The High Cost of Being an Academic

I have been reflecting lately on the high cost of being an academic.  Obviously there are the monetary costs associated with education -- tuition and books, along with the normal living costs, which cannot be met because we lack 'real' jobs.  But there are other costs as well. 

The social costs: choosing the library over the bar; choosing a solitary life over relationships; writing papers instead of going to the movies; the inability to communicate with a 'normal' person. 

The mental costs: having your ideas and abilities repeatedly ripped apart and rejected; forever feeling as if you are not smart enough or good enough or anything enough; the anguish over the inability to cultivate new and revolutionary ideas.

The physical costs: the physical manifestations of stress; the strain on your eyes from reading for hours; the back pain from spending hours in the hard library chairs; the headaches from frustration with the progress of your studies; poor nutrition from unhealthy snacking instead of eating properly; sleep deprivation; the resulting compromised immune system due to all of this.

Non-academics often muse, "Oh, it must be nice to just sit around and study all day."  And it is.  It is a wonderful opportunity and privilege to be able to study.  But let's not kid ourselves.  The life of an academic is no easier than the life of someone who has a 'real' job.  We don't do this because we are too lazy to work.  We do this because this is what we are passionate about, because despite the financial, social, mental and physical costs, this is what feeds us in a way that nothing else can.  It is not a luxurious life; most of us do this fully aware that the academic job market is dismal, at best.

For me personally, as a biblical studies (wanna be) scholar, I view being an academic as a calling.  I certainly would not be doing this if it was not coming from God.  I could have easily chosen a more "practical" field which would have required far less education and would have resulted in a more favorable job market with better financial security.  Instead, I am struggling with the academic lifestyle, in hopes of finding a university position, teaching undergrads who will likely resent me for either forcing them to read the Bible in the first place or for destroying their cherished beliefs.  Thinking back to my own reactions when I first began to study the Bible academically, as a freshman in college, I remember how I lashed out at my professor, whom I blamed for the faith struggles I encountered as a result of the class.  Shortly before I moved out here, I had lunch with that professor and admitted to her that I was the type of student that I am least looking forward to teaching.  And yet, that is exactly what I am called to do, for better or worse.

And so, despite the high costs, despite the mental anguish, despite the compromises to my physical well-being, despite the perpetual life as a ‘poor college student,’ despite complete lack of a social life, despite my total inability to engage in normal social interactions, despite it all, I am willing to pay the price, because this is who I am, this is what I love, this is what God has called me to do.

God help me!

The Good, The Bad & The Hope

This past Sunday was the first Sunday of Advent. And I was asked to light the candle, the candle of hope.

My family experienced a tragedy the week before Thanksgiving.  One of those moments in life when our joy is turned into mourning, when the future collapses on itself.   My emotions have been all over the place -- grief, sorrow, guilty, shock, anger, dismay -- but in the midst of all the negative emotions, there is also joy, laughter, happiness and hope.  As I was finding out about this tragedy, I was also being contacted about an absolutely amazing opportunity.  It was unexpected and is still a bit unbelievable, that I was personally chosen for it.

[NOTE: Many of you know what both the tragedy and the opportunity are.  I am not naming the tragedy here because it is not my story to tell.  I am also awaiting official, official word so I can make it "Facebook official." If you don't know what's going on, text or send me a message on FB]

I woke up the following morning crying. Crying out of sorrow for the loss, crying out of guilt for simultaneously being excited about my own amazing news. I was also torn, not between the tragedy and the opportunity, but between this new opportunity and another possible one.  To process these things -- the tragedy and the two opportunities -- I turned to my mentor, a lovely elderly Jesuit professor.  He immediately told me to accept the new opportunity, which was not only essentially guaranteed but also the better opportunity.  Then, as I teared up, I told him about the tragedy and how I was struggling not only with the tragedy but specifically with the joy and excitement I was feeling in light of this new opportunity.  My mentor smiled at me reassuringly and simply stated, "The good things in life do not wait for the bad things to pass."

The good things in life do not wait for the bad things to pass! Hallelujah, thanks be to God!

And that is the hope -- that good things continue in the midst of the bad.  More recently, I was listening to a podcast of a sermon a friend gave. One of the many things that struck me was "hope in the mess." Life is a mess. Life is always a mess, no matter how good things are.  And no matter how messy things get, no matter how bad things may be, there is always good, always hope. No matter what, there is always hope in the mess.

The thing about hope, too, is that it requires patience.  We hope for what is not yet real.  We hope for what may yet be.  That "yet" means we have to wait. We have to be patient. We must wait and see. It is our human nature, in the 21st century, to try to hurry up and get there, when in fact part of the process of hoping is that waiting -- waiting to see what will unfold, waiting to see what God may have in store.  Hoping with God, hoping for God, just hoping.

