A Year in the Life: Reflections on my Niece's First Year

My niece turned one last Sunday. It made me reflect on all the things that have happened since she was born, in a way I haven't really thought about the span of a year before.

I finally visited my brother in SC. He'd only been living there for two years.

I taught my first online class, which also happened to be the largest class I have ever taught.

I experienced my first time teaching a class for a second time. Things are remarkably easier the second time around...who would have imagined?

I advanced to candidacy (and have more or less written my dissertation...I think...)

I went through two roommates (through no fault of my own...I swear...)

Trump is running for President (and it terrifies me that my niece's earliest memories may involve him as President!)

I went through my first round of (real) job applications, my first (real) interview and my first round of heart-wrenching rejections.

I turned 30, which was surprisingly accompanied with a bit of an identity crisis.

I accepted a position as an adjunct professor at my alma mater, Wittenberg University.

I moved back to Ohio.

My mom was diagnosed with breast cancer and underwent surgery, chemo and radiation.

And then my grandma's cancer returned.

Now, this week, my mom has to have another surgery, unrelated (hopefully!) to the cancer.

And all these things -- many of which have been major moments in my life -- won't even be memories for my niece.

So much can happen in a year, good and bad. The good things in life don't wait for the bad things to pass. My advisor said that to me once. It turns out, the bad things in life don't always wait for the good things to pass either. Life just keeps going, good turning into bad, bad turning into good, one replacing the other.

On the Eve of My Departure: Learning How to Say Goodbye

I haven't posted in a long time. I've been professoring and dissertating. But here I am, sitting in a mostly empty room, walls almost glowing from their bareness, drinking sparkling pomegranate juice -- straight out of the bottle because I don't have any cups -- and I honestly don't know how I feel.

Last week, I took the pups on a final walk meandering through the hills, up and over to the Rose Garden, winding back down the side streets.

Sunday, I said goodbye to Trinity and Pastor Mark. Pentecost. The reminder that the Holy Spirit is all around us, has always been all around us. The anniversary of the day people finally learned, not to speak in tongues, but to actually hear one another, to understand one another. Such a powerful message, in the midst of all the debates going on in the Church right now, in the midst of UM General Conference and the talks of schism.

Yesterday was one last Celia's date with D. One last time to talk about our research, about the opportunities that have come our way. One last time to gossip about the area, about the program. One last time to fret over the job market and try to reassure each other.

This morning was the Greek final exam and my last class as a Newhall teaching fellow.

Then there was one final snuggle with Olive, as I said goodbye to Jess and the pups on the quad.

One last study session in the library. One final trip to Menchies. The Last Supper in the dining hall, which, perhaps fittingly, consisted of garlic bread and ice cream.

And tomorrow will entail even more one last times.
One last time drinking my coffee instead of the dining hall's.
One last breakfast burrito.
One last time seeing Costello.
One last time checking out the view from the roof.
One last time walking across the quad.
One last meal with Gruncle.
One last time being in Arch 305.
One last, one last, one last.

I've felt the tears building up since Sunday, but they aren't coming. This has been my home since August 20, 2012. I spent a few weeks home at Christmastime and during the summers, and all last summer, but this room has basically been home for nearly four years. The roommates have come and gone -- I'm on #4 -- but I have remained here. I never wanted to move to CA, to Berkeley, but it's what I had to do. And, it turns out, it was the best place for me to be. The faculty, the staff, the community...the people who have loved and supported me through so much. Through a rough first semester. Through cultural shock, through ignorance and education about the queer community. Through a family tragedy. Through what seemed to be a major setback in the program. Through my mom's cancer. And they have celebrated with me as well -- teaching fellowships, adjunct opportunities, the birth of my niece, proposals passed, comps passed, chapters written...the list goes on. These people have been my family, my hope, my help. They have kept me strong, believed in me and for me when I couldn't.

And now I have to say goodbye to them.

I'm so excited to go home to Ohio, to what lies ahead, but how to do I saw goodbye to the people who loved me and raised me and shaped me, the people who formed me into the scholar and teacher I have become? How do I tell them how much they have meant to me? That I wouldn't be where I am today if it weren't them, that they will continue to hold me up, that I am taking them with them, if only in my heart. How does goodbye convey any of that?

