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Note: I was reading an online publication called the Chronicle of Higher Education today because someone posted a news-worthy link on Facebook and I realized that I have just become so tired of the way Christians (on the whole) are portrayed in the media (with good reason, admittedly) that I decided to take some action. So, I sent the letter that you can read below. I received an email from the reporter about 4 hours later inviting me to have a conversation with him about this issue. I will call him tomorrow and look forward to a fruitful discussion. I’ll let you all know how it went. But here’s Part I.
Dear Editor,
I was just reading your article entitled, Federal Judge Upholds Dismissal of Counseling Student Who Balked at Treating Gay Clients by Peter Schmidt. While I appreciate the reporting done on such a news-worthy item and I also commend the writing itself, I have a concern that I would like to share with you.
I am a Christian and a soon-to-be ordained priest in the Episcopal Church. I am blessed to belong to a church that is affirming of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered people and to serve the people of that church as a candidate for priesthood. I am proof, as are most of my friends and colleagues, that homophobia is not a part of Christian belief. Indeed, the central Christian belief is, as it has been for centuries, “Love God and love your neighbor.” The rest of it is cultural and individual interpretation.
I realize that when people who are homophobic use their understanding of Christian belief as a reason for their homophobia, it is easy to label it as “Christian” because that is how they are labeling it. However, I’m interested in exploring how we can change this use of language along with reporters, writers and editors. How can we be more accurate in the use of the word “Christian?”
Surely, you would not condone simply using the word “Muslim” to describe a person who bombed a café because they see that act as a manifestation of their beliefs. I suspect you would take the time to say something more descriptive about that person so that it truly represents the understanding that not all Muslims believe the same thing or support the same action. In other words, someone who discriminates against gay and lesbian people does not represent Christianity as a whole any more than someone who bombs a café represents Islam as a whole. Using the word “Christian” to describe this woman and her lawyers is not completely accurate.
I’m looking for people who will partner with me on this. Editors, such as yourself who can raise your expectations of reporters and writers so that they can develop ways of describing Christianity in a less simplistic manner as to avoid polemics and dualist impressions, should they choose to do so.
I greatly appreciate the time you have taken to read this and I look forward to seeing a more balanced use of language in your publication in the future. While I would not presume to know your business, I am offering to make myself available to you should you desire to speak with me about this.
Thank you again for your time and consideration.
Sincerely,
Michelle
The Rev.Michelle Meech
Director
Center for Anglican Learning & Leadership (CALL)
Church Divinity School of the Pacific
2451 Ridge Road Berkeley, CA 94709
510-204-0727 mmeech@cdsp.edu
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Stay with me. Remain here with me.
Watch and pray.
Watch and pray.
For Christians, this is the night in the garden of Gethsemane. This is the night that holds the tension. This is the night in which we know something horrible will happen.
The night of betrayal.
The night of treachery.
The night of fear.
The night of awakeness.
This is the night in which the man Jesus was handed over to those in authority. To be tortured, humiliated and put to death by those who needed to maintain the upper hand of power.
Jesus, you see, was a man who said that the first shall be last and the last shall be first. Jesus was a man who taught people to resist, who claimed his own authority in the face of established institutions and empowered others to do the same. Jesus was a man who made himself truly vulnerable to his friends and who also humbled himself to them. Jesus was a man who caused problems... a man who spoke truth to power.
And on this night, he asked his followers to stay with him – to remain awake with him. To witness his final hours because he knew something was about to happen. He asked them to watch and pray.
Stay with me. Remain here with me.
Watch and pray.
Watch and pray.
Tonight as we chanted these very words in church, I was reminded of all the people on this earth who are being taken by their oppressors, their abusers, their rapists, their attackers... their demons. This night is their garden of Gethsemane. For some, every night is their garden of Gethsemane.
And God asks us, on behalf of them... on behalf of those who are meeting their abusers and their murderers this night... to watch and pray. Watch and pray.
See what is happening. Don’t look away. Watch the horror. Let them know you are staying awake to their suffering. Let them know you are there.
Right now, there are people being raped and attacked, children being abused and molested, homeless people being ignored or kicked awake by a cop, prisoners are being raped and tortured, human beings are being murdered. Christ is in the garden of Gethsemane. Can you stay awake? Can you watch and pray?
Witnessing horror reminds the victim that God is with them. Our very presence reminds those who are in hell that God sees what is happening to them. And for Christ's sake, do what you can to help them.
But even if you can do nothing, let them know they are not alone...
and pray.
M.
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Note: This was a sermon that I gave in the chapel here at seminary... so I didn't actually use the words 'bad ass' but it can certainly be inferred from the text.
I had this dream...
I was walking along in a land of rolling hills… beautiful green grass… groves of trees here and there. The air was crisp and cool. And because the sun was setting, the sky was glorious in its technicolor pinks and oranges streaking against the pale blue sky.
It was quite beautiful. Idyllic, even.
I had been walking toward the sun for quite a while… when I realized that that the sun wasn’t moving. I was walking but time wasn’t passing. It was like I was on a treadmill… going nowhere, and nothing new was happening… just this pretty scenery. And still, I kept walking…. endlessly walking towards the sun. Sun that never set.
Then suddenly, a man appeared in front of me, blocking out the sun… the light shining around him like an aura. I stood there… stunned, curious. I couldn’t see his face but I could hear his voice. It was strong and clear and patient.
“I am the good shepherd and I lay down my life for my sheep.”
The words landed like a punch in my gut and I fell to my knees doubled over… I looked down to find this huge wound in my belly… and it was bleeding, weeping.
I looked up and all the pretty landscape had started to bleed too. The pinks and oranges of the sky were running together with the green from the trees. The colors raining down into this vat of swirling grey goo.
I looked down again to find that my wound had grown even bigger and I was melting along with everything else into the vat of greyness… the last thing I remember was going under.
Upon waking, the only word that would describe what I was feeling is… devastation.
Not exactly the effect one might hope for from the good shepherd. It doesn’t really match with what we’ve been encouraged to think about the good shepherd. Where do we get our image of the good shepherd from?
It’s interesting and perhaps appropriate that the first recorded image we have of Jesus, is that of the good shepherd… not the crucifixion, nor the risen Christ. The earliest Christians saw Jesus as the good shepherd.
Our image of Jesus as the good shepherd is one that most likely comes in the form of a white-robed man sitting amongst children and sheep… all of them smiling sweetly, from the midst of the 23rd psalm.
