Over the course of the past couple months, a number of friends have told me that they read this blog regularly but don’t feel comfortable leaving comments. I’m glad they’ve shared this because it reminds me that I have been very lax about setting guidelines and communicating my standards for people leaving comments.
Rule #1:
Comments should either be profound enough to make me weep or witty enough to make me chuckle knowingly.
Rule #2:
Comments should be written in a style that is one or all of the following: eloquent, urbane, poetic, elegiac, subtly subversive, or avant-garde.
Rule #3:
Comments should be the perfect length, and you should know intuitively what that length is.
Rule #4:
This should go without saying, but comments should always be written with strict and unfailing adherence to the rules of grammar and punctuation.
Please be aware that I spend a great deal of time closely scrutinizing all of your comments and judging how well they follow said rules. So does everyone else reading this blog. If you fail to meet any of these standards successfully, we will laugh at you scornfully and feel ourselves to be far superior to you, you lame comment writer.**
**NOTE: So, yes, this was all an exercise in irony for me, but in case my skills aren’t up to the task or you somehow lead an irony-free life and enjoy heavy-handed literalism, here is the serious point I am making: I certainly don’t expect or need everyone to write comments (some of you just genuinely don’t have any and some of you prefer to comment in direct e-mails or conversation, which is totally fine), but if you ever feel the urge to write a comment and suppress it out of fear of it not being “good enough,” then please remember how ridiculous everything I wrote above really is and take that leap. I appreciate any and all comments whether you are responding in general to how a post made you feel, responding to a particular phrase/detail, sharing an experience or memory of your own, questioning or expanding an idea in a post, or whatever else you might feel to write. Any comment is a response, and any response is extremely gratifying because that means someone read the post and was affected enough to want to say something back. And this goes for the guest posts as well—don’t be scared to comment on them just because you don’t know the writer personally. Okay, I’ll stop the earnest lecturing now. It’s not nearly as fun as the ironic part.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Monday, August 27, 2007
Thoughts on the Incarnation
I am part of a team at my church that helps plan liturgical elements for the Sunday morning services. As such, I’ve been spending some time in this improbable and hot month of August going through a book of poems by Luci Shaw about the incarnation to see if there is any material we might be able use in the Advent season. In the poem “Salutation,” which references Luke 1:39-45, Shaw writes:
Framed in light,
Mary sings through the doorway.
Elizabeth’s six-month joy
jumps , a palpable greeting,
a hidden first encounter
between son and Son.
And my heart turns over
when I meet Jesus
in you.
Yesterday afternoon I got a message that my grandpa is dying. I went to the hospital and sat for some time with him last night. I rested my hand on his head and leaned in close to his ear to tell him I loved him, to speak the names of all the family members who could not be there, to tell him the things about his life and presence in my life that I was thankful for. I don’t know how much he heard or understood. His hearing is quite poor even at the best of times and he had just been given doses of morphine and Atavan to help him rest comfortably. So I sat back in the chair and held his left hand in both of mine and slowly stroked the back of it, careful of the inserted tubes, noting the fragile crepe of his skin and the deep reddish blossoms of bruising climbing up his arm. As I watched his eyes droop closed despite his labored breathing and the fluttering pulse beating in his neck, I wished there were something more I could do. But there wasn’t. All I could do was be with him, holding his hand and praying for him, being a witness to this final struggle. And the longer I sat there, the more certain I became that this was enough.
When it comes to the incarnation, I think there is a tendency in modern evangelical Christianity to focus primarily on the issue of personal salvation, where the incarnation of Jesus becomes all about asking Jesus into one’s heart and then being transformed by that indwelling so that one can become “better” and live a more fulfilling life. That act of indwelling becomes a ticket to heaven with the added bonus of one’s own personal Life Coach God. But reading Shaw’s poem after the experience of sitting with my grandfather last night, the incarnation struck me in an entirely different way. Jesus’s incarnation doesn’t end with his own body dying and resurrecting but continues in the bodies of those who know and follow him, and he doesn’t indwell us to serve us but to serve those who surround us.
