One of the greatest pleasures of my holiday vacation was a rare trip to the cinema. I was once a woman who went to the movies twice a week, on average, but no more. Perhaps my film-going will pick up again once my children are grown, because these days, I usually need not only a sitter to allow me a night out but the mental energy to keep me engaged past 8:00 p.m.. Even when I do make it out to see a film, I consider myself lucky if the feature is compelling enough to keep me awake! So it was a rare pleasure indeed to see--and stay awake for the entirety of--the beautiful film, The King's Speech.
The film retells the story of the Duke of York (Colin Firth), who is far from poised as he steps unexpectedly into the role of King George VI. As King, he must offer live broadcasts of his speeches, a task that absolutely terrifies him because of a crippling stuttering problem. His wife (Helena Bonham Carter) seeks desperately to help her husband and enlists the help (after many failed attempts with others) of a speech "therapist," Lionel Logue (Geoffrey Rush).
The acting in this film was exquisite, but I found most captivating the story itself. The King suffers from a "speech defect," but we learn that his suffering goes deeper: he learned from those who supposedly loved him the most that his voice was either wrong or (even worse) didn't matter. Certainly, Logue is able to give him some tips and tools that can help him to speak somewhat more smoothly, but what he offers the King is far richer and more enduring than "speech coaching." He offers the gift of active listening, a gift that calls the King to know and exercise the power of his own voice.
Over the past few years, I have gained a heightened awareness of the critical importance of listening. To learn how to listen actively, patiently, truly, and to be authentically heard by others, are perhaps the seeds of both profound personal and social transformation. In one of my favorite books, Moral Wisdom, the Jesuit moral theologian James Keenan emphasizes the paramount importance of listening in his broader theological reflections on suffering. He shows the violent nature of the various ways we silence those who suffer--in extraordinary circumstances, such as torture, which functions to tear the voice from the body of the tortured, and very ordinary circumstances, such as when we dismiss the voice of those who are sick or depressed: "Look on the bright side!" we might say in response to them, convincing only ourselves that we are actually being of help to them.
In The King's Speech, before his encounter with the future King George VI, Logue had worked with and been very successful in getting shell-shocked veterans of World War I to talk about the horrors they had experienced. It is clear that he had a natural ability to listen to those who were silenced either by the cruelty of others or simply by the cruelty of life itself. I can't boast of this same natural ability: I have often been a terrible listener. But I have learned that active, patient listening is a deeply spiritual act, and The King's Speech inspires within me the desire to really work on this in the new year....
Please hold me in your prayer this year....and if you'll let me know of your own needs, I will do my best to listen and hold you in mine. Happy New Year.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
A Reflection on Elizabeth Edwards and Advent
"Who was your Elizabeth Edwards?" asks Jan Hoffman, author of "Elizabeth Edwards, Through Many Eyes," in the Week In Review section of The New York Times. "The goddess of frumpy wives and older mothers? The cancer patient who would not be defined by her disease? The noble, betrayed wife? The political operative whose complicity in covering up her husband's infidelity could have cost the Democratic Party the presidency? A modern Job? Or Icarus?" She was all of these, perhaps. In her article, Hoffman describes Edwards' complicated story, her simultaneous beatification and condemnation in the eyes of the public, and her desire to control the narrative of her own life as much as possible.
"'I laughed that I never was and don't want to be St. Elizabeth,' she wrote. 'But I cried that I don't want to be seen--and maybe here I should admit, remembered--as the worst of the portraits of me." I will admit while I was never the biggest fan of Mrs. Edwards, I had always felt sorry that she, like so many other women in positions of power, could only be either the saint or the sinner. It is my belief that there is still little room given for "complexity" in the way we view women, especially those in the public eye. It was reassuring to me, in light of this, that Hoffman concludes her own portrait of Edwards with an acknowledgement that she was "fallible" and "three-dimensional."
But this is not, primarily, what I wanted to say about Edwards. What interests me most about Edwards' story is how her life experiences and her facing death shaped her faith. Last Tuesday (the day on which Edwards died), I watched a replay of an interview with her from a year or so ago, in which the interviewer asked her about this. She replied that she could no longer expect the "all-powerful" God to intervene in her experience of hardship (the death of her son, her husband's infidelity, her illness). She had come to expect only that God would be with her in these experiences, and perhaps, help to enlighten her in and through them. "It's not the God I want," she said, "but it's the God I have."
I find these words incredibly powerful, especially in this Advent season. For Christians, Advent is a season of anticipation of and preparation for the coming of Immanuel, "God with us." We celebrate Advent (and Christmas) not because this "coming" was a one-time event, which occurred thousands of years ago. Our celebration each year is our affirmation that God's coming into the world--in the flesh and blood realities of our lives--is an ongoing reality. But the other lesson of the season--and of Edwards in the words she spoke above--is that this God comes in ways that are unexpected...and often unwanted. Born to poor parents in the humblest of circumstances, Jesus was the unlikeliest of saviors. And he lived his life in a way that challenged deeply the expectations of those who awaited his coming.
That she was able to face her death with courage and with a deepened sense of the human condition was, for Edwards, a personal experience of God's "coming." I look towards the end of this year in my own life--a year that held together unmeasurable joys and some very real sorrows--and I wonder how God's coming is taking shape in it all. What is being prepared? What will be born? I really can't say just yet, but I am fairly certain that it will be very different from what I had expected. But with an open heart, I will wait to find out....
"'I laughed that I never was and don't want to be St. Elizabeth,' she wrote. 'But I cried that I don't want to be seen--and maybe here I should admit, remembered--as the worst of the portraits of me." I will admit while I was never the biggest fan of Mrs. Edwards, I had always felt sorry that she, like so many other women in positions of power, could only be either the saint or the sinner. It is my belief that there is still little room given for "complexity" in the way we view women, especially those in the public eye. It was reassuring to me, in light of this, that Hoffman concludes her own portrait of Edwards with an acknowledgement that she was "fallible" and "three-dimensional."
But this is not, primarily, what I wanted to say about Edwards. What interests me most about Edwards' story is how her life experiences and her facing death shaped her faith. Last Tuesday (the day on which Edwards died), I watched a replay of an interview with her from a year or so ago, in which the interviewer asked her about this. She replied that she could no longer expect the "all-powerful" God to intervene in her experience of hardship (the death of her son, her husband's infidelity, her illness). She had come to expect only that God would be with her in these experiences, and perhaps, help to enlighten her in and through them. "It's not the God I want," she said, "but it's the God I have."
I find these words incredibly powerful, especially in this Advent season. For Christians, Advent is a season of anticipation of and preparation for the coming of Immanuel, "God with us." We celebrate Advent (and Christmas) not because this "coming" was a one-time event, which occurred thousands of years ago. Our celebration each year is our affirmation that God's coming into the world--in the flesh and blood realities of our lives--is an ongoing reality. But the other lesson of the season--and of Edwards in the words she spoke above--is that this God comes in ways that are unexpected...and often unwanted. Born to poor parents in the humblest of circumstances, Jesus was the unlikeliest of saviors. And he lived his life in a way that challenged deeply the expectations of those who awaited his coming.
That she was able to face her death with courage and with a deepened sense of the human condition was, for Edwards, a personal experience of God's "coming." I look towards the end of this year in my own life--a year that held together unmeasurable joys and some very real sorrows--and I wonder how God's coming is taking shape in it all. What is being prepared? What will be born? I really can't say just yet, but I am fairly certain that it will be very different from what I had expected. But with an open heart, I will wait to find out....
Sunday, November 7, 2010
"Mother Madness"
In this weekend's "Review" section of the Wall Street Journal, Erica Jong decries our two decade's long "orgy of motherphilia" and the excessive demands it places on women. Jong is especially bothered by two "trends": Dr. Sears-sytle "attachment parenting," combined with "environmental correctness." These trends, she argues, create expectations for mothers that are neither realistic or liberating for them.
Because of these trends, "Women feel not only that they must be ever-present for their children but also that they must breast-feed, make their own baby food and eschew disposable diapers," she writes. "It's a prison for mothers, and it represents as much of a backlash against women's freedom as the right-to-life movement." She is especially angered by celebrity mom Gisele Bundchen's recent declaration that breast-feeding should be mandated. Shouldn't women be able to make such decisions for themselves? Of course, Jong is suspect of any celebrity mom declarations, for those same celebrities (who "proudly display their baby bumps" and "never tire of describing the joys of celebrity parenthood") never include an acknowledgement of either the money or help they have in providing care for their children, support which not all women have.
Jong claims that "mothering and fathering are different all over the world," but that our particular cultural myth, that "nurturance matters deeply," has led to the phenomenon of "helicopter parenting" as well as the demand for perfect children, a demand that seems to fall on mothers alone. She suspects that the increasing focus on the relationship between pre- and post-natal life, the focus of a new book, "Origins: How the Nine Months Before Birth Shape the Rest of Our Lives," might place even further onerous demands on women: "And who is in charge of prenatal life? The mother! Does one glass of wine doom your child to fetal alcohol syndrome? No, but you would be forgiven for thinking so, judging by the hysterical reaction that often greets an expectant mother who dares to sip Chardonnay."
I can't say that everything that Jong writes sits well with me. I know plenty of moms in my neighborhood who have chosen to stay at home and love it. They are exceptionally intelligent and educated, and yet they have no career aspirations. They are pleased as punch to be able to stay at home with their children full-time, and they have chosen to make food for their babies and to use cloth diapers (and have not done so because they have felt pressured). They do not feel "imprisoned" in the least. Further, they do not look down on those mothers, like me, who never considered using cloth diapers (and probably won't, should I have more children) and relies a great deal on the prepared foods section at Union Market in the feeding of my child (already prepared salmon, quinoa, spinach....I love you, Union Market). It doesn't seem to occur to Jong that women could (without some sort of false consciousness) actually embrace this lifestyle joyfully and not see it as a form of imprisonment.
I also think that while it's important to raise awareness of the demands that are placed on mothers, it's becoming ever more important to acknowledge those that are placed on fathers today, many of whom are expected to both earn a living for their families and share significantly in parenting and housekeeping. My husband works an 8:30-7:00 p.m. job and still must do some work at home (and he often points out that he works less than 90% of the people who live in New York) but I expect him to participate as much as possible in raising Aidan, and I demand that he help in keeping our home clean. And I admit, I often complain to him that he needs to find a way to be even more available to Aidan and me. I suspect that I am not the only one who sometimes assumes, misguidedly, that fathers "have it easy."
