Why Theology

I was asked recently why I chose to study theology. My answer at the time was hollow -- the kind of thing you said when you were embarrassed of the real answer. The kind of thing you said that made you some shade of khaki, a neutral to blend in with the rest of society, hoping the attractive man who asked would accept it for what it was and move on, allowing you to talk about things you would be sure would flatter him, like British-ism, Russian neighborhoods, and nuclear non-proliferation.

"It's fascinating, really. Someone's religious beliefs are at the heart of who they are, the ideas someone holds most dearly. It's amazing to see the way that these ideas hold sway to someone, the way it motivates a person to action. Not to make it a mere sociology project -- I believe what I study."

It sounded nice. Enough to get a head nod and a change of topic.

At the end of the day, when I was bored of political discussions and niceties, I started to be annoyed at the way I had spent the past 9 hours talking about his interests while glossing over mine. I was angry with his narcissism, his inability to ask about me, to care about what I studied, his way of glorifying his own work at the expense of mine.

I owe him an apology. A week later, I reflect back and realize that I acted ashamed of my field of study, my way of life, myself. I walked around pretending to be someone I was not because I stood there ashamed of everything I believed, afraid to stand up for the truth.


I have spent the past 4 hours in a library too beautiful for words. With a structure evoking the Modern in Fort Worth, I soak in the skylight and shades of white, breathing in the scent of new books and Febreeze. I have spent the better part of my day researching for a course on prayer I'm teaching in a few short weeks, realizing I am totally ill-equip for this position, mostly because I lack confidence. I am terrified that I'll begin to teach my lesson on praying for the Second Coming and find myself knee-deep in a debate about eschatology. I'm afraid someone will laugh at me as being some sort of naive evangelical, and explain to the class that the Kingdom of God is here today, and we have no need to pray for God's return because he's here already.

I'm afraid it will happen and I will stand there, shocked for a few moments, watching as everyone laughs at me, and then storm out of the room to cry in the bathroom until I think it is safe to leave the building, catch the train and never return to Loyola.

Why do I study theology? An honest response requires me to put myself out on a limb, making myself vulnerable to attack. I study theology because its at the core of who I am. I study theology because I believe, behind every action I take is some sort of belief about God. I believe that each thing I do either glorifies God or is sin. I believe its a lasting cause to study. I believe that in the end, each day that I spend reading the Word of God and the textbooks of theologians, I become a little more like Christ, a little more like who I was meant to be.

Why theology? Because I could think of nothing more practical or necessary. Because, in the end, I want to study what I love, and I long desperately to love nothing more than God.

Almost Christmas

It's almost Christmas.

11 minutes away.

And its quiet.

The lights glow over the fireplace from my mother's small Christmas village each building with a tea light flickering inside.
The tree glows 4 colors: Red, green. Blue, yellow.
The presents glisten under the tree in their glossy paper with shiny bows.

It's being to look like Christmas.


This evening, as the snow began to fall down in large chunks, Mom and I headed out to the hot tub, envisioning ski resorts with sub-zero temps and toasty hot tubs.

With our hats on to keep our ears warm, and hunching our shoulders down so that we wouldn't have frostbitten collarbones, we sat in the steamy water and thought, "This isn't so great after all."

Snow fell in our eyes. Our noses turned red from the bitter cold temperatures. Our towels were covered in thick layers of snow.

It was wonderful.

I am finally starting to understand that my family is like no other. We do not go to Christmas Eve service, or read from Luke on Christmas Eve. We eat tacos for diner, if that's what we've decided we wanted. We might listen to a few Christmas songs, but I have yet to see "The Christmas Story" (although I can quote lines from it, after years of missing the references). My family does things our own way, and if that means freezing in hot tubs on Christmas Eve and waking up at 5 am to open presents, then so be it, because that's how we do things in this family and I wouldn't trade them for the world.

Merry Christmas. May it be filled with strange and delightful family habits.

Finals Week Epiphanies

I wrote this sometime last week, and after writing a horrible blog to be posted later about pretending to be someone else, I thought this piece would prove sufficiently ironic:


This isn't what I need to be doing, in a deadline sense, but this is exactly what I need to be doing for a holistic person sense.

I'm content to be me.

I may not write the most poetic Romans papers, or the most insightful Kierkegaard review, but I like the way I write.

I like that my blog makes little sense and that half my sentences are grammatically incorrect — or at the very least dysfunctionally long.

I may not run marathons in under 3 hours or lift 997 lbs at the gym, but I like the shape I'm in.

I like that I run to obnoxious hip-hop sometimes and the Economist others. I like that my main reason for running is that the city is beautiful and I like to watch the sun sparkle on the sides of the building while waves gently crash on Oak Street beach made of imported sand and fake palm trees.

I may not understand quantum physics or even key historical events, but I like the way I learn.

I like the way I pour my heart into a class discussion, the way I read a textbook and conclude that the author's sentences were captivating, even if the text was not. I like that at the end of every article, I can tell you five things I hated and three that I like, but fail every question that asks what the big idea was.

