Don't worry, I'm back. I haven't drowned in the sea. I went to Hawaii and spent as little time as possible on my computer. One day soon I may write about the Dalai Lama, but it won't be tonight. I'm too tired.
Still jet-lagged, I woke up early this morning and drove 2.5 hours to speak at an academy about New Light (a home for the children of sex workers in India), and about how the Gospel compels Christians to engage in issues of social justice. It was an extremely disheartening experience. First, I spent $70 to get there and back in my family's gas-guzzeling behemoth vehicle. Then when I got there, I found that the person who'd invited me had been called away on an emergency. (I should add that it was a very valid emergency.) A student worker greeted me timidly on his behalf, took my DVD, and disappeared to have it set up. After getting lost, I found the gathering myself and forged my way into a room full of rowdy students who looked like they would rather be anywhere else besides a chapel program. A smily-looking lady shook my hand and then introduced me to the students, telling them (with evident dis-ease) that I would be sharing some "perhaps uncomfortable" things about my "work" in India. I was highly amused. I don't think she was entirely pleased with my presence.
When I got up to begin I was immediately intimidated. (I am extremely crowd sensitive.) During preaching assignments at a certain county church near WWU, I used to stutter all over my sermons because of a bald man who always snored in the middle left-hand pew. But despite snickering and whispering and paper-ball throwing (that was probably only in my imagination), I did a decent job at the academy. I was enthusiastic and clear of speach, and what I had to say was (I thought) extremely relevant. But most of my audience was not engaged. I tried hard to reach them, even bursting out of my notes from time to time (a nearly unheard of event for Gulliver). It was hopeless. But for a very few, they would not be drawn in.
I suppose in the end I can't really blame the students. I am a much more effective "high church" preacher, however much I dream of spouting off the cuff, firey, and entertaining sermons. I never raise my voice or wave my arms. I wouldn't dream of budging from the podium. I tend to read my manuscripts, which are carefully crafted and technical (often mediocre) theological expositions. For better or for worse, this stuff tends to go over well in preaching class and in traditional church settings, but it didn't work with the kids. They weren't interested in my "brilliant" manifesto for a Christian spirituality that generates acts of compassion. It was perhaps too esoteric.
The smily lady came and sat nearby while the DVD played, so I leaned over and asked her how much time I had left to wrap things up. She said I had about 10 minutes, but advised me to keep it shorter. "This is heavy stuff for these kids," she said (sounding slightly offended). Yes, child prostitution is heavy for kids. Much too heavy. That's exactly why we must talk about it.
I'm afraid I really let her words crush my spirit. I ended my presentation by challenging the students to cultivate a holistic spirituality that engages mind, body, and soul. I told them that the Kingdom of God "out there" is really "here, now," that it has burst forth in our midst, and that disciples of Christ must therefore be voices of justice and peace. Then do you know what happened? The whole mob jumped and ran for the door. It was lunch time.
I had just told them about starving babies, and they were still concerned about lunch! Perhaps it was a painful rebuke of my own appetite, or perhaps it was righteous (or self-righteous) indignation. But whatever the case, it made me feel very sad.
Finding nothing to do in the empty chapel after everyone left, I simply shrugged, went to the car, and drove home. I felt like I had waisted both my time and my money, and I felt frustrated with myself and with what I judged to be superficiality on the part of the students. I don't know why God keeps putting teenagers in my life-- they are absolutely infuriating. God only knows why I like them and why they like me (and they do, even when they don't get my speaking. Its really weird.)
Okay, I must go to sleep now. I feel sick with sleepiness. This entry was obviously not meant to provoke any profound thoughts, but only to appease those friends who have been prodding me for a blog update.
Good night.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 14, 2008
Greed
I astonish myself with my own greed. Today at the SeaTac airport I got a meal voucher because of a delayed flight. I wasn't hungry at all, and it occured to me that maybe I should seek out some more needy soul to give it to (like, maybe a stranded parent with children). But did I do it? No! I went to a restaurant I didn't like and bought a sandwhich I didn't want, all because I couldn't stand the thought of forgoing free food. Why are we such gluttans? Why can't we be content with flat, satisfied stomachs? Why must we greedily cash in on every opportunity for "more"?
