearly 35 sounds a little crazy, even to me. It's something I've wanted for a long time, but for reasons of timing and my station in life (read: employers who would've fired me over it), I've never been willing to do it. The funny thing is all the laughter I've had from thinking about this, and the folks that I love who have weighed in on the subject...many years ago I made a proclamation in front of witnesses that I would either pierce my nose or love a man who wore earrings (and I meant more than one) before I died. It was a statement made on a beach surrounded by the love of my friends, and after a few glasses of Chardonnay. At the time I was admiring from afar a man who was serious, conservative (not politically, but socially I think) and who likely would never have worn an earring of any kind. When news of my pending nose piercing circulated among my friends, they've gently reminded of my long-ago statement made on the beach - and I'm laughing still. And perhaps I'm going to have work on one of those options soon. Although I don't know that I'm ready to offer my love to a man right now, with or without earrings, I do feel as if the cloud of my divorce and relationship turmoil is lifting, and I can see a day when I will want to be in relationship again with a man. I'm not against a guy with earrings coming along, but it's not my top priority at this point in my life.
To be honest, I'm not entirely sure what to do with this new sense of happiness. It seems foreign to me. My heart has hurt for a long time - and to feel a new sense of wholeness - of healing - well it's almost a shock to my system.
I think I've spent an inordinate amount of time on self-reflection and contemplation this past year, and it all seems worth it in this moment. To feel the joy of a new knowledge of myself and the love of God. To feel at peace with who I am and who I am becoming. While I know my journey is nowhere near completion, I am enjoying the view these days. I feel the words of Pascal, "O righteous father, the world has not known you, but I have known you. Joy, joy, joy...tears of joy."
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Enough
There are days when I am left with a sense that regardless what I do in this lifetime, it will never be enough. That somehow I will never be enough. Ultimately none of what we can do to save ourselves or one another is enough.
I realize this is fatalist thinking to some degree, and that some of it started back when I was a teenager/young 20's adult. When I was in college I took a lot of theology/philosophy and a lot of political science. And the thing that used to set me over the edge was the political science. Because ultimately there is no perfect system or way of doing things. We can theorize all day long, and we can work for justice and peace our entire lives, and ultimately maybe not make more than a small ripple, that is felt in our own ponds only. Part of me still wants heaven on earth. I'm worn of this world and all of it's craziness. Where the hell is the kingdom of God and when it is going to arrive?!
I want a life for the kids I work with that is full of the things they need and all the love they can hold. I want peace on the planet for those ravaged by war and strife. I want life, and I want abundant life for those who live with doubts, fears and pain. I want justice for those who have been harmed by others. I want simpler things too. I want some semblance of control over my body and my fluctuating weight (which happens to be up at this moment). I want my children to grow up in a loving environment free of the harsh criticism I endured. I want a partner in this life who loves me completely and without reservation. I want healing for myself and for those who need it. I want the happy ending...where all the struggle and strife and pain ends up being worth something in the end, perhaps turned into healing and unconditional love and peace.
That's a heck of a Christmas list I suppose. And yet I feel as if there is just not enough to go around. While I believe in God, and know more so now than ever that God desires relationship with me, I wonder where all this other stuff fits in. Is it too much to ask for? To hope for? To desire? It seems so. I've had Archbishop Romero on the brain today. It's the anniversary of his death - the day he was shot while celebrating mass in El Salvador. Romero has been someone I've studied for many years, and a sort of folk hero to me. Yet, for all of his passionate preaching and love for the Salvadoran people, he was gunned down. He died. He is not here now, the dream was never realized for him. King faced the same end - he worked to see the end of racism and classism, and yet, he too was killed before he ever got to be "enough." For all of the work so many do, it doesn't seem to be enough ultimately.
For every one happy ending I get to see in juvenile court, there are 5 crappy ones. So 1 kid gets the dream, and the other 5 get shit on. It just seems wrong. Unfair. Unjust. Hopeless.
