This afternoon I spent some time studying, something I haven't had a lot of time to do lately. It felt good to put that particular harness back on, even for a little while. It will be good to get EfM started again this fall because that will give me a focus and impetus to spend more time doing something I dearly love doing -- studying. Too bad I didn't find studying in college as much fun and as interesting but better late than never, I guess.
This year there's a very challenging common lesson on "Mapping Your Theology." It asks the student to examine various categories and to think about their beliefs, how they came by those beliefs, what the beliefs mean and a whole bunch of other stuff. It can be fairly daunting but it's also enlightening. I'm glad I've got my previous work to fall back on but also glad I have more experience under my belt as I tackle it yet again. It won't be on the class radar screen for months but I believe in getting things done early (except for housework, that is).
At church we recite the creeds, the "I believe" and "we believe" statements of faith that form a framework of our faith. It's kind of easy to use the words as a guide without really stopping to think what it is exactly we mean when we say "I believe in God," etc.
"I believe" is the result of a lot of factors: what my culture thinks and how it presents me with options, my tradition (yes, the "faith once delivered to the saints", whatever that may mean in a given situation or faith community) gives me what our common history has contributed to what I believe and how; what my experience and reason tells me about what I think, perceive, understand; and where I stand in relation to all these and how it all comes together in how I think and practice my faith.
This isn't one of the easier exercises. If anything, it's an experience in frustration and head-banging, sort of like going through labor pains. It hurts like hell at times, there are periods of relative calm in between but at the end there's a feeling of accomplishment, satisfaction and, yes, insight. Working through this is like the difference between babysitting your brother or neighbor's kids and actually going through a birth process and having your own child put in your arms for the first time. And with the "I believe" exercises, the process repeats with each topic -- God, Jesus, the Spirit, the Trinity, the Church, Evil, etc.,
I can recite both the Apostles' and Nicene Creeds by memory but now I'm learning what it is precisely I'm "giving my assent to", as "believe" is often translated. For every head-whack there's also a corresponding "Aha!" Oy, what a journey! But you know, I can't think of a better journey to be on right now.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
When Church Hurts
There is a lot of talk this week about author Anne Rice quitting Christianity because of all its hostility, backward-looking and anti- any number of stances on issues she believes are not only important but integral to the true practice of Christianity. All the disputes, hypocrisy, the stubbornly clinging to the status quo which might have been appropriate in previous centuries (or even milennia), the negativity towards those who do not practice the kind of Christianity that restricts women, GLBT folk, Democrats, secular humanists, those who believe in science, etc., have been the wedges between her and the church although not, as she says, between her and God and Christ. In short, the Church has become a club of like-minded folk rather than a place where one is met where one is rather than the place where someone else thinks they should be.
It's hard not to be disillusioned with the church sometimes. For every story about individual churches, parishes and congregations reaching out to the communities in which they live, move and have their being, there's usually one about how Christianity is being lost to non-believers who don't accept "the faith once delivered," who believe in science instead of just scripture and who are so certain who and what it is that God hates --- which usually looks very much like the people that group find so distasteful. God can be so convenient sometimes.
But churches can hurt in other ways. I remember my adoptive mother and the Babdist (as we pronounce it) church back home. She'd been a member of the women's Sunday school class, one of the flower ladies and took her turn chopping up the white bread cubes and filling the little glasses with grape juice for communion once a month, not to mention making countless angel appurtenances like robes, wings and halos for the Christmas pageant and countless cookies and gallons of fruit punch for the Vacation Bible School students every summer. That is, until she got so ill she could no longer get to church much less contribute in her usual and accustomed manner. I went into her room one afternoon and found her crying, something I seldom if ever saw her do no matter how much her pain and frustration with her situation caused her. When I asked what was wrong, she told me several women from her Sunday School class had come to visit and had asked if she minded having her name removed from the rolls because her continued absence was bringing down the average attendance! Even my middle school-aged self could hear, see and understand that numbers were more important to the group than the cord that bound a sick and homebound (or, increasingly hospital-bound) soul to her faith community. Sure, the preacher visited. After all, he'd been an unofficial member of our family for longer than I'd been around but the hurt never left. I saw those same women every Sunday and they were present at her funeral a few years later. I knew them to be decent, kindly women but I also saw the hypocrisy and hurtfulness they caused.
My adoptive father too was very active in the church -- as a deacon (the elected kind, elected to a specific period of service), church Treasurer, taking his turn at maintenance and cleanup, etc., etc., etc. I don't remember so much the specific incident that caused him to leave the church but it hurt that he didn't feel he could even come to hear me sing solos or participate in the Christmas play. What hurt even more was that from my place in the choir I could look out the window and see the front of my house and knew that Daddy was in the kitchen reading the paper while I sang about God's grace and glory. He reconciled with the church at some point but for years he spent Sundays doing other things because he just couldn't face the church that had hurt him and hurt his beloved wife.
I too have left a church I loved and which i still believe in. Oh, not the Church but rather the congregation in which I no longer feel a part. I've felt the hurt that a church can lay on someone and I've seen it happen to others as well. Church has often become more about money contributed and numbers rather than the virtues expounded from the pulpit and to solemn nods in the pews but laid aside in the sacristy and the narthex. Looking at the news of ecclesiastical misbehavior, abuse of and even encouragement of abuse of children, women, GLBT folk, even other Christians, it's not hard to lose heart and lose faith in the institutional church at the parish level as well as the Communion and Papal levels.
I have no doubt of my faith in God, in Christ, in the Holy Spirit, but most days I struggle with doubt when it comes to the Church. I can't divorce the Church as Anne Rice has. All I can do is pray that this is just a temporary separation and that one day I can have faith and trust in it again. I'll keep struggling until then.
It's hard not to be disillusioned with the church sometimes. For every story about individual churches, parishes and congregations reaching out to the communities in which they live, move and have their being, there's usually one about how Christianity is being lost to non-believers who don't accept "the faith once delivered," who believe in science instead of just scripture and who are so certain who and what it is that God hates --- which usually looks very much like the people that group find so distasteful. God can be so convenient sometimes.
But churches can hurt in other ways. I remember my adoptive mother and the Babdist (as we pronounce it) church back home. She'd been a member of the women's Sunday school class, one of the flower ladies and took her turn chopping up the white bread cubes and filling the little glasses with grape juice for communion once a month, not to mention making countless angel appurtenances like robes, wings and halos for the Christmas pageant and countless cookies and gallons of fruit punch for the Vacation Bible School students every summer. That is, until she got so ill she could no longer get to church much less contribute in her usual and accustomed manner. I went into her room one afternoon and found her crying, something I seldom if ever saw her do no matter how much her pain and frustration with her situation caused her. When I asked what was wrong, she told me several women from her Sunday School class had come to visit and had asked if she minded having her name removed from the rolls because her continued absence was bringing down the average attendance! Even my middle school-aged self could hear, see and understand that numbers were more important to the group than the cord that bound a sick and homebound (or, increasingly hospital-bound) soul to her faith community. Sure, the preacher visited. After all, he'd been an unofficial member of our family for longer than I'd been around but the hurt never left. I saw those same women every Sunday and they were present at her funeral a few years later. I knew them to be decent, kindly women but I also saw the hypocrisy and hurtfulness they caused.
