Clattering Bones has moved to www.clatteringbones.com.
If you are not re-directed automatically, come see me over there.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
Nina Simone and Freedom - "A New Way of Seeing"
Just came across this story, written by Salamishah Tillet, on Nina Simone's dream of freedom. In the story is this video of Nina Simone singing "I Wish I Knew How it Feels to be Free."
From the interview:
The question posed: "What does freedom mean to you?" She starts of casually and impersonally and in a split second turns dead serious, she confesses, "I'll tell you what freedom is to me - no fear! ... If I could have that in my life, no fear." She goes on: "It is something really, really to feel - like a new way of seeing."Yep - something like that...
The Necessity of Vulnerability
I've been ruminating on vulnerability lately. I'm not sure if it's because of my ruminations that I've been more aware of the ways I see people making themselves vulnerable, or if there is something in the water, but it seems that vulnerability is going around.
A few weeks ago, I read Jason Alexander's apology for making a joke about cricket being a "gay" sport. Alexander's vulnerability in acknowledging his privilege as a straight, white man took a lot of courage.
Then, Saturday I watched a TED talk of Research Professor Brene Brown speaking about vulnerability, and then her follow-up video about shame (both are right at twenty minutes long, and are well worth the time).
Then on Sunday, I heard a sermon on resilience, and embracing change (which can be found here, and is super-good reading), which references Dr. Brown's second video, the one on shame, and how essential it is to overcome the fear of failure and shame associated with failure if we are to reach out and take risks. I actually watched the TED talk after having a conversation with my pastor, Carla, in which she told me she'd listened to it in preparation for the sermon. (I acknowledge that the two lectures are really tied together in one event, but I'm trying to make the point that I've had vulnerability on the brain - and to share Brene Brown with whoever may not know of her - she's awesome, and she's from Texas, which makes her double-awesome.)
Then, today, I came across this article, in which Anderson Cooper came out. For many of us, this was no big surprise - as rusty as some rumor mills may be, Cooper's sexual orientation is not big news. However, his statement is really compelling, courageous, and totally heartfelt. The last paragraph is so good I'm just gonna share it all here:
In Brown's first lecture, the one embedded above, she talks about the necessity of connection, and how shame is underpinned by this "excruciating vulnerability" which tells us that, in order for connection to happen, we have to allow ourselves to be seen. The thing that keeps us out of connection is, quite simply, the fear that we are not worthy of it - not worthy of being loved; of being known; of being seen. To be vulnerable is...well, it's scary - it's unnerving, it's...vulnerable! It's to put yourself out there without the certainty of a soft place to land - it's to open yourself up to being known without the assurance that others will want to know you back. It's to be exposed, without the assurance that you will be protected in that exposure.
After watching Dr. Brown's lectures, I found myself saying something along the lines of: "That's all well and good, and I see her point - I agree that it is essential that we allow ourselves to be vulnerable." But, I kept asking - How do we function in a way that allows us to be vulnerable in a world that does not treat that kind of behavior kindly? I mean, being vulnerable with those I'm closest to is one thing - they are invested in the relationship as much as I am, equally striving to know and let themselves be known. But, come on - doesn't it seem just a bit risky, even reckless, to model that behavior everywhere? I kind of mockingly asked myself if we're just supposed to model that behavior, to just jump out there, warts and all, and wait for that to be reciprocated...
I fully believe that when we allow ourselves to be open to one another, to really know and be known by another, we gain an understanding of God's love for us. I would even venture to say that it is only when we risk some amount of vulnerability that we can begin to understand God's love for us. When I am able to share a vulnerable space with someone, I begin to see more of who they really are; I begin to love them in a way that wasn't possible before - I have a hunch that this teaches us something about God's love. But, I still don't know how to do that without at least a little expectation (that I'll be acknowledged, or respected, or loved in return). Often, those expectations get tangled in with the fear of rejection; and, well, then I just feel kind of scared and anxious.
So, back to my question - Do we model it, allow ourselves to be vulnerable, and do so with the hope that in opening up the space to be fully ourselves (and in being intentional about inviting others to do the same), we might begin to trust the space we share with one another?
Short answer: Hell yes, we do - that's exactly what we do.
However, we do so remembering that we are not alone; and that, as the challenge of being vulnerable with those we are closest to eases, the risk of opening ourselves up more to those who may not be so kind begins to feel less risky. I'm not saying that I'm going to walk up to a complete stranger and start sharing all of my vulnerabilities with them. But, maybe I'll start by telling my friends that I'm insecure about ________________, or scared of ___________, or even that I really love _______________, and see how that goes - see if I can risk being known. In that process, might we all begin to learn that we are worthy of love - and so are all of those around us. It becomes a lot easier to put your neck out on the line if you know you've got someone holding the rest of you up.
Vulnerability is the glue that makes connection possible - it is the fiber that gives our relationships strength. It is scary as all get-out, but it is essential, it is fundamental, and it is really nice to know that you are not the only one who has to carry yourself around. I've said it before, and I'll say it again - we're all in this together, my friends, and it is vital that we tell our stories, that we let ourselves be known, if anything is going to change.
A few weeks ago, I read Jason Alexander's apology for making a joke about cricket being a "gay" sport. Alexander's vulnerability in acknowledging his privilege as a straight, white man took a lot of courage.
Then, Saturday I watched a TED talk of Research Professor Brene Brown speaking about vulnerability, and then her follow-up video about shame (both are right at twenty minutes long, and are well worth the time).
Then on Sunday, I heard a sermon on resilience, and embracing change (which can be found here, and is super-good reading), which references Dr. Brown's second video, the one on shame, and how essential it is to overcome the fear of failure and shame associated with failure if we are to reach out and take risks. I actually watched the TED talk after having a conversation with my pastor, Carla, in which she told me she'd listened to it in preparation for the sermon. (I acknowledge that the two lectures are really tied together in one event, but I'm trying to make the point that I've had vulnerability on the brain - and to share Brene Brown with whoever may not know of her - she's awesome, and she's from Texas, which makes her double-awesome.)
