tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-75536243457815284332012-02-16T05:45:51.352-05:00Header image is from http://www.pierogi2000.com/flatfile/dormanj05exhib.htmlMoffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.comBlogger1911100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-33717397338719802542012-02-12T14:11:00.007-05:002012-02-12T14:24:18.220-05:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Di34nf4WyTU/TzgQs9Xdd6I/AAAAAAAAA54/IcoygA4mxUQ/s1600/God%2Bspeaks%2Bto%2BJob%2B-%2BBlake.jpg" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; "><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 278px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Di34nf4WyTU/TzgQs9Xdd6I/AAAAAAAAA54/IcoygA4mxUQ/s320/God%2Bspeaks%2Bto%2BJob%2B-%2BBlake.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5708330892265355170" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; "><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 18px; ">(<i>Image to the right is "God Speaks to Job from the Whirlwind" by William Blake, and I found it <a href="http://writewellgroup.com/Euro_Hum_2002-03/EH31_SPR_F_10-11.htm">here</a>.)</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; "><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 18px; ">The below is a piece I wrote this morning for our "Liturgy for Anxious Times" at </span><a href="http://commontable.org/" style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 18px; ">Church of the Common Table</a><span style="font-size: 100%; line-height: 18px; ">. People responded really favorably, some with how they resolve these tensions in themselves and some by merely acknowledging how it resonated with them, so I thought I'd share it here.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; "><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="font-size: 100%; font-style: normal; "><span style="line-height: 18px; "><b><i>Lament - for what is and what cannot be</i></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; "><span style="line-height: 100%; ">Sometimes I fear that You will speak to me out of the whirlwind<br /><span>and sometimes I fear that You won’t.<br /><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">Thank You for my job. Thank you for my paycheck… oh dear Jesus, THANK YOU for my paycheck. Thank You for my beautiful nieces. Thank You for the miracle of my little church community. Thank You for my generous, caring, and gentle friends. Thank You for my warm and cozy apartment. Thank You for my health. Thank You for my pleasant and safe walk from the Metro to my apartment and back. Thank You for the cherry trees in the courtyard outside my window.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">Sometimes I fear that You will speak to me out of the whirlwind<br />and sometimes I fear that You won’t.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about the women repeatedly raped by the members of the LRA in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Not a day. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">I force myself not to think of the burned bodies of Christians murdered by Islamic militants in Nigeria.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">I try not to think too hard about the Government slaughter of innocents in Syria, Iran, and even in Egypt as those people press for change. I try not to think of all the horrific murders in Mexico and Colombia, victims of the drug war. I try not to think of the torture of dissidents in China. I try not to think of those who are “disappeared” all over the world for speaking out against the Governments of their nations.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">Every day I live with this, Father, “comfortable” at the top of the food chain –and truly, truly grateful for what I have-- but sick with what I know happens in this world. I know that for many people, I –a privileged white American— have a causal connection to the rest of the world’s suffering… that, to some, I am an enzyme in the gut of the American monster, parasitic and pointless as she goes about ravaging the world. <br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">Sometimes I fear that You will speak to me out of the whirlwind<br />and sometimes I fear that You won’t.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">I cannot shut out the suffering I read about.<br />And I can’t believe that all those who suffer are among the “unrighteous”<br />And I cannot do much to help them at all.<br />And I am afraid that if I complain too loud that I will suffer, too.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">And the truth is I struggle to get through the things that concern me in my life. My own life is enough stress for me to deal with. Work, bills, health, life decisions, relationships, chores, the mere getting back and forth between places in the DC metropolitan area… it’s all enough pressure, and sometimes it seems like too much.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">I really thought I’d be helping more, LORD. I thought I’d be doing more to help the world.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">Sometimes I fear that You will speak to me out of the whirlwind<br />and sometimes I fear that You won’t.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">I love You and I long to believe in Your goodness, and I know that the world’s evil can’t be blamed on You… that it also has to be blamed on the failure of people to act for justice. I know that someone sold the LRA their guns. I know that many of the arms on the world market are there because they were sold after the Cold War. I don’t blame You for that.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">But, but… I have seen the righteous forsaken, and their children begging for bread. Not my family, not anyone around me. But I don’t believe that the “righteous” are only those who go to my church. I can’t believe that those who suffer deserve it. And I can’t make it make sense. I can’t just live with it and not feel anxious.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">Sometimes I fear that You will speak to me out of the whirlwind<br />and sometimes I fear that You won’t.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">LORD, I want to be a force for hope. I want to be so much more than I am, to be able to take the gifts and the immense privilege that You have given me, and to share that, somehow... to make up for what I have that the vast majority of people do not. On good days, I feel like Esther, with Mordecai saying “you were put here, in this place, for this hour, so that you can influence those in power.” But LORD, I feel so powerless… physically comfortable, psychologically very uncomfortable, and unable to influence *anyone* of importance.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">And in truth, I don’t know that justice can be done as long as I stay at the top of the food chain. I don’t know that.<br /><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">Sometimes I fear that You will speak to me out of the whirlwind<br />and sometimes I fear that You won’t.<br /><br /><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">Forgive me, LORD, if my questions are a sin. I know that You know all and that I don’t. I know that You know of the plight of the suffering around the world. But what scares me is I’m sure that those women in the Congo pray, and pray fervently, every day… unless they’ve stopped because they’re too traumatized to pray. What scares me is that I am sure that everyone who is oppressed and terrified prays. So why are the nightmarish, parasitical leaders of so many nations still so powerful? I know that my country has upheld dictators in the past when it served our strategic interests. I know that everywhere that there is (or might be) oil, my country has a strategic interest. This makes me sick.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; "><span style="line-height: 115%; ">I mourn for what I thought was possible in my life. I mourn for my own contradictions. I mourn for those who suffer, and I mourn for the blindness of some who do not. I mourn for the vision of America that I was raised with, that is so complicated to me now. I want to hope, I want to help others hope, but I have to be honest with You, LORD, I am afraid for this world. Please forgive me.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; line-height: normal; margin-left: 0.5in; "><span style="line-height: 115%; "><span>Sometimes I fear that You will speak to me out of the whirlwind</span><br />and sometimes I fear that You won’t.</span></p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-3371739733871980254?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-19308543309755481202011-12-18T17:35:00.005-05:002011-12-18T17:43:03.380-05:00This is a poem about being beat half to death by life, and of looking God in the eye and daring Him to heal you. For my best friend.<br /><br />(This poem came so quickly that I suspect I'm copying at least part of someone else's work. I hope not. If so, I'm sorry.) <br /><br /><b>Resurrection</b><br /><br />Raise me up from ashes, burning...<br />Dreams that fall from me like stars,<br />scars that mark where I have tried<br />and failed, and bathe myself in ashes.<br /><br />Raise me up from ashes, crying<br />tears like tiny raindrops, dropping<br />down to earth and watering<br />the flowers that <i>will</i> grow around my feet.<br /><br />Raise me up from ashes, clutching<br />pain, and teach me how to let it go.<br />I wear the past like a coat of skins.<br />I'm tired of blood. Set me free.<br /><br />Raise me up from ashes, lighting<br />a fire to fuel me forward, towards<br />resurrection. Ascending, I will rise<br />towards You, and reach out my hand.<br /><br />Raise me up from ashes, singing.<br />Raise me up from ashes, dancing.<br />Raise me up from ashes, battle-weary,<br />scarred, with fire in my eyes.<br /><br />Raise me up, let me shine,<br />and I will sing Your praise.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1930854330975548120?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-4312722233128392332011-11-28T12:57:00.013-05:002011-11-28T14:50:44.269-05:00<i><span class="Apple-style-span">(image from <a href="http://stwalburgas.blogspot.com/2009/01/mary-queen-of-heaven.html">http://stwalburgas.blogspot.com/2009/01/mary-queen-of-heaven.html</a>)</span></i><div><br /></div><div><img src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jP3eiDSeRPg/TtPbVvs8MHI/AAAAAAAAA5A/_mKMGUgw_A8/s400/Queen_of_Angels-Cornation.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5680124721673023602" style="float: left; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; cursor: pointer; width: 243px; height: 400px; " /></div><div>So next Sunday at <a href="http://commontable.org/">Church of the Common Table</a>, the Fabulous Dr. Weave and I will be leading a service on Mary. Mary and I have some Issues, so I thought that rather than make my contribution to next week's service a giant therapy session for Moffitt, I'd hash this out on the blog. Because, you know, the internet is a great place to work out one's Issues. *cough*<div><br /></div><div>So, a couple of things have happened lately that have me re-hashing The Catholic Years. I know I've mentioned this before on the blog, but I was received into the Roman Catholic Church on the Feast of St. Lucia (December 13), 1997 at St. Mary of the Angels in Bayswater, London, not very far from Notting Hill. As part of being received into the church, I took the name Elizabeth after <a href="http://www.catholic.org/saints/saint.php?saint_id=180">Elizabeth Ann Seton</a>, the first American to be canonized by the church, and an American woman who, like me, had found the Church while living in Europe. I remained Catholic until I was received into the Episcopal Church in November of 2001.<br /><br /></div><div>I was a Very Good Catholic, particularly when I was living in England. I prayed the rosary regularly, prayed morning and evening prayer almost every day, went to Mass at least once a week and spent regular time in adoration of the Blessed Sacrament. I was always in at least one choir in one church. In the summer of 1997, while I was in the process of converting, I fasted and prayed the rosary (often in the presence of the Blessed Sacrament) for three separate intentions, all three of which were answered. My friends at the time joked that I should be canonized. I became engaged to my Catholic boyfriend in July of 1998, and moved the following month back from the U.S. (where I'd returned to finish college) to the U.K. to marry him.</div><div><br /></div><div>A year later, all three of my intentions had reversed themselves, meaning that two people who'd been "healed" were dead, and another situation that had righted itself had gone completely off the tracks again. My fiance had dumped me three weeks before our wedding and four weeks before my visa for the U.K. expired. After much discussion, I found that the main reason that my fiance had ended things was because he felt I would not make a good wife and mother. His main reason for asserting this was because I told him that I wanted to travel and see the world at some point.</div><div><br /></div><div>I blamed him for wrecking my life with his last-minute revelation, but I also blamed Mary. I'd prayed countless times for her intercession for this relationship in addition to other intentions. I didn't see how I had an option but to believe that praying for her intercession had been a bad idea... not only had I not gotten what I'd asked for, but I'd hoped more than I ever would have had I not believed there was something extra-special about her prayers. </div><div><br /></div><div>But more than that, I blamed the constant teaching of the Church about Mary and about her example for women. Almost every statue or image of Mary I'd ever seen, she was demurely looking down, either at Baby Jesus or just... down... like the Queen of Heaven was afraid to even meet *my* eye as I prayed for her intercession. Over and over again in sermons during Mass, I heard the phrase "she said yes" (referring to her response to the Archangel Gabriel) folded into messages that painted the Perfect Woman as passive, quiet, subsuming all her desires (and, evidently, her personality) to the whims and wishes of her husband and children. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was pretty sure I knew that, on a level maybe he wasn't even aware of, Phil was comparing me to this Perfect Woman. *Mary* wouldn't want to travel. *Mary* wouldn't want to work outside the home, and Mary sure as hell wouldn't be spending time writing poetry or looking for singing gigs outside of the church (both of which I was doing). Oh, and Mary wouldn't swear. Or drink as much as I did (and do), or laugh as loud. Or talk at all, actually, unless responding to a direct question. I REALLY tried to be what Phil wanted me to be, tried to live up to all the unsubtle messages about the archetype to whom I was expected to conform. But I couldn't. </div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, over time I've become convinced that neither did Mary.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I turn away from the Church's later teachings on Mary, and instead just go to the New Testament, I don't find a lot about Mary, and what I do find does NOT suggest a person of passivity. This is what I find:</div><div><br /></div><div>- A young woman who looked THE FREAKING ARCHANGEL GABRIEL in the EYE and said "Yessir, I will give birth to the SON OF GOD." What the what?? This gives me chills even while I'm typing it. The word "precocious" doesn't even begin to cover the kind of Stone Cold Badassery it would take to </div><div><br /></div><div>a) TALK TO one of the FREAKING HOST OF HEAVEN and </div><div><br /></div><div>b) calmly agree to give birth to THE SON OF GOD. </div><div><br /></div><div>She had to have known that doing this was going to put her seriously on the outs with everyone in her family, who would have absolutely zero motivation to believe her story about being impregnated by GOD and not by the cute boy that lived down the street. And she said yes *anyway*. This may be because she had a rock-solid faith and understood her relation to God as God's servant, but also because she was confident in her ability to make this decision and to deal with the inevitable shit-storm that was going to follow.</div><div><br /></div><div>- A woman who, directly before her due date (and after above-mentioned shit-storm, which involved, among other things, being sent packing by her fiance so she didn't get stoned to death for adultery), was informed that she had to make a long journey because of some impersonal ruler in a far away place, and upon arriving at the destination, gave birth to her first-born possibly unaided by anyone except her husband and in a BARN. No pain meds, no birthing pool, just push that sucker out in a pile of hay surrounded by animal dung a few steps from the hooves of Bessie the Cow. Again, it took serious physical and mental strength to get through this ordeal. </div><div><br /></div><div>- A woman who, only a year or so after giving birth was forced to flee to a foreign country and live as a refugee until the Insane King who wanted to murder her son died. </div><div><br /></div><div>- A pragmatic problem solver who was not afraid to ask Jesus to step in and be Mr. Fix It in a Situation of Social Awkwardness. There is no story about Mary I relate to more than the Wedding Feast at Cana. I could TOTALLY see myself doing what Mary did. The conversation reminds me of the kind of conversation I might have had with my brother when we were teenagers (I kind of acted like his Mom... he'd be the first to acknowledge this):</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: Ben... BEN, listen to me.</div><div>Ben: (annoyed) What??</div><div>Me: They're getting ready to run out of wine. (raising eyebrows) We can't let that happen now, CAN we??</div><div>Ben: (even more annoyed) What do you want ME to do about it??</div><div>Me: (to the waitstaff) Do whatever he tells ya.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not suggesting that my brother is Jesus, of course, but it just feels familiar to me as someone who fixes problems quickly and often really doesn't care how it gets done. This is not the action of a passive, shrinking violet, or someone overly concerned with propriety. Mary was not the slightest bit afraid to ask the Son of the Almighty God to fix an immediate, practical problem involving a shortage of alcohol. *This* is a woman after my own heart. </div><div><br /></div><div>- A woman who, upon hearing that her son had been lead away and sentenced to death, went to the foot of his cross to watch him die in one of the most gruesome ways possible. I know that mothers love their children to the point of death, but watching your child bleed to death slowly is, again, not the action of a person with your normal amount of stamina. I can see a mother not being able to handle this, or not being able to remain in front of it. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can also imagine that it took quite a bit of doing to get to Golgotha, since Jesus' execution was kind of a Thing and there were undoubtedly a ton of people there to witness it. Mary was no spring chicken by this point, but she got herself there through the crowds and the chaos and probably a security checkpoint or two (there was a healthy amount of fear about Jesus' followers) because there was no other place she could possibly be but beside her dying son (who had, by the way, three years earlier refused to settle down and have grandkids, quit his job, left her and his home and the family business and wandered around for 3 years causing trouble with the religious authorities [which would, of course, equal trouble for his family... we don't have this in the scriptures but I can't imagine they were left alone through all of this]).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The bottom line for me is that I believe I and many other women who have loved (or been raised among) Catholic men have suffered directly from being compared to an image of Mary that doesn't fit what little there is about her in the Bible. I find this an abuse of Mary, and an abuse of women who aren't particularly demure or soft-spoken... not that I'm hating on women who are demure and soft-spoken, but as it so happens I don't really possess either quality, and neither do most of my female friends. To me, these are character traits, not moral qualities... but in my experience as a Catholic, they were raised to the level of virtue. I consider this to be tragic for women whom God has made with gifts of vision and leadership, women who are eloquent and talented and who shine even when they're not trying to. I'm not talking about myself, by the way... I'm thinking of specific women I've known who have suffered greatly beneath the Church's teaching on women... have suffered as they've attempted to emulate a neutered, silent, weak-spirited version of Mary not supported by the Scriptures. Women who, unlike me, chose to stay and suffer.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>When I envision having peace with Mary again, I imagine a Mary who would look me in the eye and tell me to get my shit together... with love, but also with a gleam in her eye that would let me know she was serious and would open up a can on me without a moment's hesitation if necessary. I imagine Mary with a firm jaw, saying "Yes, if I could bear the Son of God, bear the shame of my pregnancy and all of the difficulties with and questions around raising Him... and then watch Him die, then you can handle what God places in your life." I imagine a Mary who even now says "that's not too trifling a problem for me to take to God for you. Hold on, I'll be right back." I imagine her tough and strong and a little weathered. She was a carpenter's wife, after all. It's not like she had it easy.</div><div><br /></div><div>And I also imagine her slowly shaking her head at all of the people who have promoted an image of her as weak and passive and demure... and I imagine her having a word or two with God about THAT, too.</div><div><br /></div><div>If I make peace with Mary, it'll be with Mary, Bad-Ass Queen of Heaven... and I'll ask her prayers for a Church that accepts women as they are, quiet or loud; leaders or followers; with many children, few or none; married or single. Maybe I could go to that Church again someday. Maybe.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-431272223312839233?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-16615282271657784952011-11-12T15:30:00.007-05:002011-11-12T15:44:02.251-05:00So, my friend Richard Russeth wrote and posted <a href="http://openwindowpress.blogspot.com/2011/11/unexposed.html">a beautiful poem</a> today, which inspired me to try and write a poem, too, since it's been a while. It's not great, but it's what I have today.<div><br /></div><div><b><i>the optimist, waiting</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Hope sits out here, glittering,</div><div>like a hill of ruby quartz</div><div>in the middle of a plain of </div><div>dry grass, the wind blowing.</div><div><br /></div><div>The sun strikes it, and it sparkles,</div><div>casting light like shooting stars</div><div>everywhere, everywhere,</div><div>blinding and brilliant.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then the clouds grumble in,</div><div>blocking the light. Rain falls,</div><div>tears sliding </div><div> down</div><div>the ruby rock.</div><div><br /></div><div>...but also, washing it clean</div><div>of dirt, dead leaves and ashes.</div><div>The sun shines again, </div><div>and it glitters, brightly.</div><div><br /></div><div>How long until the rains wear it down?</div><div>How long can hope hold out,</div><div>sitting alone,</div><div>and waiting?</div><div><br /></div><div>Not forever.</div><div>Not forever.</div><div>Not forever.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1661528227165778495?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-42410301129125031822011-10-30T21:26:00.016-04:002011-10-31T09:02:27.737-04:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JXUdF9zoD9E/Tq4FF4S6c1I/AAAAAAAAAqc/I6alE8Xz1tU/s1600/Degas%2B-%2BDancer%2Btying%2Bshoe.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 295px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669474579475231570" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-JXUdF9zoD9E/Tq4FF4S6c1I/AAAAAAAAAqc/I6alE8Xz1tU/s320/Degas%2B-%2BDancer%2Btying%2Bshoe.jpg" /></a>"He is like a writer striving to attain the utmost precision of form, drafting and redrafting, canceling, advancing by endless recapitulation, never admitting that his work has reached its final stage: from sheet to sheet, copy to copy, he continually revises his drawing, deepening, tightening, closing it up."<br /><br /><div>- Paul Valéry (1871-1945), writing about Degas -<br /></div><br /><div>So I went to spend some quality time worshiping in the <a href="http://www.phillipscollection.org/research/american_art/miscellaneous/rothko-unit.htm">Rothko Room</a> at the <a href="http://www.phillipscollection.org/homepage.aspx">Phillips Collection</a> today (it feels like a chapel to me, so I consider it to be one). When I got there, the room was crowded, so I ambled upstairs to check out the Phillips' <a href="http://www.phillipscollection.org/exhibitions/degas/index.aspx">exhibit on Degas</a>. I wasn't particularly excited about it. I like Van Gogh, how you can see his wrestling with insanity in the frenzied lines of his paintings. I like Rembrandt, how he uses light to channel your focus and create a sort of dream-like state, how he often tells a full story with really very few subjects on the canvas. I like Kandinsky and his use of mathematical/musical/fractal themes and bright colors. I like Rothko's outright obsession with intense, intense colors. As far as I was concerned, Degas was a Guy Who Painted Chicks In Fluffy Dresses.</div><br /><div>This, of course, is why we have art galleries... so that we're pushed to think more deeply about the image in front of us, if for no other reason than we can see the artist's brush strokes and are forced to confront that this image is here because a person made it <i>become. </i>When an image becomes clichéd to us, it feels as though it has always been. We forget there was a process, and we forget that there was a moment at the beginning where the artist wasn't at all sure they knew what they were doing. We forget that they were human... that maybe they never really knew what they were doing.</div><br /><div>The most striking thing to me about the Degas exhibit is that it consists largely of studies and sketches that he did of dancers and nudes, with the same images again, and again, and again. Dancers resting, dancers standing, dancers stretching, women bathing... the walls are covered with half finished renderings of the same few models in the same few poses, over and over and over. I'm not used to this, from the Phillips or from any other exhibit that I've seen. I'm used to seeing one or two studies hanging near finished works so that you get some idea of the artist's process... plus it feels pleasantly sneaky to think that you're seeing something they didn't intend to be seen.<br /></div><br /><div>To make the exhibit largely about the studies themselves, to center it around partially finished work, seemed very profound to me. Maybe this is only due to the fact that what the Phillips has of Degas' work is largely sketches, but I felt like it was something deeper, like it was about Degas himself, or about art more generally, or maybe about humanity. Or maybe I was thinking about it too much... but here's what I was thinking...<br /></div><br /><div><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 258px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669475042468057602" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ersYqrlvmIg/Tq4Fg1FAUgI/AAAAAAAAAqo/6ABV0Z5nvJk/s320/Degas%2B-%2BDancer%2Bstretching.JPG" /></div><div>I can't find a really good internet rendering of the image at the top of this post, but that image is the first one that took my breath away. The effect is better served by the image at right. As with the rest of the sketches, there's a lot of vagueness... scribbled lines, colors, shading not really worked out... but then BLAM, there are shoulders, a face, an arm, real enough to look as though they were photographed. The stark, surprising beauty of that had far more of an effect on me than any of the other finished paintings. I felt like I was witnessing a living being emerge from the paper... the creative process of a man who died almost 100 years ago in a continual state of re-birth on the page.<br /></div><br /><div>After I got over my initial reaction, the first thing I thought was "here's the dignity in not finishing", and the second thing I thought was "...and the dignity in starting even when you're not sure you're ready". What these sketches suggest to me is that Degas was so thoroughly committed to his process that finishing things was almost a sidebar. The point was to keep trying, to keep showing up at the page, to keep attempting to render these images that he found so compelling, to keep trying to make a static image on a page move like a dancer.</div><br /><div>Beyond that, I think I was touched at how these sketches felt to me like what it is to be alive. I've been meditating a lot on how much of life is improvisation, but that this creates a level of tension when you're on a spiritual path and you believe in God and believe in truth. On the one hand, there is a responsibility to be present to what is in front of you and to what the Holy Spirit is revealing through your life, but on the other hand there's truth and the dictates of conscience/ received ideas of morality/scripture, etc. I don't know that I can make this make sense, but seeing that image of a dancer's firm, fleshy shoulders emerging from squiggled lines and vague colors on a yellowed piece of paper seem to speak to that for me. There are always things that must remain true, firm, and concrete or I/we risk just kind of falling apart, but there is also always a lot of becoming... firm shoulders and squiggly outlines can co-exist, and still be breathtakingly beautiful.<br /></div><div><br /><div><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,238); -webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: underline" class="Apple-style-span"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 245px; CURSOR: pointer" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5669484633938713810" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-GC7Sy28Q7c8/Tq4OPIFz3NI/AAAAAAAAAq0/jrBcBmGuShw/s320/Edgar-Degas-Melancholy-Oil-Painting.jpg" /></span></div><div>Even in his finished works, Degas often seems to maintain this sense of vague edges to great effect. Standing and observing "Melancholy" (image at left), I was struck again at how much he chose not to define in the background, or even, really in the foreground when compared to the woman's face. Again, the greatest reality in this image is that of flesh, and his attentiveness to that makes it nearly impossible to look away from the woman's face. I thought to myself that "Melancholy" wasn't a strong enough word... this woman has been obliterated by something and is hanging on by a thread. So much communicated in this little space because he choose to fill in only what was important.<br /></div><br /><div>The quote at the beginning of this post is on the wall at the Phillips beside the sketch of the dancer tying her shoe. I scribbled it down in my little red moleskine, which I carry with me all the time and which contains a lot of scraps of things that I've tried to capture when they've dropped into my brain. It's also full of notes to myself... titles of albums, books, and paintings that I was trying to record because I knew I'd forget... as well as the blood pressure and pulse readings I get every time I give blood. This is how my life is... bits of some decent-ish writing, some singing here and there, occasional songwriting with friends... also books, papers, color, chaos, and quite a bit of blah. </div><br /><div>The quote suggests a considerable amount of discipline on Degas' part, but in the context of a roomful of beautiful sketches nowhere near completion, it takes on a different tone, suggesting instead a man comfortable with the chaos of creativity, willing and able to be a beginner every day... someone who, perhaps, also had small notebooks filled with ideas and maybe also didn't clean his apartment as often as he should. I'm grateful to get a window into the kind of beauty that can emerge from showing up to participate in that creative chaos, day after day after day. It gives me hope.</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-4241030112912503182?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-20558961223673446472011-10-28T21:01:00.015-04:002011-10-28T22:52:45.102-04:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_4jrb_hKbvE/TqtWeYxWmoI/AAAAAAAAApg/HXJ14VHOd_U/s1600/2011-10-28_20-05-37_282.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 181px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_4jrb_hKbvE/TqtWeYxWmoI/AAAAAAAAApg/HXJ14VHOd_U/s320/2011-10-28_20-05-37_282.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5668719636021418626" /></a>So I went down to <a href="http://occupydc.org/">Occupy DC</a> tonight, for various reasons, but largely because I felt that, after <a href="http://www.guardian.co.uk/commentisfree/cifamerica/2011/oct/28/scott-olsen-example-occupy-movement">what happened in Oakland, CA</a> earlier this week, this was the place I wanted to be tonight. I got there in time to stand at the edges of the evening General Assembly for about an hour and a half, listening.<div><br /></div><div>This is my fourth time down there, and every time I've been I've come away with mixed feelings and a sense of something I struggle hard to articulate. I want to try to articulate it here.</div><div><br /></div><div>First off, I'm fascinated and a little in awe of their decision making process. I know a very, very little bit about group decision making in a flat leadership structure. I learn more and more through <a href="http://commontable.org/">Common Table</a> all of the time, and I learned some things in my masters degree about facilitation and group decision-making, but I've never witnessed something like this: a culture of its own emerging in a public space... a little mini-society, complete with rules for decision-making and administration of resources. My understanding is that the process they use, as well as some of their lingo and use of common gestures and symbols, has been adapted from Occupy Wall Street, but that doesn't make it much less amazing to me. I watched two young women facilitate a large gathering, complete with occasional ranting from folks who appeared mentally ill, with competence, purpose and clarity. Decisions were made. Plans were formed. Tasks were delegated. In other words, shit got *done*.</div><div><br /></div><div>I spend a really, really disproportionate amount of time in meetings, and the fact that a group of people could self-organize with this level of efficiency and conduct a meeting that is actually productive in the middle of a park on a cold Friday night kind of blew my mind. Whatever ultimately comes of these protests, there are graduate degrees to be had studying the conditions that have led to these mini-communities forming and sustaining themselves all over the country.</div><div><br /></div><div>However much admiration I have for their process, though, I always feel a little ill at ease being there. I thought this was because I work for the Government, because I can only spend limited time down there, because I'm not a "radical", whatever that is exactly.</div><div><br /></div><div>But tonight I looked around and saw other people like me... people in work clothes, with sensible overcoats, carrying laptops. Some of these people spoke, and mentioned their day jobs and their desire not to be arrested because it would jeopardize their employment. As I looked around the crowd, I realized that the people who'd clearly come from work appeared to be about a quarter of the crowd. I wasn't expecting that at ALL. So that wasn't the source of my discomfort, exactly. What was?</div><div><div><br /></div><div>My friend Micah Bales has been involved in Occupy DC from the very beginning. He's the reason I came down to the protests the first time, and my admiration for his dedication to this cause is the main reason I keep going. He's struggled very publicly on his <a href="http://lambswar.blogspot.com/">blog</a> with being a person of faith (he is a founding member of <a href="http://capitolhillfriends.wordpress.com/">Capitol Hill Friends</a>, where I worship on Sunday nights) who is there as a result of those convictions. I found his thoughts at <a href="http://lambswar.blogspot.com/2011/10/occupy-movement-needs-prophetic-church.html">this post</a> clarifying tonight, particularly this quote:</div><div><br /></div><div>"There are many Christians involved in Occupy DC - I discover more all the time. Nevertheless, the overall culture and worldview of the Occupy movement is a lowest-common-denominator, generally left-wing set of assumptions. So far, almost all of the discourse at Occupy DC has been about "restoring democracy," "building power," or the plight of "the 99%." I have not heard anyone - including the folks whom I know are Christians - talking about the Kingdom of God and Jesus' mission to liberate the poor and oppressed."</div></div><div><br /></div><div>When I read that, I thought, oh. That's it. It wouldn't honestly occur to me to expect Occupy DC to have a Christian message, but without that message, the desires of the protesters for a better, more ethical and just society feel to me like clothes that just don't fit right. It's not that lack of faith makes what they're asking for inauthentic... but without faith, I can't access it. I can't get beyond the irony of folks on smart phones (including me) protesting the abuses of capitalism. I can't get away from the twinge I feel in my gut walking away from the park and into the train station, where the actual homeless people are slumped over in the corner. Without Christ at the center, so much of what is being asked for seems put on to me, inauthentic.</div><div><br /></div><div>The final point: for all I would say about community forming spontaneously around the protests, no one ever talks to me when I'm there, and that might bother me more than anything else. I understand that the nature of a protest is such that the participants are going to be self-conscious, but the level of self-consciousness feels really inauthentic to me. Walking out of the park, away from the protesters and where the usual street people are, one man greeted me: "Good evening, Queen." I said "hullo" and smiled and he said "God bless you, have a good night", and I said "you, too" and thought gosh, it's nice to be called "Queen". Waiting at the intersection, a man in a fuzzy blue hat who seemed like he was probably high approached and said "Good evening, ma'am. You're very beautiful. Pencils and lights. Sounds like Jupiter, doesn't it?" </div><div><br /></div><div>And I smiled and thought, yes, it sounds like Jupiter. And that I suddenly felt much more at home than I did in that park.</div><div><br /></div><div>For all my confusion about what I feel about Occupy DC, I'm still glad they're there. DC can be so numb, and so numbing. Last Sunday, when I walked into the park and stood around an impromptu concert featuring a stand-up bass, violin, mandolin, guitars and rhythm instruments, I was deeply grateful for that. I am grateful to see evidence that people who choose to step out of the flow of "normal" life can then choose to organize themselves and have a medical tent, food tent, a legal consultation team (!) and even tech support. I love that there are always people painting and at least one person playing a drum. I love that people have named their tents.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know what the end of Occupy DC will be... but I know that when it ends, I'll feel like we've lost something... a site of protest and rebellion in a town that is often too well-off and comfortable for its own good... an outward manifestation of my own inward frustration at the injustices I'm a part of without my consent. So I'll continue to visit, and I will pray for it. That is all I know to do.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-2055896122367344647?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-18292883278822606672011-10-20T21:58:00.009-04:002011-10-20T22:21:58.249-04:00So this is (or was, almost) the <a href="http://www.nwp.org/cs/public/print/resource/3663">National Day on Writing</a>, and being a good writer, I didn't pay any attention to it until just now when I realized it was almost over.<div><br /></div><div>So, this is my attempt to say why I write.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Why I Write</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>Just like you</div><div>I am</div><div>a set of variables comprising </div><div>what others see as</div><div>me.</div><div><br /></div><div>(Partial inventory:<br /><br />- facial expressions - cheekbones, freckles, skin</div><div>- body language - moves hands like <i>this</i> when talking</div><div>- height/weight/hair color/eye color</div><div>- the way eyes change when a person smiles</div><div>- clothing and words</div><div>- voice - laughing, whispering, singing</div><div>- preferences</div><div>- aversions</div><div>- memories</div><div>- regrets)</div><div><br /></div><div>Just like you</div><div>I am</div><div>a collection of contradictory impulses</div><div>decisions not <i>decided</i>, really...</div><div>impulses checked, chucked, indulged.</div><div>For everything I appear to have chosen</div><div>there is <i>something</i> in my </div><div>(history, biology, neurochemistry,</div><div>background, upbringing, belief system)</div><div>that probably pushed me toward it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just like you</div><div>I picked up </div><div>everything I do, say or think</div><div>somewhere</div><div>along</div><div>the way.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just like you</div><div>I am</div><div>living with book ended days</div><div>waking up, hair disheveled,</div><div>disturbed by a dream...</div><div>and going to bed,</div><div>settling into sleep</div><div>giving into day's end.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just like you</div><div>I am</div><div>aging in my body</div><div>and both limited and blessed by it</div><div>in a thousand different ways.</div><div>I also fear my death</div><div>despite my faith</div><div>(and maybe, sometimes, because of it).</div><div><br /></div><div>So this is why I write...</div><div>to take the vastness of </div><div>who and what we both are</div><div>and say</div><div>"I'm sorry we have so little time</div><div>to make ourselves understood to each other."</div><div><br /></div><div>I write to pull a moment out of the</div><div>running stream of my history,</div><div>and show it to you, and say,</div><div>"look, here we are,</div><div>because I am</div><div>just like you."</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1829288327882260667?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-74514573203218069352011-10-12T20:06:00.006-04:002011-10-12T20:12:35.861-04:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px; background-color: rgb(255, 255, 255); "><span class="Apple-style-span"><p>So, this past Sunday at <span class="Apple-style-span"><a href="http://commontable.org/">Common Table</a></span>, the liturgical team led a service based around a simple liturgy from Iona. As part of this liturgy, we meditated on scripture and also on our past week, and were encouraged to share a short anecdote from the week, incorporating our response to the scriptures in that. We were particularly encouraged to make our anecdote visual... to try and capture a particular moment visually.</p><p>The texts we were meditating on, taken from the Lectionary, were difficult (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "><a href="http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearA_RCL/Pentecost/AProp23_RCL.html#reading" style="color: rgb(0, 123, 255); ">Exodus 32:1-14</a> and </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: normal; "><a href="http://www.lectionarypage.net/YearA_RCL/Pentecost/AProp23_RCL.html#GOSPEL" style="color: rgb(0, 123, 255); ">Matthew 22:1-<b>1</b>4</a>). </span> These texts emphasized the wrath of God, and in particular, I found the questions posed by the opening verses of Matthew 22 disturbing.</p><p>So I wrote about my cab ride from the night before.</p><p><strong><br /></strong></p><p><strong>Doubt</strong></p><p>The cab driver's skin is the color of a Hershey's Special Dark bar. His collar is up, against the mild cold of the evening. "You are smart," he says. "You go home early, beat the traffic." I laugh. "You bet, man. I love my sleep." Pause. He looks at me in the rearview mirror. His eyes are the same Hershey Dark, with arched, thick eyebrows, giving a vaguely Sean Connery effect. His face is creased with lines, particularly around the eyes and forehead. Worry lines. This man is a thinker.