My adoptive father too was very active in the church -- as a deacon (the elected kind, elected to a specific period of service), church Treasurer, taking his turn at maintenance and cleanup, etc., etc., etc. I don't remember so much the specific incident that caused him to leave the church but it hurt that he didn't feel he could even come to hear me sing solos or participate in the Christmas play. What hurt even more was that from my place in the choir I could look out the window and see the front of my house and knew that Daddy was in the kitchen reading the paper while I sang about God's grace and glory. He reconciled with the church at some point but for years he spent Sundays doing other things because he just couldn't face the church that had hurt him and hurt his beloved wife.
I too have left a church I loved and which i still believe in. Oh, not the Church but rather the congregation in which I no longer feel a part. I've felt the hurt that a church can lay on someone and I've seen it happen to others as well. Church has often become more about money contributed and numbers rather than the virtues expounded from the pulpit and to solemn nods in the pews but laid aside in the sacristy and the narthex. Looking at the news of ecclesiastical misbehavior, abuse of and even encouragement of abuse of children, women, GLBT folk, even other Christians, it's not hard to lose heart and lose faith in the institutional church at the parish level as well as the Communion and Papal levels.
I have no doubt of my faith in God, in Christ, in the Holy Spirit, but most days I struggle with doubt when it comes to the Church. I can't divorce the Church as Anne Rice has. All I can do is pray that this is just a temporary separation and that one day I can have faith and trust in it again. I'll keep struggling until then.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
A New Word
I have coined a new word. I think it's rather lovely.
Enstiflement.
Enstiflement is being in a place where original thought or questioning is unwelcome. It is also the process of blanketing people with enough b***s*** that they are incapable of original thought, independent action or, in the most severe cases, even caring to do either.
The enstifle-r feels entitled to do so; they believe it is it is their right as employers, heads of families or groups, clergy or government officials. Their reasoning is that they are doing what is best for the family, group, church, country, constituents, students, employees, even homeless people and immigrants.
The enstifle-e is the person trying to get by, to make a living, to take care of the family, follow the rules, do the best job possible and trust in God and those entrusted with overseeing the health, safety and well-being of others physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually. The enstifle-e may see something wrong and try to fix it but is met with rebuffs and stone walls.
now the big question to consider -- in what ways and places am I an enstifle-r and in which ones an enstifle-e? What do I need to change? How do I change it? What are the positives and negatives of such changes for me, for those around me, for the world?
Something to think about this hot, muggy morning.
Enstiflement.
Enstiflement is being in a place where original thought or questioning is unwelcome. It is also the process of blanketing people with enough b***s*** that they are incapable of original thought, independent action or, in the most severe cases, even caring to do either.
The enstifle-r feels entitled to do so; they believe it is it is their right as employers, heads of families or groups, clergy or government officials. Their reasoning is that they are doing what is best for the family, group, church, country, constituents, students, employees, even homeless people and immigrants.
The enstifle-e is the person trying to get by, to make a living, to take care of the family, follow the rules, do the best job possible and trust in God and those entrusted with overseeing the health, safety and well-being of others physically, emotionally, mentally and spiritually. The enstifle-e may see something wrong and try to fix it but is met with rebuffs and stone walls.
now the big question to consider -- in what ways and places am I an enstifle-r and in which ones an enstifle-e? What do I need to change? How do I change it? What are the positives and negatives of such changes for me, for those around me, for the world?
Something to think about this hot, muggy morning.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Hmmmm....
h/t to Mark Harris. now to find out who this person is and what he/she writes like (I confess, I never heard Cory Doctorow nor read any of his/her books.) At least it didn't say Elizabeth Schussler-Fiorenza or Augustine of Hippo!
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Thoughts on the Death Penalty, DNA and Faith
I was sorting through papers the other day, looking for something or other when I ran into two pieces of paper with an essay on it. there was no title, no date. I looked through my computer files but couldn't find it. I have also been unable to locate the source of the report although I can find references to the subject.
If it's yours, please claim it. I'm posting it becuase it feels like something I'd want to put here on my blog. It's a good essay. I hope I wrote it.
There has been report in the recent past that the rate of utilization of the death penalty by various states has reduced over the past few years because there as a decrease in the number of violent crime. I can’t believe that is so; I would hope that the use of the death penalty was due to people realizing that having the state take a human life is a form of revenge and removes the responsibility from us for taking that life, even though what that person might have done might be heinous, depraved and almost impossible to contemplate much less understand.
The EfM lesson this week dealt with science, particularly physics, and what the changes in many of the sciences have meant to humanity over the past 100-150 years. The Human Genome Project has worked to classify the genes that make up our DNA with the ultimate goal being to find diseases that are genetically related and by which gene manipulation could cure. It is a far cry from that of our grandparents and their parents who frequently lost children to diseases and genetic abnormalities and whose only comfort were the words, “Well, I must be God’s will.” Perhaps God’s will has a place in it but I don’t know that that sentiment is much comfort go grieving parents or even really the whole truth.
With the discovery that DNA not only exists but can be used as an identifier not just of disease but of the existence of a specific individual has been phenomenal. I believe that one of the main reasons that the death penalty referred to above has been less enacted of late is that DNA has proven that some on Death Row are innocent of the crimes for which the inmate was given the death penalty. Some will say that it is better to execute one innocent person rather than abolish the death penalty and allow murderers, rapists and the like to live out their lives and possibly achieve parole somewhere down the road. It is better to kill one innocent person than to let a guilty one escape.
Oddly, most of the states where the death penalty is not only given but actually carried out with some regularity (more than, say, once a year) are states known for their very conservative, Republican, Protestant, Evangelical majorities. States like Texas, Florida, Virginia, Georgia and South Carolina accounted for the overwhelming majority of executions in 2008.
Science has even played a part in how the death penalty is carried out. Firing squads and hanging used to be major means of executing convicted and sentenced felons until science and medicine revealed the effects of gunshot and botched hangings on individuals and proved them to be “cruel and inhuman punishment.” The gas chamber was a later attempt to execute the convicted but in a more humane method as was the still-later electric chair. Both have proven to be less than 100% humane and sometimes less than effective. The current favored method, lethal injection, is held up as humane and relatively painless, much as it would be for your aged dog or sick cat, but yet I am sure that not all people witnessing such an execution of a human being would find it “just like watching them go to sleep” with no emotional reaction beyond “ok, that’s done.”
