Breaking Reality

I read an article by Aleksandar Hemon (read it here) that has undone the last stitch from my tightly held hope of reality. Thanks to Hemon, that reality is lost and gone forever, only to be replaced with freedom of seeing and foreseeing. Reality for me was the good and stable indestructible America. Now I understand that America is just as vulnerable and unstable as any other nation. History checks my fantastical reality with a long list of examples.

Oh I knew intellectually that America could not be eternal, but my heart hoped it to be an evolving goodness. Hemon reminded me of the Kafka story of the man who wakes to his own reality being completely transformed into a hideous bug. No warning, no remedy, no control. If I remember correctly, that story does not end well. I had NEVER imagined that story from the lens of a person who wakes up one day to find their pre-conceived reality was in fact a lie, or more closely, a hopeful fantasy. Hope is not a bad thing (I will write on this later). But the inability to sense possible change and evil is a naiveness. I've grown up. At least a short jut upwards into the inevitable understanding that I and my home are not immune from disaster. This growing up is necessary for the days ahead. We can't assume that everything will be OK because our vision of reality has been that everything will be OK. That's delusional. It's time to put my boots on.

Why do I write with such dark tones and scary prophecies? Because all of a sudden I hear all of the voices before me. All of a sudden I have the blinders off and I can see the future and its infinite possibilities: good and bad. Who knows what will happen, but now I realize it is all possible. I never imagined our country would elect a person like this.

I remember when I was in high school and my teacher posed a question to our class. She asked us: "Will the world get better, or will it get worse?" I was a squeaky clean Christian girl in a predominantly agnostic or atheist group of students. Many of my peers showed hope and responded "Better." I, the sweet Jesus-loving girl, responded "worse." My teacher, knowing me fairly well, was surprised. I honestly don't know why I answered that way, but something within me felt that I had not seen the worst that humanity could offer. And perhaps it was only my eyes that would open to recognize the worse, that the worse has always been here. Ignoring the evil underbelly has been a comfort. That was my privilege, one I need to shed in order to move forward.

I often refer to my Grandfather's (Opa's) autobiography. It is a bit white-washed by his Americanization (it's a word?) and loss of memory (he was in the early stages of Alzheimer's when he wrote it). But the heart of the story is authentic and true, and it still teaches me. He was a German refugee fleeing the Nazis in a time when German Jews did not often make it through the tight web of red tape that hoped to prevent undesirable immigrants coming to America. By sheer luck and the astounding good will of a handful of people, he made it to the United States. The rest of his family did not succeed. 

In his autobiography, Opa recalls the evening his father came home late from work on the day that Hitler was elected Chancellor. His father worked as an editor for the newspaper, and made it a point to be aware and informed of everything going on around him. He was aware of the growing darkness and danger to the fragile German republic. He announced to the waiting family the reason for his lateness: the people voted, Hitler was elected. Opa's Jewish mother left the room to hide her tears and fear. Opa's last stitch of reality was released on that day. His hope for a good life in Germany was cracked. He didn't know what the new reality held, but he knew that Germany was no longer the same. As children do when faced with a break in the facade, he asked his father: "what does this mean?" His father's response: "It means another world war." 

How did he know?

When I sat at the breakfast table, shocked and numb the day after the election, my son asked me similar questions. "Who won?" "Trump." My son's immediate response was one that I could not have imagined, as he had never heard these words from me or my spouse. He said "Now we're all going to die!" I soothed him, told him of course not. Told him not to worry. We would be OK and just have to do good things. But my facade was cracked. "But what does this mean?" my son asked me.

I don't know.

After Hitler's reign of terror, which began with an elected position of limited power and ended in a fiery suicide after millions upon millions of people would die in his wake... the world was facing a new reality. One that could not ignore evil. One that could not assume the goodness of their neighbor. One that found itself awake, a cockroach, squirming and wondering how this could ever have happened. 

People tried as quickly as they could to recreate a new happy reality. Don't mention the holocaust. Don't mention internment camps home and abroad. Just move on. Forget.

Never forget, said those who had no choice.

