Dear Inquisitive Trader Joe's Cashier,
You might have just been asking me about my day, as is the usual routine as you scan my groceries, but your questions only furthered my current existential angst. You asked me a question that echos what I have been hearing from many a stranger and close friend and which, I thought, wasn't a question I would ever have to face.
It started out so innocently. "So, what's next for you?"
I apologize for seeming aloof. At this stage in life, what's next usually refers to vital relationship or career moves, not my plans for 4:30 on Wednesday evening.
"Home to write a paper that's due tomorrow," I replied with trepidation.
"On what?"
I paused and looked into the distance for a while. In general, I try to avoid letting people know I'm a theology student. I like to let strangers have a chance to view me as a "normal" person rather than the crazy girl who studies theology and clearly must protest with the Westboro Baptists.
"Come on, just tell me."
As if he could read the shame that I usually try to deny having about my field of study.
"A theology of women.... in leadership."
The checkout, which seemed to last forever, had enough time to identify my graduate school and current program, as well as my doctoral hopes and my vocational plans to move into the academy once I (finally) finish all my schooling. And then he asked me the question that I thought only pastors asked, "Teaching? Why not go into the field, go into ministry?"
Why not go into ministry?
If you only knew, inquisitive cashier, if you only knew how many times I ask that same question. If you only knew that I struggle to write my statement of purpose because they want to know my post-doctoral vocation plans and I have no idea of what to say. If only you knew that I spent Sunday evening at a dinner for pastor-theologians asking the men who run the program what space there was for women like me in ministry. If you only knew how many times I've said, "If I were a man, I'd know my place." If only you knew.
So I apologize for my blank stares as you asked me the question that is reverberating in my brain. I apologize for leaving the store without a good bye or a thank you, just a receipt and a bag of groceries. I walked into the store thinking it was a safe space to ignore the questions that overwhelm me, and ironically, you, dear stranger, reminded me of the worlds that I am torn between.
So to answer the question I left lingering at the register: Why not ministry? Simply, because I'm not ready to accept that option yet.
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Funeral Flowers
Westminster Larger Catechism: Question 84. Should all men die?
Answer: Death being threatened as the wages of sin, it has been appointed unto all men once to die; for that all have sinned.
A man asked one of my pastors if Presbyterians believed in funerals. He had been at Covenant for a few months, and had yet to hear us mention a death or funeral. With this void, he assumed that Presbyterians had a faux pas about death, and simply ignored the subject matter.
If that man would have waited a month, he would have heard his answer.
"Pray for the Wierenga family as they mourn the loss of their daughter, Alaina."
"Pray for Sherri and Phil Brendenberg as they mourn the loss of their son, Kirk in their fifth month of pregnancy."
"Pray for Kevin, Eve, Megan and Collin as they mourn the loss of their son and brother, Aidan."
Three funerals. Six weeks. All children.
With the first death, I cried uncontrollably. I called friends for advice on insignificant details on the death announcement as to avoid actually thinking about two week old Alaina's death. I spent 4 hours picking out the right flower arrangement for the funeral, settling on a bouquet of lilies.
By the second, I grew calloused. I bought 5 kinds of gray card stock for the memorial service. I sent flowers to the couple's home, vibrant yellow and orange ones, fitting what I knew of their design aesthetic.
By the third, I simply asked questions. I grew weary. I knew not what to say. I order an arrangement of white flowers.
I went to Aidan's funeral. I may not have known him, but I knew that being present for my church body was important. I sat in the back, with my purse full of tissues. I accepted the closure that the funeral brought and moved on.
Shortly after Aidan's funeral, Ryan started coming by the church office to play the piano. Ryan was undergoing chemo treatments for cancer. The pain was so intense that he had left his job. On his good days, he stop by to practice his favorite piano pieces. Some weeks, I'd see him every afternoon. Other weeks, his absence would be noticeable. Near the end of December, he sent me a playlist of his favorite piano pieces. It took me several weeks to get around to playing it, but when I returned to Chicago from Christmas, I was excited to share with my him my favorites, to ask him to play me "A Song of Simplicity" by Elijah Boseenbroek.
I returned to the announcement of his death. In my absence, he had moved home into hospice care and soon died. I sent the family a plant.
Westminster Shorter Catechism: Question 37.What benefits do men receive from Christ at death?
Answer: The souls of believers are at their death made perfect in holiness and do immediately pass into glory; and their bodies, being still united in Christ, do rest in their graves, till the resurrection.
Answer: Death being threatened as the wages of sin, it has been appointed unto all men once to die; for that all have sinned.
A man asked one of my pastors if Presbyterians believed in funerals. He had been at Covenant for a few months, and had yet to hear us mention a death or funeral. With this void, he assumed that Presbyterians had a faux pas about death, and simply ignored the subject matter.
If that man would have waited a month, he would have heard his answer.
"Pray for the Wierenga family as they mourn the loss of their daughter, Alaina."
"Pray for Sherri and Phil Brendenberg as they mourn the loss of their son, Kirk in their fifth month of pregnancy."
"Pray for Kevin, Eve, Megan and Collin as they mourn the loss of their son and brother, Aidan."
Three funerals. Six weeks. All children.
With the first death, I cried uncontrollably. I called friends for advice on insignificant details on the death announcement as to avoid actually thinking about two week old Alaina's death. I spent 4 hours picking out the right flower arrangement for the funeral, settling on a bouquet of lilies.
By the second, I grew calloused. I bought 5 kinds of gray card stock for the memorial service. I sent flowers to the couple's home, vibrant yellow and orange ones, fitting what I knew of their design aesthetic.
By the third, I simply asked questions. I grew weary. I knew not what to say. I order an arrangement of white flowers.
I went to Aidan's funeral. I may not have known him, but I knew that being present for my church body was important. I sat in the back, with my purse full of tissues. I accepted the closure that the funeral brought and moved on.
Shortly after Aidan's funeral, Ryan started coming by the church office to play the piano. Ryan was undergoing chemo treatments for cancer. The pain was so intense that he had left his job. On his good days, he stop by to practice his favorite piano pieces. Some weeks, I'd see him every afternoon. Other weeks, his absence would be noticeable. Near the end of December, he sent me a playlist of his favorite piano pieces. It took me several weeks to get around to playing it, but when I returned to Chicago from Christmas, I was excited to share with my him my favorites, to ask him to play me "A Song of Simplicity" by Elijah Boseenbroek.
I returned to the announcement of his death. In my absence, he had moved home into hospice care and soon died. I sent the family a plant.
Westminster Shorter Catechism: Question 37.What benefits do men receive from Christ at death?
Answer: The souls of believers are at their death made perfect in holiness and do immediately pass into glory; and their bodies, being still united in Christ, do rest in their graves, till the resurrection.
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Cutting My Losses: Mid-semester Thoughts on Graduate Education
I wanted to be a professor since before I knew the word for it. As a child, I wanted to teach and the older I got, the more certain I was that full-time academics were for me. I wanted a PhD and while my field of choice changed the ambition never did. I was determined to be a doctor, determined to publish profound articles and shape young minds.
On the first day of graduate orientation, I told a peer that I wanted to get my Ph.D in theology or teach third grade. I told her that the verdict was still out, that I wasn't sure which age range God had gifted me to serve.
The verdict is still out. Although I wear the hat of a professor on Monday nights, teaching 19 year olds about philosophy, I refuse to sign my emails as "Professor Atkinson" and instead simply maintain my student identity as "Larissa Atkinson." I refuse to look at schools for doctoral research, despite the fact applications are due in 8 short months. I refuse to write for publication, quit my part time job, pick a research topic. Despite the myriad opportunities to fulfill my lifelong dream, I refuse to move forward in fear that the dream was a mirage, that if I keep going, I will only find myself stranded in the desert with no option but to stay in the desert, letting academia slowly drain the life from me.
Most days, I'm left wondering what happens if my dream is no longer my dream. What becomes of the ambitious child who read encyclopedias for fun when she discovers that the vision of her future life is not a life worth pursuing? If the dream which has defined me is no longer my dream, then what am I aiming for? Where do I turn?
In the midst of this existential angst, I talked with one of my favorite classmates and we commiserated about the difficult material in our class and the rejections he recently received from his second doctoral application process. I said to him, "At some point, doesn't it just feel like academia is a gamble? In the end, the house always wins. A few lucky souls win a large pot and retreat to their high roller suites, but at what point do you realize that won't be you? How many hands do you play before you cut your losses and go home? How many more years of my life do I give before I duck my head in shame and return to where I was before this began?"
That question still remains: When is it time to cut the losses and go home? Do I wait out a good hand, bluff my way through the process, and take each won hand as an indicator of a larger pattern, or do I see a scam when I see one and retreat from the table, never knowing what could have been?
On the first day of graduate orientation, I told a peer that I wanted to get my Ph.D in theology or teach third grade. I told her that the verdict was still out, that I wasn't sure which age range God had gifted me to serve.
The verdict is still out. Although I wear the hat of a professor on Monday nights, teaching 19 year olds about philosophy, I refuse to sign my emails as "Professor Atkinson" and instead simply maintain my student identity as "Larissa Atkinson." I refuse to look at schools for doctoral research, despite the fact applications are due in 8 short months. I refuse to write for publication, quit my part time job, pick a research topic. Despite the myriad opportunities to fulfill my lifelong dream, I refuse to move forward in fear that the dream was a mirage, that if I keep going, I will only find myself stranded in the desert with no option but to stay in the desert, letting academia slowly drain the life from me.