In the midst of tragedy, I hope.
In the midst of opportunity, I hope.
In the midst of Advent, I hope.
In the midst of life, I hope.

I am beautiful

I am beautiful.

Not in a supermodel way. Not in a guys-creepily-honking-at-me way. Not even in a people-stop-to-compliment-me way.

I am not hot. I am not sexy. But I am beautiful.

I am beautiful, in a 'me' way. I am beautifully me.

I am beautiful because of who I am. I am beautiful because of whose I am.

I am beautiful despite what American society, culture and media defines as beautiful.

I am beautiful when I am dressed to impress, I am beautiful when I'm in my sweats, I am beautiful when I have just crawled out of bed.

I am beautiful.

There has been so much in my Facebook newsfeed lately about women's rights to wear whatever they want and to do whatever they want with their bodies, about how fat can be sexy, about how the media does indeed oversexualize and objectify women. It's a lot. It's overwhelming and depressing.

Society, the media and capitalistic American has a lot invested in making me hate myself. And I won't lie, it has succeeded in the past. I starved myself in hopes that guys would objectify me. And they did. Not so much anymore.

My body's not perfect. I know that my weight is a problem -- my back pain would be lessened and my energy probably increased if I lost weight. But my bodily imperfections -- my scars, my moles, my curves, my teeth, the mysterious bruises I always seem to have, the occasional blemishes -- these are the things that make me who I am. I embody my history in these imperfections.

My teeth, with their pitted enamel, are a testimony to the numerous ear infections I had as a young child, so many that only the most potent antibodies were effective, so potent that they affected the enamel of my permanent teeth when they came in.

The slight curve on my right forearm, offering witness to the bad break when I was 8 and thought I could balance on a baseball bat.

My missing toenail, which never did grow back after I quite literally walked it off in Israel.

My worsening scoliosis due to three back injuries before I turned 25 (and far too many hours in the library now!)

The stretch marks on my stomach from gaining and losing weight over the years.

The scar on my leg from where I broke a fluorescent bulb working on my first science fair project in junior high.

The scar on my lip from where grandpa thought he could protect the TV from my little toddler fingers by placing a wooden crate in front of it. There is a matching bloody blankie in a box somewhere in my parents' house.

The scar on my hand from the first time our dog Buttons (grr), a rescue, bit me and thereby 'initiated' me into his family.

The scar right above my left hip bone, from where I tripped over my own feet running to first base playing church softball, a permanent reminder of my first boyfriend, of how his brother had to come help me off the field because he was too busy flirting with another girl to notice that I was injured and crying, of how he used me as a 'human shield' in his fights with his brother, pushing me in the middle so I would take the punches meant for him.

Society tells me these are imperfections, that my body is -- that I am -- somehow less worthy because it is scarred and bent and curved. But I am beautiful because I am scarred and bent and curved.

I am beautiful through it all, despite it all, because of it all. I have never stopped smiling, never stopped laughing, never stopped loving.

I am beautiful.

The Fiery Furnace of Relaxation

Anyone who knows me knows that I don't know how to relax. I come from a family that doesn't know how to relax. Growing up, we never took family vacations to the beach. We're not beach people. No, we always vacationed in the mountains. When I was younger, it was in tents, and then later in a pop-up camper, and in more recent years, in semi-remote cabins. But it was always in the mountains. And we didn't just retreat to the mountains. We hiked those mountains. Miles on end, up the mountain tops to breathtaking views, down in the valleys to gorgeous waterfalls. Several hours a day, until our calves were numb and our lungs were shredded. That was, and is, how my family relaxes. Not lounging on the beach, reading some trashy novel and playing in the waves, but by pushing our bodies beyond their physical limits in an attempt to capture as much natural beauty as we can. I admit, as my parents have grown older, and now that my mom and I both have chronic back problems, our hikes have grown shorter with more breaks. Whereas we formerly gave no thought to a five mile, one way strenuous hike, we now have to discuss whether our backs can handle a moderate two mile loop. This, however, isn't a sign that we are finally learning how to relax a bit, but rather a sad commentary on the rapid deterioration of our bodies. 

This summer was no different. I wrapped up my job as the Summer Session Program Assistant on August 16, and my parents arrived the following day to whisk me off for a week to a cabin about 20 miles outside of Yosemite with no internet, no TV and barely any cell phone reception. On Monday, we decided to go to Yosemite and, at my mom's insistence, stopped at Hetch Hetchy. As we left the reservoir, we missed our turn and were thus re-routed by our GPS to take a more scenic road. It was at this point that my dad noticed what he referred to as a "really cool cloud formation." He proceeded to stop the car multiple times to photograph these clouds, which were fluffy and white on top and had a red glow coming through underneath. I had a growing suspicion that these "clouds" were actually a forest fire, but I didn't want to panic my mom, so I didn't say anything. As we proceeded along this scenic road, we passed a fire truck blocking a road, and my mom made a comment about someone hiding out and avoiding work until it was quitting time. My suspicion grew. Then we passed an "Incident Base," filled with fire engines, police cars and personnel. My dad remarked, "Look, they are practicing putting out forest fires!" At that point, I knew that there was indeed a forest fire, but I was still hoping we would make it back to the cabin before I had to tell my parents. 