To so many people, Jesus is a fairy tale, a curse word, a joke to make action figures out of or to call a homeboy on a trendy t-shirt. Christians might shake their heads disapprovingly at this, but we often distance and use him for our own purposes as well. Perhaps the packaging is more pleasing and seemingly respectful, but the act of usage is the same. In claiming to serve him, we use him to better our lives, to justify our judgment of others, to name brand him in a separate subculture that divides us from the rest of society with bumper stickers, logos, and radio stations. We seem proud to declare that we are separate from the rest of the world. But in doing so, I think we separate ourselves from the true meaning of incarnation.
If Jesus really is indwelling me, then I do not need to have signs and proclamations declaring this. It should not mark me out in a divisive or condemning way or cause me to withdraw from the world. It should humble me and cause a joyful fear and trembling as it did in Mary, the first vessel of Jesus and his indwelling. Mary did not strive to do anything or announce anything to Elizabeth. She simply walked through a door with Jesus in her belly, and another baby leapt and Elizabeth rejoiced. I wanted to be able to do something yesterday for my grandpa but I couldn’t—at least not actively or tangibly in the sense of helping him breathe more easily or rest more comfortably. But I could be there. I could bring the presence of Christ through the doorway and to his bedside and touch his head and hand with it. Jesus isn’t just in my heart for my own comfort and guidance and to iron out all the petty wrinkles of my personal sins. He’s there for my Grandpa and for every other person I speak to, listen to, touch, or simply sit next to. His incarnation exists in me to bless others just as it exists in others to bless me, and it is in this way—not through bumper stickers, slogans, or my own personal clean and shiny life—that God is glorified.
Framed in light,
Mary sings through the doorway.
Elizabeth’s six-month joy
jumps , a palpable greeting,
a hidden first encounter
between son and Son.
And my heart turns over
when I meet Jesus
in you.
Yesterday afternoon I got a message that my grandpa is dying. I went to the hospital and sat for some time with him last night. I rested my hand on his head and leaned in close to his ear to tell him I loved him, to speak the names of all the family members who could not be there, to tell him the things about his life and presence in my life that I was thankful for. I don’t know how much he heard or understood. His hearing is quite poor even at the best of times and he had just been given doses of morphine and Atavan to help him rest comfortably. So I sat back in the chair and held his left hand in both of mine and slowly stroked the back of it, careful of the inserted tubes, noting the fragile crepe of his skin and the deep reddish blossoms of bruising climbing up his arm. As I watched his eyes droop closed despite his labored breathing and the fluttering pulse beating in his neck, I wished there were something more I could do. But there wasn’t. All I could do was be with him, holding his hand and praying for him, being a witness to this final struggle. And the longer I sat there, the more certain I became that this was enough.
When it comes to the incarnation, I think there is a tendency in modern evangelical Christianity to focus primarily on the issue of personal salvation, where the incarnation of Jesus becomes all about asking Jesus into one’s heart and then being transformed by that indwelling so that one can become “better” and live a more fulfilling life. That act of indwelling becomes a ticket to heaven with the added bonus of one’s own personal Life Coach God. But reading Shaw’s poem after the experience of sitting with my grandfather last night, the incarnation struck me in an entirely different way. Jesus’s incarnation doesn’t end with his own body dying and resurrecting but continues in the bodies of those who know and follow him, and he doesn’t indwell us to serve us but to serve those who surround us.
To so many people, Jesus is a fairy tale, a curse word, a joke to make action figures out of or to call a homeboy on a trendy t-shirt. Christians might shake their heads disapprovingly at this, but we often distance and use him for our own purposes as well. Perhaps the packaging is more pleasing and seemingly respectful, but the act of usage is the same. In claiming to serve him, we use him to better our lives, to justify our judgment of others, to name brand him in a separate subculture that divides us from the rest of society with bumper stickers, logos, and radio stations. We seem proud to declare that we are separate from the rest of the world. But in doing so, I think we separate ourselves from the true meaning of incarnation.