Most days, I'm left wondering what happens if my dream is no longer my dream. What becomes of the ambitious child who read encyclopedias for fun when she discovers that the vision of her future life is not a life worth pursuing? If the dream which has defined me is no longer my dream, then what am I aiming for? Where do I turn?
In the midst of this existential angst, I talked with one of my favorite classmates and we commiserated about the difficult material in our class and the rejections he recently received from his second doctoral application process. I said to him, "At some point, doesn't it just feel like academia is a gamble? In the end, the house always wins. A few lucky souls win a large pot and retreat to their high roller suites, but at what point do you realize that won't be you? How many hands do you play before you cut your losses and go home? How many more years of my life do I give before I duck my head in shame and return to where I was before this began?"
That question still remains: When is it time to cut the losses and go home? Do I wait out a good hand, bluff my way through the process, and take each won hand as an indicator of a larger pattern, or do I see a scam when I see one and retreat from the table, never knowing what could have been?
Monday, February 25, 2013
Sabbath
I like the idea of Sabbath keeping. I've taught about it, encouraged those I mentor to embrace the practices, written it on my to-do list.
My body knows it needs it. I invariably need a day off -- my body grows weak, my brain cannot keep up and in order to violate the Sabbath, I must try far too hard with limited results.
Last year, I vowed to take a Sabbath on Friday evenings. I started out well. I went home, grabbed a book, and read for the fun of it. I took time to make a nice dinner that I enjoyed, and to spend time in prayer and Scripture. After 3 hours, I was bored. I made art for my wall. I reorganized my closet. I did laundry. I went to bed with my next day's to-do list completed and felt accomplished.
I talked to my boyfriend the next day, sharing with him all the things I was able to do on my Sabbath. He pointed out that "my Sabbath" failed in one crucial area -- it wasn't a Sabbath.
I still venture these attempts every now and then. I either end up reading school work, of course, for enjoyment's sake, or doing household chores for the good of my roommates. The idea of rest, of doing nothing, is not in my DNA.
This semester, I am teaching at Moody. Part of my agreement is to use this opportunity to grow spiritually, not just improve my teaching ability. I made one of my goals to keep Sabbath, to rest and maintain my focus on God.
The last two Sundays, my computer has simply failed to work when I came home from church. Both weeks, after hours on the phone with tech support, no solution was found and they told me to send it in for repairs. Both weeks, I had fully intended to spend my Sunday writing my lecture for Monday. No computer means no lecture.
Yesterday, I decided to work until the battery completely depleted. It was still running, albeit denying its charge, and I concluded that I would take advantage of the terrific battery life of the machine and use it for the next 4 hours.
As I sat writing about Aristotle and Augustine, prepping illustrations and powerpoints, my roommate, Linsey, stopped by to chat. When I explained my computer frustrations, she jokingly said, "Maybe it's just taking Sabbaths. Maybe it will work tomorrow."It was funny and I brushed it off continuing to work on the Sabbath.
This morning, after letting my battery drain last night, decided to see if my computer would start. It did. Fully charged, fully functioning,no remnants of yesterday's failures.
My computer insisted on a Sabbath. It wanted a day of rest, a moment away from the fast-paced life I put it through. The irony did not move past me. My computer is better at Sabbath keeping than I am.
My body knows it needs it. I invariably need a day off -- my body grows weak, my brain cannot keep up and in order to violate the Sabbath, I must try far too hard with limited results.
Last year, I vowed to take a Sabbath on Friday evenings. I started out well. I went home, grabbed a book, and read for the fun of it. I took time to make a nice dinner that I enjoyed, and to spend time in prayer and Scripture. After 3 hours, I was bored. I made art for my wall. I reorganized my closet. I did laundry. I went to bed with my next day's to-do list completed and felt accomplished.
I talked to my boyfriend the next day, sharing with him all the things I was able to do on my Sabbath. He pointed out that "my Sabbath" failed in one crucial area -- it wasn't a Sabbath.
I still venture these attempts every now and then. I either end up reading school work, of course, for enjoyment's sake, or doing household chores for the good of my roommates. The idea of rest, of doing nothing, is not in my DNA.
This semester, I am teaching at Moody. Part of my agreement is to use this opportunity to grow spiritually, not just improve my teaching ability. I made one of my goals to keep Sabbath, to rest and maintain my focus on God.
The last two Sundays, my computer has simply failed to work when I came home from church. Both weeks, after hours on the phone with tech support, no solution was found and they told me to send it in for repairs. Both weeks, I had fully intended to spend my Sunday writing my lecture for Monday. No computer means no lecture.
Yesterday, I decided to work until the battery completely depleted. It was still running, albeit denying its charge, and I concluded that I would take advantage of the terrific battery life of the machine and use it for the next 4 hours.
As I sat writing about Aristotle and Augustine, prepping illustrations and powerpoints, my roommate, Linsey, stopped by to chat. When I explained my computer frustrations, she jokingly said, "Maybe it's just taking Sabbaths. Maybe it will work tomorrow."It was funny and I brushed it off continuing to work on the Sabbath.
This morning, after letting my battery drain last night, decided to see if my computer would start. It did. Fully charged, fully functioning,no remnants of yesterday's failures.
My computer insisted on a Sabbath. It wanted a day of rest, a moment away from the fast-paced life I put it through. The irony did not move past me. My computer is better at Sabbath keeping than I am.
Monday, January 28, 2013
First Night
I lost my keys.
My syllabus came out orange instead of white.
I told a student that his answer was incorrect with which he followed, "but I pulled it straight out of your notes."
I forgot the answer to the question I was asking.
I left part of my lecture notes behind.
I had the wrong cord to connect my computer to the smart desk.
I didn't know how to turn off the light.
The night is over and I am amazed at how quickly 3 hours goes by from the front of the class (and how dry my throat can get!). It's going to be a long semester, but an amazing one. My students are fantastic. Quite a few seemed to engage with the class material and show an interest in learning. The remainder are respectful, albeit skeptical. I've got a tough task on my hand to make philosophy accessible to them. Hopefully, I can be faithful in seeking out answers for them and guiding them to the truth.
I'm a little overwhelmed, very scared, but thankful for the support I have. I came home to find a bouquet of flowers, an apple, some chocolate and a card addressed to Prof Atkinson from my roommate, Linsey. It brought a smile to my face and will again when I feel insufficient or overwhelmed.
I learned about a third of their names.
They left understanding the correct version of modus ponens and modus tollens (although, for a whiel there, I wasn't sure they would).
I made them feel comfortable with me.
I found my keys.
My syllabus came out orange instead of white.
I told a student that his answer was incorrect with which he followed, "but I pulled it straight out of your notes."
I forgot the answer to the question I was asking.
I left part of my lecture notes behind.
I had the wrong cord to connect my computer to the smart desk.
I didn't know how to turn off the light.
The night is over and I am amazed at how quickly 3 hours goes by from the front of the class (and how dry my throat can get!). It's going to be a long semester, but an amazing one. My students are fantastic. Quite a few seemed to engage with the class material and show an interest in learning. The remainder are respectful, albeit skeptical. I've got a tough task on my hand to make philosophy accessible to them. Hopefully, I can be faithful in seeking out answers for them and guiding them to the truth.
I'm a little overwhelmed, very scared, but thankful for the support I have. I came home to find a bouquet of flowers, an apple, some chocolate and a card addressed to Prof Atkinson from my roommate, Linsey. It brought a smile to my face and will again when I feel insufficient or overwhelmed.
I learned about a third of their names.
They left understanding the correct version of modus ponens and modus tollens (although, for a whiel there, I wasn't sure they would).
I made them feel comfortable with me.
I found my keys.
Monday, January 7, 2013
On Epiphany
I knew of Ryan long before I knew him. He was mentioned every Thursday morning in staff prayer as we prayed for healing for the men in our church who were undergoing chemotherapy for rampant cancer. I knew his name but not his face. His troubles, but not his hopes.
He stopped by the church one afternoon and asked to play the piano. I helped him make himself at home at the baby grand which sat in the cold sanctuary, where we did not run heat during the week. I offered him a space heater, recommended a jacket and turned on the stage lights before heading back into my office on the other side of a thin wall from where the piano sat.
One day, the cold in the sanctuary gave him a bloody nose, so he sat in my office with a box of tissues, embarrassed. We talked about our eclectic music tastes, his diverse musical skills and my utter lack of them, and we became friends.
He came in often. A few months prior, the treatments had become so harsh on his body that he simply could not work. The weeks alternated between his treatment and his piano playing. I grew accustom to hearing "Breathe" by Greg Maroney for hours each day. I told him I admired his playing, and he offered to send me a list of his favorite piano songs.
It took me a month to list to it all, not because it was long, but because I rarely choose instrumental songs in the office. Last Wednesday, on my first day back to work after the holidays, I sent him an email telling him that I finally listened to his list and giving him my favorites.
The next morning, at staff prayer, I learned Ryan had moved home. In the two weeks since I had been in the office, Ryan's tumors had grown. The cancer was pressing against his internal organs and causing him immense pain. The doctors said it was time for hospice.
Hospice. Where people go to die. Where people go when all hope is lost and the end is near.