But Jong does raise some issues that are very important. I am especially sensitive to the subject of breastfeeding, which may not be mandated by law (yet), but women are (in my experience) made to feel like failures at motherhood should they choose to use formula. In my own case, I wanted desperately to breastfeed Aidan. I worked with two different lactation consultants (one of whom is the very sought after Brooklyn "breast whisperer") and attended several breastfeeding support groups. Aidan would latch for maybe a minute (when he would latch) and then would refuse the breast. I began to cry in the office of my former OB when I went for my six week postpartum checkup because he asked how breastfeeding was going, and when I told him I was thinking of giving it up, he advised me to reconsider. Without a hint of compassion in his voice, he repeated the slogan that is hammered into women's heads these days: "Breast is best." So I "pumped" milk for four months (an experience that I wouldn't really wish on any woman) because so many people had spoken of formula as thought it were poison. My mother-in-law, for example, kept needling me about the "horrible amount of sugar" in formula (even though she was well aware that breastfeeding was exceptionally difficult for me and even though breast milk itself is loaded with sugar).
By the time I reached the four month mark, I had the good sense and was able to muster the inner courage to say to myself (and to those who questioned me, even in well-meaning ways), "This is madness," and stopped. I felt an enormous sense of relief and actually began to enjoy motherhood.
What I find most interesting about Jong's article is her insight that some recent parenting theories and trends "seem like attempts to exert control in a world that is increasingly out of control." For example, "We can't do anything about loose nukes falling into the hands of terrorists, but we can make sure that our progeny's every waking hour is tightly scheduled with edifying activities." I think Jong's insight is on target and speaks to the broader existential anxiety that both women and men experience. We feel so out of control. And in many ways, we are. An acknowledgement and acceptance of this fact of our existence is, I think, is imperative.
Jong concludes that women "need someone to say: Do the best you can. There are no rules." Actually, I think there are some rules about good parenting (agreeing upon what those rules are isn't always easy). So if I were to offer a different conclusion, it would be this: Do the best you can. And make some space for grace.
Because of these trends, "Women feel not only that they must be ever-present for their children but also that they must breast-feed, make their own baby food and eschew disposable diapers," she writes. "It's a prison for mothers, and it represents as much of a backlash against women's freedom as the right-to-life movement." She is especially angered by celebrity mom Gisele Bundchen's recent declaration that breast-feeding should be mandated. Shouldn't women be able to make such decisions for themselves? Of course, Jong is suspect of any celebrity mom declarations, for those same celebrities (who "proudly display their baby bumps" and "never tire of describing the joys of celebrity parenthood") never include an acknowledgement of either the money or help they have in providing care for their children, support which not all women have.
Jong claims that "mothering and fathering are different all over the world," but that our particular cultural myth, that "nurturance matters deeply," has led to the phenomenon of "helicopter parenting" as well as the demand for perfect children, a demand that seems to fall on mothers alone. She suspects that the increasing focus on the relationship between pre- and post-natal life, the focus of a new book, "Origins: How the Nine Months Before Birth Shape the Rest of Our Lives," might place even further onerous demands on women: "And who is in charge of prenatal life? The mother! Does one glass of wine doom your child to fetal alcohol syndrome? No, but you would be forgiven for thinking so, judging by the hysterical reaction that often greets an expectant mother who dares to sip Chardonnay."
I can't say that everything that Jong writes sits well with me. I know plenty of moms in my neighborhood who have chosen to stay at home and love it. They are exceptionally intelligent and educated, and yet they have no career aspirations. They are pleased as punch to be able to stay at home with their children full-time, and they have chosen to make food for their babies and to use cloth diapers (and have not done so because they have felt pressured). They do not feel "imprisoned" in the least. Further, they do not look down on those mothers, like me, who never considered using cloth diapers (and probably won't, should I have more children) and relies a great deal on the prepared foods section at Union Market in the feeding of my child (already prepared salmon, quinoa, spinach....I love you, Union Market). It doesn't seem to occur to Jong that women could (without some sort of false consciousness) actually embrace this lifestyle joyfully and not see it as a form of imprisonment.
I also think that while it's important to raise awareness of the demands that are placed on mothers, it's becoming ever more important to acknowledge those that are placed on fathers today, many of whom are expected to both earn a living for their families and share significantly in parenting and housekeeping. My husband works an 8:30-7:00 p.m. job and still must do some work at home (and he often points out that he works less than 90% of the people who live in New York) but I expect him to participate as much as possible in raising Aidan, and I demand that he help in keeping our home clean. And I admit, I often complain to him that he needs to find a way to be even more available to Aidan and me. I suspect that I am not the only one who sometimes assumes, misguidedly, that fathers "have it easy."
But Jong does raise some issues that are very important. I am especially sensitive to the subject of breastfeeding, which may not be mandated by law (yet), but women are (in my experience) made to feel like failures at motherhood should they choose to use formula. In my own case, I wanted desperately to breastfeed Aidan. I worked with two different lactation consultants (one of whom is the very sought after Brooklyn "breast whisperer") and attended several breastfeeding support groups. Aidan would latch for maybe a minute (when he would latch) and then would refuse the breast. I began to cry in the office of my former OB when I went for my six week postpartum checkup because he asked how breastfeeding was going, and when I told him I was thinking of giving it up, he advised me to reconsider. Without a hint of compassion in his voice, he repeated the slogan that is hammered into women's heads these days: "Breast is best." So I "pumped" milk for four months (an experience that I wouldn't really wish on any woman) because so many people had spoken of formula as thought it were poison. My mother-in-law, for example, kept needling me about the "horrible amount of sugar" in formula (even though she was well aware that breastfeeding was exceptionally difficult for me and even though breast milk itself is loaded with sugar).
By the time I reached the four month mark, I had the good sense and was able to muster the inner courage to say to myself (and to those who questioned me, even in well-meaning ways), "This is madness," and stopped. I felt an enormous sense of relief and actually began to enjoy motherhood.
What I find most interesting about Jong's article is her insight that some recent parenting theories and trends "seem like attempts to exert control in a world that is increasingly out of control." For example, "We can't do anything about loose nukes falling into the hands of terrorists, but we can make sure that our progeny's every waking hour is tightly scheduled with edifying activities." I think Jong's insight is on target and speaks to the broader existential anxiety that both women and men experience. We feel so out of control. And in many ways, we are. An acknowledgement and acceptance of this fact of our existence is, I think, is imperative.
Jong concludes that women "need someone to say: Do the best you can. There are no rules." Actually, I think there are some rules about good parenting (agreeing upon what those rules are isn't always easy). So if I were to offer a different conclusion, it would be this: Do the best you can. And make some space for grace.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Untitled
Earlier today, I started to write a blog post about my son's new favorite activity but couldn't finish it because I was pressed for time:
More than any other activity (more than the sing-alongs, the music classes, the baby swim lessons, even more than playdates), Aidan loves to walk our Park Slope block--without holding my hand. He wants to explore-and so he'll look up and wave at the Buddha-head that's in the window of my neighbor's apartment, he'll "pet" the pumpkins that are on the steps of others' buildings, he'll collect leaves and sticks, and (to my horror) he'll try to kiss the fire hydrant (does he think the fire hydrant is a little person?) I'll catch him talking to birds and laughing to himself about something. It takes us at least 45 minutes to walk a single city block, but it's a delightful experience because he's just so delighted by it all...delighted by life.
But I do have some bad news: I have miscarried another pregnancy. I went to the doctor today and heard the same ugly news I heard back in July: no fetal heartbeat. I can't say that I'm not feeling horribly upset right now...and even angry that dumb luck sometimes reigns supreme.... and really, there is nothing more I want to say about that....
But I will say that tonight I will go to bed and think only of my beautiful little boy, who talks to birds and kisses fire hydrants...and that will be a real comfort.
More than any other activity (more than the sing-alongs, the music classes, the baby swim lessons, even more than playdates), Aidan loves to walk our Park Slope block--without holding my hand. He wants to explore-and so he'll look up and wave at the Buddha-head that's in the window of my neighbor's apartment, he'll "pet" the pumpkins that are on the steps of others' buildings, he'll collect leaves and sticks, and (to my horror) he'll try to kiss the fire hydrant (does he think the fire hydrant is a little person?) I'll catch him talking to birds and laughing to himself about something. It takes us at least 45 minutes to walk a single city block, but it's a delightful experience because he's just so delighted by it all...delighted by life.
But I do have some bad news: I have miscarried another pregnancy. I went to the doctor today and heard the same ugly news I heard back in July: no fetal heartbeat. I can't say that I'm not feeling horribly upset right now...and even angry that dumb luck sometimes reigns supreme.... and really, there is nothing more I want to say about that....
But I will say that tonight I will go to bed and think only of my beautiful little boy, who talks to birds and kisses fire hydrants...and that will be a real comfort.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Virtue....and how to teach it?
We took a trip to Bear Mountain yesterday. It was gorgeous weekend for an autumn hike, and I loved almost every minute of it. (I say almost because we ultimately pushed Aidan a bit too hard. The kid was a trooper during the hike but got very antsy--who wouldn't after three hours in a baby hiker?--during the last mile of the hike and during the boring two-hour trip home). What I loved most about the day was that the three of us were together as a family, and yet I felt I was able to get the solitude for which I often feel so needy.
On the ride to the mountain, John asked a lot about how my course at Union is going. I hadn't yet shared with him the virtue that I had focused on and written about this week. Recall that for each week, I must choose a virtue, research what other theorists have said about it, and write an analytical/reaction paper about it. There is no list of virtues from which students must choose, and while we are allowed to choose from among the classical virtues (prudence, temperance, etc.), we are encouraged to be creative in our choice.
My first paper focused on "self-care." My second focused on "responsibility." This week, after exploring Lisa Tessman's rather bleak exploration of the relationship between oppression and virtue in her Burdened Virtues, I focused on "sensitivity to the suffering of others."
I shared with John that I love writing these weekly papers--doing so has forced me to think about virtue in general and in virtues in particular. We then had a discussion of which virtues we'd like to see Aidan develop and found that our lists (which were really just a first reflection on it) differed somewhat. It's not so much that we disagreed on certain virtues, but we did prioritize them somewhat differently...
One virtue to which we both assigned high priority is honesty, and we found ourselves wondering how to best cultivate this virtue in Aidan. Certainly, we teach honesty by living honest lives, by being honest people. But I found myself wondering, as we hiked along, about the less obvious ways to teach it. For example, I've been reading Alice Miller's Thou Shalt Not Be Aware, in which she argues that some young children learn to be dishonest at a very young age because their parents do not provide an open, tolerant environment in which their children can express their honest feelings. They learn to prevaricate for fear of punishment, or worse, sensing their parents' disapproval at the mere expression of their feelings, they repress them and sometimes lose touch entirely with their inner selves. They may not be liars, but they are deeply alienated from the truth of themselves. I find explorations such as Miller's interesting and can, at the very least, agree that so much of a person's "character" is developed in her/his earliest years.