No such luck.

As we went to turn on to the highway, we were greeted by police and fire trucks, informing us that the fire had just jumped the highway. It was only then that it really sunk in for my parents that what they thought were clouds was actually a forest fire. We were re-routed, and what should have been about an hour drive became a three-hour detour.

After that, we began scouring the news (parked outside of the public library in order to access the internet), carefully and diligently tracking the fire's growth. At first, we could only see the smoke lingering on the horizon from our cabin, but by Thursday, all we could see and smell was smoke. Ash twirled in the air, landing gently on the porch, on our car, in our hair. Despite all of this, we not only stayed at our cabin but continued to trek out each day and hike. Between the combination of the smoke and high altitudes, I could barely breathe. We watched as the evacuation advisories spread closer and closer to our cabin, but no one even thought of suggesting maybe we should end our vacation early. Finally, on Saturday, the day we were scheduled to return to Berkeley, the advisory reached where we were staying. We were more than halfway back to campus before the air cleared up. My dad's boss, who was on business in Reno, NV, reported that the smoke from the fire was so bad there that things were being shut down.

Being the biblical studies scholar that I am, the forest fire of course reminded me of the Book of Daniel and the stroll that Daniel's friends Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego take in the fiery furnace after refusing to worship the statue of the king. Like them, we came out of the fire unscathed (although my voice is still recovering), but I thought to myself, half-amused, "My family tries to relax and we end up in the midst of a fire!" Not only in the midst---my dad was actually (essentially) trying to chase it! Or perhaps, because we do not relax, we end up in the midst of a fire.

These are the kinds of adventures on which my family embarks. We randomly turn on a side road and discover a lake. We miss a turn and end up in the heart of a forest fire. These are the kinds of adventures which define my life. Intent on attending a very conservative bible college, I instead wound up in an academic religion program at a private, largely secular school. Convinced of my calling to (parish) ministry, I fell in love with academia. Left at home with the dog while my parents took my older brother on family vacation, I decided to move halfway around the world to Jerusalem for a school year. Entrenched in the rigorous demands of biblical studies, priding myself for being so "hardcore," I discovered the experiential application of Christian Spirituality was what I had been missing.

So, no, I don't relax. I take adventures that lead me in wildly different directions than I even imagined. But in the midst of the fiery furnaces, as the flames begin to lick my heels, an angelic presence appears to walk alongside me and to pull me out. My friends -- this lovable bunch of master students who I try to mother half the time -- come and grab me and make me play with them before the clutches of academia have completely consumed me. My friends -- my fellow PhD classmates, as equally as insane as myself -- take a lap with me through the flames, encouraging me to continue and to embrace the unsuspecting turns that my studies are taking. My friends -- this FB hodgepodge from various times and places in my life -- journey with me, reminding me that I am never alone.

And perhaps, one of these days, I will finally learn the art of relaxation, so I can avoid the fiery furnaces altogether!

Saying Nothing

I have nothing to say. I have all these thoughts but I have nothing to say.

I have been starting and deleting posts for weeks.

My job is exhausting. It is so extremely, unbelievably exhausting being nice and pleasant to people all day long. And then I come by to my room and study German and will myself to actually care about learning the language. It doesn't work, but I try.

To keep sane, I do art. I draw. I paint. I sing. I play piano.

I complain. I eat fro-yo. I watch way too much mindless TV. I do logic puzzles. I wonder if I'll ever make it out of this program alive. I sneak gluten until I'm sick, like I'm a little kid.

My grandma calls and tells me I need to come home and find a man to keep me. I tell her there aren't enough decent guys. She agrees.

I pray. I think about praying. I do research about praying. And then I pray some more.

Even though I have nothing to say, I still pray. Prayer doesn't require words. God doesn't need me to be articulate in order to understand me. So I pray without words, without saying anything, letting God listen to my thoughts, and listening to God.

I have nothing to say. And so I pray.

On Being Doh-Dah

The greatest joy of my life is being doh-dah (דודה), which is Hebrew for "aunt" and what my adorable goddaughter calls me.  My mom and I made the long drive to central PA last week to visit her and her family. Unfortunately, I have to be back to Berkeley before her 3rd birthday - which is Sunday - in order to start my job on Monday, but we were able to spend several days with her and celebrated her birthday early. I had kept in touch with her and her family via Skype, Facebook, email and text, but it had been 10 months since I had seen her in person. She looks essentially the same, only bigger, but she has such a little personality! Of course, she already had her own personality last summer, but oh my how it developed in a year!

