tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-62565303591002950702024-02-06T19:04:12.186-08:00YOKEDhitching myself to mechanisms of growth, creativity and perpetual wonderMaggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.comBlogger34125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-61313204914806164052017-05-06T07:00:00.000-07:002017-05-06T07:05:16.370-07:00A Preferrential Option for God As 'She'<div dir="ltr" id="docs-internal-guid-a7dd68bc-de06-4b36-6e1d-82516eaa72f3" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The Scandalous Feminine </span></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Three weeks ago I wrote </span><a href="https://godinallthings.com/2017/04/10/spiritual-deja-vu/" style="text-decoration: none;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #1155cc; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline;">a piece</span></a><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> for the Catholic blog “God In All Things.” It’s a website devoted to the spiritual practices of St. Ignatius of Loyola, featuring writing on prayer, discernment, imagination, and a basic willingness to see God in, well, all things. The topic of my piece was “Spiritual Déjà vu,” an expression I coined to describe the heightened sense of God’s presence when we encounter deep truths. The essay was a total of 1,148 words in length, but there was only </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">one</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> word that evoked controversy: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">. </span><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It was used only once, in the first sentence: </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“I used to be quite frustrated that God never spoke directly to me the way She spoke to the Hebrew prophets.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And yet, it provoked a deluge of comments ranging from the dismissive, “</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Why is God…”she”? I do not understand that? I’m reluctant to even read past that” </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">to the recommendation that I, “</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">review the sins of Heresy, Apostasy and Schism.” </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Basically the comments section reads like a modern-day Inquisition, ready to burn me at the proverbial stake for daring to use a feminine pronoun to describe God. Now, I know what you might be thinking. Haters gonna hate, just ignore the comments section entirely. And if the damning comments strayed so far from the topic at hand (Spiritual Déjà vu), why should I indulge them? I don’t need to waste any precious time being dragged into a cesspool of criticism and spiritual myopia. However, my mom persuaded me otherwise. She reminded me that most people haven’t been so privileged to formally study theology or pour into the feminist writings of Margaret Farley or Elizabeth Johnson. To quote the Gospel of Luke, “ to whom much has been given, much will be required.” And to quote the Spider-man series: “With great privilege comes great responsibility.” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">All joking aside, I am sympathetic to the confusion many experience when God is referred to as </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Just as my readers were befuddled and offended that I used a feminine pronoun for God, I cringe when other people substitute </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">for the divine. The difference is, I do not correct people or tell them their metaphor of choice is blasphemous. I bite my tongue because I know how very much we need concrete, flesh and blood, relational images of an otherwise transcendent higher being. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">God Has No Gender</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">More on those images later, but first let’s have a look at the name that God asks the Hebrew people to use. This scene takes place in the book of Exodus (ch 3: 13-15), when Moses is running back and forth between God, pictured here as a burning bush, and the enslaved Hebrews in Egypt. Moses is about to tell pharaoh “let my people go,” but the people want to be sure that this God is legit and will have their backs when they defy the hegemony:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 6.6pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: super;">“</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">But Moses said to God, “If I come to the Israelites and say to them, ‘The God of your ancestors has sent me to you,’ and they ask me, ‘What is his name?’ what shall I say to them?” </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 6.6pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: super;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">God said to Moses, “I </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: small-caps; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">am who</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> I </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: small-caps; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">am</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">.” He said further, “Thus you shall say to the Israelites, ‘I </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: small-caps; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">am</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> has sent me to you.’” </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 6.6pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: super;"> </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">God also said to Moses, “Thus you shall say to the Israelites, ‘The </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: small-caps; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Lord</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">, the God of your ancestors, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob, has sent me to you’: This is my name forever, and this my title for all generations.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“I am” is a title that deliberately resists the gender binary of male/female. This is divine mystery, after all. However, to help the Hebrews understand the ineffable being at the center of everything, God draws upon a string of famous </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">relationships</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> the people will recognize. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“You remember Abraham, right? “</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah, of course, we’re all circumcised because of him.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Cool, well I’m his God. And Isaac and Jacob’s and every patriarch of note in your people’s history.” (loosely translated, MVD version)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">This declaration from God “ I am who I am” is where we get the term Yahweh (YHWH), or as it is translated in Hebrew: </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: David; font-size: 12.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">יהוה </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">. And this understanding of God as pure being was regarded as so holy that to this day many Jews will not speak or write </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: David; font-size: 12.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">יהוה. In other words, any attempt to contain God is blasphemous and the closest we can get to a divine nickname is “ultimate being.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: David; font-size: 12.5pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">… But if we are going to use metaphors to describe God they should be abundant. </span></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s true, Jesus primarily speaks of God as his father, or Abba, and welcomes us into a familial relationship with the great I AM. But let’s consider the context. For centuries, Jews maintained a rather formal relationship with God through intermediaries; they atoned for their sins through ritual sacrifice performed on their behalf by temple priests and they observed 613 commandments from the Torah to demonstrate their piety.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> Jesus, in turn, picked grain on the Sabbath, dined in the homes of known sinners, and seemed to spend more time before the dawn in prayer than before temple authorities. In the relationship between the people and their God, Jesus cut out some middlemen. So when Jesus invites us to call upon God as father, he’s not stressing the masculinity, but the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">intimacy</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> God enjoins us to. </span><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">I am not denying that scripture refers to God as a father, or other masculine images. But that is not the only image we have been given. As Dorothy -- one of my great defenders in the comment section mentions, God is also described as a mother hen. Jesus says to those brood of vipers</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">, the Pharisees:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">“Jerusalem, Jerusalem, you who kill the prophets and stone those sent to you, how often I have longed to gather your children together, as a hen gathers her chicks under her wings, and you were not willing.” (Matthew 23:37; Luke 13:34).</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The imagery for God does not end with hens. Momma eagles and bears also figure for the divine (Deuteronomy 32:11-12 and Hosea 13:8, respectively). In fact, across species the image of Mother God abounds. God says, through the prophet Isaiah: “</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Can a woman forget her nursing child, or show no compassion for the child of her womb? Even these may forget, yet I will not forget you.</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">” </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">And then there is the woman looking for her lost coin: In the Gospel of Luke, Jesus likens God’s unwavering compassion to a woman who will not quit until she finds that one coin (Luke 15:8-10). Interestingly enough, the story of the woman with the lost coin is couched directly between the parable of the lost sheep and the parable of the prodigal son (read: a seemingly lost cause). We know that every other Catholic church is named after “The Good Shepherd” and “The Return of the Prodigal Son” has been rendered into glorious works of art, most notably Rembrandt’s masterpiece. “The woman with the lost coin” is smack dab in the middle of the Bible’s two most famous parables and yet, she remains oddly invisible to most Catholics. And while “The Good Woman Searching for Lost Coin” is not super catchy, I think we can all relate more to losing coins and keys than a stray sheep. But maybe that’s just me. Here’s my point: there are scores of female images of God that are perfectly orthodox, however, they conveniently land in our biblical blind spots. So if we are going to personify the ineluctable mystery of God through limited metaphors, we should draw from the full range of images, roles, and relationships that scripture supplies us with.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">What About Jesus? </span></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Let me be clear about one thing: While I deeply enjoy feminine descriptions of God, I don’t actually believe God has a vagina. Just like I don’t believe God has a penis. I don’t mean to be vulgar but to directly confront our Christian culture’s reigning obsession with the maleness of God. To which some might argue, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">of course the transcendent God doesn’t have or require male anatomy. He dwells in an eternal “masculine essence.” </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Or as one commenter suggested, God “contains the perfections of both male and female.” However, we must be careful when speaking about masculine or feminine qualities as if they were stable “essences” that did not change with the tide of history or were consistently expressed in every cis man and woman. Because the qualities ascribed to men and women five hundred years ago are most certainly different than those nurtured today. Gender is not a consistent, immutable essence, but in constant cultural flux. And even if you conceive of God as possessing a perfect balance of both masculine and feminine natures, how then do we arrive at God as </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He?</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> </span><br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> But this is all getting very theoretical. Let’s return to the person of Jesus, through whom Christians claim to know God most accurately.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">If we are patterning our image of a masculine God after the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">male </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Jesus of Nazareth, we should be equally offended by the </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">whiteness</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> of God depicted across Medieval and Renaissance churches. Jesus was born in the present-day Middle East. Now, I’m no geneticist, but fair skin and blue eyes seem an unlikely depiction for our Lord. What audacity of Michelangelo to adorn the Sistine Chapel with a caucasian Jesus when scripture clearly locates him as a brown-skinned man! And while we’re at it does anyone know the height or weight of Jesus? He was relatively young when he died, but did he inherit male pattern baldness from his mother’s side? This is the absurdity of reducing God to a set of biological features. It is also why St. Paul, in his letter to the Galatians, writes, “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female; for all of you are one in Christ Jesus” (Gal 3:28). Paul knew that while the human form of Jesus was male, the second person of the Trinity (Christ) would not be limited by culture, status or gender. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">The Political Is Always Personal</span></div>
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">Most of the time, and throughout the rest of “Spiritual Déjà vu,” I refrain from assigning any gender to God, opting for awkward grammatical phrasing over sexism, for all the reasons stated above. However, I deliberately chose to write “She” at the beginning of my essay, and was subsequently accused of being “arrogant or rebellious,” naming God in my own image. Some implied I have a “feminist agenda” as though feminism is a dirty word. Feminism means equality. </span><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">By definition it is "the advocacy of women's rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.” It is striving for equality, not dominion. But if you don’t have equality in a society, every assertion of the rights of woman might appear to be an act of subverting the rights of men. Similarly, my occasional use of feminine imagery for God is a mere suggestion that perhaps we have assigned excessive weight to the masculine that demands counterbalancing. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">is not meant to replace </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">, but to disrupt our default tendency to think of God in exclusively masculine images. </span></div>
<br /><div dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">My reason for doing so is both political (for the church at large), deeply personal (for my own spiritual healing) and pastoral (for others seeking a relational God). I don’t need to go into lavish detail about why the image of Father-God doesn’t suit me. Suffice it to say that if my image of God was formulated after my own earthly father, I would have a God that punched holes in walls when he got angry, required “managing up” throughout my childhood and who continues to troll my professional work online today. And because I am certain I am not the only person with a complicated relationship to my father, swapping in a maternal image for God is not exclusively about me. It’s about creating a space for all the daughters and sons in the pews who cannot connect with a masculine God because their biological fathers already damaged or deflated that metaphor. Without even realizing it, our stubborn insistence on calling God father may trigger emotional trauma for those already in much need of healing. The other danger, of course, is that when we default to masculine images of God were reinforce the ancient patriarchal assumption that men are somehow, by virtue of their gender, a closer reflection of God on Earth. A whole different post could be written on how the superiority of men and denigration of women has been made possible through theological appeals to God’s maleness. Or as the feminist theologian Mary Daly wrote in 1973: "If God is male, then the male is God.” In our current political state, where erectile dysfunction is not considered a pre-existing condition, but most all of being a woman is (difficult periods, pregnancy, domestic abuse, etc), I am afraid Daly’s warning rings true today. When we associate masculinity with divinity in our minds, we are further elevating the status of men in our society. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">However, for those who have enjoyed a warm and loving relationship with their father that they can map onto their image of God, I say go for it! No one is denying you that. You are welcome to continue using </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> in your personal prayer practices, conversation, and liturgical celebrations. The insertion of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">She</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;"> is not a total replacement of </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">He</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline;">. But if you have witnessed more unconditional love and support from the women in your life then perhaps that is the relationship through which God is speaking to you. All of these pronouns are mere placeholders for the ultimate expression of love, who the Jewish people called Yahweh, the great I AM. If our hearts of full of this love, we can free our imaginations to call God He, She, Most Merciful, Adonai, Allah, Hosanna, Momma Bear, Abba-Father, or any of the other 99+ beautiful names of God. I would only caution against become fixated or confined by a single word. </span></div>
<br /><br /><br /><br />Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-74585590863531894142015-08-03T17:35:00.000-07:002015-08-03T17:35:26.291-07:00The Genetics of Compassion
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Genetics can be tough. One look at both my parents’ dental
history reveals I had zero chances of inheriting strong teeth. A winning smile,
sure, but quality, cavity-resistant chompers were out of the question. This is why,
by the time I graduated college, I’d lost count of the number of fillings I had
endured (over twenty).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can
tell you I had precisely two root canals because they involve the most
intensive drilling, complete removal of the pulp of the tooth, and two additional
appointments to reconstruct and crown your sad shell of a tooth. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And while you might imagine that the
aggregated hours, ney weeks, I’ve spent underneath fluorescent lights with
latex fingers and a suction in my mouth have made me into a steely veteran, the
opposite has been true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m sorry
to say that experience has left me more traumatized than heroic. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So it was with sudden panic that I woke one morning to a
throbbing toothache.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For two days
I traded terror for denial, hoping I was hallucinating or misreading a deferred
headache, until the persistent reality of pain won over and I started asking
around for a good dental referral.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Our receptionist swore by a dentist she had been seeing for over twenty
years down in lower Manhattan, whose name….wait for it… was Dr. Thor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The idea of a hammer-wielding dentist
was utterly terrifying, but , I reasoned further, should he be played by Chris
Hemsworth I would comply.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When I
arrived to my appointment I learned that Dr. Thor is actually a woman, which is
also just fine when you consider the repulsive gargling and spitting these
scenarios require.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They x-rayed the troubled area and almost immediately
declared, in no uncertain terms, this is the mother of all cavities, the
harrowing run if you still can, root canal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“But I’m a really avid brusher,” I protested. Dr. Thor gave
me a sympathetic smile. “Yes, but this cavity formed beneath a filling you had
years ago. It’s not a surface level decay, but probably just the result of time
passing and space growing between your old filling and the rest of the tooth.”