I feel sick now. Overstuffed.
I have lots to write, its true. I flatter myself that some of you are waiting breathlessly for my reflections on the Dalai Lama, but more likely I am the one who most enjoys my monologues. Oh, God bless us pitiful creatures. As soon as I find a few moments to breathe I will write a full update on the recent happenings of my life. Too much to do.
I came across a quote last night that I really, really liked. Its attributed to Mother Teresa, but it doesn't sound like her voice to me (I should know. Right.) Here it is:
"We the unwilling, led by the unknown, have been doing the impossible for the ungrateful. We have done so much for so long with so little, that we are now qualified to do anything with nothing."
I feel sick now. Overstuffed.
I have lots to write, its true. I flatter myself that some of you are waiting breathlessly for my reflections on the Dalai Lama, but more likely I am the one who most enjoys my monologues. Oh, God bless us pitiful creatures. As soon as I find a few moments to breathe I will write a full update on the recent happenings of my life. Too much to do.
I came across a quote last night that I really, really liked. Its attributed to Mother Teresa, but it doesn't sound like her voice to me (I should know. Right.) Here it is:
"We the unwilling, led by the unknown, have been doing the impossible for the ungrateful. We have done so much for so long with so little, that we are now qualified to do anything with nothing."
Friday, April 4, 2008
Hello Dalai Lama!
Guess what, guess what? I am going to see the Dalai Lama next week! Yay!!! I can hardly believe my good fortune on this one. The downstairs tenant in our house is a fabulous woman-- so intuitive and kindhearted. We live on an Indian reservation, and Sheryl works part time at the tribal center where Native American artists have been busily beading, crocheting, and quilting quilts for the Dalai Lama and his entourage. "His Holiness" (as all my friends in Kolkata liked to call him) will be hosting a very special meeting on the 13th just for the Native American people of our region.
Well, when Sheryl mentioned last week that the DL was coming to town for this program, I just about flipped! I wanted to go! I did a quick search and found out that the whole event (Seeds of Compassion) was actually being held in Seattle, and that there was a public gathering scheduled for the 12th. I was shocked and scandalized to learn that there were NO MORE TICKETS available, and that therefore I would not be able to attend. Dear Sheryl made note of my disappointment and without telling me, contacted her friend at the tribal center who is organizing the April 13 event. To make a long story short, I HAVE A TICKET NOW!!! I have a ticket to hear the Dalai Lama speak on the 12th about Compassion in Action, particularly on how we can nurture compassion in the hearts and minds of children. I am extremely excited. It will be at the Qwest Field, and nearly 40,000 people are expected to attend. That figure makes me feel a little dizzy, but it will be worth the crowd for this experience!
Today I had a wonderful time down at the beach. I tried Lectio Devina for the first time (I've done it "informally" before, sure. This is just the first time I've ever given it a fancy Latin title). Anyway, I wanted to experiment with some of the spiritual practices prescribed in the Campolo/Darling book. Since Darling said it was not good to worry too much about picking "just the right text," I just opened my Bible and picked the first line that struck me. It said, from 2 Corinthians 12:14, "I seek not what is yours, but you."
As I thought about this line, what emerged was the liberating sense that God is not particularly interested in what I have or don't have to give him in service. What he's concerned about is having me-- all of me-- me and only me. Once I am his he can do with me whatever he pleases. If I am found useful for some high-profile place of service, then there he will put me. If I'm found more suitable elsewhere, then elsewhere I will go. The bottom line is that I am his-- not my stuff, not my "gifts." He can make doers out of rocks if he wishes. Its my love that he wants. And love is a gift that no one is left unable to give. Maybe I can't sing, dance, preach, write, or inspire others, but I can always love. Love is the one and only gift that a creature can actually give to God. And in the end, loving is the way we give our whole selves.