The better angels of my nature reassure me that the one child would not have gotten that ending but for the same systems I rail against. That even if it is only one, it is someone. And that one should be celebrated and I should be thankful for the one. I guess I'm just at a cyncial juncture. I'm more caught up with the other 5.
Perhaps it's my own life - that I feel too close to - or identify too much with - the other 5. I know what it's like to face some of what they face - to never feel the warmth of unconditional love as a child. And to still long for it now decades later. To still want healing...to still hope that love wins in the end - that love really does conquer all. And despite all my desire as a kid to please God and to be acceptable, I just never could quite get the hang of it. I never could actually *feel* it.
More than anything else today, I desire to still have a spark of hope that what I'm doing is serving a higher good, even when it seems dismal. I so want to believe that God waits for me, wanting to share in both my despair and my joy. That even in the darkest hour of the darkest night, there is a loving Father, only too ready to shoulder some of my burden, to lighten my load.
I realize this is fatalist thinking to some degree, and that some of it started back when I was a teenager/young 20's adult. When I was in college I took a lot of theology/philosophy and a lot of political science. And the thing that used to set me over the edge was the political science. Because ultimately there is no perfect system or way of doing things. We can theorize all day long, and we can work for justice and peace our entire lives, and ultimately maybe not make more than a small ripple, that is felt in our own ponds only. Part of me still wants heaven on earth. I'm worn of this world and all of it's craziness. Where the hell is the kingdom of God and when it is going to arrive?!
I want a life for the kids I work with that is full of the things they need and all the love they can hold. I want peace on the planet for those ravaged by war and strife. I want life, and I want abundant life for those who live with doubts, fears and pain. I want justice for those who have been harmed by others. I want simpler things too. I want some semblance of control over my body and my fluctuating weight (which happens to be up at this moment). I want my children to grow up in a loving environment free of the harsh criticism I endured. I want a partner in this life who loves me completely and without reservation. I want healing for myself and for those who need it. I want the happy ending...where all the struggle and strife and pain ends up being worth something in the end, perhaps turned into healing and unconditional love and peace.
That's a heck of a Christmas list I suppose. And yet I feel as if there is just not enough to go around. While I believe in God, and know more so now than ever that God desires relationship with me, I wonder where all this other stuff fits in. Is it too much to ask for? To hope for? To desire? It seems so. I've had Archbishop Romero on the brain today. It's the anniversary of his death - the day he was shot while celebrating mass in El Salvador. Romero has been someone I've studied for many years, and a sort of folk hero to me. Yet, for all of his passionate preaching and love for the Salvadoran people, he was gunned down. He died. He is not here now, the dream was never realized for him. King faced the same end - he worked to see the end of racism and classism, and yet, he too was killed before he ever got to be "enough." For all of the work so many do, it doesn't seem to be enough ultimately.
For every one happy ending I get to see in juvenile court, there are 5 crappy ones. So 1 kid gets the dream, and the other 5 get shit on. It just seems wrong. Unfair. Unjust. Hopeless.
The better angels of my nature reassure me that the one child would not have gotten that ending but for the same systems I rail against. That even if it is only one, it is someone. And that one should be celebrated and I should be thankful for the one. I guess I'm just at a cyncial juncture. I'm more caught up with the other 5.
Perhaps it's my own life - that I feel too close to - or identify too much with - the other 5. I know what it's like to face some of what they face - to never feel the warmth of unconditional love as a child. And to still long for it now decades later. To still want healing...to still hope that love wins in the end - that love really does conquer all. And despite all my desire as a kid to please God and to be acceptable, I just never could quite get the hang of it. I never could actually *feel* it.