Epiphany. The day the historical church celebrates together the kingship of Jesus. The culmination of the Christmas season, in which we celebrate the life of Christ and all that he has done for us. We cheer together as a church that light has overcome darkness and that the hope of the Messiah is present with us.
My church is liturgical; therefore, each year we celebrate Epiphany. We talk about the Magi, the bearing of gifts, and the hope that this truth gives us. This year, we still did these things. We still sang "We Three Kings" on our way out of church and talked about the nations coming to worship their king. We also talked about Ryan. We talked about death and fear and sadness. We talked about loss, about young life, about cancer. Pastor Jeff mentioned Ryan's faith, his willingness to see what God had in store for him, without anger or resentment. He talked about Ryan's way of rejoicing in the Messiah on his deathbed.
We printed in the bulletin, one of his drawings which he made for our Advent theme this year. It is a picture of an open door, shining a bright light into darkness, and a crowd of people standing in the back. Some are choosing to enter the light while others remain in darkness. Ryan has chosen the light.
Rev 4:1 -- "After this I looked, and behold, a door standing open in heaven! And the first voice, which I had heard speaking to me like a trumpet, said, "Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after this."
He stopped by the church one afternoon and asked to play the piano. I helped him make himself at home at the baby grand which sat in the cold sanctuary, where we did not run heat during the week. I offered him a space heater, recommended a jacket and turned on the stage lights before heading back into my office on the other side of a thin wall from where the piano sat.
One day, the cold in the sanctuary gave him a bloody nose, so he sat in my office with a box of tissues, embarrassed. We talked about our eclectic music tastes, his diverse musical skills and my utter lack of them, and we became friends.
He came in often. A few months prior, the treatments had become so harsh on his body that he simply could not work. The weeks alternated between his treatment and his piano playing. I grew accustom to hearing "Breathe" by Greg Maroney for hours each day. I told him I admired his playing, and he offered to send me a list of his favorite piano songs.
It took me a month to list to it all, not because it was long, but because I rarely choose instrumental songs in the office. Last Wednesday, on my first day back to work after the holidays, I sent him an email telling him that I finally listened to his list and giving him my favorites.
The next morning, at staff prayer, I learned Ryan had moved home. In the two weeks since I had been in the office, Ryan's tumors had grown. The cancer was pressing against his internal organs and causing him immense pain. The doctors said it was time for hospice.
Hospice. Where people go to die. Where people go when all hope is lost and the end is near.
Epiphany. The day the historical church celebrates together the kingship of Jesus. The culmination of the Christmas season, in which we celebrate the life of Christ and all that he has done for us. We cheer together as a church that light has overcome darkness and that the hope of the Messiah is present with us.
My church is liturgical; therefore, each year we celebrate Epiphany. We talk about the Magi, the bearing of gifts, and the hope that this truth gives us. This year, we still did these things. We still sang "We Three Kings" on our way out of church and talked about the nations coming to worship their king. We also talked about Ryan. We talked about death and fear and sadness. We talked about loss, about young life, about cancer. Pastor Jeff mentioned Ryan's faith, his willingness to see what God had in store for him, without anger or resentment. He talked about Ryan's way of rejoicing in the Messiah on his deathbed.
We printed in the bulletin, one of his drawings which he made for our Advent theme this year. It is a picture of an open door, shining a bright light into darkness, and a crowd of people standing in the back. Some are choosing to enter the light while others remain in darkness. Ryan has chosen the light.
Rev 4:1 -- "After this I looked, and behold, a door standing open in heaven! And the first voice, which I had heard speaking to me like a trumpet, said, "Come up here, and I will show you what must take place after this."
Thursday, November 29, 2012
The Knowledge of Christ or His Character?
I have been smart for as long as I can remember. I learned to read at an early age. I did my sister's math homework in elementary school for fun. I could win every game of Clue before I hit the minimum age on the box. I have no doubt that God has gifted me with a strong intellect.
I have also always been known for my intelligence. Even when I am determined to "not act like a Bible School student," I inherently tout a vocabulary and knowledge level unfitting to my location. I have, in fact, requested a Greek New Testament during a study of Galatians and mentioned Kierkegaardian existentialism in a cozy conversation about contemporary culture. I am a nerd in the finest sense.
Knowledge is a wonderful thing. With my particular field of study, I am blessed with an opportunity to grow in knowledge that grows my faith and helps me understand the complications of my religious heritage. I am able to study seven perspectives on sanctification in their minute details and synthesize it for people who are not taking graduate coursework in theology. I am growing in the knowledge of Christ with every book that I read and class that I take, and for that I am immensely grateful.
Yet, for the past year, I have been convicted that my character is not on par with my intellect. I have my favorite sins, my character flaws that I settle into on a consistent basis. I treat others in ways that do not reflect Christ and I boast in unworthy things within my own life and about my friends. My character still needs conforming to the image of the Son.
In this past year, I have grown as a Christian. I am a more loving and humble person than I was a year ago, even if I still have a significant amount of work to do. I am more aware of my impatience and my ungratefulness. I am striving to be a more thoughtful and truthful person. I am seeking out a life that looks like Christ alongside of the knowledge that I am gaining.
Two weeks ago, I got into a lively conversation with a few of my classmates about complementarianism. One student, a female minister in the Seventh Day Adventist church, was unfamiliar with the term. Another student, from an ultra-conservative Bible school, explained, "Basically, complementarians think that women can't have any involvement in the church and should be submissive to their husbands." As a complementarian, this definition bothered me. It seemed tantamount to egalitarianism being described as "women who want to displace men from the church and who are defiant in the home." While you may find a complementarian or egalitarian who thinks that way, it is a gross error to describe the movement that way. So, true to form, I spoke up. "I'm not sure that's a fair interpretation. I'm a complementarian, albeit, a soft one. I would say that women are able to serve the church in many ways. Spiritual gifts are given without regard to gender. However, women are unable to serve in the positions of pastors or elders. Likewise, women are to submit to their husbands but as one submits to an equal. They are not to be subservient."
In the context of an academic conversation, what I said was fully appropriate. I offered a definition and ascribed my beliefs alongside of it. However, explaining that women should not be pastors to a female pastor is not exactly wise. She gawked at what I said and made a few mocking comments, but we both ended the conversation as class started with no further conversation.
In the time until our next class, I thought about what I had done. I realized that what I said had personal weight and was not said delicately enough for the personal implications it entailed. I did not clarify that those feelings did not mean I have a disdain for women pastors or that I think what she is doing is sinful. I thought for a long time about how what I said was valid and how maybe it was the wrong context. I did not think about apologizing.
Yesterday, we returned to class after a long break for Thanksgiving. At the end of class, my friend who is a female pastor, approached me to apologize for the way she responded to my views. She apologized for the lack of willingness to listen and how defensive she acted.
She exhibited the character of Christ. Even in a situation in which she had been wronged more than she had wronged me, she apologized for what was ungodly of her.
I am grateful that she initiated. I was grateful for an opportunity to apologize for speaking without regards to her feelings or the implications of my words. I was glad to allow the tension to sit in the air and for us to both realize that our differences in theological opinion held far more meaning in practice than on the page. Thanks to her initiation, I was able to model Christ a bit more, to love with a character of a Christian.
For most of my life, I have led with my knowledge. Before you know my Christlikeness, you will know my knowledge of Christ. I long for things to be the other way. Rather than needing to backtrack over my words with a humble apology, I would like to lead with a spirit of humility in order to introduce my knowledge. I want to have the character of Christ be what I am known for, not my knowledge.
Lord, teach me how to live like you. Let my life points to you more than my words are able to. May you be glorified in my actions. Teach me how to exhibit the fruit of the Spirit so that I may truly conform to your image day by day.
I have also always been known for my intelligence. Even when I am determined to "not act like a Bible School student," I inherently tout a vocabulary and knowledge level unfitting to my location. I have, in fact, requested a Greek New Testament during a study of Galatians and mentioned Kierkegaardian existentialism in a cozy conversation about contemporary culture. I am a nerd in the finest sense.
Knowledge is a wonderful thing. With my particular field of study, I am blessed with an opportunity to grow in knowledge that grows my faith and helps me understand the complications of my religious heritage. I am able to study seven perspectives on sanctification in their minute details and synthesize it for people who are not taking graduate coursework in theology. I am growing in the knowledge of Christ with every book that I read and class that I take, and for that I am immensely grateful.
Yet, for the past year, I have been convicted that my character is not on par with my intellect. I have my favorite sins, my character flaws that I settle into on a consistent basis. I treat others in ways that do not reflect Christ and I boast in unworthy things within my own life and about my friends. My character still needs conforming to the image of the Son.
In this past year, I have grown as a Christian. I am a more loving and humble person than I was a year ago, even if I still have a significant amount of work to do. I am more aware of my impatience and my ungratefulness. I am striving to be a more thoughtful and truthful person. I am seeking out a life that looks like Christ alongside of the knowledge that I am gaining.
Two weeks ago, I got into a lively conversation with a few of my classmates about complementarianism. One student, a female minister in the Seventh Day Adventist church, was unfamiliar with the term. Another student, from an ultra-conservative Bible school, explained, "Basically, complementarians think that women can't have any involvement in the church and should be submissive to their husbands." As a complementarian, this definition bothered me. It seemed tantamount to egalitarianism being described as "women who want to displace men from the church and who are defiant in the home." While you may find a complementarian or egalitarian who thinks that way, it is a gross error to describe the movement that way. So, true to form, I spoke up. "I'm not sure that's a fair interpretation. I'm a complementarian, albeit, a soft one. I would say that women are able to serve the church in many ways. Spiritual gifts are given without regard to gender. However, women are unable to serve in the positions of pastors or elders. Likewise, women are to submit to their husbands but as one submits to an equal. They are not to be subservient."