Then, today, I came across this article, in which Anderson Cooper came out. For many of us, this was no big surprise - as rusty as some rumor mills may be, Cooper's sexual orientation is not big news. However, his statement is really compelling, courageous, and totally heartfelt. The last paragraph is so good I'm just gonna share it all here:
In my opinion, the ability to love another person is one of God's greatest gifts, and I thank God every day for enabling me to give and share love with the people in my life. I appreciate your [Andrew Sullivan, who wrote the post] asking me to weigh in on this [story about the trend of public figures coming out], and I would be happy for you to share my thoughts with your readers. I still consider myself a reserved person, and I hope this doesn't mean an end to a small amount of personal space. But I do think visibility is important, more important than preserving my reporter's shield of privacy.It was that last sentence that got me, that reminded me that part of what Anderson Cooper tries to do is present an unbiased account of what's going on in the world (I realize some of you may debate my use of unbiased there, but let's save that for another time). I also realized that Cooper does a lot of work in countries where being gay is still punishable by death. He is taking a risk - putting his neck out there, as well as those of the crew who work with him, because he has reached a point where he feels it is more important to be visible as a gay man, who knows he is loved, and is unashamed of who he is, than it is for him to remain behind his "reporter's shield of privacy." I respect him for that courage.
In Brown's first lecture, the one embedded above, she talks about the necessity of connection, and how shame is underpinned by this "excruciating vulnerability" which tells us that, in order for connection to happen, we have to allow ourselves to be seen. The thing that keeps us out of connection is, quite simply, the fear that we are not worthy of it - not worthy of being loved; of being known; of being seen. To be vulnerable is...well, it's scary - it's unnerving, it's...vulnerable! It's to put yourself out there without the certainty of a soft place to land - it's to open yourself up to being known without the assurance that others will want to know you back. It's to be exposed, without the assurance that you will be protected in that exposure.
After watching Dr. Brown's lectures, I found myself saying something along the lines of: "That's all well and good, and I see her point - I agree that it is essential that we allow ourselves to be vulnerable." But, I kept asking - How do we function in a way that allows us to be vulnerable in a world that does not treat that kind of behavior kindly? I mean, being vulnerable with those I'm closest to is one thing - they are invested in the relationship as much as I am, equally striving to know and let themselves be known. But, come on - doesn't it seem just a bit risky, even reckless, to model that behavior everywhere? I kind of mockingly asked myself if we're just supposed to model that behavior, to just jump out there, warts and all, and wait for that to be reciprocated...
I fully believe that when we allow ourselves to be open to one another, to really know and be known by another, we gain an understanding of God's love for us. I would even venture to say that it is only when we risk some amount of vulnerability that we can begin to understand God's love for us. When I am able to share a vulnerable space with someone, I begin to see more of who they really are; I begin to love them in a way that wasn't possible before - I have a hunch that this teaches us something about God's love. But, I still don't know how to do that without at least a little expectation (that I'll be acknowledged, or respected, or loved in return). Often, those expectations get tangled in with the fear of rejection; and, well, then I just feel kind of scared and anxious.
So, back to my question - Do we model it, allow ourselves to be vulnerable, and do so with the hope that in opening up the space to be fully ourselves (and in being intentional about inviting others to do the same), we might begin to trust the space we share with one another?
Short answer: Hell yes, we do - that's exactly what we do.
However, we do so remembering that we are not alone; and that, as the challenge of being vulnerable with those we are closest to eases, the risk of opening ourselves up more to those who may not be so kind begins to feel less risky. I'm not saying that I'm going to walk up to a complete stranger and start sharing all of my vulnerabilities with them. But, maybe I'll start by telling my friends that I'm insecure about ________________, or scared of ___________, or even that I really love _______________, and see how that goes - see if I can risk being known. In that process, might we all begin to learn that we are worthy of love - and so are all of those around us. It becomes a lot easier to put your neck out on the line if you know you've got someone holding the rest of you up.
Vulnerability is the glue that makes connection possible - it is the fiber that gives our relationships strength. It is scary as all get-out, but it is essential, it is fundamental, and it is really nice to know that you are not the only one who has to carry yourself around. I've said it before, and I'll say it again - we're all in this together, my friends, and it is vital that we tell our stories, that we let ourselves be known, if anything is going to change.
Sunday, July 1, 2012
Poem Sunday - "From Blossoms"
Feeling particularly grateful this evening - for lots of things, really; but, in particular today, I'm feeling grateful for the gift of community, for family (both given and created); for those who at times know me better than I know myself (and who love me despite all that), who trust me enough to let me know them, and bear with me patiently as I navigate along this life; and for the sheer gift of being able to share my life with such wonderful people.
"From Blossoms," by Li-Young Lee
From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
"From Blossoms," by Li-Young Lee
From blossoms comes
this brown paper bag of peaches
we bought from the boy
at the bend in the road where we turned toward
signs painted Peaches.
From laden boughs, from hands,
from sweet fellowship in the bins,
comes nectar at the roadside, succulent
peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,
comes the familiar dust of summer, dust we eat.
O, to take what we love inside,
to carry within us an orchard, to eat
not only the skin, but the shade,
not only the sugar, but the days, to hold
the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into
the round jubilance of peach.
There are days we live
as if death were nowhere
in the background; from joy
to joy to joy, from wing to wing,
from blossom to blossom to
impossible blossom, to sweet impossible blossom.
Friday, June 29, 2012
The paradox of a "Personal Jesus"
"In Those Years," by Adrienne Rich
In those years, people will say, we lost track
of the meaning of we, of you
we found ourselves
reduced to I
and the whole thing became
silly, ironic, terrible:
we were trying to live a personal life
and, yes, that was the only life
we could bear witness to
But the great dark birds of history screamed and plunged
into our personal weather
They were headed somewhere else but their beaks and pinions drove
along the shore, through the rags of fog
where we stood, saying I
1991
[Side note: The title of this blog post references a song by Depeche Mode (and wonderfully covered by Johnny Cash, I might add). It's a catchy tune: great beat, good for dancing or singing along, meant to be kind of an ironic play on the way that people can become Jesus to each other. As songwriter Martin Gore puts it, the song was inspired by Priscilla Presley's book Elvis and Me: "It's a song about being a Jesus for somebody else, someone to give you hope and care. It's about how Elvis was her man and her mentor and how often that happens in love relationship; how everybody's heart is like a god in some way, and that's not a very balanced view of someone, is it?" (Fox, Marisa (4 July 1990). "Pop a la Mode" Spin 6(4). Retrieved ala wikipedia, 29 Jun 2012).]