More than anything else today, I desire to still have a spark of hope that what I'm doing is serving a higher good, even when it seems dismal. I so want to believe that God waits for me, wanting to share in both my despair and my joy. That even in the darkest hour of the darkest night, there is a loving Father, only too ready to shoulder some of my burden, to lighten my load.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Happy Anniversary
Today is the 21st anniversary of my confirmation into the Lutheran church. I was a 13 year old girl. I studied with the pastor of my childhood church for 3 years to prepare, and then on a Palm Sunday in 1989 I was accepted into the Lutheran church. Back in those days you underwent an examination in front of the church to be sure that you knew the catechism, commandments, etc. It was a little nerve-wracking/intimidating for a 13 year old. There were four of us that year - which was a small class - so we found ourselves having to memorize more than classes before or after us. Four girls - now 34/35 year old women. I remember fear as the primary emotion of that day. Fear I would screw up the stuff I was supposed to remember to say. Fear I would trip over the robe/vestments we had to wear. Fear I was somehow not worthy of this event. My confirmation was a big deal for me. I was very into church at 13. It was my stability in the midst of my chaos. I felt drawn there. I wanted so badly to please God - who in my mind was waiting for me to screw it up. A god who didn't have much faith in me at all, but demanded a sacrifical faith of me.
How life changes! These past few months have been about letting go of fear for me. Releasing the notion that God somehow wants my fear or seeks to make me scared of Him/Her. As I struggle to understand now where I go from here, or how I move forward, I wonder why I ever bought into the religion of fear and dominance. What are the roots? How do I pull them up so that I don't give them to my children? When i was 13 I had to choose a Bible verse to be "my verse" for my confirmation day. I chose Psalms 118:14. "The Lord is my strength and my song. He has become my salvation." Today I would likely choose other verses in the same psalm..."O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his steadfast love endures forever...Out of my distress I called on the Lord; the Lord answered me and set me in a broad place. With the Lord at my side I do not fear...I thank you that you have answered me and have become my salvation."
This is what life is about. The love of God which endures forever. Steadfast means unwavering. In other words there is nothing so bad or so sad that I can do that would ever mean a loss of that love. That God has become my salvation. Not because I did anything spectacular, but because God so wants a relationship that He goes to the ends of the earth to find me. With God, therefore I do not need any fear in my life. Fear only stunts my growth, and makes me react with violence.
Back in 1989 there was an Amy Grant song that I listened to often (I still love me some Amy) called 1974 where she talks about the day she was confirmed.
"We were young. None of us knew quite what to say. But the feeling moved among us in silence anyway. Slowly we had made...quite a change. Somewhere we had crossed a big line. Down upon our knees we had tasted holy wine. No one could sway us in a lifetime."
That faith is my history. But perhaps it is not my future. And that is somewhat painful. That sense of loss. In 1989 faith was easy, comfortable and made simple sense. This new faith is tougher to come to, complicated and at times makes me uneasy. It is the grey, fringe areas - there is no black and white.
I was reading a book by a woman I have really come to love, and she said that when your experience and your religion clash or conflict, you have three choices. You can deny your experience and conform to the religion. You can leave the religion because you cannot deny your experience. Or you can become a theologian. While I see now clearly my call to the third option, the third option is not easy. While it makes room for experience and religion to co-exist, it still seems complicated, messy.
21 years later...and I feel good and holy and loved and that perhaps all I ever really needed was to let go of fear. The steadfast love of God endures forever. I know that much is true.
How life changes! These past few months have been about letting go of fear for me. Releasing the notion that God somehow wants my fear or seeks to make me scared of Him/Her. As I struggle to understand now where I go from here, or how I move forward, I wonder why I ever bought into the religion of fear and dominance. What are the roots? How do I pull them up so that I don't give them to my children? When i was 13 I had to choose a Bible verse to be "my verse" for my confirmation day. I chose Psalms 118:14. "The Lord is my strength and my song. He has become my salvation." Today I would likely choose other verses in the same psalm..."O give thanks to the Lord, for he is good; his steadfast love endures forever...Out of my distress I called on the Lord; the Lord answered me and set me in a broad place. With the Lord at my side I do not fear...I thank you that you have answered me and have become my salvation."
This is what life is about. The love of God which endures forever. Steadfast means unwavering. In other words there is nothing so bad or so sad that I can do that would ever mean a loss of that love. That God has become my salvation. Not because I did anything spectacular, but because God so wants a relationship that He goes to the ends of the earth to find me. With God, therefore I do not need any fear in my life. Fear only stunts my growth, and makes me react with violence.