Okay, to bed I go. Tonight I will dream of incense and saffron robes. What a lovely day!
Well, when Sheryl mentioned last week that the DL was coming to town for this program, I just about flipped! I wanted to go! I did a quick search and found out that the whole event (Seeds of Compassion) was actually being held in Seattle, and that there was a public gathering scheduled for the 12th. I was shocked and scandalized to learn that there were NO MORE TICKETS available, and that therefore I would not be able to attend. Dear Sheryl made note of my disappointment and without telling me, contacted her friend at the tribal center who is organizing the April 13 event. To make a long story short, I HAVE A TICKET NOW!!! I have a ticket to hear the Dalai Lama speak on the 12th about Compassion in Action, particularly on how we can nurture compassion in the hearts and minds of children. I am extremely excited. It will be at the Qwest Field, and nearly 40,000 people are expected to attend. That figure makes me feel a little dizzy, but it will be worth the crowd for this experience!
Today I had a wonderful time down at the beach. I tried Lectio Devina for the first time (I've done it "informally" before, sure. This is just the first time I've ever given it a fancy Latin title). Anyway, I wanted to experiment with some of the spiritual practices prescribed in the Campolo/Darling book. Since Darling said it was not good to worry too much about picking "just the right text," I just opened my Bible and picked the first line that struck me. It said, from 2 Corinthians 12:14, "I seek not what is yours, but you."
As I thought about this line, what emerged was the liberating sense that God is not particularly interested in what I have or don't have to give him in service. What he's concerned about is having me-- all of me-- me and only me. Once I am his he can do with me whatever he pleases. If I am found useful for some high-profile place of service, then there he will put me. If I'm found more suitable elsewhere, then elsewhere I will go. The bottom line is that I am his-- not my stuff, not my "gifts." He can make doers out of rocks if he wishes. Its my love that he wants. And love is a gift that no one is left unable to give. Maybe I can't sing, dance, preach, write, or inspire others, but I can always love. Love is the one and only gift that a creature can actually give to God. And in the end, loving is the way we give our whole selves.
Okay, to bed I go. Tonight I will dream of incense and saffron robes. What a lovely day!
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Landscapes
What I'm doing in life right now is the hardest thing I've ever done (besides VGA). Harder than Kolkata. Harder than UW. Those other things may have felt just as hard or even harder, but that's only because I had less spiritual tools to work with at the time. Its encouraging to remind myself that I never would have survived even one week in my current situation prior to this year. Its a good thing we grow.
It is remarkable how easily we are influenced by the thoughts, words, and lifestyles of others. And it is disappointing to realize how very vulnerable and weak we are in the face of all this. For so long I was convinced that if I could only choose belief, then I would be unstoppable. I was sure (though I never would have admitted it) that I had all the wisdom and skill necessary for ministry. All I lacked was the will and the heart.
In the months preceding this new "vocation" of mine, these certainties were exactly reversed. After L'Abri and Taize I had a deep desire to touch people with compassion (it burned in me). I loved and yearned for people in a way I hadn't experienced since my conversion. But I also had a new and strange distrust of my ability. If I found myself tongue-tied pre-Europe, post-Europe found my feet and hands tied instead. It was all about waiting, waiting, waiting for the opportunity. Waiting for my call. Waiting for God's "go ahead."
I had a lot of hope for the Corinthian texts: "My strength is made perfect in weakness...," "God has chosen the weak things...," etc. I held to the old quip, "God does not call the qualified, but qualifies the called." Well, now that all of me is unstuck (tongue, hands, and feet,) something is still not quite right. Why am I still not conquering the world? After all, I'm not waiting for anything anymore. I am completely free in my faith, in my adulthood, and in my calling. So why do I still get lazy? Why am I still powerless over my gluttony? Why fearful? (So, so fearful.) Why undisciplined? Unloving? Sometimes depressed?