The author of the article I mentioned, Hemon, talks about the person that lives inside of you that notices things. That person that sees military targets and bomb shelters. The person that has flashes of apocalyptic scenes flash in front of them as they imagine their home in a new reality. That person that has seen the disintegration of places like Syria, Bosnia, Rwanda, Darfur that were not household names until bothered with genocide. When the old reality unravels, the person's imagination is given permission to notice, to predict, to wonder unwonderable things. 

Will we all die? God I hope not, not like that. Is that a chance? It is and always has been. I cannot be blind anymore. There is no such thing as security. That other person inside of me is counting out the years, assuming that even if Trump were to make it as long as Hitler and have whatever reign he wanted, that Hitler reigned from 1933-1945, that's twelve years. My oldest is eight. In twelve years he will be twenty. Maybe only two years in military conscription. That's too long. My youngest is five. In twelve years he will be seventeen. Is he safe? My husband is too old, right? I am not healthy enough, right? We will not be forced to serve in whatever war a ridiculous man invites, right?

I pray that my other person is paranoid. She is being ridiculous. Please let me be wrong. Please let me be wrong. Please, please let me be wrong.

The person we have at the head of our nation is unstable, unable to take any correction or even the slightest jab. He selects financial bosom buddies to be his advisors on topics they do not know or care about. He is unstable. When a world leader wants to pick a bone, what will he do? My other person hears my great-grandfather's words: "It means another world war." What will he do? I cannot trust him. I do not give him the benefit of the doubt. I won't assume the best, because what has been offered is far from it. 

War is not confined to the years that it is fought. I interviewed the living ghosts of World War II- people who seventy years later have not shaken the terror. They have never been able to restitch reality. It stayed shattered at their feet. Anni, who lived in Berlin through the war, died two years ago with the shadows of Hitler, her friends, the souls her parents couldn't help, the life of light she never managed to find. My cousin Ruth struggles everyday with the whispers of her grandparents who wrung her mother's soul with each letter they sent her from Berlin telling her "you're not doing enough, we will die, you are not doing enough." They did die, but she did everything. It was not enough. My Opa had a "happy" ending by living out the war in the United States and reuniting with his family afterward, but his mother was a shell carved out by a concentration camp, his father lost years and half his body weight to the war, his sister aged many years in a short time and learned to be vigilant and ready for evil whenever it inevitably crept in. 

War does not end. War seeps down through the generations. The start and end dates are a lie. That verse in the bible is right, whether we want it to be or not: the sins are visited upon the generations after. Original sin is not necessary when you have a boulder of sin rolling down over every newborn back. Generation to generation. Crushing fear and darting eyes.

And yet here we are, choosing hate. Choosing a fighting peacock over a dove. Choosing a bully over a friend. God why?! Maybe the Americans were so sure of their reality, so sure of the iron-clad fabric of their lives. So sure that America cannot be rent, rent, or rendered undone. So sure that the boulder of evil would stay "over there." The boulder is on all our shoulders, and it will crush us all if we keep bowing to the god of power and false security. If we keep crouching over our lives as if goodness is a scarcity that we cannot spare. The boulder will keep rolling over our shoulders onto our children.

To stand is to be blasted head-first. To stand is to see it. To stand up is to give the next generation time before it rolls on. To stand is to slow the boulder down. Am I brave enough to stand? 

America, you are bowing. You are being crushed. Your reality is vanished. You cannot depend on goodness now, because you have elected a fraud. You cannot assume the boulder will pass you by, because you have willingly bowed to it and it will roll right onto you. 

Wake up. See the possibilities, and with fierce honesty to what could actually happen: STAND UP. 

The Wolf Comes

Parables and fables are a way for us to hear a story without putting up our defenses. We're sort of tricked into seeing our own faults, but it comes from our own examination. It's a popular tool for teaching children. It was one of Jesus' favorite things to do- tell stories that made you think, and hopefully transform you. It's actually a fairly gentle way to teach.

One of these famous stories that many children have learned is the boy who cried wolf. I honestly don't remember why he felt the need to cry wolf- was he bored? Lonely? Either way, the shepherd boy did it enough while watching his sheep that when a wolf actually came and he "cried wolf" no one came. No one believed him. The moral of the story is often presented as "don't lie" or even "don't take advantage of those who will help you." 

Here's a moral we don't pull out of this story as much: the wolf comes. As cynical as we are, we still don't think THAT could happen to us, we're far too advanced for that. It's important to remember that the wolf comes. 