And yet, tomorrow, I will say goodbye. And it will be enough. Because it has to be, because I know they already know.

The Teaching Life

Week 4 of classes has begun.

Highlights of the first few weeks of professordom:

Me: Last year, I was the TA for the Psalms class, and now I am teaching it.
<students applaud>

Me: I will be patient with you if you will be patient with me.
<a little later>
Me: I like to think of myself as a gracious person. However, I am not a gracious person when it comes to paper extensions. Don't come to me and ask for an extension because you have four papers due that week. Plan accordingly.

Me: Apparently I like writing on the board. It makes me feel like a real teacher.
Students: You ARE a real teacher!

<student asks about how a concept in Greek compares to Hebrew>
Me: My brain can't switch between Greek and Hebrew at 8 in the morning!

<student asks about the origins of some Greek concept>
Me: You know, I don't know. But I've never not been able to translate something because of it.

Student: Did you come out of the womb looking so professional?
Me: No, I just really like to buy clothes.

Me: Did anyone read any commentaries on this psalm? I'm gonna make you confess your sins...

Me (outside the classroom): This is your friend Christina, not Professor F-------.

<student asks if he should come to class that day, 3 days post-op>
Me: You are not allowed to come to class today. Go home and take a nap for me.

<I moved a chair aside for Eli'jah>
Student: Is that the hot seat?
Me: No, it's for Eli'jah if he comes. I'm not sure where he wants to sit.
2nd Student: It's the Eli'jah chair! We'll just have to wait and see if he shows up.
[I left the chair there the whole class, just in case Eli'jah showed up, in one form or another]

<talking about Psalm 22 at a meal>
Student: Is that the one Jesus prays?
Me: Yep, that's my jam!

<an elderly woman asks me if I am a seminary student. I explain I am a 3rd year PhD student>
Woman: Oh, you look like you are 16.
Me: Yeah, I'm teaching two classes...
[I would just like to add that when I started this program 2 years ago, I was passing for 19. I'm regressing in age.]

Me: I'm a child of the 90's...not to un-date myself or anything...

Me: We're ending the semester with cursing.
Student: That seems appropriate.
Me: As long as you aren't cursing me!

In other words...I love teaching. And my students are pretty awesome.

On the Eve of Becoming a Professor

Tomorrow marks the start of a new semester, and for the first time in 24 years(!), I won't be attending classes. I'll be teaching them.

GULP.

Of course, my faithful readers out there already know that I am making the transition from student to professor. It is very much a dream come true. It is also incredibly terrifying.

I am prepared. I have talked to professors, gotten their advice. I have talked to students, gotten their perspective. My Psalms syllabus in particular has been carefully crafted and re-crafted, taking into consideration what a reasonable workload is for students and what topics will be most important for them and their ministries. I read a variety of texts to make sure I chose the best ones and to supplement my knowledge. I have reached out to professors whose expertise surpasses mine on particular topics (queer readings, for instance!). I checked out the classroom and practiced hooking my tablet up to the projector and using the new version of PowerPoint. I have extra copies of the syllabus and emailed the students a week in advance the information about accessing the course website and the reading assignment for the first class.

In fact, I think the only way I could be more prepared is if I had actually done this before. Of course, if I had done this before, I would probably have known better than to be so overly prepared! I am completely and totally over-thinking this. I know that. I waited until August to start preparing for classes because I knew I would overdo it. I also told myself I could only prepare lecture notes for the first four weeks of classes for the Psalms class and the first week for Greek.

I was feeling completely on top of things until I walked into my classroom for the first time last week to test things out. My stomach dropped. I nearly started to panic. What was I thinking? What was the GTU thinking, asking me to teach these classes? How does one go from taking classes to teaching classes, just like that? I have no training in preparing a lecture or different pedagogical styles. I don't know how to handle it if the class gets out of hand. And what if my students refuse to respect me because I'm just a kid? Oh, and some of my students are some of my best friends. Because that is gonna be totally normal.

And on top of all of this, I am supposed to make it through my comprehensive exams this year. Good thing I'm not an over-achiever or anything.