If Jesus really is indwelling me, then I do not need to have signs and proclamations declaring this. It should not mark me out in a divisive or condemning way or cause me to withdraw from the world. It should humble me and cause a joyful fear and trembling as it did in Mary, the first vessel of Jesus and his indwelling. Mary did not strive to do anything or announce anything to Elizabeth. She simply walked through a door with Jesus in her belly, and another baby leapt and Elizabeth rejoiced. I wanted to be able to do something yesterday for my grandpa but I couldn’t—at least not actively or tangibly in the sense of helping him breathe more easily or rest more comfortably. But I could be there. I could bring the presence of Christ through the doorway and to his bedside and touch his head and hand with it. Jesus isn’t just in my heart for my own comfort and guidance and to iron out all the petty wrinkles of my personal sins. He’s there for my Grandpa and for every other person I speak to, listen to, touch, or simply sit next to. His incarnation exists in me to bless others just as it exists in others to bless me, and it is in this way—not through bumper stickers, slogans, or my own personal clean and shiny life—that God is glorified.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Guest Post by Greg Stump
Here are my prayers.
I open my hands and send them up to you
but there are silences circling above
that swallow the words wholly
before it seems they can reach you.
So I delay any further release,
swatting away flies and covering them from the sun
while they sleep.
I wait to hear an opening above,
to send them in a quick ascent to you.
But the clouds come and go without noise,
I cannot even discern their movement.
Suddenly, twitching then thrashing
on the ground behind curtained tree branches
takes my attention away from prayer
and quickens my unwild heart.
Softly I see the bird, small and anxious,
hopping, as if to fly but unable.
A broken wing? Wounded by predator?
It moves in circles among the needles and dirt
without escaping and frantic.
Shame seeps out of my heart
since I know I will not help it—
afraid of being mistaken for an enemy,
of being bitten and disease,
of even holding some small alive thing
in my grasp that I don’t understand.
So instead I watch as it flails at pine and leaves,
leaping in an endless spiral of inability.
I look up toward the sky, doubly cursed,
and the clouds seem to be falling at me.
I turn back to watch the bird longer
and then I begin to see
what had been somehow hidden from me:
It is not trying to escape, but rather,
is building a nest.
Then the breeze moves over my hands
and my fingers turn loose
and my prayers fly over to rest
in the bed of leaves and earth,
cool beneath the shade of your wings.
I open my hands and send them up to you
but there are silences circling above
that swallow the words wholly
before it seems they can reach you.
So I delay any further release,
swatting away flies and covering them from the sun
while they sleep.
I wait to hear an opening above,
to send them in a quick ascent to you.
But the clouds come and go without noise,
I cannot even discern their movement.
Suddenly, twitching then thrashing
on the ground behind curtained tree branches
takes my attention away from prayer
and quickens my unwild heart.
Softly I see the bird, small and anxious,
hopping, as if to fly but unable.
A broken wing? Wounded by predator?
It moves in circles among the needles and dirt
without escaping and frantic.
Shame seeps out of my heart
since I know I will not help it—
afraid of being mistaken for an enemy,
of being bitten and disease,
of even holding some small alive thing
in my grasp that I don’t understand.
So instead I watch as it flails at pine and leaves,
leaping in an endless spiral of inability.
I look up toward the sky, doubly cursed,
and the clouds seem to be falling at me.
I turn back to watch the bird longer
and then I begin to see
what had been somehow hidden from me:
It is not trying to escape, but rather,
is building a nest.
Then the breeze moves over my hands
and my fingers turn loose
and my prayers fly over to rest
in the bed of leaves and earth,
cool beneath the shade of your wings.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Dream lives & broken sprinklers
A friend of mine recently made the observation that perhaps the reason time moves so slowly for children is that they live completely in the moment, while it speeds past for us adults because we are always thinking ahead and worrying about so many things at once. This reminded me of Jesus’s command not to worry about tomorrow and his suggestion that we should emulate children in our faith. I never made a connection between those two elements before but it seems an obvious and powerful one to me now. I have just come back from three weeks of living in the moment, so to speak—of living what in some ways is my dream life.