Back in 1989 there was an Amy Grant song that I listened to often (I still love me some Amy) called 1974 where she talks about the day she was confirmed.
"We were young. None of us knew quite what to say. But the feeling moved among us in silence anyway. Slowly we had made...quite a change. Somewhere we had crossed a big line. Down upon our knees we had tasted holy wine. No one could sway us in a lifetime."
That faith is my history. But perhaps it is not my future. And that is somewhat painful. That sense of loss. In 1989 faith was easy, comfortable and made simple sense. This new faith is tougher to come to, complicated and at times makes me uneasy. It is the grey, fringe areas - there is no black and white.
I was reading a book by a woman I have really come to love, and she said that when your experience and your religion clash or conflict, you have three choices. You can deny your experience and conform to the religion. You can leave the religion because you cannot deny your experience. Or you can become a theologian. While I see now clearly my call to the third option, the third option is not easy. While it makes room for experience and religion to co-exist, it still seems complicated, messy.
21 years later...and I feel good and holy and loved and that perhaps all I ever really needed was to let go of fear. The steadfast love of God endures forever. I know that much is true.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Signs, Symbols and Smells
So, we're midway through Lent, and I'm sitting at my desk at work drinking a Diet Coke...hmmm. Well, that discipline isn't working out as well as planned...! As for the other things I was hoping for...well i seem to be right on track.
I read a book recently called Proverbs of Ashes. It was the book i was moved to pick up while at a bookstore that reminded me of Lent. It was a painful read in a lot of ways. The book confronts the notions of violence as it relates to God, the cross and Lent. Two women share their life experiences and reflect on how they fit into the church (universal), theology and christology. Some of it was heady, but most of it was pretty raw. You could feel their pain and alienation in the words on the pages. I had to put it down a few times so as not to become overwhelmed by it all. It confirmed for me though, that my childhood belief that Jesus died for my sins is ...well...a childhood belief, and not one I currently hold. I cannot love a God who would require his own son to die for my salvation. This idea just doesn't make any sense to me anymore. Part of me is liberated by releasing my old beliefs and part of me is unnerved by it.
This symbol of my childhood - that Jesus had to die for me - was one I held on to tightly. Perhaps it was the idea that I was important enough for such a sacrifice. Or maybe it was that I needed something to hold onto. I think at least part of it was that I indeed felt dirty and sinful in some ways, and so a theology that affirmed that made some sense to me. Regardless I clung to that idea, and was in some ways molded by it. Letting it go has taken me some time.
I have this thing about smells. I relate my life and events to smells oftentimes. In the same way some people relate a song to an event, I more often relate smells to big events. For example, if you took me into my childhood church blindfolded, I could identify it by its smell. Same thing goes for my dad. He has a smell to him. (Not in a bad way) In the same way, I have certain smells branded into my memory in not such a good way. The smell of mud reminds me of a traumatic moment in my life, and to this day a strong whiff of mud turns my stomach over. Recently, while thinking, praying, meditating (not sure how to define it)...the smell of mud overwhelmed me. I wasn't sure how to react. It caught me by surprise.
With it though, came a new clarity. That oft repeated phrase from Scripture...do not be afraid. And I recalled that the reason that Jesus had to be the ransom for my sin as a child and young adult was because of my own fear. I was afraid of a vengeful god, and felt that if perhaps Jesus did my time for me, it would be ok. I just knew I was a big sinner, and hopefully god would accept me if Jesus came first. My own fear of hell on earth, hell in the after life was enough to motivate me to cry out to Jesus to forgive me. Even when I wasn't sure what I had done wrong. I think I was also afraid of what it would mean to be in relationship with rather than subordinate to. I was speaking with a new friend recently and he was questioning why people are not more inclined to seek out God or a holy place that represents God. My answer, which sprung to my lips before I could think it through was that people are fearful. I am fearful. If you choose to live in relationship to God, life changes. You cannot stop the trajectory. If you surrender to it, the rug seems to be pulled out from under you. Not in a punitive way, but in a new and beautiful way. It doesn't mean there isn't still pain at moments. But it does mean you have to make choices that make sense to you in the moment as opposed to continuing to stumble along through life as if you don't know any better. It means you have to value yourself as a creation of God, holy and beloved from the start, as opposed to a fallen sinner who has no worth and carries the age old sin of Adam (or Eve) around until Jesus's blood cleanses us. It means risking a life of passion and love as opposed to a life that appears to be safe and good enough.