And so I found myself reflecting more on these things as we hiked Bear Mountain. Which virtues are essential to Aidan's well-being (for Aristotle, the "big guy" of virtue ethics, virtue is "eudaimonistic," aimed at flourishing/well-being)? How do I, as his parent, teach them?
I would love to hear your own thoughts, my dear reader. What do you think are the virtues that are essential to well-being? And what are some ways that one lives out these virtues? And finally, what, actually, does well-being look like? Please accept my invitation to engage with me in this exploration....
On the ride to the mountain, John asked a lot about how my course at Union is going. I hadn't yet shared with him the virtue that I had focused on and written about this week. Recall that for each week, I must choose a virtue, research what other theorists have said about it, and write an analytical/reaction paper about it. There is no list of virtues from which students must choose, and while we are allowed to choose from among the classical virtues (prudence, temperance, etc.), we are encouraged to be creative in our choice.
My first paper focused on "self-care." My second focused on "responsibility." This week, after exploring Lisa Tessman's rather bleak exploration of the relationship between oppression and virtue in her Burdened Virtues, I focused on "sensitivity to the suffering of others."
I shared with John that I love writing these weekly papers--doing so has forced me to think about virtue in general and in virtues in particular. We then had a discussion of which virtues we'd like to see Aidan develop and found that our lists (which were really just a first reflection on it) differed somewhat. It's not so much that we disagreed on certain virtues, but we did prioritize them somewhat differently...
One virtue to which we both assigned high priority is honesty, and we found ourselves wondering how to best cultivate this virtue in Aidan. Certainly, we teach honesty by living honest lives, by being honest people. But I found myself wondering, as we hiked along, about the less obvious ways to teach it. For example, I've been reading Alice Miller's Thou Shalt Not Be Aware, in which she argues that some young children learn to be dishonest at a very young age because their parents do not provide an open, tolerant environment in which their children can express their honest feelings. They learn to prevaricate for fear of punishment, or worse, sensing their parents' disapproval at the mere expression of their feelings, they repress them and sometimes lose touch entirely with their inner selves. They may not be liars, but they are deeply alienated from the truth of themselves. I find explorations such as Miller's interesting and can, at the very least, agree that so much of a person's "character" is developed in her/his earliest years.
And so I found myself reflecting more on these things as we hiked Bear Mountain. Which virtues are essential to Aidan's well-being (for Aristotle, the "big guy" of virtue ethics, virtue is "eudaimonistic," aimed at flourishing/well-being)? How do I, as his parent, teach them?
I would love to hear your own thoughts, my dear reader. What do you think are the virtues that are essential to well-being? And what are some ways that one lives out these virtues? And finally, what, actually, does well-being look like? Please accept my invitation to engage with me in this exploration....
Sunday, October 17, 2010
"Facing the Extreme"
Even though I should have been focused on my readings for this week, I jumped ahead in my course syllabus to a reading I simply couldn't wait to begin: Tzvetan Todorov's Facing the Extreme: Moral Life in the Concentration Camps.
Why was I so eager to begin such grim reading? I was interested in Todorov's thesis, that there is "continuity" between moral life in and out of the camps. Because life inside the camps was so extreme, it "projects, magnifies and renders eloquent what can easily escape notice in the humdrum of our daily lives."
And while most of its content was pitiless, I finished the reading somewhat heartened, strengthened in my belief that while human goodness does not always "reign supreme," it sometimes reveals itself in even the darkest circumstances.
"Haven't we learned only too well the sad and simple truth the camps revealed, namely, that in extreme situations all traces of moral life evaporate as men become beasts locked in a merciless struggle for survival?" Todorov asks. There are just too many survivor testimonies that point to the jungle-law to which human beings succumb when their own survival is at stake. For example, Auschwitz survivior, Primo Levi (who committed suicide in 1987) wrote that to survive, it was necessary "to throttle all dignity and kill all conscience to climb down into the arena as a beast against other beasts...It was a Hobbesian life...a continuous war of everyone against everyone." Varlam Shalamov, a prisoner of the Soviet gulag Kolyma, wrote, "All human emotions--of love, friendship, envy, concern for one's fellowman, compassion, a longing for fame, honesty--had left us with the flesh that had melted from our bodies during our long fasts."
But Todorov argues that even within these very bleak survivor accounts, there are exceptions. There were many moments of compassion and cooperation--too many to discount. For example, Shalamov also wrote of himself, "I couldn't denounce a fellow convict, no matter what he did. And I refused to seek the job of foreman, which provided a chance to stay alive..." Buchenwald survivor Rovert Antelme describes "the hungry old man who'd steal in front of his son, so the son could eat. Father and son...hungry together, offering their bread to each other with loving eyes..."
As I write these things, I think back to a barbecue I attended several years ago. There, I met a man who, upon learning that I taught theology, questioned me, almost angrily: "How can you believe in a loving God when there is so much cruelty in the world?" Great conversation for a barbecue, huh? I can't say that I responded in the way that I would have liked. At the time, I felt embarassed and a bit stupid that I didn't have a quick answer for him.
I no longer worry about not having "quick answers" about these things--it actually feels better and more right to "hold back." Sometimes, I find that the only appropriate response is to remain silent. But after my reading tonight, I think I might have said, "Do I believe in a loving God? All I can say is this: love is my God. And I will continue to look for its presence in even the darkest and cruelest of places."
Why was I so eager to begin such grim reading? I was interested in Todorov's thesis, that there is "continuity" between moral life in and out of the camps. Because life inside the camps was so extreme, it "projects, magnifies and renders eloquent what can easily escape notice in the humdrum of our daily lives."
And while most of its content was pitiless, I finished the reading somewhat heartened, strengthened in my belief that while human goodness does not always "reign supreme," it sometimes reveals itself in even the darkest circumstances.
"Haven't we learned only too well the sad and simple truth the camps revealed, namely, that in extreme situations all traces of moral life evaporate as men become beasts locked in a merciless struggle for survival?" Todorov asks. There are just too many survivor testimonies that point to the jungle-law to which human beings succumb when their own survival is at stake. For example, Auschwitz survivior, Primo Levi (who committed suicide in 1987) wrote that to survive, it was necessary "to throttle all dignity and kill all conscience to climb down into the arena as a beast against other beasts...It was a Hobbesian life...a continuous war of everyone against everyone." Varlam Shalamov, a prisoner of the Soviet gulag Kolyma, wrote, "All human emotions--of love, friendship, envy, concern for one's fellowman, compassion, a longing for fame, honesty--had left us with the flesh that had melted from our bodies during our long fasts."
But Todorov argues that even within these very bleak survivor accounts, there are exceptions. There were many moments of compassion and cooperation--too many to discount. For example, Shalamov also wrote of himself, "I couldn't denounce a fellow convict, no matter what he did. And I refused to seek the job of foreman, which provided a chance to stay alive..." Buchenwald survivor Rovert Antelme describes "the hungry old man who'd steal in front of his son, so the son could eat. Father and son...hungry together, offering their bread to each other with loving eyes..."
As I write these things, I think back to a barbecue I attended several years ago. There, I met a man who, upon learning that I taught theology, questioned me, almost angrily: "How can you believe in a loving God when there is so much cruelty in the world?" Great conversation for a barbecue, huh? I can't say that I responded in the way that I would have liked. At the time, I felt embarassed and a bit stupid that I didn't have a quick answer for him.
I no longer worry about not having "quick answers" about these things--it actually feels better and more right to "hold back." Sometimes, I find that the only appropriate response is to remain silent. But after my reading tonight, I think I might have said, "Do I believe in a loving God? All I can say is this: love is my God. And I will continue to look for its presence in even the darkest and cruelest of places."
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Inner Freedom
My friend, Brian, commented on one of my posts that he feels "amazement" at the extent to which people tend to judge themselves more harshly than others do. I am glad and grateful that he, a close long-term friend, has seen a lot of my personal messiness and judges, nevertheless, that I am a "terrific" person.
Really, that makes me happy.
But his comment prompted me to think a bit more about what made my adult "conversion" experience so personally significant. I have already shared much of the content of this experience: it was a genuine recogntion of my goodness, or to put it another way, loveableness. Perhaps I had been excessively harsh with myself over the years, and perhaps other people never, or only occasionally, looked at me and thought, "she is a jerk." But ultimately, whether it was reasonable or not, this is what I came to think of myself...deeply. The ability to recognize my own fundamental goodness did not come easily to me, and so when I finally did recognize it, or experience it (more accurately), I felt a tremendous sense of inner freedom. I have come to see, not only in my own story but in the stories of others, that a lack of self-love, a sense of one's own badness, can be tough shackle to break. And it is a shackle.
A fundamental story of the Judeo-Christian tradition is the story of the Exodus. It is the story of a people who had lost their land and liberty--everything. But the God who loved them passionately would not abandon them. Instead, God acts in history to free them. The story is a powerful one...and a universal one. It speaks not only to those people who are, like the Israelites, enslaved by oppressive economic and political systems (which it does, strongly). It speaks also to the human person who is inwardly enslaved. And it speaks also of the God whose dream is human freedom.
Really, that makes me happy.
But his comment prompted me to think a bit more about what made my adult "conversion" experience so personally significant. I have already shared much of the content of this experience: it was a genuine recogntion of my goodness, or to put it another way, loveableness. Perhaps I had been excessively harsh with myself over the years, and perhaps other people never, or only occasionally, looked at me and thought, "she is a jerk." But ultimately, whether it was reasonable or not, this is what I came to think of myself...deeply. The ability to recognize my own fundamental goodness did not come easily to me, and so when I finally did recognize it, or experience it (more accurately), I felt a tremendous sense of inner freedom. I have come to see, not only in my own story but in the stories of others, that a lack of self-love, a sense of one's own badness, can be tough shackle to break. And it is a shackle.
A fundamental story of the Judeo-Christian tradition is the story of the Exodus. It is the story of a people who had lost their land and liberty--everything. But the God who loved them passionately would not abandon them. Instead, God acts in history to free them. The story is a powerful one...and a universal one. It speaks not only to those people who are, like the Israelites, enslaved by oppressive economic and political systems (which it does, strongly). It speaks also to the human person who is inwardly enslaved. And it speaks also of the God whose dream is human freedom.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
On my last post....
Just a note on how what I wrote in my last post relates to my earlier post, "Oh ___: Grace and Responsibility."