</p><p>I decide to say it. "Plus, I gotta be at church in the morning." Arched eyebrows fly skyward. "Church!!", he says. "What kind church?" Ahh. What kind church. "It's hard to say. Let's just say Protestant. We're a mix of denominations." I hold up my hands, with interlaced fingers. "Somehow we make it work."</p><p>He nods. I dive in again. "You're Ethiopian?" Slight crease between the eyebrows. "Yes, I am Ethiopian." "Ethiopian Orthodox, then?" The crease smooths. "Yes... I mean I was. But now I am little bit confused." He switches lanes. He's a competent driver, knows these roads, knows where he's going.</p><p>I say, "Well, a new culture, another country... it's easy to be confused."</p><p>And the dam bursts.</p><p>20 minutes of questions, challenges, one arm waving, one hand on the wheel... eyebrows raising, furrowing, dancing on his forehead. "If God is love, why did He kill His Son??" "If Jesus was God, why was He afraid to die??" "All the churches, they teach different things, who to believe??" "Why so many versions of the Bible??"</p><p>We're hurtling down 14th Street: lit shop windows, darkened office buildings, shadowed doorways, pedestrians, crosswalks... a stream of vari-colored images: the secular world, material, embodied, and a thoroughly unhelpful visual landscape for contemplating answers to these questions. Not that I really intend to answer them, though. He's not giving me space for answers... occasional pepperings of "Yes?", "You see??", and "You know???" appear to be there for verbal ornamentation alone.</p><p>So I nod. I say, "I see your point," and a couple of times, when he stops for breath, I offer a short response to the couple of things for which I feel I have a response. Some of his questions I just don't have answers for... they're things that bother me, too, but not enough to chuck my faith. Plus, it's late, I'm tired, I just want to get home. I end up having to talk over him in order to give directions... otherwise, it appears he would just speed on on on into the dark night, driving as long as his questions last, hurtling us both forward into the bottomless pit of his doubt.</p><p>In front of my apartment, he turns to me, intent on continuing. I mutter something about how he has more fares to collect, hand over my money (with a healthy tip), and pat him on the shoulder. "Keep asking the questions, buddy." Pathetic. But a bright smile flashes across his face, worry lines around his eyes smooth. "Have good night!!", he says brightly.</p><p>Is that what he needed? It was a pointless thing to say, but maybe better than anything else I could have said. He wasn't looking for an answer... he just wanted a confessor for his doubts. I walk up the front steps of my building, tired and heavy with my own silence, but unable to think of anything more Christ-like than bearing witness to his struggle and answering gently and briefly where I could. </p><p>LORD, have mercy.</p></span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-7451457320321806935?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-12666314639696152652011-09-11T18:17:00.003-04:002011-09-11T19:07:33.881-04:00<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gin3-diB4Ww/Tm0hK4cv3jI/AAAAAAAAAe4/lNGUJ3PEMyI/s1600/Angie+crop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-gin3-diB4Ww/Tm0hK4cv3jI/AAAAAAAAAe4/lNGUJ3PEMyI/s1600/Angie+crop.jpg" /></a></div>I wasn't going to write anything about September 11 or even post my usual Facebook status honoring my friend Angie Houtz who was killed in the Pentagon... but this morning at <a href="http://commontable.org/">Church of the Common Table</a>&nbsp;a few brave souls decided to lead us in a service where we both remembered our own experiences and talked through how 9/11 has changed us... for good and for bad.<br /><br />I decided to tell my story about Angie (pictured at left), because it's been 10 years, and although I'd been really ambivalent about this service, I found myself agreeing with the folks who'd planned it that this was an important thing for us to do. &nbsp;Ten years is an obvious milestone... it seems important to look back, and to take stock, and to ask yourself about your life.<br /><br />When I told my story, I was surprised to find myself shaking and crying. &nbsp;I had not expected that. &nbsp;Not at ALL. &nbsp;I hadn't cried when telling this story since right after it happened. &nbsp;I have continued to feel over the past 10 years as I did when I was first interviewed about her death... that it would probably be more honorable to keep my mouth shut since it seems like I'm trying to draw attention to myself by mentioning her death... but I always ultimately decide to share it because even though I end up talking about myself a lot in this story, it *isn't* about me. &nbsp;It's about remembering *her*, and saying "I knew an amazing woman for a very short time who inspired me to be better, and who should still be alive today and isn't".<br /><br />And then I realized that talking about Angie's death put me in the emotional space I'm at over my friend Charisse, who died on July 25 of this year, and whom I posted about a couple of posts back. &nbsp;I'll come back to her in a minute.<br /><br />My Angie story, in a nutshell, goes something like this: &nbsp;I moved to the DC area on September 9, 2000, trying to rebuild my life after being dumped 3 weeks before my wedding in January of 1999. &nbsp;There were a lot of reasons why recovering from that was hard, but part of it is that Phil abandoned me in a foreign country and with a foreign form of Christianity. &nbsp;I had chosen England and Catholicism not *only* because I loved him, but in leaving me, he failed to account for how hard I'd had to fight for the decisions I made in the context of loving him. &nbsp;I was excommunicated by the PCA. My relationship with my family was strained. &nbsp;I'd become a subject of controversy and embarrassment to some at the PCA college I attended when I returned from England as a Catholic. &nbsp;People took it upon themselves to attempt to convert me back. &nbsp;Coming back to the U.S. as a rejected 23 year old with no plans, my tail between my legs and a lot of bridges burned was bad enough without the confusion and heartbreak.<br /><br />So after licking my wounds for a while in Roanoke, I was hoping for a fresh start in DC. &nbsp;However, moving to DC was extraordinarily hard... harder than I'd thought. &nbsp;It was an act of obedience... I had prayed for another door to open, had promised God I "would never kick in another door". &nbsp;I thought I was being punished in some way for how little I'd cared about how my decisions had hurt others. &nbsp;DC was honestly one of the last places on earth I'd ever want to live, but when the opportunity came to move, I took it, because it was the only door that had opened. &nbsp;But I was wretchedly, wretchedly lonely... and broke, and without direction, and still so confused about who I was and what I was supposed to be doing. &nbsp;Everyone I met in the DC area seemed like they'd walked straight out of Stepford: &nbsp;perfect, rational, making only good choices. &nbsp;I couldn't connect with anyone.<br /><br />I started having panic attacks in July of 2001... the same day I pawned my engagement ring and found out that it was a cheap knock-off. &nbsp;These attacks were 2-3 hour affairs, and they were nightmarish. &nbsp;The feeling you get when you almost hit someone with your car? &nbsp;Or when you have a reallllly bumpy plane ride? &nbsp;That feeling. Without letup. For HOURS. &nbsp;I had fears of being buried alive... I couldn't shake the thoughts about that. &nbsp;I couldn't let go of the thought that the brain might live on even though the body was dead. &nbsp;I was afraid that I wasn't actually going to go to heaven, that God had abandoned me. &nbsp;Looking back on it, everything had kind of come apart, and I had been brave, but I couldn't take the pressure or the loneliness anymore. &nbsp;I found myself believing that God was willfully cruel. &nbsp;*I* was finally coming apart.<br /><br />I met Angie in August of 2001, at the charismatic Episcopal church where I'd fled from the Catholic church in search of some sense of spiritual rooting and comfort. &nbsp;She was so full of warmth, and listened so intently and with so much compassion as I found myself telling her about everything that had happened after it came out that we'd both studied abroad in England. &nbsp;I was a little intimidated by her... she had everything together: &nbsp;a career, involvement in so many good causes and so loved and connected within her spiritual community. But I felt compassion from her, and I felt like she and I connected... like she respected me despite my poor clothing choices, bad hair, crappy administrative assistant job and just general chaos... like she looked past that and saw what I wanted SOMEBODY to see... that I *wanted* more. &nbsp;That I *wanted* to give and not be locked in my depression and confusion, but I didn't know how to get out.<br /><br />We hung out twice, and I was really looking forward to getting to know her better. &nbsp;I felt kind of like she was my way in... to meeting more positive people, to figuring out my new life, and how to be alive in spite of loss... like she was carrying a light I'd lost, and I could follow that light.<br /><br />When the plane hit the Pentagon on September 11, Angie was in a meeting room precisely where the plane hit, and was killed instantly.<br /><br />As things happen, I ended up speaking at her memorial service, and then being interviewed by Voice of America about her, and then was asked to do another interview, at which point I said "enough". &nbsp;People were drawn to my story of her effect on me... they were drawn towards my conclusion... that I was tired of living a shadow life in my head, the life I wanted to live in England. &nbsp;I wanted to be as alive as she was, where she was, fully present. &nbsp;I wanted to give, like she did. &nbsp;I think people were drawn to the idea of this outgoing, beautiful woman reaching out to this quiet, depressed girl and giving her a vision of a better life. &nbsp;Like in some sense Angie would "live on" through me... which, of course, she wouldn't. &nbsp;I was uncomfortable with being asked to share this over and over... it seemed attention grabbing, and weird and unnatural. &nbsp;Not to mention that for the longest time if you Googled my name, one of the first links to come up was to the VOA story, with the words "Amy Moffitt was struggling with depression after moving to Washington, DC..." &nbsp;Yikes.<br /><br />I do feel like Angie's death... of being in the position of having to really process Angie's death and make meaning out of it... *did* play a part in pushing me forward. &nbsp;I still didn't know what I was doing with my life, but figuring that out became more of a pressing matter. &nbsp;I started teaching ESL just a couple of months later, and joined the Episcopal Church when the bishop came around to do his bishop thing. &nbsp;I started to fight harder for my own life. &nbsp;Teaching ESL lead to working with international students at GMU. Now, 10 years later, I have my own apartment, a masters degree, 7.5 years of experience in international education and 2.5 years of experience with the Government agency created in response to 9/11 to more effectively monitor international students and exchange visitors. &nbsp;I have an amazing church, inspiring and generous friends, a small network of fellow poets and writers that I create with, and a neighborhood whose streets I know like the back of my hand.<br /><br />But, to be honest, I'm back to wrestling with a certain measure of darkness. Charisse's death on July 25th has yet to leave me. &nbsp;No reporters will be interviewing me about Charisse, but I'll be honest and say that her death has hit me harder than Angie's. I am haunted by the thought that she might be forgotten... that *I* might forget her. &nbsp;She was in no way lesser of a light than Angie. &nbsp;I'd known her longer, and more deeply. &nbsp;She was generous to me, as Angie was, but I wasn't as needy. &nbsp;I've written quite about this in my post about her a couple of posts back, so I won't go into more detail about our friendship...<br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RJ8fkcS-FzQ/Tm0zXr7L6vI/AAAAAAAAAe8/vhjMmwPjLUA/s1600/CC+Glowing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RJ8fkcS-FzQ/Tm0zXr7L6vI/AAAAAAAAAe8/vhjMmwPjLUA/s320/CC+Glowing.jpg" width="240" /></a>But on this 10th anniversary of 9/11, I find myself longing for someone to write an article about Charisse in the paper. &nbsp;I want a reporter on TV in a deep, solemn voice to say, every July 25th, "today, we remember what we have lost." &nbsp;I want people to stop and take a moment of silence. &nbsp;I want Voice of America to call me up and ask me about Charisse. &nbsp;I want to be able to say "she was full of light", and have that translated into foreign languages and have it broadcast all over the world. &nbsp;I want to be turning down requests from reporters.<br /><br />This is the nature of loss. &nbsp;It's mundane, most of the time. &nbsp;People click their tongues and move on, because if we each felt the aggregate loss that occurs in any given day, we'd collapse from the weight. &nbsp;Rib cages would crack. &nbsp;We would disintegrate into dust. &nbsp;I understand that. &nbsp;But it doesn't change how I feel about it, or the sense of obligation I have to continue feeling that way, to let it run its course.<br /><br />F. Scott Fitzgerald once said, "I've made my whole career out of taking things hard." &nbsp;I read that in my senior year of high school, in a library in Salem, VA, in a slightly rickety yet comfortable chair with my back to the window, and my whole body relaxed. &nbsp;So there was a place for this in the world. &nbsp;People might not only tolerate this, but celebrate it. &nbsp;Thank God.<br /><br />So today, I honor who Angie was, and I honor the changes that she helped catalyze in my life. &nbsp;I tell my own 9/11 story as an act of solidarity. &nbsp;And I pause and reflect on all who lost so much 10 years ago today. &nbsp;Yes, tons more people die in other countries all over the world every day from disease and war and famine, and the innocent civilians killed in the War on Terror far exceed the number of those killed on 9/11. &nbsp;But that's not what we remember today. &nbsp;Today we remember our own dead, our own losses, our own mass trauma and grief.<br /><br />And in this vein, I also cry bitterly for the loss of Charisse, and I continue to fear that she will not be honored enough for who she was. &nbsp;I take this loss --a loss for me, and a loss for her many different communities, and a loss for the world-- hard.<br /><br />Amen.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1266631463969615265?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-7890769254661777942011-08-23T19:49:00.017-04:002011-08-23T21:21:36.410-04:00So my lovely friend <a href="http://gutenstrudel.blogspot.com/">Allie</a> has demanded that I write a blog post, and I was already taking an extended break between practicing Radiohead songs on my keyboard and Extremely Simple Chords and Songs on the guitar (i.e. I was checking Facebook for earthquake stories), so Why Not.<div> <br /></div><div>So we had an earthquake today. It was a 5.8, which was a worrying feeling since I work on the 9th floor and the building shook and trembled and I really wasn't expecting an earthquake, but it's the third one I've experienced since living in DC and the fourth one I've experienced in my life (the fourth being in Antigua, Guatemala in 2007), so although I was shaken I wasn't worried, really. I mean, there are thousands upon thousands of people still living in tents in Haiti and facing yet ANOTHER hurricane season more than a year and a half after the quake there, so whatever, DC. Plus, Hurricane Irene is headed up the coast and will undoubtedly wreak much more havoc than that minute or so of booming, shaking and looking into the eyes of co-workers who felt themselves turning into panicked animals.</div><div> <br /></div><div>But let me dwell on that last point for a minute. Let me dwell on that strange, rare, intense moment of vulnerability between co-workers who are suddenly human. Let me tell you what I remember.</div><div> <br /></div><div>One of my bosses was wandering around repeating "what do we do? What do we do?", and I pulled her into the doorway where I was standing with another co-worker, and she said "Thank you, Amy", and I felt her shoulders relax. Then another co-worker started yelling "Get out of the building!! Get out of the building!!" and I started running, along with everyone else, towards the stairs, nine floors down. A woman on crutches was holding everyone up, as two men attempted to support her down the stairs, painful limp after painful limp. She was scared, and crying. I felt sorry for her. I kept placing my hand on the shoulder of the man in front of me who kept yelling to people to get down the steps. I tried to grab the hand of the custodial lady who works on our floor so she wasn't left behind, but I was going faster than her. When I got out and found my co-workers, I wanted to hug them all. </div><div> <br /></div><div>Right now, as I'm typing, I'm feeling an aftershock, just the slightest rumbling. It's really not a big deal, because I'm by myself with my cats and this computer. I'm not looking into anyone's eyes and seeing their panic. I'm not feeling this sensation of watching people who normally have their guard up suddenly become lost. It's just a little rumbling, and it was over in 20 seconds. I'm not in Somalia, or Libya, or Syria, or Juarez, Mexico, or Democratic Republic of Congo. Hell, I'm not even in LONDON. I am a woman living by myself in safety in one of the most affluent regions in the world. So some plates are shifting. So my shampoo bottle fell into the shower and the front cover popped off of my window unit air conditioner. Really, no big.</div><div> <br /></div><div>But being with people who were panicking, that set off something. Something visceral and deep and very difficult to put back in the holster. I am a Happy Single Person, but I needed someone to put my arms around. I needed someone to hold on to. There was this unarguable, sudden and strong desire to not be by myself, to have a mate and kids to check on. That animal panic I saw in the eyes of my co-workers was matched by an animal desire to be comforted and to have a place in a family. </div><div> <br /></div><div>I don't like that feeling. It seems to stand in opposition to what my mind and heart tell me to do. But it's *strong*.</div><div> <br /></div><div>For the past, oh maybe 10-11 weeks or so, a small group of my friends have been meeting to discuss <a href="http://www.theartistsway.com/">The Artist's Way</a>. This book, which bills itself as a 12 step program for recovering artists, changed my life the first time I studied it with a group in 2007-2008. It gave me permission to view my desire to write poetry and to sing and to attempt to write music as God-given desires. It helped me get out from under the oppressiveness of my shame at being white, and American, and middle-class, and educated... to shed that for just a little while in order to create things, and to be who God intended me to be... to (just for a little while) stop feeling like I needed to try to right the wrongs in the world, and to just be present and grateful for what I had. For what I dreamed. For what I could imagine the world being.</div><div> <br /></div><div>It helped me to be honest about what my dreams actually were, and to stop apologizing, to stop feeling like a cliche... at least for a little while. At least long enough to write a poem, or a song, or to make a connection with another artist. It allowed me to take on the identity "artist"... and I can't tell you how powerful that has been for me. It's made so much make sense about me that didn't before.</div><div> <br /></div><div>Last night, we went over a chapter that talked about jealousy... jealousy as a guide, jealousy that tells us what it is we know we should be doing but aren't. And this is what I mean by that.</div><div> <br /></div><div><iframe width="560" height="345" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/am6rArVPip8" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe></div><div> <br /></div><div>I could sing this song. I could have written this song. God knows I have melodies and lyrics like this running through my head almost every day, driving me crazy because I can't get them out. But I didn't write this song. And so this red-headed chick is in a video dancing around singing a song I could have sung. And it's a beautiful and powerful song, but when I watch this video I just kind of want to kill her... because I should have written it, and I could sing it, maybe even better than she does.</div><div> <br /></div><div>We talked for a while last night about this jealousy. I think I was the person in the room who was the most affected by this. There's a verse in Proverbs that says "hope frustrated makes the heart sick, but longing fulfilled is a tree of life". I feel that. I feel that deeply. Years pass, and I'm still not singing anywhere. I'm not writing music. There's this band I know is out there, but they're still not here. Years pass, and that desire to create gets shoved into abandoned corners and tiny, worn scraps of time and attention. It's like I don't actually care.</div><div> <br /></div><div>But I *DO*. God, I do. </div><div> <br /></div><div>However, when life throws up storms... when it throws earthquakes; and unexpected relational rejections; and financial crisis after financial crisis; and the death of a young, beautiful and gifted friend; and my own, confusing aging... it's easy to forget what I want... because what is the point of learning the guitar when Charisse is dead? Or when thousands are dying in Somalia because of the horrific cruelty of those who are blocking aid to them? Or when Syria kills its own people because they dare ask for democracy? Or when young women disappear from Juarez every day and turn up dead?</div><div> <br /></div><div>What is the point of my dreams in the face of the suffering in the world? What is the worth of my dreams in the face of my own loneliness?</div><div> <br /></div><div>I don't know. I just know that they won't go away, and that I have a responsibility to find out what that's about. There will be earthquakes, and hurricanes. I will face the death of other friends, and I will spend wandering weeks lamenting them and screaming at God. I will be alive for other earthquakes, and hurricanes. I will see my own finances falter, and those of our country. I will find myself nauseated and helpless in the face of the suffering of those in countries where people are seen as disposable resources, or as nuisances. I will lose sleep thinking of the suffering of women in this world, and I will find myself powerless to really change things for them. I will see suffering and pain in the faces of my friends, and I will do what I can to help, but it won't ever take that suffering away.</div><div> <br /></div><div>But that doesn't do a thing about my dream. That itch persists. I know I'm supposed to be making music. I can't justify it, but I also can't do anything about the persistence of that dream. The longer I postpone the pursuit of this, the more confused I will be.</div><div> <br /></div><div>God doesn't make following Him easy, understandable, or even particularly sane. He just promised He'd be there. I don't know what else to cling to but that, as the earth shakes, and people die, and I sit in my apartment struggling to learn to play the guitar because I know I *must* do that.</div><div> <br /></div><div> <br /></div><div>Sorry to be dramatic. My sweet friend asked for a post, and this is what is in my heart.</div><div> <br /></div><div>Amen.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-789076925466177794?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-51098083955667147112011-07-29T14:08:00.011-04:002011-07-29T14:55:59.697-04:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aSdL8cCTxKk/TjL3krD-muI/AAAAAAAAAY8/E32QaFS5k34/s1600/Charisse%2Blaughing.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 271px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5634838293200673506" border="0" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aSdL8cCTxKk/TjL3krD-muI/AAAAAAAAAY8/E32QaFS5k34/s320/Charisse%2Blaughing.jpg" /></a>So. A blog post, maybe the first of many on this topic, and maybe not.<br /><br />On Monday, July 25, the world lost a light. I'm not screwing around with this designation... Charisse was a LIGHT. When she walked in the room, she brought a sense of presence with her... this person was Fully Here, in the room, and was excited to be there, and was excited to see you there. It didn't matter if she'd had a crappy day, or she felt bad, or she'd had her heart broken, or maybe she hadn't been going out very much recently because she was struggling. When Charisse showed up, she SHOWED UP.<br /><br />And when Charisse showed up, she was always introducing people to people: "Here, this is ______. She's an incredible writer, and you're an incredible writer, so I thought you two should meet." Any time she invited me to an event, afterwards she'd send everybody's email addresses and blog addresses to each other in the hopes that we'd see in each other what she saw in us, that we'd network and spark something creative in each other... that new life would come from her connecting the people she loved. She was lavish and generous in her praise of my work, reposting links to some of my poems on her Facebook wall, tweeting about my poetry. Everyone I've been in touch with since her passing on Monday already knew who I was. That's not because I was a great friend, that's because Charisse talked me up. She showed me love by praising me to her friends.<br /><br />The first time I ever met Charisse, she was doing me a favor. We had a <a href="http://www.getsparked.org/">SPARK</a> reading that was being held in Annandale, and I had put out a general call for a ride. She wrote back quickly that she'd be happy to give me a ride if I could meet her at Huntington station. She took the Longest Way I Could Possibly Conceive Of from Alexandria to Annandale, I think just because she was so excited and talking about poetry and asking me questions about myself and telling me about herself that she wasn't paying any attention to where she was going. I remember getting out of the car at Beanetics and just having this enormous sense of privilege that I'd had all that time with this girl. There was so much about her that was lively and generous and good... I felt something healing about that time...<br /><br />But I figured that would be it, you know? She'd done me a favor, she'd drop me back at the Metro, that'd be nice and lovely and we'd probably never speak again. But no, she invited me to dinner afterwards with her and her friend Aleisha, and later she invited me to brunch with other friends, and to her birthday celebration, and to a tour of the <a href="http://www.mlkmemorial.org/">MLK Memorial</a> that's being built in DC. She faithfully checked in on me, and after a time, I stopped being shy and weird and started contacting her back and checking in with her. She kept up with me until I knew she was serious about being my friend. She knew it would take that, and she was willing to keep trying. I don't know how she knew that, and I'm still not sure why a woman with so much life and so many friends decided to chase after this friendship...<br /><br />except that when I read her writing, I connect with it. I feel like she and I had a similar heart in some ways. I honestly feel she is/was a more generous person than I am... but we both struggled with depression, struggled with being single, struggled with being women who felt things very deeply and didn't let go of things very easily, struggled with the after-effects of growing up broke, struggled with continuing to be broke because we took jobs that enriched our hearts but not our pockets. We both found solace and hope in writing (which, after all, doesn't take much money to do, and had helped us growing up for that very reason), in relationships, in faith. We both had had to fight to find joy at so many times in life that when we found it, we grabbed it hard with both arms and sometimes a leg and we both held on for dear life.<br /><br />When I got dumped in January by my out-of-town boyfriend, I woke up the next morning and thought, "thank God I don't have to move to New York" and I thought of three reasons I was so grateful for that: <a href="http://commontable.org/">Church of the Common Table</a>, my beautiful friend Heidi, and my beautiful friend Charisse. I thought she'd be around. I thought we'd probably both stay single (because we'd both always be a little too much for any guy to handle) and write poetry and stay connected on that soul level for the rest of our lives. That was my heart. That was my <u>plan</u>.<br /><br />I never told her that. I didn't want to freak her out. And now I can only hope that she somehow knows how much she meant to me. That she knows I love her and appreciate her friendship deeply, deeply. That she understands that I was afraid to screw up that connection and so I kept my distance for a while, but that I was in for the long haul. That she taught me stuff in those intense conversations we had... that I will never, ever forget her.<br /><br />Sweet, beautiful girl, rest in peace. I don't know how much you know of what's still going on here, but if you know anything, know that you left a mark on me and so many other people. Know that your life ministered to others. Know that you were loved.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-5109808395566714711?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-28672065583693828562011-05-22T14:21:00.006-04:002011-05-22T14:51:11.376-04:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qGxoyxqdW98/Tdla77gpShI/AAAAAAAAAXI/JoHDVKrT9Ko/s1600/Me%2BMom%2Band%2BDad%2Bat%2Bgraduation.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qGxoyxqdW98/Tdla77gpShI/AAAAAAAAAXI/JoHDVKrT9Ko/s320/Me%2BMom%2Band%2BDad%2Bat%2Bgraduation.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609614796500060690" /></a>So this past week-and-a-couple-of-days I went out to Pittsburgh to see my parents graduate from seminary --my Dad with a Masters degree and my Mom with a certificate-- and then to Colorado Springs to meet my beautiful new niece, Lily. I've been back in town a couple of days, will work a full week this week, then off to Vancouver a week from today for a business trip, back for four days and then off to Iceland and Germany to visit friends. <div><br /></div><div>(Note to any potential thieves: If you're thinking of breaking into my apartment during this time, a) it will be occupied and b) I ain't got nothin' worth breaking in here for unless you really value hundreds of used books and dusty CDs, a small stash of cheap cigars, a mostly empty bottle of good whiskey, and furniture covered in cat scratches. I live like a 45 year old single male history professor.).<div><br /></div><div>It has been a while since I've left town... realized that I actually hadn't left since NYC at New Year's, the last time I saw Vince. All of this travel was planned around the time he broke up with me, which was predictable. I do have a tendency to buy plane tickets after I've had my heart broken... a good chunk of my credit card debt is from just this tendency. Travel tends to be good medicine for me, as it turns out. I've seen some beautiful places and had some wonderful experiences, and I'm truly excited about these upcoming trips.</div><div><br /></div><div>However, right now I'm in this weird space between trips where I'm just completely out of my rhythm. This week will be a normal week, but really my head is in where I'll be next week, and the week after that, and the week after that, and all the little details I may not have attended to yet. I feel like I'm a bird without a nest, hanging on to a tree limb while it moves back and forth in the breeze.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I'm grateful for the opportunity to travel, for the good, solid time spent with family, celebrating my parents' achievements and the life and love of my brother and his little family. I'm also grateful for the wonderful break in my internal monologue that this past week provided, and the coming opportunity to spend time in beautiful places with old friends. But I'm also unsettled and edgy and a little anxious. My sleep is off, I'm eating terrible food, and I can't focus on anything.</div><div><br /></div><div>Back in the day, when I bought a lot more plane tickets than I do now and tried to get out of the U.S. at least once a year, I ran across this quote in <i>The Imitation of Christ</i> by Thomas a Kempis, and it stopped me in my tracks:</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><i>"Go where you may, you will find no rest except in humble obedience to the rule of <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>authority. Dreams of happiness expected from change and different places have deceived <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>many."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Whoa. At that point in my life, I was intentionally surrounding myself with friends who, like me, were constantly looking for ways to travel, to see the world, to experience Other Places and Other Things. This quote pulled me up short. I had known since I was a pre-teen that I wanted to learn the practice of contentment... not stagnation, but a deep appreciation and gratitude for the here and now. This fixation on leaving and going Somewhere Else was seriously eroding at any contentment I may have had.</div><div><br /></div><div>Like I said, it's been a while since I've been in this space, but it's a good reminder to me that novelty is a drug. Contentment starts with patience and obedience and learning to look around you and love what is. My depression has been eroding at this, but I'm hoping and praying that I'm moving through to the other side of that depression and can begin to practice contentment and submission to the will of God again.</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-2867206558369382856?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-83089340382000405202011-05-08T20:27:00.005-04:002011-05-08T20:43:42.045-04:00<div>This morning at <a href="http://commontable.org/">Church of the Common Table</a>, we continued our tradition of baptizing a few of our Large Collection of Babies on Mother's Day. This morning we baptized four little ones, ranging in age from a year and a half to only a couple of weeks old. They were all very, very good babies and the service was long but beautiful.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was asked to write a Call to Worship, and wrote the following prayer.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>a prayer for parents</i></b></div><div><br /></div>For loss of sleep and loss of hair,<div>for 2am feedings</div><div>and tantrums thrown in public places,</div><div>for the looks people give</div><div>that feel like stones thrown,</div><div>we give thanks</div><div>and we pray for mercy.</div><div><br /></div><div>For baby giggles and toddler tears,</div><div>for language acquisition,</div><div>for the first time they </div><div>use a swear word</div><div>in front of extended family,</div><div>we give thanks,</div><div>and we pray for mercy.</div><div><br /></div><div>For friendships and heartbreaks,</div><div>for shunning and acceptance,</div><div>for slumber parties</div><div>and first dates,</div><div>for driver training and drivers licenses,</div><div>we give thanks</div><div>and we pray for mercy.</div><div><br /></div><div>For sacrifice and heartache,</div><div>for long-suffering and patience,</div><div>for learning exactly what love costs</div><div>and for reaping its rewards,</div><div>for the single most refining thing</div><div>we ever do as humans,</div><div>we give thanks</div><div>and beg for mercy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Help us to love</div><div>as You have loved us,</div><div>extravagantly</div><div>and without fear.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This is a weird day for me, Mother's Day, and there are years where I've walked around feeling kind of like a shell, lifeless. This past week has been very hard (grief is so weird... it just cycles in and out without asking anyone's permission to do so), but I'm blessed that our church basically has as many kids as adults so it's full and vibrant and I did get to cuddle with at least one baby today. But I'm mindful of all the folks like me for whom this day really isn't a happy one on a personal level. If you're one of those folks, I'm sending out a general prayer in your direction.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-8308934038200040520?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-15985835058800496142011-04-30T22:29:00.002-04:002011-04-30T22:34:28.890-04:00After a month of writing poems every day, it feels weird to go out with something so short, and arguably, so <i>bad. </i>But tonight, after talking to and praying with a friend whose heart is breaking, this is what I have. <div><br /></div><div>I am going to keep up the poems. Maybe not every day, but as close to that as I can manage. I really don't have words for the folks who've been encouraging me to keep on, except thank you. Thank you for helping me to imagine the road beyond having my heart broken. Thank you for helping me to look up and see the path, stretching out and up and just over that hill in front of me. God bless you guys. Every last one of you.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>present</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>Oh God, so much pain</div><div>and so much difficulty.</div><div>All I can say is</div><div>PLEASE.</div><div><br /></div><div>Come into this situation.</div><div>Throw Your weight around.</div><div>Knock over a few tables.</div><div>We need You to be</div><div>Present.</div><div><br /></div><div>We need the Hound of Heaven</div><div>baying at the door.</div><div>We need You busting open windows</div><div>to save those trapped inside.</div><div><br /></div><div>We need You imminent,</div><div>embodied, fleshy.</div><div>We need to look up and see</div><div>Your Hand, writing on the wall.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh God, SHOW UP.</div><div>Please.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1598583505880049614?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-34696876447042568682011-04-29T17:04:00.004-04:002011-04-29T17:10:30.729-04:00Home late again last night and just plain exhausted, so here is yesterday's poem. Today's will come... tonight, I guess. Another poem about writing.<div><br /></div><div><b><i>stillness/motion</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>Sit inside a mirrored room--</div><div>without reprieve,</div><div>without relief--</div><div>and mine what is inside of you...</div><div>the water's cold, but it's still deep.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>You</i> light the path in front of you.</div><div>The words are there,</div><div>just reach inside</div><div>and find the flame you buried there,</div><div>the fire that's helped you to survive.</div><div><br /></div><div>Do not believe the lie that you are sad,</div><div>or sick, or bruised, pathetic.</div><div>You're soul and flesh.</div><div>You're given words,</div><div>which would, of course, make you prophetic.</div><div><br /></div><div>The only task before you</div><div>is to do what you know how to.</div><div>Write it down.</div><div>Write it now.</div><div>Creation is kinetic.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-3469687644704256868?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-81928634419688463152011-04-27T21:32:00.002-04:002011-04-27T21:44:21.781-04:00So, 3 more days of <a href="http://www.napowrimo.net/">NaPoWriMo</a> after today. For as many nights as I've come home late and thought to myself "DAMN. I've gotta write a poem. About WHAT??," I'm seriously considering continuing to do this after April. There's something about this discipline of <i>making myself create something every day</i> that has some kind of powerful magic to it. I mean, I've stopped writing about being dumped, right? It's not that this has stopped hurting me, but it's like pushing myself to create has forced me to draw on the resources and memories and experiences that I had in the 34 years before I met him... and created a bridge between the me before I was hurt and me now.<div><br /></div><div>It's also led to insomnia as my brain has kicked into high creative gear after 10:30pm on many of these nights and I haven't been able to lure it to sleep... but I think it's been worth it.</div><div><br /></div><div>So this is a poem about that.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>hope</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>As long as I can hold a pen</div><div>I can move on.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I feel completely alone</div><div>and in pain</div><div>and sick</div><div>and scared</div><div>I can feel hope.</div><div><br /></div><div>When memories of the past</div><div>and fear for the future</div><div>taunt me,</div><div>I can ignore them,</div><div>and look ahead.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because there's always a poem</div><div>to be written,</div><div>and someone to write it to</div><div>and for</div><div>and with.</div><div><br /></div><div>And there's always a song </div><div>to be sung</div><div>and someone to sing it to</div><div>and for</div><div>and with.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because I am made in the image</div><div>of my Creator.</div><div>There is always creation.</div><div>There is <i>always</i> hope.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-8192863441968846315?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-23576048379446512052011-04-26T20:59:00.005-04:002011-04-26T21:16:04.699-04:00Poem #2 for the evening...<div><br /></div><div>So today I went and gave blood, partially because I was finally in a meeting near the <a href="http://www.redcrossblood.org/locations/e-street-donor-center">Red Cross Donor Center on E Street</a>, and partially because THEY CALLED ME FIVE TIMES LAST NIGHT. So, note this dear readers... Red Cross launched a national campaign last month. They're very short on supplies around the country. If you can, please consider donating.</div><div><br /></div><div>Errr, got off track there. Ok, so I was donating blood and they have CNN on the TV across from me, and they start showing footage of Syrian military shooting protesters, <a href="http://topics.nytimes.com/top/news/international/countriesandterritories/syria/index.html">which has been going on for over a month now</a>. I'm also sitting there with Kindle for Droid in my lap, reading a chapter in Philip Yancey's <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Bible-Jesus-Read-Philip-Yancey/dp/0310228344">The Bible Jesus Read</a></i> about Job and the problem of evil. And I just feel overwhelmed. Yes, I'm giving up some blood, but that just seemed so <i>insignificant</i> when I looked at this footage.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, the two things are unrelated. It is better for me (and for you) to give blood when we're able than to not give blood, so it's not like it's pathetic that I was doing that when there is So Much Suffering In The World. Also, even if I went home and locked myself in the apartment for a week trying to think of a solution to the situation in Syria, I probably wouldn't have much of an impact. So.</div><div><br /></div><div>We do what we can within our realm of influence. There's no shame in that. Plus, it includes prayer, which I still believe is no small thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>So this is a poem about that.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>try</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>It is better to try,</div><div>to drop your small pebble</div><div>in the pond, and trust</div><div>that the ripples will spread</div><div>where they need to</div><div>without worrying about whether</div><div>they'll reach the shore.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is better to try,</div><div>to light your small candle</div><div>in immeasurable darkness,</div><div>to guard the flame</div><div>so it doesn't blow out,</div><div>and to trust that your light</div><div>is enough to guide</div><div>whomever it's meant to.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is better to act.</div><div>It is better to hope.</div><div>It is better to do the next thing</div><div>and the next</div><div>without worry.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is better to leave</div><div>your fingerprints on the world</div><div>than to stand back for fear</div><div>that you can't fix it.