Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts

Sunday, June 18, 2017

Suffering and Joy

This sermon was presented at Mt. Olivet United Methodist Church's 11:00 AM contemporary worship, the way (Arlington District, Virginia Conference) on Sunday, June 18, 2017. The revised common lectionary text for Year a, Proper 6 (Second Sunday after Pentecost) was Psalm 100 and Romans 5: 1-8. An audio recording is available on Mt. Olivet's website

Often in the American church in the twenty-first century, we focus on the call to praise, like the one we heard in Psalm 100 this morning. Many churches, many evangelists, many congregations spread the message that life in Christ is a happy life. That if you just believe with faith the size of a mustard seed, your life will be good. Have you seen this message? I have. And it annoys the crap out of me.
            Although we are called to praise, God does not promise us a good life. In fact, in the revised common lectionary Gospel lesson, which I did not ask our liturgist to read this moring, God promises the disciples hardship as they go out into the world. In Matthew chapter ten, Jesus tells them, “See, I am sending you out like sheep into the midst of wolves [....] Brother will betray brother to death, and a father his child, and children will rise against parents and have them put to death; and you will be hated by all because of my name. But the one who endures to the end will be saved. When they persecute you in one town, flee to the next.” Not a happy clappy life in Christ. It’s an odd thing that the lectionary does here, putting the praise of Psalm 100 side by side with this warning about hardship to come in the ministry.
In the church, we don’t talk enough about the fact that suffering is part of life. It is the shadow side of our knowledge and our free will. In fact, the presence of suffering in human life is one of the few things that most world religions agree on. (Buddhism, Hinduism, Islam, Judaism). I admire that the Four Noble Truths of Buddhism put this idea first: “All life is suffering, pain.”
Our reality is that we live in a broken world, and this brokenness is visible at all levels. In our personal lives we experience the grief and loss, illness, and poverty. In our communities, we experience systemic racism and bigotry toward minority groups on the basis of race, gender, sexuality, faith, ability, and ethnicity. American politics have never been more divided, and this week, in our community, political disagreement became physical violence. If we look further afield, we can see large-scale, ongoing armed conlfict that destroys communities just like ours and turns people just like us into refugees. Indeed, the very planet under our feet is broken. Global climate change is disrupting the natural systems that life on this planet depends on. All of this brokenness fills our newscasts, and it we share it on social media. We see five people shot in Alexandria, and hundreds affected by the fire in London, and thousands in Syria or in Iraq wondering when the next air strikes will come. We see all this brokenness, and we are overwhelemed. 
We are not very good at dealing with suffering. And I think we get it wrong in two ways: Either we turn away entirely, refusing to acknowledge the suffering that is there in our own lives or in the lives of our communities; OR, we try to rush through the brokenness.
Let’s start with the way that we refuse to acknowledge suffering and brokenness. When you’re in the checkout line at the grocery store and the clerk says, “Hi, how are you?” What is the correct answer? “Good,” or “Fine.” This is a ritual that we each participate in dozens of times a day with coworkers, with bosses, with neighbors, with friends, with customer service personnel. Although the question in the ritual asks how we are, we’re actually not allowed to say anything other than “good” or “fine.” Don’t believe me? Break the rules this week. Tell someone you’re wonderful, or tired, or that you have a headache, or that you are overwhelmed by the brokennes of the environment. I will lay odds that the reaction you get is discomfort. Giving any answer other than the expected one in this ritual communication is just not done.
            Now sometimes, the people close to us actually do want to know how we’re doing. When the question goes beyond participation in the ritual to express actual concern, it sounds different, “how are you?” “how are you, really?” In this case, the person asking the question will make eye contact and lean toward you.
This “how are you ritual” might seem like a small thing, but I would argue that its ubiquity in American life, and the rigidity of the requirement that we respond to the question with a positive answer are evidence of the way we focus relentlessly on the positive. We publicly affirm that we are good and fine even when we are not, and when we get home, we distract ourselves with the many media available to us on our variety of devices, , with food and medication, with alcohol and drugs.
            The other way that we get it wrong is by rushing through suffering.  Romans 5:3-4 tells us that “suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.” Passages like this one, lead us to platitudes like “every cloud has a silver lining” and “God has a reason” and “God does not give you more than you can bear.”