In the context of an academic conversation, what I said was fully appropriate. I offered a definition and ascribed my beliefs alongside of it. However, explaining that women should not be pastors to a female pastor is not exactly wise. She gawked at what I said and made a few mocking comments, but we both ended the conversation as class started with no further conversation.
In the time until our next class, I thought about what I had done. I realized that what I said had personal weight and was not said delicately enough for the personal implications it entailed. I did not clarify that those feelings did not mean I have a disdain for women pastors or that I think what she is doing is sinful. I thought for a long time about how what I said was valid and how maybe it was the wrong context. I did not think about apologizing.
Yesterday, we returned to class after a long break for Thanksgiving. At the end of class, my friend who is a female pastor, approached me to apologize for the way she responded to my views. She apologized for the lack of willingness to listen and how defensive she acted.
She exhibited the character of Christ. Even in a situation in which she had been wronged more than she had wronged me, she apologized for what was ungodly of her.
I am grateful that she initiated. I was grateful for an opportunity to apologize for speaking without regards to her feelings or the implications of my words. I was glad to allow the tension to sit in the air and for us to both realize that our differences in theological opinion held far more meaning in practice than on the page. Thanks to her initiation, I was able to model Christ a bit more, to love with a character of a Christian.
For most of my life, I have led with my knowledge. Before you know my Christlikeness, you will know my knowledge of Christ. I long for things to be the other way. Rather than needing to backtrack over my words with a humble apology, I would like to lead with a spirit of humility in order to introduce my knowledge. I want to have the character of Christ be what I am known for, not my knowledge.
Lord, teach me how to live like you. Let my life points to you more than my words are able to. May you be glorified in my actions. Teach me how to exhibit the fruit of the Spirit so that I may truly conform to your image day by day.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Cashmere Security Blanket
My wardrobe is my security blanket.
Volunteering in the toddler nursery at church, I come across children who have an unusual attachment to a particular item. Charlie carried around his Thomas the Train t-shirt and is only comfortable talking to me if he is speaking on behalf of Thomas. Nathaniel sits on a blue mat holding a hard plastic bus and insists that he needs his bus if he cannot have his mom.
I have a closet.
I recently was offered a teaching position at a local undergraduate school. For various reasons, the decision of whether or not to accept this job was overwhelming. The changes it would force on my life for the next six months would be stressful, however, opportunities like these are not to be ignored. Instead of addressing these pros and cons, however, I talked about wardrobe.
"I don't know if I should take this job, Andy."
"Well, let's talk about it. What things are concerning you?" asked my sweet boyfriend who is especially good with handling with toddler-esque breakdowns.
"I don't have any teaching attire." I said, my words muffled by a blanket I had recently buried my head underneath.
This was met with a "you can't be serious" stare which I knew was focused on the blue fleece where my eyes should be. I pulled my head out of the blanket long enough to say, "But I don't!"
This is how all difficult decisions are made. When I do not know what to do, or how to handle a situation, I run through my dresses and shoes and conclude that they are simply inadequate. I think through my collection of cardigans and skirts and try to conclude what in my wardrobe fits the upcoming task.
Today, I attended the funeral of a fourteen year old boy in my church whose family frequently volunteers with me at church events. Their son died unexpectedly from a heart attack last week and I am at a loss for words on how to express my sympathy. I have no words, no actions which are adequate in the face of this tragedy. No tangible service I can render them in order to feel like I have sufficiently shown my condolences. I feel utterly incapable of caring for this aching family.
I spent the past 4 days debating my wardrobe. Are heels too sophisticated for a morning funeral? If I wore this black dress, would I have an appropriate sweater to accompany it? Is it wrong to wear purple tights to a funeral? Should I remove my neon nail polish to express my sadness?
It's not that these things matter. If my sweater didn't match and my tights were neon green, no one would think twice about my appearance. Nothing I wear or do not wear will change the focus of the day nor will solve the despair in the room. But it helps me. It helps me process the events without belaboring my emotions. It gives me something tangible to work on so that the overwhelming stress of reality might be mitigated momentarily.
Today I chose to wear a black sheath with a charcoal wool cardigan and a pair of nude flats. I wore waterproof mascara and put tissues in my purse. These are things I could prepare for and control. As I sat towards the back of the sanctuary, I could not have prepared to hear a fourteen year old boy crying as he told us all the things he would miss about his best friend. I could not have prepared for a mother's honest words as she told the whole church that she would give thanks for her son's life at Thanksgiving, but would still be angry at God for taking him away. I could not have controlled the tears which streamed down my face.
Choosing the right cardigan, like talking to your Thomas the Train t-shirt, does not make the scariness of the moment go away. Thomas can't change the fact that Mom and Dad have left you with strangers in the church basement. Likewise, my cardigan can't take away the sorrow that filled the church this morning, but it did make it a little easier to walk in the door. It made it a little easier to look at a picture of a handsome 14 year old resting on top of his casket and it made it a little easier to face the difficult reality that is death.
Security blankets don't change the situation at hand, but they do give you an opportunity to step back from it. So as long as there are difficult choices and painful days, I will continue running through every item of clothing in my closet in hopes of having some answer on days swarmed with unanswerable questions.
Volunteering in the toddler nursery at church, I come across children who have an unusual attachment to a particular item. Charlie carried around his Thomas the Train t-shirt and is only comfortable talking to me if he is speaking on behalf of Thomas. Nathaniel sits on a blue mat holding a hard plastic bus and insists that he needs his bus if he cannot have his mom.
I have a closet.
I recently was offered a teaching position at a local undergraduate school. For various reasons, the decision of whether or not to accept this job was overwhelming. The changes it would force on my life for the next six months would be stressful, however, opportunities like these are not to be ignored. Instead of addressing these pros and cons, however, I talked about wardrobe.
"I don't know if I should take this job, Andy."
"Well, let's talk about it. What things are concerning you?" asked my sweet boyfriend who is especially good with handling with toddler-esque breakdowns.
"I don't have any teaching attire." I said, my words muffled by a blanket I had recently buried my head underneath.
This was met with a "you can't be serious" stare which I knew was focused on the blue fleece where my eyes should be. I pulled my head out of the blanket long enough to say, "But I don't!"
This is how all difficult decisions are made. When I do not know what to do, or how to handle a situation, I run through my dresses and shoes and conclude that they are simply inadequate. I think through my collection of cardigans and skirts and try to conclude what in my wardrobe fits the upcoming task.
Today, I attended the funeral of a fourteen year old boy in my church whose family frequently volunteers with me at church events. Their son died unexpectedly from a heart attack last week and I am at a loss for words on how to express my sympathy. I have no words, no actions which are adequate in the face of this tragedy. No tangible service I can render them in order to feel like I have sufficiently shown my condolences. I feel utterly incapable of caring for this aching family.
I spent the past 4 days debating my wardrobe. Are heels too sophisticated for a morning funeral? If I wore this black dress, would I have an appropriate sweater to accompany it? Is it wrong to wear purple tights to a funeral? Should I remove my neon nail polish to express my sadness?
It's not that these things matter. If my sweater didn't match and my tights were neon green, no one would think twice about my appearance. Nothing I wear or do not wear will change the focus of the day nor will solve the despair in the room. But it helps me. It helps me process the events without belaboring my emotions. It gives me something tangible to work on so that the overwhelming stress of reality might be mitigated momentarily.
Today I chose to wear a black sheath with a charcoal wool cardigan and a pair of nude flats. I wore waterproof mascara and put tissues in my purse. These are things I could prepare for and control. As I sat towards the back of the sanctuary, I could not have prepared to hear a fourteen year old boy crying as he told us all the things he would miss about his best friend. I could not have prepared for a mother's honest words as she told the whole church that she would give thanks for her son's life at Thanksgiving, but would still be angry at God for taking him away. I could not have controlled the tears which streamed down my face.
Choosing the right cardigan, like talking to your Thomas the Train t-shirt, does not make the scariness of the moment go away. Thomas can't change the fact that Mom and Dad have left you with strangers in the church basement. Likewise, my cardigan can't take away the sorrow that filled the church this morning, but it did make it a little easier to walk in the door. It made it a little easier to look at a picture of a handsome 14 year old resting on top of his casket and it made it a little easier to face the difficult reality that is death.
Security blankets don't change the situation at hand, but they do give you an opportunity to step back from it. So as long as there are difficult choices and painful days, I will continue running through every item of clothing in my closet in hopes of having some answer on days swarmed with unanswerable questions.
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Insufficiently Orientated
School Orientation: noun, 1) an introduction, as to guide one in adjusting to new surroundings, activities and people. 2) a dreaded period of time which all new students must undergo and which will cause said students to find every opportunity to skip events which do not take attendance.
I am starting graduate school tomorrow. In order to help me orientate my life in this new stage, Trinity invited me to a two-day event entitled "New Student Orientation." Over the course of these 16 hours, I imbibed numerous cups of free coffee, consumed rainbow sprinkle-encrusted donut and listened to many jokes interspersed between a modified reading of the student handbook. I laughed, I met new people, I learned a little.