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-2357604837944651205?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-84840564784418216782011-04-26T20:42:00.003-04:002011-04-26T20:46:50.949-04:00I got home late last night and then my sinuses attacked me so I had to can my plan to write a poem. So, this is poem one of two for the night.<div><br /></div><div><b><i>shadows</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>Silhouette of a cat</div><div>at the window watching shapes...</div><div>the branches of the bushes</div><div>blow back and forth</div><div>against a dark blue evening sky.</div><div><br /></div><div>I light a candle. Why not?</div><div>And the cat turns to contemplate</div><div>dancing shadows, the shape</div><div>of my raised foot, grown gigantic</div><div>on the wall above him.</div><div><br /></div><div>The cat is a shadow</div><div>watching shadows inside</div><div>and shadows outside.</div><div>So many tricks of the light</div><div>making the mundane mysterious.</div><div><br /></div><div>How much time have I wasted</div><div>chasing charlatans, circus clowns,</div><div>street preachers, snake oil salesmen...</div><div>all vapors of men, using tricks of the light</div><div>to make the mundane mysterious?</div><div><br /></div><div>The cat jumps down from the windowsill,</div><div>done with watching shadows.</div><div>I blow out the candle.</div><div>Me too.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-8484056478441821678?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-59706010238422733942011-04-24T17:51:00.006-04:002011-04-24T18:12:20.628-04:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mw9Eza07aGw/TbSfn8WpycI/AAAAAAAAAW4/pMFBrIzAP0g/s1600/Mary%2BM%2Bat%2Bthe%2Btomb%252C%2Bicon.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 303px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-mw9Eza07aGw/TbSfn8WpycI/AAAAAAAAAW4/pMFBrIzAP0g/s400/Mary%2BM%2Bat%2Bthe%2Btomb%252C%2Bicon.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5599275745293224386" /></a>This morning at <a href="http://commontable.org/">Common Table</a>, the <a href="http://mikestavlund.com/">Best Writer I Personally Know</a> gave a very interesting reading of Luke 24:13-35, the passage about Jesus' appearance on the road to Emmaus. It was interesting because he paused after the bit where they say "some of our women amazed us" with their report of Jesus' resurrection, and where some of the disciples decided to check it out for themselves. He smiled sardonically and said "that always kills me," or something quite like that.<div><br /></div><div>It's been a while since I reflected on the disciples' attitude towards Mary Magdalene (plus Joanna, Mary the Mother of James, Salome, and unnamed "other" women, depending on which Gospel you're reading) when they relayed the news of Christ's appearance to them. The disciples didn't believe them. Only impulsive Peter and The Disciple Jesus Loved (again, depending on which Gospel you read) took off running down to the tomb to check for themselves. The others evidently weren't impressed enough by what the women had said to bother following up. Which is literally incredible to me. You'd really have to have a low opinion of a person to hear them tell a story like that and just dismiss it outright.</div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't the first time nor the last time that God has gifted and honored women to be His messengers and teachers, but His church has refused to acknowledge it. A lot of progress has been made, but I know very well that much of His church has a long, long, LONG way to go.</div><div><br /></div><div>This is a poem about that. Thanks, Stav, for the inspiration.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Magdalene</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>Mary Magdalene, sobbing at the tomb,</div><div>the one from whom You had cast hundreds of demons,</div><div>the one who was first to Your grave,</div><div>was the one to whom You first appeared.</div><div><br /></div><div>A woman, it is rumored, of some ill repute,</div><div>who followed You with pure devotion...</div><div>perhaps the first man to to ever show her respect...</div><div><i>she</i> was the one to whom You first appeared.</div><div><br /></div><div>Where did this get lost along the way?</div><div>Jesus of Nazareth, both God and man</div><div>is raised from the dead, and chooses to spread</div><div>this news through Mary Magdalene.</div><div><br /></div><div>When did Your church forget</div><div>that a woman was the first evangelist?</div><div>A woman the first one with the courage to show</div><div>her face as Your follower after Your execution?</div><div><br /></div><div>Mary Magdalene, crying now with joy,</div><div>throws herself at Your feet, and like a kind father,</div><div>to a daughter, You said, "Don't cling to Me.</div><div>Go, and proclaim what You have seen."</div><div><br /></div><div>And they didn't believe her.</div><div>When will Your church learn?</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" >(image from <a href="http://hcikfs.blogspot.com/2010_04_01_archive.html">http://hcikfs.blogspot.com/2010_04_01_archive.html</a>)</span></i></b></div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-5970601023842273394?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-45652134691963790212011-04-23T10:44:00.005-04:002011-04-23T10:57:25.713-04:00We live in the twilight of Holy Saturday. Unlike the disciples cowering in fear and agony and grief on this day, we know that Christ has risen, and that He promised He would return, but that was 2 millenia ago. This is an old and wrinkled problem that has preoccupied probably everyone who calls themselves a Christian ever since the first generation of disciples died without seeing His return. Generations upon generations of the faithful have taught their children to love and trust someone they've never seen with their eyes, and every one of us has struggled at some point with our personal reaction to that paradox.<div><br /></div><div>I believe, and I believe strongly. I believe that I've seen Christ work in my life and that I've had times where I experience God's presence very vividly. But this is not a poem about that.</div><div><br /></div><div>As if writing about this wasn't hard enough, I wrote it as a rondeau (see Paul Laurence Dunbar's "We Wear The Mask" for a waaaayyyyy better example of a rondeau).</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>we live in twilight</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>We live in twilight, already not yet</div><div>in the shadow of history we'd rather forget,</div><div>longing to see you, generations unseen</div><div>wanting to believe, to feel consciences clean...</div><div>in the hope that Your death paid our debt.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have lived my life loving One that I've never met, </div><div>staking all on those promises, placing my bets</div><div>on One whose life is as real to me as a dream.</div><div>We live in twilight.</div><div><br /></div><div>I do believe. Truly, I love Him, but yet</div><div>I chafe at His absence. He left and then let</div><div>His disciples believe He'd be back, that they'd see</div><div>Him emerging in clouds and that their faith would be</div><div>rewarded. I love Him, but I live saddened that</div><div>we live in twilight.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-4565213469196379021?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-13219040508924938862011-04-22T18:39:00.007-04:002011-04-22T19:09:51.776-04:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i0U8T97CI2I/TbIIjoc5ebI/AAAAAAAAAWo/iSctRjyq3Vc/s1600/crucifixion.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 278px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-i0U8T97CI2I/TbIIjoc5ebI/AAAAAAAAAWo/iSctRjyq3Vc/s320/crucifixion.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598546695022016946" /></a>So the weather and my health have conspired to create a fantastic Good Friday experience. I'm still too sick to go to church or work but not sick enough to not care about that. The weather has been cold, grey, rainy and occasionally windy. I've spent the day alone with the exception of one trek to the grocery store to get Fancy Feast for my spoiled kitty, where the checkout girl snarled at me. <div><br /></div><div>Perfect Good Friday. Didn't miss a beat. :^)</div><div><br /></div><div>Honestly, none of today has been *that* bad, but it's made meditating on Good Friday easier. Last year on Good Friday, <a href="http://commontable.org/">Common Table</a> went on a retreat where we spent the weekend sitting shiva for our dead dreams... trying to enter the space the disciples were in, where all they knew was the death of their Messiah. As it happens, the dream I mourned last year died again when Vince ended things in January, so that suffering is fresh for me... and just like last year, I have no evidence that my dream won't just stay dead.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's easy to forget that the disciples didn't know. It's easy to forget their despair... not only had Christ died, but they'd just stood there and WATCHED without lifting a finger to do anything about it... and Peter had actively denied Him, swearing oaths on his own head that he had no idea who Jesus was before That Prophetic Chicken started mouthing off.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was struck in reading the Gospel accounts of the crucifixion today with the Synoptic Gospel writers' observation that the sun's light was blocked out for 3 hours in the middle of the day as Jesus suffered agonizing pain on the cross. Darkness is the best word I can think of to describe what must have descended on the disciples' minds and hearts after Jesus died. I was reminded, too, of Psalm 88, the only one of the Psalms that does not resolve in praise of God. It is, in my mind, the Psalm of the Crucifixion (I'm sure I'm not original in that observation), and it ends with the line "Darkness is my only companion".</div><div><br /></div><div>Writing a Good Friday poem is not easy. There is so much amazing art, music, poetry and prose about this event. But here's my attempt.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>darkness</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>Darkness fell over the whole land</div><div>from noon to 3pm. Then You screamed:</div><div>"Why have You left me, Father??!!!"</div><div>And died.</div><div>And the earth shook.</div><div><br /></div><div>There was a stunned centurion</div><div>who suddenly knew you were God,</div><div>and a terrified priest</div><div>gaping at a torn temple veil.</div><div><br /></div><div>The sun came out again,</div><div>and some who had died righteous</div><div>rose and walked into Jerusalem.</div><div><br /></div><div>But You were still dead.</div><div><br /></div><div>Joseph of Arimathea laid</div><div>You in his own, new tomb.</div><div>The women watched, waiting,</div><div>wanting to come back </div><div>and bathe Your broken, battered body.</div><div><br /></div><div>But now the sun was going down,</div><div>and Shabbos was upon them.</div><div>Joseph rolled a heavy stone</div><div>over the mouth of Your burial place.</div><div>The sun's last rays fled the sky, ashamed,</div><div>and the women left, in darkness.</div><div><br /></div><div>The Light of the World was dead.<br /><div><br /></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span">(image from <a href="http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/grunewald/crucifixion/">http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/grunewald/crucifixion/</a>)</span></i></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1321904050892493886?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-66549199503923825682011-04-21T20:40:00.017-04:002011-04-21T21:08:41.865-04:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tqLMz44LBjw/TbDTE3lAMSI/AAAAAAAAAWg/rEytAx5IJdw/s1600/ChristWashingFeetDisciples_PaoloVeronese1580.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 158px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-tqLMz44LBjw/TbDTE3lAMSI/AAAAAAAAAWg/rEytAx5IJdw/s320/ChristWashingFeetDisciples_PaoloVeronese1580.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5598206417413615906" /></a><div>It's Maundy Thursday, and I really wanted to go to Maundy Thursday service, but ended up sick instead. So I read through the various gospel accounts of the Last Supper, and was reminded that John's gospel is the only one with all this foot-washing business. All of the others have the institution of the Lord's Supper, Jesus' identification of Judas as His betrayer, and His prophesy about Peter denying Him... but no foot-washing.<div><br /></div><div>Which got me to thinking... what's consistent across the Gospel narratives of this event is that Christ states openly that He is going to die after one of His followers turns Him over to the authorities and that His Number One Fan Simon Peter is going to deny that he even knows Jesus. What's consistent is His open, no holds-barred acknowledgement in the presence of His disciples that they are going to treat Him like trash... worse than trash... in just a few hours.</div><div><br /></div><div>This makes the humility of Christ's washing the disciples' feet in John all the more poignant. He wasn't just submitting Himself as a servant to those beneath Him... He was submitting Himself to those who, despite having witnessed Him heal the sick and raise the dead, and despite His having spent 3 long years living with and training them, would either facilitate His murder or stand idly by while it happened.</div><div><br /></div><div>I can't get there. I can't *imagine* being able to do that. I can imagine punching them in the face, *not* washing their feet. So this is a poem about that.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>even judas</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>When I think of You washing</div><div>the disciples' feet --</div><div>God incarnate, washing dust</div><div>and dung off of the furry, calloused feet</div><div>of full-grown men--</div><div>I am moved to tears, and love, </div><div>and gratitude to worship and follow</div><div>such a servant, Savior, God.</div><div><br /></div><div>Until You get to Judas.</div><div>And then I want to stop You.</div><div>You knew Judas would betray You.</div><div>You knew that within a few short hours,</div><div>of Your carefully washing dung out</div><div>from between his toes,</div><div>he would turn You over to torture,</div><div>to humiliation, and to a bloody, </div><div>gruesome </div><div>death.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to step in and say,</div><div>"Not him. Please don't touch <i>him</i>.</div><div>Please don't wash <i>his</i> feet."</div><div>Because I don't understand</div><div>how You did it.</div><div>How did You forgive him,</div><div>and minister to him,</div><div>even in that moment?</div><div><br /></div><div>Your humility moves me.</div><div>Your mercy... Your mercy...</div><div>Your mercy confounds me.</div><div>"Forgive as you have been forgiven."</div><div>But I <i>can't</i>. I try, but anger seeps in.</div><div><i>I</i> couldn't wash Judas' feet.</div><div><br /></div><div>"This is a new commandment:</div><div>Love one another, as I have loved you."</div><div>Even Judas.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, Jesus, I have so far to go.</div><div>Please help me, servant LORD.</div></div><div><br /></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span">(Image from <a href="http://freechristimages.org/biblestories/jesus_washes_disciples_feet.htm">http://freechristimages.org/biblestories/jesus_washes_disciples_feet.htm</a>)</span></i></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-6654919950392382568?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-83426200653804686802011-04-20T22:31:00.002-04:002011-04-20T22:47:13.161-04:00So it's Wednesday of Holy Week. I'm sure there's some ancient tradition around this day, but most of the high church liturgies I'm familiar with start their Holy Week observance with Palm Sunday, skip Monday through Wednesday and then join Jesus again on Maundy Thursday.<div><br /></div><div>But Wednesday is the night before He was betrayed, and He knew it was coming. As I've thought about that tonight, I've felt a closeness with that particular state, the state where anticipation is the source of suffering. I know that place very well. So this is a poem about that.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>the night before</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>The night before</div><div>the end and the new beginning,</div><div>I don't imagine that You slept.</div><div><br /></div><div>If You did, what did You dream?</div><div>How deep was Your agony then,</div><div>anticipating the torture to come?</div><div><br /></div><div>How much did You really know?</div><div>You sweat blood in the garden...</div><div>did You doubt that You'd rise again?</div><div><br /></div><div>You experienced flesh's frailty.</div><div>Fully God yet fully man,</div><div>You faced anxiety writ large.</div><div><br /></div><div>You know every sorrow we face.</div><div>Firsthand, You felt the terror of</div><div>anticipation, of worry, of fear.</div><div><br /></div><div>Tonight I sit with You,</div><div>sleepless, we both face the future,</div><div>frightened, and fumbling for our faith.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thank You, Jesus, for living even this.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-8342620065380468680?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-75091145396150505962011-04-19T22:42:00.003-04:002011-04-19T22:49:38.356-04:00Thank God for Lewis Turco's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/New-Book-Forms-Handbook-Poetics/dp/0874513812"><i>The New Book of Forms</i></a> that I still have from one of my college courses in poetry. Tonight's poem is three little "tonkas". The Tonka is a Japanese form that is basically a haiku with two extra lines of 7 syllables. The first is the result of a conversation with a friend tonight, the second is my response to a guy who was yelling outside my open window while I wrote the first, and the third is my reflection on what I usually do in a really difficult conflict (like what I think I'd do if I was this guy's daughter, for example), which is to shut down. I have terrible memories of being imprisoned in my own silence, and no longer knowing what to do.<div><br /></div><div>So. Here they are.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>triptych - three tonkas</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div><i>1.</i></div><div>Too many "maybes".</div><div>I want to release myself</div><div>from my own judgement,</div><div>to wake up tomorrow free,</div><div>with clear eyes, facing forward.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>2.</i></div><div>There's a man outside</div><div>cursing at his family. Why?</div><div>He takes an axe to </div><div>the root of his own tree. His</div><div>words will never be erased.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>3.</i></div><div>There are silences</div><div>that kill things. I have been trapped</div><div>in these silences,</div><div>mouth full of cotton wool, ears</div><div>deaf, eyes closed, heart cold, love gone.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-7509114539615050596?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-50099102814896541642011-04-19T09:53:00.006-04:002011-04-19T10:10:37.884-04:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bBNqdjShIxU/Ta2WjWTPqrI/AAAAAAAAAWI/4zZ_Gmc9Df0/s1600/Liz%2Band%2BLilly%2B4-18-11.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bBNqdjShIxU/Ta2WjWTPqrI/AAAAAAAAAWI/4zZ_Gmc9Df0/s320/Liz%2Band%2BLilly%2B4-18-11.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5597295445917280946" /></a>So, this is yesterday's poem. I was a little too overwhelmed after seeing my new niece (8 lbs 12 oz, born yesterday at 12:33 EST) on Skype last night to write anything that didn't have the word "little" and "soft" and "squeeeee!!" in it over and over and over again. So I wrote yesterday's poem this morning. <div><br /></div><div>My sister-in-law is her own, awesome, independent spirit. Lilly's delivery was a lot harder than Emma's (for example, they stuck Liz 5 times with the epidural needle because they couldn't get it right), and she was not quiet or demure about this fact. Nor should she be. I've been turning over and over in my head what a trauma childbirth is, and how blasé folks (including me) can be about that fact. We all caused our mothers some of the worst pain imaginable... 9 months of an inhabited body, followed by hour after long hour of contractions and then of childbirth itself (and that's for a comparatively <u>easy</u> childbirth). But in the aftermath of that, everyone is so understandably overwhelmed by the resulting little, soft, snoozing critter that the needs of a Mom in the throes of mild PTSD can be overlooked.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't think Liz will struggle with PTSD because she won't make the mistake of trying to *glow* about the experience. She won't shove down the reality of it so that others can keep their Disney-fied version of the experience intact... and I admire that deeply. So this is a poem about that.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>in praise of your complaint</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>We all caused our mothers</div><div>unimaginable pain...</div><div>unimaginable to <i>us</i>, that is.</div><div>They imagine it vividly,</div><div>remembering its intensity...</div><div>the labor that went on and on,</div><div>hour after hour after hour.</div><div><br /></div><div>How could something so painful</div><div>produce something so soft and small?</div><div>Trauma producing treasure</div><div>each possessing its own intensity,</div><div>its own life-altering significance.</div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps this pain is meant to prepare</div><div>for a lifetime of peaks and valleys.</div><div>We can cherish our children</div><div>but they will escape us,</div><div>and hurt us, and react in ways</div><div>we could not, and dare not, imagine.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I praise your complaint.</div><div>Yes, your body <i>was</i> battered.</div><div>Yes, you've committed your life</div><div>to someone who will leave you</div><div>and forge their own path, forgetting</div><div>what you sacrificed, perhaps,</div><div>for a time.</div><div><br /></div><div>I praise your complaining</div><div>for this pain that you suffered.</div><div>It is vivid and real and reminds</div><div>all of us</div><div>that our mothers chose us despite that,</div><div>giving up their own lives and </div><div>sacrificing their bodies,</div><div>so that we might live, free, and happy.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-5009910281489654164?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-77253492332172400192011-04-17T21:22:00.011-04:002011-04-17T21:35:07.829-04:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5FaNLqoIMyg/TauUird-45I/AAAAAAAAAWA/_PfY1uvi-jk/s1600/Palm%2BSunday%2Bicon.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 222px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-5FaNLqoIMyg/TauUird-45I/AAAAAAAAAWA/_PfY1uvi-jk/s320/Palm%2BSunday%2Bicon.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5596730285442917266" /></a><div>I have dreams every once in a while that something bad has happened to my parents. When that happens, I contact them as soon as I can reasonably do so after getting up, just for good measure. Last night, I dreamed repeatedly that my Dad had died, so when he got on Skype this morning, I pounced, with a "Good to see you're not dead!!" or something like that. </div><div><br /></div><div>He agreed.</div><div><div><div><br /></div><div>So here's a poem about that, and about Palm Sunday, which is today (in case you missed it).</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i>(image from <a href="http://www.iconograms.org/sig.php?eid=928">http://www.iconograms.org/sig.php?eid=928</a>)</i></div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Palm Sunday</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>I woke from a dream</div><div>that my Father had died</div><div>and that I was the only one crying.</div><div><br /></div><div>In all actuality</div><div>my Dad's quite alive,</div><div>but in honesty, he's also dying.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><br /></div><div>From the moment we're born</div><div>the clock's counting down.</div><div>It will happen someday, that's for sure.</div><div><br /></div><div>And for all our ideas</div><div>and life-lengthening tricks</div><div>death's the one thing for which there's no cure.</div><div><br /></div><div>You knew this.</div><div><br /></div><div>When You rode into Jerusalem</div><div>You'd known for some time</div><div>the horrific way in which You'd die.</div><div><br /></div><div>You knew they'd betray you,</div><div>that they'd all turn against You,</div><div>and You still looked them all in the eye.</div><div><br /></div><div>You knew from Creation--</div><div>when earth-time first started--</div><div>You'd be called to become just a man.</div><div><br /></div><div>And despite pain of death</div><div>You did this for love.</div><div>Life's Author died, according to plan.</div><div><br /></div><div>And rose again.</div><div><br /></div><div>So that death</div><div>is no longer</div><div>the end.</div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-7725349233217240019?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-19620125607715022012011-04-16T11:16:00.002-04:002011-04-16T11:22:45.471-04:00So today's second poem: last night I got to hang out at the lively abode of my friend Weave, including an extended period of play with her five year old, Claire. This is a poem about that.<div><br /></div><div><b><i>Claire</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>She looks into your face</div><div>until you look back...</div><div>and into your eyes until</div><div>she sees the pupils widen</div><div>as you think, "My God,</div><div>what a beautiful child."</div><div><br /></div><div>Satisfied that she's been</div><div>properly acknowledged as</div><div>part fairy princess and</div><div>part Queen, she says. "let's play."</div><div>And so, under her spell,</div><div>you do.</div><div><br /></div><div>She is firmly in command:</div><div>"You play with the horsey now.</div><div>Now I will play with the horsey."</div><div>She lets me wear her green tiara,</div><div>but only for a little while.</div><div>It <i>is</i> hers, after all.</div><div><br /></div><div>When she's not looking,</div><div>I let a few tears come to my eyes</div><div>for the day when some evil soul</div><div>questions her confidence and</div><div>refuses to see her beauty.</div><div><br /></div><div>You are the rarest of rare creatures, Claire...</div><div>a child self-possessed and unafraid</div><div>of the power your charm can command.</div><div><u>Please</u> <u>don't</u> <u>change</u>.</div><div>The world needs you to look it in the eye</div><div>until it acknowledges your beauty.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1962012560771502201?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-10221173101532040562011-04-16T09:39:00.010-04:002011-04-16T10:42:17.343-04:00I didn't write a poem yesterday because I got home late for the sixth straight night in a row and I just couldn't see writing another poem about being exhausted. So today, I will write two. Here's the first, with a bit of background.<div><br /></div><div>About a million years ago when I lived outside of Oxford (the one in England) in the house of an Irish widow named Bernadette O'Gara (no I'm not making this up), I would pass a pub on the way in to Oxford called The Gypsy Scholar. I LOVED that name. While I couldn't rightly call myself either a gypsy or a scholar, that name put together two of the very few things I was sure of at the tender age of 21: that I loved books, and that I was seriously challenged in the Art of Settling Down.</div><div><br /></div><div>14 years later, I still love books (as anyone who has been to my apartment can attest), and I have forced myself to stay in one place long enough that it has become home. However, I'm still *me*. For example, I'm a Government Contractor working in a cubicle farm... but I'm The One With A Hundred Rubber Ducks In My Cubicle. The ducks have managed to migrate all over my section of cubicles, balanced on top of the cubicle walls, and occasionally my co-workers and I lob them at one another. At one point, we set up a chess board using sticky notes and I made up a key for which ducks were which chess pieces and for about two weeks people drifted by my cube, played a move, and then went on. I have one very zen-like co-worker who makes a point to balance one duck on top of another duck every time he leaves my cube. Basically, the whole duck thing works, but there are certain ex-military staff members who wince every time they walk by my cube. I would give them a duck if they'd take one.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I survive in this adult world as the Gentle Eccentric... harmless and fun, but a little weird. And in this taciturn town, I provide something of a public service by Bringing the Zany so that people feel a little freed up. But I'm still an outlier.</div><div><br /></div><div>So this is a poem about that... specifically about the occasional reaction I have to folks who live and breathe stability sans rubber ducks or any other such accoutrement.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>the jester on the garden wall</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>I live on the outside of the garden wall</div><div>with this ragged, lively band</div><div>of circus performers, street preachers,</div><div>soothsayers, hypochondriacs,</div><div>and occasional verbal acrobats.</div><div><br /></div><div>One day, curious, I hoist myself up on the wall,</div><div>and peer in to see you cultivating flowers,</div><div>tending carefully, carefully.</div><div>Lost in the quiet story unfolding,</div><div>I forget where, and who, I am.</div><div><br /></div><div>No snake charmer could intrigue me</div><div>the way you do, with </div><div>careful words and gentle gestures.</div><div>I watch you guide a wild vine along</div><div>a delicate white trellis,</div><div>fingers like fleshy knitting needles,</div><div>guiding, guiding.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then I realize I've stopped breathing.</div><div><br /></div><div>Did I consign myself to live</div><div>outside the garden wall?</div><div>Could I catapult myself over?</div><div>Could I bring this jester's costume</div><div>of jangling bells and bright colors</div><div>into your sacred space?</div><div><br /></div><div>Or would I find that once inside</div><div>I would be like a wild animal,</div><div>scratching at the gate,</div><div>wanting to be free?</div><div><br /></div><div>It's a troubling thing, this having gypsy blood.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1022117310153204056?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-434383269012877542011-04-14T22:21:00.002-04:002011-04-14T22:24:24.037-04:00This is a poem about being too tired to write this poem.<div><br /></div><div><b><i>tired</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>So tired from wrestling</div><div>questions with no answers</div><div>and shadowboxing with</div><div>a future I can't see.</div><div><br /></div><div>Fragmented energy,</div><div>little glass thoughts</div><div>like raindrops that evaporate</div><div>as soon as they touch ground.</div><div><br /></div><div>I need a break from my own mind.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-43438326901287754?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-15149415032163382472011-04-13T23:19:00.003-04:002011-04-13T23:21:39.305-04:00I didn't get home til after 11pm and am pretty tired, so this is just a little haiku about my trip home from my beautiful friend Lily's house.<div><br /></div><div><b><i>wednesday night, leaving shaw</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>Incense, music and</div><div>ornate crosses change his cab</div><div>into a chapel.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1514941503216338247?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-28404128155716362192011-04-12T19:51:00.004-04:002011-04-12T20:02:38.308-04:00This poem is directed at a few people on my mind lately, including me, but definitely not <i>just</i> me. It is a very basic part of human cognition to form quick opinions on people and things, to sort them into categories --friend, not friend, ally and enemy-- in order to function in a world of constant, unending stimuli. But some of the greatest cruelty I've ever been on the receiving end of has occurred when someone put me in a box and acted towards me out of that definition... when they stopped listening after they'd formed their initial opinion. I can say the same for the greatest cruelty that I've shown towards others.<div><br /></div><div>Everyone is a miracle. Be careful.</div><div><div><br /></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div><b><i>Caution</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>Be careful with your assumptions, dear.</div><div>For with everyone you meet</div><div>you have stepped onto the stage</div><div>in the middle of an act</div><div>with the play well in progress.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is so much you <u>just</u> <u>don't</u> <u>know</u>.</div><div>Be careful.</div><div><br /></div><div>Be careful with your tongue, dear.</div><div>For with everyone you meet</div><div>you may well have walked in </div><div>just as the bottom dropped out</div><div>and they began a free fall into despair.</div><div><br /></div><div><div>There are lives that are turned </div><div>by one cruel word.</div><div>Be careful.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>Be careful with your labels, dear.</div><div>For everyone you meet</div><div>has tried to live as they know how</div><div>and is complex beyond your caricatures.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is beauty and depth </div><div>far beyond your first impression.</div><div>Be careful.</div><div><br /></div><div>Be careful with your actions, dear.</div><div>We are all so frightened and fragile.</div><div>When you walk in the world</div><div>awash in quick judgments</div><div>and careless characterizations...</div><div><br /></div><div>the one you may well be wounding the most</div><div>is you.</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-2840412815571636219?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-21030379737447920182011-04-11T22:40:00.003-04:002011-04-11T22:48:56.318-04:00<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W4JZzNdzxYY/TaO9aYrqbBI/AAAAAAAAAVw/pmC4mK1w1DI/s1600/NorthernCardinal2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W4JZzNdzxYY/TaO9aYrqbBI/AAAAAAAAAVw/pmC4mK1w1DI/s320/NorthernCardinal2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5594523423124122642" /></a>It's not good to speak ill of the dead, but I will say only that when my Grandfather died last November, I agonized for days because I didn't care, and because that's not the kind of person I want to be. There isn't a lot I could have done about that relationship, but I still regretted it. And that's all I'll say about that.<div><br /></div><div>I do, however, have one gift that he left me, one moment that has stayed with me despite the fact that he didn't intend for me to take it this way.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>faith</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>My Grandfather's faith</div><div>was like a thick, woolly cocoon around him.</div><div>It comforted and sheltered him,</div><div>plugging his ears and eyes</div><div>to other people's pain.</div><div><br /></div><div>One time, in a fit of frustration</div><div>at some foolish old woman's worry,</div><div>he told the woman that</div><div>every time she saw a cardinal</div><div>it meant that everything would be ok.</div><div><br /></div><div>And it worked.</div><div><br /></div><div>He told me the story to ridicule her,</div><div>but for the many hours he sat</div><div>lecturing me about faith,</div><div>every time I see a flutter of</div><div>bright red wings,</div><div>I smile, relieved.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-2103037973744792018?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-60638288978403804822011-04-10T23:14:00.004-04:002011-04-10T23:25:12.862-04:00So, this morning at <a href="http://commontable.org/">Common Table</a>, we had a service on death, including some beautiful stories of folks passing peacefully beyond the veil and also including a technical description of the decomposition of the body... so detailed that I had to leave and go get some fresh air.<div><br /></div><div>We are an intense and varied bunch.</div><div><br /></div><div>The centerpiece behind all this meditation on death was the gospel lectionary reading today from John 11:1-44, where Jesus raises Lazarus from the dead. There is a ton to be said about this passage and about the service, but it is late and I am tired. So I'll just let the poem say what it has to say.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Lazarus</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>I imagine that it was like</div><div>coming up fast from under water...</div><div>distorted light rushing towards you,</div><div>strange shapes, voices indistinct...</div><div><br /></div><div>and then, suddenly, gasping for air,</div><div>pulling at the cloths on your face</div><div>with your bound hands,</div><div>confused, terrified, utterly lost.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then, a voice you recognize,</div><div>a voice you love, a voice of someone</div><div>who loves you, calling clear:</div><div>"Come out!!"</div><div><br /></div><div>You'd follow that voice anywhere.</div><div>But "out" of where? Flailing,</div><div>you fall off of the surface where they laid you,</div><div>and your eyes finally make out</div><div>the direction of the light.</div><div><br /></div><div>"Come out!" You stagger towards the voice</div><div>on legs that ache strangely...</div><div>you move towards the light,</div><div>pulling, pulling at the cloths around your eyes,</div><div>but not as frightened now...</div><div><br /></div><div>"Come out!!" Moving more quickly</div><div>you hear voices, feel people around you,</div><div>but that voice is what pulls you.</div><div>It's the only thing that makes sense.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then what? Lazarus, then what?</div><div>When you reached Him, did you weep?</div><div>Did you suddenly understand?</div><div>Did you remember heaven?</div><div>Where <i>were</i> you those four days?</div><div><br /></div><div>No one knows.</div><div><br /></div><div>I only ever picture you bound</div><div>and struggling towards the light</div><div>and towards that voice...</div><div>patron saint of all who long for Him</div><div>on this side of the veil.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-6063828897840380482?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-11109677369414714372011-04-09T17:12:00.003-04:002011-04-09T17:29:17.078-04:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3F4f8yamLmA/TaDNGkxJuuI/AAAAAAAAAVg/mowSmmQ9XYE/s1600/Emma%2BMarch%2B2011.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3F4f8yamLmA/TaDNGkxJuuI/AAAAAAAAAVg/mowSmmQ9XYE/s320/Emma%2BMarch%2B2011.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593696250026900194" /></a>I get to see my niece, Emma, in a little over a month when I visit my brother and sister-in-law after the birth of their second little girl, Lilly. She lives pretty far away, so it'll be the first time I've seen her since Christmas. I'm stoked. <div><br /></div><div>My sister-in-law does a fantastic job of sending the family pictures of Emma on a really regular basis. I have every single picture she's ever sent me stored in my phone. I've had to delete almost all the other pictures, but that's no biggie because as far as I'm concerned, that photo album in my phone exists so I can look at pictures of Emma. At the same time, I feel a little sad when I look because she is changing and has changed SO MUCH. </div><div><br /></div><div>That tiny baby I held 15 months ago, and that chubby little cherub who held onto my fingers while we walked all over the apartment last September, and the little toddler in pigtails that I carried on my shoulders all around the house while she grinned and giggled in December, all of those little people are basically *gone*. They're being replaced by a little girl who is learning so much and is so gloriously determined to learn and grow... but still, I mourn a bit that I had so little time with Emma when she was in these different stages.</div><div><br /></div><div>So this is a poem about that. And about the cherry tree outside my window because this time of year I'm Very Aware Of That Tree.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>little tree</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>Every year the blossoms</div><div>on the tree outside my window</div><div>seem to fall off as soon as they bloom.</div><div><br /></div><div>And every year, I chuckle to myself</div><div>at how grieved I am at their going.</div><div>I'm never ready.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have pictures of you everywhere,</div><div>in my house, my office,</div><div>bright eyes smiling at me from my phone,</div><div>but every one is different.</div><div>You change a little <u>every</u> <u>single</u> <u>day</u>.</div><div><br /></div><div>And sometimes, I chuckle to myself</div><div>at how much this surprises me.</div><div>I'm not ready.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's nothing to mourn here, really.</div><div>Trees losing blossoms, children growing,</div><div>these are beautiful things,</div><div>signs of health, signs of life.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I find myself mourning </div><div>the chubby, giggling baby</div><div>even as I delight in the little girl.</div><div>Slow <i>down</i>. I'm not ready.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1110967736941471437?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-79958376688578147302011-04-08T18:11:00.005-04:002011-04-08T18:24:40.773-04:00<div>This is me admitting defeat. I just don't have it today. I'm too agitated.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>not really a poem</i></b></div><div><br /></div>Tsunami, nuclear waste, earthquake,<div>Federal Government shutdown</div><div>Libyan genocide, Egyptian protests</div><div>Cote d'Ivoire civil war, Nigerian elections</div><div><br /></div><div><div>Bradley Manning's being tortured</div><div>(did I just mess up my clearance?)</div><div>they're shooting protesters in Yemen</div><div>the Saudis paid theirs off</div></div><div><br /></div><div>They're shutting down the Government</div><div>because they're fighting over whether to fund</div><div>reproductive services for the poor. </div><div>So while they argue that, they're taking paychecks away</div><div>from half of my city, including</div><div>my lovely DC librarian friend</div><div>who's living on a shoestring at the best of times.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've lit four candles, poured myself a glass of wine,</div><div>and all I can think is </div><div>"how the fuck am I supposed to write this poem?"</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-7995837668857814730?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-16053601723618542302011-04-07T22:44:00.002-04:002011-04-07T22:55:13.232-04:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fCaWf9FCgFg/TZ52xuKwJlI/AAAAAAAAAVY/uUsb0E2cIgk/s1600/Brain%2BLimbic%2Bsystem.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 288px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-fCaWf9FCgFg/TZ52xuKwJlI/AAAAAAAAAVY/uUsb0E2cIgk/s320/Brain%2BLimbic%2Bsystem.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593038383819531858" /></a>And now for something completely different.<div><br /></div><div>I don't know about you, but there are times when I feel like my <a href="http://serendip.brynmawr.edu/bb/kinser/Structure1.html#limbic">limbic system</a> comes up behind my prefrontal cortex, bangs it over the head with a 2 x 4, and then runs off and does whatever it likes. In other words, I occasionally make very irrational decisions based on impulses that are momentarily powerful enough to throttle my reason into submission.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm sure I'm not alone. After all, we all have the components of the limbic structure in our brain. But sometimes I *feel* like I'm alone in those moments where I've made an especially poor decision or am trying to wrestle myself out of making one.</div><div><br /></div><div>So this is a poem about that.<br /><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Limbic</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>Oh, animal brain</div><div>it's so hard to believe</div><div>you're what helped my ancestors survive.