This Sunday I'm having my little one, my son, baptized into the community that has already accepted him (and us) into their midst. Last year when my daughter asked to go through this ritual, I knew that she had reasons for wanting to do this. She had seen many children baptized, and she had thought about it. Even though she was only six years old, she seemed to grasp some of the weight of her decision.
Last year when my daughter was baptized, I decided, that as a family, I wanted both of my children to be able to share in the Eucharist - receiving the bread and wineat the table. So despite the fact that my son had not yet been baptized, I let him begin receiving communion. My reasoning, faulty it may be, was that as a family, we had all been attending the church for nearly a year and together we would go to the table to receive what was being offered and to give what we offer - the love of Christ, fellowship with a new family, our own thanksgiving for the blessings of our common life.
For the past few months, my son has mentioned that he wants now to do what his sister did a year ago. At first I sort of let the conversation drift around and didn't really question him or talk with him much about it. I offered the typical momism..."OK, we'll see." As he has grown more and more sure of himself recently, I finally told him I would mention it to our priest and move forward. He was pleased, and for the past week he has gotten downright excited about what was to come.
My son is in many ways me, in male form. My son, since the night before his birth, has not been an easy child. His entrance into this world was rocky. After a simple, and full 39 weeks and 6 days of pregnancy, I was preparing for bed. I had put our 2 and 1/2 year old daughter to bed in her toddler bed, fed the dogs and was ready to heave my large belly into bed. I had been assured by my doctor a day earlier, that I was still probably a week or so away from delivering. My son, unlike my daughter, was in the right position to be delivered naturally, and I was living in that slow period of waiting for his arrival. As I crawled into bed, I decided to make one last trip to the bathroom. And then in dramatic fashion when I stood up, my water broke. I was stunned. And a little unnerved. I wasn't ready for this new adventure just yet.
Regardless of my preparations, the contractions started, and pretty soon I found myself in a hospital room. We arrived there around midnight, and I assumed that by morning I would be holding my son. My expectations were not immediately met. I labored through the night and the next morning...and the next afternoon...finally my doctor came to me and said, the baby was in distress each time I contracted, and that he was not going to come on his own, that they wanted to perform a c section. I was so tired by the time this development happened, I quickly consented, and was ready to meet this child. I recall very clearly the moment of my son's birth...it was silent. He didn't cry. He was blue. I was frightened. Within a minute he was screaming and bright pink. I remember crying in relief. He was here, he was alive and by all accounts he was healthy, and born on his due date, after 21 hours of labor.
My daughter, as an infant and toddler, was affectionate, loving and happy most days. My son was not really any of these things. He was an adorable baby, and not at all a fussy infant...but he had his quirks that were clear early on. He didn't take to people the way his sister did. He was cautious and sometimes seemingly anxious about situations and events. He resisted change, and was only content if we were following our ordinary routine. And to complicate things further, he had health issues that landed him in a doctor's office or hospital often from birth until he was over 2 years old.
And yet...and still...I have always understood him. He is so much who and how I was at his age, and his life has healed me in so many ways. I recall feeling the way he often seems to feel. Not entirely trusting people around me, not having an innate ability to show affection to those around me. As he ages and learns to express himself and to accept the love of those around him, I am continually amazed by this boy.
By far the best part of today was seeing how much he has changed and grown in just a few, short years. He was excited, loving and happy. And he was able to express those feelings openly to the people around him. Shortly after he was baptized, he ran into my arms and said, "that was awesome mom." I told him how I proud of him I was. He is in all ways, my child.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Things left unsaid
As is common for me, I've come crashing back to earth. I tend to be reactionary, emotional and a little crazy. The past month has been ripe with new ideas, new people and excitement for me. In a way, I feel as if for a moment I left behind all of the wreckage of my personal life for bigger things. But, still I know myself well enough, and perhaps even accept myself enough, to feel it coming on and I'm ready to listen to what the lessons are this time around. About a week ago, I could feel this "spell" a-coming on. So what's eating me?
I'm not entirely sure. I think part of it has to do with trying to figure out some balance with my ex-husband, and still feeling ill-equipped to get it all ironed out in my mind. To my chagrin, I've discovered that some days I miss him. That seems strange to me, to even say those words, but it's true. Not that I've said those words out loud to anyone. It might be that I think it's strange because I chose this road. I made the decision that both of us feared. In the end, I decided for both of us that we would no longer be together. As I was getting misty-eyed listening to some Amy Grant last night, a line from one of her songs struck me, "the road of life is rugged, any road you choose, when I find the other side...I'll wait for you."
I suppose I didn't really get how hard this would be. To be alone. To feel alone. I find myself feeling sad that no one is "waiting for me" anywhere. And yet, I don't feel ready or able to love someone the way I loved my husband. I don't feel ready to admit my own neediness. In many ways he was my first, my only. It still hurts too much. The loss is still fresh in so many ways. I find myself envying those around me who move onward and upward so quickly. My fears are too great. I find myself silent.
I sat in the emergency room with my daughter Friday night after she experienced an allergic reaction to something. I called her dad on my way to the ER. I'm not certain what I was hoping for. Regardless he asked me to call him when it was over and let him know what was going on. The difference for me this time is that I was just left sad. So many words left unsaid.