While I think that these platitudes point to an important truth—that living through tragedy changes us in profound ways—our eagerness to emphasize the reasons and the silver linings lead us to rush through the suffering in unhealthy ways. We need to slow down. We need to recognize that we are in the moment of suffering and let it be okay that we are not good. We need to take the time to actually feel our feelings.
In my experience, there will be a lot of feelings. Not only the sadness and pain of the event that caused our suffering, but also uncertainty, and fear about that uncertainty, and doubt and confusion. It is not easy to let ourselves feel these feeling. But you’ll notice that Romans doesn’t jump straight from suffering to hope. The intermediaries are endurance and character.  Sitting with our feelings long enough to recognize them and name them is an important step.
I have a couple of disclaimers. What I have said here is not a call to tolerate abuse or ongoing trauma. If you are in a relationship that is causing you ongoing harm, get help and get out safely. Reach out to the staff of Mt. Olivet, reach out to someone you trust. Reach. Out. This is also not a call to inflict pain upon ourselves in the ways that some in the history of Christianity have done. No self-flaggelation, no hair shirts, no beds of nails for us. We encounter sufficient suffering in our daily lives without seeking it out or inventing it.
Suffering is not a contest. We should not cry matyr to show that our own suffering is the worst, but neither should we minimize our own experience because someone else has greater suffering.
Each of us reacts to the suffering in our lives and in our world differently. And the process of moving from suffereing to endurance to character to hope is not a linear one. There are setbacks and delays and repetitions. It can take months or even years. In the mean time, though, life goes on. Even as we are learning to live with suffering, there will also be moments in our lives worthy of celebration.
And this, I think, is the greatest challenge: holding in tension the awareness that our broken world is full of suffering and the conviction that this same world is also beautiful and worthy of celebration. I’ve noticed this coming to a head lately in activist spaces on social media. One member of the community will say to another, “How can you care about new bike lanes when children are dying in the streets?” This question presumes that suffering and celebration are a zero-sum game, that we can only be engaged in one at a time. By this logic, if we are in a state of grief or trauma or brokenness, life can only be sad and dark and unhappy.
When I was widowed four years ago, I chose to wear black. That fast from color was a reminder to myself to slow down and make space for the pain and doubt and confusion. It was important to me at that time that my outward appearance reflect the dark wilderness that I felt like I was navigating, and I kept choosing black for about six months. In the early days especially,  I remember seeing shock, and sometimes judgement, on other people’s faces when they saw me laughing and smiling. As with the “how are you” ritual that expects only a positive answer, there was an expectiation that I as a widow wearing black would be perpetually sad and weepy.
Life is not just one way though, it never is. We can make space for the experience of suffering alongside our celebration. We can welcome it to the table as a ligitimate element of our experience of this earthly life.
I’m asking you today to pay more attention to the suffering in your own life, in the life of your community, and in the world, but I don’t want you to wallow in it or be incapacitated by its magnitude. Recognize that in our broken world, suffering exists alongside joy. And recognize that God is present with us equally in suffering and in joy.
When we are able to do this, when we recognize that suffering is a part of life that we should experience rather than one to escape, when we are able to be aware of both suffering and joy at the same time, it changes the way we relate to suffering in our own life  and in the lives of others. Often when we encounter suffering in the life of someone we are close to, we jump into fixing mode. We offer solutions, we reach for the platitudes and start naming the potential silver linings of the dark clouds. While I am a strong proponent of the idea that good things can come from bad things, I also know that this mental leap is one that the suffering person needs to make in their own time. As people giving moral support we need to be able to say, “This is awful. I am sorry you are going through this. I am here to listen.” And we need to stop there, before we start solutioneering.
It also changes the way we pray. Rather than praying, “Lord, make it stop,” we can pray, “God, be with us. God, help us see. God, give us strength.” Amen.

Thursday, March 9, 2017

awry

Last night I checked the forecast and saw that this morning was going to be excellent weather for cycling: 48 F by 8 A.M. and rising into the sixties with sunny blue skies. I texted my cycling pals that we should play hooky, and Chris agreed.


