Dive

I think I'm ready to be done with school. Scratch that: I KNOW I'm ready to be done with the school. Not because I think I know everything I need to do (and I still cringe when I think of the many things I feel like I *should* know 4 years into my seminary career), but because I am just DONE. I have "I've-been-in-school-my-whole-life"-itis. I am tired.

Yet, there is a little voice inside my head protesting "Savor this! Appreciate this! You will never have it again!" And I know it's true. When else in life will my "job" be to show up (in whatever state of cleanliness/presentability I choose), sit in a room with other interesting people and just, well, learn? That's kind of a sweet deal. I remember my friends in Goma, and try not to take my opportunities for granted. It's a discipline, but I will try not to squander my last year in academia.

And yet, I think it's a good tension that I'm feeling--I felt this very strongly when I came back from Goma, but I don't think God would be content with a bunch of ministers who are happy to stay in the classroom for the rest of their lives. I was that minister-to-be, up until last year even. I was not sick of school. I think this might be a good kick in the pants from God, giving me the motivation I need to leave the comforts of the academy and start trying my hand at this thing I've been theorizing about for 4 years now.

I feel like I've refined a personal art of surrender these last four years. With each road block that came my way, personally or professionally, I have made a habit it seems of throwing my hands up and just saying, "Really? You can have this" (admittedly: it is an alternately angry and reverent surrender :-) ). I think my spiritual "posture" these last four years has very much been of my arms outstretched into the air. When I think I about it now, it looks less like of a posture of defeat, or weariness. It looks more like a diver, poised to jump into the deep end.

So, maybe, I'm not weary with school, and where I am now. Maybe, after all the stretching and grieving and growing that these last four years have brought, I'm just ready to dive.

Back on Track

I find that the degree to which I want to write in my blog is directly proportional to the amount of schoolwork I should be doing instead of blogging.  Thus, with paper and application deadlines looming on the rapidly approaching horizon, I am here :-)  Getting back on track with this blogging thing.

It will be impossible for me to update on everything that's happened since my last post in July.  Here's the cliff notes version, though: I finished up my time at Fuller.  I went to Goma, DRC--it wrecked me and transformed me.  I started my 4th and (hopefully) final year at seminary.  I am on track with the ordination thing, and am applying for CPE residencies next year.  I am loving my friends, and my family--I am just smitten with my whole community right now.  

The time I spent at Heal Africa in Goma, DRC was perhaps the most blog worthy event thus far.  It is impossible to sum up my experiences when I filled up a whole journal's worth of thoughts during my time there.  But, fear not! :-)  You can read my thoughts (and other eloquent entries from my teammates) at our trip blog:  Goma Team Blog.

Also, I'm sure many of you have heard news of the worsening crisis currently unfolding in Goma, and all of Eastern Congo.  I encourage you to educate yourself about the cause of what has been dubbed a "humanitarian catastrophe" here:  "How We Fuel Africa's Bloodiest War."

This article gives one of the best, most accurate summaries of the situation in DRC that I have found.  If you want to learn more about HEAL Africa, one of the foremost organizations responding to this crisis, you can go to their website: www.healafrica.org

It's hard to know what else to say when so much time has passed!  The last few days have been a rollercoaster with the election: I echo my friends when I say that I am proud to be an American, but disappointed to be a Californian.  Watching Obama win, and celebrating that win in Berkeley, is something I will remember forever.  It was incredible to see the impromptu gatherings that took place, where perfect strangers reached out to each other with hugs, high fives, music, and celebration.  I am proud to be a part of history in this way, and I thank God that elections can be won not on the polemic of fear, but the polemic of hope.

My heart is heavy, though, thinking about Prop 8.  While hope won the national election, I think fear ruled on this statewide scale.  I know I cannot understand fully the effect this decision has on my LGBTQ sisters and brothers; but I grieve with them for the pain this decision has caused.  After the elation from Obama's victory, this was a sobering reminder of how much change still needs to come.

I'll leave you with this picture I took last night at one of the impromptu block parties my friends and I stumbled upon on our way home from a walk around downtown Berkeley--it captures, for me, the joy of the evening and the joy I've been feeling in my recent life!

What I really learned

Fuller people: this one goes out to you :-)

For the last day of my summer class, Presbyterian Creeds, we had to write a one page reflection paper completing the sentence "The one thing I've learned in this class that will impact my ministry most is..."  In typical me-fashion, I threw my paper together an hour before class, writing something kind of vague about studying the confessions and creeds of the PC(USA) as historical documents.  It wasn't insincere, but it also wasn't really the most important thing I learned, or the thing that will impact my ministry the most.  It was something else entirely.