It takes a moment to process. My fillings need fillings. Dear God. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cheated does not begin to cover how I
feel about this diagnosis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I‘ve
been cheated yet again by my biology, which is the absolute worst, because nature
is the most impartial arbiter of fate; No amount of rage or reason or
door-slamming will alter its course.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I stifle my sniffles as the dental receptionist processes my
bill, hoping she doesn’t see what a big baby I am.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a bit of clicking around she discreetly slides the
itemized bill across the desk. Apparently these are not figures one speaks
aloud. And as I quickly tally the expenses of each part of this procedure I
feel, for perhaps the first time in my dental history, the horror that I will
be held personally responsibly for financing this nightmare. Hitherto, I have
been young enough to be included under my parents’ dental coverage.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But those golden years have passed and
now my employer doesn’t offer anything but a joke of a reimbursement package,
in which they pay a pittance of a percent of the thing six months, three phone
calls, and two “lost” fax attempts later. If you’re lucky. And persistent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>The mental
algebra continues as I scan the bill and I see my entire savings—that puny but
proud pile I’ve been dutifully stacking against the economic trappings of
Manhattan living for the past two years—vanish before me. Gone with it is the promise
of future travel or ballroom dance lessons or one of the five wedding
invitations adorning my refrigerator. The circumference of my life is rapidly
contracting before my eyes. Big alligator tears begin splattering across the
paperwork and noticing my distress, the receptionist moves in with the minimal
patient counseling training she must have received the first day on the job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah, I know it can feel like a lot,” she concedes, “but
New York has so many free events in the summer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Try NYC.Go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
have lots of outdoor options. And you should take in some sun—it makes everyone
happier!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, of course, why didn’t I think of that fool-proof
solution earlier: sunshine. Sunshine and $3000 would make all my problems go
away. I cry harder and the receptionist realizes she has drifted with me far
past the safe harbor of mere financial planning into the uncertain waters of
total existential despair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>While I
am mostly just a blubbering mess, I am dimly aware that we have entered the
Bermuda triangle of dental encounters.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>On one side of this perfect storm is the childhood dread of shrill, grinding
oral trauma, a punishment Dante neglected to chart in his description of the 9<sup>th</sup>
layer of hell. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The second
dimension of the storm, as mentioned, is the depletion of my savings and then
some.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is actually clear now
that all the moneys in my bank account will not suffice and that I will likely
be charging groceries for the next six months. But the real rip tide is far
deeper than my deckhand, the receptionist, can fathom. It is the sudden
realization that despite the fact that I have moved across the country,
graduated from Harvard, secured full time work in an honorable, however
unprofitable profession, and have generally been holding it down like a grown
ass woman, I am, at the end of this appointment, reduced to a poorly-covered,
cavity-ridden, hot mess. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here
marks the remains of my brilliant self-image and the illusion of adult
autonomy. Sail no further.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The receptionist, now completely vexed by my emotional deluge,
hands me a tissue and says: “I’ll pray for you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’m not sure what is more uncomfortable- how earnestly she
bestowed the blessing or how sadly I needed it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I burst through the doors of the dentist’s office, into the
light of day and past a jostling tide of suits as my phone begins to ring.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hi, mom,” I answer verbosely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(My mom only needs one syllable to recognize my precise
level of pain.)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh no, that bad, huh?” she replies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so, still blubbering, I narrate all the coordinates of
my Bermuda Triangle of existential despair.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Maggi, Maggi, Maggi,” she soothes, “Do you know that I made
this exact same phone call to my Dad when I was your age?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a catastrophic dental problem
that I couldn’t figure out how to pay for and do you know what he said to me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I picture my grandpa: father and provider to ten children, cunning
NYPD detective turned hustling California realtor, and the likely benefactor of
my family’s long legs and soft Irish teeth. The kind of teeth whose cavities
have cavities. </div>
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“He said, “Ahh Mary, don’t you worry. I’ve got a deal
closing soon and we’ll make it happen. You don’t have to do this by yourself.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And do you know what Maggi,” my mom
continued, “I also have a deal closing this month. So <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> don’t need to worry. We’ll make it happen.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn’t looking for a handout. In fact, the depth of my
despair was based on the firmly entrenched assumption that I needed to resolve
this financial hurdle as an independent adult person. Turning to my mom for
help felt so age inappropriate, so desperate, so unlike the image of
self-sovereignty I carefully guarded. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span>How often is it
that the arbitrarily constructed<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> image</i>
of how we ought to be robs us of the adaptability to find peace with the way
things are?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That preoccupation with<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> who I ought to be</i> also occluded the
fact that my story is far from exceptional. So many working adults have lousy,
if any, dental coverage and are forced to pay out of pocket for treatment.
Friends tell me that they have stayed on antibiotics for months to treat the
infection and reduce the painful swelling of root canals while they save up to
adequately fix the problem. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>University
dental clinics, while offering reduced rates of service, have waitlists so long
and appointments so limited that what begins as a three-week ordeal turns to a
six-month operation. Although my trip to the dentist was subjectively traumatic
on multiple levels, it is clear that exorbitant dental costs and poor coverage
is not a problem particular to my life, but symptomatic of a larger national
issue. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But what I have also gleaned from this dental trauma is that
while genetics are tough, the people they fashion together are stronger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In other words, I didn’t just inherit
bad teeth, but was born into multiple generations of understanding, people who
intimately know the brute pain, and complex existential panic that surfaces in
the face of a dental emergency. Compassion, borne of identical suffering, is an
inheritable trait. And if we choose to accept it, in place of say
self-sufficient egoism, it can quell most any storm. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Afterward:</b> When I
first started writing this piece, I was thinking about the genetics of compassion
in a non-literal sense, as a character trait that could be passed on, not
through DNA, but by example.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There
was a little bit of poetry in the idea, of course, that a family line (grandpa,
mother, daughter) could experience heightened compassion precisely because of
similar experiences with a medical condition that is literally genetic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I read David Shenk’s, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Genius In All of Us</i>, which tracks
fascinating studies that suggest how, through our habits and practices, we are
actively re-wiring our epigenetic material for our progeny. Knowing only a
small bit about these scientific theories, I won’t attempt to unpack the
details myself. I will, however, say I told you so when the world comes to
recognize the important of habit in shaping us, down to a molecular level, and
how things like compassion may indeed be inherited through exposure <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> blood.</div>
Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-66784385153191571602014-01-05T14:08:00.000-08:002017-05-03T20:04:39.619-07:00For days of Auld Lang Syne<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Should old
acquaintance be forgot,<br />
and never brought to mind?<br />
Should old acquaintance be forgot,<br />
and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=acxnmaVTlZA">old lang syne?</a></i></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
The New York I flew into Friday night was chilled with snow
and ice. The Empire State building, perhaps out of consideration for those of
us traveling during Christmas, still beamed festive red and green lights. My
breathe puffed white on the cab ride home, while the city lay still and breathless
from New Year’s revelry. I had made peace with the fact that this New Year’s
was, in almost every way, unremarkable. I watched the ball drop from my
grandparents’ California home and made silent wishes that my friends in Time
Square were safe and smooching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
made no great New Year’s resolutions, donned no sparkly attire, and reflected
very little upon the triumphs and losses of 2013. In short, the holiday seemed
oddly vacant this year. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As I unpacked my bags and began making space in the closet,
a heavy sweater tumbled from its shelf. It was the sweater that Mark, my first
love, gave to me nine Christmases ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Thickly woven wool, and beautiful blend of earthy brown and beige, the
sweater was timelessly elegant. Mark was so proud to have selected an article
of women’s clothing correctly and smiled every time I wore it. Once, when we
were in a relationship stalemate, somewhere between breaking and making up
(this was college, after all) Mark spotted me in the library. It had been six
silent months of standoff when he forged a powerfully simple truce: “That’s a
really nice sweater. Whoever gave it to you must have great taste. And I like
your hair…its longer, like it was two years ago.” The third time Mark and I broke
up was for good.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We had exhausted
all attempts and yet, both of us ached with the finality of it. I grieved not
only the loss of a boyfriend, but of his family, with whom I had intricately woven
myself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And so it was his family,
Mark’s mother in particular, who imparted upon some riddle of a blessing:
“Maggi, I know you can’t bear to leave this relationship, but you must. You
don’t have to part with it forever. Just imagine placing it in a drawer, a
drawer you cannot open for a while. It is safe there and when the right amount
of time has passed you can look at it again. But put it away for now, dear.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was the most foul-tasting dose of medicine
anyone has ever given me. Put him away? Was he an article of clothing that
could be so easily stored on a shelf?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Taking down the woolen sweater always brought memories of
Mark back, but after so many years and so many loves, the memories no longer
stung, but kept me snuggly swaddled in the present. It was, objectively, the
perfect sweater. However, now as I gazed upon the fallen garment, it looked
unusually small, maybe even… shrunken.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Frantically I threw it over my head, wishing to dispel the fear that I
might have actually committed the worst laundry faux pas in history!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But there is no arguing a choked neck
and bare midriff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was time to
say goodbye, not to Mark anymore, but to the hefty sweater that had since
preserved me in four East Coast winters with a thick and burley comfort that
felt like hugging Sean Connery, or so I imagine. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Throwing it away without some parting words felt wrong and so
I texted Mark: “I shrunk the beautiful beige sweater and I’m very upset because
it would have lasted forever on its own. I just wanted you to know I got many
years of good use out of it. Thank you.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It wasn’t the first time we spoke in six years. Mark and I speak
periodically and I know that he is happily married and successfully developing
educational programs from the Bay area.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When we catch up it is always with distinct fondness, a friendly
affection that is a miracle onto itself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was 1:30 in the morning EST and because I was still in
PAC time, I could not sleep, but tossed and turned for hours.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was awake when Mark replied: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">He was terribly sorry to hear of the loss,
but gladdened that I had so many happy years with the sweater. It was so sweet
of me to tell him. And how was teaching? What was my brother (Billy) up to? Did
I remember the Christmas present he had given to Billy that same year… the
running shorts with the underwear built in?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The way Billy literally scratched off the wrapping paper,
with one hand, as if he didn’t care at all?</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“The slow unwrap,” we had termed it. The image made me cry
with laughter. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I am generally not a huge fan of texting for the all the
ways in which it fails to capture tone, intention, and depth in a conversation.
But with Mark, in a rapid-fire exchange that lasted hours into the night, I
heard everything with instantaneous clarity. Everything had changed between us
and yet the familiarity remained, untarnished.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In three words he could recall entire comedic episodes with
unfailing nuance. My belly ached and my pillow was wet with laughing
tears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I could have, quite
possibly, purged myself of a years-worth of disappointment or sadness or muck
during that conversation. It did not feel like an ordinary night in the slow
plod of metered time, but one of sudden revival. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And though “seas between us broad have roared” all that
remained now was love for auld lang syne. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so the blessings of New Year’s came upon me unexpected,
not in a sparkling daze of confetti, but in an old acquaintance, who bid me
midnight laughter and words of kindness. In the silence that followed I hummed
the old Scottish lullaby, understanding New Year’s Eve perhaps for the first
time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You cannot fabricate healing
or forgiveness on your own terms. And the turning of the calendar year does not
automatically mean that everything will be different or cleared of last year’s debris.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every holiday represents an ideal that
we aspire to, but can never completely engineer ourselves. But every now and
then, a sweater will tumble out of place, the drawer magically opens, and there
is cause for celebration. For what was once an unthinkable prophecy has come to
pass: the people and things that bring our life meaning are never finally lost,
just kept safe for another time, a time when all things are made new. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-63315370986515114592012-07-16T22:33:00.000-07:002012-07-16T22:33:12.677-07:00Religion, Conflict and Kitchen Diplomacy: Where My Divinity Education is Taking Me<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDAiexwewhBR94rCr-QUB-Ja4BXhjR8sawbGBQWSUaFCMu6NVcsXvsY2kfPGO928B5LtLNyCt_PQf1UrE2qqIPhAtMMi8KuO6QSsEODUZutosejcVLhNqSK9YyhcTH1iRcCXwsofVi7Y2/s1600/imam_pastor_b_0.preview.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwDAiexwewhBR94rCr-QUB-Ja4BXhjR8sawbGBQWSUaFCMu6NVcsXvsY2kfPGO928B5LtLNyCt_PQf1UrE2qqIPhAtMMi8KuO6QSsEODUZutosejcVLhNqSK9YyhcTH1iRcCXwsofVi7Y2/s200/imam_pastor_b_0.preview.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pastor James and Imam Ashafa, Nigerian peacemakers</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You know you are everything that’s wrong with this nation.