I may not be impressive. I may not be the top of my class. I may not cure AIDS. I may not spend all my spare time working with children in the ghetto or planting community gardens for the poor. I may never be famous, or even relatively known, but I will always be me and today I'd have it no other way.

Love Poem to Drew

I'd probably be thinking about you if I had the time.

I'd study you like theology — never mind that such a statement makes sense to far too few, but know that for you, it makes as much sense as any metaphor can.
I'd study you like only I can.

I'd articulate my favorite features of you, analyzing each quirk, each sentimentality, each delicate feature.

I'd compare you to others — making sure you are the right one for me, hoping another does not come near your brilliance.

Yes, if I had the time, I'd leisurely read your blog, hoping you say something directly to me, even if it is in code.

Or maybe I'd be better off admitting that I only think of you at this point because I have no time to think.

It's a constant flow of papers and tests, exams and essays.

My mind is imploding and I simply cannot think of another scholar or assess the findings of another brilliant man.

But I can day dream about you.

I can read each e-mail you send me, dreaming of the day that I might live only a few blocks away from you, and I can sneak over every day to listen to the people who associate with you, marveling in the way they speak, the way they represent you.

Yes, its nights like tonight when I've hardly started on a thesis which should have been written months ago — those nights —that I dream about grad school.

To sit on your lawn which always looks stunning emerald green. To peak at the stained glass windows on your campus, to breathe in the air of New York suburbs.

Yes, tonight, I am dreaming of you, Drew, because I don't want to do my homework.

Daydreams and December Drizzle

I came here to study while I sip my gingerbread soy misto. Somehow, I've accomplished drinking even more pretentious drinks after graduating from my years of coffee shops.

I came here, opened a new document, intent on powering through 3000 words on the canonical interpretation of Malachi 4:5–6.

And yet, here I sit on a beautiful December day where the rain is falling but no one seems to care because Christmas is almost here. Here I sit, not working on my paper.

Instead, I smile as I think about seeing my family and handing them presents I'm sure they'll love. Here I sit, wondering if I could really write a paper on the theology of androgyny for my senior thesis. Here I sit wondering if I could really pull off painting the Starbucks Christmas bird on my lounge wall and if the girls would love it or think I've embraced capitalism.

Here I sit dreaming.

And I don't regret it.

Old Spirituals and Djembes

In August, I went on a retreat with some student leaders at Loyola. We headed out to the suburbs and stayed in a quaint cottage on a lake, eating food from the grill and making runs to local ice cream shops late at night. In the evening, as we quieted our hearts before God, we lit candles on the living room carpet and sang along with the gentle strumming of guitar that was behind us.
In the morning, when all 8 of us awoke from our deep suburban sleep, we decided to move our programming outside, to savor the morning dew and the pleasant sound of squirrels throwing walnuts on rooftops. Each grabbing a kitchen chair, we sat in the lawn in a tight circle, leaving the neighbors to wonder if we were a cult while they sat in their garages and watched us.
There, in our strangely created outdoor meeting room, we read morning psalms and sang souther spirituals, using the legs of our chairs as drums.

At LaSalle Street Church, everything was upgraded but the mood was the same. Instead of kitchen chairs on a lawn in a cul-de-sac, we sat in high-class folding armchairs, gazing out the window at the trees heavy with snow, watching urbanites stroll by in their hats of red and gold. Instead of using the legs of our chairs to carry the beat, a cute flutist pulled out a djembe and provided the rhythm for our singing of "I Heard the Voice of Jesus Calling."

Both times, I — a girl who goes to a folk liturgical church with at least a violin if not a full strings ensemble — just smiled.

There is beauty in music. It is not confusing in the least for me that Mozart, Bach, Hayden considered their work worship. However, there is something amazing about the lack of chords, something magical about a simple beat and voices singing in unison.

Sitting there on the suburban lawn or sitting in the glistening basement of LaSalle Street Church, God is worshipped when we direct our hearts toward him.

And, in closing, a prayer recited at every evening liturgy:
Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, as it was in the beginning, as it is now, and will be forever. Amen.

For the Love of Truth

I don't usually write political blogs. In fact, I find most political blogs arrogant and narrow-minded, a forum for some angry non-voting citizen to feel as if they are somehow making an impact on the world by typing about the quality of government.

I am not claiming to do any different, but as I read yet more articles on WikiLeaks, I feel like I need to say this:

We're asking the wrong questions.

The Opinionator in the New York Times is asking if we're helped by reading WikiLeaks and knowing what the government is lying to us about.
The Christian Science Monitor argues that Julian Assange, founder of WikiLeaks, is not to blame for the leaking of information, but the government officials who provided the information.
CNN asks, whose to blame for the damage that's been done?
MSNBC asks, how do we prosecute Assange since the documents weren't stolen but copied, moving this to an issue of intellectual property rights?

And, all along, I'm wondering why no one seems to be asking why our government is lying to us.