First, a confession is in order: I came into this experience modeling inappropriately judgmental behavior.  It's no secret that my seminary falls pretty hard on one side of the ideological spectrum.  And while I may be one of the most theologically conservative people at my seminary, in general I fit in fairly well there.  Over the last few years, the environment I've been learning in has pushed my boundaries in really good ways, and I've grown tremendously there. 

All this to say: before this summer class, I prepped myself to go to what is, ideologically speaking, the "other" seminary, and to meet the "other" people who believed "other" things about various issues.  The first day of class, I listened for cues in the language used, watched for body language when certain topics were brought up, and inwardly scoffed at some of my classmates' comments.  Let's face it: I was being snotty.

I learned pretty quickly into that two week course, however, that in my effort to pay attention to what people thought about certain controversies, I was forgetting to pay attention to the people themselves.  And what a shame that would've been if I had never woken up.  Because the people I met in this "other" place were wonderful--they were welcoming, funny, dynamic, intelligent, faithful, and kind.  They showed me that, as God's children, we are all much more deep and complex than the opinion we express on one issue, or our ability (or inability) to support the party line.

So what was the most important thing I learned in this class, really?  The most important thing I learned in this class is that, if I want to live authentically as a child of God in community with my sisters and brothers, I have to get off of my ideological high horse and get to know my sisters and brothers for who they are in Christ before anything else.  And that doesn't mean I can't go to bat for the real issues that are important to me; but I think when we start by understanding who we are as children of God, together, it becomes a little easier to deal with the issues.  It makes us less desperate when we realize our salvation, and our Divine heritage, does not rise and fall with our stance on our modern day controversies.

I saw this sort of interaction modeled on the first day of class when my professor invited her mentor, a former PC(USA) Moderator, to speak to us about one particular issue.  He presented one side of the argument graciously and with a directness I admire.  My professor was honest in saying that she completely disagreed with her mentor--but she listened to him with love in her face, and at the end of the day they went to dinner together.  That, friends, is the sort of relationship which I think will keep this denomination alive.  That is the sort of denomination I am proud to be a part of.

So I owe one big thank you to my classmates at Fuller for waking me up to the biases I didn't even know I have, and reminding me of that one very important lesson: issues are important, but people should always come first.  

Healing

Healing.  It's not a very big word, really, but it carries tremendous weight.  It's also a remarkably unclear word: people alternately use it to express medical cures, internal peace, and even spiritual renewal.  It's a loaded word.  

Interestingly enough, it's a word that's been thrown around almost ad nauseam in my intensive class this summer.  It's never meant in a way that's intentionally upsetting; my professor is a very kind-hearted woman who has seen some incredible things (miraculous, really) done by the power of the Holy Spirit.  She claims to have seen people healed (sometimes instantaneously), both emotionally and physically.  Naturally, she is trying to share her experiences in the name of promoting hope in her students--everything she's shared, I know, comes from a deep place of compassion in her.  But I still cringe every time I hear her utter the word "healing."

I know this radiates out of my own experience.  While my health problems have blessedly melted into the background of my life, I still remember how it felt to have people talking about physical healing in a spiritual context.  It was always really painful to have people equate God's healing power with my physical health, because the reality of the situation is that health still alludes me.  I still have epilepsy.  So what does that mean, when we're dealing with "healing" in the spiritual realm?  Did I not meditate hard enough?  Did I not have enough faith?  Does God not love me enough?

Obviously, I don't think any of the answers to the above question are "yes."  I may still have wayward brainwaves, but I still feel like I've been healed through my faith, and through God as I've seen him expressed in the love of my community.  Healing can be so much more than a cure; I think healing is whatever enables you live with hope beyond your circumstances.

I just wish my professor talked about it that way when she shares testimonies about the healing she's encountered.  Especially because I know everyone in the class with me has been touched, directly or indirectly, by the devastating reality of our mortal bodies.  "Healing," as she talks about it, is not theoretical--it calls to mind specific people, places, grief, and hope in everyone present.  And while I know I have found my own healing, when my professor said today that she thought "Jesus was going to heal someone in our class," it felt like one gigantic carrot hanging in front of my nose, just out of reach.

So next time she brings up healing, I wish she'd talk about it as more than just a cure. I wish she'd honor the complexity, knowing that for as many people are healed by the power of God, many more aren't--and I wish she'd talk more clearly about how that does not represent a spiritual deficit on their part.  "Healing" is a loaded word; I wish she'd use it more carefully.

A heart full of love

What is there to say about these last few weeks?  It's been a roller coaster of experience and emotion.  After the crash of finals came the much needed pause, time for reflection and the opportunity to sink into rest.  I feel peace again.  I'm not speechless anymore.  I'm able to close my eyes when I pray again.