It’s people just like you, with your liberal thinking and compassion and
nothing bad to say about anyone that is going to get the rest of us killed,” he
said hovering a foot and three decades above me. I ran my fingertips along the
grout between countertop tiles, trying to trace the way back to calm. The
conversation had escalated far too quickly after I had poised what seemed an
innocent question: “What are you passionate about right now?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Roy had popped into my aunt and uncle’s home during my
weekend stay, an aunt and uncle with whom I was joyfully reconnecting after the
15 years that followed my parent’s divorce, and consequent familial separation.
More than anything I wanted to keep peace in their kitchen. I had had plenty of
battles in my own kitchen, resulting in a deep aversion to conflict. The
question itself, about Roy’s passions, was inspired by a friend who insisted it
was a much more generous conversational entrée than, “So, what you do for a
living?” Instead my question became the launch pad for an unforeseen political
diatribe, in which Roy lambasted Jews for claiming excessive victimhood and for
their desire to take over the world. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Red
flag, anyone?</i> He then went on to explain how Islam was an inherently violent
religion because of the Qur’an’s injunction to kill infidels and wage jihad
against the unbelievers. “Have you actually read the Qur’an?” he exclaimed,
“There are no passages in the Bible that even come close to that kind of
violence.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I’m afraid there are,” I replied. “Before ‘turn the
other cheek’ we had ‘an eye for an eye,’ and a psalm that promoted the smashing
of one’s enemy’s babies against a rock. Even Jesus has some frightening things
to say about ‘coming not to bring peace, but the sword.’ Christian scripture is
uncomfortably riddled with violence, but that doesn’t mean that every Christian
has resorted to these passages or a fundamentalist reading of them to justify
bloodshed.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“No, I don’t think you’ve read the Qur’an and you don’t know
how much they hate us,” he presses, speaking now in generalizations that would
make any religion scholar squirm. However, his generalizations are well-rehearsed
and interspersed with Qur’anic extractions I have not studied in their full
context. He has clearly read much on the subject (though I would dispute his
sources) and if I do not respond within a half a second of his remarks, he
calls me uninformed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Acutely aware of how volatile the conversation has become, I
reach desperately in my bag of mediation tricks to recover some kitchen
diplomacy. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I think I hear you saying…</i>that
there are Muslim extremists who abhor everything the West stands for, and will
detonate their own bodies to destroy it. I can only imagine how strong your
memory of 9-11 is here in New York.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yah, you’re from California, you have no idea what I’m
talking about,” he interjects.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes, that may be partially true, ” I inch forward, “But I do
know too many peace-loving Muslims who are motivated by the scripture and
teachings of Islam to create a more just and humane world. To call every Muslim
a terrorist is to simply reverse the narrative that Al Qaeda used to attack the
United States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It means that we
are allowing ourselves to be defined by the worst thing that has ever happened
to us, and to be perpetually governed by trauma and the impulse to retaliate.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The words did not come smoothly. Mostly in fits and starts
from a jaw I kept locked so that it would not tremble. I watched waves of tears
rise and fall within me, inwardly begging them to subside. Because the last
thing I wanted was to confirm this man’s image of me as a hopelessly fragile
idealist who could not stand the heat of a debate, much less stomach the
brutality of which he spoke. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wished that after six years of studying religion and this
summer’s internship in conflict resolution, I could render a stronger, wittier,
mind-blowing argument in defense of religious tolerance. But in truth I do not
study religion to acquire talking points that will ultimately win me kitchen
debates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For one, I would rather
spend my energy practicing the most basic, but no less challenging, commandment
to love my neighbor. That principle alone keeps me quite occupied. And from
most of the debates I have witnessed, talking points usually only equip people
to talk past one another in futile rounds of vitriol.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then of course, there’s the queasy sensation all
conflict produces in my gut.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But in this moment standing across from Roy, hearing
anti-Semitism and Islamophobia mistaken for patriotism, I felt, as a student of
religion and personal friend to many Muslims and Jews, an ethical obligation to
respond. To be silent would have implied consent, and how many horrors have
been committed against humanity because of our collective silence?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After my conversation with Roy abated, I made my way
straight to the shower, to the private release of long-held tears. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Why are you crying? You are fine, you can
handle this, </i>I negotiated with my injured self. This only occasioned more
sobbing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Finally it occurred to me that self-flagellation was itself
a form of violence and that perhaps the most peaceful way of proceeding would
be to accept both my proclivity towards tears and the courage to speak through
them. Because to enter authentically into dialogue I cannot carry an artillery
of talking points, and to mediate conflict, I risk my own vulnerability, and
with that the occasional emotional hemorrhaging. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So what if I cry? The important thing, I am learning, is that I dared
to speak. </i>And with that I washed my hair. </div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-20649024479822989582012-01-29T21:22:00.001-08:002012-01-29T21:23:18.864-08:00Listening to the Radio: A New Year's Resolution<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCaOu1RlH_n6j-NIhlYZWWMD5pw_qncywQOsaSelEjtpqE8KkMUWqHRsT9TG7r4BcyKWntfXVk0QrWa7xVPNg02r4tMwu0SKrBsHIoWqGmqUhsDKds8BZNBOhuxMkC0AP_kgdzvwKa2ruj/s1600/car_radio.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCaOu1RlH_n6j-NIhlYZWWMD5pw_qncywQOsaSelEjtpqE8KkMUWqHRsT9TG7r4BcyKWntfXVk0QrWa7xVPNg02r4tMwu0SKrBsHIoWqGmqUhsDKds8BZNBOhuxMkC0AP_kgdzvwKa2ruj/s200/car_radio.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5703291317167627554" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">If I were to make any resolution for the New Year, and these are seldom, I would listen for the year as I listen to a newly discovered song. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Just the other day I was driving along the 5 freeway; on my left, the sun guiding the Pacific, and on my right, Oceanside’s famous stretch of mustard fields. These are just the kinds of drives that lull me into a meditative trance, that dispel the doggedly anxious thoughts from my mind and allow me the simple pleasure of being in the world. There is nothing else to do in the car but drive, and while this made me crazy with boredom as a child, it has since become a favored form of contemplation. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Even my radio listening habits must adapt to these long drives. Because I am crossing multiple county lines, my go-to stations become static, and I am forced to explore the uncharted musical airwaves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And because I hold no expectations for what I will discover there, my reception of the unknown changes. I wait with curiosity for a song to unfold. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wonder about when the song was first popular, what era its stylistic motifs recall, what mood, season and scent the song holds for people I will never meet? Who picked up the guitar because of it? Is it a wedding ballad or a break-up bandage? And so, like the Border Patrol check point I am sure to pass along the highway, I wave through most of the unknown indiscriminately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Everything about the drive conducts flow. And along it, the radio becomes a teacher of interior openness and agility.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Beyond the contemplation of the historical or musical lineage of the song, I encounter an even more basic appetite for what might be termed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">auditory surprise</i>. I do not know where the first few chords will lead, what instruments will join by the chorus, or what story the lyrics will tell. And so I remain suspended upon every moment sliding into the next. If I hear a song that really thrills me, I will download it into my itunes collection and without fail, replay the song until I am practically sick of it. Something is lost when the song is possessed in this way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It becomes familiar, known, beloved even. It’s now “our song,” a karaoke favorite that can be belted nostalgically, again and again. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But will we ever hear it in the same exquisitely open and vulnerable way we did that first time?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And so it is with friendships and work and neighborhoods cherished for their worn-in comfort. The risk of assuming deep familiarity about any of these things is that we forget to make room for the inexhaustible mystery dwelling within them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>To neglect the profound <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">otherness</i> in a person—those parts which we can neither predict nor explain—is to overlook the locus of divine creativity. If I am deadly serious and certain of what it means to be a student, a manager, an activist, or an economist, what room have I to grow into a different understanding of those things?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">If I can extend the musical analogy just a bit further into the New Year, I would add that our lives expand according to our willingness to be surprised by them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That doesn’t just mean waiting for something new to happen, but allowing even the familiar to be rendered unexpected. To anticipate the course for this year, based upon the last, is to short-circuited its potential. That is one boring drive. One small life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And I would much prefer to stay with the waking of this year as if it were a new song, breaking through the static of old certainties.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-66306469131283372772011-07-09T15:27:00.001-07:002011-07-09T15:30:58.925-07:00“Storyteller”: Yet Another Tribute to My Aunts & an Account For My Hope<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0bQSy4IBNzqFKWhPtzOhp56NbjQsYINKRgFzJ_PHUBPtxR5_nkYS1O-2CV5S-mK3wHTavFZHfc2Zo3_ppm3ubomMJPnoz7p-VKZegRjhsKOeMzCPUyQMhXco5R06fH8Unf7JMY-Rq7Qf/s1600/Stewart_MB288407477_400-thumb-400x550-41712.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 233px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0bQSy4IBNzqFKWhPtzOhp56NbjQsYINKRgFzJ_PHUBPtxR5_nkYS1O-2CV5S-mK3wHTavFZHfc2Zo3_ppm3ubomMJPnoz7p-VKZegRjhsKOeMzCPUyQMhXco5R06fH8Unf7JMY-Rq7Qf/s320/Stewart_MB288407477_400-thumb-400x550-41712.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5627482911949241490" /></a> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Rod Stewart is one sexy man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This is, at least, what my aunts have conveyed to me over years of concert going, stage crashing, and radio blasting rides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Apparently, the only thing that compares to that dirty blonde rock and roll mane and those skin tight leopard pants, is a voice so raspy and soulful it “will steal your heart away.” </p><p class="MsoNormal">And while I wanted nothing more than to tag along with my mom and aunts, each of them icons of that oh-so-distantly-enchanted womanhood, the concerts were always waaay past my bedtime.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So I perched on the edge of the bed as late as I could, watching them gussy up in a cloud of Hairnet and polka dot ensembles, as they convinced me that a dab of confidence was all one needed to storm the stage like a rock star.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And dance with Rod, of course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">You Tube</i> around in the 80s, they would have video footage testifying to their stage-robbing fame and you would have no trouble imagining how enormously cool they really were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Whether boosting one another up from speakers to stage or demonstrating the art of applying liner before lipstick, they were, for me, always the main attraction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And because Rod occupied a demi-god status in their musical world, he quickly became prophet in my own.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Like the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Book of Ecclesiastes</i>, Rod Stewart’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Storyteller Collection </i>supplied all the classic human drama and lyrical pith to choreograph a life around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>From Rod, I learned to cast dangerously smooth lines like: “If you want my body and you think I’m sexy, come on sugar, let me know,” a pick up fourth grade boys were entirely too young to handle, and I, far too innocent to actually mean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But when I wasn’t on the playground, spreading lyrics I didn’t understand, I was meditating upon them in the secret of my upstairs dance studio (also known as the hallway.) Waves of afternoon sun refracted through our old fish tank, casting pools of emerald and gold across the carpet, where I waited, barefoot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Maggie Mae</i>, an obvious choice for my opening number, had five full bars, twenty-six seconds, of mandolin solo—a perfect prelude for the delicate array of plies, pas de bourrees, and releves,<span style="mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latinfont-family:Cambria;"> </span>I was then practicing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wanted my toes to grace the floor as lightly as each note plucked, not yet knowing what this mirroring of form and content would be called.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was simply pre-verbal, and in that sense, the purest art I have ever performed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I cannot tell you what happened during those afternoon improvisations, when I felt alive and nimble and utterly free. But even as I recollect them now, a warm presence washes over me, and I am left wondering what or who exactly I was dancing for. Did I lyrically inhabit the wide world of “downtown trains” and “motown records” as a child clunking around in her mom’s heels? Or was I claiming my own voice in a space of free interpretation? Could it have been all of these things, all kinds of imitation and originality, sliding back and forth, down the hall?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Such was the grip of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Storyteller</i> record on my impressionable, young mind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And yet, it is a possession I have never cared to shake, because beyond girlish revelry, those songs also occasioned a brush with transcendence. In that light-soaked room, with the trill of the mandolin all around, I encountered what Kahlil Gibran calls “Life longing for itself,” an old presence quickening within me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And into this effortless communion I sunk, for unaccounted hours on end.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was the kind of purposeless engagement with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Other</i> that mystics revel in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was Rod Stewart hinting, or winking rather, at the elusive hem of a life I could barely touch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was a self-forgetting prayer I would dance any day.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-17213394726173141622011-07-02T16:54:00.001-07:002011-07-02T16:55:59.269-07:00Just Crazed<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinlF7yir0PcmwVPbBEDKSpBL7HEtKLYQHYuXaf5W4vXsCYLrNpkSQbbyfjzsgfg1sEqG-yO8N_xYszPXNkjiyy7FlwaMN2nz9XgoPseEAiFja9CMbMysYazHnbQc54mK7WgG8HEyfM-3C9/s1600/1159390891kOOunM.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 133px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinlF7yir0PcmwVPbBEDKSpBL7HEtKLYQHYuXaf5W4vXsCYLrNpkSQbbyfjzsgfg1sEqG-yO8N_xYszPXNkjiyy7FlwaMN2nz9XgoPseEAiFja9CMbMysYazHnbQc54mK7WgG8HEyfM-3C9/s200/1159390891kOOunM.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5624907787041043522" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">There’s nothing about this lemon-colored umbrella in my drink that is necessary. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is frivolity and glamour under the faint Seattle sun. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">And while I know all too well the limits of its luster, </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">it charms me still.</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And isn’t that the point of every sweet and senseless surprise? </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Isn’t that behind every wink, </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">every kiss mistaken, </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">every nickname ever given? </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">Each gestures beyond mere utility. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">And yet, if a bee can land upon it,</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>believing my little umbrella a font of nectar- </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">a bee so evolutionarily intelligent, so mathematically inclined- </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">then I too can resist bitterness</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>for the ways in which I have been undone </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">by seduction. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">I can admit my weakness for pyrite, and </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">still smile for the way it makes me stumble </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">and shimmer, </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">often interchangeably. </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><br /></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt">And I give thanks for being as crazed as a bumble bee.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-47225308577633189072011-06-13T08:59:00.000-07:002011-06-13T09:26:24.617-07:00Confessing Art v. Religious Propaganda<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJWxm036QzqmqtWT_sQRkAuZf_CZIISf0tI3M7cUpeobjUgYVBCFrU0lp-niMSH_dMJWlku_vjRqsMUIKJxNkEFX7To-gXYzv5QtVaMOKUSmIoiyXvG7FOhsWQJa0GI683C2OXOKJmSZr/s1600/reporter.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 225px; height: 269px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIJWxm036QzqmqtWT_sQRkAuZf_CZIISf0tI3M7cUpeobjUgYVBCFrU0lp-niMSH_dMJWlku_vjRqsMUIKJxNkEFX7To-gXYzv5QtVaMOKUSmIoiyXvG7FOhsWQJa0GI683C2OXOKJmSZr/s320/reporter.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617736740350299106" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal">So I’ve been thinking a lot about the purposes of art lately, considering what it can and cannot do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For years I have gravitated towards creative writing, theatre, film, dance, and a variety of artistic enterprises in much the same way that ivy crawls across a wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The connection to art comes so natural, that I respond almost unthinkingly, presupposing its intrinsic richness and worth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Reflection upon the subject has taught me that we are inevitably a story-telling people, who seek meaning in the creative and perpetual re-telling of our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And for those who have suffered inexplicable tragedy or the hidden burdens of mental illness, art is the most obvious consoler.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It may not resolve the riddle of suffering, but it does speak to the heart of it; art names the complexities of human experience with the exquisite stroke of a brush, the rhyme of a verse, or the arc of a body in full expression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It does not answer every question, and therefore avoids the false trapping of providing fixed solutions where there may be none.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Its technically disciplined, emotionally unrestrained rendering of our lives may be just the companion, not the explanation, we most desire.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And yet, beyond its abilities to assuage and console, art has been employed as a goad to prod social action and reform.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In his article, “What Art Can and Can’t Do,” writer Philip Yancey laments how slow society can be to hear the prophetic witness that art offers. He cites Russian author, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, who while recognized for his own work, reminds us of “his colleagues who died unknown in the gulag, their works taken to the grave with them” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">The Best Spiritual Writing</i>, ed. Philip Zaleski). Governments and churches may endorse artists, but they also have a track record of censoring, limiting and dictating the subject and message expressed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Protestant theologian, Paul Tillich, claimed that in order for a work of art to be considered religious, it need not be explicitly themed so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In other words, a biblical scene or gilded halo was not the litmus test for religious art.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Rather, Tillich argued that what made a work “religious” was the degree to which it touched upon deep existential concerns within the human condition.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And yet, my hunch is that despite Tillich’s influence, unless the performance or composition is overtly religious we are not accustomed to granting it that cachet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We may call a movie inspiring or meaningful, but do we acknowledge its substantive religious qualities?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or do we insist on keeping separate boxes for religion and culture? </p> <p class="MsoNormal">In a recent<a href="http://imagejournal.org/page/blog/bad-christian-art"> blog</a> entry for IMAGE journal, Tony Woodlief, comments upon this disconnect in reverse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He explains how contrived, inauthentic and overly sentimental Christian movies can be, particularly when their singular focus is to tell a “wholesome” story. <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-bidi-font-family:Helvetica">That word,” Woodlief says, “applied to art is a lie on its face, because insofar as art is stripped of the world’s sin and suffering it is not really whole at all.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We are spoon-fed a kitschy faith that glosses over our painful, messy lives in order that an account of the faith may read more like a marketable Christian formula than a stripped confession.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When religion is reduced to these utilitarian means (conversion, unflinching devotion, cure-alls and solutions) it becomes magic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And when art is subjected to a similar contortionist act, prohibited from speaking of the profanities that dot and streak our world, it is no longer art, but propaganda.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is no longer at the service of truth, but enslaved to a political agenda paranoid of dissent and the lose of control.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-size:11.0pt;mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-bidi-font-family:Helvetica">When asked by a group of Jesuits how to inspire vocations, </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 14.0pt;mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-font-family:Cambria;mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia">Peter-Hans Kolvenbach (former superior general), responded, “Live your own joyfully!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It would seem the real challenge is not conversion, apologetics, or staging a missionary-style intervention, but actually living and openly beholding the mysteries of the spiritual life as they unfurl. Our lives should speak for themselves and for the divine drama conspiring within them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That might mean that some questions go unanswered. Some critical tensions may not immediately resolve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Assumptions may shatter and the seemingly unmovable bulwarks of faith may tremble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But in beholding these cosmic shifts of understanding and bearing them freely before one another, a new song emerges, which is what we call art (and really good theology).</span></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-1191624117198085372011-04-09T10:10:00.001-07:002011-04-09T10:14:42.273-07:00The Wheel<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyXfjYGZNjqXwoNEeutBEltU16F25eG8UZ7Pz0oiDfCQEv0osAw27E6uQ2m_C80cQ_Y3AbOysdpZVltuTNBOmTq9Rfy8XrMPQnGTqa01MCYyT7VnCbYHrgMKEksH5SHSBQfSpKwQsy_fEw/s1600/ferris-wheel.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 242px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyXfjYGZNjqXwoNEeutBEltU16F25eG8UZ7Pz0oiDfCQEv0osAw27E6uQ2m_C80cQ_Y3AbOysdpZVltuTNBOmTq9Rfy8XrMPQnGTqa01MCYyT7VnCbYHrgMKEksH5SHSBQfSpKwQsy_fEw/s320/ferris-wheel.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5593632604959862770" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Garamond;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>In the ancient Vedantic texts of Hindu philosophy there is reference to the physical body and the subtle body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The physical body is comprised of cells, tissues, muscles, organs—all things visible to the naked or microscopic eye. And yet, this subtle body is difficult to pin down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>No x-ray, scan or biopsy can capture its existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>However, for centuries people have been engaging in physical disciplines in attempt to properly channel the energy of the subtle body along seven chakras, or energy vortices, that run the length of the spine, from the bottom of the sacrum to the crown of the head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The chakras are imagined as wheels that whirl powerful life energy upward through the invisible channels collectively known as the subtle body.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This imagined spiritual body figures in the practice of Yoga, Tai-Chi, and many Eastern styles of meditation.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="Times New Roman"font-family:";"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> </span> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi- mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latinfont-family:Cambria;">I let these ideas about the subtle body, and its fanning petals of light, occupy my imagination when I am in the most difficult of yoga poses.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In fact, without the intention of breathing deeply or being super mindful of everything I feel, I am positive I would not last one class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I am, for starters, the most inflexible person on this planet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Despite an entire childhood of dance, ice-skating, and physical training, my legs still burn and quiver as I attempt to touch my fingers to the floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I am elastically challenged.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So the idea of subjecting myself to Yoga’s contortionist demands presents as pure lunacy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And yet, I am completely transfixed by the mysterious encounters I have each time I unfurl my lavender mat.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi- mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latinfont-family:Cambria;">I surprise myself, for one, by routinely doing the impossible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Last night we were instructed to assume a backbend, or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">the Wheel</i>, against the wall.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>(A word on the titles of poses: I secretly suspect that the difficulty of the pose directly corresponds to its exoticism.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If you have a domestic sounding position, like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Downward facing Dog</i> or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Happy Baby</i>, you’re safe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s when the instructor offers up the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Bird of Paradise, Elephant</i>, or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Scorpion</i>, that you should probably take a water break. For the weak of ligament such ad hoc theories are essential for survival). Anyway, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">the Wheel</i> and I have just recently become acquainted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If I muster all my strength I can hold a position resembling an arch for half the time given, before I collapse in total exhaustion.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi- mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latinfont-family:Cambria;">“I’m going to stretch each of you a bit further in your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Wheel</i> today,” Jackie, our teacher, explained as she walked the periphery of the room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Anyone for a water break? <o:p></o:p></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi- mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latinfont-family:Cambria;">When Jackie arrived at my half-sunken wheel, she began to pull the small of my back to the ceiling and told me to inch my feet closer to my hands, thus exaggerating the arch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And then she continued to pull, so far, that I literally thought my spine would snap in two and propel my heart straight out of my chest. “A little more,” she urged. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">This is impossible, and torturous, and insane, </i>I thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But having grown to trust Jackie’s experiential wisdom of the body, I relented my struggle, and allowed her to lift my back a vertebrae further, until, <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latinfont-family:Cambria;">Whoosh.</span></i><span style="mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latinfont-family:Cambria;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi- mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latinfont-family:Cambria;">Something opened up between the spaces of my spine, and a rush of pure bliss poured forth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Breathe expanded freely, as if for the first time, tickling every cell and fiber it passed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My spine felt like a stiff glow stick, that when snapped, became magically illuminated.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin;mso-hansi- mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latinfont-family:Cambria;">And so I walked home that night, weaving in and out between the cars caught in rush hour, heaving their dirty exhaust, yoga mat strung from my shoulder like the only thing I would ever need to feel my back as a glowstick and my lungs- a sail for heaven’s breathe. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-hansi-mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latinfont-family:Cambria;">So this is the subtle body, </span></i><span style="mso-ascii-font-family:Cambria;mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin;mso-hansi-mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latinfont-family:Cambria;">I thought.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Where have you been all my life?</i><o:p></o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family:Garamond;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-88669765449541830362011-02-15T19:23:00.000-08:002011-02-15T19:26:31.104-08:00Eating My Way to Heaven, or, cultivating mystical foretastes<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmX5yRjIL6Z_j-ZrR1DvopUNeDnolz9CbGXW0-Hk0ybVz8HwdNUmtQY0Cm1PGDZamZyvu-9LddYhr2HZZ-ZKBef2G-OQEsIBLl8oHRk5kR1MIYsOCAYO4G85l23FnUvXqiJ-YySLqLeUy/s1600/squisito_cioccolato_italian_chocolate_woman_in_red_speckcase-p176027268979016601vu1z1_400.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmX5yRjIL6Z_j-ZrR1DvopUNeDnolz9CbGXW0-Hk0ybVz8HwdNUmtQY0Cm1PGDZamZyvu-9LddYhr2HZZ-ZKBef2G-OQEsIBLl8oHRk5kR1MIYsOCAYO4G85l23FnUvXqiJ-YySLqLeUy/s320/squisito_cioccolato_italian_chocolate_woman_in_red_speckcase-p176027268979016601vu1z1_400.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5574123591885276642" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Licking the corners of my mouth, I retrieve the creamy remnants of a chocolate éclair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is everything that the North End promises in authentic, overstuffed Italian pastries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>With the taste of heaven still on my lips, and a sip of tea soon to follow, it occurs to me that Café Vittoria might be something of a training ground for spiritual formation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I know what you’re thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Here she goes turning secular decadence into religious blasphemy again</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But hear me out.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">One of the most popular expressions at divinity school is the term <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">spiritual agility</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is used to describe the ability of the minister to attend to different people and circumstances with considerable flexibility.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A spiritually agile individual will not only read the pulse of a room, but remains nimble enough to respond appropriately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And as a virtuoso of the soul, who seeks to bring out the best notes in others, she is constantly retuning her own instrument in search of the divine pitch. In short, you work with your own soul to better respond to others.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Why then do I need to sample every last morsel of Italian sweetness to become spiritually agile? Because, as my rich revelation would have it, the hungers of the belly are not all that different than those of the soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Over a different meal, not too long ago, I was speaking with Sr. Nancy Kehoe, psychologist, nun, and author of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Wrestling With Our Inner Angels, </i>about the many dimensions of the spiritual life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was there that she said, “You know, our spirits are like our bodies—they need different kinds of foods to thrive.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We don’t eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches for every meal, so why would you feed your soul the exact same prayer regimen and expect it to be perfectly satisfied?