The poster in the Sunday school room perhaps?
Or the little prayer card that you received when you won the Bible drill in 2nd grade?
There’s Jesus with the sheep around his neck… carrying it to safety.
There’s Jesus with the shepherd’s crook and the other arm outstretched saying, “take my hand, and everything will be alright.”… inviting us in from a cold, cruel world.
Appropriate images… but not the whole story.
… because the good shepherd’s voice is the one that must, by any means necessary, lead us home.
That means that the good shepherd is willing to die to give you life.
That means that he is willing to destroy your world to transform you.
That means he must be willing to tell you the truth… even the truth you don’t want to hear.
And we know when we hear the truth. We know it. We know the voice of the good shepherd.
We often don’t want to hear it… because it shatters our illusions…
the illusions we have of ourself.
Illusions like…
I am a bad person.
I am a complete idiot.
I am not safe.
I don’t know.
I’m a fake.
I don’t belong.
I am not lovable.
Those are the voices of the wolves… they scatter and they divide. They tear down… they fragment the whole. Yet, those are the voices we are prone to listen to the most.
And why is that?
Because we find some odd sense of comfort in voices that tell us what we already believe about ourself. They are a part of the world we’ve created for ourselves… for some people, they are the entire world.
And even if our world is not a technicolor Disneyland… even if it’s a horrifying nightmare that no one else could fathom… we find some kind of comfort in it – because we know it – because we believe in it.
But the good shepherd will, by any means necessary, lead you home… even if that means destroying your world so that you can live.
The psalm tells us, “precious in the sight of the Lord are the deaths of his faithful ones”.
Indeed.
The good shepherd is the voice that invites us to
Put things down... Let things go... Allow ourselves to die
Can you hear him? What does he say to you?
… stop trying to figure everyone out so that you can keep your guard up.
… stop struggling to be all things to all people so that no one is disappointed in you.
… stop wishing things were different so that you can live problem-free.
… stop striving to attain so that people don’t see your flaws.
… stop living in a beautiful Technicolor dream world so that you can come to know why you’re hurting.
These words are not comforting… they actually hurt, like a punch in the gut… but they speak the truth. They are the words of the good shepherd who lays down his life for his sheep.
And we know his voice… when we finally allow ourselves to hear it.
The Holy Spirit is always trying to find a way to get us to hear the voice of the good shepherd. Sometimes, when we’re attentive enough, we hear her whisper to us in the voices of our friends or our loved ones.
But she can be hard to hear in those cases because humans are good at getting the truth tangled up with our own needs… especially when we love someone else and we are relying on them to help us maintain our world.
We can’t always hear it from others and we can’t always tell it to others… but we do try to tell the truth. You know though… I don’t care how eloquent or poetic or clear we might be… humans just don’t have the words for the truth.
But if we did… if we really spoke with the voice of the good shepherd… maybe it would be something like…
“you are so utterly amazing, my love… why are you doing this to yourself?”
But even that doesn’t completely do it. Because there are no words that can quite express how specifically and particularly we each have a place in the kingdom of God.
Let us open our hearts to this voice… to this vision.
What is that piece that needs to be laid down? What is that part of yourself that needs to die? What is the good shepherd longing for you to hear?
Let him destroy your world. If he’s done it once, let him do it again… and again… until the dream world that you’ve created cries its tears of mourning and takes a part of you with it down its rusty rain gutter.
Then resurrection can take place in our heart.
Then reign of God becomes real to us.
Then we will be led home.
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What follows are my reflections as we made our way north on the Coast Starlight line. I got on in Emeryville, CA at 10:12 and got off about 21 hours later in Olympia (Lacey), WA. It was a beautiful trip. There are pics available on my Facebook profile in case anyone is interested. It’s 11:06pm. I’ve been on the train less than an hour and I’m already convinced this is the best way to travel. I’ve traveled on the train many times before in coach. That’s a difficult trip even under the best of circumstances (best of circumstances means no seat mate and quiet neighbors who don't snore)… but this is really great! A woman named Robin greeted me at the door telling me that she had reassigned to the room next to her because the couple who were there would not stop talking. She figured I would be quiet since I’m by myself and now she calls me baby and gives me champagne. Were it not for the fact that she offered champagne to everyone else, I might think I was special. But she still calls me baby.
It didn’t take long for me to figure out how to best utilize my ‘roomette’. I turned out all the lights so I can see better as I pass things in the night. We stopped at Martinez a little while ago. Directly outside my window was a cul-de-sac of sorts with an American flag and some sort of monument… or maybe it was just a sign that said Martinez Train Station. But it made me wonder about how much we “miss out on” by traveling in a plane. Now, I’ve been on this train before even though it was coach, and so I know that there are some really depressing sights… like camp after camp after camp in the central valley that mark the nightly home of scores of human beings who have been marginalized in our American-everything-is-allright-pull-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps society. But that is real life too.
The monuments and the shanty-towns, the American flags and the fires that glow along the tracks… and warehouses and refineries and big long dark buildings that house someone’s weekly paycheck. Maybe it’s just the champagne talking, but there is so much beauty in the world.
9:38am. Eventually, the smell of someone else’s poo can get to you. And the morning is a fine time to have a room next to the public toilet. Smell aside, this is still enormously fun. I woke up with the sun… not sure what time that was but the first time I looked at the clock it was 6:23. We’ve been in Oregon at least 2 hours now and I’m watching miles and miles of the most beloved landscape I can think of… pine forest and sagebrush at the foothills of the mountains where it starts to become desert.
I thought about why this landscape is beloved to me when most would find it a bit sparse or even ugly. It’s the subtlety, I suppose. The earth is a light brown and it’s very dry. The ground is covered in sage and other similar undergrowth that can take long periods of dry weather. Pines cover the landscape and beyond that, there are miles and miles of juniper. It’s big sky country, seeing distant hills, ridges, buttes, and mountains in the far distance. Very little changes in this landscape, even throughout the year. The pines stay green, the dirt stays brown, the sagebrush stays, well, sage unless it’s in bloom. In the winter you might find a covering of snow in the higher altitudes that lingers until the next time the sun comes out. If you watch closely enough, you might see an animal… brown hare, mule deer, ground squirrel.
Or maybe it’s the sudden grand surprises… like the rushing rivers bringing cold mountain water that offer opportunities for other life to grow out here, or the huge snow-capped mountain/volcanoes, or the bright green aspen groves… or the girl I just saw at the Chemult stop who was dancing around and waving a sign that quoted Michael Franti, “All the freaky people make the music of the world.”