As I’ve been unpacking my suitcase and transferring loads of clothes from the washing machine to the dryer, I’ve been reflecting on what exactly made the past three weeks my dream life and why it is so hard for me to be back home. Usually, even after the best trips, I feel a kind of gladness and contentment in returning home. So far, I do not feel this. Part of it may be jet lag, part of it the fact that it is ridiculously hot here (90s), and part of it is that before I’d even drunk my first cup of tea this morning, I got a nasty note on my front door from the city that pretty much said, “Hey, loser, fix your damn sprinklers so they don’t flood so much water into the street and mess up the Thursday morning street cleaning.” Okay, so maybe it didn’t exactly say that, but it was close.
So back to the dream life I was in just a short while ago and what made it so wonderful. First of all, I loved being in such a beautiful physical environment—the lush greenery of the English countryside, the openness and space, the beauty of the architecture in the cities, and the rich history—depth and character present everywhere I looked. I also loved having such complete escape and freedom from all of my responsibilities at home—dealing with bills, cleaning, repairs, doctor’s appointments, phone calls, etc. I didn’t have to worry about gushing sprinklers and how to fix them. I didn’t have to think about work. I didn’t have to worry about returning the shoes I ordered that don’t fit. All I had to think about every morning was what wonderful things I wanted to visit and explore that day. Even though I usually had a rough plan in mind, I was able to make decisions moment by moment and focus completely on what was around me and just enjoying and absorbing it. I got to be Katherine outside of my usual context—Katherine the traveler and explorer and nothing else.
Finally, I was writing about it all and loving it. All writing, I believe, is a process of moving deeper into oneself while simultaneously reaching out to connect with others. I think writers yearn for publication not just for recognition and validation (although those are powerful and often dominant motivators) but also for connection, to have someone out there read their words and be moved by them in some way or other. I connect with authors and their hearts and thoughts all the time as a reader and get to know them on some level even though they might be long dead and/or we’ll never meet face to face. All writers write for themselves, but they are also writing for a reader even if that reader is one merely hoped for and the texts end up in a drawer or hard drive somewhere never to see the light of day. Or at least that’s what I think. I am still so hesitant to call myself a writer and claim the right to speak as one.
Case in point: when I was experiencing technical difficulties at my B&B in Keswick and was trying to communicate to the owner how important it was for me to be able to connect to the internet and continue my blog, I blurted out, “I’m a writer!” The minute her expression changed to one of respect and she said, “Really?” I felt like the biggest fraud. “Well, I do some freelance writing, mainly for non-profits,” I amended, and then added, “My profession is actually teaching—I’m a high school English teacher. Writing is kind of a hobby. I'm just doing a little blog while I travel.” I was completely babbling at this point and finally stopped myself before I could downgrade all the way to, “I type.”
I met two “real” writers during the course of my travels. The first had just won a very prestigious award from the British government for her work and the second had been in England for a month doing research for her next novel, which is to be set in England in the 1860s. I look at them and the gulf between where I am and where they are seems too wide and deep for me to ever get across. They have lives I both covet and believe are impossible for me to ever achieve. It isn’t just that I believe they must have considerably more talent than I have, but also that they must somehow know secrets that I don’t—the password into the world of being published. But that is both an exaggeration and oversimplification. I think, perhaps, what both of these women have besides talent is the drive and commitment to pursue it. They have made writing their lives and I’m sure there was a great deal of hard work and frustration that went into doing that that I am not aware of and that I am afraid to fully commit myself to.
I look at friends of mine who are yearning writers, painters, musicians, dancers, and actors. We dabble and we dream, but we hesitate to name ourselves in those ways and to give ourselves those identities. But I am beginning to suspect that until we do, we really won’t ever be able to cross that gulf into the “real.”
I seem to have ventured away from the ideas I began with, but I think the two are somehow related—living in the moment and writing, freedom from anxiety and burdens and a clearer sense of self. I want to bring some of those elements of what I experienced and how I felt during those three weeks traveling in England back into my life here in tacky and too hot Anaheim. But first I need to go figure out how to fix my sprinkler heads.