I did, however, give myself permission to take it easy this past week. I helped out with new student orientation, made some new friends, enjoyed extra snuggles with the pups, vegged out to Buffy marathons, and thoroughly basked in the re-opening of the dining hall. I am feeling more rested and relaxed...and completely nervous about my teaching debut.

But being a bit nervous is a good thing, right? Means I'm taking my responsibility seriously. And that I care about making sure my students not only learn the material but that it is as enjoyable as possible for them.

Teaching. This is my passion. Helping students learn to think about the Bible differently, to find their own passions and to develop them. So yeah, I'm nervous. But this is also what I am supposed to be doing.

I've got this...right?

Five Years Single

A couple of weeks ago, I celebrated five years of being single.  I took myself out on a nice little date for some delicious fro-yo. Many of you probably saw the FB post, possibly even liked it.

I wasn't making some sort of grand feminist, anti-guy statement, nor was it an attempt to lash out against my ex. I was making a grand, I-am-perfectly-content-being-single statement. When I realized that day that it was the fifth anniversary of having my heart broken to pieces, I realized that I was okay with it -- that the fact that I hadn't had a boyfriend in five years wasn't the end of the world.  That may not seem like that big of a deal, but if you would have told me five years ago (or even two years ago, or even six months ago!) that I would be here today saying that the utter lack of a guy in my life is nothing to stress about, I wouldn't have believed you.

Because, to be honest, all of my life, or at least most of it, the most important achievement to me was to find a guy, fall in love, get married and have babies. I grew up in the idyllic American family -- a successful businessman father, a stay-at-home mother, an older brother and family dog. My parents were even high school sweethearts. Most of my friends had similar families -- dads worked, moms stayed home, two (maybe three) kids and a family pet. It was normal, and I never imagined my life would be any different. I didn't want my life to be any different.

I remember when I visited my undergrad advisor during my first semester of seminary. When I told her I had a boyfriend, she was immediately concerned that I would give up academics for him, that I would get married instead of get a PhD. I'm not gonna lie, it was a legit concern. I probably would have forewent (or at least postponed) PhD studies for him. I would have made that sacrifice.

But five years of singlehood has brought many adventures that I never would have imagined or even considered. I mean, on a whim, I applied to Hebrew University in Jerusalem and ended up living in Israel for nine months. I packed my bags and moved to California to get a PhD. I can devote myself to my studies without worrying about maintaining a healthy relationship or stressing over financing a family. (Not that I don't have plenty of friends who are doing a stellar job managing both their studies and having a family) I get to live in a dorm, which may sound like torture, but I actually really love it. I have a community that loves and supports me and that I in turn love and support. I have been far more successful in this program than I ever thought I would be. I am accomplishing everything I ever wanted to academically. And I am single.

When I say I am living my dream, I mean it. There used to be a little tug on my heart when I said that, like I knew I wasn't being entirely truthful because my dream always included having a family. I'm not saying I've sworn off men entirely or that I am going to go join a convent, but I am finally comfortable in my own skin, by myself. We all hear (and probably spout) the whole feminist women-don't-need-men-to-complete-them line, which is true. It also makes females who want a man feel like crap, like they aren't strong enough to stand on their own, or least, it made me feel that way. I mean, yeah, I don't need a man to complete me, but that doesn't mean I didn't *want* a man anyways. Women live in this double bind of being told they don't need a man to complete them yet when they do find someone, that person makes them "whole." In other words, being a female isn't easy. In case anyone was wondering.

What I am really trying to say is that whether I am complete or incomplete, whole or partial, I am content. I am single, and I am okay. I still find certain guys attractive, and every now and again I feel lonely, but all-in-all, I am content. I am satisfied with my life. I am living my dream, which at this moment does not include a male co-star. That might change. Then again, it might not. But regardless, I am the star, the leading lady. There are plenty of supporting characters, but no one should upstage me in my own dream.

So yes, I am five years single. But I am never alone.