We have been inundated with conspiracy theories and false information (fake news). We hear ridiculous things all the time. We are so used to discarding what we don't want to accept (and often there is merit in discarding it), that when the real thing comes to us, we're the townspeople who have lost the desire to find out the truth. We just disregard it. It's all a big fat lie, nothing is true or verifiable. There is no such thing as a cold, hard fact.

Now, I have a background in philosophy so I am especially good at making logical arguments for things that may not even exist. Give me enough time and I will convince you that it is very possible we are all brains in vats. However, facts are important. There has to be truth. It might be on a sliding scale, but we have to care enough to sort it out. We have to care enough to know when it's dangerous. If we don't, we turn into the townspeople who are so tired of the boy and his stupid wolf claims, that we're almost fine with it if the wolf does come and devour his flock and him. Serves him right. Too much work to figure it out.

If we find ourselves agreeing with that, that's not good. We need to hear the story again. The wolf comes. The wolf (if it is actually a thinking being) might even be waiting for just this moment to come. The moment when you no longer care or can discern his arrival. And that wolf will devour everything if you let it. That wolf will not be satisfied with a flock of sheep. This next thought is for another blog, but I want to make the point here: negative events (war, etc) are not confined to their notch on the timeline. The consequences stretch further than we realize. We are more connected than we realize, and therefore the web links of despair are not cut off from you. You shouldn't need to know that to want to help the boy who cried wolf, but we shouldn't fool ourselves into thinking the wolf does not also come to us. The wolf comes, and if you don't care, the wolf will come again and again until you do.

I'm stretching the limits of this story, but I think it's important to recalibrate our BS meters. We need to still seek truth and lies and call it out. When you see an obvious money trail correspond with power- this is a problem. When you have someone hesitant to call what happened in Aleppo war crimes, that's a red flag. Something (or someone) is tying his hands. Maybe he just doesn't want to get his hands too dirty. But we should be looking for the truth in this. Even if it is as simple as "the wolf has been here." 

I had the privilege of interviewing a woman named Anni in Berlin who was in her 90s. She was one of my grandfather's best friends in their Quaker youth group. They banded together in a spiritual and intellectual oasis in the midst of Nazi sponsored "Hitler Youth" groups. When I sat down with this woman, her eyes were haunted with her life's experiences. Her parents had spent the war doing everything they could to help Jews and other racial/disabled/sexual/political undesirables leave the country, hide, or at least survive. Her brother, faced with military service or death, chose the longest and most difficult training path and prayed that the war would be over by the time he had completed his training so that he would not fight. She and her sister remained home, both interrogated with their parents whenever the Nazi's suspected anything, which was often. 

Anni was obsessed with facts. Everything we said had to be clarified and bracketed by facts. We had to establish first the facts, then we could discuss it. For Anni had experienced a time when facts had lost their value, they had lost their power to persuade and convince. She guarded the importance of facts with every breath. I'll never forget that. Anni knew that the wolf came. She knew and so many around her didn't. She watched the wolf tear her world apart. The wolf haunted her even to that day. She died two years ago and I felt relief for her, the wolf will never come for her again.

When we lose the facts, when red flags no longer concern us, when we don't care to inspect and ask questions, that's when the wolf comes. That's when the wolf tears the whole flock apart.

Despair

I wrote a lame poem this morning. I think I should have entitled it "Winter's Nap" because the gist of it was that I wanted to take a long nap and have people wake me when the next upsurge of nice humanity came about. It's like- the laziest response to evil ever. I should have more shame.

The problem is that I am lazy. I'm not competitive. I have very little "oomph." Everyone who knows me well knows this.