Growing up in the Bible Belt, it was not at all uncommon to hear people talk about having a "personal relationship with Jesus Christ," and how this relationship is the only way one might be saved, might go to heaven and avoid hell. The basic premise is that Jesus is always there, ready to have a relationship with an individual, and that the way to enter in to that relationship is to pray - to confess that you know you are sinful, to recognize the fact that Jesus is the only way you might be saved, and to then ask Jesus into your heart. It is a sort of individualized theophany which could be brought about simply by saying "yes" to Jesus. Though I grew up Presbyterian (where this particular notion salvation is not really prevalent), all it took was one youth trip to Florida with the Baptists and I was introduced to the idea; and, I have to be honest, it scared me to death - I think I prayed that prayer about fifty times in that one week. I asked a Baptist friend of mine recently how many times he'd prayed the prayer for salvation when he was growing up, and he chuckled: "too many to count," he said. Though I know I was assured that, once Jesus entered my heart, my salvation was assured, and he wouldn't leave again, there is implicit in this message of salvation the notion that one's inability to pray in just the right way, or tendency to fall "into sin" after saying the prayer, will turn God away.
I think about that week in Florida from time to time, and about the first time I prayed for Jesus to come in to my heart. I think about how that one experience was intended to color the way I saw everything, the way I understood my own life and salvation, and the life that was given in place of mine. This recognition would then be expressed in personal acts of piety - in avoiding alcohol, premarital sex, bad language. If you messed up, or "backslid" into sin, well, you just prayed the prayer again - got yourself back "right" with God by asking Jesus back into your heart again - a sort of re-focusing. Apparently, even though Jesus will stand outside the door of your heart and wait patiently, the gift of salvation which is given freely to those who would ask, he also won't hesitate to walk away the moment you slip up. Even as I write that, I realize it doesn't compute - why would the God who created heaven and earth, and who sent his son Jesus to earth so that God might live fully into the human experience, walk away at the first sign of trouble? What kind of personal relationship is that? Why would God be so eager to give us grace just to take it away at the first sign of trouble - isn't that the very reason we need Jesus?
My intention here is not to take a knock at those who ask Jesus into their hearts, or believe salvation is experienced in this way. My intention is to point out that the effectiveness of such experiences may not be that we are granted some sort of salvation in the future, after this life is over, but that they tell us that we are beloved - that we are loved and cared for in this life and on this earth, here and now.
The challenge with the notion of a personal Jesus is that it is just that - personalized. There is, after the first big-date experience of asking Jesus into your heart, the realization that you're on your own out in the world - hoping that God doesn't change God's mind and walk away. It's as if we understand God as saying, "I love you so much, and you're going to heaven, so just do what you're supposed to do...and, for goodness' sake, don't mess up - I'd hate to send you to hell - I'd hate to leave your heart, and to leave you all alone in this world. I mean, if you do mess up, it's okay...just come back and ask me in again, but you're going to feel like crap...like the crappy sinner that you are." The focus on and individual salvation experience, and living out some sort of two-dimensional personal piety just sets us up for failure. More, it creates the image of God who scares the hell out of us (pun intended...).
The problem with this is that, when we live our lives terrified of God, we begin to look around and wonder who else might be making God angry, who God might not love, or at least who God loves less than ourselves. If I see myself as doing everything I'm supposed to do, then why on earth can't my neighbor? It's like a free-market economy, where salvation is offered to those who can pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, who can make a way for themselves in this dog-eat-dog world. Maybe then I start to look at my neighbor not as my neighbor, but as part of the problem. I start to hold on to my salvation, for fear that they will want to take it. I build a wall around my heart and around my house, and I start to see anyone who is not like me as part of the problem - they want to take what I've got, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let them have it. Or, I become jealous of them, and not just jealous of their stuff, but jealous of their righteousness or holiness - jealous of their goodness, because I know in my heart, despite how I may look, that I'm just...not good enough. It's like living paycheck to paycheck - hoping your piety will take you through for another couple of weeks.
To put it simply: we are all far too relational, far too connected, to experience a relationship with God, with the very thing which ties us all together, on an individual basis. God is experienced in community - in relationships, in the love that is expressed and shared in the spaces where we are able to be present and open to trust one another. It is in those spaces where we risk the possibility that, in being vulnerable and in being known, we might begin to defy the voices that tell us that God loves some of us more than others, or that God loves us "unconditionally, unless we mess up too much." As we begin to trust that we are loved, and let it sink in, sink right down in to our bones, that we are loved and are lovable, we begin to live in to that confidence, to take risks - to break through the things which hold us captive to the notion that we are alone in this world, and that we will never be good enough for love. We will begin to believe that we are loved simply because we exist. We then begin to see everything through that love, and we begin to see that Jesus did indeed die so that we might live because he refused to give up on the power of being in relationship - he refused to give up on the things which give us life. The power of that defiance, of that resilience, brought forth new life and a new Spirit, which is shared among us all.
There is a tremendous amount of freedom in expressing our fears, in confessing things we have done which have been hurtful; even in sharing the deep, dark secrets we've got buried, the things of which we are so ashamed that we know they make us unlovable. Those burdens are heavy, and we cannot carry them alone - we aren't meant to carry them alone. As we begin to share that weight with others, and they with us, may we begin to live into the love which calls us forth to serve others, to be known, to risk intimacy, and may we begin to understand that the best things in life - like trust and peace and love; and the recognition that we are loved - are better when shared.
In those years, people will say, we lost track
of the meaning of we, of you
we found ourselves
reduced to I
and the whole thing became
silly, ironic, terrible:
we were trying to live a personal life
and, yes, that was the only life
we could bear witness to
But the great dark birds of history screamed and plunged
into our personal weather
They were headed somewhere else but their beaks and pinions drove
along the shore, through the rags of fog
where we stood, saying I
1991
[Side note: The title of this blog post references a song by Depeche Mode (and wonderfully covered by Johnny Cash, I might add). It's a catchy tune: great beat, good for dancing or singing along, meant to be kind of an ironic play on the way that people can become Jesus to each other. As songwriter Martin Gore puts it, the song was inspired by Priscilla Presley's book Elvis and Me: "It's a song about being a Jesus for somebody else, someone to give you hope and care. It's about how Elvis was her man and her mentor and how often that happens in love relationship; how everybody's heart is like a god in some way, and that's not a very balanced view of someone, is it?" (Fox, Marisa (4 July 1990). "Pop a la Mode" Spin 6(4). Retrieved ala wikipedia, 29 Jun 2012).]