Science has given us a number of new ways of seeking and finding truth and alleviating pain and death just as it has created a false sense of human control of life and new ways of causing both pain and death when used as weapons of war or terrorism. It is no wonder that sin in the latter years of the 19th and throughout the 20th century Christians pondered whether all this scientific mumbo jumbo was nothing but a veiled attempt to discredit and remove Christianity from the mixture of science, civic duty and public welfare. This is still the belief in some areas and denominations, and the cries of especially the evangelical and conservative Christians grow louder and more strident as they attempt to defend a world view that has changed within their lifetimes and which all their beliefs into question at times. In a world where science and religion cannot coexist and have both be seen as valid, viable and even complimentary theses and antitheses which are working to create new syntheses, the question remains one of how much is enough and how much is too much? If a butterfly’s wing flaps in Brazil, will the Arctic icecap melt as a result? If Christians accept the theories and discoveries of science and medicine, does that mean that they cannot hold that the Bible and the faith are true and even enriched by deeper understanding, deeper than the superficial “What it says is what it means and that’s all there is to it.”
Science has changed the world, of that there is no doubt. Science has changed religion. We can’t point vaguely to the sky and say that heaven is “Up there somewhere” because pictures produced by science, via the Hubbell Telescope and a number of adventurous little satellites have shown us a universe infinitely large and complex – and beautiful. We can’t say that Adam was created by God out of mud and breath, not literally anyway, although many can and do. We can’t even say with 100% surety that an accused person is guilty of a crime simply because it seems most reasonable to see and prosecute that person based on circumstantial evidence and gut feelings. DNA and the myriad disciplines involved in forensic science have created new levels of test which can confirm guilt – or exonerate the accused.
All this is to say that the world is a place where the perceptions have been shifted because of the advances of science. Religion has had to make a decision: does it accept the findings of science and seek to form a new synthesis from its previous view in light of the new theses or does it reject science and attempt to remain static in a sort of time warp where things were simpler and certain? Different denominations and individuals have pondered this and each has responded as it felt necessary, some rejected much of the science outright and some embraced it wholeheartedly. Ultimately, however, each person must make that decision, as with the death penalty, when they contemplate what it means to be a Christian in the 21st century and how that Christianity can be lived authentically, faithfully, honestly and yet stay true to the gospel imperatives as that person understands them.
There is black, there is white and, for most, there are shades of gray. How all people, including Christians, react to those shades of gray, be they scientific, moral, religious or philosophical, are a test of where their faith and belief lies and how it is practiced.
If it's yours, please claim it. I'm posting it becuase it feels like something I'd want to put here on my blog. It's a good essay. I hope I wrote it.
There has been report in the recent past that the rate of utilization of the death penalty by various states has reduced over the past few years because there as a decrease in the number of violent crime. I can’t believe that is so; I would hope that the use of the death penalty was due to people realizing that having the state take a human life is a form of revenge and removes the responsibility from us for taking that life, even though what that person might have done might be heinous, depraved and almost impossible to contemplate much less understand.
The EfM lesson this week dealt with science, particularly physics, and what the changes in many of the sciences have meant to humanity over the past 100-150 years. The Human Genome Project has worked to classify the genes that make up our DNA with the ultimate goal being to find diseases that are genetically related and by which gene manipulation could cure. It is a far cry from that of our grandparents and their parents who frequently lost children to diseases and genetic abnormalities and whose only comfort were the words, “Well, I must be God’s will.” Perhaps God’s will has a place in it but I don’t know that that sentiment is much comfort go grieving parents or even really the whole truth.
With the discovery that DNA not only exists but can be used as an identifier not just of disease but of the existence of a specific individual has been phenomenal. I believe that one of the main reasons that the death penalty referred to above has been less enacted of late is that DNA has proven that some on Death Row are innocent of the crimes for which the inmate was given the death penalty. Some will say that it is better to execute one innocent person rather than abolish the death penalty and allow murderers, rapists and the like to live out their lives and possibly achieve parole somewhere down the road. It is better to kill one innocent person than to let a guilty one escape.
Oddly, most of the states where the death penalty is not only given but actually carried out with some regularity (more than, say, once a year) are states known for their very conservative, Republican, Protestant, Evangelical majorities. States like Texas, Florida, Virginia, Georgia and South Carolina accounted for the overwhelming majority of executions in 2008.
Science has even played a part in how the death penalty is carried out. Firing squads and hanging used to be major means of executing convicted and sentenced felons until science and medicine revealed the effects of gunshot and botched hangings on individuals and proved them to be “cruel and inhuman punishment.” The gas chamber was a later attempt to execute the convicted but in a more humane method as was the still-later electric chair. Both have proven to be less than 100% humane and sometimes less than effective. The current favored method, lethal injection, is held up as humane and relatively painless, much as it would be for your aged dog or sick cat, but yet I am sure that not all people witnessing such an execution of a human being would find it “just like watching them go to sleep” with no emotional reaction beyond “ok, that’s done.”
Science has given us a number of new ways of seeking and finding truth and alleviating pain and death just as it has created a false sense of human control of life and new ways of causing both pain and death when used as weapons of war or terrorism. It is no wonder that sin in the latter years of the 19th and throughout the 20th century Christians pondered whether all this scientific mumbo jumbo was nothing but a veiled attempt to discredit and remove Christianity from the mixture of science, civic duty and public welfare. This is still the belief in some areas and denominations, and the cries of especially the evangelical and conservative Christians grow louder and more strident as they attempt to defend a world view that has changed within their lifetimes and which all their beliefs into question at times. In a world where science and religion cannot coexist and have both be seen as valid, viable and even complimentary theses and antitheses which are working to create new syntheses, the question remains one of how much is enough and how much is too much? If a butterfly’s wing flaps in Brazil, will the Arctic icecap melt as a result? If Christians accept the theories and discoveries of science and medicine, does that mean that they cannot hold that the Bible and the faith are true and even enriched by deeper understanding, deeper than the superficial “What it says is what it means and that’s all there is to it.”
Science has changed the world, of that there is no doubt. Science has changed religion. We can’t point vaguely to the sky and say that heaven is “Up there somewhere” because pictures produced by science, via the Hubbell Telescope and a number of adventurous little satellites have shown us a universe infinitely large and complex – and beautiful. We can’t say that Adam was created by God out of mud and breath, not literally anyway, although many can and do. We can’t even say with 100% surety that an accused person is guilty of a crime simply because it seems most reasonable to see and prosecute that person based on circumstantial evidence and gut feelings. DNA and the myriad disciplines involved in forensic science have created new levels of test which can confirm guilt – or exonerate the accused.
All this is to say that the world is a place where the perceptions have been shifted because of the advances of science. Religion has had to make a decision: does it accept the findings of science and seek to form a new synthesis from its previous view in light of the new theses or does it reject science and attempt to remain static in a sort of time warp where things were simpler and certain? Different denominations and individuals have pondered this and each has responded as it felt necessary, some rejected much of the science outright and some embraced it wholeheartedly. Ultimately, however, each person must make that decision, as with the death penalty, when they contemplate what it means to be a Christian in the 21st century and how that Christianity can be lived authentically, faithfully, honestly and yet stay true to the gospel imperatives as that person understands them.