When I was growing up and playing whatever team sport my parents had me trying, I often had the same kind of experience. If I had zero natural talent in whatever sport it was (like soccer, which is- from what I can see- nothing but sprinting from one end of the field to the next: the worst sport ever)... I would quit. If I had an ounce of natural talent or at least seemed to be on par with my peers, I would try it for a little longer until it got too hard. So swimming and tennis got the most of my time. Swimming I had a head start, my lifeguard trained mother had me swimming before I was two years old. In kindergarten, I was the only kid swimming laps horizontally- so naturally I won all blue ribbons. Yay me! Then people started learning how to swim like me, and they started caring about being fast (rather than pausing to wave at my family). Also I started getting ear infections, the gunshot to begin the race was startling, and having my hearing aids out (not water proof) meant I couldn't hear for an entire swim meet. It got too hard. Also lots of swim practices start at like 7am. Ridiculous. Tennis. I got in fairly early in the game, was able to hit a ball remotely well and often played with folks who could position the ball within three feet of me so that I didn't have to run that far. Then people got crazy good at tennis and the object was to keep the ball away from me so I couldn't hit it back. I stopped playing in middle school and never looked back. I told you I am lazy.

I think my laziness lends itself to despair a little too easily. On a day when I hear that one of my favorite places (Berlin) was attacked at one of the most fun things (a Christmas market), I feel despair. Then in the night, a woman who lives a mile away from my house, woke up in her early-onset Alzheimer's mind and wandered to her frozen death outside. Despair. Trump says something awful and people get upset and people defend him and nothing actually changes. Despair. The electoral college does not surprise us. Despair. We feel pressure to buy all of the things for all of the people because "tis the season" and even disaster in Aleppo won't slow our consumerist nightmare. Despair.

It's just all too hard. There is too much work to do to keep this tiny worthless light flickering in the dark. It seems like evil got a huge head start and private lessons while I waltzed in with threadbare tennis shoes after a bad night's sleep. I give up. Despair!

I hate being in this place. But I am afraid to admit that I hate being in despair just a little less than I hate having to do something. I use despair as my crutch. I'm so scared of all the hard work it takes to make a difference. I really do want to take a long winter's nap. To skip all the hard work. I disgust myself. Really.

Every now and then my husband and I wonder if it is possible to have a family and be good parents and also be a powerful source of change. Think about it. I just looked up Susan B. Anthony: no kids, no spouse. I think she knew it would get in the way. Martin Luther King, Jr. had a family- but they were not spared the sacrifices. Who else? Even really popular mega-pastors who aren't even doing ALL that much for humanity are totally doing it at the expense of their family. Have you ever seen a prophet with a fully-functional family? My point is that I'm scared. I don't want to sacrifice my family. I don't want to give up my nice and comfortable quiet family nights. I'm lazy. I'm scared. Despair.

Despair is a real bastard. It paralyzes you so that you can't do a thing to fight it off. You can't do a thing to effect change. I am fighting it today by not sleeping. That's literally my first step. I might fix myself some hot tea later- which will be a huge success. I ate lunch today- also a victory. Perhaps tomorrow despair will have let its guard down just long enough that I'll even feel like I can hope or do something outside of myself. If I can fight despair long enough to leave my house and help someone- anyone- then I have a fighting chance. That's why it's so exhausting. To fight despair (my kind, brought on by a laziness when faced with overwhelming BLAH)- you have to constantly be distracting yourself with good deeds. It's the only thing that will stop me from the crutch, and the only thing that potentially could make a difference. It gets me outside myself long enough for me to stop it with my self-insulating despair.

My brand of despair is fear of the fight. Paralyzing laziness. Hopelessness because I'm not sure I have it in me to do the work required. It's equal parts reality check and gut check. I see the real world and don't know if I have the guts to keep up the fight.

So today as I feel this, all I have in me is to fight the feeling. I can't make grand social impact today. Today I am not a prophet. I'm sitting on a sofa willing myself to get up off of it. But I'll tell you what. I'm about to set this computer down, go make myself hot tea, and wash the damn dishes. I don't want to. But I'm going to. Then I'm going to make dinner. Then I'm going to look at Christmas lights. I will not read or watch or hear the news for the next several hours because despair has too tight a hold on me. When I resurface: my kitchen will be clean, my stomach will be full, and my kids will have made a memory. Maybe that will be enough light for tomorrow.

I Didn't Get Ordained

About four years ago I was at a pivotal time in my life, I had just finished a unit of CPE (Clinical Pastoral Education). CPE is essentially a chaplaincy internship that allows you to do chaplain work in a setting (church, hospital, etc) with peer-supervision, education, and supervision by a certified Supervisory Chaplain. This was a very challenging time in my life. I did the unit while pregnant with my second child. The unit was originally supposed to end right before my due date, or close enough to it that I could squish my hours in order to finish my clinical time before the birth. At the last minute, the time frame changed and I would be giving birth to a child approximately two-thirds of the way into the process. I still decided I could do it.