And why, with my new "commitment" to obedience, did God have to first send me to this most difficult post of all? When it makes me tremble with doubt, when it draws out even my deepest, most hidden fears, why does he leave me in this space? When will I ever be able to move past myself so that life can be less about me and more about others?
Who am I blessing right now? How is this "ministry"?
I am so afraid of going back to what was, of loosing my joy and my New Life. What happened in Europe gave me so much hope. It filled my life with wonder, such promise, and so much love. I felt energized and alive in a way I'd nearly given up on ever feeling again. Forgive me for beating this thing to death: tender, whole, deliberate, and so, so deeply beautiful... that's how it was. How can one-time children of Light settle for this New Age pandering of Yin and Yang and the acceptance of a death called "balance"? Oh, there is indeed a very healthy form of death, I know. And though I've struggled to welcome it, I have at least now let it in the front door of my heart. But this Christian kind of death is meant as the passage to Eternal Life. Can shadows of the spiritual life really serve this end? Oh, what am I thinking? Of course they can! They always have. In the life of every saint, in creation, in the history of God, they have. Why does this truth keep elluding me?
As I sit here on the couch I am gazing through the window at the ocean. A few days ago I discovered a secret trail leading down through a neighbor's yard towards the beach. Most everyone I know will be appalled to learn how unenthusiastic I usually am about the sea. I'm sorry about that. Truth be told, I've never really been a "beachy" kind of girl. I prefer wheat fields to run in, and the ever-present sky with its lights and stars and sun. Recently I heard about a book that parallels landscapes with our spiritual journeys (no, I haven't read the book yet). This was not a new idea to me. It is clear why I like the wild freedom of these open spaces. God has always spoken to me through their gold: gold beams streaming through golden clouds on golden fields. And all of this moving, rolling on, forever.
Unfortunately, during times of spiritual dryness I have at times approached God brazenly in these, his symbols. I have raged at sunsets and worn ugly yellows, as if somehow I could induce God's presence in my life. In Kolkata I finally learned to accept Absence (thank you, Mother Teresa and Martin Marty). Like the quail-stuffed children of Israel on their way to the Promised Land, I finally got sick from my impetuous spiritual appetite. "God sent leanness" just in time, and thereafter I experienced a period of much needed "winterfallow." (Check out Marty's book, "A Cry of Absence," and you'll pick up my allusions-- if you haven't already.)
In Kolkata I learned to accept the greyness. The external imagery of the place matched perfectly the way I felt inside: smoggy, dead, and numbed with noise. By the time I arrived back in the United States I could hardly stand to look at a sunset. (Was it shame? Embarrassment? Disappointment?) What I felt, distinctly, was that sunsets were somehow just too rich for my new spiritual diet.
Coming to the west side, now, I am finding myself confronted with a new spiritual scape in the sea. I actually enjoyed myself at the beach this week. Immensely. The tide was out and the cold grey rocks were draped in green seaweed. Smooth sandbars sunk beneath my feet and disappeared beneath water. I watched seagulls; I stuck my fingers into giant barnacles and hopped over driftwood. And most beautiful of all? As I stood gazing into the distance I finally saw the setting sun as a brand new gift. It did not come to me streaming over summer wheat fields. It came in stillness, trembling over little golden waves.
And this was the great grey sea.
It is remarkable how easily we are influenced by the thoughts, words, and lifestyles of others. And it is disappointing to realize how very vulnerable and weak we are in the face of all this. For so long I was convinced that if I could only choose belief, then I would be unstoppable. I was sure (though I never would have admitted it) that I had all the wisdom and skill necessary for ministry. All I lacked was the will and the heart.
In the months preceding this new "vocation" of mine, these certainties were exactly reversed. After L'Abri and Taize I had a deep desire to touch people with compassion (it burned in me). I loved and yearned for people in a way I hadn't experienced since my conversion. But I also had a new and strange distrust of my ability. If I found myself tongue-tied pre-Europe, post-Europe found my feet and hands tied instead. It was all about waiting, waiting, waiting for the opportunity. Waiting for my call. Waiting for God's "go ahead."