Back when our son was an infant and I was sitting in hospital rooms with him - holding him for hours, quieting his tears, pacing the hallways, praying that he would be all right - I was alone then, too. My ex-husband hasn't changed in the past year. Back then I was so consumed with anger at him for not being who I wanted him to be in those moments, I could barely look at him. And yet, I was quiet.
And just so I don't appear the martyr, I don't believe he ever meant anything by not being present. I think he figured I had it handled. After all I never let myself crumble with him. I was stoic, in control and edgy when it came to our children and their crises. Even now, I'm not certain how to talk about being scared. I expected him to know, to understand, to see past my bravado. And when he didn't or couldn't, I was angry.
I still recall with more than a little bitterness the night I labored with our son. We left for the hospital around 10pm after my water broke unexpectedly. My parents met us and took our sleepy little girl home with them. I was determined to have our son naturally. As the hours came and went, I grew more and more scared. I was in pain, my labor wasn't progressing and I was becoming increasingly tired. In the midst of all this, my husband decided to "take a break" and left me alone for 3 hours. I had a mini-breakdown. Here I was, in a hospital room, in intense labor with our child and completely and totally alone. And yet, when he returned, I said very little. Some days I believe that was the beginning of the end of our marriage.
There are so many things I never said. And so I feel sad today. I wonder if any of those things would have made a difference for us. I've made tough decisions. And while I can't honestly say I regret those decisions, I also am still left full of sorrow in some ways that I had to make them. So many things left unsaid.
I'm not entirely sure. I think part of it has to do with trying to figure out some balance with my ex-husband, and still feeling ill-equipped to get it all ironed out in my mind. To my chagrin, I've discovered that some days I miss him. That seems strange to me, to even say those words, but it's true. Not that I've said those words out loud to anyone. It might be that I think it's strange because I chose this road. I made the decision that both of us feared. In the end, I decided for both of us that we would no longer be together. As I was getting misty-eyed listening to some Amy Grant last night, a line from one of her songs struck me, "the road of life is rugged, any road you choose, when I find the other side...I'll wait for you."
I suppose I didn't really get how hard this would be. To be alone. To feel alone. I find myself feeling sad that no one is "waiting for me" anywhere. And yet, I don't feel ready or able to love someone the way I loved my husband. I don't feel ready to admit my own neediness. In many ways he was my first, my only. It still hurts too much. The loss is still fresh in so many ways. I find myself envying those around me who move onward and upward so quickly. My fears are too great. I find myself silent.
I sat in the emergency room with my daughter Friday night after she experienced an allergic reaction to something. I called her dad on my way to the ER. I'm not certain what I was hoping for. Regardless he asked me to call him when it was over and let him know what was going on. The difference for me this time is that I was just left sad. So many words left unsaid.
Back when our son was an infant and I was sitting in hospital rooms with him - holding him for hours, quieting his tears, pacing the hallways, praying that he would be all right - I was alone then, too. My ex-husband hasn't changed in the past year. Back then I was so consumed with anger at him for not being who I wanted him to be in those moments, I could barely look at him. And yet, I was quiet.
And just so I don't appear the martyr, I don't believe he ever meant anything by not being present. I think he figured I had it handled. After all I never let myself crumble with him. I was stoic, in control and edgy when it came to our children and their crises. Even now, I'm not certain how to talk about being scared. I expected him to know, to understand, to see past my bravado. And when he didn't or couldn't, I was angry.
I still recall with more than a little bitterness the night I labored with our son. We left for the hospital around 10pm after my water broke unexpectedly. My parents met us and took our sleepy little girl home with them. I was determined to have our son naturally. As the hours came and went, I grew more and more scared. I was in pain, my labor wasn't progressing and I was becoming increasingly tired. In the midst of all this, my husband decided to "take a break" and left me alone for 3 hours. I had a mini-breakdown. Here I was, in a hospital room, in intense labor with our child and completely and totally alone. And yet, when he returned, I said very little. Some days I believe that was the beginning of the end of our marriage.
There are so many things I never said. And so I feel sad today. I wonder if any of those things would have made a difference for us. I've made tough decisions. And while I can't honestly say I regret those decisions, I also am still left full of sorrow in some ways that I had to make them. So many things left unsaid.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Zaccheus
As is my custom on Mondays, I read the upcoming Gospel lesson for next Sunday. I like to let it soak in a bit before Sunday rolls around. The week generally passes so quickly, that I don't really feel that gives me enough time...but I try.
This lesson is the one that kids at Vacation Bible School have been singing about since the beginning of time...the story of the "wee little man" - Zaccheus. As I re-read the story this week, it occurred to me, that Zaccheus's transformation is exactly what Peter Rollins has been talking about with some of his recent blogs. (www.peterrollins.net) Transformation brings about change. If we are truly transformed, change is imminent for us.
We aren't told what happened at Zaccheus's house between him and Jesus. Jesus gets him out of the tree, they head out, and then we hear about the end result - Zaccheus's entire way of doing "life" is changed in an instant. He goes from sinner to sanctified, just like that.
More than ever I'm curious what the intervening day/evening looked like. Did Jesus just have such a presence, that he swayed Zaccheus without even really saying a word? Or did Jesus ask him about his life and they get to know one another over some bread and wine? Did Jesus move him with beautiful, powerful words? I'm left wondering. How did it go? What did it look like?