Nightmares (And Living the Dream)

I have been plagued by nightmares this summer. Recurrent ones, like it's the first day of Greek class and I forgot to prepare the lecture (with various variations...my favorite one was when Anya from Buffy was my co-instructor and we both forgot to prepare and then spent the entire class arguing over how to co-teach). Research-related ones, like some man tries to rape me, but I escape (the joys of domestic violence being central to my dissertation). Conversation-related ones, like my brother was smoking pot and ate all my stuff out of the fridge (although, on the off chance that my brother actually reads my blog, I should clarify that it was a conversation with a friend about her former pothead days that led to that dream, not my brother). There was even a pregnancy, giving birth one, which I'm sure all those dream-interpreters out there would tell me is related to writing my comps proposal, but it definitely was a nightmare, not some joyous occasion!

But all of those nightmares, and all the ones that I am sure will continue to haunt me, end when my alarm clock goes off. And when it comes to that Greek one, I can make sure it doesn't come to pass (although, admittedly, I still haven't prepared for the first class!). But, the point is, I get to wake up. How many people never get to wake up from their nightmares? How many families in Gaza are trapped in a living hell, unable to escape, dreaming every night and every waking moment that the IDF will injure or kill them or their loved ones? How many Israelis never feel safe in their home, constantly afraid that Hamas might finally master the technology to actually kill them with their missiles? How many wives, partners and girlfriends live in fear of their husbands, partners and boyfriends, that their raised voice will lead to a raised fist, that the next blow might strike their child instead of them? How many parents find themselves living the nightmare of losing their child, having to bury them, due to disease, to senseless violence, to preventable overdoses, to unforeseen accidents? How many people find their reality to be their worst nightmare?

So as annoying, and at times frightening, as my nightmares can be (or, in regard to the pot-related one, amusing after-the-fact), they are just dreams, bad dreams, but dreams nonetheless. I wake up in the morning and go about my day. They are not my reality. My reality, in fact, is just the opposite: I am living my dream. Of course, my dream has shifted over time, but this, right here, right now, is what I want, it's what I have been working so hard to achieve. And while some parts are not quite as I expected, I have to say, overall, it is far better than I ever imagined.

Here I am, in California, where I never wanted to be but where I nonetheless need to be. Five years single and loving it, which I never would have thought was possible, even content with the possibility that this single thing might be permanent. Getting ready to start my third year of the PhD program, getting ready to teach my first classes all by myself, getting ready to propose my comprehensive exams. Getting ready. After 10 years of higher education, 10 years of studying the Bible academically, it's all being put to the test. Being tested literally in the form of exams, but more importantly, being tested in my ability to teach. This is what I have been training for, what I have been waiting for -- teaching students, sharing my passions and (hopefully!) igniting theirs. I wake up each morning, shake off the nightmares, and then get to it. I get to spend each and every day doing what I love, reading and researching. And because I ended up here, where I didn't want to be, I've been learning about things I never wanted to learn about, realizing the importance of things that never mattered before. Which means I'm incorporating class sessions like "Queering the Psalms," when I, in fact, don't know how to queer anything. But I'm gonna learn, because it is how so many people encounter and relate to the biblical text -- and that is what is truly important, understanding how people engage the text and being able to meet them there. Unless they're crazy fundamentalist. In which case, don't even bother trying. (Said as a true former crazy fundie.)

Failing at Life: Or, How I realized I am more than my grades

School is my life. That, I am sure, comes as no surprise to anyone who knows me. And I have written before, over and over again, about the costs of academia.  About how no one makes it to where I am without sacrificing their social life, their health, hell, even their sanity.  It is, of course, a luxury to have the time, money and brains to do a PhD program.  But, as with most things in life, the good comes with the bad. (And, just as importantly, the bad comes with the good)

I have said multiple times that I am so glad I am single in the midst of my studies. I really seriously don't know how anyone does this with a spouse, with a family, with a significant other, even a pet! Half the time I feel like I'm a success if I am fully dressed, in clean(ish) clothes, and manage to eat three out of the five food groups in a given week.  Forget about make-up, regularly scheduled haircuts, housework or catching the latest blockbuster.  I buy index cards, pens and highlighters in bulk, and the precarious stacks of library books have spilled out of my dorm room into our living room.

And the total mess that I am, well, I love it. I get so excited just thinking about my research, just thinking about teaching next year. It's what makes me feel alive, why I get out of bed in the morning. It is what fills me up and makes me whole.