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because if I followed</div><div>the ideas that you have</div><div>I doubt that I'd still be alive.</div><div><br /></div><div>Really, amygdala?</div><div>You're frightened of planes,</div><div>but you'll happily drink til you drop?</div><div><br /></div><div>You're kidding, libido.</div><div>He's clearly not right for me.</div><div>What I wouldn't give for you to just stop.</div><div><br /></div><div>"One more drink?" "Oh, he's <u>cute</u>."</div><div>"That fried chicken looks <i>good</i>."</div><div>"You don't need that much sleep, anyway."</div><div><br /></div><div>All these impulsive urges</div><div>are exhausting to manage</div><div>and can seriously clutter my day.</div><div><br /></div><div>But if I didn't have them,</div><div>life <i>would</i> be somewhat boring.</div><div>So I supposed I'll get used to the fact</div><div><br /></div><div>that I'm both clay and spirit</div><div>both animal and soul,</div><div>and sometimes my resolve's gonna crack.</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1605360172361854230?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-43397557970917147742011-04-05T21:19:00.004-04:002011-04-05T21:26:56.174-04:00This poem would probably better if I would stop listening to "Codex" off of Radiohead's <i>King of Limbs</i> over and over again, but I can't, so this is suffering from a lack of focus and perhaps from a leetle too much Gorgeous Melancholy. Sorry. It is, however, about the bus ride home today... and many evenings, and many mornings... and all the lovely strangers I never talk to and who never talk to me.<div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Tuesday, Strangers</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>There is a man on the bus</div><div>whispering to himself about a lost love...</div><div>"I didn't know what was happening."</div><div>And I want to say, "boy, do I understand,"</div><div>but I don't violate his whispering grief.</div><div><br /></div><div>The man to his left is beating out time,</div><div>slapping his knee hard as he reads through a score,</div><div>and I remember cramming before choir practices.</div><div>I want to ask him what he's learning,</div><div>but I don't disturb his solo practice session.</div><div><br /></div><div>There is the woman with the baby,</div><div>and the one who mutters angrily</div><div>so no one will approach her.</div><div>There's the man with the cane and the strange scars</div><div>who smiles to himself, quietly, privately.</div><div><br /></div><div>Me, I'm the woman in the red hat,</div><div>with the wild brown hair playing sudoku on my phone.</div><div>I know they know me, and I know them.</div><div>We honor one another by not speaking,</div><div>playing comfortable roles in each other's lives,</div><div>steady and undemanding,</div><div>the most intimate of strangers.</div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-4339755797091714774?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-33177505735010952212011-04-04T21:54:00.014-04:002011-04-04T22:12:08.759-04:00I went salsa dancing tonight. Not because I wanted to... I didn't. I went because my friend invited me and I wanted to spend some time with her, and because I need to Get Out And Meet Guys. I had no illusions of meeting anyone in particular, but we all know the logic. When you're single, it's better to get out than sit at home. So I put on a cute dress, threw back a couple of gin and tonics to steel myself and off I went.<div><br /></div><div>I actually had a blast. It's a good workout, and a lot of the moves started to come back to me from many years ago when I dated a guy from Ecuador who taught salsa. The teacher kept us rotating among partners so it never got really uncomfortable with anyone and I did manage to avoid dancing with The Creepy Guy (there's always one) more than once.</div><div><br /></div><div>It got me thinking about my theory for Why I Generally Can't Learn Dance Moves, though, so this is a poem about that.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Dance</i></b></div><div><b><i><br /></i></b></div><div>I decided a long time ago</div><div>that I don't like "dancing".</div><div>I like moving to music.</div><div>I like jumping, twirling,</div><div>leaping up into the air</div><div>and throwing my body around</div><div>like a wild horse that nobody can train.</div><div><br /></div><div>Most of my life has been this way...</div><div>a lusty love for my own enthusiasm,</div><div>and disdain for careful precision,</div><div>cannonballing into the water yelling "Geronimo!!!"</div><div>while others sensibly suit up</div><div>and dive in clean lines</div><div>with bodies like arrows</div><div>smoothly slicing the water.</div><div><br /></div><div>Needless to say, this has cost me.</div><div>I have scars and strange fears</div><div>that show where my history has marked me</div><div>permanently.</div><div><br /></div><div>Over time, I've become better at dancing,</div><div>remembering the steps,</div><div>rising early, eating breakfast,</div><div>going to work, keeping the rhythm</div><div>of a life well-ordered</div><div>and sensibly lived.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I know that inside of me</div><div>there is a desire to run free and crazy-wild</div><div>and fling my body through the air</div><div>without caring where I land.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are some things that I just can't change.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-3317750573501095221?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-5583124904288026472011-04-03T18:29:00.008-04:002011-04-03T21:13:41.338-04:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sIFW7WNytpI/TZj2NHos0jI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/UMenWn6TL3M/s1600/IMG_20110403_125251.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-sIFW7WNytpI/TZj2NHos0jI/AAAAAAAAAVQ/UMenWn6TL3M/s320/IMG_20110403_125251.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591489642628960818" /></a>So I have something of a confession to make: I played hooky from church today. I did have a headache, but if I stopped every time I had a headache I would never get anything done. I work part-time for my church as a volunteer in addition to my full-time job, and today I desperately needed a different kind of sabbath. 'Nuff said.<div><br /></div><div>So, I walked about 8 miles, down to the Tidal Basin, around the Tidal Basin, and back again... which means, yes, I went to the Cherry Blossom Festival. I took my time, and stopped to sit in lovely places like the one where I took the picture above.</div><div><br /></div><div>My longest stop was under a very large, not-cherry tree which had a little nook at the base just the size of my booty and sloped up in a perfect 130 degree angle: my own naturally-occurring lounge chair. I sat there for quite a while and after a bit I picked up where I'd left off reading <i>Going Home: Jesus and Buddha as Brothers</i> by Thich Nhat Hanh. I've felt fairly "meh" about the book up until this point, but I hit a couple of sections today that I thought were just amazing. I won't go into any more detail about that here, but I probably will in a later post. </div><div><br /></div><div>One of the things that Thich Nhat Hanh mentioned over and over again in these sections is the discipline of walking meditation as a spiritual practice. I don't know precisely what he means by that, but I know that I did this long walk specifically because I find that walks over 5 miles have a very clarifying effect on me. So I wrote a poem about that.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Walking Meditation</i></b></div><div><b><br /></b></div><div><i></i>I'm just different than you,</div><div>and there's nothing wrong with that.</div><div>A solo walker on the trail,</div><div>passed by runners, bikers,</div><div>and passing by couples, hand in hand.</div><div><br /></div><div>We are all travelling.</div><div>No need to make distinctions.</div><div>No need to judge me or you</div><div>by how, or with whom, we travel.</div><div><br /></div><div>We are all passing by </div><div>these same green spaces,</div><div>breathing prayers of thanksgiving</div><div>for green, living things</div><div>in our many tongues and methods.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is enough that we are grateful.</div><div>It is enough that I am with others on the trail.</div><div>It is enough that we are alive.</div><div><br /></div><div>The joy is in the movement.</div><div>We can, and <i>are</i> moving.</div><div>The joy is in the breathing,</div><div>and the sweating,</div><div>and the motion of these two feet,</div><div>mile after mile,</div><div>as if anything were possible.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anything <i>is</i> possible.</div><div>All we have to do</div><div>is put one foot </div><div>in front of </div><div>the other.</div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-558312490428802647?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-42123116313123525052011-04-02T17:14:00.023-04:002011-04-02T19:10:54.786-04:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VUhkxYZQRas/TZeSbgxG5cI/AAAAAAAAAVI/n77W9_XLe_0/s1600/six%2Btiny%2Bbuddhas.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 128px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VUhkxYZQRas/TZeSbgxG5cI/AAAAAAAAAVI/n77W9_XLe_0/s320/six%2Btiny%2Bbuddhas.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5591098463753790914" /></a>A few weeks ago, we had a service at <a href="http://commontable.org/">Church of the Common Table</a> where we talked about ideas in Christianity that are very like ideas in Buddhism, and where two church members talked about how their time as Buddhists had informed their Christianity. In my adulthood, I know that my very limited understanding of some Buddhist teachings has been important in helping me live my life despite disappointment, find contentment in my work, etc., and I am grateful for the exposure I've had to those teachings.<div><br /></div><div>I found myself wondering this morning about what it would be like to have been raised Buddhist. Specifically I was contemplating what it would be like for my image of the Divine to be like my six tiny laughing Buddha statues (pictured above) rather than that of Christ with His arms outstretched, waiting to embrace me, ragged holes in his wrists the sign of how God's Love will stop at nothing for me. Rather a different picture, right? </div><div><br /></div><div>It's been my observation from working with international students that those raised in cultures where Buddhism is dominant do seem tougher, less phased by things, than others. I'm sure that Buddhism isn't the only reason for that, but it seems to me that it would make you sort of a tough-minded pragmatist. All will be well, because nothing you see here is permanent. Getting attached to or upset about things just doesn't make a lot of sense. I've envied that calm on more than one occasion.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I wrote a poem about this. Just to be clear, I'm not setting up a Buddha/Jesus standoff. Buddha lived 500 years or so before Christ and in a totally different context. He didn't claim to be God. I do believe that Jesus is God and Buddha is a great teacher, and I don't think that either Buddha or Jesus would have a problem with my believing those things.</div><div><br /></div><div>So. Here's the poem. <br /><br /></div><div><b><i>Laughing Buddha</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>I have six small statues of the laughing Buddha</div><div>that I bought from a gay Vietnamese man.</div><div>I bought them because their smiles made me smile,</div><div>and for their round, portly bellies</div><div>and for their sense of peaceful abundance.</div><div><br /></div><div>As a child, I had a picture in my room.</div><div>It was Jesus hugging a man,</div><div>with God the Father's hands outstretched </div><div>in the clouds behind.</div><div>When I felt sad, I would stare at this picture</div><div>and feel warm and comforted.</div><div>Jesus loves me. This I know.</div><div><br /></div><div>What would it have been like</div><div>to look at laughing Buddha instead?</div><div>What would it have been like</div><div>to see that smile, impervious to my tears?</div><div><br /></div><div>As I've grown older, I've learned</div><div>to adjust my expectations of life.</div><div>When I see Buddha smiling, I smile back...</div><div>non-grasping, letting go.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I worship a God who knows my sorrows,</div><div>a God who wept and suffered, incarnate,</div><div>and a Spirit who intercedes for me</div><div>with groanings too deep for words.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes I wish I didn't want things.</div><div>But I do. I just <i>do</i>.</div><div>And when I cry, God reaches out to me</div><div>and comforts,</div><div>even when I'm telling Him </div><div>that He's the source of my pain.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am glad the Buddha's teaching</div><div>helps me to be an adult.</div><div>I'm also so glad my God knows</div><div>that really, I'm still just a child.</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-4212311631312352505?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-54597794333198517802011-04-01T18:49:00.015-04:002011-04-01T19:19:50.053-04:00<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OU9_bMMAHRI/TZZbok-D2-I/AAAAAAAAAUo/irgIPdIm1t8/s1600/IMG_20110401_182408.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OU9_bMMAHRI/TZZbok-D2-I/AAAAAAAAAUo/irgIPdIm1t8/s320/IMG_20110401_182408.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590756740103920610" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-text-decorations-in-effect: none; ">Winter has decided to revisit us again this week in the Northeast. DC was spared snow today, but we got it on Sunday, and we've had freezing temperatures more than once over the course of this week. This is all occurring during peak season for the cherry blossoms, so it's kind of a source of cultural grief. The Cherry Blossom Festival is normally this really beautiful thing in DC... the trees were a gift from Japan, a sign of friendship and peace, and every time I've gone to the Tidal Basin to view the trees, I've been overwhelmed with gratitude to live in a place with such amazing diversity. EVERYONE comes out to see the blossoms. Families, couples, groups of friends... all shapes and sizes and colors and languages. It's just a beautiful time... so when the weather's poo and the trees are affected, it messes with that gorgeous moment in our local culture.</span><div><br /></div><div>I have a cherry tree outside my window (that's him above), and he's definitely taken a hit from the weather (I don't know why the tree is a him... just roll with it). Normally, the blossoms on my tree are so full that I can't see to the sidewalk below, but the snow and cold have killed many of the buds before they've been able to bloom, so there are a lot of bare patches.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't wish the tree any ill will, but I've felt a kinship with him in this rough time, and I've been a bit grateful for it. If the tree had been in its usual full bloom during this time --almost the one year anniversary of my meeting Vince-- the irony would have been a little painful. It's a small (and perhaps pathetic) comfort, but the tree and I have an understanding right now. Ok, maybe not. But it makes me feel better.</div><div><br /></div><div>Every morning since the earthquake hit Japan, NPR has awakened me with the latest news on the nuclear meltdown at the <a href="http://www.csmonitor.com/USA/2011/0401/Japan-nuclear-update-Where-will-they-put-the-radioactive-water">Fukushima Daiichi Nuclear Power Plant</a>. I wanted to write a poem drawing a comparison between this tree's resilience and that of those unbelievable workers at the plant who are basically accepting a death sentence in service to their entire region in a very direct and very certain way... but I can't do it. It's just a little too much for me to sit here in my comfy chair and write a poem comparing a tree to those incredible folks... so I wrote a poem about the tree and myself.</div><div><br /></div><div><b><i>Fight</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Cherry tree outside my window</div><div>I see the naked patches on your branches</div><div>where this wintry weather has</div><div>frozen off your nascent blooms.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I am amazed by</div><div>those sturdy blossoming clouds</div><div>that refuse to succumb</div><div>despite freezing temperatures,</div><div>and snow, </div><div>and gusts of icy wind.</div><div><br /></div><div>You and I are companions</div><div>weathering out this wretched winter</div><div>that has threatened us with dark and cold</div><div>that has killed off part of what made us alive.</div><div><br /></div><div>But so many blooms remain.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you can make it, so can I.</div><div><br /><br /></div><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7a-vzpxG_SI/TZZb4XlCbqI/AAAAAAAAAUw/QbS_N_pP4gI/s1600/IMG_20110401_183221.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-7a-vzpxG_SI/TZZb4XlCbqI/AAAAAAAAAUw/QbS_N_pP4gI/s320/IMG_20110401_183221.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5590757011387215522" /></a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-5459779433319851780?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-8878470162524884022011-03-31T22:48:00.008-04:002011-03-31T23:06:43.558-04:00It's NaPoWriMo!! Well, almost, anyway... so I'll get started with something written after I've gotten home late on Thursday. Because the only place to begin is where you are. So.<div><br /></div><div><b><i>Shards</i></b></div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe it was carelessness or</div><div>maybe it was an omen</div><div>when her elbow caught the small mirror</div><div>balanced on the sink</div><div>and it shattered on the floor.</div><div><br /></div><div>Twenty minutes late to work, </div><div>she stood and stared at it, thinking</div><div>"shattered".</div><div><br /></div><div>Bending over, she tried to count the pieces...</div><div>20? 30? 50?</div><div>And as she counted she saw herself reflected</div><div>over and over, </div><div>this bit of her face, then that.</div><div>Her right eye here, part of her lips there...</div><div>she could see her lips mouthing the numbers,</div><div>"16, 17, 18", as she counted the shards.</div><div><br /></div><div>Does breaking mean rebirth?</div><div>Does shattering mean the creation of other selves,</div><div>the ability to see yourself from multiple angles?</div><div><br /></div><div>Do we really have to be broken before we can be set free?</div><div><br /></div><div>She only stopped counting when </div><div>she was finally distracted</div><div>by innumerable reflected lights</div><div>dancing on the bathroom walls.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-887847016252488402?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-35183409946731564492011-03-27T14:31:00.002-04:002011-03-27T14:43:20.404-04:00So, my time on Facebook this afternoon was graced by two virtual friends, <a href="http://openwindowyoga.blogspot.com/">Richard Russeth</a> and <a href="http://infaceofmystery.com/">David Hottinger</a>, both of whom are writers (among many other things) and both of whom really live too far away for my liking. Oh well, thanks be to God for virtual friendships.<div><br /></div><div>So, Richard let me know about <a href="http://www.napowrimo.net/">National Poetry Writing Month</a>, which was founded right here in DC and about which I'd never heard before. I'm going to give it a go. Thanks, Richard. :^) David posted a video (maybe a month ago?) that I finally watched today. It's <a href="http://www.altervideomagazine.com/2011/01/06/dwelling-on-loss/">Walter Brueggemann speaking on the difference between dwelling <i>in</i> and dwelling <i>on</i> loss</a>, and I thought it was pretty much perfect. </div><div><br /></div><div>So mashing these two ideas together, I'm writing my first poem for NaPoWriMo despite the fact that it's not actually NaPoWriMo yet.</div><div><br /></div><div><i><b>in loss and on loss</b></i></div><div><br /></div><div>I have heard it said</div><div>that loss is God's way of clarifying,</div><div>of purifying, of making new.</div><div><br /></div><div>But at this moment and in this space,</div><div>I am clutching ashes.</div><div>They are spilling through my fingers</div><div>and onto the floor.</div><div><br /></div><div>How many years does it take</div><div>to recover? How many days have to pass?</div><div>How many hours?</div><div><br /></div><div>Because I swear it is time</div><div>that I see draining from my hands...</div><div>grey days, ashen hours,</div><div>months like the wings of dead moths</div><div>scattered beneath the porch light.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am tired of being resilient.</div><div>I am tired of bouncing back, singing praises.</div><div>It is hard to believe, when the problem</div><div>is probably my own heart.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am a broken person</div><div>making broken choices,</div><div>aware that I am receiving grace</div><div>but still not understanding why it has to hurt.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-3518340994673156449?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-80932586401794449672011-03-06T16:51:00.016-05:002011-03-06T18:01:45.012-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zi8asv57VUg/TXQDXAg18tI/AAAAAAAAAUA/mO5iKD9GnSc/s1600/velveteen%2Brabbit.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 195px; height: 259px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-zi8asv57VUg/TXQDXAg18tI/AAAAAAAAAUA/mO5iKD9GnSc/s320/velveteen%2Brabbit.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581089532028515026" /></a>Let me start by saying to folks who read this blog that I'm sorry if I am striking one note over and over again recently. It's been just about 5 weeks since the breakup, and most of the time I'm fine, but I am trying to understand what happened... not just with me, but with at least 5 other friends I can name right now who have just been through breakups, as well as others who have had breakups in the past. I keep writing about this because I want to process this for all of us... because I don't think it's a shameful thing to do so... because I think we need each other to be open about this and not all embarrassed and shy. It's bad enough being rejected without having to then hide it like you've done something wrong.<br /><div><div><div><br /></div><div>So. I recently changed my Facebook profile picture to the Velveteen Rabbit, and I wanted to talk a little about what I meant by that. In the last couple of weeks, two Facebook friends have posted articles about relationships that have disturbed me very much. The first is "<a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/tracy-mcmillan/why-youre-not-married_b_822088.html?ref=fb&amp;src=sp">Why You're Not Married</a>" by Tracy McMillan, who proclaims herself an expert on the topic because she's been married. And divorced. Three times. Her Reason #1 of why I'm not married is "You're a Bitch". Here's a sample of what she writes on that topic:</div></div></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; ">"The deal is: most men just want to marry someone who is nice to them. I am the mother of a 13-year-old boy, which is like living with the single-cell protozoa version of a husband. Here's what my son wants out of life: macaroni and cheese, a video game, and Kim Kardashian. Have you ever seen Kim Kardashian angry? I didn't think so. You've seen Kim Kardashian smile, wiggle, and make a sex tape. Female anger terrifies men. I know it seems unfair that you have to work around a man's fear and insecurity in order to get married -- but actually, it's perfect, since working around a man's fear and insecurity is big part of what you'll be doing as a wife. "</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, Century, Times, serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 20px; "><br /></span></div><div>And the article continues in much the same vein, including such gems as "You're Shallow", "You're a Slut", "You're Selfish", and "You're Not Good Enough" which basically comes right out and says that, as a female, you're doomed if you have any form of fire under your ass that is leading you to want to improve yourself, and you should just get over it and accept your life as it is.</div><div><br /></div><div>The second article is "<a href="http://www.slate.com/id/2286240">Sex Is Cheap: Why Young Men Have the Upper Hand in Bed Even When They're Failing in Life</a>", which looks squarely in the eye at research that suggests the increase in smart, successful women is directly proportionate to the decrease in men willing to commit to marriage. Why? Because with such a huge pool of "successful" women, competition for men is fierce, and men have no trouble getting laid without much of a commitment, so they have no incentive to work for a relationship, and absolutely no motivation to get married.</div><div><br /></div><div>Both of these articles have been gnawing at me. Both people who posted it had long chains of comments from their other FB friends about how these articles were right on. In the case of the former article, I was the sole person that called it out as being mean-spirited and wrong. However, I think I may have also been the sole person in the thread who has never been married and who has just been dumped. Again. </div><div><br /></div><div>So I posted the Rabbit as my profile pic, and this is my question. Male or female, whatever happened to wanting to become Real?</div><div><br /></div><div>If you've never read the story of The Velveteen Rabbit, this is what I mean... it's a conversation between a stuffed animal (the Velveteen Rabbit) and one of those rocking horse toys (the Skin Horse):</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">" 'What is REAL?', asked the Rabbit one day... 'Real isn't how you are made,' said the Skin Horse. 'It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.'</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">'Does it hurt?' asked the Rabbit.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">'Sometimes,' said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. 'When you are Real you don't mind being hurt.'</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">'Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,' he asked, 'or bit by bit?'</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">'It doesn't happen all at once,' said the Skin Horse. 'You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand.' "</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I adored the Velveteen Rabbit as a child, and honestly I still adore it and am inspired by it. Love does wear you down a bit, but it also refines and deepens you. Of course it does.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">But this kind of love is hardly the Domain of Women. I know men --first and foremost my own Dad, but also my brother and many friends of mine-- who have submitted themselves to this process. Yes, their wives have played a large part in it, and they too are being worn down a bit in the process of Becoming Real, but my point is that these guys aren't asking for a pass from the work of being an adult because they're guys... and no one is offering them a pass, either.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">But over and over and OVER AND OVER again in the media, I see this picture being painted of the selfish, shallow male who just doesn't want to be challenged by the work of really loving anyone. And over and over and over again, I see people polarizing in their responses to an essentially either "man-hating" or "woman-hating" position... and I just want to call bullshit on the whole conversation. In fact, I want to declare a cultural emergency and maybe compromise freedom of speech for a little while until this shitty perspective is drummed out of our national discourse.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">NOBODY gets a pass on the work of loving others. Period. When folks get a pass, families and communities fall apart, as do the people who've been "relieved" of the work of love. We're supposed to love and sacrifice for others... it's the most refining thing we do in this life, and it's the bedrock of a civil society, not to mention a Rather Huge Part of Christ's message. Failure to learn how to sacrifice for love encourages a sort of low grade sociopathic impulse, leading a person to create a series of tiny explosions as they wound everyone that becomes at all close to them.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I can look back at relationships and see where I've made mistakes, and most of the time it's because I didn't allow time to get to know the other person before I leapt into a relationship with them. I didn't weigh the costs out. I didn't find out if they had the potential of Becoming Real... and there was a period where I decided to stop caring about that, because I'd given up on ever finding someone who wanted that with me.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">I'm not giving up again, because when I did that, I became the shallow one, I became the problem (at least part of it). But I do have to pause at the thought that I'm living in a culture that so easily and quickly throws the spotlight on the sociopathically selfish people, declaring them "normal", and disregards those doing the quiet work of love, day after day. I think the Rabbit will be on my profile for a while, as a reminder to myself and to others of these questions: </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">- Who are you to think that you don't have to do the hard work of love? </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">- Who are you to think that Becoming Real isn't a necessary part of being human?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">- Who are you to accept media portrayals that spin this as simply The Way Guys Are, and not a spiritual problem that affects everyone, male or female?</span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-8093258640179444967?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-20458408990626450352011-03-01T21:39:00.003-05:002011-03-01T21:55:36.402-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BeQTLYw2QAI/TW2vVcaapzI/AAAAAAAAATw/ijFAJhLexNM/s1600/Missing-Piece.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 209px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BeQTLYw2QAI/TW2vVcaapzI/AAAAAAAAATw/ijFAJhLexNM/s320/Missing-Piece.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5579308296321017650" /></a>It's little things.<div><br /></div><div>Like waking up tired, and going to work tired, and going to lunch tired, and coming home and doing nothing because you're too tired.</div><div><br /></div><div>Or the tears that pop up in your eyes at times when you're not expecting it. Like when you see or hear or smell something that reminds you. When you run across something of theirs that you didn't expect to have to put away and never take out again... and then you put it away, in the garbage maybe, or in that box you have that you'll eventually tape up and stick somewhere.</div><div><br /></div><div>When you thought of them in the past, it was like a pleasant, low hum that gave you a little lift in your step. Now when you think of them you feel a jab in your gut, the rush of emotions, the sense of outrage, anger, sadness... of absence ...of loss.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's all the pictures I deleted the other day. And the ones that I didn't.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't care what anyone says... you don't just move on. Love marks you. It marks everything in your life... like a graffiti tag or a cattle brand or maybe just a sticker that says "love was here". It's everywhere. Over here, and over here, and just over there. It's everywhere, but the love isn't. Not anymore. And there's nothing to be done.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am strong, and I know how to continue. I am continuing. I am in motion. I am writing and working and doing things with friends and with my church. Tonight, walking to the grocery store, I looked up and saw Orion doing his Saturday Night Fever pose in an eternal attempt to subdue Taurus. And even in those stars, which I had noticed countless times before I met Vince, I remembered the one night I actually saw stars in New York City.</div><div><br /></div><div>My anger says he abandoned me... that he is a coward and doesn't deserve this grieving. But it's there anyway. And just here, and over there. </div><div><br /></div><div>I just have to wait for time to pass, so it stops hurting as much.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-2045840899062645035?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-88342219849329322742011-02-28T19:16:00.002-05:002011-02-28T19:43:12.250-05:00So, <a href="http://www.getsparked.org/welcome-to-spark/see-the-work">SPARK Round 11</a> just finished up. For the handful of you guys who aren't Facebook friends with me, <a href="http://www.getsparked.org/spark11/amy-moffitt-and-annie-welch">here's a link</a> to <a href="http://itslovelyannie.com/">Annie Welch</a>'s inspiration piece and my response piece...<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-8834221984932932274?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-79122020415448598042011-02-25T19:14:00.003-05:002011-02-25T19:24:44.394-05:00It is Friday night and I am sitting at home eating Thin Mints that I bought from some Girl Scouts at Crystal City Metro on my way home tonight, despite having already ordered some from a co-worker who is selling them. Whatever. They're THIN MINTS. <div><br /></div><div>It is what would seem on the outside to be a sort of Pathetic Single Woman Evening: red wine, Girl Scout Cookies, pajamas. The cats are so bored that they've both fallen asleep elsewhere, not even having sufficient interest in me to ask to be petted or to drag a piece of string over to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>But here is the strange beauty of the internet age... I am talking to two friends online as I write this, one about 10 minutes away in Arlington, and one many many miles away in Germany. Both of them are also at home, assumedly in their pjs, hanging out online. We are three Outwardly Unspectacular Individuals.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I know differently about these two. I know their depth, and their commitment to those they love. I know what wonderfully committed friends they are. I know this from experience. When I had a kidney infection, the friend now in Germany came and drove me to the doctor, and then to the hospital... she had to stop her car THREE TIMES ON A MAJOR HIGHWAY to allow me to throw up. She's seen me at the sickest I think I've ever been in my life, and she took care of me. The friend a few minutes away from me has laughed and cried with me through the last year and a half of my life, and is currently suffering alongside me --still laughing and crying-- as we cope with being rejected by men we loved. </div><div><br /></div><div>I get really tired of people knocking the internet. I get tired of people commenting on the Shallowness Of Our Age. I know differently. I know these two women care enough about me to camp out online and talk to each other about whatever passes through our minds, and also enough to walk with me through the darkest and most difficult parts of my life.</div><div><br /></div><div>Love is when someone will do both, year after year, simply because.</div><div><br /></div><div>I am blessed.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-7912202041544859804?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-46034712893255736342011-02-13T21:44:00.004-05:002011-02-13T22:04:07.567-05:00Last Thursday I had the privilege (again) of reading original poetry as part of a collaboration between <a href="http://www.getsparked.org/">SPARK</a> and the <a href="http://www.torpedofactory.org/galleries/target.htm">Target Gallery at Torpedo Factory Art Center</a>. The current exhibit is called "<a href="http://www.torpedofactory.org/galleries/target2010/MixingBowl.htm">Mixing Bowl: Immigration and Diversity in America</a>." If you know me, you know that I was alllll about that exhibit. There were a few pieces that left me kind of cold, but there were several others that moved me, and three that brought tears to my eyes. I decided to write a response to a piece called "Parallel Migrations 7" by a woman named <a href="http://web.mac.com/dushankodobek/dushankodobek/home_.html">Ann Dushanko Dobek</a>. You can get a sense of the piece <a href="http://web.mac.com/dushankodobek/dushankodobek/2006.html">here</a>, although the actual piece at the Target Gallery was much smaller.<div><br /></div><div>I was so moved by this piece... I couldn't take my eyes off of it. The fragility and migratory nature of butterflies compared with the fragility and migratory nature of illegal migrants from Mexico and Central America hit me square in the chest... like I honestly couldn't breathe for a bit when I first saw the piece. In thinking about it, I thought of chaos theory and the idea of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Butterfly_effect">Butterfly Effect</a>, and my musings on the clash of ideas there lead to the creation of this poem.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>El Efecto Mariposa</b></div><div>(The Butterfly Effect)</div><div><br /></div><div>Part of chaos theory proposes</div><div>that the flutter of a butterfly's wings in London</div><div>could cause a torrential rainstorm in Buenos Aires.</div><div>But let's not start there.</div><div><br /></div><div>Let's start with the existence of chaos theory,</div><div>with the mathematical, philosophical,</div><div>scientific proposition that the universe</div><div>might actually be totally random.</div><div>Let's start with men in well-constructed offices</div><div>wearing clean and well-made clothes</div><div>proposing that perhaps everything around them</div><div>is actually an accident of chance.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then let me propose another theory:</div><div>that it is a particular affectation of the privileged</div><div>to believe in this randomness of events.</div><div><br /></div><div>For the very poor, causality is clear and brutal:</div><div>My father left us.</div><div>There were no jobs in the village, so we moved to the city.</div><div>There were jobs in the city, but also drugs and gangs.</div><div>My brother was killed.</div><div>The U.S. company closed the factory.</div><div>We had no money.</div><div>My mother became sick.</div><div>I got pregnant.</div><div><br /></div><div>To them, the causal pathways of events</div><div>are as clearly traced as dried riverbeds</div><div>that form paths leading to the barrier wall...</div><div>the wall that keeps them out, like beggars, like thieves,</div><div>like wild animals.</div><div><br /></div><div>There are no immigration debates</div><div>for those on one side of the wall</div><div>for whom there is only this trail of events</div><div>leading to the inevitable conclusion</div><div>that it is better to die trying</div><div>than simply to die.</div><div><br /></div><div>For birds and for butterflies,</div><div>such migratory pathways are solely about survival,</div><div>finding better nesting and grazing,</div><div>a place to raise one's young.</div><div>Butterflies and birds fly over the wall, unobserved,</div><div>while a young woman, 3 months pregnant,</div><div>prepares to leave at nightfall.</div><div><br /></div><div>For her, there is no random flutter</div><div>of butterfly wings causing storms far away.</div><div>There is only a string of events,</div><div>like cracked stepping stones, that she follows</div><div>to the back of a van at midnight,</div><div>to a stranger who promises to drive her to the desert</div><div>so she can fly northward</div><div>on the migratory pathway to survival.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-4603471289325573634?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-75452353925794481762011-02-06T21:11:00.006-05:002011-02-06T22:16:11.133-05:00<span class="Apple-style-span">So this morning we had a <i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shiva_(Judaism)">shiva</a></i> service at <a href="http://commontable.org/">Common Table</a>. A very abbreviated explanation of <span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span style="line-height: 115%; ">shiva</span></i><span style="line-height: 115%; "> is that it is a seven day period of mourning the death of a family member that is practiced by Orthodox Jews. There are a lot of rules: the bereaved family doesn’t cook for themselves, they only bathe in cold water, and they cover all of their mirrors with black cloth. Obviously, this wasn't a seven day service, and many other rules of <i>shiva</i> were similarly suspended due to the logistical issues and the obvious fact that we're not actually Orthodox Jews. The main purpose of this service was to speak of our sorrows, to </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; line-height: 18px; ">sit with one another in these sorrows, and to remember that we are not alone. We used <a href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm+77&amp;version=NIV">Psalm 77</a> as our backdrop, in which the Psalmist grieves openly, wondering if God has abandoned them, but ultimately remembers what God has done in the past and decides that this is a reason for hope.</span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">Given that Vince dumped me this week after 9 1/2 months of dating (and 2 weeks before both Valentine's Day and my 35th birthday, I might add), I don't know if I was the best or worst person to lead out on the service. I started to cry while reading Psalm 77 out loud... although I guess this added authenticity to the reading... and I went through a pack of tissues crying during the time of naming our sorrows. However, I take an odd comfort in the fact that I wasn't the only one there suffering loss, or openly mourning, or even the only one crying.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I know that being so public about loss and mourning really goes against the grain for some folks, particularly in the case of romantic relationships as there are always two sides to every story. But I guess I have to say that I have a testimony of sorts here, even though I'm still very much square in the middle of the emotional aftermath of losing Vince. As I mentioned a couple of posts back, I started this blog in 2008 as a way of documenting my thoughts as I went through a year of not dating. That year of not dating was a direct response to a string of truly painful relationships, ending with a breakup in mid-2007 that left me suicidal for two weeks. I couldn't figure out what I was doing wrong, but I was done with the pain for a while.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">This is the first serious relationship I've had since that time. I honestly thought I'd marry this guy. Knowing of my past tendency towards suicidal ideation following a major breakup, I went straight to my church and to anyone else I could think of and asked for prayers. My church... I almost don't have words for how much the support they've shown me has meant. I have never had an experience like this before. My parents, friends and some of my roommates (I'm thinking of Kris in particular) have really tried to fill in the gaps for me in the past, but the feeling of being held up in prayer and in love by a community like this is just without equal in my experience. I was terrified of the free fall into despair, but I fell straight back into a net of prayers, and calls, and emails, and get-togethers, and just basically of love, demonstrated openly.</span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">I'm beat up and I'm sad. But I'm sad *with* people, and I'm not suicidal... nowhere close. At heart, I think I've generally been a loner in the past. I thought being a loner was a good thing. I thought this meant I was strong and could bear anything. But now I know what the difference is between being a loner and being in community in times of trouble. Maybe it sounds dumb and Disney-fied and stereotypical to say this stuff, but I am seriously bowled over by it. The number of times in my life that I have been at the point of despair, crying out to God and crying myself to sleep... this time is just so completely and utterly different. I am being held up by love.<br /></span></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; line-height: 18px; "><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia; line-height: 18px; ">I don't know what the future holds, but in the present I am safe and warm in this love. Thank You, God. Thank You, good folks of Common Table.