Chris and I rolled out of the driveway about 8:45, heading for the new portions of the Anacostia Riverwalk Trail on the far, east/south, side of the river.



It never ceases to amaze me that these monuments are part of my regular life. This bit of trail on the east side of the 14th St. bridge over the Potomac connects us to so many destinations.

The Anacostia Riverwalk Trail is beautiful, but not very photogenic at the moment, with wide smooth asphalt running along the river through floodplain parkland most of the way. The riverbanks were in that awkward stage when everything is starting to develop the green haze of spring, but it hasn't yet managed to cover the curmudgeonly grunge of winter. The Kenilworth tidal estuary marsh smelled like it was just starting to think about developing a funk.

We were a bit pressed for time today, and the Anacostia Riverwalk Trail extends deep into Maryland, so we set a time to turn around hoping that it would allow us to cross the DC-MD border.

My only picture from the trail is this one of Chris checking to see if we had reached Maryland when the marks on the trail changed from yellow to orange. We had indeed! Just under two hours and just over fourteen miles from home. 

The ride back felt like the landmarks were coming more quickly. (Why is that always true?) There was an intense and persistent headwind, though. 

And then.

Climbing up the second most awful bridge crossing in DC, all of a sudden my handlebars were not square with my front wheel. Since I was practically crawling up the incline, I was able to get my feet on the ground before I fell over. I reoriented the handlebars and started walking the bike. Chris had the tool we needed to tighten the handlebars, but not in a shape that we could use on this bike.

Meanwhile, I realized that the strap on my shoe had also broken, perhaps while being yanked out of the pedal clips, and every step made the shoe flop off my right foot. We didn't manage to improvise a solution to the handlebars, but I did have a velcro arm/ankle reflector band that was happily repurposed into a shoe-keeper-onner.

Having ridden only twenty-one of the twenty-eight miles of this route, I parted ways with Chris to metro home.


What started out as a grand and spontaneous adventure had gone awry.

This was my first time riding the metro with my bicycle and I learned that my bike and I can fit in a metro elevator with a full-sized motorized scooter, it's occupant, and one other passenger and also that I can carry my bike down a flight of stairs by hoisting the crossbar of the frame onto my hip. Less fortuitously, I learned that up-going escalators will further twist already misaligned front wheels and handle bars. That got interesting fast.

My bike and I rode the bus--using the bus-front bike rack was another first for us--straight to our neighborhood bike shop where a plain, old 6mm alan wrench solved the problem. Such a simple solution. The 6mm alan wrench from the set in my toolbox will be moving to my bike bag forthwith.

It wasn't really a big problem in the grand scheme of bicycles. It wasn't a punctured tire or a broken spoke. Nothing weird happened to the chain or the sprockets. But a slightly loose joint made my bike a dead weight instead of a powerful tool.

All in all, I suppose a disabled bicycle was easier to deal with than a disabled car would have been, I could still make it go where I wanted it to go, and I could lift and carry it when necessary. No tow truck required.



I'm glad to have made this ride to Maryland and halfway back and glad to have learned to use public transportation with my bike. I'm really sad the about the shoes. They were the best shoes, and I knew they were on their way out, but this forces the issue.

Biggest regret, though? I didn't have any knitting for the transit rides.

Sunday, October 9, 2016

Follow the Directions

This sermon was presented at Mt. Olivet United Methodist Church's 11:00 AM contemporary worship, the way (Arlington District, Virginia Conference) on Sunday, October 9, 2016. The revised common lectionary text for Year C, Proper 28 (Twenty-first Sunday after Pentecost) was 2 Kings 5:1-3, 7-15 and Luke 17: 11-19