Then I have a day like today, where I get some pretty harsh feedback from a professor and I just literally cry for a good hour and a half.  The kind of thing that makes a person just wanna drop out and run away.  And in the midst of all the tears and tissues, the logical practical side of me knows that the professor is really just trying to push me to be the best student, scholar, teacher I can be, but that doesn't stop me from being overly emotional and, yes, overly dramatic.  I mean, my studies are my heart and soul. Criticize my academic performance and you basically criticize my very essence.

So after I cried all of the moisture out of my body (which is really not much of an exaggeration), I decided to step back and get a little perspective.  By which I mean I took an evening off from studying to watch TV, draw and snuggle with my roommate's pups.  And so I was sitting here, watching Buffy (because really, nothing helps work through academic frustration like watching a bunch of vampires getting dusted) and of course Buffy, despite being all chosen and alone in the fight against evil still has all this crazy boy drama.  I've been watching the final season, and I have to admit, I am a total sucker for the whole Buffy-Spike relationship.  Not because she makes him a better person but because he in his own way makes her a better person too.  Anyways, I'm watching and there is this scene where they're not together anymore but Buffy asks Spike to stay with her and just hold her as she sleeps. Later Spike tells her it was the best night of his 100+ existence. And yeah, the whole thing is a bit cheesy, but watching it made my heart ache.  Because while I'm not some fancy vampire slayer, I am, in my own way, alone.  I am so focused on my studies that I really don't have room for much else in my life.  I love my studies, and I am passionate about my research, but at the end of the day, I can curl up with a book but it's not like that book is really all that snuggly.

I am a strong, independent post-modern woman. I don't need a guy in my life to complete me. I'm quite whole all on my own, thank-you-very-much.  It's not that there is anything missing from my life by being single, but in that moment, I realized that there needs to be something more than just my studies. Because, let's face it, negative feedback from a professor shouldn't eat at the core of my very being.  Maybe today was just a bad day and I was just overly emotional (because, hey, I'm a girl and we have a tendency to do that) and I overreacted. Maybe. But I need to not be defined by a bad grade or even a professor I just can't seem to please. I need there to be more to me than just school.

And that's why I am so grateful to live in this crazy, over-the-top, radical, loving community. I'm the momma hen, and sometimes my baby chicks resent me and don't want to listen, but when push comes to shove, we're all there for each other -- holding each other up, dragging each other along, offering one another hugs and love and sometimes a much needed kick in the behind. We're family in our own crazy messed up way.  No matter how many lessons I learn in the classroom, I've learned so many more from these people -- lessons on love and acceptance, lessons on faith and belief, lessons on grace and forgiveness, lessons on life and on living.

School may be my life.  School may be my calling.  But my community is my ruah, my life-breath and divine spirit, infusing me with love.

"And the Spirit May Carry You I Don't Know Where": On the Lenten Journey

I have never been big on Lenten practices.  For one thing, I grew up in a tradition that didn't really do the Lent thing -- I don't think my church even had an Ash Wednesday service, not even sure we had a Good Friday service.  My family definitely didn't attend those sort of services.  In high school, I adopted Lenten practices as a means to hide and further my eating disorder.  Last year, I was challenged to give up being so self-critical, which was an interesting experiment (turns out, when I am gentle with myself, I am mean to others instead, even if only in my thoughts).

This year, I am doing something different, something deliberate, something explicitly spiritual.  It centers on art:  everyday, I will incorporate art in some form of art into my day, either through journaling or drawing or, what is the main form, making cards for other people, as the Spirit leads.  It is fun, meaningful and life-affirming, for me and for others.  I make cards to encourage or to thank or to pray, and then tape the card on the person's door or drop in campus mail or find other creative means to get the card to the person (sometimes enlisting others to help).  But it then becomes an unexpected, pleasant surprise that brings a little cheer in their day, and many have expressed their appreciation to me, more than one saying it was just what they needed at that moment.