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>While there are probably a number of staple ingredients to a good spiritual diet, we are not static creatures, and as such, need nutritional variety.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The hungers of the soul, I suspect, are very much dependent on the dynamic climate of our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">We have the good sense to eat pasta, rather than salad, before running a marathan, to lay off coffee in the afternoon, and to hydrate especially well in the heat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But do we allow for such variance in the care of our own souls?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Do we account for fatigue, stress, heartache, excitement, complacency, grief, boredom, or joy as we gauge the needs of the spirit?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s an important consideration for me, particularly when I’m feeling burned out or disconnected with a spiritual practice.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Rather than stomaching a tediously bland routine, why don’t I take a minute to become more <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">aware</i>—of my life and its peculiar circumstances—and to then ask : <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">At this particular point in time, what nourishes my core being? </i>And then pause… for those tell-tale grumblings usually have lots to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-26527338564627000502011-02-07T09:01:00.000-08:002011-02-07T09:07:07.060-08:00Sacred Geometry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivGcDaNe8BPeTcSbExpRYWbRctcpeIneu4mtLJiKEJWspa0HYyx6cNVOi_Fi52SVecDT5zMAaHKwT9PW2G-vjRguBYaU8jzbE4XeSk0a-g0drZx7hBdwBCS0HTuiJPTUr7VSzrodmRtwNb/s1600/rachelbrice2a.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 246px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivGcDaNe8BPeTcSbExpRYWbRctcpeIneu4mtLJiKEJWspa0HYyx6cNVOi_Fi52SVecDT5zMAaHKwT9PW2G-vjRguBYaU8jzbE4XeSk0a-g0drZx7hBdwBCS0HTuiJPTUr7VSzrodmRtwNb/s320/rachelbrice2a.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570994438888994898" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">The Dance Complex is an establishment in Cambridge, operating for decades with six floors of dance studios and the most eclectic variety of classes you could possibly imagine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They have everything from break dancing to salsa to organic ballet, which must entail hemp leotards, right? And with a cheap drop-in, pay as you go option, it’s the perfect excuse to experiment with one of the many dancing hybridizations they offer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So experiment I did—with a course in tribal belly dancing.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">Harvard Gazette</i> recently published an article on staying sane, in which Laura Kubzansky, HSPH associate professor of society, human development, and health, wrote, “Everyone needs to find a way be in the moment, to find a restorative state that allows them to put down their burdens.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Dance is one of those exceptional activities that transfixes my mind long enough to forget itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Sometimes I am completely suspended by the challenge of learning a new move, captivated by a new pattern of subtle twists and body isolations. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Other times, usually after much practice, the dance becomes an intuitive expression that performs itself, without any effort or consciousness on my part.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Like spinning a hula hoop, I could go for days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Either way, I am fully present to the moment.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">It was during one of these ultra focused moments that my belly dancing teacher said something that would disrupt my whole world in an instant. “This next move mirrors the symbol for eternity, akin to a figure eight.” She demonstrated the weaving motion, and then added, “It’s as if you are tracing eternity with your hips.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">My heart raced, and a million tiny hairs stood on end, saluting some basic truth that they have always known. This was the most delicious poetry I had ever tasted. And, yet, it was intended for so much more than my lips.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">She continued, lyrically improvising the figure eight sway and the meaning embodied by it:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“People may not recognize this consciously, but it is intended to speak to the latent yearnings for eternity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>We are enacting a kind of sacred geometry with our bodies.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in">Now if that doesn’t implode every tidy category of the sacred and profane, the mind and the body, the spirit and the flesh, I do not know what will.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It purposefully disrupts any notion that we have about spiritual enlightenment belonging to the intellectual or mental sphere alone, because it insists that our bodies, without external direction, naturally grope towards eternal truths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>All of which is to say, I think if I want to become more adept recognizing real wisdom, than I ought to listen to what my body is saying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And if I want this wisdom to take real effect in my life, through my actions, attitudes and behavior, well then, I’ve got to keep on whirling!</p> <!--EndFragment--> </span> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-33725568485833586962010-12-07T11:03:00.000-08:002010-12-07T11:05:23.560-08:00Pilgrim Crossing<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8dPKq5iJj0J0BrjQ7AWrohKJ5yaMKA7HAsReySKE5mH_ALpqL7RthAOZFoHOdTPRwXDEDhZmW_rQUjYXC6JxIA5manCRYlfRec_roojum320Z9AEUk3q5_vLxIxM0ploJwyAHxTcpJY16/s1600/1849089289_7d05343471.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8dPKq5iJj0J0BrjQ7AWrohKJ5yaMKA7HAsReySKE5mH_ALpqL7RthAOZFoHOdTPRwXDEDhZmW_rQUjYXC6JxIA5manCRYlfRec_roojum320Z9AEUk3q5_vLxIxM0ploJwyAHxTcpJY16/s200/1849089289_7d05343471.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5548018482343011458" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">I embarked upon my trip to Boston or the New World, as it were, in search of a great adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I dreamed of old buildings, laced in ivy and finding three Irish pubs in one square block.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I dreamed of autumn colors, charming footbridges and the glow of the city on the bay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And all of this has come true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But nowhere in my great adventure did I map out, in much detail, the part about it being 29 icy degrees with a wind chill and ever shortening days.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Isn’t that part of your adventure?” my mom asks from cushy California.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Well,” I reply, “I suppose I better relocate my notion of an adventure.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Navigating the Venetian canals with a bottle of vino? Adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Trekking the snow-encrusted gorges of Mt. Everest? Not so much.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Bundling up with warm woolen-mittens and a cute periwinkle knit beanie? Adventure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Wearing a “gator neck” that covers my face like a bandit or a burka?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A new, but necessary fashion low for me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am sure that many of the thick-blooded New Englanders think I am completely overreacting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Plenty remind me that I “ain’t seen nothin yet.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But occasionally one takes pity on me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>While waiting to cross the street, my friend Michael, a New Jersey native, attempted to engage me in conversation that he hoped would take my mind off the cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But all I could do was shiver, and stammer and shake in total disbelief of my mind-numbing surroundings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Finally, realizing what he’s up against, Michael says to me, “You know what, it’s ok if you need to use all your brain power to keep warm right now.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I understand.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Then a stranger joins in: “Hey, you’re shivering! That’s a good thing!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It means your body’s working to stay warm, sending out all kinds of endorphins and stuff.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>He hollers all of this into the dark night, his laughter puffing forth in little white clouds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Well, if nothing else we are all in this together, I muse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Strangers are offering me encouragement in the crosswalk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Friends are excusing my inability to form sentences.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The whole experience of living in a freezing climate is so ridiculous, so consuming, that we can not help but laugh about it, making our own little white puff clouds as we scurry through the streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The real adventure, I am beginning to suspect, is seeing how the cold, with its shrill howls and nasty bite, actually brings people together, enlivening ways of relating to each other that we might not know without a common hardship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Who knew the cold could be such a mighty equalizer?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Pilgrims, no doubt.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I luxuriate in the warmth of this new reflection, its poetic resonance with journeying to the “New World,” and the well-heated train ride back to Cambridge .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When I share something of my hopeful discovery to Michael, he promptly quips: “Don’t worry, you’ve got another 4 or 5 more months to figure it out…”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Ha ha.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"> Fantastic.<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-48133479303068888462010-11-29T07:26:00.000-08:002010-11-29T14:48:38.463-08:00The First Negotiation<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2SRgAFHA8OYJGFqGqFSVb6G5jQVu-iQ5eD2c4VgKPuAqjpp4s_ZOEUF4QRkBdt5o0OsI0A8Tnv9R6fY61dcqtj4LncGFuT3Ymt62orJSLid2T4IpKn69VkBspYJFGT9hcSySnszE8rXV/s1600/Woman_Sleeping_In_White_Colored_Bed.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw2SRgAFHA8OYJGFqGqFSVb6G5jQVu-iQ5eD2c4VgKPuAqjpp4s_ZOEUF4QRkBdt5o0OsI0A8Tnv9R6fY61dcqtj4LncGFuT3Ymt62orJSLid2T4IpKn69VkBspYJFGT9hcSySnszE8rXV/s200/Woman_Sleeping_In_White_Colored_Bed.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5544993646693231842" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The morning light licks the corners of my face, repeatedly, until I consent to opening my eyes. She makes her gradual way across the bed, nudging her most promising sign of hope unto the tossled ivory. The sun is far more gentle than any alarm clock I’ve ever fought, though no less insistent. In such radiant self-giving, how many times can I roll over? </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">So we strike a compromise: I will flip my pillow and “rest” my head, but promise to keep my eyes a flutter, little windows parted slightly for the streams of her still light. Sometimes I up the bargain, telling her that there is really no better way to receive her glory, no greater praise of her warmth, than to surrender consciousness upon her lap, just a little. She will often reply by shedding new light upon the floor, warming a most suggestive path out into the kitchen. My stomach grumbles. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Are you sure you don’t want to try freezing time again?</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> I ask. </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">You, me and the sheets, forever curled in our secret morning splendor.</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> She only laughs at the mention of freezing anything. Anathema, I know. But always worth a try. I buy a few more minutes by reminding her of how important it is, for my health, to begin each day with a renewed sense of abundance and that her light pools such life within me. She is both prayer and blessing. I could drink this light all day, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">were it not for the hunger</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> she replies. So I stretch once more, let me toes dangle in her sight and then drop down into puddles of grace. </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Thus begins the day, in a semi-lucid, ridiculously affectionate set of negotiations between me and the light. And I can think of no better way to play human, than to bargain, very much like my grandfather, for regular installments of grace. </span><span style="font-family:Cambria; mso-fareast-font-family:Cambria;mso-bidi-Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-USfont-family:";"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> </span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Isn't that how we've always done it when waking to the tender reality of our bodies?</span></span></p><!--StartFragment--><!--EndFragment--> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-68269454120549004502010-11-21T09:40:00.001-08:002010-11-21T09:49:31.884-08:00The Story Beneath My Feet<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXpVX2QnT9xWZ1ZL4eWZWIZl995kOSvwVgF9-O7wKTe3Neec8KHuHKiYeJVGfAjzYia5Van2MskLWfra8zF3ARsNlXtaXu_-N6GAnQ8ziir1mJdmuK-8VRuC5f3awY6TMnE3OOEanBwhlh/s1600/42-15448433.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXpVX2QnT9xWZ1ZL4eWZWIZl995kOSvwVgF9-O7wKTe3Neec8KHuHKiYeJVGfAjzYia5Van2MskLWfra8zF3ARsNlXtaXu_-N6GAnQ8ziir1mJdmuK-8VRuC5f3awY6TMnE3OOEanBwhlh/s200/42-15448433.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5542059482760076594" /></a> <!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><!--StartFragment--> </p><p class="MsoNormal">She was entering her senior year, at “the college,” shorthand for Harvard University’s undergraduate school.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But already she was planning to take her postgraduate career across the country to golden California.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This much I overheard from a stranger, riding on the “T.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">With one hand gripping a side rail and two feet spread upon the shifting floor, I stood, balancing the East Coast ride as if I were surfing the Pacific ocean.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I laughed to myself about the irony of the ride and the Harvard student’s remarks:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>my home state was becoming her adventure destination, just as Boston has become mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As I listened to her muse about the unique California culture and its endless sunshine, everything about her dreaming was immediately familiar.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The wonder, the excitement, the stereotypical assumptions-all that goes along with moving into the unknown, it was all there, but written in the opposite direction of my own great move.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>California is as exotic to her, I thought, as Boston feels to me.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And as I rode the remainder of the way to my stop, it occurred to me that the story of Boston’s exoticism could be told almost entirely from the perspective of one’s feet. In an average week, I probably spend about 2 hours traveling on the “T” and 3 to 4 hours walking the streets of Cambridge. I have not so much as sat in a car in almost 3 months.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But this is not about mere comparison. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">It is about the soft, hollow feel of brick beneath my boots, which gives each step a bounce more generous than concrete and a sound as rich as the clacking of horseshoes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is the narrow staircase I climb to our third floor apartment, fumbling with scarf and keys, unzipping my jacket swiftly so as to beat the enfolding heat of the building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In less than 5 steps I must strip as many layers as possible before the indoor temperature reaches a suffocating intensity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is the feel of the smooth wood floor, (ubiquitous to New England) upon my bare feet as I slide across the flood of morning light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is standing in a late afternoon flurry of red and orange leaves that spin so hypnotically, you actually believe the world has been shook like a snow globe.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Living on the East Coast is an adventure I could chronicle in so many ways, but for today, the contours beneath my feet say it all.</p> <!--EndFragment--> <p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-88310401184051563852010-10-12T16:57:00.000-07:002010-10-12T17:01:18.057-07:00Interfaith Dialogue #1 or Channeling My Inner Pyro<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghc3l96Y6Ld1E_A42u_14Vbt_u-eTeXN4pknNE69gae3-4vxI52iOZWaUhc1wSHXs-vcAPecpqBYq3RZMKtRyK4FThzmWsnnGVwVKvoeDU8JpFoEmvBt2hPH0LFXm4rgGVFVfQdT44EGIN/s1600/5422burning_match.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 133px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghc3l96Y6Ld1E_A42u_14Vbt_u-eTeXN4pknNE69gae3-4vxI52iOZWaUhc1wSHXs-vcAPecpqBYq3RZMKtRyK4FThzmWsnnGVwVKvoeDU8JpFoEmvBt2hPH0LFXm4rgGVFVfQdT44EGIN/s200/5422burning_match.