Sometimes life happens like that...in an instant we feel alive, the connection between ourselves and another person is overwhelming. It's as if we are set on fire about some thing or someone. It's inexplicable really, that moment of *knowing.*
Today I was in court with a woman who was losing her rights to her two small daughters. I have found myself very moved by her situation from the beginning. I cannot imagine the pain she had to face today. Her addiction has landed her in a number of messes, but this one had to have been the worse. Not only is she in prison for her drug problem, but now...to heap on the insults...she loses her parental rights to the children she carried in her womb, delivered and loved. Despite her addiction, or perhaps in addition to being an addict, she was a mother. And no one would have testified today that she didn't love those girls. She and I met today in a tiny jail cell prior to her hearing. She was shackled and looked like a child herself. I sat next to her. As she cried, and I fumbled for words and fought my own tears, I finally looked her dead in the eye and said, "You will always and forever be their mother. No court proceedings will change how you feel about them. They were yours from the day you knew of their existence, and they always will be in your heart." She stopped crying for a minute and met my gaze. She understood. I wasn't her lawyer anymore, I was another woman who knew what it was to carry, deliver and love my own children, imperfectly. There was a moment of transformation for her, for me. My life has been altered by hers, by the intersection of our lives. As my son sleeps softly next to me, I am thinking about her and her daughters, and hoping for their futures.
Try as we might to turn over a rock and find it somewhere else, the message, the Good News is always there, just at or below the surface of where we live. We find it always in relationship to another.
I still wonder about Zaccheus. I wonder what Jesus said or did (or perhaps what he didn't say or didn't do) to usher in transformation for Zaccheus. I wonder how Jesus was changed by Zaccheus. Because we can't relate to another and not be changed/transformed/altered in some fundamental way. I suppose it's another question I don't have an answer to. But all the same, I know the result. And it's a beautiful thing.
This lesson is the one that kids at Vacation Bible School have been singing about since the beginning of time...the story of the "wee little man" - Zaccheus. As I re-read the story this week, it occurred to me, that Zaccheus's transformation is exactly what Peter Rollins has been talking about with some of his recent blogs. (www.peterrollins.net) Transformation brings about change. If we are truly transformed, change is imminent for us.
We aren't told what happened at Zaccheus's house between him and Jesus. Jesus gets him out of the tree, they head out, and then we hear about the end result - Zaccheus's entire way of doing "life" is changed in an instant. He goes from sinner to sanctified, just like that.
More than ever I'm curious what the intervening day/evening looked like. Did Jesus just have such a presence, that he swayed Zaccheus without even really saying a word? Or did Jesus ask him about his life and they get to know one another over some bread and wine? Did Jesus move him with beautiful, powerful words? I'm left wondering. How did it go? What did it look like?
Sometimes life happens like that...in an instant we feel alive, the connection between ourselves and another person is overwhelming. It's as if we are set on fire about some thing or someone. It's inexplicable really, that moment of *knowing.*
Today I was in court with a woman who was losing her rights to her two small daughters. I have found myself very moved by her situation from the beginning. I cannot imagine the pain she had to face today. Her addiction has landed her in a number of messes, but this one had to have been the worse. Not only is she in prison for her drug problem, but now...to heap on the insults...she loses her parental rights to the children she carried in her womb, delivered and loved. Despite her addiction, or perhaps in addition to being an addict, she was a mother. And no one would have testified today that she didn't love those girls. She and I met today in a tiny jail cell prior to her hearing. She was shackled and looked like a child herself. I sat next to her. As she cried, and I fumbled for words and fought my own tears, I finally looked her dead in the eye and said, "You will always and forever be their mother. No court proceedings will change how you feel about them. They were yours from the day you knew of their existence, and they always will be in your heart." She stopped crying for a minute and met my gaze. She understood. I wasn't her lawyer anymore, I was another woman who knew what it was to carry, deliver and love my own children, imperfectly. There was a moment of transformation for her, for me. My life has been altered by hers, by the intersection of our lives. As my son sleeps softly next to me, I am thinking about her and her daughters, and hoping for their futures.
Try as we might to turn over a rock and find it somewhere else, the message, the Good News is always there, just at or below the surface of where we live. We find it always in relationship to another.
I still wonder about Zaccheus. I wonder what Jesus said or did (or perhaps what he didn't say or didn't do) to usher in transformation for Zaccheus. I wonder how Jesus was changed by Zaccheus. Because we can't relate to another and not be changed/transformed/altered in some fundamental way. I suppose it's another question I don't have an answer to. But all the same, I know the result. And it's a beautiful thing.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Home Free
Every so often I go through a phase of looking up songs I listened to years and years ago to see what I think about the thoughts expressed in them now. (Thank you very much iTunes) Mostly the songs I look up are from the contemporary christian stuff I used to like in high school and somewhat in my college years. This past week I recalled a lovely song called "Home Free" by Wayne Watson. I don't know whatever happened to Wayne, but I used to love this song.
It is basically a "sweet by and by" kind of tune. It's a song that talks about the yearning for what he calls "ultimate healing." I find myself still liking the song, but of course for vastly different reasons today.