I'm taking a summer class at a seminary that is very different than what I'm used to.  It's not bad, by any means, and while there are some things that startle me, overall I'm enjoying the opportunity to see God through the eyes of this place.  I'm especially thinking more about how, and where, God speaks.  "God is still speaking" may be the mantra of the UCC, but I think this little Presbyterian can claim it, too.  God is still speaking.  And where He speaks is usually surprising.

God spoke to me yesterday through an 86-year-old man, whose hunched, tired body stood in stark contrast to his feisty personality.  This is a man who has 7,700 verses of the bible memorized.  And I really do believe that God spoke to me through him yesterday when he looked me, right in the eye, and with no pre-knowledge of my life or circumstances said "Lindsey, shut the door on your past and open the door on your future.  You're about to give the performance of a lifetime."  

God also encourages in different ways, too.  He spoke to me through the voice of my mother.  Just a few weeks ago I was sitting in an airport feeling broken, discouraged, and I told her with my face buried in my hands that I was having a really hard time believing in myself.  And she said to me, "Lindsey, get on that plane and go home with a heart full of love."  

I feel like I'm in a place of transition in my life--and I feel like it's been a long time coming.  I am shutting the door on certain parts of my past, but am starting to feel brave enough to open the door to my future.  While some people may be fading slowly into the background of my history, others relationships are forming and sustaining me.  And I'm grateful that I've been blessed enough to step forward into all the joys that lie ahead with a heart full of love.

No words

It's the end of the academic year for me.  I am 3/4 done with my seminary career--what a blessing that is.  While some of the nuts and bolts have yet to be fixed firmly in their place, it is with mostly confidence that I say I will graduate next year.  Hallelujah amen!

I haven't written in this blog for awhile not just because I've been busily writing other things that have pesky little deadlines attached, but also because there's been a lot going on outside of school.  It's one of those situations of abandonment, loss, and grief that leaves you with everything to say and nothing to say all at once.

And as those sorts of situations are inclined to be, it's coupled with amazing reminders that I live surrounded by the reality of divine love and radical hope.  I see God in my incredible family, my friends who are stepping up for me despite the myriad of commitments and responsibilities they already carry on their shoulders, and the communities of accountability that challenge me while helping to hold me together.  I am seeing God everywhere these days.

But I don't know what to say to Him.  And that's why I haven't written in awhile.  I feel with keen awareness that God is here, that He is around me, that He loves me, and that he is not letting me go.  But I don't know how to talk to God when I am speechless.  I feel like I'll have a lot to say when the words come back.  

Stay tuned.

Catastrophe

Those of you who know me well know that I am what I call a catastrophic thinker.  Some may call this an understatement, and rather categorize me as an apocalyptic thinker :-)  Either way, this refers to my tendency of conflating situations in my life, for which I can find no immediate solutions, into something irreconcilably dire--as if when I can't think up my own logical solutions, the only options left remaining are life-derailing (or threatening).  Hence, I think catastrophically.

This is not something I like about myself.  While sometimes thinking catastrophically has proved mildly helpful (when smaller "catastrophes" are derailed, for example, because of my hyper-vigilance), in general it is not a good way to live.  It's stressful and time consuming.  And, I don't think catastrophic thinking makes me a good steward of my mind, my passions, or my emotional energy.

I don't know why I sometimes think this way.  Of course, a few professionals have posited their own hypotheses.  Many a well-meaning psychologist has leaned back in their chair, hands clasped over their crossed legs and a self-satisfied grin starting to form on their face, and said, "Well, haven't had you had something catastrophic happen to you?  Like being diagnosed with epilepsy overnight?  Wouldn't that make anyone fear impending disaster?"

Ah, yes--the epilepsy card.  While it is true that being diagnosed with epilepsy at 16, and having that be the first real trauma that interrupted the otherwise idyllic landscape of my childhood, has not helped my catastrophic thinking, per se, it certainly did not cause it.  Any member of my family can tell you that.  I think my catastrophically-wired brain was well at work by the time I was 6, and diagnosed myself with a chronic case of appendicitis.  Or when I saw some lights flashing outside of my window when I was 7, and logically assumed that I would be abducted by aliens sometime that year.  Or when I was 11, and thoroughly convinced myself after going to Scotland that I had been exposed to (and acquired) the bubonic plague.

So I hate to break it to you, my psycho-analytically inclined friends--but I think I was just born this way.  It doesn't mean that I'm not trying to change it--I've gotten much better at checking myself and this pattern of thought these last years especially.  I think it will be essential for me to unlearn this way of thought in order to do the ministry I want to do.