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5527313934341113042" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp-Gfl6RoGxMFVI1l0paVWbe9WRt2NIMmYU4H4YZRAW6gSXdwhegxgIrV509mdF14SJXvK77iXeajz9aylChDu5ZmCWZD7FLaqPPbCoYdd7O7AIKsm-97uurwHFwUcRMMki8ozOmNrmeD0/s1600/5422burning_match.jpg"></a><span><span></span></span><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">When the subject of religion pops up at the dinner table, or a cocktail party, or a first date, most people will hold their breathe in hopes that it will quietly pass or nervously fold the topic into their lap napkin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is flagged as a source of political controversy, or worse yet, a volatile time bomb of people’s most emotional, subjective, and inflexible beliefs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And you just don’t tamper with belief if you want to keep things civil.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">As a student of ministry and theology, however, that is exactly where I am asked to begin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Temperamental religious perspectives are my occupational hazards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Religion is the burning building that I am bursting into as everyone else is running out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am running into the flames for a living, because religion has been the source of my most luminous joy and singeing discomfort.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Some of it has breathed wisdom and consolation into my life, while other statements of belief have left me injured from the fierce licks of patriarchal language, dualistic conceptions of the flesh and spirit, and dangerously absolute statements about who God is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I am transfixed by the paradoxical flames of religious experience, and therefore, cannot seem to walk (or run) away like most.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But upon arriving at Harvard Divinity, the heated reality of religious pluralism has been turned up a notch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There is a wide spectrum of religious traditions lived out here- from Buddhism to Islam to Judaism to secular humanism to Catholicism to more Christian denominations than I could possibly remember.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yet, beyond these nominal distinctions there are even deeper differences in spiritual dispositions, that is, how people talk about their religious encounters with the divine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I recently read the spiritual autobiography of a 19<sup>th</sup> century black, Methodist woman, who recalls a childhood experience of lying, where she says, “the spirit of God moved in power through my conscience, and told me I was a wretched sinner.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In the margins, I simply wrote “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">guilt</i>.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Of course I know that if God is intimately present to creation, and speaks through the movements of one’s heart, then the experience of guilt is not all that different from hearing the disapproval of God thundering in one’s soul.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yet, the dramatic, sensationally active God of Jarena’s account disturbs me for multiple reasons.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Apart from lying, there are a number of things that people may feel guilty about that are not actually morally reprehensible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>How many people, for instance, are conditioned by our homophobic culture and misguided interpretations of scripture to feel ashamed of their natural, God-given sexuality?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Are they to read their emotion of guilt as the disapproving voice of God? I cannot, in good conscience, endorse that translation of “God’s word,” when it smacks of cultural constructions.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In and out of class, people are sharing very personal religious experiences with me and I am forced to grapple with their personal accounts in the same complicated way that I must read Jarena’s narrative.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>A postmodern scholar of religion would quickly advise me to consider how every expression of faith is inevitably colored by the cultural and political influences of an era as they interact with the intricate psychological landscape of an individual.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Their words are not my words, and their inflecting worldview is not my worldview.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And if my only task were to analyze these differences from the safe distance of an essay then I’d probably be sleeping a whole lot easier at night.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But that would also mean I am just looking at the picture of a blazing building, instead of entering it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">One of my first commitments in ministry is to honor the lived experiences of others, no matter how much they may offend my own sensibilities, because I recognize that these are people, with involved life experiences and relationships that have informed their convictions and therefore, I can not reduce them to a walking theological argument.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yet, the flames of their experience still tickle and occasionally burn against my own. Comparative religious studies does not call upon me in the same way that ministry formation does; it does not ask that I pray with someone, or enter into pastoral care or practice spiritual discernment with them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When one begins to engage the real differences, or the places of deep disturbance, it is hard to retain such composure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In these instances, I cannot deny how very hot and suffocating the air around me becomes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And so, what do you do with a blazing fire that has the potential to be both life-giving and death-dealing? How do you tend to it?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Any response I offer this early in the interfaith experiment that is Harvard Divinity School, would be mere speculation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I cannot provide an exact formula for understanding, or a miracle cooling unction to relieve the discomfort that these religious conflagrations can bring.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">However, last year my friend, Tyler, threw me a line that I am still clutching in my own smoky confusion: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">“You always have more in common with a person than you don’t,” </i>he said to me.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"> </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This idea gives me some serenity in an otherwise hysterical world because it insists that we notice what is really connecting us, rather than dwelling on apparent divisions and their disturbances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It also prompts me to cultivate the curiosity of a pyro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yes, that’s right, a pyro.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It happens to be the only image in my treasury of thought that conveys the disposition required to stand before waves of heat and look, with rapt attention, for the flicker of what we hold in common.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></i></p><!--StartFragment--> <!--EndFragment--> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-8976031737051760012010-09-16T08:17:00.000-07:002010-09-16T08:18:55.671-07:00Harvardom<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheb1xsbTrxDFwcTix_Egqyr4pRVry61Y3EiZwZnGtO9pmt9B-2NIcUw-oKEQif1dOdzf-GCLuQeR-CMQgXdFjYPvY6So7nmlD41QdKE0-BdApmM6XWS1HhdgpyKQ8YbtcEkOisOuH5AhVG/s1600/buildings.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheb1xsbTrxDFwcTix_Egqyr4pRVry61Y3EiZwZnGtO9pmt9B-2NIcUw-oKEQif1dOdzf-GCLuQeR-CMQgXdFjYPvY6So7nmlD41QdKE0-BdApmM6XWS1HhdgpyKQ8YbtcEkOisOuH5AhVG/s320/buildings.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5517531090055438258" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Walking around Cambridge, it is impossible to say where Harvard University begins and ends.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The town is full of the redbrick, white framed Georgian buildings that so distinguish Harvard architecture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>These dignified walls and buildings line the edges of Harvard square, a tourist hub and central pulse of transportation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They extend outward, down the forked web of avenues to the 9 graduate schools connected to the University- schools of medicine, dentistry, divinity, law, business, design, education, public health, and government.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is unmistakably a center of learning, with a graduate student population double the size of its undergraduate students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I do not mean to rhapsodize the university for its grandeur and prestige, or even to place it at the center of the Cantabrigian universe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In fact, I have not yet developed any particular intimacy, or personal bias for the institution, apart from the fact that I am just entering its divinity program.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I am but a stranger in a foreign land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">And yet, here my imagination soars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The trail of brick and elegant door pediments draws me deeper and deeper into the notion that this is, indeed, a little kingdom, which I like to call <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Harvardom</i>. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">In Harvardom, all of the citizens are carrying backpacks or book bags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They are in the business of studying, researching, or just becoming smarter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Most of them are not from here, but have traveled oceans and lands to accent the air with their curious sounding voices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is a very international scene, this Harvardom. I once ran into a Belgian, British, and Israeli student along a 10-minute stroll to class.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But among this unpredictable diversity, one thing is for certain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Everyone walks with purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Whether they are pursuing degrees in sustainable landscape design for mega structures, or combining Chinese acupuncture with Western medicine, or completing their foundational study in Jewish theology before entering rabbinical seminary, all eyes glint with ambition and focus.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>All are determined to braid their eclectic set of interests into a driven, nothing can hold me down, resolve.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Which is not to say that they are robotic or impersonal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s just that along these quaint, winding streets, they have found some <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">raison d’être</i>, and those who will push them to become everything they have ever wanted to be.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And I wonder how these narrow roads and wrought-iron gateways could ever contain them? Is it not too quaint, too sweet and small to hold such personalities? </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am sure that’s exactly what Mother England thought of her little Puritan colonies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And yet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This little kingdom, of brick and cobble, has birthed an epicenter of learning to which the world now flocks. Oh Harvardom…</p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-66352643851550393382010-09-04T10:30:00.000-07:002010-09-04T10:32:21.330-07:00The New World<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzCdfUBY0eEHkanJW3xc9g5VzlFGqc4yHQkCcIcLzx_ZgrQ-G7qFiRaOzY3rTSRE4VPIFBXmYpGa6qvAIz4jlkNUu4AMghUYOztJZL4QuAzzBTNLAW7ph0yVkEQha-_EC-nICTWaDQzfJd/s1600/munstermap.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 243px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzCdfUBY0eEHkanJW3xc9g5VzlFGqc4yHQkCcIcLzx_ZgrQ-G7qFiRaOzY3rTSRE4VPIFBXmYpGa6qvAIz4jlkNUu4AMghUYOztJZL4QuAzzBTNLAW7ph0yVkEQha-_EC-nICTWaDQzfJd/s320/munstermap.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5513112484519149954" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">In 1492, Christopher Columbus set out on the high seas in search of a better trade route to India.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Instead, he landed upon the shores of the Americas, which for his people was truly a new world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>With that said, my appreciation of American history has evolved since the fourth grade.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The binding of my Elementary school textbooks and the narrow, Eurocentric story contained there within has been busted open by the knowledge that thousands of Native American tribes populated this continent before the European arrival and were flourishing in ways that European society could not measure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Disease, violence, deceit, and arrogance were heaved like cargo unto this “discovered” land and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">that </i>only approximates the real story of the New World.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">And yet, as I prepare to move to Boston, I can not help but feel the tingling excitement and naïve optimism of moving to a place that is, for me, a new world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I have lived in California my whole life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Actually, my recent sojourn in Northern California has taught me to think of southern California as a totally separate, water-guzzling enemy of a state.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But, nonetheless, I have been exposed to ample sunshine and a leisurely pace of living throughout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I have eaten at many Inn & Out Burger joints, studied on a palm tree lined campus, and grew up in a planned community of tilt up buildings, track homes and recreational lakes that are as new as I am to this world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Now I am moving to a city of cobblestone and bridges, clock towers and old Irish pubs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I will stand beneath tall trees as they show me the spectrum of Autumn colors in their leaves’ acrobatic descent to the earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And I can assure you that I will be rapt in wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Too distracted by beauty and New England culture to even study, perhaps.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Last night, I had a very foretelling dream, in which my friend teased me about my imminent departure saying, “Oh, Maggi, I know you. You just can’t wait to start yankee-ing around.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yankeeing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My subconscious’ new word for galavanting around the early colonies and former Union States.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As in, “We yankeed hard last night,” or “It was a yankin’ good time!” Except that I really don’t think it will catch on in Boston.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The more historical associations of colonial unity may be eclipsed by the modern bloodlust of Yankee/Red Sox rivalry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>So I figure I’ll just keep my new word to myself and a few California ex patriates.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But that’s the thing about discovering a new place—the wonder of a new experience elicits all kinds of creativity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>New words like<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"> yankeeing</i> surface that prompt fresh perspective and thoughts, which in turn, shape the very contours of one’s reality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And what is reality?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Is it a static, fixed thing that we have to try to figure out?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Is Boston a place that is absorbing me?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or, is reality just the dynamic interaction we have with place, culture and people?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Am I absorbing Boston? And if so, will the reality of Boston change in the slightest bit after I have seen and absorbed it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It only seems appropriate to entertain these philosophical questions about reality now because the inner critic in me is demanding an explanation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She wants to know what I, an unestablished, twenty-something, California girl, could possibly say about famed Boston that has not already been said by historians, journalists, Rick Steves or the droves of other young adults that move here each year to study at one of the 100 colleges and universities within the Greater Boston area? <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Everything,</i> I reply. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">You see I have this theory, a sneaking suspicion rather, that cities are more than just a cluster of buildings passively enduring the tumult of history’s tides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The people who built these places and the generations that follow write their lives into the stonework, they plant their dreams in the soil, they kiss in the alleys, and press their ambition across the pavement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Walls do whisper and the land, well, it speaks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And in doing so, they give me full permission to talk back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The city gives us all a voice to be in conversation with the voices it echoes of so many other people who have explored and discovered and rediscovered it again and again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, it’s not just new perspective that we bring to a place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s the marvelous ability to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">co-create</i> with that perspective, to interact with the city and be open to the unforeseen ways that we both might be reshaped by the encounter. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I intend to map out the terrain of these encounters in the New World through stories, little vignettes that I can piece together on the metro or in between classes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Some may be earth-shattering, landscape probing, discoveries and others will simply chart the dimensions of a day; I will document the details of my New England clam chowder and Fenway hot dog the way Lewis and Clark wrote about the varieties of fauna and flora they saw on their pioneering trek across country.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I hope that something of experiential map unfolds of my wanderings in which neither Boston nor I will ever look the same.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-42954294268591087502010-06-10T23:09:00.000-07:002010-06-10T23:10:59.011-07:00Sunscreen Fixin'<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnbd8wRxQTfiyCeWV4CB0s1JbNclxNa1PIGid8LrOIm6fIOw4OyzdghU2OGP-dllvxJ9jxYWpNLSeGk5NitzD_ripdsggam2ewONHqGMnPjSudjy-g32OgcwrJTYzcxBLVDBEk5dYlQu3w/s1600/article-1108802-02FA1733000005DC-950_468x384.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 164px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnbd8wRxQTfiyCeWV4CB0s1JbNclxNa1PIGid8LrOIm6fIOw4OyzdghU2OGP-dllvxJ9jxYWpNLSeGk5NitzD_ripdsggam2ewONHqGMnPjSudjy-g32OgcwrJTYzcxBLVDBEk5dYlQu3w/s200/article-1108802-02FA1733000005DC-950_468x384.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5481394570971505570" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Jules squirted some sunscreen onto her palms before massaging it into her shoulders and the hard to reach blades of her back.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As the thick, white lotion spread, its scent drifted through the salty ocean air and I recognized it immediately.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Bonne Bell</i> cotton candy lip balm.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I wore it religiously throughout seventh grade, convinced that icy pink was a good look for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was the kind of silvery shade that older, high school girls were wearing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I had a sparkly pink mini-skirt to match—one that received loads of compliments.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I do not miss the goopy feeling of synthetic gloss smacked across my lips, but the smell, oh God is it delicious!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It’s sinfully sweet, even better than real cotton candy, with an aftertaste of some inscrutable, tingling mint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>After all this time, more than a decade, the scent still moves me and I have to control the urge to reach over and smear Jules’ <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Ocean Potion’s SPF 30</i> all over my lips, just for old time’s sake.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-76748383953233685332010-06-02T19:56:00.001-07:002010-06-02T19:58:47.229-07:00Beauty Looks Back<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibPlgVlMxTgNQMTzi2C0m5Ik6qTU4CHrKL35Z9jpLsJbKAw0zd0qBPkga54OS8nVARHhJcmIghlG2ra0TCla4Nqpndncc8BpbHQCV3LN0DvK6QBKKmPOsQeKDzNCqowCfSIG_nw5dtXNr_/s1600/DSC01090.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibPlgVlMxTgNQMTzi2C0m5Ik6qTU4CHrKL35Z9jpLsJbKAw0zd0qBPkga54OS8nVARHhJcmIghlG2ra0TCla4Nqpndncc8BpbHQCV3LN0DvK6QBKKmPOsQeKDzNCqowCfSIG_nw5dtXNr_/s200/DSC01090.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478376343694072322" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">There are times when just looking out at the world is too much. With impeccable self-possession, she flaunts color, texture, pattern, dimension, and flickering foils of light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>All cascade through my gossamer lens and I am overtaken by the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">presence </i>of these things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Only then do I see why photos and video recordings are so widely cherished—they hold the focus, which hurried eyes that have seen-it-all can not grasp.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yes, much is required to give pause, to linger longer and let all that in. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Oh, but how I long to receive the world, to be daily engorged with streams of color, shapely spectacles or just plain matter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>All of my patience and attention I will exchange for one glimpse of that deep-down presence in things.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Yet, after my eyes roam the rolling country, tracing every verdant dip and golden contour, they fall upon him – a glorious human face – and I do not know if I can bear it any longer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I must look away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>All that beauty looking back at me. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-12898857454285476472010-05-30T12:36:00.000-07:002010-05-30T14:11:55.637-07:00Something for my friends...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZHKo6DEHbfD9l7sUHGI38ivLilcYa3m-zA6LIjJpm5fzmvrv-IbxfaOm5DeW-ZbquY2qhDFiCd8vdA0yElOXzStchXqo-jKELBqzjVM-rVgInkUfpabjppcx1vrFI8CeDfz2uuq4BUy2u/s1600/summertimes.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZHKo6DEHbfD9l7sUHGI38ivLilcYa3m-zA6LIjJpm5fzmvrv-IbxfaOm5DeW-ZbquY2qhDFiCd8vdA0yElOXzStchXqo-jKELBqzjVM-rVgInkUfpabjppcx1vrFI8CeDfz2uuq4BUy2u/s200/summertimes.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477173410604554530" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi- mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italic;font-family:Arial;font-size:10.0pt;"> <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"></span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">The Invitation</span></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">by Oriah Mountain Dreamer</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: normal; font-family:Arial;"></span></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre; font-family:'Lucida Grande';"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: normal; font-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.</span></span></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon... I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from God’s presence.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes.”</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-pagination:none;mso-layout-grid-align:none; text-autospace:none"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family:Arial; mso-bidi-mso-bidi-font-style:italicfont-family:Arial;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.</span></span></p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-56987987855604129842010-05-28T20:23:00.000-07:002010-05-28T20:30:33.211-07:00Losing Faith?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBVfe1oRwwB-R-F8smHGx6kLZI-xd2zaYzoMOd_FUF0JibubrUZ0m-edJODunqkUv-SdFZNlZ5n1RFJAjmCGyq6MuNqP0aiec4vRJUZz9HEYQ_22mfk3kZNlYdSXso03SfYwddjwEuUzW4/s1600/1568983379_large.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 156px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBVfe1oRwwB-R-F8smHGx6kLZI-xd2zaYzoMOd_FUF0JibubrUZ0m-edJODunqkUv-SdFZNlZ5n1RFJAjmCGyq6MuNqP0aiec4vRJUZz9HEYQ_22mfk3kZNlYdSXso03SfYwddjwEuUzW4/s200/1568983379_large.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476529166777228194" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">In a recent conversation with a perfect stranger, I mentioned that I would be starting my Masters of Divinity at Harvard this fall, to which the perfect stranger replied, “That’s great, I just hope you don’t lose your faith there.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Lose my faith?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What a funny expression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Is that akin to losing your marbles, mind, hair, virginity or orthodontic retainer (I have personally lost 8 retainers, mostly because I forgot them in the napkins I threw away).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The way he said “lose your faith” implied that it’s here one minute and then, whoops, gone the next, as if I have little agency in the matter.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of course, I know what is meant by the expression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Critical questions and religious diversity, both hallmarks of a graduate education at Harvard, are viewed by some as potential threats to one’s faith- a slippery slope of reasoning, casuistry, and uncensored exposure that can lead to the total unraveling of a person’s faith.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I am continually shocked by the white-knuckled inflexibility with which some people hold their faith and the refusal to allow that faith to be probed in a spirit of intellectual honesty and existential integrity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>However, that’s just my personal theological bent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What I actually find most appalling, and even belittling, about this claim is the phrase itself: “to lose faith.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal">I wonder if this stranger ever considered that those “misplacers” of faith have faithfully renounced it, deliberately thrown it away, or salvaged only what was truly tenable in their lives, so as to make way for a spirituality that could abide worthy questions and wonderful diversity and the pervasive complexity of life?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Losing faith grants too much passivity and helplessness to what may range from a flagrant act of defiance to an intentional shift in ideology or consciousness. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“Losing faith” may mean casting off what was once a psychological crutch, not real, organic, life-grown truth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Instead of beginning from a place of absence, or from what it is suddenly missing from our tiny, solipsistic perception of one another’s spiritual life, why don’t we look at presence?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">is</i> growing in a human being and is it allowing them to realize their fullest, generative potential?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In paying attention to what has been gained in one’s life, it is easy to recognize something holy, though perhaps unfamiliar, underfoot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I do not mean to imply any disrespect towards religious convictions as such or to suggest that anyone should recklessly throw their beliefs away, particularly if they have proven genuinely life-giving.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I simply object to the expression, “lose faith” for its inability to recognize and honor the varieties of spiritual experience that are possible for a human being.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It seems that in all negotiations of religious identity there is a responsible party calling the shots, and even if you disagree with those shots, please, allow her that agency. </p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-60491914618408947262010-04-29T22:16:00.000-07:002010-04-29T22:20:26.308-07:00When I Think of Heaven...<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nQita2eWYBAixIxO-uxAVlrmNFO8ekWUXyhpLe9wSI26-7xGNwnxCSJDMqwcR6zSzj1Xw1CKx4Tbhu8BYWLtvErRMvC-w4_WQ_SfCSp3wminNZalmnowfjy0mwbBlnTVxDjpyn2HFlXs/s1600/redwing-lotta-red_JR36810.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 149px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0nQita2eWYBAixIxO-uxAVlrmNFO8ekWUXyhpLe9wSI26-7xGNwnxCSJDMqwcR6zSzj1Xw1CKx4Tbhu8BYWLtvErRMvC-w4_WQ_SfCSp3wminNZalmnowfjy0mwbBlnTVxDjpyn2HFlXs/s200/redwing-lotta-red_JR36810.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5465796074215142914" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-;font-family:Verdana;font-size:13.0pt;">“When I think of heaven (Deliver me in a black-winged bird)<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-;font-family:Verdana;font-size:13.0pt;">I think of dying <o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt;mso-pagination: none;mso-layout-grid-align:none;text-autospace:none"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal"><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-;font-family:Verdana;font-size:13.0pt;">Lay me down in a field of flame and heather<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-;font-family:Verdana;font-size:13.0pt;">Render up my body into the burning heart of God in the belly of a black-winged bird”<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal"><span style="mso-bidi-mso-bidi-;font-family:Verdana;font-size:13.0pt;">- “Rain King” by Counting Crows<o:p></o:p></span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">If you want to spark a really interesting conversation, ask someone what they imagine heaven to be like.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In a flash, it leads one to consider the sometimes anxiety-ridden reality of death and whatever profound hope they have for the other side of it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is awash with fear and precious longings, longings that reveal a lot about the current struggle and sense of meaning in one’s life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Some have standard, predictable musings on the landscape of heaven, replete with golden gates, St. Peter’s ominous book, and cherubim-shaped hedges that are always fully grown and perfectly manicured (unlike the dolphin bush people grow by their pool that is never quite finished and often resembles a cage of leaves with a only one distinct flipper). This is surely the iconic picture of heaven, (or the St. Regis) but is it what we really long for?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">At funerals I hear people speak about a different kind of heaven, one in which the beloved is surrounded by a throng of relatives and friends who have long anticipated their arrival.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In this heaven, the exquisite hedges and chocolate fountains are completely irrelevant, lost in fact, against the brilliance of smiling faces and the sweet lull of familiar voices.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They are the same voices that you remember rocking you to sleep as a child, nestled on a warm lap, during the later hours of a family Christmas party.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The dimensions of time and space begin to taper off into cloud dust.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The big book of judgment is nowhere to be seen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is the heaven of familial comfort and timeless, relational bliss.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But what of the almighty God, where and when does this figure emerge?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The classic Christian theological portrait of heaven is one in which we are consumed in perpetual adoration of the face of God, caught up in musical rapture with the angels and cherubim, forever loving and forever loved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>This vision does not concern itself with multiple longings; there is only the one, all-consuming desire that draws us like moths to a flame, uttering ecstatic cries of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">holy, holy, holy</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I clearly remember one conversation about heaven that I had with a group of fellow Religious Studies majors (surprise, surprise).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My friend, Jessica, startled me with a very perceptive interpretation of the beatific vision, saying, “I do believe that to be in heaven means to be completely selfless, as in losing yourself to something greater.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I can imagine heaven like that because as I reflect upon the most joyful times of my life, I notice that they are all moments in which I have simply forgotten myself in loving another person or in giving myself to a greater cause.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Jessica’s words lingered with me for a while.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>She was right, real ec-stasy means the annihilation of the ego, an out-of-oneself experience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The paradox, as most mystics would suggest, is that as the self is absorbed it is not lost but fully realized in the presence of this greater Beauty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And so St. Teresa of Avila can claim, “Any real ecstasy is a sign you are moving in the right direction, don’t let any prude tell you otherwise.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Over the years I have repeatedly returned to this vision of selfless ecstasy, asking whether I am developing a taste for a heaven such as this by practicing selfless acts of love here on earth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>My idealized self would probably think and dream and pray with this beatific vision in mind, but more often than not, my real self is starting from a different place, one that must acknowledge the wearisome persistence of suffering.