Within a day or two of our arrival, my goddaughter changed her loyalties; rather than wanting to play with doh-dah, she suddenly wanted Sharon (my mom).  Whereas previously she wanted to play kitchen and hide'n'seek with me, now she wanted to "hide" upstairs with my mom -- to go upstairs to her room and play. She would refuse to let me enter, telling me she didn't want me and to go away. I may have stooped to holding Baby (her favorite doll) hostage so she would let me in. (Low, I know, but I was desperate for time with my little girl!) Despite only wanting to play with Sharon, it was still doh-dah who got called on to go "tinkle" or when she had "snots" or even when she "did a stinky" in her nap-time diaper. Sharon was not allowed to participate in any of these activities. It was all doh-dah. This included multiple trips to the bathroom during meals -- particularly twice during birthday cheesecake, during the ice cream social and four times at Long Horn (most of which were false alarms).

When I commented about my goddaughter only wanting me for all the less-than-pleasant tasks but not wanting me to play with her, her mother (my seminary classmate) said, "Welcome to motherhood." I tried to point out that I am not a mother, just doh-dah, but that didn't really change the facts. And despite my protests, I really didn't mind. I loved being part of the potty-training process and was so proud of how well she did. Her parents even joked that if she reverted when I left, they were going to make me come back because she did such a good job for doh-dah. It was even cute how she would blow her nose! Of course I wanted to play with her, and I did get to play with her quite a bit, but it really touched me how she wanted me to take her to go potty and all that.

I am not a mother, and I don't know if I will ever be a mother. I love kids, have always love them and always wanted kids, but one thing being doh-dah has taught me is that one does not need to be a parent to have kids. Being doh-dah, being a godmother, is a big responsibility -- helping make sure my goddaughter grows up into a beautiful, happy, well-mannered woman -- but being doh-dah has given me at least as much as I have given my goddaughter. Being doh-dah has taught me how to live and how to love, how to put another life before my own, how to be a person worth imitating, how to just be. I am in a PhD program, I have been in school for something like 23 years, and I have learned a lot in the classroom, but the real lessons in life, the ones that really matter, are taught elsewhere, in the course of living -- in the course of being doh-dah.

Coming Home

I went to the church I grew up in this morning. As I sat there, I kept thinking about something one of the graduating seminarians said at New Spirit last week. He talked about how growing up his mom always told him no matter what he did, no matter how long he spent in jail, he would always have a place to come home to--and that was what New Spirit was to him, the church to which he could always come home, no matter how long he'd been away.  That was how I was feeling this morning. I came home, home to the church that raised me, home to the church that has always loved me, home to the church that has supported me and prayed for me throughout the years.

There is not much that my church family says and does theologically that I agree with these days. But they are my family, the people who raised me and the people who have always had my back. As I was getting ready to move to Berkeley, they joked with me about Aurora movie theater massacre, telling me to buy a one-way ticket home if I ever started to feel homicidal. Someone responded, "No, call us and we'll buy you that ticket. Come home and we'll take care of you." I know we were just joking around, but I also know that if I made that call -- if I called and said for whatever reason I needed to get home -- a ticket would be purchased before I got off the phone.

So even though their theology makes me cringe and sometimes I just want shake them, every time I come home, I come home to my church too. And every time I walk through the church doors, I am swarmed by people wanting to know how I am, what I have been up to, what I'm learning, how my family is (as they no longer go the church) and so on. I can barely make it into the sanctuary before worship begins and I am always one of the last ones to leave. I am covered in hugs and kisses and well wishes. It is the picture of love.

I am the golden child who can do no wrong, although that is largely because I know to keep my mouth shut and not challenge their beloved theology.  Whether this is the right approach or not is debatable. It has worked well for me, but I also know that these same people who love me so well would not offer the same opening arms to some of my nearest and dearest friends, the friends who are also my family--the family who supported me through the ups and downs of academic life, the family who always knows what I need even when I don't, the family who understands me and loves me for who I am even when I don't know who that is, the family who teaches me the most important lessons in life (which can never be learned in a classroom). These people are my family, but so are my church. They are both my family, in different ways--in contradictory ways.

There is, of course, also my biological family, which adds yet another complicated level. They also love me in their own unconditional way.

All these families, all this love, all these homes. If only I could make sense of all this love and all the complications they bring. If only I knew what it meant to come home, if I only knew where home was. If only everyone was so lucky. If only everyone had one family, one love, one home. I am blessed with multiple families, multiple loves, multiple homes. Every time these families collide, every time I start to wonder how to make sense of them, I am simultaneously reminded of just how blessed I am. So I may not know how to reconcile my families, but I know they are my families. And I know family isn't about always agreeing with one another but with loving one another anyways. We challenge one another while we also respect one another.