There is black, there is white and, for most, there are shades of gray. How all people, including Christians, react to those shades of gray, be they scientific, moral, religious or philosophical, are a test of where their faith and belief lies and how it is practiced.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
Unspoken Stories
I don't know who it was who pointed out Marina Abramovic's performance piece at the Museum of Modern Art, but I certainly have to thank them for the link. I keep revisiting the website and see something different each time. Abramovic invited people to come and sit with her, one-on-one, for as long as they chose to stay. And people took her up on it, lots of people. Some stayed a few seconds, some stayed for hours, but all were recorded in a moment of sharing with the artist. And all without saying a word.
Each person had a story, each had a life that they brought to the (nonexistent in this installation) table. Each face was captured and it is left to us to read the stories that are being shared. Some had tears, some smiles, one or two almost laughing, some with what looked like agony in their eyes. Some came back several times while most were just there the one time. At least one woman brought her baby cuddled against her chest but almost all were there alone and vulnerable. All sorts and conditions of people: old, young, sophisticate, punk, from myriad races, probably myriad religious faiths (and no faith), serene, agonized, joy-filled to the point of brimming over, tearful past the point of brimming over. I couldn't help but be mesmerized by the faces, the eyes, the stories written there drawing me in and inviting me to be virtually present to them, their tales, their needs, their sharings.
I'd like to have had the opportunity to experience this installation in the real world. I wonder -- could I have borne to spend more than a few seconds looking into the face of someone who wasn't judging me but rather offering a moment -- or an hour-- of silent conversation, quiet acceptance and patient listening? It is so hard for me to meet someone else's eyes; it feels like I am invading their space, however briefly, and, worse yet, they are invading mine. I force myself to do it from time to time, but it's a rare thing for me.
I am fascinated by those who can look into the face and eyes of another with such candor - and even sometimes with such apparent fear. I wonder, of those who asked Jesus for help, how many of them were afraid to meet him eye-to-eye, fearing judgment in those eyes and possibly rejection of them not just as petitioners but as people because of who or what they are or had been. I wonder if Jesus met the eyes of God as he raised his eyes to heaven and prayed. Surely he didn't fear rejection but perhaps asking something that God couldn't or wouldn't do for him, much as the woman with the hemorrhage, Jarius, the man who was lowered through the roof by his friends and countless others must have felt they were risking. It's all about risk, taking a chance, gambling that what we ask for will be received, weighed and then given.
Each person had a story, each had a life that they brought to the (nonexistent in this installation) table. Each face was captured and it is left to us to read the stories that are being shared. Some had tears, some smiles, one or two almost laughing, some with what looked like agony in their eyes. Some came back several times while most were just there the one time. At least one woman brought her baby cuddled against her chest but almost all were there alone and vulnerable. All sorts and conditions of people: old, young, sophisticate, punk, from myriad races, probably myriad religious faiths (and no faith), serene, agonized, joy-filled to the point of brimming over, tearful past the point of brimming over. I couldn't help but be mesmerized by the faces, the eyes, the stories written there drawing me in and inviting me to be virtually present to them, their tales, their needs, their sharings.
I'd like to have had the opportunity to experience this installation in the real world. I wonder -- could I have borne to spend more than a few seconds looking into the face of someone who wasn't judging me but rather offering a moment -- or an hour-- of silent conversation, quiet acceptance and patient listening? It is so hard for me to meet someone else's eyes; it feels like I am invading their space, however briefly, and, worse yet, they are invading mine. I force myself to do it from time to time, but it's a rare thing for me.
I am fascinated by those who can look into the face and eyes of another with such candor - and even sometimes with such apparent fear. I wonder, of those who asked Jesus for help, how many of them were afraid to meet him eye-to-eye, fearing judgment in those eyes and possibly rejection of them not just as petitioners but as people because of who or what they are or had been. I wonder if Jesus met the eyes of God as he raised his eyes to heaven and prayed. Surely he didn't fear rejection but perhaps asking something that God couldn't or wouldn't do for him, much as the woman with the hemorrhage, Jarius, the man who was lowered through the roof by his friends and countless others must have felt they were risking. It's all about risk, taking a chance, gambling that what we ask for will be received, weighed and then given.
Friday, June 4, 2010
The Art, Science and Theology of Cat Herding
There's a YouTube video that simply has me in stitches even after having seen it a few dozen times. It's about cat herding and it hits me on so many different levels.
"Cat herding" is a metaphor, something that uses an image to convey something else that is much broader in scope. The image of the cowboy is that of a rugged, tough individual, riding for hours at the southbound end of a northbound herd of cattle, eating the dust they kick up, rounding up the strays so the group stays together and much safer than they would be on their own. The dusty clothing, the scars, the wide-brimmed hat and gloves, everything has a purpose and enables the herder to focus more on the herd than on himself. And yes, himself -- the traditional role of cowboy is a male. Women were to stay home, keep the household going, raise the children and wait for the cowboy to come home with money and groceries at the end of the drive.
The art of the cat herder is the ability to take an animal (or group of animals) that are basically independent as well as alternately playful and fierce and coaxing, cajoling or luring the critters in a given direction in a realtively cohesive group without fights or distractions. It takes a whole different set of skills to herd cats rather than cattle. Cattle will be driven; cats must be convinced. Getting them to stay on a trail and not scatter to the four winds is an exercise in patience and at times frustration. In short, it's a lot like life, when you come to think about it.
The science of cat herding is the exercise of psychology -- how do you convince a cat to do something it might not want to do? You could lead it along with a toy on a string that gets pulled along the ground. You could lure it with the scent of catnip (although I've only had one cat out of the 10 or so housecats I've shared my domiciles with over the years who reacted to it). Feeding a herd of cats requires extensive care and planning -- you can't just plop them down in a pasture and let them feed themselves on grass. But put them in the middle of a prairie dog colony and that's something else again. Come to think of it, a lot of the same stimuli that get a cat going -- treats, mild inebriants, curiosity, even an offer to play or be silly at times -- are the same ones that can move me in one direction or another.
Theologically there are a lot of stories in the Bible that very possibly could be said to represent the theological version of cat herding. I'm sure Moses must have thought his bunch of Israelites were at times unruly, wanting to go their own ways, not willing to follow directions and getting themselves into troubles from which they had to be extricated. Did the prophets feel they were possibly herding cats in the sense of being ignored, even when they spoke for the good of the very people who, in essence, turned their backs and cleaned their fur as if to say that there were more important things to be considered? I wonder if Jesus ever felt like he was herding cats when, no matter how clearly he tried to make the lessons, the disciples kept missing the point and wanting to hare off in all the wrong directions. Frankly, the story that cat herding brings to my mind is that of the good shepherd who goes to find the stray, probably the ugliest, nastiest, dirtiest and meanest one of the bunch, and brings it back safely to the safety and shelter of the group and fold.