Follow the Directions: Two Passages about Being Healed

The two passages of scripture we heard this morning tell parallel stories, one in the Old Testament book of Second Kings, and one in the New Testament Gospel of Luke. Although there are differences, each story is a case of those who are ill seeking healing. Both Naaman, the Old Testament warrior, and the ten unnamed people in Luke suffered from leprosy, a disease that turned its sufferers into outcasts. Scholars disagree about whether the Biblical-era disease whose name we translate as leprosy is the same disease we know as leprosy today, but whatever disease Naaman and Luke’s ten people had was one that no usual remedy worked on, one that made healthy people shun the sufferers, one that made the sufferers ritually unclean according to Jewish law.
In Luke, the ten lepers recongnize Jesus’ power as he comes into the town. They call to him for help from a distance in deference to the social rules about those suffering from leprosy. They are made clean as they follow his simple instructions to show themselves to the priests.  These lepers follow Jesus’s instructions without question because they have nothing left to lose; living as outcasts, they had already hit rock bottom. They recognize Jesus’ power, they ask for help, and they are  healed.  Hallelujah!
The Old Testament story is more complicated. Naaman comes to Elisha for healing because an Israelite servant girl in his household suggests it. Naaman, a powerful warrioir,  sends a letter asking for help to his weaker neighboring nation because a servant, a female servant, a female Israelite servant suggested it. The letter in itself is an act of humbling. His supplication from a distance, however, is not enough to heal him, and Elisha summons him to come to Israel.
So Naaman goes to Israel expecting  to be heled with pomp and circumstance, expecting an act of healing worthy of his rank and station.  When Elisha gives him the simple instructions to bathe in the river seven times, Naaman is outraged! “What did I come all this way for?” he thinks.
A servant says – and I love this next part – a servant says, “Dude, if he’d asked you to do something difficult, you’d have done it. Why not just bathe in the river?” The servant is right. If Elisha had demanded a feat of strength (moving a giant boulder) or  a feat of endurance (climbing up a mountain and coming down without resting) or delivery of a magical object (three drops of slime from the Great Pink Sea Snail), Naaman would have moved the boulder, climbed the mountain, and found that snail. The simplicity of the instructions to bathe in the River Jordan, a tiny trickle of  river in the desert, seems disproportionate to the magnitude of Naaman’s disease.  Naaman, humbled, follows the directions, and is healed. Naaman and his servant teach us to follow the directions, even when they’re weird.
This is a conversation I have with my students all the time.:
“Dr. Koppy,” they say “what do we have to write?” 
And I say, “Read the description in the syllabus.”
“Dr. Koppy, do we have to print this out and bring it to class?”
“What does the syllabus say?”
“Dr. Koppy, when is the essay thing due?”
“Did you check the syllabus?”
My colleagues and I take great care to lay things out clearly in our syllabi, especially our common syllabus for freshman composition, from which we all teach every semester. The students, somehow, don’t think it can be as simple as reading a piece of paper I’ve already given them. *sigh* They need servants like Naaman’s. They need someone to say to them, “Dude, it’s in the syllabus.”
I shouldn’t snark on my students though. Every senior scholar in my field says the same thing about research writing: Do it every day, write every day even if only for 15 minutes, write every day even if you don’t feel like it. The key to making progress is consistency and repetition. And yet....what do dissertation-writing graduate students and junior scholars like me do?  We procrastinate, we faff off on the Internet, we avoid writing for days and then stay up all night chasing the lightbulb moment that will transform a rough draft into a polished piece. And it does not always come.