When I was younger, late teens/early 20's - I subscribed to the idea that someday we would understand it all. When we got to heaven we would have some sort of list of explanations handed to us. A sort of conference where God would say, "This is why I caused/allowed the tsunami, here was the reason behind HIV/AIDS, this is why I allowed all the bad things that happened in the lives of everyone I knew". And I also assumed that whatever the explanations were, they would all make perfect sense. I would have arrived home to my Father's house, and I would have a room and everything would all add up just the way it should. Even better, I would get to see all those people I knew who had died before me, and they also would be able to explain to me the stuff that I didn't "get" in this life.
The other side of this heavenly coin was the idea that magically all of our shortcomings would be healed. Finally, I would stop overeating, and be magnificently thin. All of the scars I got from living in this world would be magically erased as if the wounds never occurred. What a lovely thing: to die as if I had never lived the bad parts of life...
The song's chorus goes like this: Home free, eventually. At the ultimate healing, we will be home free. Home free, oh I want to be there, at the ultimate healing, we will be home free.
I'm pretty sure what Wayne meant by the "utlimate healing" was death/heaven/the afterlife. And that is a lovely thought. But what about now?
Is our only real hope in the afterlife? Is that really what Jesus meant? If so, it seems pretty hopeless down here on earth, doesn't it?
More and more I see the message of Jesus, truly the Good News, as something that is happening all around us. When my child learns to be loving, when I learn to forgive, when my heart is healed after feeling torn apart...these things are the here and now of faith. And thank God for her grace. It's not that I don't wonder about all the terrible things that happen, and that I don't try and figure out some solutions that are woefully inadequate to fix the problem, but still healing is here and now - and perhaps faith really does allow for the "ultimate healing" Wayne sings about. Only because the healing comes in community.
In a similar vein, I saw a sign this week that I have read and chuckled about for a few weeks, but didn't think about its significance until today, it reads, "Free Seeking the Truth self-study DVD's." Really? Seeking the truth can be done through self study? I can't imagine that's true. It seems to me the only way to find the truth (not that it's a one-time mission so much as journey with lots of pit stops)is in community. It is only with my sister's journey in my heart that I can discover where I am supposed to go and where my journey fits into the tapestry of faith. It is only when I take my brother's hand that I have the strength to continue, the courage to see what it is that lies before me. Without the context of community, healing seems like an event that must happen in some other time and some other place. Within the context of community we can see healing as sure as one can see a wound scab over.
In some meditation time yesterday a strange image popped into my mind...a large wound that had developed an equally large scab. Out of the scab, flowers grew. All in and around the wound were blooms of pink and yellow and purple. So much so that the scab was barely visible. However if you looked carefully, it was still there. When this thought occurred to me, I knew nothing else to do but to thank God immediately for all of those scabs that have become beautiful in some way. I don't thank God for the wound that caused the scab...that seems almost masochistic to me. But I am so thankful that in the healing I have been able to see the beauty that is there and that grows wildly all around. It is only in community, in the context of another's hurt, that I become incredibly aware of the healing I have already received. It is only in the moment of loving the other, that the healing becomes complete in my own life.
In the end, I don't think I'm awaiting the "ultimate healing" to come so much as I am blessed to receive it on a daily basis now. Still love the song.
It is basically a "sweet by and by" kind of tune. It's a song that talks about the yearning for what he calls "ultimate healing." I find myself still liking the song, but of course for vastly different reasons today.
When I was younger, late teens/early 20's - I subscribed to the idea that someday we would understand it all. When we got to heaven we would have some sort of list of explanations handed to us. A sort of conference where God would say, "This is why I caused/allowed the tsunami, here was the reason behind HIV/AIDS, this is why I allowed all the bad things that happened in the lives of everyone I knew". And I also assumed that whatever the explanations were, they would all make perfect sense. I would have arrived home to my Father's house, and I would have a room and everything would all add up just the way it should. Even better, I would get to see all those people I knew who had died before me, and they also would be able to explain to me the stuff that I didn't "get" in this life.
The other side of this heavenly coin was the idea that magically all of our shortcomings would be healed. Finally, I would stop overeating, and be magnificently thin. All of the scars I got from living in this world would be magically erased as if the wounds never occurred. What a lovely thing: to die as if I had never lived the bad parts of life...
The song's chorus goes like this: Home free, eventually. At the ultimate healing, we will be home free. Home free, oh I want to be there, at the ultimate healing, we will be home free.
I'm pretty sure what Wayne meant by the "utlimate healing" was death/heaven/the afterlife. And that is a lovely thought. But what about now?
Is our only real hope in the afterlife? Is that really what Jesus meant? If so, it seems pretty hopeless down here on earth, doesn't it?
More and more I see the message of Jesus, truly the Good News, as something that is happening all around us. When my child learns to be loving, when I learn to forgive, when my heart is healed after feeling torn apart...these things are the here and now of faith. And thank God for her grace. It's not that I don't wonder about all the terrible things that happen, and that I don't try and figure out some solutions that are woefully inadequate to fix the problem, but still healing is here and now - and perhaps faith really does allow for the "ultimate healing" Wayne sings about. Only because the healing comes in community.