Until I had my son, Aidan, I worked at a private school where we had a full-time Chaplain. Honestly, I often felt dissatisfied with his sermons, which articulated, over and over again, the message that "You are loved (loveable)." My sense was that when he was a young boy, he probably heard only sermons that emphasized the opposite, but to me, he seemed to be falling into the same kind of lopsidedness. In his sermons, there never seemed to be any mention of repentance or responsibility. There was no "edge" to his message, and I feared (perhaps a bit too dramatically) that he was peddling a kind of "cheap grace." I fear that people will suspect the same of me.
So I mentioned that my "turning point" came when I was able to recognize myself as good. This was a very big deal for me, not simply because I had had so much trouble with self-acceptance. I think it was a big deal because so much responsibility flowed (flows) from it. I wrote earlier of responsibility as a more "compassionate and loving responsiveness" to the world around us. I really have found that once I was able to recognize my own goodness (in a genuine and deep way), I felt called to make better decisions--decisions that better reflected my own worth (Minor example and major admission: until then, I was a horrible, closeted chain smoker. I really don't know how I was able to keep it a secret...in fact, many more people probably knew it but never said anything. How could they not know? I probably reeked... Anyway, I stopped smoking, which was really, really, really hard, after that first retreat because it no longer fit into my growing sense of self-worth). Further, I felt called to not only recognize my own goodness but that of others: if I was "good," even though there was a lot of messiness in me, then that held true for others as well. I could no longer rest in my conclusion that a particular person (who has hurt me on many occasions) is "just a monster." Sometimes, I am able to take on this responsibility with an energetic enthusiasm. Most often, I find myself feeling, "Oh shit. I really have to do this."
Hoping this shows the connection between the two posts....
Until I had my son, Aidan, I worked at a private school where we had a full-time Chaplain. Honestly, I often felt dissatisfied with his sermons, which articulated, over and over again, the message that "You are loved (loveable)." My sense was that when he was a young boy, he probably heard only sermons that emphasized the opposite, but to me, he seemed to be falling into the same kind of lopsidedness. In his sermons, there never seemed to be any mention of repentance or responsibility. There was no "edge" to his message, and I feared (perhaps a bit too dramatically) that he was peddling a kind of "cheap grace." I fear that people will suspect the same of me.
So I mentioned that my "turning point" came when I was able to recognize myself as good. This was a very big deal for me, not simply because I had had so much trouble with self-acceptance. I think it was a big deal because so much responsibility flowed (flows) from it. I wrote earlier of responsibility as a more "compassionate and loving responsiveness" to the world around us. I really have found that once I was able to recognize my own goodness (in a genuine and deep way), I felt called to make better decisions--decisions that better reflected my own worth (Minor example and major admission: until then, I was a horrible, closeted chain smoker. I really don't know how I was able to keep it a secret...in fact, many more people probably knew it but never said anything. How could they not know? I probably reeked... Anyway, I stopped smoking, which was really, really, really hard, after that first retreat because it no longer fit into my growing sense of self-worth). Further, I felt called to not only recognize my own goodness but that of others: if I was "good," even though there was a lot of messiness in me, then that held true for others as well. I could no longer rest in my conclusion that a particular person (who has hurt me on many occasions) is "just a monster." Sometimes, I am able to take on this responsibility with an energetic enthusiasm. Most often, I find myself feeling, "Oh shit. I really have to do this."
Hoping this shows the connection between the two posts....
Good enough? Good at all?
To an old friend:
I am so glad that you've been reading my blog. I am honored that you not only read my words but think about them and respond to them! I cannot tell you what a gift this is for me!
You write, "...we're deceived into believing in our own progress--believing that with one more small achievement, God will love us more. Grace is found when we take a breath and are courageous enough to say right now, I am enough."
Your words remind me of one of my favorite quotes by Leo Rock, SJ:
"What an inestimable grace it is to recognize and appreciate all that is good enough in ourselves and in our lives! Good enough for our love, loyalty, dedication, and humble gratitude. Good enough insists there is something between perfection and mediocrity."
For so many people, grace really is about being able to say, "I am good enough." For me personally, it's about being able to say "I am good." Good at all. Because I haven't always believed this.
I mentioned in my last blog that I didn't really have a genuine, adult "conversion" experience until I was already 28 years old. I guess that's still pretty young in the grand scheme of things. At the time, I was working at a small Catholic liberal arts college. I had started the job in a particularly painful period--I had just ended an engagement to be married. I had cared about my fiance very much but had found that marrying him would be disastrous for both of us. (In my "Marriage and Family" class in college, my professor had said that a broken engagement isn't a "failure"--that engagement is a time to discover whether a life commitment is the right choice--but these words weren't any consolation to me). Even though I knew that my decision was the right one, I felt pretty miserable....guilty....friendless. I was in such a bad space that I started to see my entire life as just a long series of screw ups, and I concluded about myself that I was a pretty big asshole.
The President of the college obtained a very generous grant that was to be used for the spiritual formation/development of the faculty and staff. I took advantage of the grant and signed up for a seven-day, silent retreat. [For those who are unfamiliar with Ignatian retreats--one spends the week in silence and prayer (no phone, no tv, no newspaper, etc.), with the exception of an hour-long meeting with a spiritual director. The director listens to the retreatant's account of what is "going on" inside of them in their silence and prayer and offers guidance and suggestions for further prayer.]
I arrived on the first day of my retreat with the hope and expectation of "turning myself around," and I even had a list of all that I wanted to accomplish! I wanted to leave the retreat as a more holy, loving, reverent, honest, disciplined (etc., etc., etc.) person. I have to laugh when I think back on that week. Each day, I'd visit my spiritual director and would begin my session with, "I think I really need to work on this...." She would kindly say, "Oh, that's interesting." Then she'd ask me simply to describe some of the thoughts and feelings I was having in the course of the day. She wouldn't say much in response but would instruct me to spend some time reflecting on Psalm 139. I figured out that something was going on when she instructed me to reflect on this same Psalm (and only this) for four days in a row!
If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light around me become night,
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
For it was you who formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made...
The grace I needed most at that time, and the grace I experienced that week, was the ability to look at myself, my whole self (in all its messiness--and believe me, there is a lot of messiness) and say, "I am good."
Even as this was a turning point (conversion - turn around) in my life, I still struggle with it. A lot. In fact, there are days when I feel overwhelmed by memories of things I've done wrong or inadequately or insensitively: "God, I wish I hadn't been so stupid in college...." "Why did I treat [insert name here] so poorly?" "Why couldn't I have just been honest about how I was feeling?" And that insidious voice starts to creep in: "Rebecca, you're just an asshole." But then I consciously bring to mind the words of the Psalm and dwell on them for a while....
Friend, thanks for your response. I am so happy we are in conversation again!
I am so glad that you've been reading my blog. I am honored that you not only read my words but think about them and respond to them! I cannot tell you what a gift this is for me!
You write, "...we're deceived into believing in our own progress--believing that with one more small achievement, God will love us more. Grace is found when we take a breath and are courageous enough to say right now, I am enough."
Your words remind me of one of my favorite quotes by Leo Rock, SJ:
"What an inestimable grace it is to recognize and appreciate all that is good enough in ourselves and in our lives! Good enough for our love, loyalty, dedication, and humble gratitude. Good enough insists there is something between perfection and mediocrity."
For so many people, grace really is about being able to say, "I am good enough." For me personally, it's about being able to say "I am good." Good at all. Because I haven't always believed this.
I mentioned in my last blog that I didn't really have a genuine, adult "conversion" experience until I was already 28 years old. I guess that's still pretty young in the grand scheme of things. At the time, I was working at a small Catholic liberal arts college. I had started the job in a particularly painful period--I had just ended an engagement to be married. I had cared about my fiance very much but had found that marrying him would be disastrous for both of us. (In my "Marriage and Family" class in college, my professor had said that a broken engagement isn't a "failure"--that engagement is a time to discover whether a life commitment is the right choice--but these words weren't any consolation to me). Even though I knew that my decision was the right one, I felt pretty miserable....guilty....friendless. I was in such a bad space that I started to see my entire life as just a long series of screw ups, and I concluded about myself that I was a pretty big asshole.
The President of the college obtained a very generous grant that was to be used for the spiritual formation/development of the faculty and staff. I took advantage of the grant and signed up for a seven-day, silent retreat. [For those who are unfamiliar with Ignatian retreats--one spends the week in silence and prayer (no phone, no tv, no newspaper, etc.), with the exception of an hour-long meeting with a spiritual director. The director listens to the retreatant's account of what is "going on" inside of them in their silence and prayer and offers guidance and suggestions for further prayer.]
I arrived on the first day of my retreat with the hope and expectation of "turning myself around," and I even had a list of all that I wanted to accomplish! I wanted to leave the retreat as a more holy, loving, reverent, honest, disciplined (etc., etc., etc.) person. I have to laugh when I think back on that week. Each day, I'd visit my spiritual director and would begin my session with, "I think I really need to work on this...." She would kindly say, "Oh, that's interesting." Then she'd ask me simply to describe some of the thoughts and feelings I was having in the course of the day. She wouldn't say much in response but would instruct me to spend some time reflecting on Psalm 139. I figured out that something was going on when she instructed me to reflect on this same Psalm (and only this) for four days in a row!
If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light around me become night,
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is as bright as the day,
for darkness is as light to you.
For it was you who formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made...
The grace I needed most at that time, and the grace I experienced that week, was the ability to look at myself, my whole self (in all its messiness--and believe me, there is a lot of messiness) and say, "I am good."
Even as this was a turning point (conversion - turn around) in my life, I still struggle with it. A lot. In fact, there are days when I feel overwhelmed by memories of things I've done wrong or inadequately or insensitively: "God, I wish I hadn't been so stupid in college...." "Why did I treat [insert name here] so poorly?" "Why couldn't I have just been honest about how I was feeling?" And that insidious voice starts to creep in: "Rebecca, you're just an asshole." But then I consciously bring to mind the words of the Psalm and dwell on them for a while....
Friend, thanks for your response. I am so happy we are in conversation again!
Monday, October 11, 2010
Religious Literacy
In this Sunday's New York Times, Nicholas Kristoff invites readers to take a pop quiz about religion. A recent Pew Research Center poll revealed, shockingly, that "religious people turned out to be remarkably uninformed about religion. Almost half of Catholics didn’t understand Communion. Most Protestants didn’t know that Martin Luther started the Reformation. Almost half of Jews didn’t realize Maimonides was Jewish. And atheists were among the best informed about religion." The quiz, he suggests, is designed to show people how complicated religions can be and serves as a strong caution against "inflammatory conclusions" about them. I'd love to see how someone like Bill Maher would fare on the quiz. I, for one, am tired of his inflammatory conclusions about Christianity in particular and about religion in general.