We fail to follow the directions.
In both of the stories we heard this morning, the lepers were healed simply by following the directions they were given. Following directions isn’t always such a tidy process. Following the directions, for example, doesn’t mean that bad things won’t happen to you. Bad things happen to faithful people. Tragedy happens to good people all the time. Bad things happen to people even though they follow the directions.
You’ve all heard the platitude, ‘Everything happens for a reason.’ Perhaps some of you have even said it. It’s often trotted out in the face of tragedy. People who don’t know what to say to the victim or the victim’s chief mourner’s say this, ‘Everything happens for a reason’ and it’s close corrolary ‘God has a reason.’ As someone who has been the chief mourner, I have to say that this is one of the most insidious lies that Christians tell each other.
The Old Testament lesson this morning seems to be supporting this idea. At the end of Naaman’s story, he returns to Elisha and praises God, saying “Now I know that there is no God in all the earth except in Israel.” A tidy interpretation would be to say that Naaman got leprosy in order to bring him to Israel so that he could see God’s power. It’s tempting somethimes to think this way.
Here’s why that lie is so bad: If we believe that God protects the truly faithful, then those to whom bad things happen must not be truly faithful. Our reality, though, is that tragedy strikes good people, faithful people, devout people every single day. Church membership does not come with a ‘get out of tragedy free’ card.
On NPR last week, I heard a Story Corps interview with TerriRoberts, the mother of the man who shocked the world ten years ago this month when he barricaded himself in a one-room Amish schoolhouse in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, and started shooting, “killing 5 girls, wouding the others, and committing suicide.” The Amish community shocked the world when they forgave the man and embraced his parents. Roberts talks about the Amish families who came to the private funeral for her son and surrounded the family in a crescent that emanated love. She also talks about her ongoing relationship with the victim’s families, including acting as a part-time caregiver for one girl who was profoundly disabled by her injuries. Roberts reports that one of the Amish fathers told her “None of us would have ever chosen this. But the relationships that we have built through it … you can’t put a price on that.”
All of the families connected to this situation experienced tragedy that day. The family of the shooter might have become outcasts in their own community, made  unclean by their association with a person who would kill children in their school. The Amish community, however, followed directions. They chose to turn the other cheek, to love the people who some might see as their enemies, to forgive.
In the end of today’s Gospel story, Jesus expresses surprise that only one of the nine lepers came back to praise God after being healed. Now, you might be thinking that returning to offer praise was not part of the directions. Jesus said to them, “Go and show yourselves to the priests.” He did not say, “then come back here and offer praise.” Jesus probably thought he didn’t have to. Praising God is in the syllabus. Over an over, the Old Testament scriptures instruct the faithful to praise God. The lectionary offered two different Psalms of praise that we are not reading this morning, but our music has filled that role for us. The first two songs we sang this morning were full of praise. Jesus expected the lepers to know that they should offer praise for their healing, and he expresses shock that only the foreigner among them does so. Jesus tells this man that his faithfulness, his following directions, has made him well. Not just healed, but well.