In a similar vein, I saw a sign this week that I have read and chuckled about for a few weeks, but didn't think about its significance until today, it reads, "Free Seeking the Truth self-study DVD's." Really? Seeking the truth can be done through self study? I can't imagine that's true. It seems to me the only way to find the truth (not that it's a one-time mission so much as journey with lots of pit stops)is in community. It is only with my sister's journey in my heart that I can discover where I am supposed to go and where my journey fits into the tapestry of faith. It is only when I take my brother's hand that I have the strength to continue, the courage to see what it is that lies before me. Without the context of community, healing seems like an event that must happen in some other time and some other place. Within the context of community we can see healing as sure as one can see a wound scab over.
In some meditation time yesterday a strange image popped into my mind...a large wound that had developed an equally large scab. Out of the scab, flowers grew. All in and around the wound were blooms of pink and yellow and purple. So much so that the scab was barely visible. However if you looked carefully, it was still there. When this thought occurred to me, I knew nothing else to do but to thank God immediately for all of those scabs that have become beautiful in some way. I don't thank God for the wound that caused the scab...that seems almost masochistic to me. But I am so thankful that in the healing I have been able to see the beauty that is there and that grows wildly all around. It is only in community, in the context of another's hurt, that I become incredibly aware of the healing I have already received. It is only in the moment of loving the other, that the healing becomes complete in my own life.
In the end, I don't think I'm awaiting the "ultimate healing" to come so much as I am blessed to receive it on a daily basis now. Still love the song.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Gospel
Luke 18:9 (NRSV) He also told this parable to some who trusted in themselves that they were righteous and regarded others with contempt: 10 "Two men went up to the temple to pray, one a Phar'isee and the other a tax collector. 11 The Phar'isee, standing by himself, was praying thus, "God, I thank you that I am not like other people: thieves, rogues, adulterers, or even like this tax collector. 12 I fast twice a week; I give a tenth of all my income.' 13 But the tax collector, standing far off, would not even look up to heaven, but was beating his breast and saying, "God, be merciful to me, a sinner!' 14 I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other; for all who exalt themselves will be humbled, but all who humble themselves will be exalted."
This is the gospel lesson for Sunday...and as usual it seems especially poignant today. I was having a conversation with a friend this week. It started innocently enough, but soon it turned into a free for all. I inquired about another friend and asked how the two were getting on these days. I didn't realize the land mine I had stepped on. Before I could respond, she began to categorize all of the things she believed this other person was doing that were inappropriate, foolish or downright wrong. I think my jaw dropped open slightly at some point. I wasn't sure how to respond to her criticisms. I mostly listened interjecting to defend the other person on occasion. Perhaps some of the criticisms were valid, but mostly they seemed petty and insignficant to me. Though clearly they were serious concerns for her. Her message seemed to be, "Thank God I'm not like HIM."
I'm not certain what we do when our ability to convey a message becomes hindered. When we simply cannot reach the other with our intentions/our heart. Whether it's because of his or her baggage or our own, sometimes we lose the ability to effectively communicate with another person.
I think back to a time when my ex-husband and I really enjoyed one another. We would talk for hours. Politics, religion, life, love, all matter of things. In the beginning when I was still a student, I would drive to his flat on the weekends, and we would lie in bed for hours. Besides the sex there was always a commonality of ideas. We were gentle with one another, and we could disagree without it being dramatic.
Somewhere along the line life got in the way. We stopped really seeing one another. The fact that we had a history together seemed to almost complicate matters even more. Our conversations became stilted, forced. Our disagreements became occasions for silence or bitterness. I don't know what day things changed. Or what even precipitated it, I just know things changed.
If I think back on some of the other relationships that I've had, I can see the same pattern. And if I'm honest, I can see my own participation. Whether it be that I withdrew from the relationship because it became hard. Or that I struggled with my own feelings of inadequacy or my fear of intimacy. I'm not certain. Regardless the pulling apart happened. And oftentimes I stood, in my self-righteousness, and thought to myself, "at least I'm not like that person." At least I'm smart or liberal or open to new ideas or saavy or rooted in faith or... And of course I should be able to trace these thoughts to the beginning of the end. When the beloved becomes an "it" or an "other" it becomes easier to be critical. I know for myself that I become condescending, dismissive and distant. And at some point down the road, I seem confused about how I got there.
Therein lies the lesson. I'm fairly certain the gospel's tax collector didn't feel glorious when he walked away after baring his soul to God in the temple. He wasn't smug or self-righteous or even particularly pleased with himself. Rather, it says he "could not even look up to heaven." When we are our most vulnerable with others, our most honest, it often is hard to look the other person in the eye. But that moment is where true relationship begins. Suddenly someone's faults, whatever they may be, seem to be less serious and certainly can be overlooked in favor of love you feel for him or her.
I have found myself saying often in the past year that if we could just start with the premise that people mean well, that we could get much, much further down the road in our conflict resolution. Whether it's in my mediation practice or my life. If I can push aside what I think I know about someone in favor of simply believing for at least a few minutes that he or she has the best of intentions, I can really hear the other. And when I can hear him or her, I can love the person, for the person that he or she is.
And so what is the good news? That we can start anew each day with one another. No, I think it's better than that. I think the good news is that despite our differences, we can love one another anew each day. And that love means forgiving what we think is wrong or mistaken about the other person. Whether that person is a sinner who knows full well his or her shortcomings or a pharisee who will never admit wrongdoing - both of these are the beloved.