I found myself wondering why atheists are, according to the poll, the best informed. Is it because they are so informed that they are atheist? Or is it because some want ammunition in their "case against God" and want to prove the "God delusion"? Or some other reason? I don't know the answer to this. I know only my own experience: over the years, I found that the more I learned about the Christian tradition in which I was raised, the more I fell in love with it.
I had attended Catholic schools from the first through the twelfth grades, and when I started the college application process, I was stunned that my father insisted that I apply only to Catholic college or university. Wasn't he limiting me too much, I asked him, and hadn't I already had enough religious education? But he felt strongly that my religious education--twelve years of it!--hadn't been enough. So after applying to several schools, I chose to attend a small liberal arts Catholic college, where I was required to take three Theology courses. Already in my very first theology course, "The Christian Moral Traditon," I discovered how little, in fact, I knew about Christianity. (It wasn't that my religious ed teachers in my elementary and high schools hadn't done their jobs--it was that I was far too immature to "get" what they were teaching me. In high school especially, I was concerned mostly with things like my hair (which never cooperated with me), my friends, and boys). I received a C- on my first paper because it came as a real shock to me that the Chrsitian Moral Tradition involved more complex questioning than simply, "What would Jesus do?" I later took "Jesus Christ" and found that Jesus was far more interesting than I had previously thought. Before college, my understanding of Jesus was shaped more by Andrew Lloyd Weber than by any real encounter with the Scriptures. Gosh, I hadn't even paid enough attention in school to know that there were four fairly distinctive canonical gospels, as well as several non-canonical gospels, that weaved together historical fact about and theological interpretation of his life. I discovered in another class that words like "Incarnation" and "Trinity" and "Salvation" had rich histories and many layers of meaning.
Actually, I was so uninformed--so dense--that I didn't know why a course about the Book of Job, which I planned to take, was called "Triumph Over Absurdity." I didn't "get" it when my advisor, a professor in the English Department, couldn't stop laughing when he received word that the course had been "cancelled" (due to lack of enrollment). When I figured it out, I had a good chuckle myself--one of my friends says that a pretty good reason to get an education is that it allows you to understand more jokes.
I was hooked: by the time I graduated in 1998, I had taken seven courses, enough to complete an academic "minor" and had decided to apply to Masters programs in Theology.
I do not think that a solid religious education necessarily leads to deep faith. In fact, it wasn't until I turned 28 that I experienced what I think of as a genuine, adult conversion. This was a full six years after I completed my Masters Degree. My education had informed my head but hadn't necessarily changed my heart. But when I did experience the pull of grace in an irresistable and irrevocable way, I did so in a deeply informed way.
I feel sad when I see reports suggesting that people are highly illiterate in matters of religion, especially in traditions they claim as their own. I feel, with Kristof, a sense that religious literacy can create more tolerance. But even beyond that, a religious education is valuable because our traditions are so incredibly fascinating and so wonderfully complex. My life has been deeply enriched by my religious education--an education which remains unfinished (there is still more for me to learn about the Christian tradition, and I admit to knowing only the "advanced basics" of some other religious traditions). I wish that for others.
And isn't it fun to be able to "get" more jokes?
I found myself wondering why atheists are, according to the poll, the best informed. Is it because they are so informed that they are atheist? Or is it because some want ammunition in their "case against God" and want to prove the "God delusion"? Or some other reason? I don't know the answer to this. I know only my own experience: over the years, I found that the more I learned about the Christian tradition in which I was raised, the more I fell in love with it.
I had attended Catholic schools from the first through the twelfth grades, and when I started the college application process, I was stunned that my father insisted that I apply only to Catholic college or university. Wasn't he limiting me too much, I asked him, and hadn't I already had enough religious education? But he felt strongly that my religious education--twelve years of it!--hadn't been enough. So after applying to several schools, I chose to attend a small liberal arts Catholic college, where I was required to take three Theology courses. Already in my very first theology course, "The Christian Moral Traditon," I discovered how little, in fact, I knew about Christianity. (It wasn't that my religious ed teachers in my elementary and high schools hadn't done their jobs--it was that I was far too immature to "get" what they were teaching me. In high school especially, I was concerned mostly with things like my hair (which never cooperated with me), my friends, and boys). I received a C- on my first paper because it came as a real shock to me that the Chrsitian Moral Tradition involved more complex questioning than simply, "What would Jesus do?" I later took "Jesus Christ" and found that Jesus was far more interesting than I had previously thought. Before college, my understanding of Jesus was shaped more by Andrew Lloyd Weber than by any real encounter with the Scriptures. Gosh, I hadn't even paid enough attention in school to know that there were four fairly distinctive canonical gospels, as well as several non-canonical gospels, that weaved together historical fact about and theological interpretation of his life. I discovered in another class that words like "Incarnation" and "Trinity" and "Salvation" had rich histories and many layers of meaning.
Actually, I was so uninformed--so dense--that I didn't know why a course about the Book of Job, which I planned to take, was called "Triumph Over Absurdity." I didn't "get" it when my advisor, a professor in the English Department, couldn't stop laughing when he received word that the course had been "cancelled" (due to lack of enrollment). When I figured it out, I had a good chuckle myself--one of my friends says that a pretty good reason to get an education is that it allows you to understand more jokes.
I was hooked: by the time I graduated in 1998, I had taken seven courses, enough to complete an academic "minor" and had decided to apply to Masters programs in Theology.
I do not think that a solid religious education necessarily leads to deep faith. In fact, it wasn't until I turned 28 that I experienced what I think of as a genuine, adult conversion. This was a full six years after I completed my Masters Degree. My education had informed my head but hadn't necessarily changed my heart. But when I did experience the pull of grace in an irresistable and irrevocable way, I did so in a deeply informed way.
I feel sad when I see reports suggesting that people are highly illiterate in matters of religion, especially in traditions they claim as their own. I feel, with Kristof, a sense that religious literacy can create more tolerance. But even beyond that, a religious education is valuable because our traditions are so incredibly fascinating and so wonderfully complex. My life has been deeply enriched by my religious education--an education which remains unfinished (there is still more for me to learn about the Christian tradition, and I admit to knowing only the "advanced basics" of some other religious traditions). I wish that for others.
And isn't it fun to be able to "get" more jokes?
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Oh S*#&t: Grace and Responsibility
I spent a few hours today working on my paper for my Thursday night class. You may recall that last week, I chose to explore the virtue of "self-care." This week, I chose "responsibility." Most of my paper focuses on the work of H. Richard Niebuhr, the Christian ethicist and younger brother of the well-known theologian Reinhold Niebuhr, and M. Scott Peck. Both have much to say about responsibility, but approach it through different lenses.
...But a reading unrelated to my course had me thinking of responsibility today. In the Christian calendar, today's first reading is from Paul's letter to the Galations, in which he discusses his conversion from sinner to saint, from persecutor to proclaimer of the Gospel. In this reading, Paul writes to the people of Galatia that "when he, who from my mother's womb had set me apart and called me through his grace" to bring the Gospel to the Gentiles, he did not immediately go to the leaders of the Christian community to share with them his great conversion and calling. Instead, he went to Arabia. It was only after three years that he met with these leaders....
I am exegetically out of practice, and my detailed knowledge of Scripture is starting to fade with each passing year. And by all means, someone with better biblical smarts, please do let me know! Perhaps it's the case that Paul decided to begin his mission immediately, not needing any conferral with the leaders in the earliest Christian communities. But I like to imagine that after his conversion experience Paul needed some time to wrestle with what he was being called to do. He was called to become more, called to greatness (and certainly not by the standards of the world)--but wasn't quite sure he wanted the effort and the responsibility it required.
I like to imagine Paul in this way because it speaks best to my own experience of grace....
I have always believed that all people are called to be more than they are--this is the pull of grace. I think the pull leads us in the direction of greater responsibility--that is, more sensitive and compassionate responsiveness to people and the world around us. Unlike Paul (unless, of course, Scripture doesn't paint the full picture), I have experienced this pull not in a single, extraordinary event or moment that changed me so entirely, but over a longer period of time, over many moments. It happens slowly (as my spiritual director once said, "All real, good growth is slow. Cancer grows quickly, and it is deadly.") And I certainly have experienced setbacks and have regressed on more occasions than I can count. But the pull remains and is persistent...
And for as much as this all sounds lovely (as my husband would joke, I love thinking and talking about rainbows and lollipops), I'm with M. Scott Peck, who writes that "We are accustomed to imagining the experience of conversion or the call to grace as an 'Oh joy' phenomenon. In my experience, more often than not it is, at least partially, an 'Oh Shit' phenomenon." As he says, our response to the call of grace might be, "Thank you, Lord." It might also be, "Do I have to?"
...But a reading unrelated to my course had me thinking of responsibility today. In the Christian calendar, today's first reading is from Paul's letter to the Galations, in which he discusses his conversion from sinner to saint, from persecutor to proclaimer of the Gospel. In this reading, Paul writes to the people of Galatia that "when he, who from my mother's womb had set me apart and called me through his grace" to bring the Gospel to the Gentiles, he did not immediately go to the leaders of the Christian community to share with them his great conversion and calling. Instead, he went to Arabia. It was only after three years that he met with these leaders....
I am exegetically out of practice, and my detailed knowledge of Scripture is starting to fade with each passing year. And by all means, someone with better biblical smarts, please do let me know! Perhaps it's the case that Paul decided to begin his mission immediately, not needing any conferral with the leaders in the earliest Christian communities. But I like to imagine that after his conversion experience Paul needed some time to wrestle with what he was being called to do. He was called to become more, called to greatness (and certainly not by the standards of the world)--but wasn't quite sure he wanted the effort and the responsibility it required.
I like to imagine Paul in this way because it speaks best to my own experience of grace....
I have always believed that all people are called to be more than they are--this is the pull of grace. I think the pull leads us in the direction of greater responsibility--that is, more sensitive and compassionate responsiveness to people and the world around us. Unlike Paul (unless, of course, Scripture doesn't paint the full picture), I have experienced this pull not in a single, extraordinary event or moment that changed me so entirely, but over a longer period of time, over many moments. It happens slowly (as my spiritual director once said, "All real, good growth is slow. Cancer grows quickly, and it is deadly.") And I certainly have experienced setbacks and have regressed on more occasions than I can count. But the pull remains and is persistent...
And for as much as this all sounds lovely (as my husband would joke, I love thinking and talking about rainbows and lollipops), I'm with M. Scott Peck, who writes that "We are accustomed to imagining the experience of conversion or the call to grace as an 'Oh joy' phenomenon. In my experience, more often than not it is, at least partially, an 'Oh Shit' phenomenon." As he says, our response to the call of grace might be, "Thank you, Lord." It might also be, "Do I have to?"