My supervisor and I struggled with personality differences, and while I'm sure I learned about chaplaincy, what I learned most about was how to deal with a supervisor who does not like or understand you. Essentially, I learned to humble myself and suck it up. This was actually a skill I really needed to work on, so it was purification by fire. Surprising even to myself, I completed the unit and graduated with a newborn child and a unit of CPE under my belt. I felt like a total bad-ass.

I took some time off my career path to be a mom and move to a new town. Once we were settled in our new home, I decided, OK, I'm on this path to become a chaplain, I should take the next step. I discerned the next step to be pursuing ordination. This was actually a very complicated step. I had been a part of a Baptist church where I lived only one year before leaving for college. This church was supportive and kind to me, and I had always attended when I was home on summer breaks or for short trips home. I was more attached to my church in college, but by this point nearly all of the pastoral leadership had gone and there were few people left who remembered me. So I decided to ask my home church to consider ordaining me.

Keep in mind, however, that I have been faithfully attending a United Methodist Church for the last several years because my husband is a Methodist minister, and that was the community I wanted to be a part of. The problem was, I did not want to BE a Methodist, and certainly did not feel that I wanted to be ordained in the Methodist church. (And another note- ordination in the Methodist Church is a very long and tenuous process, so it has to be entered with a great deal of certainty to be endured.) So I went back to my Baptist roots. The church from home had a wide range of theological understanding in its membership, and while I might be on the liberal end, I still felt there was room for me there.

The pastor of the church was extremely kind and open, expressing encouragement and excitement that I was pursuing my ordination with them. They didn't really have a process in place, so I think in a way I helped them create one. The process was a simple one. I had some questions to answer in essay form that the committee would look over, and then I would have two interviews. The first would be with the committee, the second would be more of a formality to give anyone a chance to ask questions before they affirmed me and ordained me in the church. The pastor warned me that there might be some tough questions about homosexuality, and I vowed to keep it simple and vague if the question was simple and vague.

The pastor said I could do the interview over the phone or Skype, but I felt this was too important to do over the phone. I flew down for a long weekend and prepared myself for the interview. I felt confident that I would be able to answer questions intelligently and with grace. I was fearful of the homosexuality question because I knew that there would be many people who would disagree with me if I had to be specific. But I just wanted to be a chaplain, and chaplains are called to be in diverse places for a diverse group of people, it was part of why I liked the role so much.

I sat down at a long conference room filled with at least six people, one of them was the pastor, some staff members, and some leaders in the congregation. I sat with a peace and feeling of openness that comes to me in stressful situations. I felt connected with God in that moment. I laughed internally at the poor young man who was falling asleep from sleepless nights with a newborn. This was the church right here.

They asked questions, which I can't remember honestly, because only two questions remain in my memory. Almost to the end of the interview, a person I have known for a long time asked me the homosexuality question: "What do you think about homosexuality?" I was surprised at who the source of the question was, but I had my answer ready. I said it so diplomatically and with a smile, that I was sure I'd nailed it. I said "I don't think about homosexuality. I have friends who are gay, and I love them as much as any of my other friends. As a church, I believe we should have a space for all of God's children and love everyone." (Looking back, I cringe at my supposed "good" answer- essentially white-washing all the pain and trauma that LGBTQ individuals endure by saying I don't even see it.)

Everyone smiled and we moved on. A few more questions, and just as we were about to wrap it up, the same person asked THE question: "If a homosexual couple were to ask you to marry them, what would you do?" And that was it. I knew the moment she began asking the question that it was over. I wasn't going to be ordained. I may have had a nice shiny answer for the first question that made everyone smile, but this one I did not have a shiny answer for. ALL I had was the truth. So I took a deep breath, looked right in the eyes of my questioner, and the rest of the room, and told the truth. I told the truth with a smile and with a strange sensation of peace and power. I told them I would treat them like any other couple. I would meet with them and do premarital counseling, and unless there was a strong reason I felt they should not be married (because of abuse or not being ready), I would marry them. Smile. Eye-Contact. If I was going to answer a bait question, I wanted every eye on me as I took it.