I had a lot of hope for the Corinthian texts: "My strength is made perfect in weakness...," "God has chosen the weak things...," etc. I held to the old quip, "God does not call the qualified, but qualifies the called." Well, now that all of me is unstuck (tongue, hands, and feet,) something is still not quite right. Why am I still not conquering the world? After all, I'm not waiting for anything anymore. I am completely free in my faith, in my adulthood, and in my calling. So why do I still get lazy? Why am I still powerless over my gluttony? Why fearful? (So, so fearful.) Why undisciplined? Unloving? Sometimes depressed?
And why, with my new "commitment" to obedience, did God have to first send me to this most difficult post of all? When it makes me tremble with doubt, when it draws out even my deepest, most hidden fears, why does he leave me in this space? When will I ever be able to move past myself so that life can be less about me and more about others?
Who am I blessing right now? How is this "ministry"?
I am so afraid of going back to what was, of loosing my joy and my New Life. What happened in Europe gave me so much hope. It filled my life with wonder, such promise, and so much love. I felt energized and alive in a way I'd nearly given up on ever feeling again. Forgive me for beating this thing to death: tender, whole, deliberate, and so, so deeply beautiful... that's how it was. How can one-time children of Light settle for this New Age pandering of Yin and Yang and the acceptance of a death called "balance"? Oh, there is indeed a very healthy form of death, I know. And though I've struggled to welcome it, I have at least now let it in the front door of my heart. But this Christian kind of death is meant as the passage to Eternal Life. Can shadows of the spiritual life really serve this end? Oh, what am I thinking? Of course they can! They always have. In the life of every saint, in creation, in the history of God, they have. Why does this truth keep elluding me?
As I sit here on the couch I am gazing through the window at the ocean. A few days ago I discovered a secret trail leading down through a neighbor's yard towards the beach. Most everyone I know will be appalled to learn how unenthusiastic I usually am about the sea. I'm sorry about that. Truth be told, I've never really been a "beachy" kind of girl. I prefer wheat fields to run in, and the ever-present sky with its lights and stars and sun. Recently I heard about a book that parallels landscapes with our spiritual journeys (no, I haven't read the book yet). This was not a new idea to me. It is clear why I like the wild freedom of these open spaces. God has always spoken to me through their gold: gold beams streaming through golden clouds on golden fields. And all of this moving, rolling on, forever.
Unfortunately, during times of spiritual dryness I have at times approached God brazenly in these, his symbols. I have raged at sunsets and worn ugly yellows, as if somehow I could induce God's presence in my life. In Kolkata I finally learned to accept Absence (thank you, Mother Teresa and Martin Marty). Like the quail-stuffed children of Israel on their way to the Promised Land, I finally got sick from my impetuous spiritual appetite. "God sent leanness" just in time, and thereafter I experienced a period of much needed "winterfallow." (Check out Marty's book, "A Cry of Absence," and you'll pick up my allusions-- if you haven't already.)
In Kolkata I learned to accept the greyness. The external imagery of the place matched perfectly the way I felt inside: smoggy, dead, and numbed with noise. By the time I arrived back in the United States I could hardly stand to look at a sunset. (Was it shame? Embarrassment? Disappointment?) What I felt, distinctly, was that sunsets were somehow just too rich for my new spiritual diet.
Coming to the west side, now, I am finding myself confronted with a new spiritual scape in the sea. I actually enjoyed myself at the beach this week. Immensely. The tide was out and the cold grey rocks were draped in green seaweed. Smooth sandbars sunk beneath my feet and disappeared beneath water. I watched seagulls; I stuck my fingers into giant barnacles and hopped over driftwood. And most beautiful of all? As I stood gazing into the distance I finally saw the setting sun as a brand new gift. It did not come to me streaming over summer wheat fields. It came in stillness, trembling over little golden waves.
And this was the great grey sea.
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