This is family. This is love. This is what it means to come home -- whichever home it is, wherever it is. This is home.

Capturing the Sacred

what do I mean? drifting along, peeling

back the label, scratching at the dust, wondering

how can I be? illustrious, tearing at the sorrow,

clawing at the empty space, the place where you

used to be, ripping the cobwebs away, not knowing

what happened, crying from abandonment,

forsaken, lost, alone,

what do I mean? how can I be?

reality cracked, nothing is, not if

you are gone, not if I am by myself

with him, shivering, ducking behind cover

that isn’t even there, exposed, stretched out

before him, as he grabs me, throws me, I scream

why am I sacred?

Weddings, Cana and the Prom

Last Saturday, I celebrated the wedding of two wonderful people. And what made the wedding even more special was the fact that their love has survived and even thrived against all odds. A straight girl fell in love with a lesbian who is now transitioning to become his true self. It's not exactly the fairy tale we all dreamed of. It's not a love that their families, churches or even the state will acknowledge as legitimate. But it's a real love, a true love, that I hope to one day share with someone. I am honored that I was able to witness their wedding, and to be part of their new family--the family that accepts them for who they are.

Last Saturday was the wedding. Last night was the Prom. At Cana. In true PSR fashion, we broke all the rules and had a prom at seminary, a prom to undo all those traumatic prom memories of not being allowed to take the date you wanted, simply because that person was the same sex as you. Of course, that was not my prom experience. I got to go with the dates I wanted, to both my junior and senior proms, my best friend and then my boyfriend. Overall, my proms were not traumatic experiences, and before it was announced that we were having prom here, I never thought about the ways in which my proms could have been better. But looking back now, I can honestly say that though my prom experiences were not bad, neither were they all that I hoped and dreamed of.

Who knew that a straight girl, whose date was a gay guy, could find healing at a queer prom? Actually, I expected nothing less. At 27, I have finally lived long enough to realize that it's much more fun to look like an idiot and have fun on the dance floor with the people who get me than to play it safe and sit this dance out. And so I danced. And I laughed. And I probably looked like a fool. But I had the time of my life. It was the best date I've ever had, which may just be a sad commentary on my love life, but it was truly amazing. The homiletics prof gave the invocation, but first she explained to us how "dance" is used in the Bible. It is the opposite of mourning and is quite often a form of worship. I think both are accurate descriptions of last night. "Worship" isn't the first word that comes to mind when I think of prom, but living life to its fullest, having an amazing time with amazing people, forgetting about homework and my problems, finding and offering healing to others--isn't that a form of worship, a means of praising God?

I couldn't have asked for a better date. No, it wasn't the boy I like, but he is a dear friend, someone who gets me even when I don't necessarily get myself. And although I am sure he would have rather been at prom with someone else (perhaps the boy he likes!), he made the night all about me, about making me feel special and beautiful, about making me forget about any negative experiences I had at my high school proms.

I've been learning a lot lately about healing. About unexpected healing, at unexpected times, in unexpected ways, from unexpected hurts. And I've been experiencing a lot of healing lately. At prom. At Taize, through singing and through beginning to play the piano again. At the dining hall. In the class room. Talking to friends about seemingly mundane things. Researching topics of deep interest to me. Snuggling a dog. There are some areas of my life where I know I need healing. Other areas, I don't even realize they are hurt and broken until the healing begins. Yeah, the healing can be painful. It can be time-consuming. But even when it hurts, it is exactly what I need. I'm learning a lot about myself, about being me, as I heal.

And so I dance. And laugh. And sing. And have the time of my life.

Singing, Struggling, Journeying

When I created this blog, I did not anticipate that it would become a space in which I would not only document my journey but also work through issues of faith, identity and other ways of life, to put it as broadly and vaguely as possible. But that is exactly what it has become -- a place where I can share my struggles and to some extent be in dialogue with others -- and apparently some have enjoyed and appreciated my willingness to be open and genuine in my blog. Of course, those of you who know me also know that I tend to be open and genuine in real life, although there is not always time and space for these sorts of conversations.

And let's face it, there have been lots of things I have been struggling with since moving to Berkeley and starting a PhD program, the least of which seem to be the academic issues, although the "personal" struggles have in many ways influenced my academic interests and understandings. In a different setting, perhaps my questions about Christian spirituality, and its adoption and adaption of Hebrew Scriptures, would not have become an issue for me, or at least not a more central issue. So I have been wrestling with questions of queer culture; questions of what it means to be Christian, inclusive, accepting and human (not necessarily in that order or even necessarily as separate categories!); questions of if I am academically rigorous enough for scholarship; questions of gifts and talents and how they correspond to worship and community involvement; questions of my own priorities and desires in life...questions about anything and everything.