Friday, October 1, 2010
"Take Care of Yourself"
How many times have I ended a phone conversation, email, or personal meeting with the words, "Take care of yourself"? I am not sure I can count them. Also, I am not sure that I really meant them. It's not that I meant something opposite: "Don't take care of yourself. Go have a bad week/day/life" (although actually, maybe I did, on occasion actually think this....). It's more that I've said them in the same way that I ask "How are you?" Hastily. Customarily. Without much thought.
This week, I had the opportunity to think about these words--more specifically, I reflected upon the meaning of "self-care." As some of you know, I am taking a class at Union Theological Seminary. The class, "Virtue Ethics," was not my first choice (I didn't get to take the course that was my first choice for a variety of reasons), but I am so pleased that I am taking it. The instructor, a newly minted Ph.D., decided to make it a very practical course: each week, students are to explore the theoretical contours of a virtue of their choice. We are to submit a paper that shows an awareness of what others (philosophers, theologians, other writers) have said about the virtue. After we have done this, we are to practice the virtue for a week and to keep a journal of our experience, taking note of how our experience is informed by or builds upon what theorists have said. (Interesting fact: In the 18th century, Benjamin Franklin regularly engaged in this. He picked one of a dozen or so virtues to practice each week. When he finished a complete cycle of the virtues, he began again. When he reflected upon the experience, he found that he had trouble with ORDER but not with CHASTITY. Interesting, indeed, as he had a very robust sexual life with many partners, much to the consternation of his wife.)
We turned in our first papers last night. Many students chose classical virtues, such as temperance or courage. I chose something that I hadn't, until recently, thought of as virtuous: self-care.
In the paper I submitted last night, I wrote of how self-care is treated in the work of Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas, but I included that my thinking about self-care as virtue has been shaped a great deal by the Jesuit moral theologian, James Keenan. He suggests that self-care is not simply virtuous--it is a cardinal virtue. It is cardinal (from cardo, or "hinge") because it is the hinge "upon which hangs our image of the moral person." Moral teaching, he argues, has less to do the perfecting of one's personal powers. It has more to do with helping people to "realize rightly the variety of ways we are relational." Keenan identifies three ways we are relational: generally (in our relationship to the world around us, in a global kind of way), specifically (in our particular relationships), and uniquely (in our relationship with ourselves) and subsequently, he identifies three cardinal virtues: justice (general), fidelity (particular), and self-care (unique). He adds a fourth, prudence, because this is what enables one to integrate and balance the three in one's life.
But what does self-caring (or the disposition of self-caringness) actually look like? What would a "thick description" (a phrase that several contemporary theologians like to use) of this virtue be? Keenan doesn't offer much, except that he makes the claim that "the most important task of self-care [is] the formation of conscience." In that he identifies the conscience as the "call to grow" (and not some kind of internal supervising voice like the superego), I agree with him. But I like to think of self-care (self-caringness) very basically as involving a certain gentleness of spirit towards oneself, a kindness towards oneself, a willingness to take time for rest, renewal, and rejuvenation. And perhaps related to gentleness towards oneself, it involves a peaceful acceptance of our limits, of our nature as unfinished human beings.
My prayer today is for the many parents in our world, many of whom have trouble with self-care. They sometimes don't take enough time for rest--they use their baby's nap times to clean or to puree their baby's next meal. They are anxious, always worrying whether they are doing enough for their children ("Am I interacting enough? Did I handle my toddler's tantrum or hitting in the right way?) and are harsh with themselves, chastising themselves for sometimes making mistakes ("I kept him out too long and pushed him to stay awake for too long...because of me, he is having a major meltdown"). To them, I say, "Take care of yourself!"
And I wish that for myself on this first day of practicing my chosen virtue.
This week, I had the opportunity to think about these words--more specifically, I reflected upon the meaning of "self-care." As some of you know, I am taking a class at Union Theological Seminary. The class, "Virtue Ethics," was not my first choice (I didn't get to take the course that was my first choice for a variety of reasons), but I am so pleased that I am taking it. The instructor, a newly minted Ph.D., decided to make it a very practical course: each week, students are to explore the theoretical contours of a virtue of their choice. We are to submit a paper that shows an awareness of what others (philosophers, theologians, other writers) have said about the virtue. After we have done this, we are to practice the virtue for a week and to keep a journal of our experience, taking note of how our experience is informed by or builds upon what theorists have said. (Interesting fact: In the 18th century, Benjamin Franklin regularly engaged in this. He picked one of a dozen or so virtues to practice each week. When he finished a complete cycle of the virtues, he began again. When he reflected upon the experience, he found that he had trouble with ORDER but not with CHASTITY. Interesting, indeed, as he had a very robust sexual life with many partners, much to the consternation of his wife.)
We turned in our first papers last night. Many students chose classical virtues, such as temperance or courage. I chose something that I hadn't, until recently, thought of as virtuous: self-care.
In the paper I submitted last night, I wrote of how self-care is treated in the work of Aristotle and Thomas Aquinas, but I included that my thinking about self-care as virtue has been shaped a great deal by the Jesuit moral theologian, James Keenan. He suggests that self-care is not simply virtuous--it is a cardinal virtue. It is cardinal (from cardo, or "hinge") because it is the hinge "upon which hangs our image of the moral person." Moral teaching, he argues, has less to do the perfecting of one's personal powers. It has more to do with helping people to "realize rightly the variety of ways we are relational." Keenan identifies three ways we are relational: generally (in our relationship to the world around us, in a global kind of way), specifically (in our particular relationships), and uniquely (in our relationship with ourselves) and subsequently, he identifies three cardinal virtues: justice (general), fidelity (particular), and self-care (unique). He adds a fourth, prudence, because this is what enables one to integrate and balance the three in one's life.
But what does self-caring (or the disposition of self-caringness) actually look like? What would a "thick description" (a phrase that several contemporary theologians like to use) of this virtue be? Keenan doesn't offer much, except that he makes the claim that "the most important task of self-care [is] the formation of conscience." In that he identifies the conscience as the "call to grow" (and not some kind of internal supervising voice like the superego), I agree with him. But I like to think of self-care (self-caringness) very basically as involving a certain gentleness of spirit towards oneself, a kindness towards oneself, a willingness to take time for rest, renewal, and rejuvenation. And perhaps related to gentleness towards oneself, it involves a peaceful acceptance of our limits, of our nature as unfinished human beings.
My prayer today is for the many parents in our world, many of whom have trouble with self-care. They sometimes don't take enough time for rest--they use their baby's nap times to clean or to puree their baby's next meal. They are anxious, always worrying whether they are doing enough for their children ("Am I interacting enough? Did I handle my toddler's tantrum or hitting in the right way?) and are harsh with themselves, chastising themselves for sometimes making mistakes ("I kept him out too long and pushed him to stay awake for too long...because of me, he is having a major meltdown"). To them, I say, "Take care of yourself!"
And I wish that for myself on this first day of practicing my chosen virtue.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
"I Need A Job"
On Sunday, my husband and I (with Aidan in the baby jogger) went for a run in Prospect Park. I'm still trying to get back into it. I won't lie: it hasn't been easy. My knees hurt. I'm slow and feel like I'm just lumbering along. I certainly can't do an entire loop right now, which is roughly 5K. But I won't stop running....or at least walking very briskly....or some combination of the two...in Prospect Park. Thank you, Frederick Law Olmsted for creating such a magnificent park! And I won't stop because this time in the park, when my body is moving and my blood is flowing, and especially in cool weather, I have the time and space for reflection.
This past Sunday, I spotted another runner who was headed in my direction. He wore a shirt with this big, bold message: "I need a job." Was he hoping that someone with the ability to hire him would see it. Was he simply decrying his predicament in the hope that someone might offer him a compassionate smile, a nod of understanding? I have no way of knowing....
But seeing these words gave a direction to my reflection that day. For the past 15 and 1/2 months, I have been a full-time, stay-at-home mother. I adore my son, Aidan. I don't think anyone would ever question that. But being at home full-time has not been easy. I left my job at a private school on the Upper East Side for a whole host of reasons, one of which was the very real possibility that my husband and I would relocate--for a while, this seemed certain in my mind. Wanting to have an active, daily presence in the life of Aidan was also a reason, of course.
But again, it was tough for me--especially when the dust settled after those chaotic first few months, when I averaged three hours of sleep each night and was trying, very determinedly but unsuccessfully, to nurse him. For ten years prior to Aidan's birth, I worked, mostly in schools, primarily as a teacher. There were some jobs I wasn't thrilled about, but I always loved working. I loved the interactions I had with others. I loved that I had my own income. I loved feeling that I was a part of something, and as an educator, I knew that I was part of something good. More than anything, working helped me to know my own worth.
And so there were days when, even as I knew and really believed that being available full-time to my son was a great and wonderful thing...and was only a temporary situation....I often felt worthless. And lonely. And out-of-touch.
I can't imagine what it must feel like for those who are not working through no choice of their own. As Parker Palmer writes, "Take away the opportunity to work, to create, or to care--as our society does to many people--and you have deprived someone of a chance to feel fully human." Certainly, overwork also does damage to the spirit: "The built-in limitations of any job render it incapable by itself of satisfying all of our human longings," write Wilkie Au and Noreen Cannon. But good work is definitely one activity that can foster, in a very deep way, the growth of the spirit.
These days, I am feeling pretty lucky. I take a class on Thursdays at a top-notch New York Seminary. I really enjoy it. I am teaching Sunday school at my church. I am even dabbling a bit in selling some skin-care products with a friend and using the profits to set up a scholarship fund. I'm not sure how the latter is going to work out....I'm still weighing if it's the right thing to do. And I'm still home with Aidan for a very substantial amount of time. I'm engaged in various kinds of work...and it feels great.
And so tonight, I'll say a prayer that that runner and the many others who are without work can find some rest without worry and nourishment for their spirits as they wait for the possibilities of tomorrow....
This past Sunday, I spotted another runner who was headed in my direction. He wore a shirt with this big, bold message: "I need a job." Was he hoping that someone with the ability to hire him would see it. Was he simply decrying his predicament in the hope that someone might offer him a compassionate smile, a nod of understanding? I have no way of knowing....
But seeing these words gave a direction to my reflection that day. For the past 15 and 1/2 months, I have been a full-time, stay-at-home mother. I adore my son, Aidan. I don't think anyone would ever question that. But being at home full-time has not been easy. I left my job at a private school on the Upper East Side for a whole host of reasons, one of which was the very real possibility that my husband and I would relocate--for a while, this seemed certain in my mind. Wanting to have an active, daily presence in the life of Aidan was also a reason, of course.