One might assume that this place is full of cowboys, small-minded ones at that. I find that unfortunate. The people I know in this landscape are small-town minded, not small-minded. They don’t just speak about how important community is. They live in a way that demonstrates their love for fellow humans. I remember when I visited Bend before moving there that the thing that struck me most about the people were that they looked me in the eye and they noticed things about each other. For example, if they saw that someone appeared to be confused, they would ask if they could help. Or how the people of that burgeoning town rallied around a local shop owner when she decided to go out of business… not so that she would stay in business and they could continue to take advantage of her presence. But they held a benefit so that she would have enough money for her to decide what was best for her to do. She decided to retire and put the stock of merchandise in storage. She had served her community well as a book store and gift shop owner for the spiritually-minded and it was time for her to be done serving.
And that is what the body of Christ is about.
4:10pm. The deciduous side of things. Even in the suburbs here in the Valley, the growth is abundant. In the unkempt lawns, the varying types of grasses and plants compete for space and in the neatly-trimmed ones, there is sure to be at least 2 varieties of iris growing. All of them have a rhodedendron bush. The space in between supplies the eye with ferns, berry bushes and broad-leafed trees producing a wealth of shade. These leaves are all new here since they don’t last for more than a season. Unlike the needles and leaves of the desert that stick around year after year, gathering dust until the next mild rainfall. The water runs the other direction down the mountain and feeds into wider, slower-moving rivers, eventually finding its way to the Willamette and then to the Columbia and of course, to the Pacific Ocean where its lifecycle starts all over again.
We are in the suburbs of Portland now, running behind because, as I recall from somewhere in dreamland, we had a medical emergency and someone was taken off the train between Eugene and Salem. I was napping so I barely remember the event, but I hope they are not suffering.
When you view the suburbs from the train tracks, you usually see the less “desirable” backyards because it seems that no one wants to live near the tracks. In Bend, the only area of town that could possibly be referred to as a “ghetto” was next to the railroad tracks. I lived there in a very nice little house, as many of them were because nothing in Bend is really all that bad. My point is that I liked living next to the tracks. I loved being able to hear the trains come into town. Granted, I never lived right on the tracks so I may have been singing a different tune, had I been closer. Regardless, apparently this is just another way in which I demonstrate how weird I am.
We are leaving Portland now and I just realized that means that we have to cross the Columbia River soon. Cool. [afterwards] All in all that wasn’t terribly spectacular. But I’m pleased to report that someone hung a strawberry-scented car freshener in the restroom. Welcome to Washington State!
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I would like to challenge the notion that loneliness is a bad thing.
WhenI talk to many people about loneliness, I usually get a well-meaning response that goes something like this:
“You must be talking about being alone, not about being lonely. It’s ok to be alone... not ok to be lonely.”
No. I’m talking about being lonely. I’m talking about loneliness.
Just like anything else, if we stay there too long it can be destructive because we become too attached to it and it starts to define us. But I’m getting off topic…
Loneliness is not a bad thing.
I have been working with this lately and it hasn’t been easy. I have avoided loneliness for most of my life. My usual magic act for making it disappear is to daydream. Those lovely fantasies about someone who will come along and save me. That perfect “other” who loves me… well, worships me… if I want to be honest. I have concocted relationships out of thin air in a matter of minutes. It’s amazing, really. Like a party trick for the sad and lonely.
Ah. There’s that word again… lonely.
Then there is general busyness. I call it “farting around.” That can also prevent loneliness. Working too many hours, watching too much TV, clicking too many internet buttons. But too much of any of that has a dulling quality to it. Still, it creates an equilibrium so that I feel more “normal,” which is another way of saying “numb.”
Friends are a more positive distraction from loneliness. I have many wonderful friends and I walk away from my time with them feeling full and sweet. It’s nice. These are people I love and who I know love me. They are true blessings in my life and for the past several years, they have replaced my tendency to participate in the other two distractions, daydreaming and farting around. Yet, I can still use them to distract me from loneliness.
What is it about loneliness that is calling to me?
Loneliness is this entryway experience. And for me, this entryway is a long, darkened corridor… no doors, hardwood floors, high ceilings. There is muted daylight coming in from somewhere but it’s undefined. And, you guessed it, there is no one else there. And as I walk, the corridor gets longer… like in a dream. So, I usually just stand there… stock still… because I can’t stand the thought of walking down the corridor only to find it becoming longer with every step. It’s torture. And so I stand there for a bit and I usually make the choice to turn around and walk back out into a world full of waiting distractions.
What is it about this loneliness that is calling to me?
Recently, I was in a particularly painful place. I found myself torn between knowing my truth… and I mean really knowing my truth with-every-fiber-of-my-being… and the fact that my truth wasn’t being mirrored by the people in my life. This is a supremely lonely place. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise because they are lying.
There are people who are used to this place and I have a new admiration for them. They are usually called prophets.
I’ve been taking a class this semester on the biblical prophet Jeremiah. He had it rough. Over and over he tells people the truth and over and over they don’t listen and they eventually get hostile. Even his friends and family plot to kill him because they think he’s tearing the community apart by pressing the issue. The difference between me and him, aside from the obvious, is that I’m not claiming to speak the word of God against an entire society that seems to have forgotten to take care of the marginalized.
I’m just Michelle, a child of God, struggling like everyone else to understand how this whole thing fits together and what part of the puzzle I am. Nothing special and yet completely profound.
And I’m lonely.
I told this to the right person because she told me not to leave loneliness so quickly. She told me that this place of loneliness was connected to something terribly important.
And so this is my new practice.
I watch myself begin the spinning, scattered movement to get people to agree with my truth so that I’m not so lonely… or adjust my worldview so that it is more pleasing to people and I’m not so lonely… or over-socialize so that I am more pleasing to people so I’m not so lonely.
And I quickly realize what I’m doing and how creepy and slippery that suddenly feels, and I stop.
And I return to dry loneliness.
I still seek feedback but it’s less and less a desperate attempt to “not feel so lonely” and more and more grounded in love because it is through love that I instinctively know what is true.
So, again, I would like to challenge the notion that loneliness is a bad thing.
It’s not an easy thing. It’s not a fun thing. And it’s not a bad thing.
For it is here that my truth lies.
And no one can come to this place with me… no one except God.
M.
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This poem was sent to me on Easter Sunday. Quite a wonderful connection to make to Christ's presence, I thought.