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In truth, my personal yearnings of heaven have formed like inkblots on tear-stained pillows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Any time that I have had to surrender a lost love, unrequited desire, or daily frustrations, I have found myself praying that God would hold that broken thing, that expansive aching, which I cannot bear myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But you see this is a conditional surrender I’ve worked out with God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I boldly expect that everything entreated to God will be given back to me in some mysterious way when I reach heaven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I trust there will be answers for the absurd bouts of suffering and if not answers, certainly the kind of touch that tenderly acknowledges hurt and in doing so, absolves us of the need for an answer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In this heaven, every tear that is wiped away, for petty and noble reasons alike, is not lost at all but gathered into something merciful, like a shower of stars that trickles across every sore on your body until the old wounds begin to dazzle. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">My dreams of heaven are not particularly sophisticated or selfless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They are not born on clouds but in the dirt, out of my encounters with suffering, which are ubiquitous to every human life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They come from a very intimate and visceral ache, a place filled with many wordless groans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yet, if you are not permitted to pray or dream with your <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">gut</i>, in artless groaning, where shall that grumbling find peace?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I am not beginning with an abdication of self, but with a very intentional surrender of all the parts of myself that ail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And, for that matter, I do not think that the relational heaven of family and friends is that far removed from the theology of ecstatic union with God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I mean who doesn’t get <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">swept away</i> in a crowd of loved ones?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>What is the mystical Body of Christ if not cosmic web of relationships made whole?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">All of these visions may be mere intimations or child’s play. But I think that if they are moving us at all towards ecstasy or helping us to recognize shivers of heaven and ultimate meaning on earth then they are serving their purpose well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Dreams of heaven are telling and they matter deeply for the here and now; Even as I await the perfect healing of all that is soaked within my pillowcase, would you believe I am kissed?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Not completely healed, but undeniably kissed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-65689701661824258512010-03-09T15:28:00.000-08:002010-03-09T15:29:55.795-08:00Friendship: a mighty fine ministry<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPdDUtpnzoXI2ruj_qJwBJpttFsoRTT5BWo8RrYncMCn7i6EYOlTU8YPVE_5v_I5OGZWR0DtgSdLX706iZvtcBNBFRt3o2BEnMvYNJ279Bzvt2fHnNi3O1zw9yVUKQ95z0Ab0pqFJeqdCu/s1600-h/DSC00483.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 163px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPdDUtpnzoXI2ruj_qJwBJpttFsoRTT5BWo8RrYncMCn7i6EYOlTU8YPVE_5v_I5OGZWR0DtgSdLX706iZvtcBNBFRt3o2BEnMvYNJ279Bzvt2fHnNi3O1zw9yVUKQ95z0Ab0pqFJeqdCu/s200/DSC00483.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5446780402524232834" /></a><br /><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">After months of attempting to clearly articulate my sense of ministry for a handful of graduate school applications, I have arrived at a few running definitions that satisfy me- for the moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>They are all purposefully abstract, intimating that the underlying gospel dynamic is one of liberation that leads to abundant, joyful self-giving. But if the refrain is that simple, that adaptable, how could I begin to put parameters on when and where “ministry” takes place?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Throughout my life I have encountered exquisitely refined ministry from the people you would expect- keen professors, embracing campus ministers, and doting Jesuit priests who have made the title “father” more fitting than a pair of worn-in jeans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But I’ve also seen a different variety of ministry flourish outside of the Catholic mileau.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>For instance, ministry was unwaveringly honest and direct for the alcohol and drug counselors I worked beside at Friendship House.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>There, they had different names for God (a power greater than ourselves), confession (an AA meeting), and prayer (smudging off), but the same dynamics of compassion, healing and invigorating freedom prevailed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">I recently received a phone call from Kelly, a JVC housemate and friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>During the course of our conversation Kelly shared with me a theme that had been persisting strongly in her prayers and spiritual life.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>The message was powerfully clear for her: “Love.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>“I know this may sound a little simple, and kind of like, duh, but really, Mags, if I can do nothing else but love people, I mean really care for them and love them as they come, then that’s all I need to be doing right now.” </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>As Kelly spoke, I vividly recalled our last date together and how very present and exuberant and thoughtful she was.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Now, of course, none of these adjectives are atypical for Kelly- she is a force of love by nature.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Yet, Kelly’s simple revelation and invocation to love stirred up a similar response in me. I was so easily persuaded by her conviction that I hung up the phone feeling equally charged to be a force of love myself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It was as if, on this day, I had heard God’s voice.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">This conversation, and many others like it, have put a whole new spin on the concept of real ministry for me. When a friend is honest about something she is experiencing, I feel closer to reality and challenged to be more honest in my engagement with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>When a friend expresses a desire to be more loving, or to practice better self-care, or to pray not out of obligation, but because he knows it will literally save his life, I listen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And I am changed.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I honor the candid things my friends say, and more than any other homily, these conversations function as conversion moments for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And for that reason I’ve come to believe that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">friendship</i> is the most natural, desirable form of ministry there is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It does not ask us to study, perform, or do anything in particular.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is stripped clean of all pretenses and polished agendas, and there in the intimacy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">being</i> with each other, in the trusted space of one’s friendship, ministry handles itself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I am so grateful for my friends, and the ongoing revelations I receive as they reflect out loud, and with beautiful transparency, the movements of their heart.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-17512919788753079452010-01-26T17:41:00.000-08:002010-01-26T17:54:51.592-08:00Wayfaring Faith<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9I20AKs4MOXgM_E3sjS3pO6sADZC3UXlWUUNbjTV5Ze_2Wu3Y3MonpX2hYCJ72Gy14VbJpNANGQ5ipL3t4tOVkLG1mSRGZAIWZRSmf2tpX7Kka8JRlOqNvOf43UUI6IbGjLExsaqB_BoP/s1600-h/DaySails1-1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 161px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9I20AKs4MOXgM_E3sjS3pO6sADZC3UXlWUUNbjTV5Ze_2Wu3Y3MonpX2hYCJ72Gy14VbJpNANGQ5ipL3t4tOVkLG1mSRGZAIWZRSmf2tpX7Kka8JRlOqNvOf43UUI6IbGjLExsaqB_BoP/s200/DaySails1-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431232056967867170" /></a><br /><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">“Faith should not make your life simple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It should make it even more complex,”</i> a friend once said to me. </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It is a statement I have been wrestling with for some time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>On the one hand, I am tempted to reply that life is already dizzyingly complex, full of existential and interpersonal puzzles to sort through; shouldn’t one’s faith help to ease this complicated frenzy?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Simultaneously, I am relieved to hear my friend speak these words, because they acknowledge and do not attempt to reduce the complexity I confront daily in this world.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If, in the words of Jon Sobrino, we “must be faithful to reality,” then we are also compelled to admit that reality does not always play into theological paradigms as neatly as one might hope.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>To cram them into religious narratives uncritically, would be to violate truth as it impinges upon us in the varied, situational contexts of our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It would mean denying, or short-circuiting some aspect of our humanity, a humanity within which God promises to continuously conspire and reveal sacred wisdom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And I will not stand for that kind of dismissal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I will demand a faith that speaks directly (and tenderly) to the complexities of my own life and the stories of others, without feeling neurotically compelled to solve or nail things down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>I cannot bear to participate in the crucifixion of an unbridled life.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I suppose that my lack of doctrinal commitment is a kind of conviction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Any one of my friends, who I have had the pleasure of talking and dreaming with over the years could surely attest to my reoccurring preoccupation with letting the world be a sacrament of grace, an ambiguous disclosure of divine life. And yet, here I am in the winding labyrinth of knowing, needing to circle back once more to this personal conviction. </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Why, I wonder, do I feel summoned back to the same questions I managed to live out years ago? Why the excited return and the intense drive to write all about?</p> <p class="MsoNormal">I suspect that the desire to reaffirm my ongoing conviction is due to the fact that lately I feel like it is being threatened or simply ignored.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In ministry circles, as in any market, there is always something to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">sell</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Or at least that is the presumption for some ministers; they have to sell (teach) this theology to people in the most effective (simple and sensational) way possible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>And while I am all for accommodating culture and utilizing spicy language and surprising slants to convey a message, I often wonder if we are implicitly communicating that a life of faith is as neat and sexy as an advertising campaign.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>That kind of product may sell immediately, but is it ethical?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Is it right to equip people with fervent truth claims that will not, ultimately, cohere with the complexities and imperfections that life consistently deals?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Our relationship to a faith tradition is just like the many other relationships we entertain throughout our lives.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>If it is founded upon unrealistic expectations, and one day that person, or theology, fails to adequately live up to such promises, you will quite certainly taste the bitter gall of betrayal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Once galvanized by this betrayal it is nearly impossible to avoid feelings of resentment that ultimately contribute to the dissolution or severance of that once hollowed relationship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>These moments of religious disillusionment need not be framed in total hopelessness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Consider the perspective of James Alison’s, a Catholic theologian, on a maturing faith: </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">“To each step of the clearer and more complete revelation of God, that is to say, to each purification of faith, there is a corresponding and simultaneous collapse of a whole series of elements which seemed to have been indispensable bulwarks of faith” (<u>Faith Beyond Resentment</u>). <o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Colonnades of conviction will collapse either way you look at it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But in the first relationship, based on tightly wound expectations and tidier campaigns, you have bitterness and resentment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>In Alison’s graceful collapse, untruths may fall away, but only to give way to a more complete, refreshing vision of God.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Wherein lies the difference?</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Perhaps it is obvious that the more rigid your faith, the quicker it will snap in the wind, like a badly splintered relationship.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>However, if you keep a pliant spirit, dispossessed of absolutisms, then you can remain free and responsive to the Spirit of truth, however She blows.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It is still complex and not always clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>It may be ridiculed as flaccid, wavering, and unreliable.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>But I do not know of any ship that has successfully navigated the expansive seas with a rudder that is bigger than its sails.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes"> </span>Which is to say that a charted course, or theology, is a fine scheme so long as you understand that your survival is utterly bound to the relationship you keep with the wind. Fishers of men should know all about that.</p> <!--EndFragment-->Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6256530359100295070.post-24059455038585216502009-12-21T21:29:00.000-08:002009-12-21T21:43:57.687-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Um7h0clUwNsx14rtv1LBbH3JkkbqRwDox3jGteNKCROMXHwSbB5NGyfz2XMa_M8K97eP5vY9DUT90MBubRfcf-ufI5GGANA0OaTDHd4b4TTEykQ7v_ODLbk0Vb-B2Ou3itwbuLHOQYwL/s1600-h/kissingface.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7Um7h0clUwNsx14rtv1LBbH3JkkbqRwDox3jGteNKCROMXHwSbB5NGyfz2XMa_M8K97eP5vY9DUT90MBubRfcf-ufI5GGANA0OaTDHd4b4TTEykQ7v_ODLbk0Vb-B2Ou3itwbuLHOQYwL/s320/kissingface.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417930477266206962" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre; "> </span><br /></div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;mso-bidi-font-size:12.0pt">Fresh</span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The scent of a baby</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Clings to a sweater,</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">A shoulder,</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Arms, lucky enough to have held</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">His sweetly swaddled body,</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">If only for a while.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">And there is </span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">a freshness found </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">There, </span></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">In the fragrant folds</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Of newborn skin</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Fresh,</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Like the smell</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">of clouds </span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Ready to burst with</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Tiny</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">drops</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">of</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">enormous life.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">The sweat of heaven</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Pours forth from my</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">God-baby’s skin</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">And all I can think -</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Or deeply remember-</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Is that Jesus came</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">In this way</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">And in this skin</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">That we might know</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">Freshness once more.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"></span><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;">I cannot help but cling to a scent like that.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: normal; "> </span></span></p></span></span> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="margin-bottom:0in;margin-bottom:.0001pt; text-align:center"><o:p> <span class="Apple-style-span" style=" font-weight: bold; font-family:Cambria;">Christmas 2009</span></o:p></p>Maggi Van Dornhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12330574795247374562noreply@blogger.com1