I thought about my dear friend who had rocks thrown at him as a child. I thought about seminary friends who had to hop denominations until they found one that let them serve in their calling. I thought about an old roommate who struggled with depression as he was faced with his identity, a curse for his southern cultural upbringing. I thought about the kid in my high school who had to dress out for PE in a separate changing room because of violence against him in the boys locker room. I thought about my two boys and how if they ever needed to tell me they were gay, I would NEVER tell them that they were less or deserved less happiness or protection under the law.

I felt the cloud of witnesses - my friends and colleagues - and told the truth. That I would stand for them even if it cost me something. And it did cost me something. It was the first time I ever had to make a so-called sacrifice for something I believed in, for justice, and it was far too easy. I was ashamed that I had not been more of an advocate before. I was ashamed that I had never laid anything on the line for my friends before.

After the interview, I was thanked and told that they would get back to me. I knew what that meant. The pastor called me later and thanked me for my candidness. He said that there were folks in the group who supported me, but that enough members of the group were uncomfortable with my statements about homosexuality, that they didn't feel they could ordain me yet. I told him I understood. I also told him that perhaps they should begin a conversation about homosexuality, since it was clear they needed to. He agreed. It was a gracious parting. The person who asked me the question called me later and apologized. Another person who was unable to be there had asked them to ask the question. I told this person: I wish that you had been brave. I told her I couldn't have lied and thrown my dear friends under the bus. It was for the best because if the church was not fully able to support me, I did not want a false support. There is nothing worse to me than something that is not genuine or does not have integrity.

I was on a risk-high after that interview. The one thing I wanted, I was denied. I no longer gave a shit what people thought about me theologically. There was nothing else to lose! When people were concerned about keeping the rejection hush-hush, I had the opposite response. I wanted to shout it from the roof tops. I DIDN'T GET ORDAINED! BECAUSE I SAID I WOULD MARRY A GAY COUPLE!! ALL OTHER QUALIFICATIONS AND CALLING GO OUT THE WINDOW! My goodness if I was going to lose something- at the very least I should let it count for something!

So now that I wasn't going to be ordained, I could just talk about everything. I love gay people! I think hell is on earth- not an eternal place of damnation. I don't think Jesus died to make an angry God happy about having payment for my sins. It was like a theological purge. I no longer had to wrestle with the things I just did not stand for. I no longer worried about who I would upset with my risky liberal ways. I realized that I didn't even really fit in the liberal box. I was me- Sarah- a person who had too many questions, and finally I didn't care. I could even dare to not be a Christian if I really wanted to. I'm sure some people would say that of me already- but I ran plum out of concern for those opinions.

I just had this rush of elation: God is SO much bigger than all of this bullshit. I will keep exploring, keep asking, keep fighting for equality and love and justice. And I will be right. And wrong. And dumb. And smart. And misinformed. And well-read. And all of the things. And God is big enough to handle all of that.

I didn't get ordained, and while it will likely prevent me from some forms of chaplaincy, it freed me from the sin of self-preservation. I did not have to pay nearly the price that my brothers and sisters have had to pay, and it was good for me to realize that. My sacrifice was pennies!! What was I doing being such a timid person and dancing around my solidarity for people just in case it made someone uncomfortable? Ridiculous. I don't always remember how free I am until I remember that feeling that I had when I looked at everyone, smiled and said: "I will marry a gay couple." It felt fantastic.

Where am I now? On the other side of working as a hospice chaplain, writing a book about the story of my grandparents, and exploring all of the questions.

There is a German folk song that my grandfather sang with his Quaker youth group as the rise of Hitler stifled free expression: Die Gedanken sind frei" ... Here's a translation of the first part:

Thoughts are free, who can guess them?They flee by like nocturnal shadows.No man can know them, no hunter can shoot themwith powder and lead: Thoughts are free!

While I can- not only are my thoughts free- but I can speak them out loud- and I will. No one can take that away from me. My thoughts will always be free. What a powerful feeling.

I didn't get ordained, and it was so good for me.

It's All About Relationship

In seminary, we had this phrase that was the answer to every question, like "Jesus" is the answer to all Sunday School questions growing up. That phrase was "it's all about relationship." We meant it too.