Swan
Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air –
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned into the bondage of its wings;
A snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music - like the rain pelting the trees - like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds –
A white cross
Streaming across the sky, its feet Like black leaves, its wings
Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?
- Mary Oliver
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I had occasion to preach in our seminary's chapel today. It is Monday in Holy Week in our Christian tradition. This past Sunday we celebrated Jesus' entry into Jerusalem during our Palm Sunday service and this week we retell the stories about his last days before his crucifixion on Good Friday. The story we read today reminded us that it's easy to get caught up in the going's on of the world and forget about loving one another which is highlighted by the fact that this man Jesus is going to die soon. Because I have been encouraged to share my sermons and because of the timing, I decided I would share it here. It may help to read the passage from the Bible first which I've placed at the bottom.
Love Boldly Now
The house was filled with the fragrance of perfume.
The dinner was prepared and the woman was kneeling quietly at his feet.
A gesture so familiar, so intimate that it’s almost embarrassing.
She took the perfume… the delicate jar that had been beautifully crafted and fit perfectly into her hand.
She anointed his feet… the liquid splashing out, the aroma ... warm and musky… drawing the attention of others to her to him.
She wiped his feet with her loosened hair... her long dark tresses cascading down, hiding her face from view, the ends now glistening with moisture.
Is she joyful? Is she sad?
Are there tears falling on his feet, mixing with the wetness?
Her heart is breaking… open.
And the house was filled with the fragrance of perfume.
Can you smell it? Are you there with them?
This overwhelming scent of warmth… enveloping, inviting. All who are at the table are invited, to take part in this, her act of love. Everyone is included.
And this act… this simple act… that almost makes everyone uneasy, nearly makes everyone squirm, this act breaks open everyone’s hearts because she shares it without expectation, without embarrassment, without pretense.
And then the man bellowed… demanding judgment for crude worth. His temptation hanging out there for all to jump into.
What did he bring with him into the room that would not allow him to open to love made so tangible, so free?
And here we are in this room… with these two guides who both invite us to spend Holy Week with them. Maybe you can hear their introduction…
“Welcome to Holy Week… I am Mary and I am Judas… and I’ll be your guide.”
Both are here in this world with is…. attentive to this physical place, these physical needs of humans. They are not spouting some heavy theology, they are simply interested in caring for others. And John is obvious in his attempt to direct our conclusions about them.
Judas has it wrong and Mary has it right.
But you have to have some sympathy for Judas here… even though John presents him as a thief.
Afterall, how many times a day do we follow the call to do, rather than the call to love?
The funny thing is, they are not mutually exclusive… even though Judas would have us believe that they are.
Judas is inviting us to decide between love and duty. In Judas’ world, it doesn’t really matter how we serve people or at what cost that comes, as long as it gets done. And this is a temptation… to make the ends worth the means. And this duty is the boundary that Judas places around himself. He places it above all else. It’s so important to take care of the less fortunate. It is important… but not because it’s our duty.
Mary is inviting us to love. In Mary’s world, love is full of sorrow & pain, joy & laughter.
Love is at the same time full of life and full of death. In Mary’s world, love is what is costly and duty means nothing.
And her action asks us, Is caring for the poor really a decision you have to make if you love Christ with full abandon? Doesn’t it naturally flow out of the love you have for Christ?
So, you see… Mary’s invitation is about intimacy. She loves Christ without caring what people think and because of that, her love is so expansive that it can include everyone. She is inviting us to come closer to Christ this week.
Can we go there with her?
Can we be so intimate with Christ that it’s almost embarrassing?... the way Mary was?
Mary gives us an inappropriate act that is so pure, so full of utter love that it breaks the boundaries we’ve placed around ourselves.
And this is not about sex. Because intimacy is not about sex.
Intimacy is about dropping all of it… all the voices of concern, these mirrored walls that tell us who we think we are.
What are your voices of concern that prevent you from opening more fully… here in this room?
Are they questions that plague you?
What would my bishop think if I did that? Is this what the rubrics say?
Why do I bother opening my mouth in class?
How can I make sure that I feel included here?... liked?... needed?
How can I make sure that I don’t get too close, too involved?
How do I protect myself from being hurt?
There are many, many… many things that we might bring with us into this room.
And they are the very things that we must drop if we want to love with full abandon.
What are we bringing with us into this fragrance-filled room that we prevent ourselves from being open to a love made so tangible?
What are our Judas temptations that serve to betray our love for Christ?
What are we bringing to the table that prevents us from feeling God’s presence in every single cell of our being?
The temptation that Judas gives us is ever-present. Our mind fills with it all the time. The temptation of getting caught up in duties, in responsibilities, in schoolwork, in conflicts… these things that we sometimes think define us. It can be a challenge to avoid being trapped into the call of the world at our doorstep. We hear Judas… he doesn’t have to bellow quite so loudly.
And Mary knows that if she doesn’t do this now, if she doesn’t love boldly now… then there will be no other time. She loves without expectation, without thinking about what she might get. She loves with abundance, she exposes herself without concern, she pours herself into the act.
Have you ever exposed yourself like that in front of anyone? Bearing absolutely everything?
Be honest, don’t you want to?... just a little?
Isn’t this what a part of yourself has always wanted?
Now is your chance. You’ve been invited by Mary’s lush invitation to intimacy with Christ.
If not here at this table, then where?
If not now, when?
For this is Holy Week.
come closer
allow your heart to be broken open in love
drop your every defense, your every distraction, your every reason not to
come closer
It is not safe. There are no well-defined boundaries. Those pre-conceived notions about how things are supposed to work have no place here. There is no control. We do not know where it will lead us or what we might be called to do.
Can you do this? Can you allow it to melt… that thing that is holding love at a distance?
Can you come closer to Christ?
God is waiting for you.
John 12:1-11
Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. 2There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him. 3Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume. 4But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, 5“Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?” 6(He said this not because he cared about the poor, but because he was a thief; he kept the common purse and used to steal what was put into it.) 7Jesus said, “Leave her alone. She bought it so that she might keep it for the day of my burial. 8You always have the poor with you, but you do not always have me.” 9When the great crowd of the Jews learned that he was there, they came not only because of Jesus but also to see Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. 10So the chief priests planned to put Lazarus to death as well, 11since it was on account of him that many of the Jews were deserting and were believing in Jesus.
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You have to start with what’s in your heart.
It’s a test, this life. It’s a test that keeps asking the question, “what’s in your heart?” And you have to keep answering... so you either tell the truth or you find lies to fill the space. Every moment is another question. And every moment is another answer.