Growing up in the Bible Belt, it was not at all uncommon to hear people talk about having a "personal relationship with Jesus Christ," and how this relationship is the only way one might be saved, might go to heaven and avoid hell. The basic premise is that Jesus is always there, ready to have a relationship with an individual, and that the way to enter in to that relationship is to pray - to confess that you know you are sinful, to recognize the fact that Jesus is the only way you might be saved, and to then ask Jesus into your heart. It is a sort of individualized theophany which could be brought about simply by saying "yes" to Jesus. Though I grew up Presbyterian (where this particular notion salvation is not really prevalent), all it took was one youth trip to Florida with the Baptists and I was introduced to the idea; and, I have to be honest, it scared me to death - I think I prayed that prayer about fifty times in that one week. I asked a Baptist friend of mine recently how many times he'd prayed the prayer for salvation when he was growing up, and he chuckled: "too many to count," he said. Though I know I was assured that, once Jesus entered my heart, my salvation was assured, and he wouldn't leave again, there is implicit in this message of salvation the notion that one's inability to pray in just the right way, or tendency to fall "into sin" after saying the prayer, will turn God away.
I think about that week in Florida from time to time, and about the first time I prayed for Jesus to come in to my heart. I think about how that one experience was intended to color the way I saw everything, the way I understood my own life and salvation, and the life that was given in place of mine. This recognition would then be expressed in personal acts of piety - in avoiding alcohol, premarital sex, bad language. If you messed up, or "backslid" into sin, well, you just prayed the prayer again - got yourself back "right" with God by asking Jesus back into your heart again - a sort of re-focusing. Apparently, even though Jesus will stand outside the door of your heart and wait patiently, the gift of salvation which is given freely to those who would ask, he also won't hesitate to walk away the moment you slip up. Even as I write that, I realize it doesn't compute - why would the God who created heaven and earth, and who sent his son Jesus to earth so that God might live fully into the human experience, walk away at the first sign of trouble? What kind of personal relationship is that? Why would God be so eager to give us grace just to take it away at the first sign of trouble - isn't that the very reason we need Jesus?
My intention here is not to take a knock at those who ask Jesus into their hearts, or believe salvation is experienced in this way. My intention is to point out that the effectiveness of such experiences may not be that we are granted some sort of salvation in the future, after this life is over, but that they tell us that we are beloved - that we are loved and cared for in this life and on this earth, here and now.
The challenge with the notion of a personal Jesus is that it is just that - personalized. There is, after the first big-date experience of asking Jesus into your heart, the realization that you're on your own out in the world - hoping that God doesn't change God's mind and walk away. It's as if we understand God as saying, "I love you so much, and you're going to heaven, so just do what you're supposed to do...and, for goodness' sake, don't mess up - I'd hate to send you to hell - I'd hate to leave your heart, and to leave you all alone in this world. I mean, if you do mess up, it's okay...just come back and ask me in again, but you're going to feel like crap...like the crappy sinner that you are." The focus on and individual salvation experience, and living out some sort of two-dimensional personal piety just sets us up for failure. More, it creates the image of God who scares the hell out of us (pun intended...).
The problem with this is that, when we live our lives terrified of God, we begin to look around and wonder who else might be making God angry, who God might not love, or at least who God loves less than ourselves. If I see myself as doing everything I'm supposed to do, then why on earth can't my neighbor? It's like a free-market economy, where salvation is offered to those who can pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, who can make a way for themselves in this dog-eat-dog world. Maybe then I start to look at my neighbor not as my neighbor, but as part of the problem. I start to hold on to my salvation, for fear that they will want to take it. I build a wall around my heart and around my house, and I start to see anyone who is not like me as part of the problem - they want to take what I've got, and I'll be damned if I'm going to let them have it. Or, I become jealous of them, and not just jealous of their stuff, but jealous of their righteousness or holiness - jealous of their goodness, because I know in my heart, despite how I may look, that I'm just...not good enough. It's like living paycheck to paycheck - hoping your piety will take you through for another couple of weeks.
To put it simply: we are all far too relational, far too connected, to experience a relationship with God, with the very thing which ties us all together, on an individual basis. God is experienced in community - in relationships, in the love that is expressed and shared in the spaces where we are able to be present and open to trust one another. It is in those spaces where we risk the possibility that, in being vulnerable and in being known, we might begin to defy the voices that tell us that God loves some of us more than others, or that God loves us "unconditionally, unless we mess up too much." As we begin to trust that we are loved, and let it sink in, sink right down in to our bones, that we are loved and are lovable, we begin to live in to that confidence, to take risks - to break through the things which hold us captive to the notion that we are alone in this world, and that we will never be good enough for love. We will begin to believe that we are loved simply because we exist. We then begin to see everything through that love, and we begin to see that Jesus did indeed die so that we might live because he refused to give up on the power of being in relationship - he refused to give up on the things which give us life. The power of that defiance, of that resilience, brought forth new life and a new Spirit, which is shared among us all.
There is a tremendous amount of freedom in expressing our fears, in confessing things we have done which have been hurtful; even in sharing the deep, dark secrets we've got buried, the things of which we are so ashamed that we know they make us unlovable. Those burdens are heavy, and we cannot carry them alone - we aren't meant to carry them alone. As we begin to share that weight with others, and they with us, may we begin to live into the love which calls us forth to serve others, to be known, to risk intimacy, and may we begin to understand that the best things in life - like trust and peace and love; and the recognition that we are loved - are better when shared.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Fathers Day Poem
Spoiler alert - this is not the most cheerful of Fathers Day poems. As this was my first Fathers Day without my father, I found myself looking at the whole day in a strange way - aware of his life and death in a way I just couldn't have been before he died last year. I'm sure I'll write more about my dad at some point, and that I could write much more even on this poem and my dad; but, for now...a poem.
His Stillness, by Sharon Olds
The doctor said to my father, "You asked me
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That's what I'm telling you now." My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes. I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out. He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man. The doctor said,
"There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you." My father said,
"Thank you." And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him. This was my father.
He had known he was mortal. I had feared they would have to
tie him down. I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept quiet to bear things,
the liquor a way to keep still. I had not
known him. My father had dignity. At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That's what I'm telling you now." My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes. I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out. He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man. The doctor said,
"There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you." My father said,
"Thank you." And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him. This was my father.