In EfM the mentors sometimes have to act as cat herders. They can present a thought, an idea, a picture, a text, a video, but after that all bets are usually off. The mentor might have some wish for the conversation to move in a predictable direction but once the topic has been introduced, it can take on a life of its own, often like a herd of cats, going off in all directions. I find that as a mentor I can't be so in love with what I think is a perfect and predictable direction for the conversation to move that I try to force it into a place the cats, er, class members, don't want it to go. They want to follow THIS idea, not THAT one. And it's funny -- some of the greatest insights come from the very unpredictableness I never thought of but somebody else did. I can still love my own conclusions but I find I'm often very much richer from having cats in my class who don't passively follow a baited trail.
In contemplating the cat herders in the video, I come to one simple conclusion: in the cat-tle drive of my life where I am a cat, I need a herder to watch over me and occasionally come rescue me from a tree, a stream or my own wilfullness. I need somebody to put me on the front of the saddle and give me a ride when my paws get sore and who will make sure that I am safe and cared-for.
In the cat herding video of my life, God may wear a cowboy hat and use a lint roller to clean the cat hair off a sling. He may wear leather gloves because I can scratch and gnaw even on hands that are kind and loving. Maybe I will make him sneeze with allergies but he won't give up on me and will love me in spite of myself sometimes. Seeing God that way gives me a sense of hope and a sense of comfort. If God can love a mangy, opinionated, independent-minded cat like me, then what do I have to worry about? God will get me where I need to go, with or without my total cooperation or sometimes even my own cognition. Oh, I will have a choice, but God will use the art, science and theology of cat herding to gently nudge me almost imperceptibly, I hope, in the right direction. After all, God made the cat; there's nothing about a cat that God doesn't know, including how to herd a stubborn cat.
"Cat herding" is a metaphor, something that uses an image to convey something else that is much broader in scope. The image of the cowboy is that of a rugged, tough individual, riding for hours at the southbound end of a northbound herd of cattle, eating the dust they kick up, rounding up the strays so the group stays together and much safer than they would be on their own. The dusty clothing, the scars, the wide-brimmed hat and gloves, everything has a purpose and enables the herder to focus more on the herd than on himself. And yes, himself -- the traditional role of cowboy is a male. Women were to stay home, keep the household going, raise the children and wait for the cowboy to come home with money and groceries at the end of the drive.
The art of the cat herder is the ability to take an animal (or group of animals) that are basically independent as well as alternately playful and fierce and coaxing, cajoling or luring the critters in a given direction in a realtively cohesive group without fights or distractions. It takes a whole different set of skills to herd cats rather than cattle. Cattle will be driven; cats must be convinced. Getting them to stay on a trail and not scatter to the four winds is an exercise in patience and at times frustration. In short, it's a lot like life, when you come to think about it.
The science of cat herding is the exercise of psychology -- how do you convince a cat to do something it might not want to do? You could lead it along with a toy on a string that gets pulled along the ground. You could lure it with the scent of catnip (although I've only had one cat out of the 10 or so housecats I've shared my domiciles with over the years who reacted to it). Feeding a herd of cats requires extensive care and planning -- you can't just plop them down in a pasture and let them feed themselves on grass. But put them in the middle of a prairie dog colony and that's something else again. Come to think of it, a lot of the same stimuli that get a cat going -- treats, mild inebriants, curiosity, even an offer to play or be silly at times -- are the same ones that can move me in one direction or another.
Theologically there are a lot of stories in the Bible that very possibly could be said to represent the theological version of cat herding. I'm sure Moses must have thought his bunch of Israelites were at times unruly, wanting to go their own ways, not willing to follow directions and getting themselves into troubles from which they had to be extricated. Did the prophets feel they were possibly herding cats in the sense of being ignored, even when they spoke for the good of the very people who, in essence, turned their backs and cleaned their fur as if to say that there were more important things to be considered? I wonder if Jesus ever felt like he was herding cats when, no matter how clearly he tried to make the lessons, the disciples kept missing the point and wanting to hare off in all the wrong directions. Frankly, the story that cat herding brings to my mind is that of the good shepherd who goes to find the stray, probably the ugliest, nastiest, dirtiest and meanest one of the bunch, and brings it back safely to the safety and shelter of the group and fold.
In EfM the mentors sometimes have to act as cat herders. They can present a thought, an idea, a picture, a text, a video, but after that all bets are usually off. The mentor might have some wish for the conversation to move in a predictable direction but once the topic has been introduced, it can take on a life of its own, often like a herd of cats, going off in all directions. I find that as a mentor I can't be so in love with what I think is a perfect and predictable direction for the conversation to move that I try to force it into a place the cats, er, class members, don't want it to go. They want to follow THIS idea, not THAT one. And it's funny -- some of the greatest insights come from the very unpredictableness I never thought of but somebody else did. I can still love my own conclusions but I find I'm often very much richer from having cats in my class who don't passively follow a baited trail.
In contemplating the cat herders in the video, I come to one simple conclusion: in the cat-tle drive of my life where I am a cat, I need a herder to watch over me and occasionally come rescue me from a tree, a stream or my own wilfullness. I need somebody to put me on the front of the saddle and give me a ride when my paws get sore and who will make sure that I am safe and cared-for.
In the cat herding video of my life, God may wear a cowboy hat and use a lint roller to clean the cat hair off a sling. He may wear leather gloves because I can scratch and gnaw even on hands that are kind and loving. Maybe I will make him sneeze with allergies but he won't give up on me and will love me in spite of myself sometimes. Seeing God that way gives me a sense of hope and a sense of comfort. If God can love a mangy, opinionated, independent-minded cat like me, then what do I have to worry about? God will get me where I need to go, with or without my total cooperation or sometimes even my own cognition. Oh, I will have a choice, but God will use the art, science and theology of cat herding to gently nudge me almost imperceptibly, I hope, in the right direction. After all, God made the cat; there's nothing about a cat that God doesn't know, including how to herd a stubborn cat.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
On the way to the resurrection
Alleluia! Christos anesti!
The words ring across the world with excitement, joy, wonder and exuberance. The dark days of lent and the darkest ones of Good Friday are over and the world rejoices in the return of the Sonlight. Austerity now gives way to celebration, penance to rejoicing. The church will celebrate Easter for two more weeks while Christians will celebrate it every Sunday throughout the year. The world -- well, it will continue on its path.
One thing that I take away from Lent and Holy Week, even if I don't "do" Lent in the way many others do, is that the end of Lent at the base of the cross, doesn't mean I can breathe easy come Easter morning. If I've done it right, Lent has taken me through a personal inventory, a checkup of my spiritual health as well as where I am on my spiritual journey. I know many devotionals encourage me to walk in Jesus' footsteps -- living simply, serving widely, loving unstintingly -- but they also encourage me to see myself as a reason Jesus went to the cross. The most shocking one (that still sends shivers down my spine) is that I "crucify Jesus every day all over again" because of my sins. I really have trouble with that one.