Sometimes when the information stops coming at you long enough and the night is quiet, the heart speaks truth. It tells you what you desire the most. It gives you a vision of what it’s really about. It shows you what you should be doing with your one life.
And then it whispers… “you know what to do.”
Everyday there are a million reasons to feel heartbroken. This world is full of people who make choices that make you cry. People who do things to other people… to themselves. Every minute of everyday God’s heart is breaking open. Can you feel it? Or have you numbed yourself to it? Either response is appropriate given the enormity of the grief.
And we have this one life. And this endless question that taunts us in the middle of the quiet night… the night with no cocktail party, no TV, no earlier-argument swirling around in my head. This is a place where theology has no traction… too watery.
It’s just me listening to my heart show me my desire for this world.
My simple, unobtainable desire for this world that I was born into. And the heartbreak that happens over and over again as my head tries to tell my heart to give up… it’s no use.
And in response it whispers… “you know what to do.”
And a part of me is back in the garden, wanting to spit it out… wishing that I had the life promised to me by the TV-sitcom-twinkie-gapjeans-personalbanker-scrubbingbubbles pretty world of personal choice.
But that’s what it is, isn’t it… a personal choice. Every moment is a personal choice to hear that heartbeat… broken or not. This heartbeat that we share with our brothers and sisters. The singular heartbeat that always speaks truth even when we would rather tell ourselves lies.
And so the other part of me is rejoicing in the freedom of a cleansed heart that knows truth.
It’s a picture of justice,
A sound of caring,
A smell of brightness,
A feel of beauty,
And a taste of love.
You know it when you experience it. Your heart knows home.
Because in the end, it’s about what’s in your heart. That’s what it’s always been about.
M.
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NOTE: I just have to say I'm extraordinarily proud to be a US citizen today. I deeply admire both Barak Obama and John McCain for the fine speeches they gave last night and I'm amazingly hopeful that the country so decisively chose hope over fear. I’m not that old but I have never witnessed the kind of jubilation I did last night.
But Election Tuesday did not shine with all the brilliance it could because Proposition 8 was passed in CA, which is the first amendment in CA history to deny rights to people. Had the millions of dollars poured into the campaign from sources outside the state and the country (all from religious sources) not fed this campaign that used lies to create fear about same-sex marriage, it would not have passed. Our President-elect is right. We have alot of work to do. I am hopeful that we can overturn this.
The Sermon
Writing sermons is a uniquely humbling experience.
And although I was told this would happen, I didn’t quite believe it.
Sermon 1… I did a pretty decent job… especially for a first sermon. I liked it. I got lots of good feedback from it. It was emotional, poignant… it challenged the text and opened it up. It had a social justice theme embedded in it. In general, I did a pretty good job even with the shaky first time delivery.
Sermon 2… pretty much the same deal. Not as emotional, but even more thoughtful. Showed some real promise. Better delivery… after all, I had done this before so I’m no amateur at this point. Improvement… we’re on the right track.
Sermon 3… ok. Not my best effort, but it’s still in the ballpark. I can chalk it up to lack of preparation.
Now, this semester… I’m taking a preaching class. So, I’ve lost track of which number I’m on although I don’t think I’m in the double digits yet. Most of them have been pretty good and I've taken a few chances with some new technique.
But what’s more important is that I’ve hit the point where I’ve been sorely defeated by my text. And I don’t mean that I just lost the battle… I mean that I was ripped open, chewed up, spit out, trampled on, yelled at, beat down, torn apart and otherwise thinly filleted… all by a bunch of words.
Who knew that I would come to this point so early in my career? I was told this would happen.
I suppose I can learn from this experience. Right? That’s what they tell you… you learn from your struggles, your mistakes. OK.
But I haven’t even given the sermon yet… that doesn’t happen until this Sunday. So I get 3 grueling days of agonizing over this sermon… the first sermon I will give to my internship parish. The first time many of these people will hear anything about what I have to say… possibly the last if it goes that bad.
I’m sure it’s not as bad as I think it is. I’m sure it’s going to be fine.
So, let’s go for the lesson. Ah yes, the lesson.
It came at lunch yesterday. After I moaned about doing this sermon on this text for the bazillionth time, my friend said,
“I know it’s going to be fine because God wouldn’t put you up there in front of all those people and not give you anything to say.”
Oh yeah… God.
So, that’s what this is about.
Ah humility! My old friend.
Where would I be without you?
Apparently, God just decided to let me know I could do it… this preaching thing… whet my appetite a bit so that I would follow through. God let me like this preaching thing. But then, God doesn’t always play fair… and by that, I mean, that God doesn’t play by my rules.
When I facilitate small group discussions, I say a very simple prayer that goes something like this. “Let me get out of the way.” This makes more sense when it’s a small group discussion because, everyone else is talking and I’m just guiding.
Apparently, I need my prayer again.
It’s a little different now…
After all, the preacher is to be up in front of people, the only one speaking for about 10-15 minutes… so I get to learn how to get people’s attention but get out of the way at the same time.
OK… I’m game.
Holy Spirit… bring it on!
Just so you can laugh along with me, here’s the text that defeated the Great Sermon Ego.
"Then the kingdom of heaven will be like this. Ten bridesmaids took their lamps and went to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish, and five were wise. When the foolish took their lamps, they took no oil with them, but the wise took flasks of oil with their lamps. As the bridegroom was delayed, all of them became drowsy and slept. But at midnight there was a shout, 'Look! Here is the bridegroom! Come out to meet him.' Then all those bridesmaids got up and trimmed their lamps. The foolish said to the wise, 'Give us some of your oil, for our lamps are going out.’ But the wise replied, 'No! there will not be enough for you and for us; you had better go to the dealers and buy some for yourselves.' And while they went to buy it, the bridegroom came, and those who were ready went with him into the wedding banquet; and the door was shut. Later the other bridesmaids came also, saying, 'Lord, lord, open to us.' But he replied, 'Truly I tell you, I do not know you.' Keep awake therefore, for you know neither the day nor the hour.
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I honestly don’t know how it happens so fast.
I spent the most incredible week at home in Bend with my friends. I had a wonderful day back in Berkeley and then… something started to slip. The entire day I’ve been fighting this daemon. Well, not really fighting him as much as trying to pretend, ignore and otherwise scoot around him, “Don’t worry… just keep going. If we don’t look at him then perhaps he’s not really there.” But he niggled and prodded and over the course of the day, the pieces of me that he was able to get to disappeared into the familiar brown-grey goop of my existence until I spotted him in shadow.