I also thought a lot. I thought about my peers -- who they were, where they were going, what they hoped for. I thought about myself -- who I was, where I was going, what I hoped for. I thought about orientation. I thought about adjustment.
You see, all school orientation is essentially the same. There are mandatory seminars that contain essential information that many students will deem unnecessary for their own lives, even if it is immensely important for them. There are seas of coffee, in order to supress the urge to fall asleep while the faculty is talking. There are jokes, which serve the same purpose. There are name tags which offer others the most vital truths about you: Name, Major.
I am grateful for orientation. I see its intrinsic good in directing me to see what the ethos of a school is and to finding my way around campus. I appreciate the low-stress atmosphere to meet future friends and peers, the chance to start having more conversations about Kierkegaard than Chronicles of Narnia. Yet, at the end of the day, I wonder if it might be ineptly named.
Orientated: adj. to be adjusted with relation to surroundings, circumstances, facts, etc.
How are we to be orientated to seminary? How can 16 hours adjust us to the thousands of pages of theology we will read? How can it adjust us to the yearning of our hearts for God who will sometimes feel unbearably close and yet at times feel so distant as to be unreal? How can 16 hours prepare us to encounter God in new ways with new people and new thoughts in a new place? How can it know the hearts of those of us in the room? How can it speak to the particular experiences each one of us will have?
I was asked today if I had been sufficiently orientated. Besides from the expected -- knowing where my classrooms are, meeting my advisor, etc, I could not say yes. This is no fault of Trinity, in fact, they did everything they could to make me feel loved and prepared and welcomed. However, the task they set in front of them, to orient students to seminary, was doomed from the start.
I am starting to study the book of Jeremiah. I've only gotten as far as chapter 2 (which I warn you, is not a good stopping point), but within those chapters, God is, more or less, orientating Jeremiah. God calls out to him "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you I appointed you a prophet to the nations... to all whom I send you, you shall go, and whatever I command you, you shall speak... See, I have set you this day over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to break down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant...They will fight against you, but they shall not prevail against you, for I am with you to deliver you" (Jer 1:5, 7, 10, 19). That's it. That is about as much orientation as Jeremiah receives before going and telling his people that God is going to allow them to be conquered and that God has seen their unfaithfulness -- things which he does not say gently.
What's my point? Jeremiah is not given a lay of the land. He's not given friends. He's not introduced to his peers. He is told three things:
1) God had called him before he even knew of God. He was given a mission which was not his to reject.
2) He was told, in blunt terms, what lay ahead. It was not handed to him with rice krispie treats and coffee, but bluntly warned that he was to do the will of God to "pluck up and to break down, to destroy and to overthrow." Jeremiah was told how hard it would be, even though those words would never prepare him for the task he had.
3) He was given confidence that even when all seemed to go wrong, God was there for him and would protect him.
Jeremiah's orientation was not nearly as delicious or fun as my own but it was sufficient. May God choose to orient me to what lies ahead both in school, in ministry and in life so that I may know that he has called me, that he knows my path and that he will be my guide.
I am starting graduate school tomorrow. In order to help me orientate my life in this new stage, Trinity invited me to a two-day event entitled "New Student Orientation." Over the course of these 16 hours, I imbibed numerous cups of free coffee, consumed rainbow sprinkle-encrusted donut and listened to many jokes interspersed between a modified reading of the student handbook. I laughed, I met new people, I learned a little.
I also thought a lot. I thought about my peers -- who they were, where they were going, what they hoped for. I thought about myself -- who I was, where I was going, what I hoped for. I thought about orientation. I thought about adjustment.
You see, all school orientation is essentially the same. There are mandatory seminars that contain essential information that many students will deem unnecessary for their own lives, even if it is immensely important for them. There are seas of coffee, in order to supress the urge to fall asleep while the faculty is talking. There are jokes, which serve the same purpose. There are name tags which offer others the most vital truths about you: Name, Major.
I am grateful for orientation. I see its intrinsic good in directing me to see what the ethos of a school is and to finding my way around campus. I appreciate the low-stress atmosphere to meet future friends and peers, the chance to start having more conversations about Kierkegaard than Chronicles of Narnia. Yet, at the end of the day, I wonder if it might be ineptly named.
Orientated: adj. to be adjusted with relation to surroundings, circumstances, facts, etc.
How are we to be orientated to seminary? How can 16 hours adjust us to the thousands of pages of theology we will read? How can it adjust us to the yearning of our hearts for God who will sometimes feel unbearably close and yet at times feel so distant as to be unreal? How can 16 hours prepare us to encounter God in new ways with new people and new thoughts in a new place? How can it know the hearts of those of us in the room? How can it speak to the particular experiences each one of us will have?
I was asked today if I had been sufficiently orientated. Besides from the expected -- knowing where my classrooms are, meeting my advisor, etc, I could not say yes. This is no fault of Trinity, in fact, they did everything they could to make me feel loved and prepared and welcomed. However, the task they set in front of them, to orient students to seminary, was doomed from the start.
I am starting to study the book of Jeremiah. I've only gotten as far as chapter 2 (which I warn you, is not a good stopping point), but within those chapters, God is, more or less, orientating Jeremiah. God calls out to him "Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, and before you were born I consecrated you I appointed you a prophet to the nations... to all whom I send you, you shall go, and whatever I command you, you shall speak... See, I have set you this day over nations and over kingdoms, to pluck up and to break down, to destroy and to overthrow, to build and to plant...They will fight against you, but they shall not prevail against you, for I am with you to deliver you" (Jer 1:5, 7, 10, 19). That's it. That is about as much orientation as Jeremiah receives before going and telling his people that God is going to allow them to be conquered and that God has seen their unfaithfulness -- things which he does not say gently.
What's my point? Jeremiah is not given a lay of the land. He's not given friends. He's not introduced to his peers. He is told three things:
1) God had called him before he even knew of God. He was given a mission which was not his to reject.
2) He was told, in blunt terms, what lay ahead. It was not handed to him with rice krispie treats and coffee, but bluntly warned that he was to do the will of God to "pluck up and to break down, to destroy and to overthrow." Jeremiah was told how hard it would be, even though those words would never prepare him for the task he had.
3) He was given confidence that even when all seemed to go wrong, God was there for him and would protect him.
Jeremiah's orientation was not nearly as delicious or fun as my own but it was sufficient. May God choose to orient me to what lies ahead both in school, in ministry and in life so that I may know that he has called me, that he knows my path and that he will be my guide.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Blood, Wine and Tears
If you've gotten to know me over the past few years, you have surely learned one thing about me: I cry. A lot.
I cry whenever someone dies in an episode of Bones or when a couple breaks up on How I Met Your Mother (even though I know they will be married by the next season). I cry when Madeleine L'Engle describes holding her grandchild. I cry when I watch the news. I even cried when I read this story on bizarre Olympic happenings in Runner's World (Strange But True - Runner's World).
Morale of the story: I am emotional.
Sometimes, my tears seem wasted, as they appear for fictitious events or common moments. There are times when they give away the feelings I wished no one knew I experienced. Yet, sometimes, my tears are rightly placed and give expression to feelings I cannot put into words.
This morning, I served communion at my church. Truth be told, the experience is kind of strange. I always find, that I stumble over the words after my rapid-fire repetition of them. I told someone that the cup was "the body of God broken for you" and worried that I had made some grave theological error and rested in the knowledge that my words do not void the truth behind the elements. I try to make eye contact with each member and tell them the truth of the sacrament, but struggle with the proper expression. Communion is a celebration, so I smile. Yet, communion is the remembrance of the Cross, the cost of sin, and so my eyes give away my internal confusion.
Sometimes, I wonder if anyone else thinks the same things. I struggle with the physicality of communion each time I partake of it. Do I take the cup before or after the words are spoken over it? Do I respond? Should I make eye contact? Do I smile? This is just a short excursion into my over-active mind.
Serving communion this morning, however, was a particularly special opportunity. My church recently taught a communicants class and had three children take membership vows and declare their faith in Christ. As a symbol of their faith, they were invited to join at the table and, for the first time, eat the bread and drink the cup that reminds us of Christ's death until he returns again. I had the honor to watch two of them receive this means of grace.
You see, these young siblings came to the front of the church with their father. After the blessing was said, he gave his children an additional explanation and guided them through receiving the elements. I saw their faces and the mix of emotions it conveyed. I saw the nervousness in the wrinkles at their eyes, their joy by the slight of their lips and the curiosity in the fullness of their eyes. I saw on their face a simpler, purer form of my own mixed feelings.
Watching these children take their first communion reminded me of why communion is such a gift to the church. I saw in them the fullness of its meaning both in its tragedy and its joy and was consumed with emotion. In them lives the same Spirit that dwells within me. Together, we have the same hope for the salvation of ourselves and the world around us. Their faith is congruent to my own and glistens in the innocence of childhood. Watching them take communion reminded me that the flurry of emotions I feel when I eat and drink in remembrance is not misplaced but a realization of the gospel.
So, as they took their cups and headed back to their pew, I stood at the front of the church proclaiming, "The blood of Christ shed for you," to each congregant with tears welling in my eyes and a smile stuck on my lips, realizing that not all my tears are misplaced.