But again, it was tough for me--especially when the dust settled after those chaotic first few months, when I averaged three hours of sleep each night and was trying, very determinedly but unsuccessfully, to nurse him. For ten years prior to Aidan's birth, I worked, mostly in schools, primarily as a teacher. There were some jobs I wasn't thrilled about, but I always loved working. I loved the interactions I had with others. I loved that I had my own income. I loved feeling that I was a part of something, and as an educator, I knew that I was part of something good. More than anything, working helped me to know my own worth.
And so there were days when, even as I knew and really believed that being available full-time to my son was a great and wonderful thing...and was only a temporary situation....I often felt worthless. And lonely. And out-of-touch.
I can't imagine what it must feel like for those who are not working through no choice of their own. As Parker Palmer writes, "Take away the opportunity to work, to create, or to care--as our society does to many people--and you have deprived someone of a chance to feel fully human." Certainly, overwork also does damage to the spirit: "The built-in limitations of any job render it incapable by itself of satisfying all of our human longings," write Wilkie Au and Noreen Cannon. But good work is definitely one activity that can foster, in a very deep way, the growth of the spirit.
These days, I am feeling pretty lucky. I take a class on Thursdays at a top-notch New York Seminary. I really enjoy it. I am teaching Sunday school at my church. I am even dabbling a bit in selling some skin-care products with a friend and using the profits to set up a scholarship fund. I'm not sure how the latter is going to work out....I'm still weighing if it's the right thing to do. And I'm still home with Aidan for a very substantial amount of time. I'm engaged in various kinds of work...and it feels great.
And so tonight, I'll say a prayer that that runner and the many others who are without work can find some rest without worry and nourishment for their spirits as they wait for the possibilities of tomorrow....
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Stuck in traffic....
I spent the day in Philadelphia: for her birthday, I took my niece, Sophia, to see a theatrical production of Junie B. Jones, based on the book she proudly finished this summer (it was one of the only books she felt compelled to finish). My nephew, Ethan, joined us for the show, and afterwards, we met up with my sister and parents for a late lunch. It was a wonderful day--so wonderful that on my drive back to Brooklyn, where my husband was waiting for me and my baby was already fast asleep, I found myself wishing that I could have bottled it up so as to keep it forever.
And then I hit traffic. My husband had warned me that if I wasn't on the road by a certain point, I'd be stuck on the New Jersey turnpike for a while...that a 2 hour journey would become a 3+ hour journey. And that's what I did. Instead of counting the cars (a la Simon and Garfunkel), though, I started thinking about Thorton Wilder's Our Town.
Just a few months ago, I saw the magnificent off-Broadway production of Wilder's play. It was either the fourth or fifth time I had seen a production of it, and I truly enjoyed each experience, but seeing it recently was unlike any previous experience I had had of it--becoming a mother gave me eyes with which to see it and a heart with which to understand it more deeply.
In a famous scene from the final act, Emily, a major character, has died and so joins loved ones and friends who also have passed. She learns that she may choose a day--any day--from her life to revisit, and while the others warn her against it, she is determined to revisit an ordinary day in the life of her family. When she does, she learns rather quickly why the others warned her of its peril. What she sees (with eyes of resurrection, as I see it, because resurrection sheds light on everything), is how quickly we go through our days. She re-enters this ordinary day and begs her busy mother to pause for just a moment. But her mother is busy. And weary. And is probably doing the best she can. Emily grieves that life moves so quickly--there is barely time to pause and simply look at one another. I thought about this as the traffic forced me to pause.
Call me sentimental. For when I finally returned home, 3+ hours later just as my husband had predicted, I opened the door to my little boy's bedroom (in order to take a look at my darling, sleeping baby) and immediately smelled a diaper that desperately needed to be changed--and instead of cursing to myself that in changing him, I'd risk waking him up and having him want to play rather than fall back to sleep, with a gentle spirit I picked him up and placed him on his changing table. I couldn't believe it--he has almost outgrown his changing table! I changed his diaper and held him for as long as was needed for him to fall back to sleep. And he did.
I never thought I'd be so thankful for an evening spent stuck in traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike.
And then I hit traffic. My husband had warned me that if I wasn't on the road by a certain point, I'd be stuck on the New Jersey turnpike for a while...that a 2 hour journey would become a 3+ hour journey. And that's what I did. Instead of counting the cars (a la Simon and Garfunkel), though, I started thinking about Thorton Wilder's Our Town.
Just a few months ago, I saw the magnificent off-Broadway production of Wilder's play. It was either the fourth or fifth time I had seen a production of it, and I truly enjoyed each experience, but seeing it recently was unlike any previous experience I had had of it--becoming a mother gave me eyes with which to see it and a heart with which to understand it more deeply.
In a famous scene from the final act, Emily, a major character, has died and so joins loved ones and friends who also have passed. She learns that she may choose a day--any day--from her life to revisit, and while the others warn her against it, she is determined to revisit an ordinary day in the life of her family. When she does, she learns rather quickly why the others warned her of its peril. What she sees (with eyes of resurrection, as I see it, because resurrection sheds light on everything), is how quickly we go through our days. She re-enters this ordinary day and begs her busy mother to pause for just a moment. But her mother is busy. And weary. And is probably doing the best she can. Emily grieves that life moves so quickly--there is barely time to pause and simply look at one another. I thought about this as the traffic forced me to pause.
Call me sentimental. For when I finally returned home, 3+ hours later just as my husband had predicted, I opened the door to my little boy's bedroom (in order to take a look at my darling, sleeping baby) and immediately smelled a diaper that desperately needed to be changed--and instead of cursing to myself that in changing him, I'd risk waking him up and having him want to play rather than fall back to sleep, with a gentle spirit I picked him up and placed him on his changing table. I couldn't believe it--he has almost outgrown his changing table! I changed his diaper and held him for as long as was needed for him to fall back to sleep. And he did.
I never thought I'd be so thankful for an evening spent stuck in traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
On "Grace Notes"
I still can't believe that I've joined the blogosphere. It's something I resisted for so long, for reasons that really don't matter right now and that obviously didn't hold persuasive power for very long.
I will note one reason, though: it was hard for me to figure out what this blog would be about. I wanted my blog entries to have some kind of unifying, central theme, but I couldn't figure it out. I thought about some of my friends' blogs: one has a blog about his life as a Jesuit, and another has a blog about her ventures into cooking (a la Julia and Julia). Another has a blog about his "random thoughts"--unified by their nature as "random." What would be the common thread running through my writing?
For a while, I thought I'd focus on my experiences as a new parent over the past year and a half. In fact, I have already written (privately) 30+ memoir-ish pages on it, and surely, this blog will include perhaps several reflections on it. But honestly, to focus only on that would limit me too much. I wanted something a bit more global. Further, being a mother is obviously a huge part of my identity--but it's taken me suprisingly long to be able to affirm confidently that it isn't the whole of me.
A few years ago, I attended a writers' workshop with the novelist and spiritual writer Nora Gallagher, who suggested that if you write something, say a paragraph or a whole paper, your reader should be able to sum up what you've written in one word. "Oh, that piece is about aging." "This one is about betrayal." Perhaps that's a bit reductive, but it's helpful, I think, in keeping writers focused. When I sat down to write my first blog entry, I still hadn't determined what my one word would be. And maybe I shouldn't at all, I thought; maybe it would just emerge over time. But upon finishing my entry, I asked myself the question, "What is this entry about?' On one level, the first (and even second) entry was about miscarriage. But I am certainly not writing an entire blog about that! On another level, the entry was about grace.
One theological definition of grace is that it's the "freely-given, unmerited love of God." But these words need a lot of explanation, and frankly (and sadly) the word God scares a lot of people. Here is what I think these words are getting at, though:
Grace is about the possibility of life after suffering, loss, even death--Christians call this resurrection, and they see it as an existential experience, not just a comment on what happens after we literally die.
Grace is about the possibility of genuine and sustained personal and social change.
Grace is about the possibility of forgiveness and reconciliation.
Grace is about the presence and power of love that knows no limits.
I'd like to think that my blog entries will be about all of these things--hence, grace notes. Obviously, the above are statements of hope, and it strikes me that this is the task of theology, at least Christian theology: "to give an account of the hope that is in you..." (1 Peter 3:15).
We'll see what comes of my account....
I will note one reason, though: it was hard for me to figure out what this blog would be about. I wanted my blog entries to have some kind of unifying, central theme, but I couldn't figure it out. I thought about some of my friends' blogs: one has a blog about his life as a Jesuit, and another has a blog about her ventures into cooking (a la Julia and Julia). Another has a blog about his "random thoughts"--unified by their nature as "random." What would be the common thread running through my writing?
For a while, I thought I'd focus on my experiences as a new parent over the past year and a half. In fact, I have already written (privately) 30+ memoir-ish pages on it, and surely, this blog will include perhaps several reflections on it. But honestly, to focus only on that would limit me too much. I wanted something a bit more global. Further, being a mother is obviously a huge part of my identity--but it's taken me suprisingly long to be able to affirm confidently that it isn't the whole of me.
A few years ago, I attended a writers' workshop with the novelist and spiritual writer Nora Gallagher, who suggested that if you write something, say a paragraph or a whole paper, your reader should be able to sum up what you've written in one word. "Oh, that piece is about aging." "This one is about betrayal." Perhaps that's a bit reductive, but it's helpful, I think, in keeping writers focused. When I sat down to write my first blog entry, I still hadn't determined what my one word would be. And maybe I shouldn't at all, I thought; maybe it would just emerge over time. But upon finishing my entry, I asked myself the question, "What is this entry about?' On one level, the first (and even second) entry was about miscarriage. But I am certainly not writing an entire blog about that! On another level, the entry was about grace.
One theological definition of grace is that it's the "freely-given, unmerited love of God." But these words need a lot of explanation, and frankly (and sadly) the word God scares a lot of people. Here is what I think these words are getting at, though:
Grace is about the possibility of life after suffering, loss, even death--Christians call this resurrection, and they see it as an existential experience, not just a comment on what happens after we literally die.
Grace is about the possibility of genuine and sustained personal and social change.
Grace is about the possibility of forgiveness and reconciliation.
Grace is about the presence and power of love that knows no limits.
I'd like to think that my blog entries will be about all of these things--hence, grace notes. Obviously, the above are statements of hope, and it strikes me that this is the task of theology, at least Christian theology: "to give an account of the hope that is in you..." (1 Peter 3:15).
We'll see what comes of my account....
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
"Hope Deferred"
For those who are interested in theology, I thought I would point out that Serene Jones, Systematic Theologian and President of Union Theological Seminary, recently published Trauma and Grace: Theology in a Ruptured World, one chapter of which focuses on Christian doctrinal resources for those who have experienced reproductive loss. I first became acquainted with Jones' work, specifically her Feminist Theory and Christian Theology, when, a few years ago, I took a graduate course in Theological Anthropology at Fordham University. I appreciated (and still appreciate) that Jones is a serious theologian who wrestles with the joys and sorrows of 'ordinary' people and writes for them in a scholarly, yet accessible way.