I honestly don’t know how it happens so fast.
This daemon is "the story." We all know the story… but we all have our own version. My story is that which tells me that I’m worthless, unlovable, boring, ugly, blah, blah, blah... an uninvited entity to be tolerated. He whispers a few words with haunting familiarity and I’m hooked, like some twisted lover's flirtation. I'm literally suspended on the hook… hanging, dangling… ungrounded, unprotected and raw. The daemon’s minions come out to poke at me from below with their sharp tongues. It's bloody. I can’t get away from them.
Maybe the ego is that which is a built-in part of the system that enables equilibrium of the machine. I can’t get too content, too happy, too joyful… if I do, then the computer fan clicks on to blow a crushing force. I try to remain standing in a few moments of defiance, determined that this time I won’t disappear. This time I won’t be at the checkout stand with the story in my cart. But then… I’m gone.
I honestly don’t know how it happens so fast.
I remember just 24 hours ago I was recalling beautiful images and impressions of my experiences of home. I was feeling sweet, peaceful contentment. I was feeling a deep sense of belonging. I was feeling utterly connected. I was feeling love.
And right now, I’m so far away from that feeling of love. I’m so far away. It’s a mere echo resonating through my body that just makes the pain all the more intense by comparison. I would rather have the memory of it gone, wiped out… than to have this widening chasm between the two. This emptiness feels like stabbing shards of sharp jagged metal.
How does it happen so fast?
This Gethsemene comes with a requisite slouch and intense disdain that brings me face to face with the rest of my lonely life where the story completes itself in my imagined future. “Why do I bother?” she asks from the line of demarcation. Indeed. I get caught in what something might be-could be-would be… and then I see the blunt objective truth… and then the whisper he whispers has an ear to hear and eyes to see. I don’t know if I can fight anymore. My strength drains down my arms as I can barely type.
How do I fight from the center of my being? How do I know it’s me who is fighting and not my ego trying to skirt around it? How many more times am I going to have to hear the story before I stop clicking on the ‘Confirm Purchase’ button?
I am tired of so many fears;
I cry myself to sleep at night, while
grief and feelings of guilt
bedim my eyes with tears.
All my doubts, my fears, are creating walls
so that I may not know love.
Depart from me,
you enemies of wholeness,
for the Beloved is aware of my cry;
Love has heard my prayer,
and hastens to answer my call.
Though my fears are running for cover,
yet they shall be forgiven
by Love;
Illusions that lived in the ego
can now turn to the Light;
I will know peace as I
return Home.
-from Psalm 6
Psalms for Praying by Nan Merrill
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I’ve decided that my class in Pastoral Theology is less about learning how to be with other people and more about learning to truly be with ourselves. Of course, I get the joke… I can’t do one without the other. Damn these teachers who know what they’re doing!
It seems that all semester I’ve been coming face-to-face with the demons who have devoured my soul… one by one… just like the dancing girls who come in from stage-left across the front, kicking in unison to some banal band music.
The following is a result of one such bugger-of-a-member of my own personal chorus line.
And now… on with the show!
Sometimes I yearn.
I don’t know what wakes it,
this simple, subtle creature,
but once it emerges from its den of sleep
all I long for is relief
from its insatiability.
My thinking stops
my heart beats, suspended in mock openness, readiness
and every cell of my body seeks to be overcome.
A wide-open mouth to a breast
Eyes expecting loving gazing
Upon that which will grant its own fruition…
Like a docking procedure.
Not desire… nor want, need, wish or covet
Those are not a body’s words
But a mind’s decision to possess a thing
Rather a body’s movement towards
That which it knows not
Something…
it can lock its sights on.
Is it instinct…
this body’s language
that the mind cannot grasp?
Sometimes I want to know why this body yearns
because I want to stop its pain.
The yearning starts and I follow
down this path of trying to find
a something which it seeks
but I never do.
Find it.
There is only this gaping hole,
that never gets fed.
If I could just crawl into the arms of the Lover and be the Beloved,
If I could just feel his Breath fill my lungs and be the Word he speaks,
If I could just suffer his pulsing life into my own and know sweet liberation in that moment of union,
I would never have to dine again.
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40
The Reverend Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. was martyred 40 years ago on April 4. I was born 40 years ago on April 6. My mother once told me that while she was in the hospital giving birth, there were riots going on outside the hospital in Youngstown, OH in reaction to the assassination. Dr. King was 39 when he was gunned down. As I write this, I have one more day of being 39.
I was telling this to a friend of mine and she said, “It sounds like a relay.”
40 is a big number in Christianity… Noah got 40 days and 40 nights of rain. The Jews were wandering in the wilderness for 40 years. Jesus was in the desert for 40 days. Lent is 40 days long (because we don’t count Sundays which are feast days and not really a part of Lent… Christ is always risen on a Sunday).
Recently we read in our Pastoral Theology class about what it means to be 40 and single. Apparently, I'm supposed to be "addressing the fantasy of the Ideal American Family by accepting the possibility of never marrying and accepting the possibility of not having my own biological children" in addition to learning how to define myself through my work... yadda yadda yadda. You've heard it before.
So, I’m turning 40 tomorrow. I can feel my feet on the precipice and things are moving fast.
The wind is wild up here as I look down and out and over this abyss. Things are coming at me from all directions, swirling memories around me sink in through my skin where they slip into some black pool of nothingness. Life outside… things, people, events… moves so much faster than they were before… so precious, so beautiful… while each moment lasts forever. And these pieces of my identity, parts of my memories, all starting to make sense and clicking into place like the final pieces to the sky of some big cosmic jigsaw puzzle. Meanwhile, I stand still on this precipice. Still. Calm. Waiting.
Instead of the usual set-up for yesterday’s Eucharist, we read portions of Dr. King’s “Letter from a Birmingham Jail” (which I wholeheartedly commend to you), followed by a reflection on today’s world from one of us. It was powerful to hear Dr. King’s words 40-odd years later. He talked about being an extremist:
“So the question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love? Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice?”
And here I am waiting on the precipice. I have to ask myself why. Why am I waiting? What am I waiting for?
And I listen. And I hear this answer coming from some place deep in my belly. I hear:
This precipice is just that… an in-between place of staying on safe ground and jumping off into an abyss. You have jumped off before and have landed hard, with bruises and broken body parts. You have also stayed on safe ground before and gotten nowhere. The precipice is a choice point but it's not the choice you think it is.