If I do crucify Jesus, or even if I only make Jesus (and God) sad because I have missed the mark in so many ways, I am supposed to learn from those errors, not dwelling on them ad nauseum and wear a hair shirt for years for each sin but enough to reflect on them, learn from them, acknowledge them and, when it will not hurt me or others, make amends. That learning and acknowlegement doesn't stop on Holy Saturday night at 11:59 pm but should go on through Easter and beyond.
Which brings me to the Roman Catholic Church and the abuse by their clerics of innocents. Instead of looking inward, learning, acknowledging and making amends, the RCC and the Pope seem to be trying to bluster their way past the whole thing and blame others for calling them to repentance and justice. They tried to sweep it under the rug years ago when the scandals in Boston and other places in the US were reported and it didn't work. They blustered their way through it while trying to maintain their holy image. Now, more and more, reports from around the world of abuse by priests who were never reprimanded as severely as they should have been and who were quietly moved to other, usually unsuspecting, parishes and dioceses to begin the cycle of abuse, exploitation and then quiet removal all over again. I would be willing to bet that for every reported case of clerical abuse ther are probably at least 50 - 100 who have never come forward out of shame, disgust or disillusionment. I sometimes wonder how faithful Roman Catholics maintain their faith in an organization as flawed and which seems to defy practicing what they preach -- repent, confess, make reparation.
On the way to the resurrection this Easter morning, the RCC has forgotten the road they themselves have insisted others follow: if they fall into sin, repent and return to the right path. The very hands that lift the body of the Lord and bless the cup of his blood bear blood of their own, the blood of the innocents they have sacrificed to their pederasty and their collegiality. They have sought to point fingers at homosexuals, at the press, at disillusioned Roman Catholics and claim they, the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church on Earth, created by Jesus and blessed by God and the Blessed Mother, are persecuted because of the calls for their repentance from grevious sin. The leadership of the RCC has forgotten that the path to the cross isn't easy and requires honesty and contrition, not blustering and "poor me-ism."
I'm not perfect. God knows I'm not and I am very aware of it myself, but God help me, I can't help but feel sick when I contemplate children being abused by people supposedly called by and consecrated to be servants of God and their fellow human beings. The wholesale-ness of the sin is overwhelming and the finger-pointing to deflect calls for needed repentance are nauseating.
On the way to the resurrection some of us have taken detours on the road to the cross. We've tried the easy way, the deflective way, the evasive way. Only by the grace of God do we have the audacity to proclaim the good news of the resurrection, the forgiveness of sin, the hope of eternal life. Only by the grace of God can we call ourselves to repentance and ask others to be as honest. Only by the grace of God can we leave the foot of the cross and approach the empty tomb with hope and gratitude -- and remembrance that we, as sinners, are still in need of penance and restoration, in more ways than one.
Alleluia, Christos Anesti! Alithos Anesti! Kyrie Eleison.
The words ring across the world with excitement, joy, wonder and exuberance. The dark days of lent and the darkest ones of Good Friday are over and the world rejoices in the return of the Sonlight. Austerity now gives way to celebration, penance to rejoicing. The church will celebrate Easter for two more weeks while Christians will celebrate it every Sunday throughout the year. The world -- well, it will continue on its path.
One thing that I take away from Lent and Holy Week, even if I don't "do" Lent in the way many others do, is that the end of Lent at the base of the cross, doesn't mean I can breathe easy come Easter morning. If I've done it right, Lent has taken me through a personal inventory, a checkup of my spiritual health as well as where I am on my spiritual journey. I know many devotionals encourage me to walk in Jesus' footsteps -- living simply, serving widely, loving unstintingly -- but they also encourage me to see myself as a reason Jesus went to the cross. The most shocking one (that still sends shivers down my spine) is that I "crucify Jesus every day all over again" because of my sins. I really have trouble with that one.
If I do crucify Jesus, or even if I only make Jesus (and God) sad because I have missed the mark in so many ways, I am supposed to learn from those errors, not dwelling on them ad nauseum and wear a hair shirt for years for each sin but enough to reflect on them, learn from them, acknowledge them and, when it will not hurt me or others, make amends. That learning and acknowlegement doesn't stop on Holy Saturday night at 11:59 pm but should go on through Easter and beyond.
Which brings me to the Roman Catholic Church and the abuse by their clerics of innocents. Instead of looking inward, learning, acknowledging and making amends, the RCC and the Pope seem to be trying to bluster their way past the whole thing and blame others for calling them to repentance and justice. They tried to sweep it under the rug years ago when the scandals in Boston and other places in the US were reported and it didn't work. They blustered their way through it while trying to maintain their holy image. Now, more and more, reports from around the world of abuse by priests who were never reprimanded as severely as they should have been and who were quietly moved to other, usually unsuspecting, parishes and dioceses to begin the cycle of abuse, exploitation and then quiet removal all over again. I would be willing to bet that for every reported case of clerical abuse ther are probably at least 50 - 100 who have never come forward out of shame, disgust or disillusionment. I sometimes wonder how faithful Roman Catholics maintain their faith in an organization as flawed and which seems to defy practicing what they preach -- repent, confess, make reparation.
On the way to the resurrection this Easter morning, the RCC has forgotten the road they themselves have insisted others follow: if they fall into sin, repent and return to the right path. The very hands that lift the body of the Lord and bless the cup of his blood bear blood of their own, the blood of the innocents they have sacrificed to their pederasty and their collegiality. They have sought to point fingers at homosexuals, at the press, at disillusioned Roman Catholics and claim they, the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church on Earth, created by Jesus and blessed by God and the Blessed Mother, are persecuted because of the calls for their repentance from grevious sin. The leadership of the RCC has forgotten that the path to the cross isn't easy and requires honesty and contrition, not blustering and "poor me-ism."
I'm not perfect. God knows I'm not and I am very aware of it myself, but God help me, I can't help but feel sick when I contemplate children being abused by people supposedly called by and consecrated to be servants of God and their fellow human beings. The wholesale-ness of the sin is overwhelming and the finger-pointing to deflect calls for needed repentance are nauseating.
On the way to the resurrection some of us have taken detours on the road to the cross. We've tried the easy way, the deflective way, the evasive way. Only by the grace of God do we have the audacity to proclaim the good news of the resurrection, the forgiveness of sin, the hope of eternal life. Only by the grace of God can we call ourselves to repentance and ask others to be as honest. Only by the grace of God can we leave the foot of the cross and approach the empty tomb with hope and gratitude -- and remembrance that we, as sinners, are still in need of penance and restoration, in more ways than one.
Alleluia, Christos Anesti! Alithos Anesti! Kyrie Eleison.
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Living Holy Week
The world seems bound and determined to be as stressful and as aggravating as possible, not to mention as fear-full as it can be as well. Bad news abounds -- earthquakes, floods, traffic fatalities in double digits per accident, the infrastructure is fragmented badly and there doesn't seem to be a lot to be done about it, at present anyway, political rhetoric has taken on a terroristic stridency in a time when people feel most helpless and fearful of things they don't really know or understand but have strong opinions about anyway. It just keeps piling up and short of turning off the television and radio, unplugging the computer and locking the front door, there doesn't seem to be much relief from it.