However, I'm not writing this to explain my psyche to you all (far too daunting a task for anyone to take on, frankly :-) ).  I'm writing this to explain that I've seen God, even in my catastrophic thinking.  Call it shameless optimism if you must, but there is a silver lining to the way my brain has been hard-wired.  Because when I think catastrophically, it is one of the few times that I actually reach out for help.  And there are few things more holy, to me, than the experience of being vulnerable before and caught by a community of people who live in love.

You see, there always comes a point where I realize that the resources of my own little brain are simply not enough.  So rather than think myself in circles, there always comes a point where I am able to talk, to reach out, and to pray with those around me.  And God is faithful--there are always people, family, friends, who gently listen to my weary musings and remind me, with grace and assurance, of the breadth of God's imagination.  

This is why the Triune God resonates so deeply with me--the idea that God in Godself exists in community.  And if that so, than I think it necessarily follows that our communities of care and accountability are, truly, holy ground.  They are where we are cared for and caught, and where we also do the work of carrying and sustaining.  Sometimes, I'm grateful for my own level of exasperation with myself and how I think--because it reminds me that I cannot exist on my own.

So I am a catastrophic thinker.  I hope I won't be this way forever.  But I am grateful to be reminded that God calls me not to lean solely on myself, but on the trusted friends and family who exist with me in community.  After all, God does not just live in me--He lives all around me, too.  

In which I brag about my brother

Warning: Love Burst to follow.

I have a wonderful brother.  Like, ridiculously wonderful.  The kind of brother that allowed his boisterous little sister to use him as a jungle gym as a baby, who let me hold low-grade hostage negotiations for the toys of his I stole as a kid, and who told me I looked beautiful before my first dance as a teenager.  That is one cool brother.

But there's something about him I find even cooler.  My brother is the kind of guy who became aware of his white, educated, male privilege at about, I'm guessing, three years old.  And he started his work to dismantle that privilege at about three and a half.  All hyperbole aside, my brother is someone who I see working on the front lines to deconstruct the unjust systems of power which are pervasive in our culture and in our history.  I hope I can be like him in that way.

He can do all that because he's brilliant.  But he can also do that work because he is one of the most sensitive, compassionate people I have ever met--I'm serious when I say that, oftentimes, I think he would be a much better chaplain than me.  He has the brains and the heart to do incredible things in this world, and he already is.  He certainly taught me a lot as a kid--through all the deep theological exploration and discernment I've done in seminary, I'm constantly aware that I am able to employ the the concepts of postmodernism, feminism, deconstruction, and liberation because my brother taught me about them first.

All this to say: I love my brother.  He is one cool guy.

An unexpected hero

I was "that girl" in the airport yesterday.  I blame it on my pastor.  He had lent me a copy of "Shackleton's Antarctic Adventure," a short movie about the explorer Ernest Shackleton and his (to say the least) harrowing 2 year journey to survive disaster after disaster in his failed Trans-Antarctic journey.  Shackleton is a personal hero of my pastor's, and I thought it would be interesting to learn more about him.  Also, I thought, wouldn't that be a great movie to pass the time with while sitting in the San Diego airport?

Wrong.

You see, I wasn't expecting to be as moved as I was.  I also wasn't expecting Shackleton's journey to be as intense as it was.  Nor did I expect it to move me to tears.  Thus, I was that girl sitting in the airport, alternately gasping and sniffling as I watched the short 40 minute film.

My pastor had expressed admiration for Shackleton as a leader, and I have to say Shackleton's leadership is what moved me most profoundly.  As I mentioned before, Shackleton's journey was a failed one--due to various unforeseen disasters, he and his 28 person crew did not succeed in their goal of being the first to  cross the Antarctic continent by foot.  What I found inspiring, though, was Shackleton's willingness as their leader to sacrifice his dream for the sake of human life.  When the situation went horribly awry for reasons beyond their control, Shackleton did not push his crew further into danger for the sake of his dream--he changed his dream to be that of preserving the lives of his crew.  

He also made it fun.  According to the movie, many of the crew reported situations of fun and downright levity initiated by Shackleton in even the most harrowing of circumstances.  Shackleton had a way, apparently, of looking at what seemed and felt like failure in the face and turning that into an opportunity for hope.

I mentioned to someone the other day that I think God is a poet, and our lives are His poetry.  I see reflections of that in my own life, but I also see it in Shackleton's.  I think only a poetic God, a God of supreme artistry, could turn a journey like Shackleton's into what it was.  Shackleton embarked on his journey so that he could set a record--to be the first to cross the uncharted Antarctic continent.  He failed at that goal, but in the end accomplished so much more--after 2 years of being lost in the Antarctic, he and his crew survived.  How's that for a record?