My past few posts have dealt with some of the more pressing and perhaps "serious" of these issues, namely, my evolving views and understandings of queer culture and my struggle balancing faith and academia. Something else that I have been dealing with a lot lately, which perhaps is more superficial but still important to me, is singing, specifically as I have started singing in a choir again for the first time in over a dozen years. I know it seems rather trivial, but the underlying question is not dealing with singing per se but with using our gifts (and, in relation, limiting ourselves to our gifts) in worship and other settings. In other words, is church a safe place to explore and develop our gifts and passions? Should we limit our involvement to our gifts, and therefore contain our passions if they are not also our gifts? Thus, this to me is not a simple issue of do I find singing in the Taize choir enjoyable but is rather addressing the wider question of what it means to be church and how the church  functions (or should function) in our lives and communities.

The reason this is an issue for me at all, especially in this context, is because I do not necessarily have a great singing voice. As I say, the last time I sang in a choir was when I did not make my high school Chamber Singers. I then proceeded to be an accompanist for Chamber Singers throughout high school, where I was reminded every day, both implicitly and explicitly, that I didn't belong because I did not make it as a singer. (Of course, it did not help that, while I was a good piano player, I was not a very good accompanist.) But despite my limited singing abilities, I love to sing, especially in worship. For me, worship is about singing, and that is where I experience God--and how I am sustained spirituality for my studies.

And so, after much thought and many discussions, I joined the Taize choir. It's been five weeks now, and I am enjoying it, for the most part. But I am also discovering that I have a lot of issues to work through. I lack self-confidence. I never realized how deeply it was ingrained in me that I cannot sing and do not belong in choir. Most people have been encouraging--encouraging me to join in the first place, regardless of how well I can sing; encouraging me to continue to sing, offering me kind words and support; encouraging me to believe in myself. And there has been much patience and grace as I deal with my issues and insecurities, as ridiculous as they may be.

Most people have been encouraging, but not everyone. I am still reminded that my singing voice is not stellar. Some talk about how we all have our gifts and we should use our gifts...and if we don't have a particular gift, we shouldn't try to use it. Although I don't remember the gift of singing being on the list. God did, however, request a joyful noise. And I do remember reading where Jesus put the Pharisees in their place by reminding them that it is the sick that need a doctor, not the healthy. People don't go to church because they are perfect. People go to church because they are broken. Church is supposed to be a place where we can be put back together again. We're all broken in different ways, and our jagged edges may not always be visible to others. Our paths to wholeness will all differ, but they also intersect. None of us can fit the pieces of our lives back together on our own. That's why we have church, to help and encourage and journey together.

Hardcore Fluff

Just finished week 3 of spring semester. Beginning to establish a routine. Life is good. Life is also confusing, but I think that is part of what makes it good.

My task this semester is to figure out my life, by which, of course, I mean that I need to figure out how I want to frame my research, which is in part to say, I need to figure out my complementary concentration. Theoretically, that should be simple. I came into the program planning on doing Second Temple Judaism and/or Early Rabbinics as my complementary concentration. I still have a general interest in these fields, but my questions have shifted...or rather, the questions that I have attempted to squash over the past several years have found their way to the surface and refuse to be ignored.

Earlier in the week, my friend "interviewed" me for an assignment in his theater as pedagogy class. One of the questions was to describe a moment when I had experienced doubt in my faith. I spoke about what I call "my crisis of faith," which was not a "real" crisis of faith but rather a crisis of call, when I found myself torn between what I had believed to be my call--to be a pastor--and where my interests were then taking me--academia.  In the midst of this conversation, I acknowledged that the real struggle of faith occurred earlier, in my first semester of college, when I first encountered an academic study of the Bible, which shattered everything I had ever believed about the Bible. I obviously came out the other side with my faith intact, but I honestly don't know how I navigated that struggle. As I told my friend, it is almost as if I "blacked out" the whole thing, as if it was too traumatic.

I mention this conversation because I think it illustrates how I have traditionally dealt with the schism between faith and academia in my life...I attempt to separate the two, focusing on biblical scholarship without bringing my faith into it, except perhaps on the peripheral. And I think that is, at least traditionally, what is expected in biblical studies. We are “hardcore”; we learn all these languages so we can analyze the text, but for the most part, we ignore the “practical” applications. Faith never enters the equation. In fact, we don't even admit to having faith most of the time, as if faith is some sort of weakness, something shameful.

And ignoring my faith, separating it out from my academic work, has in many ways allowed me to preserve my faith. It doesn’t matter if I essentially disprove the historical validity of the entire Bible as long as I keep it separate from my faith life. I can still go to church, go to Taize, pray. Because while the Bible may not be “true,” it doesn’t matter, that only applies to my academic life.