As I’ve been unpacking my suitcase and transferring loads of clothes from the washing machine to the dryer, I’ve been reflecting on what exactly made the past three weeks my dream life and why it is so hard for me to be back home. Usually, even after the best trips, I feel a kind of gladness and contentment in returning home. So far, I do not feel this. Part of it may be jet lag, part of it the fact that it is ridiculously hot here (90s), and part of it is that before I’d even drunk my first cup of tea this morning, I got a nasty note on my front door from the city that pretty much said, “Hey, loser, fix your damn sprinklers so they don’t flood so much water into the street and mess up the Thursday morning street cleaning.” Okay, so maybe it didn’t exactly say that, but it was close.
So back to the dream life I was in just a short while ago and what made it so wonderful. First of all, I loved being in such a beautiful physical environment—the lush greenery of the English countryside, the openness and space, the beauty of the architecture in the cities, and the rich history—depth and character present everywhere I looked. I also loved having such complete escape and freedom from all of my responsibilities at home—dealing with bills, cleaning, repairs, doctor’s appointments, phone calls, etc. I didn’t have to worry about gushing sprinklers and how to fix them. I didn’t have to think about work. I didn’t have to worry about returning the shoes I ordered that don’t fit. All I had to think about every morning was what wonderful things I wanted to visit and explore that day. Even though I usually had a rough plan in mind, I was able to make decisions moment by moment and focus completely on what was around me and just enjoying and absorbing it. I got to be Katherine outside of my usual context—Katherine the traveler and explorer and nothing else.
Finally, I was writing about it all and loving it. All writing, I believe, is a process of moving deeper into oneself while simultaneously reaching out to connect with others. I think writers yearn for publication not just for recognition and validation (although those are powerful and often dominant motivators) but also for connection, to have someone out there read their words and be moved by them in some way or other. I connect with authors and their hearts and thoughts all the time as a reader and get to know them on some level even though they might be long dead and/or we’ll never meet face to face. All writers write for themselves, but they are also writing for a reader even if that reader is one merely hoped for and the texts end up in a drawer or hard drive somewhere never to see the light of day. Or at least that’s what I think. I am still so hesitant to call myself a writer and claim the right to speak as one.
Case in point: when I was experiencing technical difficulties at my B&B in Keswick and was trying to communicate to the owner how important it was for me to be able to connect to the internet and continue my blog, I blurted out, “I’m a writer!” The minute her expression changed to one of respect and she said, “Really?” I felt like the biggest fraud. “Well, I do some freelance writing, mainly for non-profits,” I amended, and then added, “My profession is actually teaching—I’m a high school English teacher. Writing is kind of a hobby. I'm just doing a little blog while I travel.” I was completely babbling at this point and finally stopped myself before I could downgrade all the way to, “I type.”
I met two “real” writers during the course of my travels. The first had just won a very prestigious award from the British government for her work and the second had been in England for a month doing research for her next novel, which is to be set in England in the 1860s. I look at them and the gulf between where I am and where they are seems too wide and deep for me to ever get across. They have lives I both covet and believe are impossible for me to ever achieve. It isn’t just that I believe they must have considerably more talent than I have, but also that they must somehow know secrets that I don’t—the password into the world of being published. But that is both an exaggeration and oversimplification. I think, perhaps, what both of these women have besides talent is the drive and commitment to pursue it. They have made writing their lives and I’m sure there was a great deal of hard work and frustration that went into doing that that I am not aware of and that I am afraid to fully commit myself to.
I look at friends of mine who are yearning writers, painters, musicians, dancers, and actors. We dabble and we dream, but we hesitate to name ourselves in those ways and to give ourselves those identities. But I am beginning to suspect that until we do, we really won’t ever be able to cross that gulf into the “real.”
I seem to have ventured away from the ideas I began with, but I think the two are somehow related—living in the moment and writing, freedom from anxiety and burdens and a clearer sense of self. I want to bring some of those elements of what I experienced and how I felt during those three weeks traveling in England back into my life here in tacky and too hot Anaheim. But first I need to go figure out how to fix my sprinkler heads.
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