</span></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-7545235392579448176?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-90774761921587594722011-01-16T20:58:00.017-05:002011-01-16T23:01:51.346-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/TTOkn3erM3I/AAAAAAAAATk/TVTkQT09Vf8/s1600/diversity.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 224px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/TTOkn3erM3I/AAAAAAAAATk/TVTkQT09Vf8/s320/diversity.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5562970969547158386" /></a>I was brought up to believe that we couldn't expect for this world to be perfect, because we were fallen... that mankind's sin had caused the fall of all creation, and that the best one could hope for in this world was to find peace with God through giving one's life to Christ and allowing the Holy Spirit to guide your heart and mind to do God's will. <div><br /></div><div>Sometimes, I'm grateful that I was raised this way, because when I hear about human cruelty, environmental disasters, economic and political turmoil, it's not like I'm disillusioned or that my bubble has been burst. My foundation, my center, isn't shaken. I wasn't raised to put my hope in those things. I was raised to put my hope in Christ. </div><div><br /></div><div>But by some fluke of my nature, I've always wanted to look for proof of the opposite. I guess it started with my demanding my mother teach me to read when I was 3 or so. I was a kid that really wanted to find out what there was to *know*. I no longer remember exactly why... maybe to get attention. Maybe because I saw my Dad reading so I wanted to read. But the thing about learning is that the more you learn, the more wonder you see in the world... the more amazed you become by the beauty that persists despite all the cruelty and poverty and ugliness. I know the beauty isn't all there is, but it's still <i>there, </i> you know?</div><div><br /></div><div>I liked fiction as a kid and I liked the advice columns in the paper. My Mom has a picture of me reading the paper when I was four years old. You can see from the photo that it was the Extra section --aka the fluffy section of the paper-- and I'm pretty positive I was reading the advice columns or the child psychology column or the comics because that's what I always read. I liked to read about people. I wanted to know how people ticked. I wanted to know if people were aware they had souls. I wanted to know how adults interpreted the world around them. </div><div><br /></div><div>However, I was often amazed by how dull and unspiritual the adults depicted in media were. TV, movies, radio, the paper, books I checked out from the library... nobody talked about God in any of these media forms. They didn't know they had spirits? They didn't know about God? Why?? Why was there so much stuff about sex? Why did anyone watch cop shows? <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Knight_Rider_(1982_TV_series)"><i>Knight Rider</i></a> I understood. The car talked. A show that starred a talking inanimate object dovetailed nicely with my belief that my stuffed animals were somehow real. But shows where people were murdered? Why would anyone want to watch that? *Shows* about sex? But sex is between *people*. It's like watching a show of people cooking dinner or walking or just sitting around talking... why would you *watch* that on *television* instead of living it in your life?</div><div><br /></div><div>This was before reality TV, of course. We've had shows now for many years that feature people cooking dinner or just sitting around talking... and of course I've never owned a TV, because I guess my questions haven't changed.</div><div><br /></div><div>My central question has persisted: why aren't people aware of their spiritual selves? Why don't they just talk to God? I've had this explained to me multiple times: Amy, not everyone was raised in the church. Amy, some people have had very bad experiences with religion. Amy, faith is just *hard* for some people.</div><div><br /></div><div>But that doesn't answer my question... why don't people just *talk* to God? Yes, churches often suck. They're not God. They almost never say that they are God. Churches are churches and they're made up of people. God doesn't need them. I'm not saying that He's not a fan of them, but scripture tells us that the very rocks would cry out in praise of Him if we were to stop... so why in the world should the church have any influence over our desire and need to praise the God who has created us? Why should it stand between us and an awareness of and hunger for God?</div><div><br /></div><div>This morning, I led a service at <a href="http://www.blogger.com/commontable.org">Church of the Common Table</a> where we read the entirety of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr.'s <a href="http://mlk-kpp01.stanford.edu/index.php/encyclopedia/documentsentry/annotated_letter_from_birmingham/">Letter from a Birmingham Jail</a> out loud. One person remarked afterwards that it felt like reading a book of the Bible. King believed passionately that pursuing justice and equal rights was the role of the church. He believed that pursuing justice and equality glorified God. I believe that King was Spirit-filled (not perfect, though) and that his work was from God. He was a gifted voice giving a public platform for a much larger cloud of witnesses who had done a lot of work and made a lot of sacrifices to overcome a great injustice... the rendering of the Body of Christ along racial lines and the daily denial of basic civil rights based solely on skin color. I was born only 6 years after he was assassinated, and the active, violent racism that passed for status quo then nauseates me. One generation. That is a heck of a lot of change in a very short time.</div><div><br /></div><div>But then tonight I watched "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milk_(film)">Milk</a>", a film about Harvey Milk, a gay rights activist and the first openly gay man to be elected to public office. They use a lot of old footage from news interviews of Anita Bryant in the film. I remember seeing comics about Anita Bryant in my parents' old copies of Mad Magazine (yes, I really read anything I could find as a kid), but I didn't really know much about her. I didn't know she used Christianity as a public platform to deny civil rights to gay people. I didn't know she mobilized the church for this purpose. At one point, they show footage of Anita Bryant stating that the Christian church had rarely been involved in politics until this point, but that <i>now</i> they were <i>very </i>involved in the movement to ensure that homosexuals could be fired from their jobs simply for being homosexual.</div><div><br /></div><div>A reporter and camerawoman from Voice of America came to report on the service at Common Table this morning, along with a reporter from a Swedish radio station. I'm not making this up... it's one of the weird things about living near DC. They both asked me if I thought the Emergent church was appealing to people because of the political nature of the American church, and I said that yes, the Christian Right was a real presence for me growing up but that the larger issue for me was *church* politics, not church people being involved in politics.</div><div><br /></div><div>But watching "Milk" I drew a line in my head... from Martin Luther King, Jr. mobilizing the church towards a vision of Christ's kingdom including all people of faith regardless of skin color; to Anita Bryant, mobilizing the church towards a vision of denying homosexuals their right to employment and exclusion from society (until... until what? Until they stopped being gay?); to a darkness on the soul of the American church that threatens to extinguish it. And I realized that my answer to the reporter was honest, but maybe a little stupid.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think that what I saw in the media when I was growing up in the 80s and 90s was partially the fallout of what the church had become under the influence of folks like Anita Bryant. Large groups of people turned away from the church, nauseated, and America kind of lost its soul. Media wasn't just shallow because of the "liberal culture". It was shallow because the "liberal culture" saw the church at its most fearful, powerful, and least Christ-like point, and they concluded (wrongly) that praying, church-going people were hateful. </div><div><br /></div><div>It was 10 and half years between King's assassination and the assassination of Harvey Milk. Today, most American Christians get that the color of a person's skin is not a barrier to Christ's love of them. Most white American Christians are a little embarrassed at racism in the church's history. But most American Christians think that those who feel a natural sexual attraction to those of the same gender and choose to practice according to that (as any of the rest of us can and do) are beyond Christ's love... unless they repent, which is basically like asking a black person to repent of being black. </div><div><br /></div><div>I know it's scary to people in the church, but my question is how long until we admit we're wrong on this, too. I wonder how often the large numbers of folk who base their arguments on 7 or 8 scripture passages "proving" God's unwavering judgement on those of homosexual orientation can really picture Christ pushing homosexuals away from Him. So much scripture was used in the defense of racism and is used in the defense of sexism, and the exegetical techniques used were much the same... take passages of Levitical law (dodge the question about how much Levitical law we currently practice), take passages of Paul's letters completely out of context, take things Christ said that were about something totally different, and build your case from that. It was crappy exegesis then, and it's crappy exegesis now. But it's still working, I think because people are scared that their churches will be taken over by guys in chaps and dog collars.</div><div><br /></div><div>More than one person has said it, but I'll say it again: with all the B.S. that gay people have to put up with, why in the world would they CHOOSE to be gay? If you can't imagine being attracted to someone of the same gender, then all that says is that you're not attracted to people of the same gender. Of COURSE you can't imagine it. Of COURSE it doesn't seem *normal*. Suggesting that being of homosexual orientation means that you're a pervert a) denies the reality of how many perverts are heterosexual and b) begs a weight of evidence that doesn't exist. Homosexuality does NOT equal promiscuity or AIDS or child molestation. Promiscuity is a *social* problem, not a homosexual one. AIDS is spread in Africa largely by promiscuous heterosexual men. Child molestation happens regardless of sexual orientation (As an aside on this topic, the church's aversion to homosexual marriage literally makes NO sense to me. If what's nauseating to you is sexual promiscuity in the homosexual community, then why in the WORLD would you protest their settling down and getting married?).</div><div><br /></div><div>The fear of the gay community is based in overblown stereotypes and a lot of fear. Christ calls us to something higher. King got that, and he showed the best of the Church by preaching that without wavering, and reluctantly the American church has largely gotten that with regards to race. Kids 10-20 years younger than me seem to intuitively get that race shouldn't be a barrier to friendship or fellowship. For that to happen so quickly in a society is a *spiritual* change, not just a social one.</div><div><br /></div><div>How long before the Christian church gets that denying acceptance to someone based on an identity marker --be it race, ethnicity, sexuality, body type, hair color, preferred music-- is a sin? How long before we get that Christ wouldn't have done that?</div><div><br /></div><div>I was raised to believe that the world was busted up and broken, and that part of me knows that pretty much no one I know that disagrees with me on this topic is going to change their mind in this life (and certainly not because of a blog post I wrote). But my gut still drives me to hope that the church will change, to look for a beautiful world beneath the broken one where we let our disgust ride roughshod over our mercy. My gut wants me to follow the Christ that dined with prostitutes and tax collectors. My gut, and the Scripture, tells me that the outcasts will have the prime seats at the table.</div><div><br /></div><div>Be careful whom you deem to be outside of God's grace and Christ's love and acceptance. Christ wasn't a big fan of people who spent a lot of time and energy drawing those kinds of lines.</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-9077476192158759472?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-83445150277614289102011-01-04T18:28:00.005-05:002011-01-04T19:49:59.095-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/TSOwMZehZ9I/AAAAAAAAATY/VMe4FLAD5yQ/s1600/crossroads.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 216px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/TSOwMZehZ9I/AAAAAAAAATY/VMe4FLAD5yQ/s320/crossroads.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558480092149147602" /></a>Back when I originally started this blog three years ago, this image was one that I was considering for use in the banner to convey the concept "Without a Map". I decided not to use it, but I've held on to it. I tried finding the original source and now I can't... it's on someone else's blog as the image at the top of one of their 2010 posts, and that's it.<div><br /></div><div>The metaphor in the picture is perhaps obnoxiously obvious, but my attachment to it has remained. We are at crossroads many times during any given day, faced with choices about whether to wear this or that, to eat this or that, to have this or that reaction to a situation, to speak or not to speak. There are so many choices that we can't possibly give them all detailed analysis, and there is a growing literature of books that frequently have a one word title (<i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Blink-Power-Thinking-Without/dp/0316010669/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1294185014&amp;sr=1-1">Blink</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_0_49?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&amp;field-keywords=sway+the+irresistible+pull+of+irrational+behavior&amp;sprefix=sway+the+irresistible+pull+of+irrational+behavior">Sway</a>, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Nudge-Improving-Decisions-Health-Happiness/dp/014311526X/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&amp;ie=UTF8&amp;qid=1294185072&amp;sr=1-1">Nudge</a></i>) and magazine articles in pop magazines like <i><a href="http://www.psychologytoday.com/">Psychology Today</a></i> that examine the nature of quick decision making, often repeating what is becoming common knowledge: that your gut very often leads you to the right decision... or at least the same decision that you would have made had you spent loads of time thinking about it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've spent a lot of time thinking about the decisions I've made, but generally after I've made them. I've had to make a lot of the bigger decisions in my life quickly and without sufficient data (which I'm guessing is true of most of us), and while I don't have many regrets, I do wonder sometimes if I've done myself a disservice in not being a more jealous guardian of my right to carefully make decisions. Of course, I believe that if I had carefully made all the major decisions in my life I would find myself wondering if I'd done myself a disservice by not trusting my gut immediately. Such is the nature of this kind of pondering.</div><div><br /></div><div>I do remember having a sense in my 20s that my choices really *mattered*. I guess they did, since there were a lot of firsts: first job, first apartment, etc. Recently, though, that sense has left me. I'm often bored with my decisions. I find myself thinking things like "anything I'm doing could really be done by someone else" and "regardless of what I do, the only thing that I can be certain of in life is that I'm going to owe some faceless company a lot of money". Ironically, these thoughts have come since I took a job specifically for the purpose of making enough money so I wouldn't have my choices limited by my debt. In attempting to free myself of one enormous shackle, I seem to have lost the overall meaning somehow.</div><div><br /></div><div>Why *is* that? Is it the emptiness of working just for pay? Is it that my focus on one goal is obscuring my sense of my overall purpose? Or does this just happen to everyone in their mid-30s, a kind of advance midlife crisis wherein I realize that I've made a certain number of decisions that have really closed off some options, and that there are a number things that I actually can't reverse course on now?</div><div><br /><div>I've been trying to remind myself that there's a season for everything, and that this too is just a season. I believe that thinking that your choices (and by extension, your life) don't matter is a self-fulfilling prophecy, and that it blocks the Holy Spirit's work... so I don't want to hold on to this. I just want to hold it up to the light and look at it, acknowledge it, pay attention to it and be aware of what it might mean. This is not a place I want to stay, but I think it is a place that it is easy to remain in without knowing, and to grow still and stagnant and increasingly unhappy without quite knowing what's gone wrong.</div><div><br /></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-8344515027761428910?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-51205962083219344952011-01-03T22:40:00.011-05:002011-01-03T23:30:28.375-05:00<div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span">2010 was a year of Epic Blog Neglect.</span></div><div><div><br /></div><div>I really didn't intend for it to be. I started out the year transitioning between jobs and with a lot of time on my hands, and I fully expected to have time to write. However, the volunteer positions that I took on during this time took up much more mental energy than I expected.</div></div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/TSKhwaVR4tI/AAAAAAAAATI/yBwiLg4pPv8/s1600/merry-go-round.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 180px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/TSKhwaVR4tI/AAAAAAAAATI/yBwiLg4pPv8/s320/merry-go-round.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5558182743202980562" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><i><span class="Apple-style-span">Image from <a href="http://www.learnersdictionary.com/search/merry-go-round">http://www.learnersdictionary.com/search/merry-go-round</a></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div>And, of course, I fell in love... which has a way of changing lots of things at once in beautiful ways, and also of removing the incentive to sit around for long hours writing blog posts.</div><div><br />So between a new job, and two volunteer positions which were really part-time jobs, and falling in love, and a new niece who was born almost exactly a year ago, there has been very little mental real estate for reflecting and writing about... Whatever. And for a blog about Whatever, this does put a crimp in things.</div><div><br /></div><div>However, I found as the year went on that I was becoming Very Angry again. Basically, my taking on commitments that crowded out the little mental corner I need in order to write constituted a betrayal to myself. If you've ever read <i><a href="http://www.theartistsway.com/">The Artist's Way</a></i>, or if you are an artist of any ilk, or if you love God and have trouble finding time to pray, you'll know what I mean. I think God has made me to write... whether anyone ever reads what I say or not is sort of immaterial. Writing is one of my ways of praying... and of praising... and if I'm not writing, something either is or is going to be wrong. Soon.</div><div><br /><div>So this is my resolve for 2011: to come back to this admittedly first-world, navel-gazing, largely passé medium and begin saying what I have to say about Whatever on a regular basis. Because if I don't it is a Very Bad Thing.</div></div><div><br /></div><div>It's good to be back.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-5120596208321934495?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-71009617679668195472010-10-05T21:05:00.006-04:002010-10-06T10:08:44.651-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/TKvRHrHrHJI/AAAAAAAAASc/m9ANyY5lDE0/s1600/GreenwichChronometer.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5524739297664244882" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/TKvRHrHrHJI/AAAAAAAAASc/m9ANyY5lDE0/s200/GreenwichChronometer.jpg" /></a><span style="font-size:85%;"><i>Image from </i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><a href="http://factoidz.com/britains-most-prestigious-clocks/">http://factoidz.com/britains-most-prestigious-clocks/</a></span></i></span> <div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">This past Sunday I had the privilege (honestly) of helping my friend <a href="http://newleafchurch.org/ethansfeet/">Jason Mack</a> out by preaching/speaking to his congregation <a href="http://www.newleafchurch.org/web/">New Leaf Church</a> in College Park, MD. I was nervous, and 15 minutes late (which was a great sermon illustration, as it turns out), but I really loved worshiping with them. They have a really lovely, chill vibe; surprisingly good music for how small they are; and I was really impressed by how engaged people were during the discussion time. It took me over 3 1/2 hours round trip (God bless Metro), but I really do hope to be able to go back.<?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 18px" class="Apple-style-span">Anyway, here is what I said, more or less:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 18px" class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">I have an incredibly awkward relationship with time. Sometimes I blame my mother for this. My mother was late to EVERY THING… and not just 5 or 10 minutes late. That, to her, was almost like being early. We’re talking 20-30 minutes, <u>consistently</u>… to work, to church, to pick up my brother and me for school. My father, who otherwise could come across as a relatively care-free person, would buzz around the house while my Mom got ready for some event. He would announce the time loudly at irregular intervals, growing increasingly agitated, until the actual intended time of departure, when he would give up, go outside and sit in the car with the radio on, waiting.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">I remember finding this attribute of my mother’s pretty annoying, and priding myself --once I got a car of my own-- on getting to places on time. But when I left home and began to make my way in the world I found myself increasingly reluctant to hurry anywhere. What for? Why should I want to live my life constantly thinking of the next thing I needed to get to, never really *being* anywhere? When I was 20 and had just begun a year of study abroad at Oxford, we took a trip to Greenwich to see The Clock, the one that determines Greenwich Mean Time, the time against which all clocks in the world were supposedly set. I remember being disappointed at the large digital display with red numbers, seconds flicking by rapidly. There was no particular grandeur to this clock (other than it being kinda big-ish), and I pondered a long time on how I’d spent so much of my life chasing this clock… letting the notion of hours and minutes ticking away dictate what I did, when I did it, and how much attention I gave to whomever I was with at the time.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">I started to question how my approach to time may have hurt me spiritually. I became interested in the stories of the Desert Fathers of Fourth Century Egypt who went away to caves in the desert and lost track of time as they prayed to and praised God and battled Satan in their solitude. I became enamored of St. Francis, St. Therese of Lisieux and Thomas Merton, who each pulled away from the world, practicing solitude, attempting timelessness. I developed my own practices… long, solitary walks in the woods, 24 hour silent retreats, weekend road trips taken by myself, vacation days taken off from work for the express purpose of doing nothing but praying, reading, eating and sleeping, trying to lose a sense of time as best I could in order to come close to the space of eternity, the space where God was.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">But after a time, this became too lonely, and I had a stronger and stronger sense that I was meant to be serving others in the world, so I started teaching ESL and then began working in the field of international education. I worked on a masters degree part time, dated, served actively in church. I wasn’t lonely, but there was now no time for reflection, and my prayer life slowly dwindled away.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">In truth, most of us are suffering from a sense that there isn’t enough time and there’s nothing we can do about it. We are admonished by Christian literature to “slow down” and “take time for God”… but if we are in any form of community, or if we need to work in order to eat, most of our time is not our own. It is one thing to go up on the mountain to pray as Christ did, it is another to do so when you have kids, are in grad school, work 40 hours a week, and have a two hour commute every day. Even if your life isn’t that full of obligations, we live within a culture where time is measured in terms of how much information is transmitted per second… where a delay in a page loading on the internet means your losing interest (or your temper) and a business losing money.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">Despite my own struggle with this, I still believe in <u>taking time</u> to lose a sense of chronological time, chronos, so that I can enter God-Time: a restfulness of mind where I can hear and sense Him. I just know that it’s a lot harder now. I get up early every morning to write 3 pages in my journal no matter how long it takes, which is an unthinkable luxury for most of my friends with kids, but a far cry from my previous practices. Honestly, though, I'm not satisfied by this, either...<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">When I go to the scriptures for comfort and guidance on this problem, I find two main themes that work for me: One is the reminder to rest, even within circumstances that seem to make that impossible, and the other is the reminder that I will die. Let’s start with the second theme first, since it’s more disturbing and we should get it out of the way. You may be well familiar with Isaiah 40:6b-8:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">"All men are like grass,<br />and all their glory is like the flowers of the field.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">7 The grass withers and the flowers fall,<br />because the breath of the LORD blows on them.<br />Surely the people are grass.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">8 The grass withers and the flowers fall,<br />but the word of our God stands forever."<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">It's well-known that we don't handle the idea of death very well in the U.S. Just today, after church, my friends and I saw a hearse. I found myself catching my breath, as we all do in some way when we have this sort of reminder of death, and as the hearse passed, we saw a pair of feet propped in the back window, between the curtains. It took us a minute to realize that this was someone's personal vehicle, and their idea of a joke. We didn't laugh. We didn't know what to say, either.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">I remember hearing that St. Dominic urged his followers to spend some time each day contemplating their death and to visit graveyards whenever they could. I suppose that Dominic was sort of an early Goth. I’m not a fan of that sort of practice necessarily, but there is something to be said for remembering on a regular basis that you and I will, without question, die. Death is the great equalizer. It makes me humble. It reminds me of my need for God, who gave me the gift of my life. I need Him to comfort me in dealing with the mysterious horror of death. It reminds me to slow down. It reminds me to take care of my mortal body. It reminds me to value what blessings there are in my life.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">The first theme I mentioned, the slightly less disturbing one, was that of rest within trying circumstances. One passage in this vein that I find particularly comforting is Psalm 37:1-11:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><b>^{<span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">1</span>}</b><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"> ^[</span><a title="See footnote a" href="http://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Psalm%2037&amp;version=NIV#fen-NIV-14452a">^{<span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><span class="Apple-style-span">a</span></span>}</a>^{<span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">]</span>}<span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"> Do not fret because of evil men<br />or be envious of those who do wrong;<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><b>²</b> for like the grass they will soon wither,<br />like green plants they will soon die away.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><b>³</b> Trust in the LORD and do good;<br />dwell in the land and enjoy safe pasture.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><b>⁴</b> Delight yourself in the LORD<br />and he will give you the desires of your heart.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><b>⁵</b> Commit your way to the LORD;<br />trust in him and he will do this:<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><b>⁶</b> He will make your righteousness shine like the dawn,<br />the justice of your cause like the noonday sun.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><b>⁷</b> Be still before the LORD and wait patiently for him;<br />do not fret when men succeed in their ways,<br />when they carry out their wicked schemes.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><b>⁸</b> Refrain from anger and turn from wrath;<br />do not fret—it leads only to evil.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><b>⁹</b> For evil men will be cut off,<br />but those who hope in the LORD will inherit the land.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><b>¹⁰</b> A little while, and the wicked will be no more;<br />though you look for them, they will not be found.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><b>¹¹</b> But the meek will inherit the land<br />and enjoy great peace.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p style="MARGIN-LEFT: 0.5in" class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">This passage is not explicitly about time, but I sense a rhythm --the counting of time-- in the background, like the rocking of a baby… be still, be still. In the now, we are not to fret, we are to trust. We are to dwell in the land, delight in the LORD, trust in the LORD, rest in the LORD. In the future, just around the corner, the wrongdoer withers and fades, cut off and non-existent, while we, the faithful, delight in God’s blessing.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="LINE-HEIGHT: 115%">This resting in the now while looking towards the future is a pattern well known to Christians throughout the centuries, those of us who wait –still—for Christ’s coming… who have asked “how long” savage, cruel injustice has to continue in places like Iran, Sudan, Pakistan, and even around the corner from us, behind closed doors. It is well known to those of us who ask “how long” we have to live with the knowledge and experience of the sickness and death that befall everyone… that will befall even our children. The Psalmist says “wait… in just a little while, it will be righted”… and for a moment or two, I believe him. I can wait. I can hold myself still in the silence. I can wait for Him to come to me in prayer. I can be still, and know that He is God.</span></p></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-7100961767966819547?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-20089999932019100332010-09-29T10:52:00.003-04:002010-09-29T10:59:07.552-04:00<strong>This review is part of a blog tour for Ken Howard's new book </strong><a href="http://astore.amazon.com/saintnicom-20/detail/1557257752"><em><strong>Paradoxy</strong></em></a><strong>. You can see a full list of bloggers on the blog tour </strong><a href="http://www.practicingparadoxy.com/blog-beyondusandthem/booklaunchblogtourcelebrationsigning"><strong>here</strong></a><strong>.</strong><br /><br />Ken Howard’s new book <em>Paradoxy</em> examines the increasingly polarizing divide within global Christianity between “liberal” and “conservative” approaches to theology. Howard’s personal story is a compelling one: the child of a Jewish mother and a Christian father; an Episcopal priest in a time of intense internal struggle within that denomination around issues of sexuality; pastor to the second iteration of a congregation whose first incarnation had been torn apart by theological differences and power struggles. Howard stands on many fault lines, and as such, he seems particularly well-positioned to treat this topic with sensitivity and passion.<br /><br />Howard’s central premise is that while differences in theological distinctives have always existed within Christianity, the volatility of the current theological debates are less about the substance of those debates and more symptomatic of living in times of rapid and continuous change in which a number of paradigms that have defined Christianity for centuries are changing dramatically.<br /><br />He begins the book by defining the role of paradigms/worldviews in the lives of individuals and collectives, particularly in the collective of the global church. He then defines the three primary paradigms that he believes are at the root of many of the conflicts as they both inform the Christian worldview and are dismantled by current events. The first of these paradigms that he defines is “Christendom”, to which he dedicates Chapter 2 of his book.<br /><br />He opens the chapter by both defining Christendom as a specific time in history –the period after which Constantine declared Christianity the official religion of the Holy Roman Empire and was himself crowned the Holy Roman Emperor—and the idea of a world that is primarily Christian and ruled by Christian leaders. From these two definitions, he constructs two main points:<br />- “Constantinianism” –the specific alignment of the church with the state, relying upon stability and uniformity in order to maintain stability—has exerted an influence down the centuries so great that we continue to be defined by this dynamic, dividing the world into “us” and “them” in the same manner that members of one state may view an enemy state<br />- As Christianity decreases in global membership and influence, those who are threatened by losing their idea of Christendom as a global political and social reality react in various ways that put them into strident tension with one another<br /><br />Obviously I’m oversimplifying, but these are the basic arguments as I understand them. While I agree wholeheartedly with the dynamics that he describes, I have to disagree with drawing a direct causal connection to the Holy Roman Empire. An example from p. 20:<br /><br />“The effect of the Christendom paradigm is to divide the world into “us” and “them.” This tendency to demonize and dehumanize those with whom we disagree has contributed to some of the worst excesses of the church over the centuries, by whichever branch held legitimate authority. This US/THEM demonization has continued to the present day, practiced by liberals and conservatives alike.”<br /><br />There is no question that the alignment of church with state –which Howard rightly notes was happening theologically in the 2nd and 3rd centuries, long before Constantine made it a political reality—forever altered Christianity. It allowed for the spread of Christianity as a matter of conquest and cultural conformity, and this was a dynamic played out again and again, most ignominiously through the Crusades and through global colonization by “Christian” nations through the 17th-19th centuries. There is also no question that the rise of global Islam as well as the massive population and economic booms of “non-Christian” China and India have created panic conditions for many Christians who find the idea of a “non-Christian” world extremely threatening.<br />However, the “us” v. “them” dynamic is a feature of nearly every large conflict, particularly those between identity groups (and most virulently between those identity groups who are close cousins… think of the former Yugoslavia or of India v. Pakistan). When group identity is threatened by outside forces, failure to conform within the ranks of the identity group becomes a kind of treason, and the “us” v. “them” dynamic often takes on the character of a battle to the death. I won’t go on and on, but suffice to say that this is the most prominent feature of identity based conflicts, and it really has nothing whatsoever to do with Constantine.<br /><br />I also disagree with hearkening back to the Holy Roman Empire as a defining metaphor for current conflicts within Christianity. I have met one person in my whole life for whom the events surrounding the coronation of Constantine at St. Peter’s Basilica were important in his lived faith: a British graduate student at the University of Oxford who is currently in the process of becoming a monk. Most Christians probably would struggle to tell you who Constantine was. However, an American Christian may well know all the words to the Lee Greenwood song “God Bless the USA”. I *do* agree that the colonial impulse –the belief in Christianity as a civilizing cultural influence and indirectly responsible for the technological and cultural progress of mankind—is a strong metaphorical influence for American Christians, and quite possibly for Christians in other parts of the world.<br /><br />Despite having a quibble with these things, I am glad that Ken is writing this book at this time, both because it needs to be written and because he is so well positioned to write it from where he stands culturally and personally. His writing style makes reading quite effortless and pleasant, and he has that rare gift of making very complex matters understandable quite quickly. I’m also looking forward to reading further in the book as he develops his other themes and makes recommendations for the way forward in Christianity.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-2008999993201910033?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-12789749802270871552010-08-09T15:55:00.003-04:002010-08-09T16:00:25.821-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/TGBdyYeGQTI/AAAAAAAAAR8/fXK4IXIOsLc/s1600/web+tc+image.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/TGBdyYeGQTI/AAAAAAAAAR8/fXK4IXIOsLc/s320/web+tc+image.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503501864790278450" /></a><br />You should check <a href="http://events.constantcontact.com/register/event?oeidk=a07e2x12pqm0181b7a6">this</a> out.<div><br /></div><div>I'm just sayin.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's a conference.</div><div><br /></div><div>It's in November, in Atlanta, GA.</div><div><br /></div><div>It features a female theologian from Botswana,</div><div><br /></div><div>a Native American theologian (Rosebud Lakota/ Sioux),</div><div><br /></div><div>and a British guy (yes I appreciate the irony of this)</div><div><br /></div><div>It'll be cool and it's not that expensive and there will be some really interesting ideas discussed there that are also really important.</div><div><br /></div><div>And you should be there.</div><div><br /></div><div>That is all.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1278974980227087155?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-57273241562603803362010-08-01T21:17:00.016-04:002010-08-01T23:00:43.779-04:00It was a week and a half ago. The second orange line train to the platform at Rosslyn was also completely packed and the number 3 bus was leaving in seven minutes, so I decided to give up and go upstairs to the bus stop. I had my iPod playing tracks from the second disc from Radiohead's "In Rainbows" which a friend had recently given me. My attention was swaddled in the music in a way that comfortably isolated me from the crowded platform. In theory, I try not to do this because it makes me ignore everyone around me and ignoring the rest of humanity is just generally a bad idea. However, on this particular day, I was just as happy not to be aware of the frustrated hoards of people sweating from the near 100 degree heat outside, angry at the trains too packed with other sweaty passengers to carry them home.<div><br /></div><div>When she walked off the train and in front of me, I could smell the strong, coppery odor of sweat coming off of her, and my first thought was that the A/C in that train must have been broken, and that she must have just come from a workout on top of that. I noticed her long, dark hair, stringy with sweat at her neck. It's when I noticed her neck that I noticed her shoulders and thought Oh my God, she's anorexic... and badly so.</div><div><br /></div><div>She walked towards the escalator I was going to take, which was also broken, so she walked up the motionless steps, and I walked behind her, feeling my stomach tighten at the sight of her tiny, fragile ankles and feet bound up in high heeled shoes. Her legs were skeletal, and I could see every blue vein in her calves as she walked up, up, up the escalator. Crossing the upper platform, she took a quick swig of something from a bottle she was carrying and looked back to her left, showing a profile of high cheekbones and gaunt cheeks; huge, dark, anxious eyes; and a sloping nose with a bit of pixie upturn at the end. She would be pretty if she wasn't starving herself. Then she started up the long, long, long escalator between the upper platform and the street level.</div><div><br /></div><div>She walked the whole thing. I don't know how. Anyone who walks that particular escalator at Rosslyn is winded at the top, and there was simply no way in hell she had eaten anything of substance in some time. Her ankles shook in the absurd high heels as she climbed up, up, up, not pausing once. I followed behind, probably a little too close. I was horrified, and moved, by the skeletal arms, legs, shoulders and neck, by the way her clothing hung on her as though she were a coat hanger. I had tears in my eyes as I forced myself to keep my eyes down, on the fragile ankles... somewhere between praying for her and wanting to grab her and hug her 'til she was rid of whatever demon had a hold of her. I know I was following too close, maybe just two steps behind her, and I probably made her nervous, but honestly I was doing the best I could not to grab her and ask "Why, why, WHY, are you doing this to yourself?"</div><div><div><br /></div><div>As we were walking up the escalators, the song "<a href="http://www.box.net/shared/4k4jy4lc7o">Last Flowers</a>" was playing on my iPod, and the crescendo of the final chorus was pumping in my ears as we walked up the long escalator to the top...</div><div><br /></div><div><i>it's too much, too bright, too powerful</i></div><div><i>too much, too bright, too powerful</i></div><div><i>too much, too bright, too powerful</i></div><div><i>too much, too bright, too powerful</i></div></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>...and I was struck with this repetitive mantra on fragility as I followed behind a living testament to fragility's self-ravaging dark side.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is a <i>very long walk</i> up that escalator.</div><div><br /></div><div>At the top, she went one way, and I went the other, towards the bus. I wanted to follow her, but what could I have done other than freaked her out?</div><div><br /></div><div>And on the bus, I got out a tissue to wipe away the tears, and listed to the song again, and tried to understand why I was so upset.