The sign is clear to me now. Clearer than perhaps ever before. I choose relationship. I choose understanding, compassion, and ultimately joy. The choice is not easy. It's not a cop out. But it is one without fear, without apologies.
20 days in...now if I could just give up Diet Coke.
I read a book recently called Proverbs of Ashes. It was the book i was moved to pick up while at a bookstore that reminded me of Lent. It was a painful read in a lot of ways. The book confronts the notions of violence as it relates to God, the cross and Lent. Two women share their life experiences and reflect on how they fit into the church (universal), theology and christology. Some of it was heady, but most of it was pretty raw. You could feel their pain and alienation in the words on the pages. I had to put it down a few times so as not to become overwhelmed by it all. It confirmed for me though, that my childhood belief that Jesus died for my sins is ...well...a childhood belief, and not one I currently hold. I cannot love a God who would require his own son to die for my salvation. This idea just doesn't make any sense to me anymore. Part of me is liberated by releasing my old beliefs and part of me is unnerved by it.
This symbol of my childhood - that Jesus had to die for me - was one I held on to tightly. Perhaps it was the idea that I was important enough for such a sacrifice. Or maybe it was that I needed something to hold onto. I think at least part of it was that I indeed felt dirty and sinful in some ways, and so a theology that affirmed that made some sense to me. Regardless I clung to that idea, and was in some ways molded by it. Letting it go has taken me some time.
I have this thing about smells. I relate my life and events to smells oftentimes. In the same way some people relate a song to an event, I more often relate smells to big events. For example, if you took me into my childhood church blindfolded, I could identify it by its smell. Same thing goes for my dad. He has a smell to him. (Not in a bad way) In the same way, I have certain smells branded into my memory in not such a good way. The smell of mud reminds me of a traumatic moment in my life, and to this day a strong whiff of mud turns my stomach over. Recently, while thinking, praying, meditating (not sure how to define it)...the smell of mud overwhelmed me. I wasn't sure how to react. It caught me by surprise.
With it though, came a new clarity. That oft repeated phrase from Scripture...do not be afraid. And I recalled that the reason that Jesus had to be the ransom for my sin as a child and young adult was because of my own fear. I was afraid of a vengeful god, and felt that if perhaps Jesus did my time for me, it would be ok. I just knew I was a big sinner, and hopefully god would accept me if Jesus came first. My own fear of hell on earth, hell in the after life was enough to motivate me to cry out to Jesus to forgive me. Even when I wasn't sure what I had done wrong. I think I was also afraid of what it would mean to be in relationship with rather than subordinate to. I was speaking with a new friend recently and he was questioning why people are not more inclined to seek out God or a holy place that represents God. My answer, which sprung to my lips before I could think it through was that people are fearful. I am fearful. If you choose to live in relationship to God, life changes. You cannot stop the trajectory. If you surrender to it, the rug seems to be pulled out from under you. Not in a punitive way, but in a new and beautiful way. It doesn't mean there isn't still pain at moments. But it does mean you have to make choices that make sense to you in the moment as opposed to continuing to stumble along through life as if you don't know any better. It means you have to value yourself as a creation of God, holy and beloved from the start, as opposed to a fallen sinner who has no worth and carries the age old sin of Adam (or Eve) around until Jesus's blood cleanses us. It means risking a life of passion and love as opposed to a life that appears to be safe and good enough.
The sign is clear to me now. Clearer than perhaps ever before. I choose relationship. I choose understanding, compassion, and ultimately joy. The choice is not easy. It's not a cop out. But it is one without fear, without apologies.
20 days in...now if I could just give up Diet Coke.
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