Following directions is not a spell that protects us from harm. God does not promise us invincibility. The thing about the directions, though, is they make us resilient. The platitude that says everything happens for a reason has it backwards.  It is our work as Christians, not God’s work, to make meaning from the broken situations in which we find ourselves. The connection we forge with God when we follow the directions changes our perspectives. It makes us bend like the grass and not fall over like the trees when hurricane force winds overtake us.  

Sunday, August 24, 2014

There’s Power in the Word

This sermon was presented at Marcellus and Wakelee United Methodist Churches (Kalamazoo District, West Michigan Conference) on Sunday, August 24, 2014. The revised common lectionary texts for Year A, Proper 16, Eleventh Sunday after Pentecost were Psalm 138Romans 12:1-8Matthew 16:13-20. 

I think sometimes we underestimate the power of words. We teach our children to say, “sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” To tell someone to “put your money where your mouth is” is to say that financial support is more useful than spoken support.  To say that someone is “all bark and no bite” is to say that that person only talks, but never acts. To say that someone talks the talk but doubt that person can walk the walk is to doubt that person’s ability to act.  
It’s funny, though. The very existence of phrases like these, the way that we repeat them over and over until they accrue meaning greater than the sum of their parts is evidence of the power of words.  Repetition of the sticks and stones expression can bolster the confidence of a child being teased. All bark and no bite diffuses the power of someone else’s aggressive speech. Put your money where your mouth is and walk the walk challenge someone else to act directly. And really, if you’ve ever been bullied with words, you know that words have the power to inflict pain. They can leave lasting scars on our souls that inform the way we see ourselves, the way we interact with the people closest to us, and the way we live in the world.
            When I was looking over the lectionary scriptures for today, I was struck by two things. The first was the sheer quantity of references to speech acts via forms of the verbs say, sing, call and answer. The second thing that struck me was what speech acts accomplish. They create relationships, and they guide the way we inhabit those relationships
            In verse three of Psalm 138, the psalmist says, “On the day I called, you answered me” and this answer had the power to bolster the psalmist’s “strength of soul.” Throughout this psalm, speech creates a relationship between God and the people as speech and song connect the earthly and the divine. And in this psalm, the speech is reciprocal. God answers, the kings of the earth hear the words of God’s mouth, God’s name and word are exalted. In the same way that relationships among people depend on communication, our relationship with God depends on speaking and listening in prayer and meditation.
            In the passage from Romans, verses six through eight list eight gifts: prophesy, ministry, teaching, exhortation, generosity, diligence, and cheerfulness.  While each of these eight can make use of speech, three of them (prophesy, teaching, and exhortation) depend on speech to be accomplished. More than just valuing the power of speech in the work of the church, though, Paul puts words to work for him. With a particular sort of speech act, an extended metaphor, he shapes the way that members of the church interact with one another. We are, he says, members of one body, and each member has its function. This passage is reminiscent of first Corinthians chapter twelve in which Paul gives this body metaphor greater depth. “If the whole body were an eye, where were the hearing? If the whole were hearing, where were the smelling?” Human beings are often challenged by difference. We don’t know what to do with it; it makes us uncomfortable. This metaphor teaches us to value the contribution of each member of the community as we value the contribution of each part of the body.
In the gospel passage this morning, Jesus challenges the disciples to think about the power of words, names in particular. He asks, ‘Whom do you say that I am?’ And they answer, ‘Some say John the Baptist, but others Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.’ Now, Jesus, of course, knows exactly who he is, but in this conversation with the disciples, he is checking on whether what they say aligns with what he knows. Because Jesus knows that what people are saying about him shapes their relationship with him. To identify Jesus with John the Baptist or one of the prophets is to connect him to the past. To name Jesus as one of the prophets is to affirm the status quo, to continue an ongoing cycle of prophesy about a future not-yet-arrived. Peter’s answer that Jesus is the messiah, however, identifies him not as a reincarnation of one who has come before, but as the incarnation of Old Testament prophesy.  A prophet is not the messiah. To name Jesus as the messiah is a radical act that announces that the future is now. 
            All this thinking about the power of words has been timely for me. A friend and I have been engaged in a good-natured ongoing debate about the relationship of language and thought. Namely, whether our words and grammar inform the way we think or whether the way that we think informs the words that we have and the grammar that organizes those words. It’s been a lively debate for us and a sometimes contentious one among professional linguists. I come down somewhere in the middle. I don’t think that language is a rigid structure that prevents us from contemplating ideas for which we have no words, but I do think that our habits of speech become habits of thought, and habits, I’m sure we can all agree, once established, are difficult to change.
            Change is possible, though. As with Peter’s radical act of naming Jesus as the messiah in the gospel today, our speech acts can shape the way we experience relationships in our world. The passage from Romans uses beautiful words to create a vision of a harmonious body of different people, and this is a vision we are familiar with within the church. When we are doing well as a church, the body welcomes a variety of members and values their individual contributions.
            Words, however, also have the power to devalue the people with whom we come in contact. One only has to listen to the news to hear this in action. Conflict and violence can on occur when the aggressor views the victim as less than human. This is true in cases of personal violence like assault, murder, and rape; in cases of ritualized violence like political campaigns; and in cases of armed conflict like those in Syria, Ukraine, Gaza, and Iraq right now.
            I’m not going to make any judgments about who is right and who is wrong in any of these conflicts. I am going to challenge you to pay closer attention to the way you hear them described, though. Language that compares people to animals, language that labels people evil or bad, language that treats people as objects dehumanizes those people.

            When we use dehumanizing language we participate in the violence, we perpetuate the conflicts and we are complicit in the tragic piles of bodies that result. What would happen, though, if we took a radical step like Peter and changed the way we talk? When we change our language, we expand Paul’s metaphor from the church family to the human family. When we change our language, we recognize that all the people we share the earth with are members of the body and each of them has a contribution. When we change our language, we take the fist step toward beating our swords into ploughshares.

Tuesday, August 5, 2014

perspective

I've been thinking a lot about perspective lately, about how the position (physical or mental) from which we view something influences not only the way we see it, but the way we understand it and the way we talk about it.