I am an introvert who likes to avoid vulnerability if I can. SO- when I start to realize that the whole meaning of life and God and nature might be swirling around this thing we call "relationship"- it makes me a little anxious. 

(A side-bar: relationship does not necessarily have to look a specific way to be meaningful. A mentor who has a child with autism taught me that.)

I am terrible at having multiple friends. Terrible. Someone gets neglected - for sure. Lately I've been meeting all these new fabulous people, and while I'm excited- I'm nervous. What if I disappoint someone? What if I make too many plans? What if I can't make plans? What if the plan I want to make is to sit in my pjs and read a book or watch a comedy? 

Here is what I have decided. I will make it a point to make sure my introverted self is taken care of- but I'm no longer going to baby myself. I'm a grown woman. I can handle multiple relationships. And now more than ever, it is important that I give myself room to be stretched. 

It's all about relationship- because relationships are the primary source of change and expansion (yes, I'm still hung up on the love expansion idea). 

When I was in college, I met a boy who was completely different from anyone I had ever met. He was a practicing pagan (think earth-based, celtic magic). He was gay. And he was crazy smart and fun to be around. 

Here are the shocking things that happened: we connected in a way that I had never connected with anyone else- even people who were "just like me." We shared a lot in common, and completely had different ideas about other things. AND IT WAS FUN. Somehow we were able to have that magical connection where he could say something that I was not 100% sure about, and vice-versa, and neither of us cared. He was so different that I had all my defenses down, I didn't expect him to agree with me- and neither did he expect me to agree with him, and that gave us a safe place to play with ideas. We were able to explore ideas and concepts in ways that I would never explore with someone who thought just like me. It's kind of counter-intuitive but when I reflect on it- it makes perfect sense.

This boy changed me. In a good way. His humanity and my ability to connect with him made me question the "otherness" that had been instilled in me to think about people like him. He wasn't a gay man or a pagan or whatever other title. He was my soul-sibling. I didn't care about any of the other stuff because you only run across those type of friendships every once and a while. I would take it in whatever package it came. I believe I changed him. I was the iconic image of all that had hurt him as a child, I represented the church that hurled insults and damnation at him as he struggled to "be good." My ability to listen to him was a healing space for him.

Our friendship allowed my friend to tell me about growing up in the church and sleeping with the bible under his pillow, praying that he wouldn't be gay. He told me about kids throwing rocks at him. He told me about his struggle to try to be anything other than who he was and it nearly destroyed him. He told me about his brave day when he told his grandma that he was gay, and she just looked at him nonplussed and said- yeah- I thought you might be. No love lost. What a relief it was. He told me about the acceptance that he felt with his pagan friends. The way that this particular faith was able to connect him to a God he had been chasing his whole life. I got that. And now I had heard a story of what it was like to grow up gay in the church, a story I had never heard from someone I knew.

Our friendship allowed me to tell him about how I always seemed to have too many questions for my Sunday School teachers. I was shushed if I talked too much. I was told to protect my body from the evils of impurity, but never quite understood what made my body so bad. I was told by the church that I should look for a spiritual leader, someone to submit to as a husband. I told him how relieved I was to find my own niche with progressive Christians who could use the same sacred text that had been used to shame me- they were able to find grace and beauty and intellect there. I found a home with other Christians who also had an insane amount of questions, but were given space and encouraged to ask them. I found that my God was still right there, and had always been, I just hadn't believed in my questions enough.

My faith as a Christian grew tenfold through my relationship with a pagan.

It's all about relationship. I am challenging myself this new year to pursue friendships with people who are not like me. To allow myself to be stretched, to be uncomfortable, so that I can grow. To allow myself to be a stretching catalyst for someone else, to be vulnerable enough that I can meet some more soul siblings.

It's all about relationship. 

Jesus is Not Coming Back

There is a scene in the Harry Potter series when a young Harry is faced with a very difficult task. He is attacked by creatures called Dementors, which suck the joy and happiness of everything around them, until they finally suck out your soul. The magic spell that turns the Dementors away is only performed by very gifted and usually older wizards. Harry has been temporarily given the gift of time travel to right some wrongs, and he watches the Dementors closing in on his dear friend and himself. Just a few hours before, he was the victim waiting for someone to save him when he could not save himself, and a savior came. Now, having traveled back in time, he watches from a distance- waiting for the same savior to come. The savior did not come. He waited until the very last moment possible before he realized: he was the savior. He was the one who had saved himself earlier. And with that realization, he had the strength and confidence to perform the spell.