But let’s face it, compartmentalizing like that is time-consuming, exhausting and not entirely successful. I haven’t been able to actually listen to a sermon, and take it seriously, in years.  I get too frustrated by the general lack of academic engagement pastors exhibit in their sermons. And it’s not just my inability to keep the academic completely out of the sanctuary. I still feel like the wind is knocked out of me whenever I encounter a new academic theory that further compromises the facticity of the biblical stories of my youth. Sometimes I wonder what my threshold is, how much of the Bible can be “untrue” before I end up like Bart Ehrman, bitter and rejecting my religious faith?

In other words, I am finding it increasingly difficult to keep my two selves, the academic and the believer, distinct. And I find myself wondering more and more why these two selves can’t be one integrated whole. Why can’t my faith influence my scholarship? Why can’t my scholarship influence my faith?

                                         

Thus, as a result, I have a confession to make: I have went "fluffy."

While it is not yet official, I am leaning strongly toward Christian Spirituality as my complementary concentration. My initial impression of my first class, which I call Old Testament Spirituality but is official title is Biblical Issues in Christian Spirituality, was that spirituality is all about experiences and feelings (said in complete disdain). And I am still trying to figure out how to “think spiritually,” as I say, that is, how spirituality frames its questions. But I think, when done properly, Christian Spirituality allows one to read and analyze the biblical text and then figure out how to apply that to one’s faith life.

In other words, I can be both a Christian and a biblical scholar, and the two do not have to live in opposition or be sequestered from one another. I can ask what the text meant and what it now means. Instead of just complaining about the terrible ways Christians read and use the Hebrew Bible, I can actually do something about it. I can be both “hardcore” and “fluffy.”

Trans/cending Belief

My closest friends are trans-men and lesbians, along with a few "normal" straight people and a gay guy or two. I write that partially out of disbelief, partially out of pride. One of the most difficult things since moving to Berkeley has been attempting to navigate queer culture. I am from the Midwest, after all, where there are males and females and most people are straight, though some are not. It was all so much simpler back home. You are, more or less, what you look like--if you look like a man, you are a man; if you look like a woman, you are a woman. Here, though, looks are often deceiving. The binaries which are so ingrained in me that I don't even think about them--male/female, straight/gay--are essentially meaningless. Instead, I am learning, and often stumbling over, a whole new vocabulary--straight, queer, gay, lesbian, trans, intersex, cis, they (as a single pronoun) and so on and so forth. It has been, in many ways, more overwhelming than being a PhD student. 

And I have been struggling with it. A LOT.

I joke about being from the Midwest, but it really does explain so much about me. I mean, I grew up in an area where no one was gay, or at least no one was willing to admit to being gay because we all knew that homosexuality was one of those deadly sins that sends you straight to hell. The first gay person I ever (knowingly) met was my freshman roommate in undergrad, and that was a bizarre experience--she told me the first night she was gay and that thirty second conversation was the longest conversation we ever had. It was not until I got to seminary that I encountered and became friends with gay students. It was at that point that I had to rethink my understanding of homosexuality and its relationship to sin. It also helped that I was taking Greek, where we specifically learned about the Greek behind the passages that are (mis)used against homosexuality. But here these people were, my friends, who are just like me, good and God-loving people. How could I determine that they were hell-bound? And so my theology changed.

Of course, being gay or a lesbian is different than being queer and it is most definitely different than being trans. I had no conception of what it meant for someone to be "queer," and, well, weren't transgender people essentially saying that God got it wrong? I mean, doesn't God know if you are meant to be a boy or a girl? But then I moved to Berkeley and actually met people who are trans, and lo and behold, they too are just like me, good and God-loving. Once again, I am left asking myself how they could be excluded from God's family. Once again, my theology is changing.

These past couple of weeks, since I took the Greek exam, I have spent a lot of time pondering questions of what it means to be trans or queer or gay or lesbian or even straight. And I have been talking to my friends about it, especially my trans friends. I want to know how to talk about these things without making ignorant and unintentionally hurtful remarks. Because I am still figuring it out. And I have a feeling I will continue to be figuring it out until I get a chance to ask God face-to-face. Does God get it wrong sometimes? Or have we gotten it all wrong with our strict binary system? Did God make them, male and female, or did God make them ha'adam, gender-less and gender-full? Have we complicated things by trying to reduce everything to two simple options--male/female, straight/gay, right/wrong?

I tell my mom stories about my friends and my experiences, and she says, "What is the world coming to?" I say, "You can't judge something you don't know." 

