"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.