This is the gospel lesson for Sunday...and as usual it seems especially poignant today. I was having a conversation with a friend this week. It started innocently enough, but soon it turned into a free for all. I inquired about another friend and asked how the two were getting on these days. I didn't realize the land mine I had stepped on. Before I could respond, she began to categorize all of the things she believed this other person was doing that were inappropriate, foolish or downright wrong. I think my jaw dropped open slightly at some point. I wasn't sure how to respond to her criticisms. I mostly listened interjecting to defend the other person on occasion. Perhaps some of the criticisms were valid, but mostly they seemed petty and insignficant to me. Though clearly they were serious concerns for her. Her message seemed to be, "Thank God I'm not like HIM."
I'm not certain what we do when our ability to convey a message becomes hindered. When we simply cannot reach the other with our intentions/our heart. Whether it's because of his or her baggage or our own, sometimes we lose the ability to effectively communicate with another person.
I think back to a time when my ex-husband and I really enjoyed one another. We would talk for hours. Politics, religion, life, love, all matter of things. In the beginning when I was still a student, I would drive to his flat on the weekends, and we would lie in bed for hours. Besides the sex there was always a commonality of ideas. We were gentle with one another, and we could disagree without it being dramatic.
Somewhere along the line life got in the way. We stopped really seeing one another. The fact that we had a history together seemed to almost complicate matters even more. Our conversations became stilted, forced. Our disagreements became occasions for silence or bitterness. I don't know what day things changed. Or what even precipitated it, I just know things changed.
If I think back on some of the other relationships that I've had, I can see the same pattern. And if I'm honest, I can see my own participation. Whether it be that I withdrew from the relationship because it became hard. Or that I struggled with my own feelings of inadequacy or my fear of intimacy. I'm not certain. Regardless the pulling apart happened. And oftentimes I stood, in my self-righteousness, and thought to myself, "at least I'm not like that person." At least I'm smart or liberal or open to new ideas or saavy or rooted in faith or... And of course I should be able to trace these thoughts to the beginning of the end. When the beloved becomes an "it" or an "other" it becomes easier to be critical. I know for myself that I become condescending, dismissive and distant. And at some point down the road, I seem confused about how I got there.
Therein lies the lesson. I'm fairly certain the gospel's tax collector didn't feel glorious when he walked away after baring his soul to God in the temple. He wasn't smug or self-righteous or even particularly pleased with himself. Rather, it says he "could not even look up to heaven." When we are our most vulnerable with others, our most honest, it often is hard to look the other person in the eye. But that moment is where true relationship begins. Suddenly someone's faults, whatever they may be, seem to be less serious and certainly can be overlooked in favor of love you feel for him or her.
I have found myself saying often in the past year that if we could just start with the premise that people mean well, that we could get much, much further down the road in our conflict resolution. Whether it's in my mediation practice or my life. If I can push aside what I think I know about someone in favor of simply believing for at least a few minutes that he or she has the best of intentions, I can really hear the other. And when I can hear him or her, I can love the person, for the person that he or she is.
And so what is the good news? That we can start anew each day with one another. No, I think it's better than that. I think the good news is that despite our differences, we can love one another anew each day. And that love means forgiving what we think is wrong or mistaken about the other person. Whether that person is a sinner who knows full well his or her shortcomings or a pharisee who will never admit wrongdoing - both of these are the beloved.
Saturday, October 16, 2010
The Absence of God
I took some much needed respite this weekend from my ordinary life. I set out with some lofty goals of figuring out why I've been so troubled by my job lately and what all this theology/discernment means for me. Though I won't claim to have caught sight of any burning bushes, I was confronted with some real truth.
This weekend I heard a lot about the theological/conceptual idea of the death of God. I haven't read much about this, although I have followed some of the debate over time. Still, this concept of the absence of God sparked something in me that I can't fully articulate. (Although apparently here I am, trying).
Peter Rollins talks a lot about doubt - and the almost sacred nature of doubt. When Peter talked about the crucifixion as an experience of Jesus being abandoned by God, it shook me up. And it resonated somewhere deep within me.
I have struggled in the past months with my own past, and that part of my past I have kept hidden - from God, from others. I have struggled with the abuse I see on a daily basis with the kids I work with. By and large, I have kept my sadness and anger at their situations hidden - from God, from others. I have struggled to remain silent and objective lately in the face of the suffering of these kids. It bothers me. And I can't seem to get control of myself and my feelings. I vacillate from being mad as hell and crying out for some mercy. It is a strange out of control kind of space, and I'm not particularly comfortable occupying it.
The idea of the absence of God is a terrifying thing for me. Peter Rollins is right when he says for some of us belief is easy, but doubt is terribly hard. Suddenly, sitting there listening to the concept that God could or would abandon Jesus/me/anyone else struck me with some force. This, of course, is what I have believed for some time. But, I don't say that out loud to anyone, not even to myself. After all I'm a believer, and have been my whole life. What would it sound like/look like/feel like to admit that I have felt, in the moments I needed God most, that I was left behind by God. That He turned and walked away from me without so much as a backward glance.