He had known he was mortal. I had feared they would have to
tie him down. I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept quiet to bear things,
the liquor a way to keep still. I had not
known him. My father had dignity. At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Back On the Blog Train!! Poem Wednesday
It's been a crazy crazy crazy few weeks - lots of transition, lots of doors and windows closing and opening. As a result, much of my creative energy has been put toward navigating the still-unfamiliar landscape of transition and newness. However, I hope to now be back and writing with some regularity.
In light of said transition, I've got a poem today from Wendell Berry, one of his Sabbath Poems from 1999 - VI.
We travelers, walking to the sun, can't see
Ahead, but looking back the very light
That blinded us shows us the way we came,
Along which blessings now appear, risen
As if from sightlessness to sight, and we,
By blessing brightly lit, keep going toward
That blessed light that yet to us is dark.
I have a friend who recently marked a milestone in her career, and this poem seemed quite fitting for the occasion. It kept coming to mind as I thought about my own transition as well - about how, prior to starting seminary, the sun that was lighting my path was (and always is, I think) before me - shining into my eyes so brightly that it was as if I was driving due west across Texas at sunset. It was only as I was able to look back and see both my shadow cast and the light shining on all that was behind me that I could see the way my path was leading. I'm now again in a place where the path ahead of me is obscured by the very light that shines on it. I don't know that I'll ever get used to the obscure brightness, but I love Wendell Berry's optimism about it - about the blessings we cannot yet see.
Peace.
In light of said transition, I've got a poem today from Wendell Berry, one of his Sabbath Poems from 1999 - VI.
We travelers, walking to the sun, can't see
Ahead, but looking back the very light
That blinded us shows us the way we came,
Along which blessings now appear, risen
As if from sightlessness to sight, and we,
By blessing brightly lit, keep going toward
That blessed light that yet to us is dark.
I have a friend who recently marked a milestone in her career, and this poem seemed quite fitting for the occasion. It kept coming to mind as I thought about my own transition as well - about how, prior to starting seminary, the sun that was lighting my path was (and always is, I think) before me - shining into my eyes so brightly that it was as if I was driving due west across Texas at sunset. It was only as I was able to look back and see both my shadow cast and the light shining on all that was behind me that I could see the way my path was leading. I'm now again in a place where the path ahead of me is obscured by the very light that shines on it. I don't know that I'll ever get used to the obscure brightness, but I love Wendell Berry's optimism about it - about the blessings we cannot yet see.
Peace.
Monday, May 21, 2012
Poem Sunday - Forgiveness and some such stuff
Going with a sung poem tonight (what some folks call a "song"): "Forgiveness," by one of my favorite Texas artists, Patty Griffin. I've included both the lyrics and a video, so you can hear her singing.
It's been an interesting week. I'll hope to write more in-depth soon (and want to keep "Poem Sunday" primarily focused on the poems), but I've been reminded this week of how important forgiveness is - not the cosmic notion of forgiveness (which I'll address at some point later, I'm sure), but the kind of forgiveness that happens between people who have acted out of their hurt and have inflicted pain on others. I'll call it "on the ground" forgiveness (which I do believe is possible because of the Holy Spirit, so in that sense it is cosmic; but, I'll hope you get what I'm talking about).
Just yesterday, 75% of the church that raised me voted to leave the PC(USA), in response to the denomination changing its ordination standards, and opening the door for the ordination of LGBT people. For those who may be reading this and who are not Presbyterian, I won't get into all of the specifics, but I will say that it didn't obligate people to ordain (or back the ordination) of LGBT people, but it did make it possible for queer folks to get ordained. The place where I learned that I was loved unconditionally, where I began to learn about what "church" is, does not see my sense of call as valid. It has been an ugly fight (as things like this always are), and lots of people have been deeply wounded by things that have been said. It's been easier for me to deal with because I'm a couple thousand miles away. It is the most frustrating when I think about my mom, and my in-laws, who had to look some of their closest friends in the eye as those friends said all of the things one expects to be said in debates of this nature. It burns me up on some level, to be honest; on another, it just makes me sad to think about the ways we allow our theology to come out sideways on other people. As frustrating as it may be, I realize that I cannot let myself get lost in that frustration - it's just too heavy. I think about my ethics professor talking about the ways hatred kills not only the hated, but also the hater. Love is at times so much harder than hate, but I am more and more convinced every day that it is also stronger.
My path also crossed this week with someone I knew a long time ago - a friend from a time when we were both younger, much more frightened versions of ourselves. We were nominally friends, and spent a lot of time together; but we were not very kind to one another. A lot of this unkindness stemmed from the fact that both of us were terrified of who we were at the time, of being gay and living in a place where neither our theology nor our geography allowed us to live fully into ourselves. Anyway, after our initial re-connection e-mail, we exchanged a couple of more in-depth messages, trying to get re-aquainted in a way. I was taken particularly with one thing she said - about how much better we could have been for one another if we'd not been working so hard just to get out of bed every day. I started thinking about how much more energy we'd had to give out and receive kindness if we'd felt safe enough to be ourselves. As I was mid-way through writing my second e-mail to my friend, I stopped and realized that, before anything else, I needed to know that we had forgiven one another. There was simply too much hurt in our history to try and keep carrying it around. The weight that was lifted in both receiving and giving that forgiveness was profound enough that it has allowed the possibility for trust to come in. I'm grateful for that reminder today.
Peace.
"Forgiveness"
We are swimming with the snakes
At the bottom of the well
So silent and peaceful in the darkness where we fell
But we are not snakes and what's more
We never will be
And if we stay swimming here forever we will
Never be free
I heard them ringing the bells
In heaven and hell
They got a secret
They're getting ready to tell
It's falling from the sky
Calling from the graves
Open your eyes, boy, I think we are saved
Open your eyes, boy, I think we are saved
Let's take a walk on the bridge
Right over this mess
Don't need to tell me a thing, baby
We've already confessed
And I raised my voice to the air
And we were blessed
Everybody needs a little forgiveness
Everybody needs a little forgiveness
We are calling for him tonight on this
Thin phone line
As usual we're having ourselves one
hell of a time
And the planes keep flying right over our heads
No matter how lond we shout
"Hey, hey, hey !"