The extremist path is not one that does the extreme merely because the extreme is there. So there will be no jumping. But it is also a path, so there will be no standing still. The extremist path is one that moves deliberately forward without worrying what the landscape ahead might look like. The extremist path is one of being led by the heart. The extremist path is to love from a place of knowing exactly who I am and seeing without fear. The extremist path is one dancing step at a time.
I’m 40 and it’s time to be an extremist.
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I don’t know exactly what it is about our society that somehow “dis-allows” us to experience pain in our lives.
Is it the pharmaceutical companies who are now so prevalently advertising miracle cures for every illness? Is it the myth of “American ingenuity” that tells us to “just do it”? Is it the corporate culture, fraught with insidious catch-phrases such as “forward thinking”, “being proactive”, “run with the big dogs”? Is it the 20th century phenomenon of snow-birds who move south in the winter to avoid the harshness of winter? Is it the trendy shift to marking a death with a “life celebration” instead of a funeral? Or is it how our spirituality has dissolved like sugar into a sticky syrupy goo that expresses itself in something like The Secret or Joel Olstein’s Become a Better You?
All of these things can be helpful, yes. But are they speaking to truth?
I admit my own issues in this. For those of you that know the Enneagram, I’m a 9. I can reframe anything into a pretty picture. My avoidance of pain and negativity knows no bounds when I’m “at my best.” My own personal catch-phrase should be something like “Silver-linings-R-US” So, those of you who have read any of my posts on here might be a bit confused because for the most part, I don’t dwell on the sunny side of the street.
The explanation is a simple one. I don’t find it particularly helpful in my search for truth to refuse to look into the shadows and boarded-up doorways of my life. I don’t think it’s very wise for me to continue to view the painful parts of my life as that which needs to be reinterpreted through an “enlightened” mind. I don’t believe that I’m meant to hold back from expressing myself anymore for fear that I might offend someone.
I am thankful for the wisdom of the Christian liturgical cycle, Easter joy, Pentecost glory, Advent/Christmas maturity and Lenten desolation. My Lenten discipline this year was to give up sugar and shopping… two of my most heavily used crutches for when I want to escape from something painful. I was not 100% successful, but then discipline is not about always withstanding the temptation. Discipline is about coming back when you’ve missed the mark. But that’s a whole ‘nother post…
However, this same tradition, which is intimately tied to Judaism, also contains remnants of this need to “fix” our experience. I submit the following examples: the golden calf made out of desolation when Moses didn’t come back fast enough, the overthrow and destruction of the people who originally lived in the promised land, turning Jews into scapegoats throughout the centuries, the entire book of Proverbs. Even Job, most likely the oldest text in the Hebrew Bible and arguably one of the most difficult for people to accept, has been found by recent scholars to have been tampered with by later (but still ancient) textual editors in an attempt to make Job’s experience more palatable. Humanity, it seems, has never been able avoid the attempt to make ourselves feel better.
But why should we feel better? Do we really think that feeling better is the same as feeling free? Is “comfort” the same as liberation? Is happiness the same as salvation?
I say no.
I say that to think that life should be ever-comfortable and “nice” is an affront to our own humanity and ultimately an affront to the ground of being from which we come.
… said the person who loves bubble-baths and chocolate and massages and IKEA. Yay irony!
My point is this… that I have no choice. I have to continue digging in the dirt, finding the roots of my own false identity, regardless of what I find there. This is my “engaged spirituality”, this is my holy work.
If I’m not willing to meet and engage with the darker parts of myself, then I never see my whole experience. It’s only when I’m able to welcome my whole experience, I am able to understand that all of it is precious… and therefore, all of me is precious.
And this, I say… is liberation.
How does liberation express itself in your experience?
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View...
I live in a gerbil-cage. Well, a habitrail, really.
Typically, when I walk into my building, I enter directly into a hallway that is narrow and white. The floor ramps down quickly and steeply, so that I nearly always “run” down as it feels like I’m being shot down a chute into the constricted bare white tunnel that constitutes the institutional hallway. I stop at the elevator and turn my key to call the box down to me so that I can ride up a few flights to my floor. I get off the elevator into a hallway that turns this-way-and-that. I arrive at my door and walk into my cozy little 9x14 room that has many of my favorite things waiting for me… my nest. If I’ve been gone for a while, there’s a good chance that my room will be stuffy upon my entrance since there is no airflow when the door is closed. I often keep my door slightly ajar so that I can maintain this airflow, even when I’m down the hall attending to other needs.
My window looks out over a lovely little garden where there is a fountain and around this garden, the habitrail continues on several levels. The sidewalks I can see from my window wind from one entrance to another, up short flights of stairs and around corners… to the chapel, the administrative building, the dorm, the parking lot, the refectory. I see people coming and going all the time, navigating their way to a class or a meeting. I watch fellow students on their way to chapel and teachers on their way to classes, staff members on their way to meetings. From my window, I can also see the entrances to the two most heavily used classrooms in our school and even into the windows of one of them. I hear the classes getting out or going on break as the chatter and door noise increase. At night, things are much less active though. The only thing that interrupts the pleasant noise of the fountain is when the security guard checks the classrooms, that is, unless a stray drunken undergraduate wanders into our little world.
I don’t really have to leave this gerbil habitrail, this seeming paradise of tunnels. The refectory serves all necessary meals during the week and on the weekend, I could just saunter a few steps off this city block, on one of those extended gerbil tunnels that has a dead end, to get a burrito or grab a few grocery items. The wonderful library is directly across the street. The biggest problem is that the coffee in the refectory is really bad and the places a few steps away aren’t much better. So either I suffer (which I do much of the time for the sake of convenience) or I leave my little habitrail and venture to the Starbucks down the hill. It would obviously be easier if they had Peet's coffee in one of those gerbil water bottles for us.
This is a small world I’m in. I nearly always laugh when people ask me how I like living in Berkeley. I want to say, “I wouldn’t know. I live in a gerbil cage.” But I realize that this question is usually a cursory one that is meant to be a social tool of surface-level engagement. It’s kind of like asking “How ya doin?”… they usually don’t really want to hear the actual answer.
Yes, this is a small world I’m in. I’ve heard it referred to by some in our community as a fishbowl or a petrie dish… depending on how deprecating one is trying to be of the situation. We live, eat, work, relax and get sick together (as you can imagine, the germs fly pretty fast in this community). The only thing we don’t do is sleep together… well, most of us anyway. If this weren’t a seminary, I have a feeling that would be happening a lot more than it is.