And therein the connection to what has made working in juvenile court so hard for me lately. Part of me believes God has also abandoned the kids I work with. Why else or how else would these things happen to them? And so my wound, the wound I've carried all these years becomes more painful, like someone is picking at a scab on my soul.
Now if I were feeling particularly evangelical today I would write that obviously Jesus is and was with me in the most painful moments of my life. Unfortunately I can't say that I believe that. Not today, and if I am to be painfully honest, I have never believed that. Not really. Not completely.
Part of me is bothered by this revelation and part of me feels startlingly free to write the words. As I chatted with God on my drive home today, I explained my anger, my sadness in the best way I knew. Haltingly, but finally truthfully. I asked God in some sort of strange, Jacob-like wrestling match to give me faith. I want to be convinced that God never abandons us - his/her beloved. I want to understand a God of compassion above all else. Or as John Caputo would say hope against hope that such a God is possible even if the face of the impossibility of faith. It is only in the absence of faith that authentic faith is realized fully.
The irony I suppose is that the presence of God is only truly known after the absence of God is truly felt. I cannot have one without the other. I have lived for a very long time with the absence of God as a reality. I have refused to admit it, but I have lived it. It has been somewhat of a schizophrenic life really. To on one hand see and believe in the grace and love of God in my life and those around me, and on the other hand feel as if God could not permeate the worst part of my life and the worst parts of the lives of others. I cannot help but feel hopeful in this moment. My doubts are opening up my heart again, anew to the possibility of the divine. The hope of it all is enough for today. A new day.
This weekend I heard a lot about the theological/conceptual idea of the death of God. I haven't read much about this, although I have followed some of the debate over time. Still, this concept of the absence of God sparked something in me that I can't fully articulate. (Although apparently here I am, trying).
Peter Rollins talks a lot about doubt - and the almost sacred nature of doubt. When Peter talked about the crucifixion as an experience of Jesus being abandoned by God, it shook me up. And it resonated somewhere deep within me.
I have struggled in the past months with my own past, and that part of my past I have kept hidden - from God, from others. I have struggled with the abuse I see on a daily basis with the kids I work with. By and large, I have kept my sadness and anger at their situations hidden - from God, from others. I have struggled to remain silent and objective lately in the face of the suffering of these kids. It bothers me. And I can't seem to get control of myself and my feelings. I vacillate from being mad as hell and crying out for some mercy. It is a strange out of control kind of space, and I'm not particularly comfortable occupying it.
The idea of the absence of God is a terrifying thing for me. Peter Rollins is right when he says for some of us belief is easy, but doubt is terribly hard. Suddenly, sitting there listening to the concept that God could or would abandon Jesus/me/anyone else struck me with some force. This, of course, is what I have believed for some time. But, I don't say that out loud to anyone, not even to myself. After all I'm a believer, and have been my whole life. What would it sound like/look like/feel like to admit that I have felt, in the moments I needed God most, that I was left behind by God. That He turned and walked away from me without so much as a backward glance.
And therein the connection to what has made working in juvenile court so hard for me lately. Part of me believes God has also abandoned the kids I work with. Why else or how else would these things happen to them? And so my wound, the wound I've carried all these years becomes more painful, like someone is picking at a scab on my soul.
Now if I were feeling particularly evangelical today I would write that obviously Jesus is and was with me in the most painful moments of my life. Unfortunately I can't say that I believe that. Not today, and if I am to be painfully honest, I have never believed that. Not really. Not completely.
Part of me is bothered by this revelation and part of me feels startlingly free to write the words. As I chatted with God on my drive home today, I explained my anger, my sadness in the best way I knew. Haltingly, but finally truthfully. I asked God in some sort of strange, Jacob-like wrestling match to give me faith. I want to be convinced that God never abandons us - his/her beloved. I want to understand a God of compassion above all else. Or as John Caputo would say hope against hope that such a God is possible even if the face of the impossibility of faith. It is only in the absence of faith that authentic faith is realized fully.
The irony I suppose is that the presence of God is only truly known after the absence of God is truly felt. I cannot have one without the other. I have lived for a very long time with the absence of God as a reality. I have refused to admit it, but I have lived it. It has been somewhat of a schizophrenic life really. To on one hand see and believe in the grace and love of God in my life and those around me, and on the other hand feel as if God could not permeate the worst part of my life and the worst parts of the lives of others. I cannot help but feel hopeful in this moment. My doubts are opening up my heart again, anew to the possibility of the divine. The hope of it all is enough for today. A new day.
Friday, October 1, 2010
The "I" word
For the past few months my weight has been accelerating upward with some speed. It makes me nervous and self-conscious. While I am somewhat aware of what I'm doing and not doing...still I seem to be gaining quickly. Yesterday as I was driving to work, the truth of it all came crashing down on me as I recalled a recent conversation with a good friend. He was trying to coach me through a divorce issue I've been having. He's been there, done that - having divorced from his wife when his children were small and being much further down the road than I am now. I felt vulnerable in the discussion, like he could see right through my facade. I could feel that creeping uneasiness coming over me. I felt exposed in that moment. As if my friend, a person I've developed a very good relationship with in the past 6 months was seeing too much, getting too close.