I cry whenever someone dies in an episode of Bones or when a couple breaks up on How I Met Your Mother (even though I know they will be married by the next season). I cry when Madeleine L'Engle describes holding her grandchild. I cry when I watch the news. I even cried when I read this story on bizarre Olympic happenings in Runner's World (Strange But True - Runner's World).
Morale of the story: I am emotional.
Sometimes, my tears seem wasted, as they appear for fictitious events or common moments. There are times when they give away the feelings I wished no one knew I experienced. Yet, sometimes, my tears are rightly placed and give expression to feelings I cannot put into words.
This morning, I served communion at my church. Truth be told, the experience is kind of strange. I always find, that I stumble over the words after my rapid-fire repetition of them. I told someone that the cup was "the body of God broken for you" and worried that I had made some grave theological error and rested in the knowledge that my words do not void the truth behind the elements. I try to make eye contact with each member and tell them the truth of the sacrament, but struggle with the proper expression. Communion is a celebration, so I smile. Yet, communion is the remembrance of the Cross, the cost of sin, and so my eyes give away my internal confusion.
Sometimes, I wonder if anyone else thinks the same things. I struggle with the physicality of communion each time I partake of it. Do I take the cup before or after the words are spoken over it? Do I respond? Should I make eye contact? Do I smile? This is just a short excursion into my over-active mind.
Serving communion this morning, however, was a particularly special opportunity. My church recently taught a communicants class and had three children take membership vows and declare their faith in Christ. As a symbol of their faith, they were invited to join at the table and, for the first time, eat the bread and drink the cup that reminds us of Christ's death until he returns again. I had the honor to watch two of them receive this means of grace.
You see, these young siblings came to the front of the church with their father. After the blessing was said, he gave his children an additional explanation and guided them through receiving the elements. I saw their faces and the mix of emotions it conveyed. I saw the nervousness in the wrinkles at their eyes, their joy by the slight of their lips and the curiosity in the fullness of their eyes. I saw on their face a simpler, purer form of my own mixed feelings.
Watching these children take their first communion reminded me of why communion is such a gift to the church. I saw in them the fullness of its meaning both in its tragedy and its joy and was consumed with emotion. In them lives the same Spirit that dwells within me. Together, we have the same hope for the salvation of ourselves and the world around us. Their faith is congruent to my own and glistens in the innocence of childhood. Watching them take communion reminded me that the flurry of emotions I feel when I eat and drink in remembrance is not misplaced but a realization of the gospel.
So, as they took their cups and headed back to their pew, I stood at the front of the church proclaiming, "The blood of Christ shed for you," to each congregant with tears welling in my eyes and a smile stuck on my lips, realizing that not all my tears are misplaced.
Saturday, June 30, 2012
I'm re-teaching myself Greek. At first, it was a fun refresher that made me feel confident in my abilities and marvel at how much I had retained from my classes two years ago.
Then I hit chapter 10 and realized I knew less than I thought. Chapters seemed denser. The workbook, more laborious. I started putting off translation working, realizing that it was time-consuming and painful. I'd find myself flipping through the index for para for the 100th time. I'd grow frustrated with the paradigms. Annoyed with words like ora, which seemingly has fifteen root variations.
Yet, for all the agony I go through, there are the pieces I translate that remind me why I do this. It was the last piece to translate before I could close the book and call it a day. Sentence 10 of Chapter 22. 'Jesus answered them and said, "Truly, truly, I say to you, You are not seeking me because you saw miracles, but because you ate from the bread and you were satisfied."
And you were satisfied. I let that part of the sentence reverberate in my head, savoring that sentence. I looked the passage up in my handy dandy pocket size ESV to verify that I translated it correctly and it read, "Truly, truly I say to you, you are seeking me, not because you saw signs but because you ate your fill of the loaves."
Jesus says this to crowds the day after he had fed the five thousand. In my head, the plot was always more like dinner and a movie. Jesus divvies out some bread, everyone chows down while he talks from the mountaintop about being the bread of life and they listen, but they focus more on their eating than his words because they are uncontrollably hungry.
In reality, the crowds had eaten and filled their bellies. As my sister retold this biblical story in one of her own short stories:
We were many and we were hungry but he gave us the five loaves and two fishes that he had turned into many and the many of us uttered many prayers of thanksgiving for the many bellies no longer rumbling and aching and
squealing with hunger. We gave thanks especially for our own quieted bellies. We stretched out in the grass on our backs, sunning our full bellies.
I wonder how often I do the same thing. I wonder how often I go to God because something is wrong and he has proven faithful in it in the past. I wonder how many times I've missed him in the quest for his gifts.
I am too easily satisfied. May I learn to seek the one who eternally satisfies instead of laboring for that which passes by.
Then I hit chapter 10 and realized I knew less than I thought. Chapters seemed denser. The workbook, more laborious. I started putting off translation working, realizing that it was time-consuming and painful. I'd find myself flipping through the index for para for the 100th time. I'd grow frustrated with the paradigms. Annoyed with words like ora, which seemingly has fifteen root variations.
Yet, for all the agony I go through, there are the pieces I translate that remind me why I do this. It was the last piece to translate before I could close the book and call it a day. Sentence 10 of Chapter 22. 'Jesus answered them and said, "Truly, truly, I say to you, You are not seeking me because you saw miracles, but because you ate from the bread and you were satisfied."
And you were satisfied. I let that part of the sentence reverberate in my head, savoring that sentence. I looked the passage up in my handy dandy pocket size ESV to verify that I translated it correctly and it read, "Truly, truly I say to you, you are seeking me, not because you saw signs but because you ate your fill of the loaves."
Jesus says this to crowds the day after he had fed the five thousand. In my head, the plot was always more like dinner and a movie. Jesus divvies out some bread, everyone chows down while he talks from the mountaintop about being the bread of life and they listen, but they focus more on their eating than his words because they are uncontrollably hungry.
In reality, the crowds had eaten and filled their bellies. As my sister retold this biblical story in one of her own short stories:
We were many and we were hungry but he gave us the five loaves and two fishes that he had turned into many and the many of us uttered many prayers of thanksgiving for the many bellies no longer rumbling and aching and
squealing with hunger. We gave thanks especially for our own quieted bellies. We stretched out in the grass on our backs, sunning our full bellies.
As the story goes, the people relax with their full bellies, enjoying the bread that is satisfying their hunger. But, when their stomaches start to growl again, they find Jesus again, to make the rumblings go away so they may not be consumed with their hunger.
I wonder how often I do the same thing. I wonder how often I go to God because something is wrong and he has proven faithful in it in the past. I wonder how many times I've missed him in the quest for his gifts.
I am too easily satisfied. May I learn to seek the one who eternally satisfies instead of laboring for that which passes by.
Thursday, February 9, 2012
Website Launch
I hate to do this to y'all when its been MONTHS since I blogged, but this is a photo that needs a URL for a website I'm launching.
Enjoy the photo.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Qaddafi and Hitler on the Bus
I read the Economist on my commutes when I'm feeling enough awake to comprehend words on a page and guilty about my lack of awareness of current events.
This morning, reading last week's Economist that I had yet to pick up (or more aptly, download), I read an article on Libya. During the war against Colonel Qaddafi, the new authorities sent out text messages to their fighters instructing them to treat prisoners decently with these words, "Remember when you arrest any follower of Qaddafi that he is a Libyan like you and has his dignity like you..."
On Saturday, riding the bus with my boyfriend, we started to discuss the difficult life of Hitler and the effects of his youth on his adult actions. While still holding him fully accountable for his actions and seeing his choices as a gross atrocity and an abomination to the Lord, I remarked, "But I have a hard time when we demonize Hitler. When we treat people who have done horrible things as less than us. As if they are to be hated eternally for what they have done, forgetting that they are children of God and made in his image. Forgetting that if they chose to repent of their sins, they would be our brothers in Christ."
Sometimes, I forget to love others like I should. The words reminded to the soldiers in Libya is not that different than the words I need to hear about those same people. The difference is, instead of seeing their identity as a Libyan with dignity, I see them as a child of God and designed to give glory unto God.
Talking to a friend who spent a year as a missionary in China, he told me that the hardest part of mission work was his coworkers. "I knew God redeemed sinners, but man...."
We are all sinners before the throne of God. Our white lies are as much an eternal condemnation as Qaddafi's mass murders and yet, when we stand before the throne of God, our sins are wiped clean through the blood of the Cross and Christ's resurrection. No sin is too great for our God.
This morning, reading last week's Economist that I had yet to pick up (or more aptly, download), I read an article on Libya. During the war against Colonel Qaddafi, the new authorities sent out text messages to their fighters instructing them to treat prisoners decently with these words, "Remember when you arrest any follower of Qaddafi that he is a Libyan like you and has his dignity like you..."
On Saturday, riding the bus with my boyfriend, we started to discuss the difficult life of Hitler and the effects of his youth on his adult actions. While still holding him fully accountable for his actions and seeing his choices as a gross atrocity and an abomination to the Lord, I remarked, "But I have a hard time when we demonize Hitler. When we treat people who have done horrible things as less than us. As if they are to be hated eternally for what they have done, forgetting that they are children of God and made in his image. Forgetting that if they chose to repent of their sins, they would be our brothers in Christ."
Sometimes, I forget to love others like I should. The words reminded to the soldiers in Libya is not that different than the words I need to hear about those same people. The difference is, instead of seeing their identity as a Libyan with dignity, I see them as a child of God and designed to give glory unto God.