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think part of it was mixed up with the <a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/Save-Sakineh-Mohammadi-Ashtiani-from-being-Stoned-to-Death-in-Iran-by-Donya-Jam/123908540984923">story</a> I've been following about Sakineh Mohammadi Ashtiani, a woman in Iran who has received international attention due to the efforts of her children to draw attention to her situation. Sakineh is facing stoning for the "crime" of adultery, a crime she and her children say she didn't even commit, and for which she has already received 99 lashes with a whip. My thoughts over and over again as I've read about this woman --and again read articles about women in South and Southeast Asia who have had acid thrown in their faces by vengeful suitors, husbands, and exes, horribly and permanently disfiguring them-- is how unbelievably fortunate I am to not ever have to face anything like this... and how my freedom does obligate me to speak out for those women who are *not* free around the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>I know that my freedom is not solely a function of my living in the U.S. There are plenty of women here trapped in relationships and situations that limit them severely. But I thank God from the bottom of my heart and soul that I have yet to hear of a stoning for adultery or an acid attack in this country. God forbid it happen here. God help it not to happen anywhere.</div><div><br /></div><div>In this context, a self-abuse like anorexia seems to be a moral outrage. Really? In the most prosperous country on earth? In one of the most prosperous areas of that country? When you have freedom and access to privileges beyond the dreams of women in most countries? No one forcing you to get married or bear children before you're ready. No one denying you access to education, to jobs, to health care simply because you're a woman. What in the hell could be so wrong with you that you would starve yourself to death in the midst of such freedoms?</div><div><br /></div><div>I *don't* understand anorexia, and I don't want to. I understand anxiety, but self-starvation and overexercise? No. But the thing that struck me is that my emotions towards that girl were not contemptuous. I felt horror, and then I felt grief. In a situation like Sakineh's, I can point at the offenders. I can identify the injustice. There is little that I can do to help, maybe, but I can at least identify what is wrong. With this girl, my helplessness was bottomless. Not only could I not help, I could not identify the offender, the perpetrator of this wrong... unless I point at Satan, and pray. That's all I can do.</div><div><br /></div><div>And although I don't understand anorexia, I understand that this girl and I both suffer, despite being affluent and privileged. And that is a source of such confusion for me. I understand that this world is fallen, but why am I not generally happy anyway? I have Christ. I have love. I have a job and am educated. I have a really wonderful church and amazing, inspiring friends. But until a couple of months ago, I couldn't walk up that escalator at Rosslyn because to even think of it would send me into a panic attack. My mind *also* tends towards self-obsession, towards anxiety, down labyrinthine pathways of anger, selfishness, greed and judgement. All of us fight these things, really.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh God, we are SO frail and weak and stumbling. Even the strong among us are blindly, blithely hurting others. Oh God, we are so in need of Your Grace. This world is so broken... there is beauty, but the injustices in cases like Sakineh's and the needless misery in cases like this girl's cry out for You to intervene. We cannot save this world ourselves. Please help us, LORD. We are so fragile. Please help us, guide us, comfort us and set us free.</div><div><br /></div><div>Come, LORD Jesus.</div><div><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-5727324156260380336?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-12426762563361536642010-07-07T19:48:00.012-04:002010-07-07T21:11:14.024-04:00So life continues to roll along and I continue to have a little more to do than I can actually reasonably keep up with. This is actually a good and pleasing state of affairs, just mildly frustrating from time to time when I find I've failed to measure up to someone else's expectations... particularly if those expectations were never articulated to me. And I think that's what I want to talk about: expectations and definitions.<div><br /></div><div>The first article I had to read as part of my Master's program in Conflict Analysis and Resolution was an excerpt of a book by <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ted_Robert_Gurr">Ted Gurr</a> called <i>Why Men Rebel</i>. The article introduced me to the idea of relative deprivation, and more specifically of aspirational deprivation. Relative deprivation occurs when you perceive a discrepancy between where you're at (your "value capabilities") and where you feel you should be (your "value expectations"). Aspirational deprivation occurs when your value expectations rise and your value capabilities don't.</div><div><br /></div><div>The excerpt went into a lot more detail, but I remember being really struck by these concepts. I got the idea of relative deprivation right away: I lived it every day. Aspirational deprivation made total sense, as well... an almost inevitable by-product of a consumer society, and on a personal level, a by-product of being surrounded by people who really did seem to have things a lot easier than I did, at least financially. </div><div><br /></div><div>Over time, I came to see relative deprivation as being broadly applicable to pretty much any interpersonal situation involving anger. There was almost always a way that I could frame what had happened between two people in conflict as being essentially about one or both persons failing to behave according to the expectations of the other. These expectations were almost always unstated, often because one or both parties assumed that these expectations should be obvious to any sane person. I could even often track myself doing this, although being aware of it really didn't change my behavior when I was really pissed off. Even when I knew I was being unreasonable and unfair, I could feel that there was absolutely no budge within myself on certain expectations. The other person should simply accept that *my* way was the *right* way.</div><div><br /></div><div>In truth, I don't think it's reasonable or healthy to always question one's sense of right and wrong in situations like these. We have to have core beliefs, cognitive anchors that root us and shape our sense of the world around us. Right or wrong, I don't think we can function cognitively over the long term without *some* instinctual beliefs that we don't --and <i>won't</i>-- question. This applies to our expectations of the behavior of others. If we believe that it is inappropriate to punch a random person standing at the bus stop in the face, then an unstated assumption that this behavior is wrong --and outrage when witnessing (or experiencing) such behavior-- is completely appropriate and healthy. If we had to go around questioning assumptions as basic as these on a daily basis... well, we probably just wouldn't go outside for fear of what others might do.<br /><div><br /></div><div>But I think we do often go too far... and that many of our most virulent fights over theology are because we lack a sense of perspective and humility about our expectations of the beliefs and behavior of others. Right now, after a long hiatus, I feel like I'm witnessing a return to some conflicts around doctrine that are violating one of my core assumptions. I thought that I'd moved into circles with Christians who understood that *all* theology --liberal, conservative, postmodern, Orthodox, Roman Catholic, emergent-- is basically like using a pickaxe to carve a 6 inch ivory statue. Our theological words, concepts, and spiritual and liturgical practices are the tools we have at our disposal to approach God, but they're clumsy, blunt, and poorly suited to the task. We are limited by being on this side of the veil, and we only really get to Him at all because the "Spirit intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words." (Romans 8:26 NASB)</div></div><div><br /></div><div>I thought that the theological/church world I was in now was a world where no one would take aim at another's beliefs, or their lack of faith. At our best, we are all struggling with the weight of our humanity. At our best, we are all struggling to push past the internal chatter of our day-to-day existence and to the quiet place where God can speak to our heart. And at our best, we are still often failing to get to Him, failing to pray, failing to trust.</div><div><br /></div><div>Why don't we extend the same grace to one another that we extend to ourselves? None of us truly understand how faith works. We are all doing the best we can to follow in Christ's way and to live out the Will of God. Why don't we listen to one another with patience, and throw away the expectation that we will agree on matters of theology? Why don't we pray together, and throw away the expectation that we will pray in ways that make each other feel comfortable and safe?</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not suggesting that there is no truth, but I don't expect we'll all see or talk about this truth the same way. I believe there is a God. I believe that Christ is the Son of God and that when He died on the cross He bridged the gap between God and man. I believe that the Holy Spirit is at work in the world and that He inhabits people and situations in ways I don't really understand. I content myself --sort of-- with T.S. Eliot's section of The Wasteland where he describes the Road to Emmaus:</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Who is the third who walks always beside you?</div><div style="text-align: center;">When I count, there are only you and I together </div><div style="text-align: center;">But when I look ahead up the white road </div><div style="text-align: center;">There is always another one walking beside you </div><div style="text-align: center;">Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded </div><div style="text-align: center;">I do not know whether a man or a woman </div><div style="text-align: center;">But who is that on the other side of you?</div><div><br />This is generally how I see God --the Holy Spirit-- working in my life and in the lives of others... out of the corner of my eye. But that's enough. I know He's there and working.</div><div><br />I do expect that it won't be enough for others. I know darn well that when I state my beliefs like I do here that they sound ridiculously over-simplistic to some people or barely Christian to others. But I try not to take that personally. I am doing my best and you are doing your best to describe the Indescribable. I don't hold the expectation that my language or doctrine will be the same as anyone else's, and I'm always pleasantly surprised when I find people who *do* appreciate the way I talk about God.</div><div><br />I don't understand why it should be any other way.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1242676256336153664?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-84843386074995062162010-05-24T21:03:00.013-04:002010-05-24T21:44:58.304-04:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S_siPGJmKxI/AAAAAAAAARk/tkSsSk7GUok/s1600/Clarendon+Baptist+Demo+wide.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 239px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475007414743214866" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S_siPGJmKxI/AAAAAAAAARk/tkSsSk7GUok/s320/Clarendon+Baptist+Demo+wide.jpg" /></a>The day after I learned of my cousin's suicide, I took this picture of the demolition site for what was previously First Baptist Church of Clarendon. This was maybe two days since I'd been forcibly yanked out of my usual morning numbness by the powerful smell coming from the demolition site: the smell of old church buildings... a combination of water-damaged wood, old paper, candle smoke and prayer.<br /><br />As it happened, that was also the last morning my cousin saw on this earth.<br /><br />The sense of smell can be so incredibly powerful, and that scent literally stopped me on my way to the train station. I felt momentarily possessed: my immediate visual image was that I'd just inhaled <u>Spirit</u> with that scent, as the prayers and tears and memories of all who had worshipped in that space were released when the bricks and mortar and wood and drywall were ripped apart by the demolitioner's wrecking ball. Did the demolition crew feel it? Could they hear the voices of the choirs that had sung and the cries of the babies that had been baptized and the laughter of the couples who were wed? Could they hear the tears of the bereaved at the funerals? Could they sense that empty feeling in the guts of those who could not believe, but who attended week after week, pretending that they did?<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S_so2XyfPmI/AAAAAAAAAR0/x76qv5_R424/s1600/Clarendon+Baptist+Demo+tighter.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 301px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475014686562795106" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S_so2XyfPmI/AAAAAAAAAR0/x76qv5_R424/s320/Clarendon+Baptist+Demo+tighter.jpg" /></a><br />Because I could. All of that pushed right over me like one of those waves that sma<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S_sn-ZZxtbI/AAAAAAAAARs/oRrXRb--frA/s1600/Clarendon+Baptist+Demo+tight.jpg"></a>cks you in the back when you are turned away, looking for a loved one who was sitting on the sand a minute ago, straining your eyes in another direction and expecting calm seas behind you...<br /><br />Which, incidentally, is what the news of my cousin's suicide was like... but the difference is that the scent of all those church memories was like a playful wave that just comes up to your shoulders and the water is warm and feels soft on your skin and it picks you up and carries you very gently for a few inches and then sets you down again...<br /><br />but hearing that Nat took his life? That was like one of those waves that breaks and smashes into the back of your head with an audible *slap*, cold and cruel and uncaring, momentarily filling your eyes and nose so that you can't breathe and you can't see, and you're suddenly aware that the sea is full of dead things and your mind is full of drowning.<br /><br />I did stop breathing for a few seconds when I read my Mother's text, telling me what had happened, asking me to pray for my Aunt and Uncle. I remembered Nat's dark eyes from when we were kids, and the baby face he never outgrew. I remembered how he used to be calm and a bit gentle with his brother's wild kids. I remember that I never felt like I knew him, but I wished that I did. I haven't seen him in years, and I won't see him again. Not here, on this earth, in a way I can understand.<br /><br />He was only 30.<br /><br />Why?<br /><br />The thing about this, Nat, is that now your Mom will suffer for the rest of her life in a way she has <u>never</u> suffered before. I imagine you thought you'd somehow alleviate her suffering by exiting the stage, but you don't get to do that, hon.<br /><br />Nobody can erase themselves from their Mother's memory.<br /><br />Nobody.<br /><br />And the truth is, nobody can simply vanish and leave the world untouched. No matter how insignificant you feel, <em>somebody</em> remembers you, and so you altered that person's life, even if just for a second. And everyone has a spirit, so even if your spirit is weak and conflicted, you still had a place here. You still had the possibility of becoming whole, of helping others, of playing your part, of finding some measure of peace...<br /><br />...like the prayers, weddings, baptisms, and funerals that have taken place at Clarendon Baptist. I don't know any of those worshipper's names. But I remember them... everytime I pass that crumbling ruin where their Church used to be. I know they were there. I can *feel* that they were there.<br /><br /><br />I don't know why you did it, Nat.<br /><br /><br />I wish I'd known you better, but there's nothing to be done about that now.<br /><br />All I can do is pray:<br />Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi<br />miserere nobis.<br />Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi<br />dona nobis pacem.<br />Agnusi Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi<br />dona eis requiem.<br /><br />Rest in peace, Nat. I'm so sorry that I didn't know you were hurting.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-8484338607499506216?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-743465341132716242010-05-10T21:40:00.006-04:002010-05-11T07:02:32.840-04:00<div align="right"><em><span style="font-size:78%;">Image:Ken Tennyson (edited in IrfanView)</span></em><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S-i88e52GQI/AAAAAAAAARc/gh0SQUC0rRc/s1600/CT+baptismal+font+edit.jpg"><span style="font-size:78%;"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 160px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 240px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5469829494715324674" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S-i88e52GQI/AAAAAAAAARc/gh0SQUC0rRc/s320/CT+baptismal+font+edit.jpg" /></span></a> </div><div align="left"><br />Love makes you do crazy things. You spend money --LOTS of money-- buying bus and train tickets to see your beloved in another city. Then you spend more money --again, quite a lot of it-- to switch those tickets by 2 hours here and 4 hours there, forsaking sleep --which you love <em>dearly</em>, by the way-- just to spend a few more precious moments with your beloved. </div><div align="left"><br />Yes, I'm talking about myself. Anyway...<br /><br />Love makes you do crazy things. You give up all of your freedom to a tiny, feral human being who is totally dependent on you and not the slightest bit grateful for what you've given up on their behalf. In fact, they don't even recognize that you're a separate <em>person</em> for months and months after their birth. Unavoidably parasitic, they take away time, money, and sleep. They strain your relationship with your spouse, and your relationship with <u>yourself</u> as you adjust to the reality of being simply a giant milk dispenser... bather and cleaner of poop for this tiny being, who may or may not grow up to blame all of <u>their</u> personal failings on <u>you</u>.<br /><br />Love makes us do <em>crazy </em>things. We stay up late, listening to the same friend tell the same tale of woe, crying again and again over this pattern in their life, yet continuing to blithely ignore our reasoned, caring advice about how to avoid repeating their mistakes. We let them ruin evenings and days, and yet we are still there for them, willing and ready to listen, to comfort... again.<br /><br />Love IS crazy. Clinically so. The chemical cocktail that is released in our brains when we fall in love is roughly equal to a cocaine high. Similar chemical processes occur in the sexual act, in breast feeding, and, of course, in that mother lode of chemical roller coaster rides, pregnancy, where women are subjected to the humiliation of having their normal emotional responses to life events distorted as the whole world becomes a funhouse mirror.<br /><br /><u>God</u> is love.<br />God <u>is</u> love.<br />God is <u>love</u>.<br /><br />Is God crazy?<br /><br />I know that question doesn't make literal sense, but there is no denying that Christians worship a God who is crazy in love... in love to the point that He subjected Himself to the constraints of a body, with all of the chemical/biological wackiness that this entails. God went through <u>puberty</u>. God cried. God stubbed His toe and was made fun of and was hungry and thirsty and really tired sometimes.<br /><br />And why? Because He had to get as <em>close</em> as He could to us in order to save us. And He did. He <u>wanted</u> to do that, to get as close as skin, as flesh, to His Beloved Ones, to show them how to live and how to love one another. And then He let us murder Him.<br /><br />That, folks, is CRAZY. It makes no sense. Why didn't He just start over? Send another flood? Ctrl+alt+delete? Why go to such lengths to save us ungrateful sods?<br /><br />I don't know, but I'm SO grateful.<br /><br />There are a lot of explanations for why we baptize. I grew up in a tradition that said baptism was a sign of the Covenant between God and man that superceded the rite of circumcision. And, while no one's feelings should be hurt by no longer needing to circumcise your male children to show one's commitment to God, I believe this explanation takes away from the fact that baptism is, at its source, an act of <em>gratitude</em>.<br /><br />We are saying, in effect, that we accept Your love... Your crazy, unconditional, no-holds-barred love that led You to take on flesh and die. We accept the gift of community that You directed us to, that You modeled in Your life on earth. We accept all of this, and we commit our children to this protecting, immense, boundless, crazy love, too. We pour water on them... water which cleanses, water which gives life, water which leaves no pore or crack untouched, but settles in and surrounds whatever it touches... because water symbolizes those aspects of Your love.<br /><br />We also commit to try to be Your kind of crazy to our children... to love them as well and as totally as we can, given the limits our human capacity to love.<br /><br />Love made, and makes, God do crazy things. Praise God from whom this love, and our baptism, and ALL our blessings flow. </div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-74346534113271624?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-72426206511516074712010-04-19T14:45:00.016-04:002010-04-19T15:59:48.810-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S8yyM7iLRvI/AAAAAAAAARU/63uqz6YUaUg/s1600/Dalis+crucifixion.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 179px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S8yyM7iLRvI/AAAAAAAAARU/63uqz6YUaUg/s320/Dalis+crucifixion.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5461936383302780658" /></a>This is my contribution to the <a href="http://julieclawson.com/2010/04/19/what-is-emerging/">"What Is Emerging?" synchroblog</a> facilitated by <a href="http://julieclawson.com/">Julie Clawson</a>.<br /><div><br /></div><div>I don't consider myself a theologian, but I've always liked hanging around them. Growing up, whenever my parents would take my brother and I to church parties, I would inevitably end up hanging around the room where the adult men would be talking theology. I absolutely loved reading and books and language, and listening to the language and ideas of these men was endlessly fascinating to me... as was the fact that I was the only kid, and the only girl, that wanted to stay in the room. With the guiltless narcissism of a small child, I figured that this made me a little better and a little smarter than the other kids, and possibly than the women, too.<div><br /></div><div>Somewhere along the way, though, I began to realize that understanding and being interested in theology was not only *not* something that made a person popular with other kids, but that there was something about the exercise of doing theology in this way that wasn't right. This became a big struggle for me internally in my teens as I navigated through family troubles and clinical depression. This talk of God that was so fascinating to me didn't really seem related to the God that I cried out to in the depths of the depression and confusion of adolescence. *That* God saw me in my darkness, and that God comforted me. That God seemed particularly close when I was particularly fragmented, confused, and especially when I just gave up and admitted that I was pretty much permanently broken and sinful and that this wasn't going to change.</div><div><br /></div><div>On the other hand, the God of the Room Where the Men Sat was an extremely tidy God of Perfectly Logical Answers. He was an Ordering God, who put things in their right place and made sure the lines stayed straight and everything was at the correct angle. He was the sort of God that didn't allow dust to settle on the bookshelves and who straightened pictures on walls.</div><div><br /></div><div>I lived like this for a while, with two completely different Gods, not wanting to reject either. I couldn't reject the first God... He'd literally kept me from killing myself... but I couldn't reject the second God, either, because my entire theological (and quite a lot of my epistemological) framework was built upon the premise of this God. It was not a happy place to be. I'd have times of spiritual ecstasy in prayer, followed by days of feeling rejected by God due to my inability to live up to His demands. Part of the emotions behind this were due to my age and to the ups and downs of depression, but the philosophical problem was real. I had two differing concepts of God, and those two concepts functionally cancelled each other out.</div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't until I began to worship in the Catholic church (following several months of being in an especially dark place over this problem) that I was made to focus on the Crucifixion, and there the problem asserted itself with a particular clarity. If the humiliation of the Crucifixion is our central metaphor --God's extreme humility in taking on flesh and in dying a gruesome death among criminals-- then why the hell were so many people I knew so proud and arrogant in their theology? If the paradox of Crucifixion is our central metaphor --the paradox of God doing the exact opposite of what had been prophesied and not only *not* winning a military victory for the Jewish people over the Romans, but preaching a message of turning the other cheek and rendering to Caesar what is Caesar's-- then why would ANYONE expect theology to be neat, tidy, and linear?</div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't long before I found the same logic at work within Catholicism, though, and again in other churches. Again and again and again, I found the same effort at theologies that Explained It All, and that gave a map for how to live. I could understand this as a basic human need... we can't handle complete chaos... we need cognitive structures for how to interpret reality and we need maps for how to make decisions. But I couldn't understand how anyone could believe that this was actual, absolute truth. At the best, systematic theology seemed to be a really good, responsible guess... a running jump at the highest monkey bar possible... brushing it with fingertips and missing it still, but not through lack of effort.</div><div><br /></div><div>And then I found the Emergent church... by which I mean I found people who willingly admitted that their theologies were only attempts to live with and in the mystery of faith, but NOT The Truth. That doesn't mean giving up theological effort, and it DEFINITELY doesn't mean giving up faith. It means submitting oneself to the paradox and humility of the Cross... internalizing this and living it out. We CAN'T *know* God in the sense that we know our names, our families and that the sky is blue. To talk of God and of Christ and of salvation and heaven and hell with that kind of certainty is to make tiny ideological idols. It is to worship our theology instead of the Mystery that moves through us and brings the Miraculous into our tiny, broken lives. I believe in prayer and I talk to God in my plain and sometimes not very pretty language and I believe He hears me. I have no idea how that works. And it is enough.</div><div><br /></div><div>To me, the Emergent conversation is all about the "it is enough". It's about stopping the habit of expecting God to do what we think He should do, and instead watching for what He is doing and praying that He moves us where He wants us to be. It is about creating spaces for discussion where everybody brings their experience of God, and absolutely refusing to put ourselves in the place of judge of that person's experience. It is about creating communities of faith that have a sense of humility (and hopefully a sense of humor) about their purpose and about their ways of doing things. It is about profound, profound gratitude for a God who trumps all of our assumptions about Him, and who simply is the I AM... greater than any definition or explanation we may have for Him or His work in the world.</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-7242620651151607471?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-75218704012281969372010-04-04T18:59:00.004-04:002010-04-04T19:43:57.296-04:00This year, my church decided to celebrate Easter by running away to the woods in West Virginia together, and while in the woods, reflecting on the death of our dreams. The question we put to ourselves and to one another was "what do you do when your dreams die? How do you bring resurrection into that?"<div><br /></div><div>On Friday night, the <a href="http://comingtolife.blogspot.com/">Best Writer That I Personally Know</a> led us through the Stations of the Cross, and then sent us outside into the dark, dark, way-up-in-the-mountains-and-nobody-around dark night to take a walk in the woods and reflect on the dreams we've had that have died. After what seemed like a really long time, he called us back in to the cabin and we spent some minutes in silence, writing down these dreams on squares of rough-grained paper that we laid in a box and covered with a black cloth... buried. Our task on Saturday was to spend some time reflecting on these dead dreams, and then on Saturday night, we <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shiva_(Judaism)">sat shiva</a> for these dreams, all of us in one room, letting the conversation go wherever it wanted to go.</div><div><br /></div><div>It wasn't a totally mournful weekend, of course. We have about as many kids as adults in our church, the weather was gorgeous, and we were in a mountain paradise. We went on hikes and splashed in streams. I had an absolute blast playing with all the little kids and carrying various babies and toddlers around on my shoulders. I also had a blast kicking a soccer ball around and singing with Darryl, a mentally challenged fellow who started showing up at our church a few months ago. As it happens, Darryl not only can kick the crap out of a soccer ball, but he throws a football like a quarterback (right AND left handed), and he and I sang such a rousing duet of "That's Amore" that we scared off several of the older kids. It was a really great weekend.</div><div><br /></div><div>But we mourned, too. <i>I</i> mourned. On Friday night, laying on the grass beneath a jillion stars that you can't see in the city, I mourned... even when I saw a falling star. On Saturday afternoon, walking away from the hiking group along a ridge top, I mourned. Late on Saturday afternoon, sitting alone beside a stream with my feet in the water, I mourned. I cried, and I wrote, and I remembered, and I let it all hurt me... and I didn't try to make any of it funny or turn it into some sort of Divine object lesson... not to anyone else, and not, most importantly, to myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>I grieved. I grieved what I've lost. And it. felt. AWESOME.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is so hard to be real so much of the time. There is so much to be done, and we want people to trust us. Nobody wants to be the Depressing One. Everyone (well almost everyone) wants to be liked. I, in particular, don't want to be seen as a burden on anyone, and I desperately want to move past the things in my life that have wounded me.</div><div><br /></div><div>But the truth is that no one really is the same after bad things happen, and that grief really works itself out over your whole lifetime. Years and years and years after you thought you were well past something, grief will pop up at a random time... in some restaurant somewhere or getting a haircut or sitting at your desk, someone will say something or laugh in a certain way or you'll smell someone's perfume and all of the sudden you feel a stab in your gut and you're right back there in the middle of what you've lost, suddenly feeling totally exposed, shaken and alone.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've ignored these things when they happen. I've ignored my own grief countless times, pushed it aside, swallowed it down, squished it, buried it, shouted over top of it... because I thought that's what I was supposed to do... because I wanted people to trust me, I wanted to be strong, and I was afraid that people wouldn't believe in me if I seemed sad. Honestly, I <i>am</i> both strong and trustworthy, but that doesn't mean I'm not also a bit busted up, a bit scarred. So spending time this weekend grieving, crying, telling God I didn't know how to not see Him as terribly cruel sometimes felt WONDERFUL. It felt like telling the truth. It felt like forgiving myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think that if you fail to mourn, then Christ's suffering, death and resurrection lose most of their meaning. If you don't mourn, how do you understand the depth of Christ's sadness? If you don't mourn, how do you understand what a great gift God's grace is, and what a release there is in the hope that Christ's resurrection gives? If you don't mourn, what was there for you to be saved from? Why bother with faith, if there aren't real, substantive challenges to faith?</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not saying anyone should fake depression or turn small disappointments into grand tragedies... but to fail to mourn our losses is to miss the power of Grace, and to do so because we think God doesn't want us to mourn is to worship a sadist. To mourn, in a sense, is to confess our need for Christ. In that sense, it is prayer, and it can be praise, in the end.</div><div><br /></div><div>The takeaway for me is that mourning corporately is a powerful thing. Being able to sit together in shared sadness is a truly great intimacy. It's been a while since I've experienced anything quite like that, and this couple of days have given me far more peace than the traditional Easter service ever does. I'm truly grateful.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-7521870401228196937?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-65340819896663764282010-03-20T21:41:00.006-04:002010-03-20T22:00:03.865-04:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S6V8rqy30NI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/v4ZwM6y8trE/s1600-h/TKC+a+little+bigger.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 140px; height: 210px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S6V8rqy30NI/AAAAAAAAAQ8/v4ZwM6y8trE/s400/TKC+a+little+bigger.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450900013665734866" /></a>So, this post is a much belated review of <a href="http://astore.amazon.com/emergent-20/detail/0801071631">Dwight Friesen's </a><i><a href="http://astore.amazon.com/emergent-20/detail/0801071631">Thy Kingdom Connected</a>.</i><div><br /><div>But first, a story.</div><div><br /><p class="MsoNormal">I found out about the earthquake in Haiti via Facebook.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Within a very few hours after the quake hit, my Facebook home page was filled with news accounts of the severity of the quake, and pretty soon thereafter, my Twitter feed was full, as well.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Folks started re-tweeting other folks who were actually on the ground in Haiti, and I started following <a href="http://twitter.com/lightxxx">@lightxxx</a>, <a href="http://twitter.com/ShaunKing">@shaunking</a>, and <a href="http://twitter.com/firesideint">@firesideint</a> on the off chance that maybe I could do something to help them.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then, a friend in Texas posted a story on Facebook about Crisis Camp, a loose network of IT folks who had banded together to do whatever they could to help Haiti, including working on online maps and setting up communications networks.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I reposted the story.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then a few days later someone from my church posted to our church listserv about a Crisis Camp gathering in DC. I reposted that on Facebook, and a couple of my former students challenged me –again, on Facebook—to go to this Crisis Camp gathering myself.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I considered myself appropriately chastened and went.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">During the introductory session, a fellow from World Bank stood up and talked about a project they were doing to map the locations of schools that had been destroyed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This reminded me of a string of tweets from @firesideint (Luke Renner), where he had been collecting coordinates of destroyed schools.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I had been watching YouTube videos that he’d uploaded of destroyed schools not 2-3 days before this.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So I emailed the Crisis Camp listserv after the event, and was very quickly directed to two other listservs, where I also posted.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A man in France volunteered to post Luke’s coordinates to the OpenStreetMaps, so I Direct Messaged (DMed) Luke, told him about this, and he got back to me with a file which the French guy uploaded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In the flurry of emails that went back and forth, the head of the World Bank project called me on the phone and we talked about Luke’s information.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Here’s my point with this story: the use of social media –particularly Twitter—in generating solutions for Haiti has been *unbelievable*.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>From Shaun King<a href="http://www.shauninthecity.com/2010/03/diy-efforts-bring-aid-to-haiti-our-feature-on-msnbc.html"> mobilizing the collection and shipping of hundreds of tents to Haiti</a> to <a href="http://twitter.com/firesideint">Luke Renner’s current push on Twitter</a> to bring in <a href="http://ow.ly/1oOXF">shipping containers as a more permanent housing solution to tents</a>, Twitter has been used to mobilize people and resources –and to connect people WITHIN Haiti—more than I think anyone would have ever predicted.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My own experience as a very, very small connector within this much larger process was almost entirely due to communications over the internet.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My access through online media to folks in NGOs and even the World Bank in this situation busted apart both my notions of the power of the ordinary person and the limitations of technology within a third world context.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For a little while, anyway, the world really *did* seem flat.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Now, a word from Dwight Friesen:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“And what we’re discovering and beginning to understand more fully today than at any other time in recorded history is that who you are, how you live, and what you do impacts every other living being and living system on the earth.” <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Thy Kingdom Connected</i> P. 66</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p>In <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Thy Kingdom Connected</i>, Friesen explores in some depth the interrelated phenomena of the boom in social networking and the way that social organization and relationships are changing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His assertion is that the profoundly interconnected nature and flat organizational structure of the internet and social networking is changing the very nature of social interaction, and therefore should translate to a change in how churches structure themselves and in how they approach leadership.</o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><br /></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In my experience and in reading I’ve done, most folks who have grown up “churched” have grown up with a model where there are clear lines of authority and clear boundaries around group identity.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>My parents were basically hippies with an attachment to Reformed theology (yes, those two things *can* go together) who helped found a church with a bunch of their high school friends, but even they had a model of church with a clear (male) leader, a Presbyterian form of government, and adherence to creeds.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Without some form of ecclesial structure, and without adherence to creeds/statements of faith/theological systems, how could you have church?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But what *is* a church, really?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Is it the system of government, creeds and confessions that define a church?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Does that model of church make any sense at all to folks who are in constant contact with people all over the world via social networking, exchanging ideas and being influenced *perpetually* by those whose ideas, background, and social standing may be very different from their own?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Is it possible that, for someone steeped in the culture of social networking, a “church” in the conventional model may seem a social contrivance at best and outright hostility to culture at worst?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“What might it look like for your faith community to begin thinking of itself as a resource center whose primary goal is to develop relationships with those people you’re connected with?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What might it look like to reorient your energies around connecting them with the very best resources at your disposal in order to help them thrive in their area(s) of passion?” p. 101</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">In other words, what if your church were more like Facebook?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And have you considered that you might be having *church* on Facebook <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">already</i>?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We’re all familiar with folks lamenting how social networking is addictive; how it distances us from one another, shortens our attention spans and makes us terminally shallow. I know that there’s a part of me that feels like a big ol’ loser every time I lose hours to Facebook… or even worse, to Facebook-Twitter-Gmail-Facebook-Yahoo Mail-Facebook-Twitter-Facebook.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Self-deprecation aside, though, most of the folks I’m in regular contact with online are Christians, and we are often talking theology, directly and indirectly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’m praying for folks in my Twitter stream almost every day, and when I recently had an urgent prayer request, where did I go?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Twitter.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And folks prayed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Immediately.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">While I wouldn’t want my entire interaction with Christians to be online, I am changed by the amount of time I relate to people online, as is practically everyone I know.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We have different ideas than we would have otherwise.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We see possibilities where we wouldn’t have seen them before, and we have resources that we never would have had without our online contacts.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If the rest of our lives consist of this rapid-fire connecting and networking with others, it would a) be artificial to ask folks to act like this isn’t changing how they relate to people socially and b) foolish for the church to not use the networks and resources opened up by social media to their benefit.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Friesen proposes a model for church organization, based on network theory, that he calls “Christ-clusters”: “a relational grouping of people who are responsible for discrete, Holy Spirit-guided and cluster-determined cellular functions,” “a dynamic, communal expression of God’s good news that finds tangible expression in service, justice, and love” (p. 121), where “God is the center and participating shaper of these social constructs.” (p. 124)<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The focus in these “clusters” is on more flat, consensus-based leadership structures that spend considerable time in the discernment of God’s Will for this body and less time ensuring adherence to the implementation of the “vision” of church leaders and/or the maintenance of existing liturgical practices.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">He’s not suggesting utter chaos, though.