Of course, it makes me feel good to be appreciated and for people to view me as a thoughtful, caring individual.  It's very validating of me and my self-worth.  But I am also realizing, that there is something else going on here, something much bigger than me.  I am being very deliberate, making cards for those whom the Spirit puts on my heart -- not just my friends or people I think need it.  In some ways, I am going out on faith.  One of the first cards I made, I almost threw away because I was afraid it would offend the person or would seem so off the wall that the person wouldn't know what to make of it.  But I decided to trust God that this was coming from the Spirit and was indeed something that the person needed.  And of course, the person was appreciative and touched by the card.  So I am learning how to trust that it the Spirit who is speaking to me, and realizing that it is in fact the Spirit who is speaking through me as I make these cards. 

It is a very humbling experience, to be a conduit of the Spirit.  It is a lot of responsibility, really, learning not only to trust the Spirit, as crazy as she may be sometimes, but also learning to discern the Spirit's voice from my own inclinations.  Not all of the recipients of my cards have even acknowledged they received them, not that I need affirmation that I am doing something wonderful, but it does make me question at times whether it was really the Spirit who was prompting me.  I am learning from the Spirit, being shaped by the Spirit, being carried God only knows where by the Spirit (not that I'm taking a course on the Elijah-Elisha narratives or anything) -- I am learning to embrace and develop my spiritual gift of encouragement.  And that's what it is, a gift of the Spirit.  I am the momma hen and the personal cheerleader to those around me, not because I am such a lovely person or because I want people to like me (although obviously, it is nice when people like me and think I am lovely), but because it is who I am -- I am someone who sees needs and meets them, I am someone who understands that we gain more from building each other up than from tearing each other down (despite the competitive nature of American capitalism), I am someone who is fed spiritually by feeding others spiritually.  And I am realizing that since this is my spiritual gift, that not everyone has this same gift -- not that those with other gifts are allowed to be cruel to others -- but their gifts are elsewhere and therefore I shouldn't expect them to provide the same sort of encouragement that is so natural to me.  It doesn't make me better than them -- it makes me different.

I love making these cards, bringing a little of sunshine in people's lives, reminding them they are a beloved child of God -- and a beloved child of the community.  And I hope those who I am not moved to make cards for know that they too are beloved children of God and of our community.  I love being the momma hen-cheerleader, it is who I am.  I love this community, my MDivs (and other master students), who both humor my momma hen ways and appreciate how I look out for and encourage them.  In some ways, my life is very different than what I thought it would be at this point -- I mean, I thought I'd be married with a couple of kids, barefoot in the kitchen -- but in other ways, I'm living my dream and then some.  I am so incredibly happy and fulfilled in my single life, focusing on my studies and being family to those around me.  The Spirit is such a funny thing.  She's carried me so far from home and from all that I held dear, but she's created for me a new home and a new family. And God only knows where she will carry me next!

On Being Kickass: Or, Why I Decided To Embrace What I Deserve

I am a straight, white, upper-middle class American woman. I reek of privilege. But it is a privilege that I was relatively unaware of growing up.  I come from a small Midwestern town where everyone is white and of generally the same socio-economical status.  Sure, I remember when my family was lower middle class and middle middle class, the days when we didn't buy it if it wasn't on clearance and only if we really needed it, but I was never really conscious of any of difference between me and my classmates, even if they were from a slightly higher or slightly lower economic situation.  Perhaps I was just naive or completely out of touch with reality.  I was, most definitely, an arrogant ass who knew she was smarter than everyone.  That part definitely didn't win me many friends.

I was exposed to more diversity in college, but I still didn't really grasp my privilege.  I struggled in the beginning, feeling like an impostor.  I distinctly remember calling home and telling my parents I was the dumb kid in the honors dorm.  But that only lasted a semester or so, and then I started receiving attention from my professors, who encouraged me to further my studies and go into academia.  I was still pretty arrogant, still thought I was something special -- and that was because of me, not because of some luck of the draw.

I was humbled a bit in seminary.  Part of that whole studying to be more like Jesus thing.  I started to understand that I am privileged but still didn't really get it.  I was still the smart one, still special.  