Talking to a friend who spent a year as a missionary in China, he told me that the hardest part of mission work was his coworkers. "I knew God redeemed sinners, but man...."
We are all sinners before the throne of God. Our white lies are as much an eternal condemnation as Qaddafi's mass murders and yet, when we stand before the throne of God, our sins are wiped clean through the blood of the Cross and Christ's resurrection. No sin is too great for our God.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Driving By Grace
Everyday on my way to church, I take the 50 southbound and read the Economist on my ipod. There is something moderately soothing to me about hearing the sounds of people whispering or coughing on the bus, the shuffle of people walking to their seats and the electronic voice of the bus telling me what stop we are at.
"Cullom"
"Irving Park/Lincoln"
"Grace"
I always look up from my editorial when we pass grace. For some reason, a street named like a baby girl, always catches my attention and has me eyeing my surroundings, wondering what happens at Grace Street.
The first few times, it was nothing. Just a scenic appraisal of the world outside me. But over time, passing Grace became more meaningful, more significant, more spiritual.
I think there is something very true to form for me in taking something normal and making it deeply spiritual. I once bought a friend "The Supper of the Lamb," a spiritual cookbook that takes you on a religious experience through 2 hours of cutting an onion, as a Christmas present. (She's never opened it.)
But the idea of driving by grace every day is so true of my Christian experience. I believe in repentance, but I see that as a me thing. I believe in forgiveness, but live in a pseudo-Protestant sort of purgatory in which I carry my shame for my sin. Worse, I hold others under the same yoke. I will forgive you, but I will continue to weigh your mistakes in the balance.
I am a grace-less person.
I went to church on Sunday despite my truthful desire to stay in bed and eat oreos. A visiting missionary preached on Luke 15, talking about the three parables as one (the way the text tells us it is to be read). He looked at the story of the lost sheep -- repentance is being found. He looked at the story of the lost coin -- repentance is being found. He looked at the prodigal son -- repentance is being found. The story doesn't say, "The Son came home and confessed his sin and promised to not screw up again next time." No, it tells of him quoting Pharaoh's less than sincere repentance "I have sinned against heaven and before you" and heads home when he has no other option. The Father rejoices in seeing him and says "Let us eat and celebrate for my son was dead is now alive; was lost and is found."
Repentance is being found.
Grace is repentance; it is being found.
I drive by grace every day when I choose to be the brother out in the field refusing to come celebrate with his father. I choose to be grace-less when I refuse to celebrate being found, for being in the arms of my Father who loves and care for me.
May I always come to the table to worship with my God. May I continually learn that confession is only a small part of repentance — that my God has found me and saved me.
"Cullom"
"Irving Park/Lincoln"
"Grace"
I always look up from my editorial when we pass grace. For some reason, a street named like a baby girl, always catches my attention and has me eyeing my surroundings, wondering what happens at Grace Street.
The first few times, it was nothing. Just a scenic appraisal of the world outside me. But over time, passing Grace became more meaningful, more significant, more spiritual.
I think there is something very true to form for me in taking something normal and making it deeply spiritual. I once bought a friend "The Supper of the Lamb," a spiritual cookbook that takes you on a religious experience through 2 hours of cutting an onion, as a Christmas present. (She's never opened it.)
But the idea of driving by grace every day is so true of my Christian experience. I believe in repentance, but I see that as a me thing. I believe in forgiveness, but live in a pseudo-Protestant sort of purgatory in which I carry my shame for my sin. Worse, I hold others under the same yoke. I will forgive you, but I will continue to weigh your mistakes in the balance.
I am a grace-less person.
I went to church on Sunday despite my truthful desire to stay in bed and eat oreos. A visiting missionary preached on Luke 15, talking about the three parables as one (the way the text tells us it is to be read). He looked at the story of the lost sheep -- repentance is being found. He looked at the story of the lost coin -- repentance is being found. He looked at the prodigal son -- repentance is being found. The story doesn't say, "The Son came home and confessed his sin and promised to not screw up again next time." No, it tells of him quoting Pharaoh's less than sincere repentance "I have sinned against heaven and before you" and heads home when he has no other option. The Father rejoices in seeing him and says "Let us eat and celebrate for my son was dead is now alive; was lost and is found."
Repentance is being found.
Grace is repentance; it is being found.
I drive by grace every day when I choose to be the brother out in the field refusing to come celebrate with his father. I choose to be grace-less when I refuse to celebrate being found, for being in the arms of my Father who loves and care for me.
May I always come to the table to worship with my God. May I continually learn that confession is only a small part of repentance — that my God has found me and saved me.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
If Kierkegaard were a drunk man at Starbucks...
A warm, late May morning. The sun was glistening off the tops of the glass tables at Starbucks and enriched the soft morning glow as we trekked to church in Boston. 5 of us, only 16 years old, walked down the street amazed at the urban oasis around us, unfamiliar with city life.
Something about these moments are poetic in their very nature. Nothing about that morning — no matter how vile or off-putting — could remove the joy that was slathered across our faces.
So as we walked by Starbucks and noticed a drunk man sitting on the patio, we were fascinated, not disturbed. He sat near the railing, as far from the Starbucks and as close to the sidewalk as possible while he sipped his black coffee at 8 am. In between sips and sighs of enjoyment, he would belt out lines from Frank Sinatra at the top of lungs and smile.
Had he been walking next to us, we might have been bothered, but since he seemed to be in a controlled spot on the opposite corner of the intersection from where we were headed, we enjoyed him and whispered about how different life in the city was.
This man merrily singing Frank Sinatra in his drunkenness has been an image that has stayed with me over the years. I always liked him, had some sort of appreciation for him, some sort of moderate pity. With these generally positive feelings toward the Starbucks drunkard, it is almost understandable how I have come to associate Soren Kierkegaard with him.
In his book, Training in Christianity, Kierkegaard berates the Danish church for its hypocrisy and failure to put Christ at the center of their worship. When the church would not change, Kierkegaard boycotted the church and called other true followers to disfellowship. He was consistently vocal about his lack of church attendance during this boycott and would sit in cafes where he would be noticed for not attending church.
If Kierkegaard lived in Boston in the new Millennium, he might just be the drunk man at Starbucks. I see him sitting with a cup of coffee, singing a song while reading the New York Times and offering a knowing smirk to everyone that passed by. I see him nodding at his friends who were headed to service and acknowledging that he was choosing a different path.
To be fair, this was likely not the story of Kierkegaard. It misses the sorrow and the despair he had for the sense of the church. It misses his aggressiveness in seeking out the truth and totally demolishes his fierce desire to suffer for Christ.
But it is a funny image, isn't it?
Monday, October 10, 2011
Right Now
Its October and 75 degree out and sunny. I have the day off. Want to know how I'm spending it?
Eating lemon cake and drinking coffee in my bed researching gyms.
That's right. Eating cake, skipping dance class, not running outside, but researching places to work out.
I'd say, its a pretty awesome day off.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Selfishness
I've been thinking a lot about how selfish I am.
Its not the selfishness of a toddler who steals toys from her peers, holding them close to her chest and screaming, "Mine," but the reserved selfishness of adulthood. The one where you say its fine, but secretly are bitter things aren't geared towards you. The one where you get annoyed when you don't get the returns on your actions that you're reciprocating.
Its funny that this has been my thought for the past few days when today happened;
I was hosting some friends from Moody. The girls who I hadn't seen yet, the ones who text me to tell me how much they want to see me. After spending all morning cleaning and baking for them, I receive a series of texts of them canceling. As the numbers drop from 15 to 10 to 5, I get increasingly bitter at their selfishness. Their inability to come see me when I make the effort to see them. Their lack of foresight in planning their weeks so they could be here — after all, I had done so. I had protected the day for them. I had made sure they would be able to come over.
As I build up a small storm of fury inside me at their selfishness, my own becomes increasingly obvious.
I'm annoyed because I wanted to throw a good party, not because they're busy. I'm annoyed because I "did all of this for them" with no return.
It wasn't for them. It was for me. It was for my name, my glory, my ego.
Lord, teach me to love as you have loved. Teach me to be selfless, as you have been. May I lay down my life for you and for my brother. May I walk in humility and truth, caring for those you care for.
Its not the selfishness of a toddler who steals toys from her peers, holding them close to her chest and screaming, "Mine," but the reserved selfishness of adulthood. The one where you say its fine, but secretly are bitter things aren't geared towards you. The one where you get annoyed when you don't get the returns on your actions that you're reciprocating.
Its funny that this has been my thought for the past few days when today happened;
I was hosting some friends from Moody. The girls who I hadn't seen yet, the ones who text me to tell me how much they want to see me. After spending all morning cleaning and baking for them, I receive a series of texts of them canceling. As the numbers drop from 15 to 10 to 5, I get increasingly bitter at their selfishness. Their inability to come see me when I make the effort to see them. Their lack of foresight in planning their weeks so they could be here — after all, I had done so. I had protected the day for them. I had made sure they would be able to come over.
As I build up a small storm of fury inside me at their selfishness, my own becomes increasingly obvious.
I'm annoyed because I wanted to throw a good party, not because they're busy. I'm annoyed because I "did all of this for them" with no return.
It wasn't for them. It was for me. It was for my name, my glory, my ego.