It's fitting that the name of Shackleton's ship was Endurance.  I'm on the brink of becoming a leader myself, and I think one of the calls of that leadership is to endure with people.  It's to value human life in it's infinite artistry and worth more than loftier, abstract goals.  It's to look the disasters of life squarely in the face, and try to make meaning of them without dismissing their significance.  That, for me, is how to hope. 

The Good Shepherd?

Teaching Godly Play to 9/1o year olds has been an incredible joy.  They never cease to challenge and amaze me.  Take, for example, what happened yesterday.  I was telling the story of the Good Shepherd--in comparison to the Ordinary Shepherd, the Good Shepherd leads his sheep to food and water, guides them through places of danger, and would give his life for them if they are lost or in trouble.  Then I got this question:

"So when the sheep come to places of danger, the good shepherd leads them through, right?"

"That's what I think, yes," I said.

"Well," the student went on, "why does the good shepherd even lead the sheep to the dangerous places at all?  If he was really good, wouldn't he help the sheep avoid the dangerous places entirely?  Also, if he's so good, how did that other sheep get lost in the first place?"

That, friends, is why I had to find a way to talk about theodicy in my sunday school class.  Way to go, little dude.

Of course, in true Godly Play style, I directed the question back at the class (a pedagogical technique that really served me well as I was struggling to speak).  This group of 9 and 1o yr. olds decided that it wasn't so important whether or not the good shepherd brought the sheep to the place of danger to begin with; what matters is that the good shepherd goes back to carry you out, where the ordinary shepherd just leaves.  From the mouth of babes, right?

I got a phone call today with some news about two people in my life.  Both are young fathers.  The first part of the call was good news: one young father, a family friend, had his near-terminal diagnosis reversed, and while he's not out of the woods yet, he is miraculously beating all the medical odds that were set against him.  The other young father, my cousin, who was suffering from the same illness with the same odds set against him, died today.  

So who is God?  The ordinary shepherd, or the good shepherd?  And if he's good, how does he let us get "lost" in the first place?  On behalf of the wife and kids of my friend who is surviving, I rejoice in my good shepherd God.  I am in awe of the loving God who can rescue people from the thicket of illness and carry them back on His shoulders safely home.  But where was the good shepherd for my cousin?  Do his wife, children, and family see God as the ordinary shepherd who saw danger, and left his sheep behind?

One of the things I found most poignant about the question my little friends asked in class yesterday is that, I imagine, that will be the first of many times they ask that question in their lives.  And I imagine that, each time, it will be harder and more painful to see the good shepherd God when life, grief, and loss invade their consciousness in new ways.  

In the end, I know that the resolution to these questions are not mine to find--those decisions  always belongs to that person and God.  So my only prayer now is that, somehow, the Good Shepherd God might meet my friends and family who are left speechless in the wake of their loss.  I pray that, even though I may not be able to wrap my mind around it, they would feel God not as the one who abandoned them, but as the one who is carrying them in His arms safely home.

Ascending the Staircase

Wrestling with God has its perks.  It can be hard, certainly.  Downright painful.  Throwing out the hard questions of life, death, pain, and salvation never feels fun, while it's happening.  But there are perks.  Because there always comes a turning point, where I suddenly realize God isn't wrestling back--He's embracing me.  While I'm throwing punches, He's simply holding.  I like that God is big enough to do that.

There are times, of course, where God feels too far away for me to even go to the mat with him.  Those are hard times.  I still don't know why they happen--and I don't think it's always because of lack of clarity, piety, or effort on my part.  Sometimes, and in some situations, God feels (and maybe is) devastatingly far away.

I feel grateful that for this season, at least, I have felt God surrounding me as I throw out all the questions, complaints, and flat out doubts I have.  I feel grateful that, sometimes, I feel God hovering so tangibly around me I am sure that I might physically see Him.  

Karen Armstrong in her memoir "The Spiral Staircase: My Climb Out of Darkness" uses the T.S. Eliot poem "Ash Wednesday" as the framework for describing her journey.  You can read it here--it's a beautiful poem.  What Armstrong latches onto in that poem is the idea that we are constantly vacillating between hope and despair, as if we're ascending a spiral staircase.  I've experienced my faith in God like that--a constant twisting in turning between belief and doubt, confusion and understanding, ecstatic joy and, sometimes, lingering emptiness.  What is constant always, though, is that God is at the center.  Think of a spiral staircase--the stairs twirl around  a central pillar.  So twirl as I might from hope to despair, God remains assuredly at the center, keeping the whole structure upright.