And we keep waving and waving
Our arms in the air
But we're all tired out
I heard somebody say
Today's the day
A big old hurricaine
Is blowing our way
Knocking over the buildings
Killing all the light
Open your eyes, boy, we made it through the night
Open your eyes, boy, we made it through the night
Let's take a walk on the bridge
Right over this mess
Don't need to tell me a thing, baby
We've already confessed
And I raised my voice to the air
And we were blessed
Everybody needs a little forgiveness
Everybody needs a little forgiveness
At the bottom of the well
So silent and peaceful in the darkness where we fell
But we are not snakes and what's more
We never will be
And if we stay swimming here forever we will
Never be free
I heard them ringing the bells
In heaven and hell
They got a secret
They're getting ready to tell
It's falling from the sky
Calling from the graves
Open your eyes, boy, I think we are saved
Open your eyes, boy, I think we are saved
Let's take a walk on the bridge
Right over this mess
Don't need to tell me a thing, baby
We've already confessed
And I raised my voice to the air
And we were blessed
Everybody needs a little forgiveness
Everybody needs a little forgiveness
We are calling for him tonight on this
Thin phone line
As usual we're having ourselves one
hell of a time
And the planes keep flying right over our heads
No matter how lond we shout
"Hey, hey, hey !"
And we keep waving and waving
Our arms in the air
But we're all tired out
I heard somebody say
Today's the day
A big old hurricaine
Is blowing our way
Knocking over the buildings
Killing all the light
Open your eyes, boy, we made it through the night
Open your eyes, boy, we made it through the night
Let's take a walk on the bridge
Right over this mess
Don't need to tell me a thing, baby
We've already confessed
And I raised my voice to the air
And we were blessed
Everybody needs a little forgiveness
Everybody needs a little forgiveness
Just yesterday, 75% of the church that raised me voted to leave the PC(USA), in response to the denomination changing its ordination standards, and opening the door for the ordination of LGBT people. For those who may be reading this and who are not Presbyterian, I won't get into all of the specifics, but I will say that it didn't obligate people to ordain (or back the ordination) of LGBT people, but it did make it possible for queer folks to get ordained. The place where I learned that I was loved unconditionally, where I began to learn about what "church" is, does not see my sense of call as valid. It has been an ugly fight (as things like this always are), and lots of people have been deeply wounded by things that have been said. It's been easier for me to deal with because I'm a couple thousand miles away. It is the most frustrating when I think about my mom, and my in-laws, who had to look some of their closest friends in the eye as those friends said all of the things one expects to be said in debates of this nature. It burns me up on some level, to be honest; on another, it just makes me sad to think about the ways we allow our theology to come out sideways on other people. As frustrating as it may be, I realize that I cannot let myself get lost in that frustration - it's just too heavy. I think about my ethics professor talking about the ways hatred kills not only the hated, but also the hater. Love is at times so much harder than hate, but I am more and more convinced every day that it is also stronger.
My path also crossed this week with someone I knew a long time ago - a friend from a time when we were both younger, much more frightened versions of ourselves. We were nominally friends, and spent a lot of time together; but we were not very kind to one another. A lot of this unkindness stemmed from the fact that both of us were terrified of who we were at the time, of being gay and living in a place where neither our theology nor our geography allowed us to live fully into ourselves. Anyway, after our initial re-connection e-mail, we exchanged a couple of more in-depth messages, trying to get re-aquainted in a way. I was taken particularly with one thing she said - about how much better we could have been for one another if we'd not been working so hard just to get out of bed every day. I started thinking about how much more energy we'd had to give out and receive kindness if we'd felt safe enough to be ourselves. As I was mid-way through writing my second e-mail to my friend, I stopped and realized that, before anything else, I needed to know that we had forgiven one another. There was simply too much hurt in our history to try and keep carrying it around. The weight that was lifted in both receiving and giving that forgiveness was profound enough that it has allowed the possibility for trust to come in. I'm grateful for that reminder today.
Peace.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Poem Sunday - I Worried
I've been kind of limping toward the end of my seminary career these last several weeks, and have been absent from blog land. In a few weeks I'll be done, and plan to be back to be back rambling on about them clattering bones.
Until then....this poem seemed particularly appropriate. Peace.
"I Worried," by Mary Oliver
Until then....this poem seemed particularly appropriate. Peace.
"I Worried," by Mary Oliver
I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?
Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Poem Sunday - Psalm 23
It's Shepherd Sunday.
I teach Sunday school to a group of 6-9th graders, and today my co-teacher and I talked about Psalm 23 in a lectio-divina-style approach - we read the text from three different translations, and then had them listen to three different musical renderings. This song was the last of the three, and it was the only few minutes in the hour that they remained still.
After reading the text for the third time, we asked the youth what they felt the text was calling them to do. I realized as the question was asked that the text was calling me to rest. To just rest, and remember why I love what I get to do everyday. To love that I can get out of bed in the morning (that I have a bed to get out of!), and to love feeling tired and to love the feeling of rest and to love the people in my life and to love the spot on my nose that isn't cancer and to love my hyperactive self, and to love my hair that goes everywhere and to love and to love and to love. and to rest.
Peace, Y'all.
I teach Sunday school to a group of 6-9th graders, and today my co-teacher and I talked about Psalm 23 in a lectio-divina-style approach - we read the text from three different translations, and then had them listen to three different musical renderings. This song was the last of the three, and it was the only few minutes in the hour that they remained still.
After reading the text for the third time, we asked the youth what they felt the text was calling them to do. I realized as the question was asked that the text was calling me to rest. To just rest, and remember why I love what I get to do everyday. To love that I can get out of bed in the morning (that I have a bed to get out of!), and to love feeling tired and to love the feeling of rest and to love the people in my life and to love the spot on my nose that isn't cancer and to love my hyperactive self, and to love my hair that goes everywhere and to love and to love and to love. and to rest.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Poem Sunday - The Peace of Wild Things
I know it may well be a cop-out to use a poem that was read in worship this morning, but this one just seemed too good not to use.
Happy Earthy Day, Y'all. May you find a wood drake to lie beneath, or peace in the midst of other wild things.
"The Peace of Wild Things"
by Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Happy Earthy Day, Y'all. May you find a wood drake to lie beneath, or peace in the midst of other wild things.
"The Peace of Wild Things"
by Wendell Berry
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Imagine...
Imagine, if you will, a youth - about 15-years-old.
Imagine this youth growing up in an area with other youth around the same age, supportive parents, a sibling a couple of years younger or older - maybe one of each. Imagine this youth at five years old, kind of quiet and reserved in public; but, when at home, happy, engaged, with eyes that shine with the joy of being five, giggling at some inside joke with one sibling or the other.