Once in a while, though, I get a glimpse. I walk by a certain window or along a certain gerbil path and see beyond. Since we’re on a hill (referred to as Holy Hill, by the way) we can see quite literally for miles from the right places. Most of Berkeley is relatively flat and when the hills start, they are pretty steep. From certain points on the campus, I can see all the way across the bay to San Francisco. On a clear day, I can see forever… well, at least to the Golden Gate Bridge.
So, tonight, as I was headed along one of the gerbil tunnels to continue studying in my cozy little nest of a room, I heard Rumi being recited on my ipod... and I had this desire to see the view. I walked to where the view of the bay is most prominent and just stood there for a few moments. The sky was clear and I could see the city lights twinkling. Now, I haven’t had a particularly stressful day. As a matter of fact, it’s been rather enjoyable… even though much of it was full of schoolwork. But as I stood there, I felt this calm come over me that made me smile.
Things get so tight in our own little worlds sometimes. We dig tunnels and caves all the time. We stay close to what is familiar. We substitute busyness for a sense of purpose. We find ourselves in a gerbil tunnel, being directed this-way-and-that. Many of our needs are taken care of in this habitrail and that's, perhaps why we like it so much. Most of the time, these weird little worlds are our own making. Other times, we’ve decided to accompany someone else into theirs. Sometimes we pay a lot of money for it… like one does for grad school.
But the view… that is important. For some people, the view can be scary… it’s big, confusing, unfamiliar. For other people, the view is distracting… needing to be mapped out or conquered in some way. For me, I have to say, the view sometimes seems inconvenient… it requires effort to remember that it’s there and then a conscious decision to participate in it and put aside, for just a moment, the 100 pages of family systems theory I have to read by Monday, the religious dialogue paper I have due this week, the mid-term I have to turn in for New Testament… yadda yadda yadda.
That’s why the glimpses help… when I pass by the right window or am on the right sidewalk... or hear Rumi in my ear. It’s a tantalizing reminder of the grand scheme and our precious place in it. And I am called to respond. Thank God I am called to respond.
Like the human tapping on the gerbil tunnel… like God tapping on my soul.
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Wound...
So much of our experience is wound around our wound. Its presence in our life is so subtle that we often don’t recognize it for what it is. It appears seemingly out of nowhere sometimes, and other times you can see it coming at you like a freight train but you can do nothing to stop it or step out of the way. We have many wounds that we are walking around with and some people have more than others. We are the walking wounded. And if we’re not careful about tending to our wounds properly, we can become the walking dead.
I have walked a long, lonely road to be sitting in seminary where I’m studying to become a priest. Most of this road has been of my own creation. At some point my identity got wrapped around the notion that I was not welcome and that I’m merely being tolerated by the people around me who do belong here… the people who are invited. This is my long, lonely road. And I’ve been walking it all of my life. This is my wound.
This wound has to do with articulation… how I articulate myself… doing the right thing, saying the right thing, looking the right way, giving the right gift, creating the right atmosphere… that’s always been in question and it continues to be. I’m blessed though, because I know without a doubt that the core of who I am is something that is right and good and true. This has never been in question. I’ve just always been confused and profoundly hurt as to why it hasn’t been welcome… and that is a big part of why I disappear and try to avoid putting myself “out there”. This is when I stop moving, when I become the “walking dead.”
I’ve been attending to this wound for several years now. It has gotten to the point that I can almost be flippant about it as I notice how it controls what I do and say. This wound is why I’m a people pleaser. I don’t want my articulation to offend anyone because if it does, then that’s just more proof that I’m not supposed to be here. I watch myself avoid conflict or dance around the truth or devalue my contribution. These are all ways in which I manifest in this world. And I’m learning to develop other ways of being that are not controlled by my wound. As I learn these new patterns, I can feel the wound healing.
And then… out of nowhere… something happens. It feels like the wound is ruthlessly ripped open and prodded with a hot iron poker. And then I watch myself take the salt in my hand and grind it deeply into my own open, bleeding wound.
It’s easy for me to tell the story of what happened to me today but that's really not what matters. In essence it was just someone expressing anger over what I had done… how I had articulated myself. And my reaction was to spiral down and think that I have no right to be here. I wanted to leave seminary. As I write this, I still want to leave because right now the force of the interaction has obliterated all other sensory input. I feel utter shame. But I’m trying to hold the tension… even though my grip is desperate and shaky.
I have already forgiven this person for reacting the way that they did. I understand that people get caught in their own reaction and I absolutely forgive that. But now, when faced with forgiving myself for not knowing the right thing to do, my compassion is completely dry. All I hear in my head is that “I have no right to be here”… “who am I kidding that I think I can be a priest”… “no one else who has been an Episcopalian would have made such a mistake, much less a Christian.”
And here I am on the long, lonely road again.
My calendar this year has, as its photo for February, the steaming Minerva Terrace at Yellowstone National Park. If you’ve never seen this amazing creation, the mineral deposits create a thick white crust around pools of scalding hot water. But the white crust looks like ice, like something found on one of the polar ice caps. And because there is steam in the photo, you wonder who is melting the ice. However, if I were there in person, I’m sure that the sulfuric air and the heat would be giving me more of the story. The senses can get mixed up sometimes and give wrong signals. It’s only when we step back and assess the full situation that we get a better picture. It’s only when we are willing to hold on to the tension of what we think we are seeing, that the truth can bubble to the surface.
Interestingly enough, underneath the picture is the following statement:
Compassion isn’t some kind of self-improvement project or ideal that we’re trying to live up to. Having compassion starts and ends with having compassion for all those unwanted parts of ourselves, all those imperfections that we don’t even want to look at.
The calendar is right. It’s so easy to have compassion for other people, most of the time anyway. But to have compassion for ourselves, for our own wounds… that’s another story. I’m not talking about the wound we feel by having our feelings hurt… that’s one that we like to hold on to so we don’t have to face the really deep one. This deep wound is the one that can and quite often does control what we say and do, how we think and react. We are utterly convinced that this wound is a necessary part of our identity and we refuse to let it heal. And we take every opportunity we can to open it up and rub some more salt in it.
The tension created by trying to hold its lying message until we can see the truth is too great... and so we believe it again and again and again.
So, I’m going to change my statement a bit…
We are the walking wounded. And if we’re not careful about tending to our wounds compassionately, we become the walking dead.
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