So for now, there is hope.  For now,  I am able to be unafraid of the cross--I am re-understanding what it means to take up my cross and follow Christ.  I am seeing it as a symbol of freedom, not a symbol of victimization.  For now, I anticipate with cheerful hope the opportunities for new ministry, new life, and new experience that lie ahead.  For now, I am undaunted by my degree, my future, and this crazy thing we call ordination.

And in the end, what I am grateful for is that when I inevitably take my next step up the staircase, when I start wrestling again, I trust that God will be there to meet me.   

Forgiveness

"Holding onto resentment is like swallowing poison, and then expecting someone else to die." -Rev. Lynice Pinkard

God speaks loud and clear sometimes.  We may not be as fortunate as Daniel to see God's writing on a wall, or be like Moses and hear God speaking out of a bush--but that doesn't mean God isn't speaking.  God spoke to me today through the words of Rev. Pinkard.  They were not spoken to me or about me--but they happened to be spoken as I was sitting across the table from someone who hurt me, who angered me, someone who fractured our relationship through their actions and their mistakes.

"Dear God: I get it.  Love, Lindsey."

I've spent a lot of time being angry.  And I think that's important.  When people wrong us, or hurt us, it's appropriate to feel wronged and hurt.  It's appropriate for some relationships to end.  What isn't appropriate, I think, is to hold on to the anger for too long, so that it festers within us and blocks us from really knowing the God of radical love and grace.

I didn't feel any radical love and grace towards this person in the beginning.  At first, I felt like I was in junior high--passive aggressive behavior is what marked our first encounter in nearly a year.  But we got a second chance, and then it was better.  I had heard God speak, afterall; I realized my resentment wasn't getting me anywhere.

We didn't talk directly about anything on our second try at communication, but we didn't beat around the bush either.  Direct communication would've signified an attempt at reunion that is just not going to happen.  I was proud of myself, though; a past version of myself would've reacted very differently to this person's tears, their feelings of remorse unrelated to our relationship, and subtle hints at reconstructing a bond.  Me 2.0 was able to honor the grief without trying to participate in the healing; Me 2.0 was able to watch this person grieve and not reach out to hug them.

When we left, there was no promise of a future meeting.  There was no indication that things were better, even.  We simply said good-bye.  Again, this is something that a past version of me could never have done.   

People screw up.  Sometimes, those mistakes ruin relationships.  But resentment is a bitter pill to swallow--and it's not worth holding onto sometimes.  I hope that this is the beginning of me letting it go.

Fear of the Feminine

Apparently, my gender is of great concern to some people.  Let me explain.

There was a moment in class that I found distressing the other day.  In my worship class, we were talking about using inclusive language for God.  In the midst of the conversation, a student raised his hand and expressed feeling at an impasse because, "We can't make everyone happy by calling God 'Father;' but, I mean, we just CAN'T start calling God 'Mother.'  That's just not possible."  Reading that doesn't do that comment justice--I wish you could've heard the sound of this student's voice:  it was a gross mix of terror and disgust, as if calling God 'Mother' would be akin to calling God 'The Cosmic Charles Manson.'

And these feelings of distress coming from a woman who is, frankly, quite comfortable with her Father God.  Despite the best efforts of some of my colleagues, utilizing masculine gendered pronouns for God is important to me.  I know God as Father, and I'm okay with that.  In fact, I like it that way.

But I don't think it would be distasteful to frame God as feminine.  And, frankly, theologically speaking, I think it would be problematic to frame my thoroughly Reformed, and perhaps "wholly other," God as solely one gender or the other.  In the end, the class I was in decided that it wasn't impossible to use feminine pronouns for God.  Nodding solemnly, the class decided that maybe we could talk about Mother God as long it was accompanied by a "tremendous amount of education."

This, friends, is where I'm befuddled.  Why is it so awfully problematic to use the word "mother" and feminine pronouns when it comes to the divine?  Why would the invocation of femininity require education that is so painfully apologetic (where 'apology', in this sense, refers to 'an expression of remorse')?  And if the concept of gendering God is so problematic, why do we not provide a "tremendous amount of education" when we use Father language for God?

I mean, I get the power of tradition.  I don't want to demean the influence of the history of Western Christianity and its conception of a gendered God.  I also get the power of scripture and its unequivocally masculine pronoun-ed God.  I spend hours every week immersed in Hebrew scriptures, and know that both "Elohim" and "Adonai" (the Tetragrammaton) speak, create, and love in the 3rd masculine singular.  But I wish there was a happier medium, where we could reconcile the tradition and scripture of Christianity in a way that honors experiences of God that are, perhaps, differently gendered.  And in the end, I just wish that I didn't have to listen to my peers talk about the union of the words "mother," "She," "Her", & "God" with fear on their faces and disgust in their voices.