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>On the contrary, he asserts that “the church is people, but it is our shared language, practices, and narratives that actually knit the people together” (p. 151) and that “wise pastors and ministry leaders will help form a close, differentiated community that is unique from other communities (lest it cease to be a community at all).” (p. 152)<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The key is not that there be *no* doctrine or practice… you really do lose church when you don’t even know what you believe… but that there be more openness to God’s will for the group, to connections that exist outside the group, and to dissension within the group.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Friesen sees the effective church leader as fostering a balance between chaos and stasis… in other words, the ideal conditions for the growth of any organism.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal">A possible criticism of this book is that it will seem dated quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Social networking can seem like a fad, and anyone takes a risk when they try to describe history while sitting in the middle of it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That being said, Friesen’s book is a challenge to the church to do a better job of just that… discerning the times and not making the mistake of assuming that God *isn’t* behind current trends or can’t be glorified through them.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It may be time for church leaders to stop trying to design “programs” to “attract the younger generation” or to dismiss phenomena such as the emergent church as a fad that is waning.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There is a true sea change afoot in the way social systems organize, and it is high time to seriously consider the implications of this for ecclesial structures.</p></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-6534081989666376428?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-91374083007722952402010-02-12T19:38:00.016-05:002010-02-12T21:20:05.839-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S3X35qlJu2I/AAAAAAAAAQs/8RduiI_wQmY/s1600-h/2010-02-12+19.07.58.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 239px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S3X35qlJu2I/AAAAAAAAAQs/8RduiI_wQmY/s320/2010-02-12+19.07.58.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437524695174462306" /></a>So the past couple of weeks have been far and away the loneliest time for me in recent memory. Three months of waiting at home for a security clearance... times not one, but TWO back to back blizzards that have covered the DC area with 3 feet of snow... times February, which contains Valentine's Day, that irritating annual reminder to (most of) us that our love lives are woefully inadequate... at least by whatever internal standard we're torturing ourselves with (Hallmark, Hollywood, your college roommate's marriage, your ex's new romance, etc.).<div><br /></div><div>Of course, loneliness is a matter of perception, right? It's not like I never see anyone, and my virtual life has been hopping... meetings on Toxbox, conference calls, plenty of friends on Facebook and Twitter, plenty of plans for the rest of the year. I'm not ACTUALLY alone --not by a long shot-- but when I *feel* alone, it doesn't really matter.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have entertained the thought that for someone of my age and health, living where I do, to be truly lonely involves some level of narcissism. You basically have to ignore your friends and the people around you every day, ignore the impact they're having in your life, ignore their care and their generosity towards you... ignore the smiles of every stranger, downplay the importance of every casual and not-so-casual conversation. In other words, you have to be a bit of a navel-gazing jacka**. No offense to any such folks who may be reading this post, but I'm willing to admit it about myself.</div><div><br /></div><div>So. Tonight I more or less ran out of my house, headed to a church function, desperate to be around PEOPLE, and was foiled by a broken-down train on the orange line (God bless Metro... this snow is too much for any of the DC infrastructure, so I'm not surprised they're having trouble). So I bought a 12 pack of toilet paper at CVS and strode somewhat dejectedly home past couples and groups going out and about, tired of their own cabin fever... the lonely thirty-something female, single, pathetic, and indirectly declaring to all of Clarendon that she was regular enough to require 12 rolls of toilet paper. I suppose I should count my blessings in that regard.</div><div><br /></div><div>The walk to the metro is a mixed bag right now... as with every snowfall, I'm truly grateful for everyone who has shoveled their sidewalks, but the usual suspects have not, so there are quite a few portions where pedestrians have to walk on the road, mere feet from the cars, most of which slow down but not all of which do. It's not fun, and definitely not fun in the dark. At the end of the walk, I decided to take my chances on the sidewalk rather than clamber back out into the road right at a busy intersection, and found that the last block or so hadn't been shoveled at ALL. The picture at the top of this post is after I'd made it through that last block, hoisting my precious 12 pack, stepping carefully into deep boot prints left in the 3 feet of snow by who knows how many people before me, the "walk" sign glowing beside that path, mildly ironic but also optimistic, in a way.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's when it hit me. None of us is EVER alone. We have all of history behind us. We have our own families (whether or not we wish to carry on their legacy is irrelevant), we have the people who live around us, we have stories transmitted by an abundance of media sources. Community carries us along with it, even if we live alone, even if we ignore it as a gift and consider it an annoyance. Even if we lacked these obvious physical manifestations of community, there are precious few places on earth that have not been touched by humans, and none that lack the Hand of God. Everywhere, all the time, there is some Presence other than us.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm walking, living, breathing, existing, in the wake of the history that has come before me. Maybe that's not rocket science, but tonight I found it comforting... a reminder that my isolation --whether a mental state or a true relational one-- is as temporary a state as there is. I'm walking in the big, deep boot steps of those who have gone before me, and in the awareness of the Presence of God. I'll be ok.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-9137408300772295240?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-9196340380346627832010-01-27T11:55:00.016-05:002010-01-27T18:56:53.615-05:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S2BxeyoSYfI/AAAAAAAAAQk/SYgftipXWRM/s1600-h/Signpost.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/S2BxeyoSYfI/AAAAAAAAAQk/SYgftipXWRM/s320/Signpost.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431465924409582066" /></a><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Photo by: </span></i><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><a href="http://www.hickerphoto.com/">Hicker Travel Photography</a></span></i><br /><br /></div><div>It's been weeks since I've posted, mostly because I've been under multiple deadlines for multiple things I've committed to so I always feel a touch guilty when I think about writing a post to my own blog. However, I'm also honestly getting sick of being victim to the <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Tyranny-Urgent-Pack-Charles-Hummel/dp/0830865926">Tyranny of the Urgent</a>, so here I am again. Nice to be back.<div><br /></div><div>So a friend posted a prophecy to my Facebook wall yesterday. Not something that happens everyday. My friend (who has been my friend for 15+ years, and is a very humble and Godly woman not necessarily prone to prophesying on Facebook) told me that God had laid me on her heart, and that she needed to tell me, basically, to batten down the hatches, cling to God, and be very sure what I'm about doctrinally. Obviously, I'm paraphrasing, but her message was clear: storm's a brewin' on the spiritual front, Moff. Get ready.</div><div><br /></div><div>I love guidance from the Divine. I believe in continuing prophecy and revelation and I get very excited about it when I hear of prophets whose messages come true. I also pay very close attention because I'm not someone who knows a heck of a lot of people who say "the LORD told me to tell you X" (I'm glad for that, by the way. There really shouldn't be all that many people saying such things, IMHO, at least as I understand scripture's take on the matter... and the experience of people close to me).</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't like warnings, though, for the obvious mundane reasons. The specific words she closed her prophecy with were "something is stirring..." which is awesome because it means God is on the move, but is also scary because for every move of God there is an equal and opposite move of That Which Opposes God... at least in the spiritual world as I was raised to see it.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I prayed a lot of "ehhh so what do You want me to do, exactly?" prayers yesterday and wandered around doing this and that errand and task feeling fairly detached and like it was all a bit pointless when what I really wanted to do was go plunk myself down in a Blessed Sacrament chapel and pray like Hannah on the temple steps. I don't mean that I wanted to appear drunk, although getting drunk may have helped... but that I didn't feel prepared for someone to Drop Prophecy on me, and I felt like I could use a mental break from everything I have going. Inmediamente.</div><div><br /></div><div>What I came up with, in lieu of a full mental break, was a small challenge to myself to try to explain my spiritual journey in a way that gives God His full due for what has been good about that and also acknowledges where I've f**ked up. I dunno that it all will, or should, go up on this blog, but I think that this might serve the purpose of clarifying what God has taught me to believe and to clear up what I definitely don't believe and why. Of course, it's not the first time I've done something like this. A couple of years ago, I wrote a post called "<a href="http://moffou.blogspot.com/2008/04/this-i-believe.html">This I Believe</a>" (in response to my friend Andres' challenge that I write an essay for the NPR series of that name) where I wrote about the deep importance of forgiveness. A year later, I wrote a post called "<a href="http://moffou.blogspot.com/2009/04/chastened-epistemology.html">A Chastened Epistemology</a>" that consisted almost entirely of a post written by <a href="http://gracerules.wordpress.com/">Liz Dyer</a> summing up the value of humility in knowledge and how the emergent conversation has really exemplified that value for her.</div><div><br /></div><div>So I guess I'll start with my Label. I tell people that I'm a Presby-Cathlo-Episcopa-Mennonite and sometimes they giggle. Sometimes they look bored... oh look, another Overly-Educated-Young-White-Woman-Who-Thinks-She's-Clever-YAWN. Of course, no one really takes me seriously when I say that. I'm not stating it in a serious manner... but I am actually being serious. What I'm trying to express is that *I* see a unity in those things and in the spiritual path God has led me on even if *YOU* don't. The events and decisions that were behind each switch of denomination are complex and largely mundane --it's not like I saw a vision telling me to leave the PCA and become Roman Catholic-- but they weren't wholly pragmatic and earthy, either. God has been behind my weird patchwork quilt of experiences.</div><div><br /></div><div>Looking back over it, I used to tell people I kept looking for Jesus and kept finding people with a bunch of rules they used to beat each other. That sounds lofty and like I Alone Sought Christ, which is not what I intended to say. Truth is, I was a nerdy, lonely kid who prayed and read the Bible a lot, and I was looking for adults like me who were coming out of that sort of early desert-y experience of imperfectly (and somewhat narcissistic-ly) knowing and loving God as Father. Showing up on Sunday, dutifully sitting through a service and then talking about football and work afterwards just seemed utterly beside the point and a waste of time.</div><div><br /></div><div>I should mention that as I've gotten older and remained Perpetually Single, I've come to see the value of social institutions like "church" for providing a network of friends and resources for folk. I continue to believe that this expression of "church" does not equal "Church" because it relies on a set of social norms and visible leader/archetypes to persist, and doesn't necessarily require spirituality as a discipline from most of the participants. In other words, it's like virtually any other social grouping, very useful and perhaps necessary for the maintenance of social order and the happiness of many individuals, but it's not necessarily the Body of Christ.</div><div><br /></div><div>That was one layer that led me to ping around from place to place. Another layer was the very certain interior knowledge that I needed mentors in humility... and that frankly, I didn't trust any leader who I didn't believe in my gut had been really humbled by God. I've had various church-y leaders (almost all male) question my salvation and give me the stink-eye for years over things I've believed and blathered on about, and I know that underneath their criticism is the rock-solid conviction that I have a Problem With Authority. My conscience is clear on this point. What I have a problem with is idolatry. I will not submit to the authority of some guy in the pulpit simply because he is some guy in a pulpit (SGIAP). If Jesus gave us the Holy Spirit to guide us, then dagnabit, I'm listening to the Holy Spirit as well as I'm able. To listen to SGIAP as my stand-in for my own relationship with God and thereby fail to listen to the Spirit's witness is idolatry. I have enough problems with placing stuff and people in the way of my relationship with God, dude. Not even tempted to place you in that position.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I'm drawn to humble leaders. The <a href="http://comingtolife.blogspot.com/">Best Writer I Personally Know</a> won't like me saying this (and I've probably said it before on this very blog), but I stayed at <a href="http://commontable.org/">Common Table</a> initially because I believed in him (and in his wife, whom I don't talk about a lot but whom I internally refer to as The Warrior) because he kept refusing to be The Leader, and because he had suffered intensely in his personal life. That's a guy I'll follow, a guy who has learned through suffering, and who doesn't parade about all martyr-like but who tells you straight up that suffering SUCKS. Because it does, and because he's not trying to impress anyone with how virtuous (or frighteningly detached) he is.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't mean to be mean. I know a lot of people who follow Guys Who Freak Me Out with their, errrr, "leaderliness"? That's not the right word (it's not even a word), but I guess you know what I mean. Leaders who seem very comfortable and confident in the pulpit, who bound forth from personal affliction with a Battle Cry for the Cross. It may just be a matter of personal preference that I'm more drawn to the image of Martin Luther trembling, terrified to offer the Eucharist because of his realization of what it actually MEANT to be touching the Body of Christ, than I am of the image of him nailing the 95 Theses to the Wittenberg Door. It may be an unimportant detail that I find the trend towards Hyper-Masculine Shock Pastors preaching against "wimpiness" to be nothing short of blasphemy, trampling on the reality of Christ's humbling Himself on the cross, beaten beyond recognition and bleeding to death.</div><div><br /></div><div>Clearly, I don't think it is unimportant, and I refuse to get behind ecclesiastical structures that support the Ascendancy of the Naturally Dominant. I think the tendency to follow the "alpha male", the Guy Who's Got It All Figured Out, is basic to human nature, and it's gross. It's also the opposite of the Gospel. The Jews fully expected a leader who would lead them to military victory, not die on a cross. This is not an original thought nor is it rocket science, but I want a humble leader because I want a Christ-like leader... because I honestly don't need anyone else to teach me how to Think I'm the Shit. I'm human, so I've pretty much got that one down.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, so there's installment #1 of What I Believe 2010. I'll keep thinking and praying on this... because the storm's a brewin' and I guess I need to get ready.</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-919634038034662783?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-9271463419506338782010-01-01T22:15:00.006-05:002010-01-01T23:17:28.522-05:00I've had a couple of months of what I've been calling "blog exhaustion". Tired of sitting in front of a computer all day, yet required to do so by virtue of the work that I'm doing (both paid and volunteer), I simply couldn't be bothered to follow up on the network of blogs I normally read up on something like a monthly basis.<br /><div align="right"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Image from </em></span><a href="http://radiohead.com/deadairspace/index.php?a=523"><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>Dead Air Space</em></span></a><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/Sz7DdLpObBI/AAAAAAAAAP8/wlkFUEZAwr8/s1600-h/me%2520and%2520tony.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 180px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421985907509980178" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/Sz7DdLpObBI/AAAAAAAAAP8/wlkFUEZAwr8/s320/me%2520and%2520tony.jpg" /></a> </div><div align="left">I regret that now. On December 18, Thom Yorke did a day of posts on <a href="http://radiohead.com/deadairspace/">Dead Air Space</a> (Radiohead's official blog) from the United Nations Global Climate Change Summit, where he'd gone with a good friend of his who used to head up an NGO called Friends of the Earth. He walked around throughout the day, and posted about the mood of the crowds, the rumors that were floating around about what was happening, and eventually about the pathetic bulls**t agreement that was the result of all that talking. He then did <a href="http://radiohead.com/deadairspace/index.php?a=532">another post</a> on December 24 that consists largely of the words of Ben Stewart from Greenpeace, but also some of his own reflection, which is actually about as positive as you could hope given what transpired at the Summit.<br /><br />I know an awful lot of people who think that Global Climate Change is fiction, that the science behind it is rigged, and that all this talk about it is a waste of time and money. Every single one of those people is an American. I cannot think of one SINGLE person from another nation (and I know quite a few folks from all over the world due to the work I used to do) who has ever expressed the sentiment that they believe climate change to be anything other than fact. I know that the issue is complicated, and I'm sure there are some that do dispute it, but when you read about how the representatives of many of the Latin American countries walked out of the climate talks due in part to their perception of the incalcitrance of the U.S., it does give a bit of perspective.<br /><br />I remember the weirdness of living in the UK and having the sense that the news had been flipped. By that I mean that the perspective given in the U.S. media bears almost no resemblance to European media... or even to Latin American and South Asian media that I've read online since the time I lived in the UK. I'm not saying that there's no bias in media outside the U.S., but I was struck by how very, very much about what goes on in the world doesn't hit major U.S. media but does hit media throughout the world. It is as though we are in a room that has been soundproofed. The only sounds we hear are ones from inside the room, and even they are significantly muffled by the layers and layers of padding that line the walls.<br /><br />Thom Yorke is the kind of guy who will rip the padding off the walls. He also might express a desire to stuff it down your throat, but prophetic types are often a bit rough around the edges. I wish I'd been reading what he was saying during Copenhagen while he was saying it, because his words have the ring of truth about them. He wrote about what he thought and saw, without being restricted by political concerns because he honestly doesn't seem to give a crap what politicians think of him. I respect his utter intolerance for BS deeply, despite the fact that I understand it must cost him somewhat.<br /><br /></div>The title of this post is from "Do not go gentle into that good night", a villanelle written by Dylan Thomas and one of my favorite poems from high school. It's addressed to his dying father, but right now I'm thinking of it as being addressed to those who even now believe they are looking into the future and seeing the extinction of humanity due to pollution of the atmosphere through carbon emissions (I'm talking about activists, by the way, NOT about heads of state who use the climate change discussion as a way to rail against the U.S. while deflecting attention from their gross human rights abuses). Whether they are 100% right in their predictions is, to me, completely insignificant. They're defending good stewardship of the earth, and that is a Godly goal. Those who are their biggest opponents are those who will lose a great deal of money if environmentalists have their way. It just doesn't seem like rocket science to me which side is the better when one group is defending right stewardship of the earth and the other is defending their profit margins.<br /><br />So. Here's Dylan Thomas' poem, dedicated to Thom Yorke and to the many, many people who are fighting for the care of God's earth. They are, whether they are intending to or not, obeying God's first command to Adam. I pray that they continue to rage against the dying of the light.<br /><br />"Do not go gentle into that good night,<br />Old age should burn and rave at close of day;<br />Rage, rage against the dying of the light.<br /><br />Though wise men at their end know dark is right,<br />Because their words had forked no lightning they<br />Do not go gentle into that good night.<br /><br />Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright<br />Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,<br />Rage, rage against the dying of the light.<br /><br />Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,<br />And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,<br />Do not go gentle into that good night.<br /><br />Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight<br />Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,<br />Rage, rage against the dying of the light.<br /><br />And you, my father, there on the sad height,<br />Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.<br />Do not go gentle into that good night.<br />Rage, rage against the dying of the light."<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-927146341950633878?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-40323017899841663932009-12-29T16:49:00.005-05:002009-12-29T17:23:22.472-05:00So, as of today, the U.S. Census Bureau estimates that the entire world population is 6,793,000,000 (found that out <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/World_population">here</a>). This extremely large group of people is entering 2010 (by the Gregorian calendar, anyway), a nice round number at the end of a decade, a unit of time to which many people tend to assign some sort of arbitrary meaning. Retrospective articles on the past decade are already flying fast and furious on the web as we humans, creators of meaning and interpreters of the times, seek to understand what has and hasn't happened, and what we are to make of our presence here at this particular time. These articles are written as fast as we can read --and as fast as we can forget-- them, and honestly, most of them seem to be kind of a lot of hoo-hah over nothing.<br /><br />It's enough to make a girl feel kind of insignificant. I mean, really... I'm one of almost 7 BILLION people, waking and sleeping, eating and breathing in my one fairly insignificant corner at a fairly insignificant time in thousands of years of human history. I haven't invented anything, really, and have contributed precious little to the improvement of humankind. Year after year, I work, I do my best not to be an a**hole to people around me, I pray and go to church and try to follow what I believe God wants me to do, I pay my bills. I'm kind of a little cog in the great big machine of the universe, doing my thing, not particularly important.<br /><br />What, really, does it matter whether or not I make New Year's Resolutions?<br /><br />It matters. It matters a LOT. It matters because I matter. It matters because you matter. I may be one of 7 billion people, but the choices I make every day touch the lives of the people around me, who in turn touch the people around them, who in turn... you get what I mean. If I don't take responsibility to honestly look at my life and consider what I have and haven't done and what I've done badly and whom I've hurt, neglected, or just been sort of limply apathetic toward... if I don't honestly and fairly look at my limited resources and figure out what I can and can't do in the new year, and make plans to distribute those resources among the various things that are necessary and important in my life...<br /><br />...well then, I risk wasting it, this next year. I risk wasting the time I'm given. I risk wasting the life God gave me. I risk doing what I'm put here to do. I risk being a blob of a person, so convinced of my own insignificance that I miss out on taking action so that I *am* of significance, at least to the folks right around me who could use whatever I have to offer them.<br /><br />I have no clue who reads my blog these days other than my Dad and a few friends and folks who go to my church. I know I've experienced some Blog Exhaustion the past few months, so if you're here, thanks. I appreciate you giving me your time... and even if it sounds cheesy, I really hope you don't underestimate your own importance, your own ability to change things right around you. It really doesn't matter if you can see how at the moment... it's more important that you push yourself towards believing it. Fame is a social construct and who is famous or not is really kind of arbitrary and a bit of a dull subject, really. So, err, you should really sort of forget that if you haven't already. No one is insignificant by definition, but you can act as though you are and become functionally insignificant as a result. Please don't do that with your life.<br /><br />Err, and that's all for now. Hugs.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-4032301789984166393?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-8575464007499047552009-12-17T14:22:00.005-05:002009-12-17T17:30:40.373-05:00So, Gideon Addington is dead by suicide. And I am f**king PISSED.<br /><br />(Before I proceed, let me say that this has been written about beautifully and with some sensitivity by Jonathan Brink <a href="http://jonathanbrink.com/2009/12/17/the-loss-of-a-virtual-friend/">here</a>, Josh Hale <a href="http://expatminister.org/2009/12/16/ministry-death-and-making-the-words-obey/">here</a>, and Katie Mulligan <a href="http://tinychurchnj.blogspot.com/2009/12/gideon-addington.html">here</a>. I used Walt Whitman's line as the title of this post because I feel like bashing things in, and you'll see that here. If you're not in the mood for that, then you'd probably better stop reading now.)<br /><br />I don't want to add any hurt to any of those who are mourning this loss, but I keep stumbling across more and more examples of how this person was bringing seriously beautiful ideas, poetry, and friendship into the world, and I am really, really, really angry that he's gone.<br /><br />It's not that I've never been there. I was suicidal throughout my teens and was literally at the point of going through with it twice during that time... but something always stopped me and I always assumed that something was God. I DO NOT UNDERSTAND why this same God who kept me in the world allowed this soul to take himself out. And I don't want to dance around that, folks, I want to stand right in the middle of that and scream at the top of my lungs.<br /><br />It's NOT FAIR. How come I soldiered through and you didn't? How come you gave in? There were people who really liked you and who even may have loved you as time went on and they got to know you better, and there are people posting to your Facebook page who CLEARLY loved you and knew you in the flesh. WHY????? Did you try meds? Did you live with roommates? Did you have friends who were your suicide watch buddies and you could call if you were at that point?<br /><br />Or did you do all of the above and just got sick of managing it? Because I did, in the end, get better. It's been a long time since I've been that low... and if it never really let up for you, Gideon, then I guess I understand. It is hard to stagger blindly through that darkness day after day after day. It is hard to continue to force yourself to believe that it will get better. If you truly lived with this every day, then I don't know if I would have made it to 30 if I were you.<br /><br />I, we, have no choice but to forgive you, and to speak holy words about your death because all deaths mark the passage into the spiritual realm and into Mystery... even the ones that leave us outraged, helpless, pounding words into our keyboards as though this will bring you back because it's what brought you to us in the first place.<br /><br />I just found this song via @hardlynormal, Mark Horvath of <a href="http://invisiblepeople.tv/blog/">invisiblepeople.tv</a>, who found it <a href="http://functionverb.posterous.com/mustard-is-homeless-this-is-his-version-of-cr">here</a> courtesy of @MelissaRowley. It's a homeless guy named Mustard doing the best cover of Creep by Radiohead that I've ever heard. I dedicate this to Gideon, because this was one of my all-time favorite Songs to Be Depressed By back in the day.<br /><br />Rest in peace, brother. I look forward to meeting you someday.<br /><br /><object width="560" height="340"><param name="allowfullscreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><param name="movie" value="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=8132302&amp;server=vimeo.com&amp;show_title=0&amp;show_byline=0&amp;show_portrait=0&amp;color=00adef&amp;fullscreen=1"><embed src="http://vimeo.com/moogaloop.swf?clip_id=8132302&amp;server=vimeo.com&amp;show_title=0&amp;show_byline=0&amp;show_portrait=0&amp;color=00adef&amp;fullscreen=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" width="560" height="340"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-857546400749904755?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-42470105922590658752009-12-13T21:18:00.015-05:002009-12-14T10:05:10.337-05:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/SyWh0JTgCnI/AAAAAAAAAP0/hprHbPOs5Hk/s1600-h/annunciation1.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 233px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414912044205869682" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/SyWh0JTgCnI/AAAAAAAAAP0/hprHbPOs5Hk/s320/annunciation1.jpg" /></a>I've been asked to post my meditation from this morning's service at <a href="http://www.blogger.com/commontable.org">Church of the Common Table</a>. Just to put a little context on it, we decided to bring the story of Mary's Advent waiting a little closer to us this morning by asking three of the moms in our congregation to share their experience of pregnancy as waiting. I gave this meditation after that.<br /><br />Gabriel is one very busy angel in Luke 1. Luke opens up his account of the life of Christ with two separate --and very different—annunciations. In the first, the Angel Gabriel greets Zechariah, a priest whom Luke says was “upright in the sight of God, observing all the Lord’s commandments and regulations blamelessly”. This, despite the fact that God had not blessed he and his wife with children even though he had prayed for this for many long years. In the second, the Angel Gabriel greets Mary, whom is introduced simply as a virgin whose father had arranged to marry her to a man named Joseph, himself a descendant of David.<br /><br />Zechariah was performing temple service when Gabriel showed up to talk to him, and he was filled with sheer terror at the sight of the angel. Gabriel was tuned into this and told Zechariah not to be afraid, that he had good news for him and that his wife would give birth to a son who would be filled with “the spirit and power of Elijah”, the great prophet of the Jewish tradition. Zechariah, attempting to get a grip on the situation --and on himself-- blurts out “How can I be sure of this? I’m old and so is my wife.”<br /><br />Me being me, I hear exasperation and sarcasm in Gabriel’s response: “(sigh) I am <em>Gabriel</em>. I stand in the presence of <em>God</em>?? and I have been sent to speak to you and to tell you this good news. And now? You will be silent and not able to speak until the day this happens, because you did not believe my words, which will come true at their proper time.” Bam! And just like that, Zechariah --the upstanding priest of God-- is totally mute and reduced to using sign language to try to communicate to those standing outside the temple that something big has gone down.<br /><br />The situation with Mary is totally different, though. This young woman --whom until this point Luke has described only in relation to the men whom were her caretakers-- is not described as being overcome by terror at the very presence of an angel, but as being “greatly troubled” by his greeting… not because there was an <em>angel</em> in her <em>room</em>, but because she didn’t understand what he meant when Gabriel said “Greetings, you who are highly favored! The Lord is with you.” Like Zechariah, Mary greets the news of the angel that she will give birth to the eternal king of the house of Jacob with a question, but it’s not framed as an incredulous “how can I be sure of this?” but rather as curiosity over logistics: “How’s THAT gonna happen? I’m a virgin, after all.” So Gabriel responds to a straight question with a straight answer, explaining how it will happen, and mentioning that her cousin Elizabeth is also already preggers in quite similar miraculous circumstances: “For <em>nothing</em> is impossible with God.”<br /><br />And then Mary says something fascinating, which has been the subject of much poetry, music and theological speculation: “I am the Lord’s servant. May it be to me as you have said.” Gabriel, satisfied with this response, returns to the presence of God.<br /><br />When I was in the Catholic Church, a LOT was made of Mary’s answer to Gabriel. Look at Mary’s servant-like nature! Look at her willingness to be used for the LORD, no matter *what* it cost her personally! Look at this example of pure, unblemished womanhood, submitting fully to the LORD in complete, child-like faith! Hail, Virgin Mother of our LORD!!<br /><br />But I’m more interested in the fact that she responded… as though she knew, in some way, that God required her assent in order for this to happen. And upon receiving her assent, Gabriel’s work there appears to have been finished, like that’s really what he was waiting on. I remember being in a conversation with some Catholics once who posited the possibility that Gabriel had actually gone to several women *prior* to Mary, but that she was the first one to accept his proposition with such calmness, and therefore to become the Mother of God.<br /><br />Why? Why did it *matter* whether she said yes or no? After all, Gabriel evidently didn’t require Zechariah’s assent. He came to Zechariah solely to report what would occur, and promptly took away his power of speech upon meeting his incredulity. Of course, what he was describing to Zechariah wasn’t happening to Zechariah. He would be affected by it, but it was actually happening to Elizabeth. Gabriel’s later annunciation to Joseph also served the purpose primarily of informing, rather than asking for any sort of assent. We don’t have an account of Gabriel appearing to Elizabeth, of course, so we can’t verify a parallel, but still… it is strange, isn’t it?<br /><br />I mean, think about it. I’m assuming we all know *how* babies are made, but we have so unbelievably little control over when and how, really. And --as we have heard in the testimonies of some of the mothers in our congregation-- the whole process of pregnancy is a series of uncontrollable events as a woman’s body is transformed into a baby incubator, her own lifeblood mined for nutrients for this growing body inside of HER body. Every woman experiences this process differently, and differently even with every child she has. She simply CANNOT predict with total accuracy what is going to happen to her. The process is miraculous and beautiful and all of that, but the more salient point is that it is deeply, deeply physical and deeply beyond our ability to really control. At best, we firefight once problems become apparent. And we pray a lot. But it’s not like God asks us, “hey, are you cool with this?” before the process gets started.<br /><br />And it’s not like He asks us this with other things in life, either. I mean, we all, I’m sure, have wondered in passing if we could have had some notice before experiencing the big changes in our life, good and bad. Would it have hurt for God to give us a little heads up? Some sign? I find myself going back over the events preceding each huge, life-changing event in my life, mining for clues... a Colombo of faith, sniffing around for any evidence that God could have been telling me what was going down… and in many cases, that I could have prevented that thing from happening.<br /><br />…which raises a very interesting and important question. In C.S. Lewis’ <em>The Great Divorce</em>, Lewis imagines purgatory as a city with a sprawling suburb in perpetual grey twilight, and the portal to heaven as a bus stop in the middle of the city that takes its passengers to a meadow with hills in the distance. The hills are heaven, but the passengers in the bus find that they are like paper-thin ghosts in this new land, that the grass hurts their feet and the sun hurts their eyes and they are afraid to go forward from the bus. Some choose to go back to purgatory. But even beyond that, there are those in the land of twilight who have moved far, far from the city center, who never go into town and don’t even know about the portal to heaven. It seems that, to Lewis, our every decision every day points us in a direction, either towards, or away from heaven. Toward the light, or towards the dusk that will someday deepen into a blacker night than we can possibly imagine.<br /><br />So which is it? Does God have the control? Or do we? This is not a philosophical question. If you believe that our choices matter deeply, that God is in some way limited by our permission for Him to act in our lives, then our actions and decisions are directly linked to God’s ability to change the world for the better. If you believe that our choices are something of a side issue, or perhaps even irrelevant in the face of totally sovereign God, then you can find either rest or despair in the fact that your choices, while important insofar as you are obedient to God, do not have any real ultimate effect on your life, your salvation or the affairs of the world. Your perspective on this affects everything: how you make your decisions, what you think of prayer, how you enter into relationships with one another… everything. Really.<br /><br />Even in Romans 8:28-30, part of the passage we read this morning, God is seen as predestining, controlling our futures. But then it says that all things work together for good to those who love Him, placing the agency back on us and our love for God. So which is it? What do you think? Is God totally in control? Or are we?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-4247010592259065875?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-15231054449227800062009-12-05T14:10:00.012-05:002009-12-05T15:25:13.408-05:00<div align="right"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">Below image is from </span></em><a href="http://www.persia.org/Images/Katouzian_art/waiting.gif"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">here</span></em><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 238px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5411844524135995250" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/Sxq76-jE13I/AAAAAAAAAPg/khGf-_tSdQE/s320/waiting.gif" /></a></div><div align="left"><br />So, we've entered the season of Advent, the time in the church calendar where we all think and talk about waiting and meditate on the value of it and the difficulty of it... and we tell the story of Mary and the Angel Gabriel coming to her and then her waiting for the birth of the Most Important Person In All of History, who, in a most unexpected turn of events, happened to be growing inside of her.<br /><br />In the Northern Hemisphere, this is happening as the days are getting shorter and shorter, and it really works with the whole waiting theme. Darkness implies waiting for daylight. The creeping cold and naked tree branches imply a waiting for spring's warmth and light. You feel it in your bones. In Iceland, for example, they're down to about 5-6 hours of murky twilight at this point in the year. The effect on me physically when I visited there a year ago was pretty dramatic. I could NOT wake up in the mornings, and although I had a great time, my senses were sort of muzzled the whole time I was there, the grey and dark of the world muting every sense perception I had.<br /><br />Winter is nature in the womb, waiting.<br /><br />This year, my Advent has begun with a very odd (for me) period of waiting. For the past two weeks, I have literally not been allowed to work due to some government snafus with my security paperwork. The situation will be resolved, but we're waiting on people who have no motive to hurry, so this is dragging on a bit. Last week's wait was broken up by my ill-fated trip to Pittsburgh, but this week has been 100% me sitting at home. Waiting.<br /><br />I don't do this well. I work. It's what I DO. I realized this week that --aside from the 3 weeks I took after graduating with my Masters degree in May-June 2007-- this is the longest break I have had from working since I entered the work force upon my return to the U.S. in 1999. For 10 YEARS, with that one exception, I have never taken more than a week of vacation at a time. Never. And even THEN during those times of vacation, I checked my work email at least once, sometimes more. And I've NEVER spent this much time in my apartment. Sitting. Waiting.<br /><br />One very notable side effect of this waiting is that it's kind of like sitting in a mirrored room. I haven't been able to get away from myself. I mean, I've been doing volunteer work for Emergent Village and my church and what-not, but being by myself has forced me to listen to my thoughts in a way I haven't had to for a really long time. It hasn't been pleasant a lot of the time, but I've had to be very honest with myself about some things and my hope is that this bears a lot of fruit. We'll see.<br /><br />Probably the most painful thing about waiting is what it does to your faith. Kierkegaard said that the only unforgiveable sin (the "sickness unto death") is despair, but waiting for an extended period of time can and does lead to disappointment and eventually to despair. Yes, you have to battle with these emotions, but they're a natural reaction. "How long must I wait for this situation to resolve itself?" "When will You give me what You've promised, LORD?" "Am I missing something? Am I doing something wrong?" Advent's waiting invites a question we, or at least I, rarely articulate: Jesus, where ARE You?? You said You'd come back, and we have 2000 years of theology grappling with the fact that You haven't, at least not in the way You said You would. How long must creation wait?? Are You really coming back???<br /><br />My friend David Hottinger has an <a href="http://infaceofmystery.com/">amazing, amazing blog</a> about his work as a hospice chaplain. He just did <a href="http://infaceofmystery.com/2009/12/04/nothing-is-lost-to-god">a post containing a homily he delivered</a> at the memorial service for a patient who unexpectedly committed suicide this past week. In it, he says<br /><br /><em>The heart of Jesus’ message is this: We are loved. In life and unto death and beyond death, we belong to God who made us, forgives us, and desires us to share in God’s light and joy forever.