[Be aware, my readers: this next part might be more interesting to theology geeks. Read, but please don't think that all of my blog posts will get into this stuff....] In "Hope Deferred," she argues that the Doctrine of the Trinity "allows us to see something about God's solidarity with women grieving reproductive loss specifically." Jones extends the work of the Protestant theologian Jurgen Moltmann, who in giving an account of what happens in the Godhead in the death of Christ, "urges us to affirm that on the cross, God takes this death into the depths of the Godself." What takes place in the Godhead, she asks her reader to imagine, is that God, in the death of Christ, experiences the death of a child in God's very womb, and like the woman who miscarries, experiences in a felt way not only this death but also "the death of a possibility." Jones argues that such an image of God cannot take away the sorrow of women but can "lessen their sense of isolation, which is no small step in the process of healing." It can also give her a "glimpse of the resurrection"....as "in her continued life, the future presses upon her gently. It waits for her now and will wait for her as long as she takes."
When I was 21 and a graduate student in Theology at Villanova, I spent some time trying to understand Moltmann's The Crucified God. I can't say that I really "got" Moltmann's work, but I "get" that a compassionate God is one who "suffers with us." Still, for as much as I kind of like that idea, and for as much as I appreciate Jones' work, I have to admit: the image of death entering into God is a bit creepy for me. It's not really helpful either.
[Be aware, my readers: this next part might be more interesting to theology geeks. Read, but please don't think that all of my blog posts will get into this stuff....] In "Hope Deferred," she argues that the Doctrine of the Trinity "allows us to see something about God's solidarity with women grieving reproductive loss specifically." Jones extends the work of the Protestant theologian Jurgen Moltmann, who in giving an account of what happens in the Godhead in the death of Christ, "urges us to affirm that on the cross, God takes this death into the depths of the Godself." What takes place in the Godhead, she asks her reader to imagine, is that God, in the death of Christ, experiences the death of a child in God's very womb, and like the woman who miscarries, experiences in a felt way not only this death but also "the death of a possibility." Jones argues that such an image of God cannot take away the sorrow of women but can "lessen their sense of isolation, which is no small step in the process of healing." It can also give her a "glimpse of the resurrection"....as "in her continued life, the future presses upon her gently. It waits for her now and will wait for her as long as she takes."
When I was 21 and a graduate student in Theology at Villanova, I spent some time trying to understand Moltmann's The Crucified God. I can't say that I really "got" Moltmann's work, but I "get" that a compassionate God is one who "suffers with us." Still, for as much as I kind of like that idea, and for as much as I appreciate Jones' work, I have to admit: the image of death entering into God is a bit creepy for me. It's not really helpful either.
Monday, September 20, 2010
End of Summer
I am eager for Autumn--more specifically, for the grace of new seasons and new beginnings. Even as there was much for which to be grateful this summer--our trip South, a recent trip to Martha's Vineyard, time with family and friends--I can't help but write the narrative of my summer in this way: it sucked.
I miscarried a pregnancy this summer. I don't wish to be drama-queeny about it, but I realized late last week that I am still in need of more healing. How did I happen upon this realization? I went to the gym.
I hadn't really gone to the gym--or exercised much at all--this summer, and I am one who exericises pretty regularly. I discovered that I was pregnant in mid-June, and at the time of discovery, I was about six to seven weeks along. My visits to the gym started to decline because I felt so incredibly tired (caring for a toddler is very tiring; imagine what happens when the body starts to baby-make). In late July, I had a standard OB visit, at which the nurse practitioner gave me an in-office ultrasound. When the exam began, we could see the tiny fetus but no flashing light--the flashing light indicating a beating heart. The NP told me not to worry--my dates could have been "way off," and so she scheduled me for a more "official" ultrasound at Methodist Hospital, where the sonography is more sophisticated. At my "official" ultrasound the next day, a fetal heartbeat was detected, but it was extremely slow. The specialist told me that I should prepare myself for the failure of the pregnancy but said that we wouldn't take any action as long as there was cardiac activity.
For the next two weeks, I went back and forth for ultrasounds and saw, with each one, a heart that was struggling and would soon come to a stop. In the last week of July, the failure of the pregnancy was confirmed, and my doctor scheduled me for a D&C. My body, it seems, did not want to give up on the idea of the pregnancy, and so intervention was necessary....
Around that time, I stopped going to the gym entirely.
But last week I went back. I got on the treadmill and tried to run a mere three miles (three miles! I once could boast of 5+ miles even in non-training mode). I couldn't even do two. At 1.8 miles, I slowed to a walk, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the trainer who once worked with me in some strength-training sessions. She smiled and walked over to the treadmill. "I haven't seen you all summer," she said. "Where have you been?" I probably could have just responded in this way: "I have been so busy. We have been traveling so much. But I'm going to try to come regularly again." But for some reason, I decided to just be honest. I stopped the treadmill. "Actually, it was a rough summer for me. I was pregnant for a while but had a miscarriage. It's taken me a while to feel 'myself' again. This is my first time back in a while."
And then I started to cry. I couldn't believe it. Here I thought that I was entirely "over it," but I couldn't keep the tears back. Thankfully, the trainer had a tissue in the pocket of her hoodie and encouraged me to come into the locker room, where we could talk privately. She was very kind. She sat with me for a few minutes as I collected myself and then offered to guide me through some stretches (for free!) to help get some of the tension out.....
Anyway, that was how I came to the realization that I'm not quite "over it." In fact, if one grieves a miscarriage in the same way as one grieves any death, then perhaps I've been stuck in the "denial" stage for a bit. For as soon as my surgery was over, I frenetically began making plans: "I'm going to take a class at the Seminary!" "I'm going to practice my piano more!" "I'm going to sign Aidan up for any and every class in Park Slope this Fall!" I made myself as busy as possible. It wasn't that I denied that the miscarriage had happened...it was that I tried to move on too quickly. I tried, almost desperately (it seems in retrospect) to wrest control of life in my plan-devising, for miscarriage was an experience in which I felt totally out of control.
I don't know if grieving "requires" going through each and every stage that Kubler-Ross identified in her famous work on grieving. Do I feel angry? No. I really don't. Am I depressed? Not really. I do feel sad but not hopeless. I'm certainly not engaging in any bargaining with God ("God, I promise to be a less selfish, spoiled brat if you can only help me in this way...."), as I've never believed that 'God' works that way.
So maybe the tears that came so unexpectedly last week were the beginning, and only the beginning, of healing--an acceptance that there was loss and that it was painful and that I still feel sad and out of control and physically yucky and may feel this way for a while.
Someone once said to me, about grieving, that "the only way to get through it is to go through it." I'm going through it. The leaves are starting to fall. And I am hopeful.
I miscarried a pregnancy this summer. I don't wish to be drama-queeny about it, but I realized late last week that I am still in need of more healing. How did I happen upon this realization? I went to the gym.
I hadn't really gone to the gym--or exercised much at all--this summer, and I am one who exericises pretty regularly. I discovered that I was pregnant in mid-June, and at the time of discovery, I was about six to seven weeks along. My visits to the gym started to decline because I felt so incredibly tired (caring for a toddler is very tiring; imagine what happens when the body starts to baby-make). In late July, I had a standard OB visit, at which the nurse practitioner gave me an in-office ultrasound. When the exam began, we could see the tiny fetus but no flashing light--the flashing light indicating a beating heart. The NP told me not to worry--my dates could have been "way off," and so she scheduled me for a more "official" ultrasound at Methodist Hospital, where the sonography is more sophisticated. At my "official" ultrasound the next day, a fetal heartbeat was detected, but it was extremely slow. The specialist told me that I should prepare myself for the failure of the pregnancy but said that we wouldn't take any action as long as there was cardiac activity.
For the next two weeks, I went back and forth for ultrasounds and saw, with each one, a heart that was struggling and would soon come to a stop. In the last week of July, the failure of the pregnancy was confirmed, and my doctor scheduled me for a D&C. My body, it seems, did not want to give up on the idea of the pregnancy, and so intervention was necessary....
Around that time, I stopped going to the gym entirely.
But last week I went back. I got on the treadmill and tried to run a mere three miles (three miles! I once could boast of 5+ miles even in non-training mode). I couldn't even do two. At 1.8 miles, I slowed to a walk, and out of the corner of my eye, I saw the trainer who once worked with me in some strength-training sessions. She smiled and walked over to the treadmill. "I haven't seen you all summer," she said. "Where have you been?" I probably could have just responded in this way: "I have been so busy. We have been traveling so much. But I'm going to try to come regularly again." But for some reason, I decided to just be honest. I stopped the treadmill. "Actually, it was a rough summer for me. I was pregnant for a while but had a miscarriage. It's taken me a while to feel 'myself' again. This is my first time back in a while."
And then I started to cry. I couldn't believe it. Here I thought that I was entirely "over it," but I couldn't keep the tears back. Thankfully, the trainer had a tissue in the pocket of her hoodie and encouraged me to come into the locker room, where we could talk privately. She was very kind. She sat with me for a few minutes as I collected myself and then offered to guide me through some stretches (for free!) to help get some of the tension out.....
Anyway, that was how I came to the realization that I'm not quite "over it." In fact, if one grieves a miscarriage in the same way as one grieves any death, then perhaps I've been stuck in the "denial" stage for a bit. For as soon as my surgery was over, I frenetically began making plans: "I'm going to take a class at the Seminary!" "I'm going to practice my piano more!" "I'm going to sign Aidan up for any and every class in Park Slope this Fall!" I made myself as busy as possible. It wasn't that I denied that the miscarriage had happened...it was that I tried to move on too quickly. I tried, almost desperately (it seems in retrospect) to wrest control of life in my plan-devising, for miscarriage was an experience in which I felt totally out of control.
I don't know if grieving "requires" going through each and every stage that Kubler-Ross identified in her famous work on grieving. Do I feel angry? No. I really don't. Am I depressed? Not really. I do feel sad but not hopeless. I'm certainly not engaging in any bargaining with God ("God, I promise to be a less selfish, spoiled brat if you can only help me in this way...."), as I've never believed that 'God' works that way.
So maybe the tears that came so unexpectedly last week were the beginning, and only the beginning, of healing--an acceptance that there was loss and that it was painful and that I still feel sad and out of control and physically yucky and may feel this way for a while.
Someone once said to me, about grieving, that "the only way to get through it is to go through it." I'm going through it. The leaves are starting to fall. And I am hopeful.
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