On Suffering

My mind has been cloudy with many a theological thought these days.  Namely, thoughts on soteriology, suffering, and redemption.  I can't seem to stop thinking about it.  Situations in the lives of my friends, and my own life, keep lending to the questions.  I do love how whenever I'm this passionate about some theological topic or another, new people and ideas seem to pop up wherever I go, and I find myself stumbling into the conversation when I least expect it.  Poor professors, especially, open this particular Pandora's Box without really meaning to, and are disrupted from their lectures by my taking to my proverbial soap box.  I can almost hear them thinking, "No, really, I was just talking about the church in the 13th century...not your struggle with victimization and the divine."

But then I think--are they ever truly separated from each other?  If I'm going to learn about history, pastoral care, even Hebrew, don't I also have to cope with my all of my theological struggles alongside?  I don't think we can treat theology like the plates they give you at picnics--pre-divided so that the food can be easily managed and organized.  Faith, theology, it is all much messier than that.

All that being said, I have nothing but questions at this point.  They are all questions that come from places of deep grief in me, but also places of deep hope for healing.  I am not scared of the questions--I'm actually happy to be this engaged in my faith.  I haven't felt this way in a long time.  Yet it is not without a little trepidation that I ask them at all.

So, onto the questions: how do we talk about the death and the suffering of Christ as redemptive without encouraging, on some level, patterns of violence?  Can we talk about hope in suffering while also telling people that they are allowed to leave harmful situations?  Can the portrayal of suffering as strengthening/hopeful/etc. ever be empowering to the victimized?  Is suffering different than victimization?  What do we think the Bible has to say about this all?  Thoughts/more questions/dissertations are welcome :-)

The thing with feathers?

"In the dark we climb this slope/Because the bravest thing of all is always hope."

-Brave Saint Saturn, "Binary"

It's difficult to talk about hope sometimes.  I can wax theological about it, certainly, and have had powerful encounters with this thing we call hope in many phases of my life.  I claim a hope known through my faith as that which sustained me during some of my greatest struggles.  I proudly proclaim 1 Cor. 13:13 as a beautiful testament to the religious experience I claim.  

But it's difficult to talk about hope sometimes.  Now, as I watch some of those most beloved to me struggle with the fragility, and loss, of life, I am positively speechless about hope.  Language of hope feels too uncomfortable, too painful, like forcing myself into shoes that are two sizes too small.  Hope is not confidence.  Hope is not equivalent to happiness.  Hope, I think, must necessarily exist with devastation.  I don't think we talk about that enough.  So my prayer is that my dear friends might know hope that is big enough to carry their grief without dismissing it.  And that God would draw them close so that they do not have to bear the burden of bravery alone.    

V-Week

I am prouder than ever to be a student at PSR right now.  I find myself profoundly moved by what I witnessed at my seminary's student-run production of the Vagina Monologues.  What a beautiful thing it was to see female seminarians and clergy participate in this production--women I am lucky enough to call my colleagues.  

I remember when I saw the Vagina Monologues at St. Olaf.   I'm sure it was a good production, but what I mostly recall is that it felt daring simply because it used the word "vagina" a lot.  And I acknowledge my complicity in that perception--I have grown a lot since I first saw the production at St. Olaf.  Tonight, because of the incredible artistic direction and passion of the actresses, I saw that the point of this whole show goes far, far deeper than its vocabulary.  In the end, its not about anatomy--it is about acknowledging and healing a history of violence, in all of its many forms.

One of my fellow seminarians whom I deeply, deeply respect and admire said something interesting to me last year.  It was our last day of our Field Ed discussion group and, as seminarians are wont to do, we were ritualizing our final session by sharing the ways we'd been blessed by our peers throughout the semester.  When my friend came to me, she said that it had been a blessing to watch me wrestle with gender-related issues at my Field Ed site and grow through my struggles.  I remember being terribly confused when she said it--in my perception, none of my internship related issues had anything to do with my gender identity.  I thought she was exaggerating one explicitly gender-related issue that occurred at my site. Yet as the dust of last year has settled, I'm beginning to see what she saw in me all year long.  While not true for all of my internship-related concerns, I'm slowly recognizing that many situations reflected my deeply ingrained notions of what I thought my culture/society expected of me as a woman.

The Monologues gave me hope.  It was sobering to hear all the violence named, even in drama But it was downright prophetic to see my friends and colleagues present this work in the name of justice, sisterhood, and healing.  