Then I moved to Berkeley, to PSR.  I have written in the past about the challenges I had when I first moved here, and not just the struggles I have had no longer being the best of the best.  It was such a culture shock -- like Dorothy, I was definitely aware that I wasn't in Ohio anymore.  This straight white girl was rather out of place, that's for sure.  I was quickly educated not only on queer culture but also on privilege and particularly the white privilege which is innately mine as a result of my birth and through no actions of my own.  This concept of white privilege is something with which I have really struggled over the past year, year and a half.  I have been made very much aware of what this privilege really entails, and on top of the "normal" white privilege, I am also gifted and privileged with parents who truly support my academic endeavors, not only emotionally but also financially.  The financial support has decreased over the years, sure, but I have definitely been able to focus more exclusively on my studies and not have to worry so much about funding my education.  As a "professional student" that is a huge privilege!

This struggling all came to a head in December.  In a previous post, I spoke of this amazing opportunity with which I had been presented but how it would impact a different opportunity that I was hoping to have.  At that point, I wasn't able to announce what was going on, but many of you now know what happened:  Out of nowhere, I was approached and asked if I would be interested in teaching the introductory Greek sequence next school year (2014-2015).  Obviously, it was a huge honor to be considered and when they decided they wanted to move forward with me as the instructor, I was ecstatic.  The only problem was that I had already applied for a teaching fellowship to teach Psalms and Spirituality in Fall 2014.  After talking it over with my parents and my mentors, I decided to accept the position teaching Greek and just assumed my application for the Psalms course was essentially tossed out.  Imagine my surprise, then, when a few weeks later I received an email stating that I had been awarded the teaching fellowship for the Psalms course. 

I was thrilled, over the moon, feeling beyond validated for all my hard work.  And then I was brought back to earth when it was suggested that it was not fair for me to accept both positions, that more students should be given these opportunities.  I was once again smacked upside the head with my white privilege.  Would I have received these offers if I was a minority?  Would I have been as equally qualified for them if I was a minority? (by which I mean, would I have had the same access to education, etc. that I have had as a white person?)  I ultimately decided to accept both positions.  It was probably the hardest decision of my life.  So many tears, so many conversations, so many pro and con lists.  I considered not only what was best for me but also what was best for the GTU.  I talked to my mentor, who was my sponsor for my application (and who would likely have to teach the course if I did not).  I talked to my mentor from seminary, who told me I should never feel guilty about achievements with which the GTU recognizes me.  I talked to my parents, especially my dad, who is a manager and has a business mind.  My dad was adamant that I wasn't given these teaching positions but rather that I earned these positions, and he likened it to when one of his employees receives a raise.  He doesn't hand out raises because that is what he is supposed to do but because the employee deserves it.  Thus, my dad argued that I wasn't robbing another student of an opportunity to which they were entitled but rather that I earned these positions through all my hard work.  Those from the PSR community with whom I talked over my options and what I should do were likewise very supportive.  I was told by more than one PSR student, "You are blessed to be a blessing." "God is giving you a double blessing so you can bless others."  A (female) student asked if the fact that I was offered both positions would have even been an issue if I was male instead of female.  And I have been told in the past (by a straight white man with more privilege than me) that I have been essentially coddled because I am a woman and therefore a minority in scholarship -- in other words, that I have been given unfair advantages because of my gender, beyond my white privilege.

So in the end, I decided to embrace what I deserve, to acknowledge that I am kickass.  Perhaps I have been unduly blessed, but that does not mean that I need to reject it but rather that I should share it.  Yes, I reek of privilege, and yes, I need to be aware of it and try to disseminate it, but I also shouldn't let that privilege get in the way of me embracing what I have earned.  Yes, I have had help along the way, but I have also worked hard and I am qualified for these teaching positions.  Yes, I reek of privilege, but I am not resting on its laurels.  I did nothing to deserve my privilege, but I also did nothing to receive it.  And if I thought my decision to accept the teaching fellowship was denying someone else who was equally qualified from receiving a fellowship, then I probably would have made a different decision.  Being a strong, white (straight) female in academia isn't easy.  It automatically makes me a bitch, an arrogant ass who should be put in her place. 

I am kickass. I deserve to be treated with respect.  I deserve to be taken seriously.  I deserve to receive the same love, kindness and compassion I show others.  I am kickass, not because of my white privilege, but because I am a smart, thoughtful, hard-working, loving person in spite of it.  

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.”