I am a Christian. It's the faith of my family, and the predominant faith of my culture. I went to seminary, I attend church regularly, I love me some Jesus. 

I saw my friends from seminary reacting to the news coming out of Aleppo, and news of whoever Trump's newest pick was for what he seems to think is a game of "worse options for cabinet ever." Many wrote the Christian refrain: "How Long. Come Lord Jesus. How Long." In my mind I started singing a song by a Christian band that I listened to as a youth, the chorus bellowed "How long, can we wait, can we wait for You to come? How long?" 

We are in a season of advent, the season when the Christian church makes a ritual of waiting for Christ's birth; Christ's arrival within humanity. We count down the days, we build up hope and light candles, for as our hope and expectancy rises, the darkness grows. The nights of the season get longer, in an appropriate juxtaposition to our fixation on the light that will be born. It does not matter in our tradition when Jesus was actually born, because we have used the winter for our symbolic benefit. Jesus, the light of world, comes to us in the midst of our longest nights. We wait for the light. We have been chided by strict advent-holders to stick to the tradition and do not sing a joy to the world until the Lord has actually come (December 25 being our chosen date of celebration). Wait for the light. Prepare for the light. It will come. 

People of the Christian faith often talk about Jesus returning. About the second-coming of Jesus. In tough times, in despair, we long for Jesus to return. We long for Jesus to "come back" and save us from this wreck we're in.

What if Jesus is not coming back? What if we have read the stories wrong? Christians can sometimes be caught saying things about the Jews of Jesus' time... saying that they missed all the signs that he was the messiah because he didn't look exactly like the image they had created for themselves. Christians say the Jews expected a messiah to come and sweep up the Jewish nation into triumphant power, to lead and be the eternal king. Christians say this, and then caveat that they wonder if they might have made that same mistake, bless their hearts. Maybe we could be that blind too, we'll admit to ourselves. 

We are blind. We are doing the same exact thing. We (collectively as humans, not just Christians or Jews) are Harry, waiting for Jesus (or some messiah) to sweep down with a force to dispel all darkness, with a spell to banish the despair and pain. Someone come and fix this. Anyone. Someone else take responsibility for fixing this.

We wait, while the people die. We wait, while the darkness grows. We wait, watching and wishing.

Perhaps the return of Christ will actually look like the scene in Harry Potter, when humanity will collectively see that it is them, it was them all along. The power of God (or whatever you call it) has been within us always, and we finally take responsibility. We finally step out and become Christ, Love, Light. But the writers of the bible seem to know that we will wait until the very last moment. They paint a gruesome picture of what the world will look like when Jesus finally does come back to put an end to our misery, like we will finally cry "uncle." They write that wars will rise, the seas will roar, the diseases will devour, until Christ (manifest in us) returns. We will wait until the last moment before the lights go completely out. It is a despairing hope. Despairing that we will likely leave it to that last moment before we step up... hopeful that we will step up at all.

Jesus is not coming back. Stop waiting. The light is in you. Jesus never left. Whatever your religion (and even if you have none) - that deity, power, force, goodness- it is in YOU. 

WE are the second coming.

How long shall we wait? How Long? 

Aleppo

We failed.

I don't even know how or when or to what level. And that's the gravest failure there is.

I feel completely helpless, hopeless, dumb.

The video of the teacher who is resigned to his fate, shooting a video to document the event but even he has no idea what to say or talk about. The fear and shock are so vibrant on his face- it breaks me.

I failed. I sent a small donation once to the refugee service. I felt good about it. I don't feel good now.

I don't understand. It happened in front of us. It was not a secret. There was no hiding the scores of refugees or the bombs and video of children's hospitals blowing up. We could see it all.

We are in a time when we no longer have the security of claiming ignorance. Our new and old excuse is that we thought "they" were taking care of it. We are they.

One day, history will cycle, and we will be them. The world will watch us burn and feel bad. From a distance. They will wonder what happened, how their donation didn't stretch, how they could have let it happen.

again

again

again
again
and again

We fail.