Manic Monday

So I predict I'm going to be grumpy on Mondays.  I'm currently sitting in my Worship class at 9:40pm, feeling exhausted because I've been in class since 8am.  The first two, Hebrew and History, were at least interesting--but my senior seminar was all kinds of depressing, and now my poor worship professor doesn't stand a chance against my fatigue-induced cynicism.  What can I say?  Snarky thoughts keep me awake.   

That being said, I feel very lucky today.  I'm feeling a connectedness to God that I haven't experienced in a long while.  I feel like I'm understanding grace in a new way.  I feel like I'm understanding my relationship with God in a way that is much more complex and intricate than its been in the past, and I am grateful.  

Too bad I can't stay awake in the class where I'm learning how to be a pastor... :-)

Something I don't like

Sometimes the nature of humanity really gets me down.  Not to get too Barthian on y'all (though I unabashedly love that guy sometimes), but sometimes I get frustrated with human brokenness.  I suppose this is a good way to start Lent, and perhaps one of the intended effects of the Ash Wednesday service I attended tonight (which, of course, was beautiful framed by the reality of hope).  That being said, I find it upsetting that we, as people, tend to be both the break-ers and the broken.  This, of course, radiates out of my own personal reflection, seeing the areas where I have been broken and where I have caused brokenness.  I am even more humbled tonight by how brightly my life shines with grace.

And now, for something completely different.  I'm currently reading a book on boundaries.  More to come on this, but it's been powerful, important work.  School has started again, and luckily I'm still in the "excited to be back in classes" stage; we'll see how long it lasts :-)  Overall, I feel blessed and happy-- I know brokenness, but I also know grace.

Back to Reality

Well, after 2 weeks of being on vacation in paradise, I'm happily re-adjusting to normal-person life.  Hawaii was incredible; all the time outside in such beautiful surroundings with family (biological and not) was healing.  And yet, I'm pleased with how little needs healing this year in comparison to last year--I feel like I'm getting to watch all those balls that have been up in the air slowly fall into place.  That is a comfort, but what is perhaps more comforting is that I don't feel as afraid of uncertainty as I once did.  I know full well that my life will take twists and turns I could never predict, and I am much more okay with that now than I was 3 years ago.  

In the vein of healing, my mother, Emily and I composed an impromptu ritual of our own while on the beach of Maui.  Per my mom's recommendation, we wrote down in the sand anything and everything that had ever caused us worry, and celebrated as we watched the waves overcome the simple words etched in the sand.  We giggled the whole time, but there was a depth to the silly victory we felt while watching our concerns literally being washed away.  And to witness it surrounded by family and friends--well, there isn't a word for the happiness that brings.

What I was surprised by was when my mother suggested to me "You forgot to write down K---- in the sand."  I had completely forgotten--and in that moment, I realized that I was moving on from the things that happened last year.  Not that the drama of last year was the most traumatic thing that ever happened to me, but there were moments of such sincere grief and anger that made me grow impatient for when I would get to move on.  

That being said, I've been having dreams about going back to the hospital recently.  They're very simple--all I do is say good-bye to the people there.  I think that's where I still find room for sadness; I didn't get to say good-bye to the people I had worked with in such close capacity for that year.  But that was almost a year ago now, and I celebrate that I didn't feel the need to write that in the sand.  

Things are looking up for 2008.  

A New Year

New Year's 2008 was a New Year's well spent.  I rang in 2008 with my nearest and dearest (or, as I like to refer to them, my VIPeeps :-) ) in St. Paul, MN.  Good people, good laughs, good food, good wine, and all-over merriment abounded.  It was such a delightful way to start this new year, and was well worth braving the frozen tundra that is Minnesota in January.  I have to admit, I still harbor a fondness for Minnesota--I wouldn't be surprised if I end up back there some day, if only for a little while.  While I was there, it was neat to stand back, take in my college friends, and realize that we are all growing up into pretty cool people.  I am so proud of all of my friends and what they are accomplishing in their lives.

What was just as delightful as seeing these wonderful people was coming back to Berkeley--and getting to reconnect with the communities I have here.  While some friends are still "new," I was taken by how many of them no longer fall into that category.  Warm things like breakfast with Eli, calling on Kris last minute to pick me up from the airport and giggling most of the way home, and chatting with Ryan about everything and anything under the sun are just a few of the reasons Berkeley has become home to me.   

Now, I am in what might be considered most authentically my home gearing up to go on vacation with my parents and Emily.  And aside from "studying" for my Bible Content Exam that's coming up, I've been feeling blessed to have three places I can call home.  I can't think of a better way to start of a new year.