Sure, it has been since the beginning of time even before Plato wrote The Republic stating that different levels of people needed to have different access to information and rights.
And sure, there are certainly things that I don't need to know, like the drinking habits of Kim Jong Il (which, thanks to WikiLeaks, I now know).
But when my country is sending American soldiers to march alongside Pakistani soldiers in the battlefield and telling me they are merely doing training, I've got issues.
When the US has Yemen lying for them about the US's role in sniping Yemen citizens: I want to question our military protocol.

I'm not saying anything anti-military and I'm not suggesting the government should open up all their files.

But I am wondering if any of us really believe that being lied to is in our best interests. I'm wondering just how much deceit we'll accept from our country. I'm wondering at what point we cry out in the name of truth.

That's all I want. To know that my government respects me enough to at least say nothing in lieu of lying. To know that my government is conducting itself in such a way that it does not need to lie.

We impeached Clinton for lying under oath. Suddenly, that seems terribly ironic.

Pizza During Prayer

I went to LaSalle Street Church tonight. Sitting in a cute basement with an oddball group of people ranging from 8 years old to 88, I sat with a room of strangers and read prayers.
I liked it — not that you could tell from my actual presence or statements, but I did.

It was a world away from the place in which I daily worship God. It was unlike my liturgical church which holds tightly to creeds but even further removed from my Bible-only school that reeks of the Baptist tradition, without ever openly declaring it.

Only a few blocks down, I walked in its heavy wooden door and stumbled upon a secret world of pseudo-evangelicalism. A place where prayers are written on post-its, yet people kneel for confession.

It was beautiful, different and thought-provoking. I plan to have a series about this evening, if I can find enough energy to blog amid the sea of papers I am avoiding. Tonight, I want to start with the first thing I learned, stumbling into the doorway of this quaint church for a celebration of liturgy and Shane Claiborne's new book, Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals:


Danica and I stood in the back of the room, as forty people or so mingled over Diet Coke and cheese pizza. "Do you think this is it?" I asked, somehow expecting hipsters or hippies, but certainly not middle-aged 9 to 5-ers.

"Well, it said in the sanctuary on the tickets... do you think this is the sanctuary?"

Our confusion was obvious. Our lack of belonging even more so. Oreon, one of the many pastors within the church, came up to warmly greet us, asking us to grab some pizza and snag a chair to join in an evening of prayer.

She smiled and said, "And that's what we're going to do tonight: eat and pray. I think it says that somewhere in the Bible, that you are supposed to eat when you pray, right? I haven't found it yet, but I think its there somewhere."

She laughed at her own Bible joke, and I, uncomfortable with the incongruence of this place with my ideas of church, awkwardly commented about writing it in the margins of her bible.

I was in for a long night.

Halfway through the service, I realized what she said and what she missed: the Bible does say that we are to eat and pray. Its the Love Feast. Its the meeting of the New Testament church. It is what church is: eating and praying.

Acts 2:42,46-47 -- And they devoted themselves to the apostles' teaching and fellowship, to the breaking of bread and the prayers. And day by day, attending the temple together and breaking bread in their homes, they received their food with glad and generous hearts, praising God and having favor with all the people.

The New Testament church had consistent potlucks: church was had around the table, sharing food together and praising God. This was their communion. In our communion, as we take the Eucharist, we are called to do the same thing — eat and pray:

Matthew 26:26 -- While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, "Take and eat. This is my body."

Take and Eat. For in doing so, we partake of Christ. Take and Eat. For in doing so, we join together for a common cause. We live as the united bride of Christ that we are.

Pizza and Prayer: it seems wrong to be munching on some greasy thin crust while singing to God that he is holy. And it might be.

But tonight, sitting in the basement, looking out at the snow covered branches in the park next door, with the candles lit for the Advent season, with a bearded man on a banjo playing Latin songs of praise, I savored this perfect slice of pesto pizza and praised God in the assembly of his believers.

In closing, a piece of the Saturday evening liturgy:
Lord, let your servant now rest in peace, for you have kept your promise. With my own eyes I see the salvation you prepared for all peoples, a light of revelation for the Gentiles and a glory to your people, Israel.

Silly Questions

Its like asking why a dog barks or a chicken lays an egg.

Sure, there is a scientific answer, but the much more practical one is simply: because that's what they do. Dogs bark. Chickens lay eggs.

Its like asking a toddler why the sky is blue. She will merely look at you confused, wondering why you beat her to the punch line, without understanding why the question is being asked of her.

Why am I procrastinating?

Because I am a college student. Because, if I plan to be an academic someday, I will spend many hours playing Gem Swap on Yahoo and browsing Facebook statuses. It is simply required of me.

But while, I scroll through your pictures from the 90s and align three green gems, and then four yellow, I will be thinking about Kierkegaard. As each gem falls into place, I will be outlining my paper in my subconscious, realizing that 20 pages is manageable. And when the game ends and I've looked at every last photo from your junior high days, I will head back to the pages, and type another page before resorting to a game of Diner Dash for old times sake.

Why do I procrastinate?

Because its a part of the process.