I get nervous and uptight when I start getting too close to people. Whether it's a boy or a friend or a group of friends...I'm not good with intimacy. Hell, I don't even like the word. Over the past year I have found myself drawn into 2 communities more deeply than before. In addition to that, I have forged a few new relationships with men in my life as well as renewed an old friendship with a girlfriend that had fallen away years ago. The natural reaction, for me, is to pour on weight.
I'm not sure how this started for me...but I know myself well enough to recognize the pattern. I meet someone, whether it's a boyfriend sort of thing or just a close friendship, and the relationship begins to develop. I find myself enjoying the time I'm spending with this person or group of people, and I start feeling some level of reciprocity in the friendship. Then, out of nowhere it seems, part of me feels invaded. To try and protect myself, I gain weight. It sounds simple really, but it's not. Most of the time it takes years and a hundred pounds for me to even recognize what I'm doing. This time I seem to be a little quicker on my game. I've gained 50 or so in the past year. And it is startling to me how clear it is right now what I'm doing. I can even see it happening. While on one hand I long for closeness to others, I still feel threatened by the relationships somehow. Logically I can say that this isn't sensible. But my heart seems oblivious to what my brain knows.
About 18 months ago I started attending a new church as well as meeting regularly with a priest about some of the turmoil and transition in my life. At about the same time I started hanging out with a new group of attorneys. I've grown close to both the church community as well as the lawyer community. And so when stress comes up I struggle with how to gloss over it or act as if everything is wonderful. It's easier to pull off the act with people I don't know very well. And so I eat crap and become sedentary. It's as if the stress has to go somewhere...and the only place I know to put it is in my mouth.
Now that I finally see this pattern clearly, the question remains whether I can reverse it. A few years ago when I dropped significant weight it was as a result of a singular focus on weight loss. I became obsessive. I thought about it all the time, and I ignored all of the areas of stress or concern in my life at the time. It became easy over time, to have one focus. It was simple in many ways. At the time my marriage was crumbling, my son was sick and I was in a job I hated. Why not focus on weight loss? I could avoid thinking about all the other terrible stuff in my life.
This time around, I feel like it has a lot to do with balance. I can't climb back into the cocoon, that's surely not the answer. But still, there has to be a way for me to get more at ease with intimacy. To not take a step forward in a relationship by being honest about what I'm thinking and then quickly retreat by destroying my physical self.
My size and weight is upsetting to me right now. And embarrassing. I don't like being this size. All I know to do is to try and be conscious of what I'm doing. To live in the now as opposed to the past or the not yet. I do hope that the lessons are more easily learned the second, third or fourth time around. I don't want to lose the relationships I've begun to develop. I think there is room for both my fear and my openness in intimate relationships I have.
I get nervous and uptight when I start getting too close to people. Whether it's a boy or a friend or a group of friends...I'm not good with intimacy. Hell, I don't even like the word. Over the past year I have found myself drawn into 2 communities more deeply than before. In addition to that, I have forged a few new relationships with men in my life as well as renewed an old friendship with a girlfriend that had fallen away years ago. The natural reaction, for me, is to pour on weight.
I'm not sure how this started for me...but I know myself well enough to recognize the pattern. I meet someone, whether it's a boyfriend sort of thing or just a close friendship, and the relationship begins to develop. I find myself enjoying the time I'm spending with this person or group of people, and I start feeling some level of reciprocity in the friendship. Then, out of nowhere it seems, part of me feels invaded. To try and protect myself, I gain weight. It sounds simple really, but it's not. Most of the time it takes years and a hundred pounds for me to even recognize what I'm doing. This time I seem to be a little quicker on my game. I've gained 50 or so in the past year. And it is startling to me how clear it is right now what I'm doing. I can even see it happening. While on one hand I long for closeness to others, I still feel threatened by the relationships somehow. Logically I can say that this isn't sensible. But my heart seems oblivious to what my brain knows.
About 18 months ago I started attending a new church as well as meeting regularly with a priest about some of the turmoil and transition in my life. At about the same time I started hanging out with a new group of attorneys. I've grown close to both the church community as well as the lawyer community. And so when stress comes up I struggle with how to gloss over it or act as if everything is wonderful. It's easier to pull off the act with people I don't know very well. And so I eat crap and become sedentary. It's as if the stress has to go somewhere...and the only place I know to put it is in my mouth.
Now that I finally see this pattern clearly, the question remains whether I can reverse it. A few years ago when I dropped significant weight it was as a result of a singular focus on weight loss. I became obsessive. I thought about it all the time, and I ignored all of the areas of stress or concern in my life at the time. It became easy over time, to have one focus. It was simple in many ways. At the time my marriage was crumbling, my son was sick and I was in a job I hated. Why not focus on weight loss? I could avoid thinking about all the other terrible stuff in my life.
This time around, I feel like it has a lot to do with balance. I can't climb back into the cocoon, that's surely not the answer. But still, there has to be a way for me to get more at ease with intimacy. To not take a step forward in a relationship by being honest about what I'm thinking and then quickly retreat by destroying my physical self.
My size and weight is upsetting to me right now. And embarrassing. I don't like being this size. All I know to do is to try and be conscious of what I'm doing. To live in the now as opposed to the past or the not yet. I do hope that the lessons are more easily learned the second, third or fourth time around. I don't want to lose the relationships I've begun to develop. I think there is room for both my fear and my openness in intimate relationships I have.
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