Imagine at some point, at around fourteen years old, this youth started getting a bit more reserved a bit more quiet, started to share less and less with family members. After a little bit of time, one of the youth's parents asks the youth about it - asks about whether things are okay at school, if they are feeling okay, if anything has happened. The parent reminds the youth of how much they are loved and that, should the youth need to talk about anything, to remember that the parent is there for them and loves them, no matter what.
A couple of weeks later, the youth comes in to sit by the parent on the sofa, and starts crying. Sobbing. When the tears begin to subside, the youth says to the parent, "Were you serious? When you told me that you love me...no matter what?"
"Yes," the parent says, "there is nothing you can do that would make me stop loving you. I love you so much - no matter what."
"Would you love me even if I told you that I think maybe I'm....gay?" The youth stumbles over the last part of the sentence, sobbing as they talk.
"Yes, yes, and a thousand more yeses. I love you no matter what. Both of your parents love you so much, and we cherish the person you are, no matter who you are or who you love or how you dress or what you want your career to be. We love you so much."
As the youth keeps sobbing, the parent holds them and lets them cry.
For a while, the parent starts to see a side of the youth they thought had been gone - the youth is laughing again, happy, talkative and engaged. Excited about life. They've come out to some of their close friends, and are relishing in being "out."
About six months later, though, the youth starts to withdrawal again, to come in after school and spend hours in their room. The parent tries to ask the youth about what's going on, but the youth doesn't want to talk about it. After some prodding by the parent, the youth finally opens up and says that they've been "getting some flack" from some people at school. Says some kids at school have been teasing them, calling them all sorts of names - telling the youth they are going to hell, that God doesn't love them.
"Do you think that's true?" The youth asks the parent. "Do you think that God doesn't love me?"
"No, no, no - I know that's not true. God loves you so so very much. I am so sorry that those kids are saying all they are saying, and that their words are so cruel. But - and don't ever forget this - you are a beloved child of God - you are my beloved child, too, and I love you so much."
The parent contacts the teachers and administrators of the youth. The teachers bring in the kids who have been bullying the youth, sit them down, and talk to them. But, the bullying doesn't stop. The youth seems to be carrying it alright - as well as anyone could. They start talking about college, about being excited to get out of town and go somewhere "with other gay people."
Imagine, then, that one afternoon the parent comes home from work to find the house eerily silent. They put down their bags from work, walk through the house, call out the youth's name, but hear nothing. The parent starts to get a bit worried, calls out the youth's name again. Silence. Heavy silence. The parent checks the youth's bedroom, but doesn't find the youth there - then the bathroom, then the backyard - getting anxious with every empty room, still hearing nothing from the youth.
Imagine the silence broken by the scream of the parent as they walk into the basement and find their child hanging from the beams of the ceiling with a garden hose around their neck. The body limp, the parent tries to lift the youth, and finally succeeds, pulling the youth down.
Imagine the parent giving the youth CPR, trying in vain to to pump breath into the lifeless body of their child, who does not respond. Fifteen years old, and unable to deal with the weight of the world, unable to see a way out of it or around it.
Now imagine that this youth is your child.
Imagine this youth growing up in an area with other youth around the same age, supportive parents, a sibling a couple of years younger or older - maybe one of each. Imagine this youth at five years old, kind of quiet and reserved in public; but, when at home, happy, engaged, with eyes that shine with the joy of being five, giggling at some inside joke with one sibling or the other.
Imagine at some point, at around fourteen years old, this youth started getting a bit more reserved a bit more quiet, started to share less and less with family members. After a little bit of time, one of the youth's parents asks the youth about it - asks about whether things are okay at school, if they are feeling okay, if anything has happened. The parent reminds the youth of how much they are loved and that, should the youth need to talk about anything, to remember that the parent is there for them and loves them, no matter what.
A couple of weeks later, the youth comes in to sit by the parent on the sofa, and starts crying. Sobbing. When the tears begin to subside, the youth says to the parent, "Were you serious? When you told me that you love me...no matter what?"
"Yes," the parent says, "there is nothing you can do that would make me stop loving you. I love you so much - no matter what."
"Would you love me even if I told you that I think maybe I'm....gay?" The youth stumbles over the last part of the sentence, sobbing as they talk.
"Yes, yes, and a thousand more yeses. I love you no matter what. Both of your parents love you so much, and we cherish the person you are, no matter who you are or who you love or how you dress or what you want your career to be. We love you so much."
As the youth keeps sobbing, the parent holds them and lets them cry.
For a while, the parent starts to see a side of the youth they thought had been gone - the youth is laughing again, happy, talkative and engaged. Excited about life. They've come out to some of their close friends, and are relishing in being "out."
About six months later, though, the youth starts to withdrawal again, to come in after school and spend hours in their room. The parent tries to ask the youth about what's going on, but the youth doesn't want to talk about it. After some prodding by the parent, the youth finally opens up and says that they've been "getting some flack" from some people at school. Says some kids at school have been teasing them, calling them all sorts of names - telling the youth they are going to hell, that God doesn't love them.
"Do you think that's true?" The youth asks the parent. "Do you think that God doesn't love me?"
"No, no, no - I know that's not true. God loves you so so very much. I am so sorry that those kids are saying all they are saying, and that their words are so cruel. But - and don't ever forget this - you are a beloved child of God - you are my beloved child, too, and I love you so much."
The parent contacts the teachers and administrators of the youth. The teachers bring in the kids who have been bullying the youth, sit them down, and talk to them. But, the bullying doesn't stop. The youth seems to be carrying it alright - as well as anyone could. They start talking about college, about being excited to get out of town and go somewhere "with other gay people."
Imagine, then, that one afternoon the parent comes home from work to find the house eerily silent. They put down their bags from work, walk through the house, call out the youth's name, but hear nothing. The parent starts to get a bit worried, calls out the youth's name again. Silence. Heavy silence. The parent checks the youth's bedroom, but doesn't find the youth there - then the bathroom, then the backyard - getting anxious with every empty room, still hearing nothing from the youth.
Imagine the silence broken by the scream of the parent as they walk into the basement and find their child hanging from the beams of the ceiling with a garden hose around their neck. The body limp, the parent tries to lift the youth, and finally succeeds, pulling the youth down.
Imagine the parent giving the youth CPR, trying in vain to to pump breath into the lifeless body of their child, who does not respond. Fifteen years old, and unable to deal with the weight of the world, unable to see a way out of it or around it.