For example, I've wanted to knit an Umaro blanket since Jared Flood first published the pattern years ago.
Photo Credi: Original pattern image ©Jared Flood
http://brooklyntweed.net/blog/?p=471

I've been waiting for the right time to cast on a project of this size (blankets are big, yo) but also waiting for the right yarn to cross my path. Some of this yarn was an impulse purchase when one of the yarn shops in Lafayette was closing. It's the right weight for the blanket, but I bought small amounts of three colors rather than enough of one color for the whole blanket.

For more than a year, I pondered how to introduce color work into this pattern. Horizontal or vertical stripes would be at odds with the lines created by the motifs. I like the idea of diagonal stripes of color, and over the holidays I pulled out the pattern chart to decide where it would be feasible to change colors.

None of the possibilities I came up with excited me because I was seeing this as a variant of tumbling blocks. One day while staring at the pattern, my focus shifted and I saw it in a new way: as cables on a seed stitch ground rather than a field of cubes.  I have a much better plan now, and all I had to do was look long enough and let my eyes relax.

Shifting perspective can be hard, though.

My grief counselor and I have a recurring conversation that goes something like this:

Kitty: So, how was your week?
me: I did a hard thing this week. I submitted the final stuff for estate task of the week.
Kitty: That must feel good. What did you do to celebrate?
me: Well, I checked it off on my list. ...hmmm... Then I did some knitting with Netflix. But now I'm thinking about next estate task. I'm really not looking forward to that one because reasons.
Kitty: Kate, you've accomplished so much, you need to pause and celebrate. You deserve the rest.
me: Yeah, I guess, but there's so much more to do. The list is still so long!

Kitty wants me to see the accomplishments behind me, but all I can see are the things ahead, the obstacles between me and beginning.

On the one hand, the fact that I see all the tasks ahead keeps me moving forward.

On the other hand, sometimes their sheer quantity and complexity is paralyzing. At those times, I remember Anne Lamott's advice to take it bird by bird.

On the one hand, pausing my relentless march forward to look back and celebrate accomplishments reinforces confidence in my ability to do things myself and to gather the right help.

On the other hand, inertia. (A well-intentioned pause is still a pause.)

So, although I am usually the sort of person who sits on the fence seeing both sides of any given question  (blessed are the peacemakers!), in the case of my own life this last year, I have kept my face  firmly pointed forward, focusing on the story of the tasks ahead.  Although this discipline has been useful, I am beginning to remember the danger of a single story, and I am beginning to really hear Kitty's call to pause and celebrate.

When I've settled in to this new perspective, I'll let you know what I see.


Tuesday, July 15, 2014

and now, for a brief commercial break

Many blogs contribute to the livelihoods of their writers through sponsors who pay to be mentioned in blog entries. Some writers do this really well, and I actually look forward to their sponsor posts; other writers annoy me so much at sponsorship time that I stop reading their blogs altogether.

This blog contributes to my sanity rather than my livelihood, so there are no sponsors to whom I am beholden for support. However, in keeping with the generic convention that blog posts sometimes tell you where your money can go, I'm going to use this space to tell you about the causes that I sponsor in hopes that you, dear reader, might be inspired to contribute, too.

I promise not to do this often, definitely not more than once a year. To be honest, I'm not sure why I'm doing it now, except that I'm really excited about what Stephanie and Mark and Bob & Taylor and Rob & Kirsten are doing, and I'm proud of what my modest contributions help to accomplish.

1. I support Stephanie Pearl McPhee because she makes me laugh. Her blog Yarn Harlot offers up a constant supply of the spice of life.
I had to buy a new [air mattress] on account of the fact that last year I took my knitting into the tent with me, and my dpn poked a hole in the air mattress. The only reason Jen didn’t kill me that night was because she’s a knitter too. This year we have a “no needles in the tent” rule that seems reasonable to both of us.  There’s not much that can make the rally harder, but sleeping (or not sleeping) on rocks is right up there.
Stephanie, her best friend Jen, and her daughters are riding with team Psychlopaths in PWA's Friends for Life bike rally from Toronto to Montreal (7/27 - 8/1) to raise funds for AIDS support.