Lord, teach me to love as you have loved. Teach me to be selfless, as you have been. May I lay down my life for you and for my brother. May I walk in humility and truth, caring for those you care for.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Future
Sometimes, I blog in the shower.
Or on the train.
Or in bed late at night when I should be sleeping or praying or something relaxing.
Those are the posts you never read. The ones that I write in my head so that I can feel rested, calmed, expressed.
My functional journal.
Lately, I've been thinking about my future. I'm finding that the happier I am in my present state, the less I'm interested in planning for my future.
This summer has been glorious. The past four months have been a testament to God's goodness and a demonstration of his provision. I have been well rested, well connected, well cared for. I have been shamelessly giddy the majority of the days. I have seen a good friend get married. I have moved into a lovely new apartment. I have started a new job.
I have not looked into grad schools. I have not written a five year plan. I have not (seriously) planned any trips.
And I'm stuck in the middle about it. My church, where I now work, is well versed in my future goals (circa May) and are immensely supportive. They want to know where I want to do my graduate work. They're interested in what I want to study, where I want to go — eager for my future. They're encouragement and enthusiasm is contagious. Talking to them reminds me of the way I am gifted, what God has in store for me and my passion for academia.
Its good to be excited. Its good to be thinking of the awesome things God has in store for your future. But we are not called to live in the future but in this moment.
"Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself." Matthew 6:35
"Do not boast about tomorrow for you do not know what a day might bring." Proverbs 27:1
"Yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring... instead you ought to say, 'If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that." James 4:14-15
May we learn to walk faithfully in the moment, awaiting what the Lord will bring but fully present in the moment in which he has us.
Or on the train.
Or in bed late at night when I should be sleeping or praying or something relaxing.
Those are the posts you never read. The ones that I write in my head so that I can feel rested, calmed, expressed.
My functional journal.
Lately, I've been thinking about my future. I'm finding that the happier I am in my present state, the less I'm interested in planning for my future.
This summer has been glorious. The past four months have been a testament to God's goodness and a demonstration of his provision. I have been well rested, well connected, well cared for. I have been shamelessly giddy the majority of the days. I have seen a good friend get married. I have moved into a lovely new apartment. I have started a new job.
I have not looked into grad schools. I have not written a five year plan. I have not (seriously) planned any trips.
And I'm stuck in the middle about it. My church, where I now work, is well versed in my future goals (circa May) and are immensely supportive. They want to know where I want to do my graduate work. They're interested in what I want to study, where I want to go — eager for my future. They're encouragement and enthusiasm is contagious. Talking to them reminds me of the way I am gifted, what God has in store for me and my passion for academia.
Its good to be excited. Its good to be thinking of the awesome things God has in store for your future. But we are not called to live in the future but in this moment.
"Do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will worry about itself." Matthew 6:35
"Do not boast about tomorrow for you do not know what a day might bring." Proverbs 27:1
"Yet you do not know what tomorrow will bring... instead you ought to say, 'If the Lord wills, we will live and do this or that." James 4:14-15
May we learn to walk faithfully in the moment, awaiting what the Lord will bring but fully present in the moment in which he has us.
Monday, August 29, 2011
New
New seems to be my word lately.
New apartment.
New roommates.
New job.
New boyfriend.
New school year.
New clothes.
New bed.
New wall color.
New.
New.
New.
New.
I like new... in small shifts. Everything in my life is awesome and I feel like every new thing is a blessing and yet, I'm exhausted.
As in, can't-keep-my-eyes-open-at-9-pm tired. As in let-the-kids-watch-tv-for-an-hour-so-I-could-rest worn out. As in too-tired-to-unpack-so-I'll-just-live-amid-a-pile-of-boxes-and-wear-the-three-outfits-I-can-find-that-are-half-clean-in-the-hamper exhaustion.
I know its a phase. I know that God is pouring out his blessing over me right now, but at this particular moment as I gear up for the first real day at the new job and first real meeting at loyola and trying a new recipe in my new kitchen with my new appliances while my super-awesome new boyfriend scrounges mold off my ceiling, I just wish God would bless me a little slower.
To him who has awesome and wonderful things prepared for my life, to him who is above all gracious and giving, may all glory and honor and power be to him — and may he give us endurance and strength to run the race he has set before us. Amen.
New apartment.
New roommates.
New job.
New boyfriend.
New school year.
New clothes.
New bed.
New wall color.
New.
New.
New.
New.
I like new... in small shifts. Everything in my life is awesome and I feel like every new thing is a blessing and yet, I'm exhausted.
As in, can't-keep-my-eyes-open-at-9-pm tired. As in let-the-kids-watch-tv-for-an-hour-so-I-could-rest worn out. As in too-tired-to-unpack-so-I'll-just-live-amid-a-pile-of-boxes-and-wear-the-three-outfits-I-can-find-that-are-half-clean-in-the-hamper exhaustion.
I know its a phase. I know that God is pouring out his blessing over me right now, but at this particular moment as I gear up for the first real day at the new job and first real meeting at loyola and trying a new recipe in my new kitchen with my new appliances while my super-awesome new boyfriend scrounges mold off my ceiling, I just wish God would bless me a little slower.
To him who has awesome and wonderful things prepared for my life, to him who is above all gracious and giving, may all glory and honor and power be to him — and may he give us endurance and strength to run the race he has set before us. Amen.
Friday, August 26, 2011
How Does It Feel To Be Graduated?
People have asked me consistently if it feels different to be graduated.
At first, I didn't know how to answer. Nothing was really different — it was just summer. Then, I didn't know if the question was fair. Were the different things consequences of my graduation or simply things that change from time to time? True, my recent love of sparkling pink wines is purely a product of graduation and good friends (as is my affinity for citrusy wheat ales) but what about the rest? I just nanny. I live with 5 girls, all but one who came from my college. I share a bed. I go shopping in the morning. I have an extensive coffee budget.
Then this week happened, and I can assure you, graduated life is different.
I painted a room into the perfect colors because I know I'll be there for a long time. Or to be more honest, I sat in a chair sending emails while my boyfriend painted the walls, because I've started dating someone who actually enjoys doing the things I hate and even more importantly, enjoys spending time with me. (And I assure you, the feelings are mutual).
I stepped into an office, met 4 chaplains, 5 sacramental life staff and a whole slew of graduate assistants who would be my co-workers on the north side. Sure, I interned there before, but nothing's quite like giving a woman named Cookie your social security and smiling awkwardly for your staff badge. Even retreat was different. Sure, I was a leader the year before. This year, though, I was the adult.
This week, I quit two jobs. I talked on the phone with one about how I hadn't planned to leave her family but that I needed to leave asap. I listened as she held back tears and told me how much it sucked.
I stood in a kitchen this morning with another mother I work for who I adore like a big sister, and stop her midway through her "I'm so glad you're leaving the other family and not me" celebration to inform her I was leaving both. Stood there as she cried. Stood there as I realized the kids would not understand.
This week, I interviewed and was offered a position the next day at the only job I applied for. I applied to one position, which would be perfect for me, and learned that it was what God had in store. I showed up today for my whirlwind training session and learned, for four hours, that my days would be filled with varied and interesting tasks. From filling out baptism certificates and photocopying commentaries to feeding homeless neighbors and planning all church events, my days would never dull.
So, when you ask me, the next time I step on campus, how it feels to be graduated. I will tell you it is wonderful and harder than I ever could have imagined, but I am so blessed.
At first, I didn't know how to answer. Nothing was really different — it was just summer. Then, I didn't know if the question was fair. Were the different things consequences of my graduation or simply things that change from time to time? True, my recent love of sparkling pink wines is purely a product of graduation and good friends (as is my affinity for citrusy wheat ales) but what about the rest? I just nanny. I live with 5 girls, all but one who came from my college. I share a bed. I go shopping in the morning. I have an extensive coffee budget.
Then this week happened, and I can assure you, graduated life is different.
I painted a room into the perfect colors because I know I'll be there for a long time. Or to be more honest, I sat in a chair sending emails while my boyfriend painted the walls, because I've started dating someone who actually enjoys doing the things I hate and even more importantly, enjoys spending time with me. (And I assure you, the feelings are mutual).
I stepped into an office, met 4 chaplains, 5 sacramental life staff and a whole slew of graduate assistants who would be my co-workers on the north side. Sure, I interned there before, but nothing's quite like giving a woman named Cookie your social security and smiling awkwardly for your staff badge. Even retreat was different. Sure, I was a leader the year before. This year, though, I was the adult.
This week, I quit two jobs. I talked on the phone with one about how I hadn't planned to leave her family but that I needed to leave asap. I listened as she held back tears and told me how much it sucked.
I stood in a kitchen this morning with another mother I work for who I adore like a big sister, and stop her midway through her "I'm so glad you're leaving the other family and not me" celebration to inform her I was leaving both. Stood there as she cried. Stood there as I realized the kids would not understand.
This week, I interviewed and was offered a position the next day at the only job I applied for. I applied to one position, which would be perfect for me, and learned that it was what God had in store. I showed up today for my whirlwind training session and learned, for four hours, that my days would be filled with varied and interesting tasks. From filling out baptism certificates and photocopying commentaries to feeding homeless neighbors and planning all church events, my days would never dull.
So, when you ask me, the next time I step on campus, how it feels to be graduated. I will tell you it is wonderful and harder than I ever could have imagined, but I am so blessed.
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