Now imagine that this youth is your child.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
Poem Sunday - In the Department Store
"In the Department Store,"
by Marge Piercy
The women who work at cosmetics
counters terrify me. They seem molded
of superior plastic or light metal.
They could be shot up into orbit
never mussing a hair, make-up intact.
When I walk through, they never pester
me, never attack me with loud perfume,
never wheedle me into a make-over.
Perhaps I scare them too, leaking
some subversive pheromone.
I trot through like a raccoon
in an airport. They see me,
they look and turn away. Perhaps
I am a project they fear to tackle
too wild, too wooly, trailing
electrical impulses from my loose
black hair. They fasten on the throat
of the neat fortyish blond behind me
like stoats, dragging her to their
padded stools. A lost cause,
I sidle past into men's sporting
gear, safe but bemused, wondering
if they judge me too far gone
to salvage or smell my stubborn
unwillingness like rank musk.
Monday, April 9, 2012
Happy Birthday, Dad
Today is my Dad's birthday. It's also the first of his birthdays since he died last June. So, while it's still the day of his birth, it's not his 63rd birthday, as it should have been. Instead, it's the day after Easter - a day almost beatific as it basks in its spring-ness (were it not for the pollen), with a high of 73 degrees and clear blue skies. I recognize that there is a combination of factors here that could lead me very quickly into "online diary" territory (which I usually try to avoid), so I'll go ahead and qualify whatever I may write below with all of the factors above.
Losing my dad last year was one of the most pivotal experiences of my life, for a number of reasons. Though I didn't really see it before he died, I've got a lot in common with my dad. It was funny looking through his old photographs, connecting with him through images. I'm not sure if watching him make photographs, or seeing the photographs he made of the sky influenced me as a photographer, or if there was something we shared in always looking up.
As he died, I found that I had a way of connecting with people that I hadn't before, something that grief opened up. I was, and am still, so grateful for the ways people poured out love on me and my family as we went through the process. I felt connected with people in grief, even in knowing that not everyone experiences grief in the same way. I appreciated those who let me sit and talk about losing my dad, and I hope that I'm now better equipped to sit and listen with people as they go through their grief.
More than anything, though, I think losing my dad helped me to continue to believe that there is something beyond this life, beyond my own experience. At some point toward the middle of my second year of seminary (in the spring of last year), I reached a point where I'd been neck-deep in theology, biblical studies, and church history for long enough that I started to accept the idea that this life may be all that there is, that religion was conceived as a way to make sense of life, to make it worth living in a fruitful way. I mean, thinking about something being beyond all of this gives a certain context to everything - it can give hope, accountability, trust in something bigger that is in control, that can make sense of this mess.
However, there was something about losing my dad that framed it all in a new way - religion no longer seemed to be about making sense of individual experiences as a connection to the beyond, but about making sense of the beyond as it breaks into individual experience - to the connection we feel with everything around us, even when it is no longer with us in the same way. I think back to a church history lecture, when my professor was talking about the experience of being with her father after he suffered a massive stroke, and how in being with him as he died, she realized what it meant for, (and I'm quoting here from the sermon of my friend and classmate Dawg Strong, who forwarded this to me shortly after my dad died):
Losing my dad last year was one of the most pivotal experiences of my life, for a number of reasons. Though I didn't really see it before he died, I've got a lot in common with my dad. It was funny looking through his old photographs, connecting with him through images. I'm not sure if watching him make photographs, or seeing the photographs he made of the sky influenced me as a photographer, or if there was something we shared in always looking up.
As he died, I found that I had a way of connecting with people that I hadn't before, something that grief opened up. I was, and am still, so grateful for the ways people poured out love on me and my family as we went through the process. I felt connected with people in grief, even in knowing that not everyone experiences grief in the same way. I appreciated those who let me sit and talk about losing my dad, and I hope that I'm now better equipped to sit and listen with people as they go through their grief.
More than anything, though, I think losing my dad helped me to continue to believe that there is something beyond this life, beyond my own experience. At some point toward the middle of my second year of seminary (in the spring of last year), I reached a point where I'd been neck-deep in theology, biblical studies, and church history for long enough that I started to accept the idea that this life may be all that there is, that religion was conceived as a way to make sense of life, to make it worth living in a fruitful way. I mean, thinking about something being beyond all of this gives a certain context to everything - it can give hope, accountability, trust in something bigger that is in control, that can make sense of this mess.
However, there was something about losing my dad that framed it all in a new way - religion no longer seemed to be about making sense of individual experiences as a connection to the beyond, but about making sense of the beyond as it breaks into individual experience - to the connection we feel with everything around us, even when it is no longer with us in the same way. I think back to a church history lecture, when my professor was talking about the experience of being with her father after he suffered a massive stroke, and how in being with him as he died, she realized what it meant for, (and I'm quoting here from the sermon of my friend and classmate Dawg Strong, who forwarded this to me shortly after my dad died):
"Christ to have taken on the "form" of flesh, to have assumed the pattern of what it means to be an embodied human being in addition to having his own physical form, and she had the sudden understanding that if God in Christ has taken on the flesh pattern and form of humanity, he resides in our flesh as well as in his own. That is more than Emanuel, than 'God with us.' It means that God was not just with my professor's father as he experienced his stroke; God was in the stroke itself. It is true to say that the breaking of our hearts breaks God's heart. It is even truer to say that God is [in] the breaking of our hearts."Our lives are lived individually - I am, in my flesh and bones, one individual. However, we experience this life as part of much, much more - connected with one another and with everything that lives and moves and has being, by something that goes beyond anything our individual bodies could possibly contain. It is in those moments of recognition of that "much, much more" that we, as my history professor would say, run up against the mystery; and all we are left to do is stand in awe of all that is.
Poem Sunday 7 - Easter
(So, technically it should now be “Poem Monday,” but our electricity went out last night as I was writing, so I’m keeping the “Poem Sunday.”)
As it's Easter, it seemed like a good idea to focus on a poem on the theme of resurrection. I thought at first I would use a number of poems dealing with the theme; but, after reading the one I pasted below, by Maya Angelou, I couldn’t figure out how I could possibly pair it with anything else.
Happy Easter, Y’all. Christ has risen, been knocked down again, and continues to rise.
"Still I Rise"
You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may trod me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.
Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
’Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.
Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.
Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops,
Weakened by my soulful cries?
Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
’Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin’ in my own backyard.
You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I’ll rise.
Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?
Out of the huts of history’s shame
I rise
Up from a past that’s rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that’s wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)