<br /><br />And there is NOTHING in all of creation – death, disease, depression, despair, broken relationships, loneliness, – NOTHING – smashed dreams, unfulfilled expectations, regrets, rejection, shame, trauma – NOTHING – can separate us from the love made known through Jesus the Christ.<br /><br />As our Lover, God takes our deepest woes, our most anguished cries, our most shameful failures and uses them to bring us into God’s heart, which is Love Itself.</em><br /></div><p><br />It's hard to believe this when you're in the middle of it. Does God really reach out to me when I am doubting Him so fiercely? When I'm finding my faith stretched to the breaking point, not by tragedy, but by interminable waiting? Where in the mysterious dance between my free will and His omnipotence do I cross the line into preventing myself from receiving His love? How do I keep from getting to that point?<br /><br />Waiting can be like having a single drop of water falling on the same spot on a rock every minute on the minute for years. The rock is worn away, slowly, almost imperceptibly. Our faith wanes and wanes until it's gone and we don't even know when it left.<br /><br />As I've been in this mirrored space of waiting, I've been noting the effect that disappointment over waiting for years for certain things in my life has had on me... how it's sometimes made me cheerfully fatalistic, with a kind of "eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die" attitude. I joke about small tragedies and disappointments that eat away at my faith every day. I move within my life as though I will never see these promises and dreams realized, and as though that's ok. </p><p>Drip. </p><p>Drip.</p><p>Drip.<br /><br />So. This year, Advent is, for me, about meditating on what waiting does to a person... its effect on faith. Am I more patient as a result, or simply more resigned? Am I wiser now or simply more jaded? Where is the line between faith and fatalism, and if I have crossed it, how do I cross back?</p><p>LORD God, keep me honest. </p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1523105444922780006?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-27471131949254717142009-12-01T11:46:00.014-05:002009-12-01T16:26:10.922-05:00... a meditation on Chapter 3, "The Didache Community—Then and Now", of <em>The Teaching of the Twelve: Believing and Practicing the Primitive Christianity of the Ancient Didache Community</em> by Tony Jones...<br />(which you can, of course, buy <a href="http://ow.ly/GLSP">here</a> and <a href="http://ow.ly/GLXl">here</a>.)<br /><br />First off, the Didache is really worth a read on its own before you read anything I have to say about it. It's short, and you can read Tony's translation of it <a href="http://www.paracletepress.com/didache.html">here</a> (scroll down through the stuff about the blog tour and you'll see it). Try reading it slowly. It helps.<br /><br />When I first read through the Didache, I was put off by it in much the same way as I've been put off by reading the Deutero-Canonical books (the Apocrypha to all you Protestants out there). It seemed like someone had taken a pair of scissors to the Gospel of Matthew and then re-pasted the interesting parts in an order that pleased them, chucking in some of their own deep thoughts on the same themes so it didn't read like straight up plagiarism. I'm aware that what we consider plagiarism wasn't an offense in the days of the early church and isn't an offense in many cultures now --instead being seen as a way of honoring the teachings of a respected elder-- but why should I want to read *this* when I have the Gospels?<br /><br />But then I read it again. And again. And again and again and again. And I started to get it, and Chapter 3 of Tony's book helped me understand why.<br /><br />Chapter 3 starts with a picture of the circumstances under which Christians, then a sect of Judaism, were operating in 70-110AD, the broad time span during which the Didache is thought to be written. Infighting between the Nazarenes (as the Jewish Christians were often called) and other Jewish sects had led to the expulsion of all Jews from Rome in AD 49. The Christians that remained in (or returned to) Rome in AD 64 were persecuted by Emperor Nero, blamed for a fire that had destroyed much of Rome. As if that wasn't bad enough, the Jewish temple in Jerusalem was destroyed by the Roman general Titus in AD 70, and around this time, Christians had been made exempt from taxes levied upon other Jews, which removed them from the protections offered to Jews in the Roman Empire. In other words, times were --and had been-- tough, and there was a lot of uncertainty around what it meant to be a Christian. One thing that was certain is that it still meant being a Jew, but what kind of Jew?<br /><br />Sitting with this part of the chapter and thinking on how contested Christian identity was in the first centuries after Christ was actually very unsettling for me. I've studied early Christian history, and I know that things have changed a lot, but reading about the Christians who would have been familar with the Didache brings it home to me that their faith may well have been NOTHING like mine, not just in practice, but in <em>substance</em> as well. The truth is that while my reaction to the Didache is that it feels like a knock-off of the Gospels, it actually <em>pre-dates</em> the Bible I have. Tony points out that the authors of the Didache seem to have no knowledge of the letters and theology of the Apostle Paul, and that the text was written well before the Gospel of John. How much of my theology --that which I believe and that which I wrestle with and reject-- is formed by the Pauline letters and John's presentation of Christ? I'm well familiar with the fact that the Bible as I have it now is the product of a lot of political back-and-forth between powerful bishops a few hundred years after Christ, but that doesn't change how I <em>feel</em> about the Bible or about the beliefs I have held on to (and those I've rejected) that have been informed by that Bible.<br /><br />Knowing that Christians were Christians before the New Testament as a fact and believing it are two different things. If I internalize the reality that the Christianity and the scriptures that I have are dramatically different than those of the early Christians, then I am put in a place of much deeper dependence on simple faith and God's guidance through the Holy Spirit. I could take refuge in an argument about God's sovereignty and how all of Christian history has been guided by His Will and we are exactly where He wants us to be --current scriptures and theological beliefs and all-- but I don't totally buy that. The intersection between God's omnipotence and man's free will is a fairly mysterious thing and I tend to think we've mucked things up rather a lot.<br /><br />Which brings me to the second part of chapter 3, where Tony introduces us to the Cymbrogi (named after an ancient Celtic word meaning "Companions of the Heart"), a group of 10 or so folks in rural Missouri who have grown disenchanted with the institutional churches from which they've come. Not all of them have chosen to leave those churches, but they have chosen to meet and to attempt to practice a Christianity that more closely resembles that of the early church, before church hierarchy and the Bible as we know it. They decided some time ago to study the Didache and to try to put it into practice within their community, and have testified that it has changed their lives, making them more honest with one another, more connected. Tony talks about the reaction of Trucker John, a member of the Cymbrogi, to the Didache in this passage on pages 42-43:<br /><br /><em>As the church grew in the first centuries, the emphasis became more and more on what you believe, which creed you recite, which doctrine you believe. But the Didache, John says, preserves a Christianity that emphasizes how you live. According to Trucker John, this seems more in keeping with the teachings of Jesus than the later controversies over doctrine ever did.</em><br /><em></em><br />After reading it through a few times, it was clear that this is the appeal of the Didache to me, too. Its teachings are very simple, yet deep, much like the Sermon on the Mount. Love God, really, with everything you have. Don't be selfish. Put others first. Always give when there's a need, and don't take when you have plenty. Don't engage in behaviors that will start you on a slippery slope to really destructive patterns. Don't do all of these things because God doesn't want you to, and God knows the correct way for you to live... because He's God and He loves you.<br /><br />Reading the directives of the Didache, once I got over my initial criticisms, was soothing and comforting, like being a child receiving the instruction of a trusted parent. I found myself reading it and feeling like "oh, ok". I don't feel like that very often, and I can see how reading this in community and trying to live by it would simplify things a lot, and would bring a kind of peace and order. My usual alarm bells about legalism do go off when I contemplate a list of "to-dos" of the spiritual life, but that's not what the Didache is. I really do welcome the clarity and simplicity of the teachings (they clear my head, so to speak) and they are rooted in common-sense principles, not just a list of mindless actions that you have to perform in order to make God happy.<br /><br />Trucker John, as it so happens, is the ex-brother-in-law of Trucker Frank, a theologian/trucker who reminds me quite a lot of my Dad (formerly Trucker Mike, now in seminary at Trinity Episcopal School for Ministry). Tony has an ongoing conversation with Frank throughout this book, and each chapter ends with an observation from him. Chapter 3 ends with<br /><br /><em>"What we [the Cymbrogi] share is a deep, soulful commitment to each other and to a fellowship beyond the walls of institutional church structures,” Frank says. “We are sometimes viewed with suspicion by others because we refuse to stay within the boundaries of a particular church hierarchy. We are, in that sense, an organic structure somewhere between the local church and the Church Universal.” </em><br /><em></em><br />As I've expressed on this blog before, I am indebted to institutional expressions of the Christian faith and I question folks who want to believe that the Church Universal just needs to shed those institutions in order to be in the Will of God. I really resonate with Trucker Frank's statement, though, and find that it is in this in-between space where I am most comfortable, as well. It's in the smaller faith community centered mostly around trying to have a common life centered in Christ where I find I'm able to breathe. Anywhere else I go I find that I'm tempted to care too much what others around me think, because I can pretty much lay money down on the fact that they will not like what, or how, I think (IF I ever tell them what I think, which I'm not likely to do). When I'm in a small community like <a href="http://commontable.org/">Common Table</a> that is not defined by denominational lines, I feel like I can bring what I have and folks will either accept or reject it without necessarily accepting or rejecting <em>me</em>.<br /><br />As this post is only about Chapter 3, I won't go on to talk further about the book, but it is well-written, substantive without being too heady, and a STEAL on Amazon for only $10.11! Pick up a copy. It'll be worth it... and stay tuned to the blog tour... a complete list of bloggers can be found <a href="http://www.paracletepress.com/didache.html">here</a>.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-2747113194925471714?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-83386498885431753272009-11-29T11:36:00.014-05:002009-11-29T12:25:44.639-05:00<em><span style="font-size:85%;">Image from </span></em><a href="http://farm3.static.flickr.com/2102/2103662898_91696bdc20.jpg"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">here</span></em><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 258px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409572751084099410" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/SxKpwYcAF1I/AAAAAAAAAPI/0DYpNNnvoMI/s320/car+salesman.jpg" /></a><br />So my Thanksgiving holiday sucked, another Epic Fail for the whole Trusting People and Giving Them A Second Chance thing. A man who dropped me like a hot potato with almost no explanation back in June phoned me up and asked for another chance a few weeks ago. I went up to his city to visit him, and after two seemingly lovely days, he did it AGAIN, with no explanation at all except some lame made-up excuses, when I was completely dependent upon him for transportation. I will say this, though... <a href="http://www.classycab.com/">Classy Cab</a> of Pittsburgh really is as classy as the name says, and did a fantastic job of helping me out on short notice on a busy Friday night. I highly recommend them.<br /><br /><div>Unfortunately, this is hardly the first time that someone has utterly flaked on me when I was giving them another chance. This has had me confused. It's perfectly normal for someone to spend time with me or with anyone else and decide that this person is not for them. What's not normal is for them to ask for a second round, or for me (or anyone else) to be so utterly crap at sensing whether a person is a Douchebag Royale, as this young man has proved himself to be. Twice. </div><div><br /></div><div>I think the problem is that I, like many people, have a hard time telling at first whether a person is an open-minded peacemaker who seeks to love people as Christ did or simply a shallow, selfish person who doesn't like any form of conflict. I know a lot of Christians who are quick to assume the latter upon meeting someone who seems to be "open-minded", and it does tend to protect them, although it also blocks them from getting to know some pretty amazing people. I tend to assume the former, and I do know a lot of amazing people as a result, but I have also been pretty thoroughly emotionally beaten up when I was wrong. </div><div><br /></div><div>The thing is, peace is never ever EVER cheap or easy. I want to believe the best about people, but that doesn't mean I don't still believe that human nature is fallen and tends towards selfishness. Even if you don't believe as I do, you have to acknowledge that people have different needs and competing interests. If you want to get along in this world and have meaningful relationships with anyone other than your pets, you HAVE to be willing to fight for peace... to get down in the dirt with your friends, co-workers, and family members, name where your conflicts lie, and decide --together-- how it's going to play out. Sometimes, you have to stalk around angrily for days and hash things out in your own head, then go ask for forgiveness. Or for an apology. I know that folks have different conflict styles, but regardless of how you approach conflict, you still have to APPROACH it, engage it, wrestle with it, rather than simply backing away. People are messy. Relationships are hard. But that's just how it is and it's totally, totally worth it. </div><div></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>It may be willful ignorance/innocence on my part to be routinely blown away by the fact that many people just sleepwalk through their relationships, cut off ties anytime things get rough or someone tries to get deeper, and blame every single failing on someone other than themselves. I know that I do this sometimes, too, but I also get my butt kicked by God when I do. The best friendships that I have are ones that went silent or ugly at some point, and where we've eventually thrown down and been honest about things or at least clumsily navigated through the choppy waters. I guess the important point is that it is <em>God</em> kicking my butt in these situations, refusing to let me be completely dishonest with myself, and that people not living with the Holy Spirit in their lives don't have that impetus towards painful honesty about their own failings and those of others. The Holy Spirit pushes us towards life as God would have us live it. I always have so far to go and mess up a lot, but I can honestly say that I'm grateful that God forces me to be real about things, and that He pushes me into conflict when that's what's necessary to save a relationship that's important to me. </div><div><br /></div><div>Don't get me wrong... if you know me, you know straight up that I am not constantly challenging people. I generally keep it pretty light and try to enjoy being with folk... but because I really, truly care about my friends, I will also be blunt if I feel it's necessary, and if you're my friend, I will respect you if you're blunt with me when necessary, too... even though I may go off and sulk a few days before I thank you for it.</div><br /><div>The bottom line: I believe that peace is never cheap, not on any level, but definitely not on a relational one. Being shallow and refusing to engage deeply with people isn't peace. It's just being a bit dead and selfish. God help all of us who have problems with this to be better at discerning who is shallow and who is truly a peacemaker so we don't keep getting the crap knocked out of us when we have our trust violated. </div><div></div><div><br /></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div></div><div>That is all.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-8338649888543175327?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-22375020520115854992009-11-29T08:38:00.005-05:002009-11-29T09:02:48.071-05:00<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/SxJ-EywckBI/AAAAAAAAAOw/39tNSXez_XQ/s1600/the-teaching-of-the-twelve-200px.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 297px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409524723234934802" border="0" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/SxJ-EywckBI/AAAAAAAAAOw/39tNSXez_XQ/s320/the-teaching-of-the-twelve-200px.jpg" /></a>I'm lifting the text of this post from fellow blogger <a href="http://miketodd.typepad.com/">Mike Todd</a>, who lifted it directly from the <a href="http://www.paracletepress.com/didache.html">Paraclete Press website</a>.<br /><br />Next week I'll be participating in a blog book tour hosted by Paraclete Press. Here's what they have to say, and the schedule:<br /><br />The Didache, an early handbook of an anonymous Christian community, "is the most important book you never read." It spells out a way of life for Jesus-followers, including how to show one another the love of God, how to practice the Eucharist, and how to take in wandering prophets.<br /><br />Likely written before many of the New Testament books, this little-known text can enlighten the way that Christians are church today.<br /><br />Tony Jones new book, The Teaching of the Twelve, unpacks this ancient document with insight and perspective, and traces the life of a small house church in Missouri that is trying to live according to its precepts.<br /><br />Included in the book is a new, contemporary English translation of the Didache.<br /><br />Join us on a blog tour of Tony Jones new book, <a href="http://www.paracletepress.com/the-teaching-of-the-twelve-believing-and-practicing-the-primitive-christianity-of-the-ancient-didach.html">The Teaching of the Twelve: Believing and Practicing the Primitive Christianity of the Ancient Didache Community</a> beginning the first Monday of Advent, November 30:<br /><br />November 30: An introduction with <a href="http://blog.tonyj.net/">Tony Jones</a><br /><br />December 1: Chapter 1 - The Most Important Book You've Never Heard of - with Adam Walker Cleaveland at <a href="http://pomomusings.com/">pomomusings</a> and Thomas Turner at <a href="http://everydayliturgy.com/">everydayliturgy</a><br /><br />December 2: Chapter 3 - The Didache Community - Then and Now - with Ted Gossard at <a href="http://communityofjesus.wordpress.com/">Jesus Community</a> and Amy Moffitt at <a href="http://moffou.blogspot.com/">Without a Map</a><br /><br />December 3: Chapter 4 - There Are Two Ways - with Tripp Fuller at <a href="http://homebrewedchristianity.com/">homebrewedchristianity</a> and with Holly Rankin-Zaher at <a href="http://happydaydeadfish.blogspot.com/">happydaydeadfish</a><br /><br />December 4: Chapter 5 - Sex, Money, and Other Means of Getting Along - with Chris Monroe at <a href="http://www.desertpastor.com/">Paradoxology</a> and Mike Todd at <a href="http://miketodd.typepad.com/">Waving or Drowning?</a><br /><br />December 5: Chapter 6 - Living Together In Community - with Brother Maynard at <a href="http://subversiveinfluence.com/">Subversiveinfluence</a> and <a href="http://king.typepad.com/">Mike King</a><br /><br />December 6: Chapter 7 - The End is Nigh - with Greg Arthur at <a href="http://holinessreeducation.com/">Holinessreeducation.com</a> and Mike Stavlund at <a href="http://comingtolife.blogspot.com/">Awakening</a><br /><br />December 7: Epilogue - with <a href="http://lukecmiller.wordpress.com/">Luke C. Miller</a> and Carl McColman at <a href="http://anamchara.com/">The Website of Unknowing</a><br /><br />December 8: Special Question - Is this text - The Didache - really so important? Why? Do we know that it was important to the earliest communities of Christians? with Jonathan Brink at <a href="http://jonathanbrink.com/">Missio Dei</a><br /><br />December 9: Special Question - Does the Didache teach or advise anything that substantively differs from what was decided at the earliest ecumenical church councils (such as Nicaea) with <a href="http://dwightfriesen.com/">Dwight Friesen</a><br /><br />December 10: Special Question - Why is the Didache relevant, in particular today? Is it more relevant today than it was, say 100 years ago? Why? with <a href="http://bobhyatt.typepad.com/">Bob Hyatt</a><br /><br />Starting Dec. 1st purchase 3+ copies of this book at a 40% discount. This special offer ends on December 11th, with the close of the blog tour!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-2237502052011585499?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-77768959515641550442009-11-20T11:12:00.002-05:002009-11-20T12:25:20.414-05:00So, after a couple of weeks of blog posts, emails and conference calls, Zondervan has made the decision to pull Deadly Viper Character Assassins out of stores and take down the website. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, you can find the announcement on Dr. Soong-Chan Rah's website <a href="http://tinyurl.com/yeow3gz">here</a> and if you keep going back through the posts you'll get a good feel for the whole story. The comments sections have plenty of representation from both sides of the debate.<br /><br />Some people are applauding this, but a lot of other people are decrying this as a tragedy as folks will not be benefitting from the content of the books and the site. They see the objections from those on the other side of the fence as much ado about nothing and a victory for political correctness.<br /><br />And this is what I have to say to those people: You are racists.<br /><br />And so am I.<br /><br />And so is everybody.<br /><br />Which excuses absolutely NONE of us from the responsibility to work against it and to repent when we see our racism hurting others.<br /><br />I remember very well the feelings of rage I had when I entered a mostly African-American high school and realized that I was regularly being judged by the color of my skin. Why, I LOVED black people!! I cried tears of remorse and anger every time I heard stories of slavery, and I did love me some blues. More specifically, I didn't hold anger at any particular black person based on the color of their skin. Why would *anyone* have a problem with me??<br /><br />Obviously, I didn't get it.<br /><br />The truth is, I was blind. I'd been raised to lock my car door when I entered the predominately black sections of town. My shoulders clenched when I had to pass a black man on the sidewalk and I involuntarily held my purse closer to me. I stared openly when I saw someone who appeared Asian, since we just didn't have that many Asians in my city. I waited for them to say something in their funny language so I could remark at how *interesting* it was and giggle at the "unnatural" tonality of their voices. And Mexicans? I kept my distance. God only knows what they might do.<br /><br />My white privilege blinded me to a racism that was in the very marrow of my bones and ran in my blood. It took being the minority, and being enraged that ANYONE could label me a racist when *clearly* I wasn't, to begin to recognize what was achingly obvious to anyone around me who didn't identify as white. It started me down what has become a long and sometimes extremely painful path of identifying my privilege and my assumptions, and how they killed possible beautiful relationships with folks around me... and I have a long, long way to go. I expect I'll be working through this for my entire life.<br /><br />The rage that folks are feeling right now about Zondervan's decision to pull Deadly Viper is a GOOD THING. If people will get good and pissed and wrestle with what they're feeling and talk and think and process their attitudes towards the topic of race and towards those of other races, good things will result. If they do these in an attitude of prayer and a desire to really understand one another, EVEN BETTER. The Spirit will get right in the middle of that and life will come out of it.<br /><br />The action Zondervan took is a VERY good thing. I don't know that they or the authors of Deadly Viper totally "get it" even now, but they repented of the wounds they caused or reopened through how their book and website were packaged, regardless of whether they totally got it or not. THAT, folks, is leadership... to repent when you've wronged someone and take action towards reconciliation, even if you still don't quite understand what you did... to say "my relationship with you is important enough to me that I will repent and work to repair it no matter what"? That takes serious courage and moral strength. THIS is leadership lived out, and it is a beautiful, difficult, complicated thing.<br /><br />Your racism is *your* responsibility, as mine is *my* responsibility. If you're white, chances are you can choose to ignore the subject. Most other folks don't have that option. My challenge to all that are really pissed off about this is to take a long, hard look at themselves in the mirror and ask themselves how they'd feel if that face looking back at them had a different color, eyes of a different shape, hair a different color and texture. What would the world look like through those eyes? Then ask what you really, really, in your heart of hearts think of those of another race. and repent. because I promise you that we ALL need to repent for this on some level.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-7776895951564155044?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-45762516578525727752009-11-11T12:17:00.016-05:002009-11-11T13:56:32.617-05:00<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/SvrybZ2phRI/AAAAAAAAAOo/Ixd0Os0zCKg/s1600-h/future+of+faith.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 211px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5402897255594820882" border="0" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/SvrybZ2phRI/AAAAAAAAAOo/Ixd0Os0zCKg/s320/future+of+faith.jpg" /></a>This post is so overdue, and it's because I don't want to write it.<br /><br />That's not because I didn't like this book. On the contrary, I found it fascinating, stimulating, and as much fun as I've ever had reading such a scholarly book. Cox has that rare and beautiful gift of being both a master of his subject and a graceful and engaging writer. I even once intentionally rode my bus past the stop where I normally get off because I couldn't bear to put the book down. I pretty much never, ever do that for any book, and *definitely* not for a book on the history of the church.<br /><br />It's also not because I disagree with his central arguments or have an issue with how he argued them. I don't. I'm not qualified to make statements on the scholarship that he refers to, but I do feel that he supports his propositions well without getting deeply bogged down in minutae. However, I wanted more citations, more support, because I was sometimes troubled by what he was proposing... but I did not disagree with him. I wrote "aaargh" in the margins of this book more than once, but not at outrage over a poorly constructed argument or an outrageous claim. It was because what he was saying and describing hurt... it cut close to home more than once.<br /><br />Here's one of the money quotes from the beginning of the book:<br /><br />"Now we stand on the threshold of a new chapter in the Christian story. Despite dire forecasts of its decline, Christianity is growing faster than it ever has before, but mainly outside the West and in movements that accent spiritual experience, discipleship, and hope; pay scant attention to creeds, and flourish without hierarchies. We are now witnessing the beginning of a 'post-Constaninian era.' Christians on five continents are shaking off the residues of [Christian history since Constantine], and negotiating a bumpy transition into a fresh era for which a name has not yet been coined. I would like to suggest we call it the 'Age of the Spirit.' "p. 8<br /><br />This is more or less the book's thesis, and Cox spends the book arguing this point, picking up a lot of other related issues along the way. But he reframes the argument a couple of times, and this is where my heart gets broken. Two more money quotes and then I'll get on to my point:<br /><br />"Recent discoveries about the first three centuries after the crucifixion of Jesus... help clarify how Christianity deteriorated from a movement generated by faith and hope into a religious empire demarcated by prescribed doctrines and ruled by a priestly elite. They trace how a loose network of local congregations, with varied forms of leadership, congealed into a rigid class structure with a privileged clerical caste at the top ruling over an increasingly disenfranchised laity on the bottom. They help explain why women, who played such a vital leadership role in the earliest days, were pushed to the underside and the edges. These discoveries sugggest that Christianity was not fated to develop as it did, that what happened was not simply a natural process like a tiny acorn growing into a mighty oak. A different historical trajectory was possible, and this has significant implications for the future. In short, Christianity now has a second chance." p. 55<br /><br />"The parody of Christianity that took shape in the fourth century was not only a radical subversion of the teaching of Jesus and the apostles, albeit carried out in their name. It also resulted in an equally radical subversion of the original meaning of the word 'faith.' Students of the history of language know that changing contexts alter the meaning of words, and this is what happened to the word 'faith'. Along with the 'imperialization' of the church and the glorification of the bishops, now 'faith' came to mean <em>obeying the bishop and assenting to what he taught</em>. Faith had been coarsened into belief, and this distortion has hobbled Christianity ever since." p. 98<br /><br />So, here's what I have to say about that, and about this book in general.<br /><br />I agree with Dr. Cox, and I have sought out churches and people who do not place their faith in the institutions of the church but in the living God and in Christ. I share the outrage at how the structures of the institutional church choked the life out of the faith in many ways (and still do), and particularly at how those structures subjugated women and minorities for centuries. I see how deadly some of these doctrines are, how little support they have from scripture, really. Speaking of scripture (Cox also addresses errors in how the scriptures are used by the church), I know first hand what it is to idolize the scriptures, to treat them as a sort of "paper pope", without wanting to know where they came from or what political machinations were involved in selecting what came to be considered canon and what was not. I still wrestle with this, even now.<br /><br />But I am also an ex-Catholic, and I experienced such profound beauty while engaged in that expression of faith, the Spirit blooming brightly away from the power structures like a flower from a cracked sidewalk. The same is true of my practice of faith in childhood and adolescence, where the teachings of the Reformed tradition were something I both loved and hated, was blessed by and also resisted, for the overall betterment of my spiritual life as I was trained to critically think about scripture and to struggle with truth. I believe that for every congregation that seeks to bring the faith "forward", there are at least two others digging their heels in the ground and calling for a return to "tradition" (although they are generally being very selective about what they consider "tradition" and what they do not).<br /><br />I am a proud member of the emergent church movement, and I love it dearly, but I see it as one movement among many... necessary to make sure that the Kingdom is brought into existence among the people involved with and touched by it and to bring attention to issues that other Christian denominations may choose to ignore... but not the answer to all of Christianity's woes. It is a basic feature of human social organization that we form ingroups and outgroups, that we exalt some and demonize others. I try to push against this in my own heart... it's a core belief of mine that to be a Christian is to try to pull it all together, to try to see everyone with as much compassion as you can muster while still defending the weak and helpless. But I don't expect that everyone will think the way I do. I know that for so very many people, their expression of Christianity is one side in a battle to the death. I don't agree with this or like it, but I don't expect it to change.<br /><br />For someone who represents the way forward for the faith to say that the institutional church is a parody and a corruption of Christianity breaks my heart, because it draws that dividing line between "us" and "them" and has the effect of setting up a parallel set of rules and standards that a person must abide by in order to be respected as a person of faith. For many people, the insititutional church *is* their expression of faith. I want very much for them <em>not </em>to believe that, and I also fear that they do not truly have faith in or truly seek after God. But who am I to dismiss their striving? Who am I to say outright that their reliance on the structures of a vast institutional church or any of the rites and rituals they engage in are a parody of the faith Christ intended? Why can't I believe that there is a place for them, too, in the Kingdom of God, even if they will not extend me the same generosity?<br /><br />I'm sure that Dr. Cox is committed to reconciliation and peacemaking... I think in some ways that he's indirectly advocating for practices of faith that have this at their center, and against those who do not. However, he does it in a way that would make reconciliation and peacemaking extremely difficult for many practioners of the Christian faith.<br /><br />All of that being said, I would strongly urge you to read the book for yourself and have your own reaction. It may be that taking a side is what is required in order to move the Christian faith into God's intended future. I'm not really there yet. I still want us to find ways to connect among ourselves under our shared commitment to Christ.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-4576251657852572775?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-11753264919616574352009-10-31T11:49:00.005-04:002009-10-31T12:06:53.640-04:00<em><span style="font-size:85%;">(If you've come here from another theoblogger site, I intend to post my first theoblogger response to Cox's book tomorrow. My apologies for the lateness...)</span></em><br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">(tree image is from </span></em><a href="http://inlinethumb26.webshots.com/23769/2524786280099034237S425x425Q85.jpg"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">here</span></em></a><em><span style="font-size:85%;">)<br /></span></em>I just finished my response piece for SPARK and thought I'd post it here as 1) my Dad has informed me that I am neglecting my blog and 2) it is a good piece for Halloween since it's about death and stuff. :^)<br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/SuxfbMUTH3I/AAAAAAAAAOY/0rnpmMV-X9I/s1600-h/cemetery+tree.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 239px; FLOAT: right; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398794974077853554" border="0" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_B59BmuF_eoY/SuxfbMUTH3I/AAAAAAAAAOY/0rnpmMV-X9I/s320/cemetery+tree.jpg" /></a><br /><strong>Rooted<br />(a poem to the bathroom mirror) </strong><br /><br />How is it that you can hate with such passion<br />when somewhere the moon has risen tonight<br />over your burial place?<br /><br />(I can hear the sound of your beloved weeping<br />carried over the cemetery wall<br />by the same breeze that cools the face of your enemy)<br /><br />Don’t you know we’re all connected?<br /><br />The roots of your hatred wind down deeper than you think,<br />like the roots in the cemetery,<br />down through the topsoil<br />winding around rocks, pieces of old metal, plastic, and bone.<br /><br />Don’t you know that anger rots your bones<br />even as you live and breath?<br /><br />Look.<br />There is a tree in the cemetery.<br />Two enemies were buried on either side.<br />Look how tall it’s grown,<br />heedless to the hatred that nourishes its roots.<br /><br />(I am asking you, lady, to forgive.<br />I am asking you to remember how you have been forgiven.)<br /><br />Here, here is an invitation<br />to toss away the label “enemy”,<br />to forget what has gone before<br />to move forward, free and light<br /><br />as the leaves blown off the cemetery trees<br />floating free and spinning slowly<br />lightened of their clinging load.<br /><br />You may not have another chance.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-1175326491961657435?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-26271127245074687052009-10-20T19:00:00.003-04:002009-10-20T19:04:28.449-04:00<a href="http://clayton.ctr4process.org/">Philip Clayton</a> and <a href="http://www.hds.harvard.edu/faculty/em/cox.cfm">Harvey Cox</a> both have new books out and they are taking them out on tour. One of the blog tour stops will be here, but as you can see below they will be making their rounds over the next month until they wrap things up in Montreal at the<a href="http://www.aarweb.org/Meetings/Annual_Meeting/Current_Meeting/default.asp"> American Academy of Religion</a>'s annual meeting. There they will be joined by an illustrious panel including <a href="http://www.princeton.edu/religion/people/display_person.xml?netid=gregory"><strong>Eric Gregory</strong></a>, <a href="http://www.brucesanguin.com/iWeb/Site/Welcome.html"><strong>Bruce Sanguin</strong></a>, <a href="http://www.utsnyc.edu/Page.aspx?pid=1081"><strong>Serene Jones</strong></a>, <a href="http://divinity.wfu.edu/faculty-tupper.html"><strong>Frank Tupper</strong></a>, and <strong><a href="http://www.united.edu/Andrew-Sung-Park/Andrew-Sung-Park/menu-id-320.html">Andrew Sung Park</a> </strong> to share a 'Big Idea' for the future of the Church. These 'Big Ideas' will be video tapped and shared, so be on the look out for live footage from the last night of the tour.<br /><br />Philip's new book is <em><a href="http://www.augsburgfortress.org/store/item.jsp?isbn=0800696999&amp;productgroupid=0&amp;clsid=198393&amp;infoid=22776">Transforming Christian Theology for Church &amp; Society</a></em> and Harvey's is <a href="http://www.harpercollins.com/books/9780061755521/The_Future_of_Faith/index.aspx"><em>The Future of Faith</em></a>. Both are worth checking out at one of the many tour stops. If you can't wait <a href="http://homebrewedchristianity.com/2009/10/08/harvey-cox-and-philip-clayton-on-faith-and-theology-for-the-future-church-homebrewed-christianity-64/">you can listen to them</a> interview each other. Meanwhile, stay tuned to my blog and check out my fellow theobloggers below.<br /><br /><a href="http://weethee.blogspot.com">Joseph Weethee </a>, <a href="http://www.bartlettpublishing.com/site/bartpub/blog/2">Jonathan Bartlett</a>, <a href="http://www.thechurchgeek.com">The Church Geek, </a><a href="http://jacobscafe.blogspot.com/">Jacob’s Cafe</a>, <a href="http://reverendmommy.blogspot.com">Reverend Mommy</a>, <a href="http://www.knightopia.com">Steve Knight, </a><a href="http://www.toddlittleton.net">Todd Littleton, </a><a href="http://urban-twiga.blogspot.com/">Christina Accornero, </a><a href="http://johndavidryan.blogspot.com">John David Ryan, </a><a href="http://www.leanngunterjohns.wordpress.com">LeAnn Gunter Johns, </a><a href="http://www.chaseandre.wordpress.com">Chase Andre, </a><a href="http://mattmoorman.wordpress.com/">Matt Moorman</a>, <a href="http://emergentoutliers.com">Gideon Addington</a>, <a href="http://rynomi.wordpress.com">Ryan Dueck, </a><a href="http://hrht-revisingreform.blogspot.com/">Rachel Marszalek, </a><a href="http://moffou.blogspot.com">Amy Moffitt, </a><a href="http://thesagelyblog.blogspot.com">Josh Wallace, </a><a href="http://Creationproject.wordpress.com">Jonathan Dodson</a>, <a href="http://stephenbarkley.com">Stephen Barkley</a>, <a href="http://montygalloway.blogspot.com">Monty Galloway, </a><a href="http://stormface.wordpress.com">Colin McEnroe, </a><a href="http://taddelay.wordpress.com">Tad DeLay, </a><a href="http://fuzzythinking.davidmullens.com">David Mullens, </a><a href="http://www.barefootbohemian.blogspot.com">Kimberly Roth, </a><a href="http://www.anglobaptist.org/blog">Tripp Hudgins</a>, <a href="../">Tripp Fuller</a>, <a href="http://www.theparishokc.org">Greg Horton, </a><a href="http://www.astatum.net">Andrew Tatum, </a><a href="http://notes-from-offcenter.com">Drew Tatusko, </a><a href="http://samandress.blogspot.com">Sam Andress, </a><a href="http://abooklook.blogspot.com/">Susan Barnes, </a><a href="http://www.enyarts.com">Jared Enyart, </a><a href="http://www.jakebouma.com">Jake Bouma, </a><a href="http://www.eliacin.com">Eliacin Rosario-Cruz, </a><a href="http://blakehuggins.com/">Blake Huggins</a>, <a href="http://logicofthecross.blogspot.com/">Lance Green</a>, <a href="http://scottlenger.com">Scott Lenger, </a><a href="http://churchremix.wordpress.com">Dan Rose, </a><a href="http://everydayliturgy.com">Thomas Turner, </a><a href="http://lchatwin.blogspot.com">Les Chatwin, </a><a href="http://whsknox.blogs.com/transforming_theology/">Joseph Carson, </a><a href="http://ephphatha-poetry.blogspot.com/">Brian Brandsmeier, </a><a href="http://jesushunger.blogspot.com">J. D. Allen,</a> <a href="http://www.gregbolt.com">Greg Bolt, </a><a href="http://amultitudeofsins.wordpress.com">Tim Snyder, </a><a href="http://matthewlkelley.blogspot.com">Matthew L. Kelley, </a><a href="http://simplegestures.wordpress.com">Carl McLendon</a>, <a href="http://cartermcneese.blogspot.com">Carter McNeese</a>, <a href="http://david-gillespie.blogspot.com/">David R. Gillespie, </a><a href="http://www.stewart5.net">Arthur Stewart</a>, <a href="http://www.feralpastor.blogspot.com">Tim Thompson</a>, <a href="http://www.joebumblog.blogspot.com/">Joe Bumbulis</a>, <a href="http://pastorbobcornwall.blogspot.com/">Bob Cornwall</a><br /><br />This Tour is Sponsored by <a href="http://transformingtheology.org/">Transforming Theology DOT org!</a><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-2627112724507468705?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7553624345781528433.post-63928061548862105552009-10-18T17:32:00.006-04:002009-10-18T17:46:17.200-04:00So here's a couple of videos from last night's <a href="http://artspark.wordpress.com/">SPARK</a> reading at Beanetics in Annandale, VA. Mad props to my friend Heidi Burns for shooting these vids with my little digital camera.<br /><br />This is called "Memorial Day"...<br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/GTGkI6yJqbE&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/GTGkI6yJqbE&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><br /><br />and this is called "Flow". If it doesn't sound much like po-tree to you, you're right. To be all technical and stuff, it's a piece of <a href="http://www.percontra.net/flashfiction.htm">flash fiction</a>, not a poem.<br /><br /><object width="445" height="364"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/PUdK-c7X_8I&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/PUdK-c7X_8I&hl=en&fs=1&color1=0x2b405b&color2=0x6b8ab6&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="445" height="364"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/7553624345781528433-6392806154886210555?l=moffou.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Moffhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03332881229623918118noreply@blo