Talking to a friend today about gender identities and all the variations, I finally asked, partially out of frustration, partially out of a deep longing, "Can't we all just be people?" Trans, female, straight, male, gay, queer, intersex, lesbian, cis--whatever "label" one is--aren't we all still people? Are any of us any less made in the image of God because our sexual or gender identity doesn't align with what someone else thinks it should? God breathed life into ha'adam, that mysterious creature whose gender is indeterminate, and so regardless of who you are, regardless of how you identify, I am discovering that the breath of God in me longs to meet and know the breath of God in you. 

Still a Christian, Still an Academic

I grew up in a pretty conservative area, in a really conservative church. I tend to use phrases like "essentially fundamentalist" to describe the church I grew up in and, in fact, am still a member. And, as a teenager, I was hardcore into all of it. It's all I knew, and (so I thought) I knew it to be true.

Then I went to a liberal arts university to study the Bible academically. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that meant reading the Bible as if it were literature rather that historical fact or through the lens of faith! I struggled a lot, especially that first semester, but I grew and I came to realize that my faith transcends the words on the page. Truth is not always dependent on historical fact. When I was able to let go of my need for the Bible to be the literal Word of God and literally true, I came to realize that my faith really isn't dependent on much of it being historically factual at all. In fact, sometimes my faith is better off if it is in fact not historically factual! Like that whole God as an abusive husband thing...I mean, seriously, if God really told the prophets that God was gonna beat wife-Israel/Judah and leave her for the other nations to rape, what kind of God am I serving?!?!

This is the journey I have been on for the past eight and a half years, navigating between truth and fact, faith and reality.  If you would have told me ten years ago I would be where I am today, I would have laughed at you. But here I am.

I mention all of this because my brother came home last weekend and for some reason decided to ask me all sorts of questions about the Bible. He's part of this men's group, and he decided to do the One Year Bible thing. And I tried to be good and give him an academic answer that still allowed for faith, although it was pretty clear on which side I came down, but I was trying to let him know that it was okay for him to choose faith over my academics (which I really do believe--just because I love the academic side doesn't mean everyone has to or even that they have to agree with it). But by the end of the conversation, my brother asked me, "Do you even consider yourself a Christian??"

I said yes, of course, but his question kinda threw me off guard. I know in seminary we always joked about how I was more Jewish than Christian and some people really thought I was going to return from Israel a Jew (and, in fact, I went to synagogue nearly every week but only went to church on Christmas and Easter). But at the end of the day, I have always been and still am a Christian. I mean, last semester, it was church on Sunday morning and Taize Wednesday evenings that kept me sane. I may not be orthodox. I believe that the Bible contains stories rather than history. I believe that some of those stories might not necessarily be applicable to us today, no matter how hard we try to make them be. But I believe that those stories are powerful, and they are powerful because they contain some sort of inherent truth (even if that inherent truth may not transcend time and space). I believe in God and in doing the right thing, in love and truth. I believe that being a Christian means something, that being a Christian makes me a different (and better) person than I would otherwise be. And I believe I can believe all these things and still be an academic, that in fact my beliefs in many ways allows me to be a better academic because I understand what is at stake.

I am, at the end of the day, both a Christian and an academic. Whether I am a Christian academic or an academic Christian, the fact remains that I am both.

Just Another New Day

The whole New Year's Day thing has always been lost on me. Is there really anything magical about the start of a new year? Is it really anything more than one day ending and another one beginning? And what's the point of making resolutions that you never really intend to keep anyway? Maybe it's because I am a perpetual student and therefore my year corresponds with the academic year, beginning in late August/early September and ending in May. (Don't ask me what happens to poor June and July!) The excitement (and fear!) for me is with the start of a new school year, or a new semester, not when the calendar returns to Jan 1. For me, today is just another new day.

I spent last night (and all day) studying Greek, just like every other day of the break, just like I spent today, just like I will spend the next two weeks until the exam is over. Studying Greek until I can't distinguish it from English. And then some more. Passing the exam means I don't have to take the class. And not having to take the class means I can dedicate the necessary time and energy to my classes, well, at least in theory. Maybe I will even have time to do something other than study? Not likely.

At least I get to spend some time at home, in the midst of all this Greek. Of course, "home" is a relative word. My parents are doing crazy renovations, and of course, everything is going crazy wrong, which means I have no access to any of my stuff (other than what I brought home with me) and I'm sleeping on a mattress on the floor. Half the time plastic is hanging everywhere, including the doorways, turning the house into a maze and making me feel like we're in quarantine or something. And no TV to alleviate the Greek. And contractors coming and going and making all sorts of noise. So I go to the library, to the coffee shop, sometimes even the bookstore or mall food court, wherever I can get some work done.

No one ever said the life of a PhD student was very glamorous. In fact, I'm pretty sure cruel and unusual self-induced punishment would probably be more accurate. We could all use a good dose of therapy, and perhaps some strong drugs. In the meantime, I am running on stress and caffeine. And chocolate, always chocolate!