Flipping through the TV channels I've found a plethora of programs on natural disasters that are going to happen sooner or later. Yellowstone has a supervolcano under it that will erupt, Cumbre Vieja will slip a 5-mile section of the island off into the Atlantic that will start a tidal wave that will engulf the East Coast, a major hurricane will hit New York, a supertornado will hit Dallas, a megatyphoon will lash Hong Kong. Coupled with all the recent news of severe earthquakes and floods in various places perilously close to home (OK, maybe not next door but part of the same earth we all live on) and pictures of the suffering and devastation are almost too much to bear. And then there are the little local problems like the economy, loss of jobs, fear of losing jobs, mounting bills, shrinking paychecks, and the rising cost of just about everything we consider necessary for life -- food, electricity, gas for the car, funds to pay the mortgage, the whole nine yards. It doesn't take much of a push to make someone on the edge feel that there's a hand on their back pushing them toward a precipice and a fall they aren't sure they can survive.
Even in church we can't escape turmoil. Sexual abuse of children is alleged and denied, the role of all the baptized in ministry (and not just the ordained ministry), arguments of the validity or invalidity of varying interpretations of scripture, claims (often thinly veiled) of being the "one true" religion -- where does it all end? Where do we find the actual true message of Christ and the true worship of God, not the message of this or that preacher or pope, this or that religion reporter, this or that religious writer or newscaster?
Holy Week is, at least by those closely involved in church work, either a Happy Occasion (Palm Sunday), a really down day (Good Friday) and a SUPREMELY Happy Occasion (Easter) or A Happy Occasion overshadowed with knowledge of what was to come, several days of introspection leading up to a foundational meal and followed by a dark day of penitence and reflection. It isn't until almost 24 hours later, at the Great Vigil of Easter, do things become bright and joyous and celebratory. I probably could unfavorably (and probably frivolously) compare Holy Week to visiting a dentist. You know it's probably going to involve some pain and that is something you'd rather avoid but by the time it's over you're so relieved to have it done you practically dance out of the office.
Living Holy Week, though, isn't frivolous and isn't really easy. It isn't supposed to be. Holy Week in some quarters is called "Hell Week" because the amount of work and preparation for the physical participation in services, be it sermons, amounts of freshly and perfectly-laundered linens, suitably exuberant flower arrangements and musical offerings, and even service booklets so everybody can follow along without having to juggle Bible, Prayer Book and Hymnal. It's supposed to be a time where, as we have been encouraged to do throughout Lent, we be more introspective, more thoughtful about what Holy Week represents, a lead-up to Good Friday and not just Easter Sunday.
Looking at my own life, this past week has brought a lot of stress and, at times, it has been overwhelming. I've done the time in the garden, wrestling with "Please -- can we just skip this part?" and trying to maintain a professional attitude when the inside is screaming and shaking like jello in an earthquake. There have been times when it felt like I was before Pilate and the Sanhedrin, having to be silent when I wanted to scream and feeling alone and scourged. There have also been a few moments when I could offer something of encouragement to someone in a similar situation, a word, a smile, an ear, a touch on the shoulder that reminded them that they have value and weren't alone in their fear and frustration. I can't look to the joy and release of Easter Sunday. Physically I know that the true Easter Sunday is a week and a day away but in terms of personal Easter Sunday resurrections, I'm not at a place where I can even conceive of it much less look forward to it. But that's my problem to deal with. Others have their own.
Did Jesus know he was going to die that week? Did he know what pain and suffering he was going to have to endure, mental, physical and spiritual? Did he anticipate how all this was going to take place? Did he believe that even if he died that he would live again?
Perhaps I'm at just the right place for me to be this upcoming Holy Week. As EfM teaches, we are to apply our lessons and insights to our lives and ministries and I think I've just begun mine. The insight is that no matter what I suffer, Jesus has suffered more. No matter how much fear I face, Jesus faced more of it. No matter how much hope I have that God will make all things right, Jesus had the faith that moved the mountains, not just hope they would move.
I think that this year, even though I won't be actively participating at the local parish, I will be extremely conscious of Holy Week and what it represents. I will walk through it, lurch through it perhaps, with mindfulness and introspection. Thanks be to God.
Flipping through the TV channels I've found a plethora of programs on natural disasters that are going to happen sooner or later. Yellowstone has a supervolcano under it that will erupt, Cumbre Vieja will slip a 5-mile section of the island off into the Atlantic that will start a tidal wave that will engulf the East Coast, a major hurricane will hit New York, a supertornado will hit Dallas, a megatyphoon will lash Hong Kong. Coupled with all the recent news of severe earthquakes and floods in various places perilously close to home (OK, maybe not next door but part of the same earth we all live on) and pictures of the suffering and devastation are almost too much to bear. And then there are the little local problems like the economy, loss of jobs, fear of losing jobs, mounting bills, shrinking paychecks, and the rising cost of just about everything we consider necessary for life -- food, electricity, gas for the car, funds to pay the mortgage, the whole nine yards. It doesn't take much of a push to make someone on the edge feel that there's a hand on their back pushing them toward a precipice and a fall they aren't sure they can survive.
Even in church we can't escape turmoil. Sexual abuse of children is alleged and denied, the role of all the baptized in ministry (and not just the ordained ministry), arguments of the validity or invalidity of varying interpretations of scripture, claims (often thinly veiled) of being the "one true" religion -- where does it all end? Where do we find the actual true message of Christ and the true worship of God, not the message of this or that preacher or pope, this or that religion reporter, this or that religious writer or newscaster?
Holy Week is, at least by those closely involved in church work, either a Happy Occasion (Palm Sunday), a really down day (Good Friday) and a SUPREMELY Happy Occasion (Easter) or A Happy Occasion overshadowed with knowledge of what was to come, several days of introspection leading up to a foundational meal and followed by a dark day of penitence and reflection. It isn't until almost 24 hours later, at the Great Vigil of Easter, do things become bright and joyous and celebratory. I probably could unfavorably (and probably frivolously) compare Holy Week to visiting a dentist. You know it's probably going to involve some pain and that is something you'd rather avoid but by the time it's over you're so relieved to have it done you practically dance out of the office.
Living Holy Week, though, isn't frivolous and isn't really easy. It isn't supposed to be. Holy Week in some quarters is called "Hell Week" because the amount of work and preparation for the physical participation in services, be it sermons, amounts of freshly and perfectly-laundered linens, suitably exuberant flower arrangements and musical offerings, and even service booklets so everybody can follow along without having to juggle Bible, Prayer Book and Hymnal. It's supposed to be a time where, as we have been encouraged to do throughout Lent, we be more introspective, more thoughtful about what Holy Week represents, a lead-up to Good Friday and not just Easter Sunday.