2. I support the American University's United Methodist Community because it was my spiritual home on campus, and because the Reverend Mark Schaefer's sermons continue to inspire me to question and to think about my faith. My experiences there helped to create the person that I am, and many of the relationships that sustain me now started there because
We aim not to be simply a place of worship, or a place to study faith, or even a place to serve, but to be a community in which all the elements of faith are lived out fully. And part of building community is building real and authentic relationships with one another. So whether we’re spending time in worship or prayer, or lending a sympathetic ear, or grabbing a bite to eat or going out to see a movie, we are intent on building real relationships that will be a source of strength and comfort.
Mark is raising funds for the ministry this summer by riding his bike around Lake Ontario.

3. I support Friendly Planet Missiology because they give me hope for peace and community in the aftermath of war. Bob, Taylor, and their Congolese counterparts
work alongside local community leaders as they create unique solutions to local problems. Each village is different in personality and assets, and yet, all have the kind of creative wisdom it takes to turn their lives around. 
While their work is now in the Democratic Republic of Congo, I hope that their methodology can spread to other conflict zones. Contributions can be made on their website.

4. I support the Huss Project because it makes my city a better place. By repurposing an abandoned school lacking heat, air conditioning, and running water and located in a difficult neighborhood, Rob and Kirsten and their team are building a space for community to flourish.
We hope that the Huss Project can become a space that illuminates imaginative possibilities for people of faith living into God’s Kingdom in a particular time and place.  We hope that people from throughout North America will converge there with their stories and questions about Christianity as a way of life to inspire and learn from one another.  We hope that the neighborhood around the Huss Project will experience God’s goodness through all five senses as they participate in activities that engage the body, mind and soul.  We hope that a community kitchen and garden, arts programming, off-campus opportunities for college students and other projects will exist in playful synergy and that such synergy will provide rich soil for experiential, connected, imaginative learning by people of all abilities and backgrounds.
Saturday, July 19th is their fifth annual Future Fest, and I'm looking forward to seeing the progress that has been made so far and to glimpsing the dreams that are to come. Contributions can be made here.

So, dear reader, thanks for letting me share these causes and organizations with you. I hope that I haven't annoyed you so much that you stop reading altogether. Please consider contributing your prayers and gifts, or even your service, if you're in one of the right places. If there is a cause that is close to your heart, put a link in the comments.

P.S. I apologize for the mixed bag of fonts in the block quotes. I tried to make them all conform, but the HTML defeated me.

Monday, July 14, 2014

conflict

The news these days is dominated by stories of conflict. In Syria. In Gaza. In Iraq. In Ukraine. In the US Congress. On the steps of the Supreme Court. In Indiana.

In so many cases, conflict is perpetuated by misuse of religion. It is  beautiful when faith is the guiding  principle of discipleship and reverence for the creation. It is horrific when faith is twisted into a tool for violence and destruction.

It is unfortunate that in the midst of conflict, when we most need our principles to guide us, human beings are most likely to surrender to our emotions. We let anger and fear take control of our actions. We demand retribution instead of offering forgiveness. We forget that the Other is also a Self.

At Velveteen Rabbi today, Rachel Barenblat wrote:
I have been watching the news (and reading blog posts and tweets and Facebook updates) out of Israel and the Palestinian territories with a sense of unbearable heartbreak. It brings me to the brink of something like a panic attack: my chest tightening, my throat choked with tears, the embodied feeling that the grief will wash me away altogether. And I am aware that those who live there are experiencing something far more powerful.
The only thing which brings any comfort is poetry and prayer. Bethlehem Blogger posted A prayer in times of violence, which though it is explicitly Christian speaks to me nonetheless. Wendell Berry's poem The peace of wild things speaks right to my heart. I daven the oseh shalom blessing -- "may the One Who makes peace in the high heavens make peace also for us" -- with particular fervor.
To prayer and poetry, I would add music.




I have faith that one day will come. 

Today the news of conflict I've been reading has been accompanied by updates from a friend traveling through a region of the Democratic Republic of Congo that was ravaged by war in recent years but is now home to community and hope.

UMC Kyubo, DR Congo. Photo credit: Bob Walters, Friendly Planet Missiology