Looking at my own life, this past week has brought a lot of stress and, at times, it has been overwhelming. I've done the time in the garden, wrestling with "Please -- can we just skip this part?" and trying to maintain a professional attitude when the inside is screaming and shaking like jello in an earthquake. There have been times when it felt like I was before Pilate and the Sanhedrin, having to be silent when I wanted to scream and feeling alone and scourged. There have also been a few moments when I could offer something of encouragement to someone in a similar situation, a word, a smile, an ear, a touch on the shoulder that reminded them that they have value and weren't alone in their fear and frustration. I can't look to the joy and release of Easter Sunday. Physically I know that the true Easter Sunday is a week and a day away but in terms of personal Easter Sunday resurrections, I'm not at a place where I can even conceive of it much less look forward to it. But that's my problem to deal with. Others have their own.
Did Jesus know he was going to die that week? Did he know what pain and suffering he was going to have to endure, mental, physical and spiritual? Did he anticipate how all this was going to take place? Did he believe that even if he died that he would live again?
Perhaps I'm at just the right place for me to be this upcoming Holy Week. As EfM teaches, we are to apply our lessons and insights to our lives and ministries and I think I've just begun mine. The insight is that no matter what I suffer, Jesus has suffered more. No matter how much fear I face, Jesus faced more of it. No matter how much hope I have that God will make all things right, Jesus had the faith that moved the mountains, not just hope they would move.
I think that this year, even though I won't be actively participating at the local parish, I will be extremely conscious of Holy Week and what it represents. I will walk through it, lurch through it perhaps, with mindfulness and introspection. Thanks be to God.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Attentiveness
hard to see what's happening inside so
she feels a need to give complete reports
whenever someone asks.
---- shamelessly stolen from Grandmére Mimi who got it from the StoryPeople
The late Spousal Unit, for most of the time we were married (all 27+ years of it), was a great believer in giving me all the information he thought I needed in order to tell a story, convey a doctor's report or even just recount a meeting with someone in the grocery line or at the auto parts store. I confess it drove me absolutely bonkers to listen to a 10 minute recitation when I really wanted the Reader's Digest version. I really didn't need a word-for-word recitation of every word of a casual conversation when all I really needed to know was that he had run into so-and-so, they were fine, their family was fine and said to tell me hello.
The older I get the more people I seem to know who have become folks who give full reports on internal stuff (and even some external stuff). The state of their arteries, heart, feet, (occasionally liver) and eyesight require a full recital. Of course it is of primary concern to them and because I'm a friend, it is of some concern to me. Still, there are a lot of times I could do with a little less information. As they say in the blogosphere, sometimes there's just a bit TMI. So often I grit my teeth, remember to say "uh-huh," "is that so," or "that's awful/wonderful" from time to time. After all, I really do care how they are but I also would prefer talking about books, music, the state of the church or even, heaven forfend, a little about my own health.
I've learned that people really don't want to listen these days but they really do want listeners. Ok, I confess, that rings true for me so I'm not just pointing fingers at other people. There are times I'm sure I give people entirely too much information they don't really need --- or want -- but conversely I'm entirely positive there are a few times I don't give them enough.
Good thing I don't have to explain everything to God. There are times I just don't want to talk and God understands that. Sometimes I offer a comment but it has little effect on the flow of conversation of others so I sit on the bank with a few pebbles and watch. With some folks it's one of those "companionable silences" that two people can have when they know each other, are comfortable with each other and understand that not every moment has to be filled with questions, statements, comments, asides and even puns. Luckily I have some friends like that -- although admittedly with so many long-distance friends it's hard to have a companionable silence at however-many cents per minute. And even more fortunately, God doesn't insist I spend time detailing every event, thought or twinge. God knows it all anyway and sometimes I just don't feel like reiterating it yet again when I've been through it a dozen or more times in my own head.
The other kind of silence is that of "what can I say that won't sound stupid, whiny, edgy, unkind or that will even be noticed?" There's an old saw about it being "better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt." Sometimes the conversation around me goes in places I can't go or to places about which I know nothing. This is a a more defensive silence. There's stuff going on unseen inside but there's no real need to air out the dirty laundry or even express an opinion that goes against the grain. With God I don't have that worry. Whatever I say or don't say, God understands and that means a lot in a world where listening is almost a lost art.
God's attentiveness ---- something I can count on. Something I need to learn to emulate.
she feels a need to give complete reports
whenever someone asks.
---- shamelessly stolen from Grandmére Mimi who got it from the StoryPeople
The late Spousal Unit, for most of the time we were married (all 27+ years of it), was a great believer in giving me all the information he thought I needed in order to tell a story, convey a doctor's report or even just recount a meeting with someone in the grocery line or at the auto parts store. I confess it drove me absolutely bonkers to listen to a 10 minute recitation when I really wanted the Reader's Digest version. I really didn't need a word-for-word recitation of every word of a casual conversation when all I really needed to know was that he had run into so-and-so, they were fine, their family was fine and said to tell me hello.
The older I get the more people I seem to know who have become folks who give full reports on internal stuff (and even some external stuff). The state of their arteries, heart, feet, (occasionally liver) and eyesight require a full recital. Of course it is of primary concern to them and because I'm a friend, it is of some concern to me. Still, there are a lot of times I could do with a little less information. As they say in the blogosphere, sometimes there's just a bit TMI. So often I grit my teeth, remember to say "uh-huh," "is that so," or "that's awful/wonderful" from time to time. After all, I really do care how they are but I also would prefer talking about books, music, the state of the church or even, heaven forfend, a little about my own health.
I've learned that people really don't want to listen these days but they really do want listeners. Ok, I confess, that rings true for me so I'm not just pointing fingers at other people. There are times I'm sure I give people entirely too much information they don't really need --- or want -- but conversely I'm entirely positive there are a few times I don't give them enough.
Good thing I don't have to explain everything to God. There are times I just don't want to talk and God understands that. Sometimes I offer a comment but it has little effect on the flow of conversation of others so I sit on the bank with a few pebbles and watch. With some folks it's one of those "companionable silences" that two people can have when they know each other, are comfortable with each other and understand that not every moment has to be filled with questions, statements, comments, asides and even puns. Luckily I have some friends like that -- although admittedly with so many long-distance friends it's hard to have a companionable silence at however-many cents per minute. And even more fortunately, God doesn't insist I spend time detailing every event, thought or twinge. God knows it all anyway and sometimes I just don't feel like reiterating it yet again when I've been through it a dozen or more times in my own head.
The other kind of silence is that of "what can I say that won't sound stupid, whiny, edgy, unkind or that will even be noticed?" There's an old saw about it being "better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt." Sometimes the conversation around me goes in places I can't go or to places about which I know nothing. This is a a more defensive silence. There's stuff going on unseen inside but there's no real need to air out the dirty laundry or even express an opinion that goes against the grain. With God I don't have that worry. Whatever I say or don't say, God understands and that means a lot in a world where listening is almost a lost art.
God's attentiveness ---- something I can count on. Something I need to learn to emulate.
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