I grew up in a small town in Wyoming. About the only thing it had going for it from my perspective was the amazing Carnegie library downtown. It was a multipurpose space-- library with books, space for small concerts, host to various children's activities (especially in the summer).
I loved the weekly treks to the library. My mom would load us in the car and I would gleefully (with the enthusiastic assistance of the children's librarian) fill my bag with the 20 books allowed and return home to devour them. The library and the church were the two most important buildings during my childhood.
School, not so much (for many reasons, the most ironic being I was already a fluent reader when I started first grade but my teacher insisted I had to 'learn' her way).
I loved the library because the adults there shared my passion for books and never told me I had to like certain books or that I shouldn't read above my grade level or put any limit on me other than a total book limit and the instruction to take care of the books. The library was my first experience in the idea of a shared community resource that everyone can use but that everyone should do their part to take care of. I still remember taking a deep breath of book scented air every time we walked through the doors.
I loved church for a similar reason. I don't remember a time when I wasn't a full communicant in the church. I was recruited to be an acolyte when I was 9 and served (with a brief hiatus because the new priest didn't believe in acolytes - my first protest letter was written to him) until I left for college. It was the other place in my life were I felt affirmed as a person, where I was actively recruited to develop leadership skills, and where I was encouraged in my participation in the church.
As an adult, my relationship with both institutions has changed. We have a library just up the street from us, but most of my interactions with it are via it's website. I hop on-line, look up the book or audio that I want and frequently end up downloading the content to read on my computer, or listen to through their audiobook app. I go in person to pay fines and to pick up books from the on hold shelf (which I check out at a self-service kiosk). I rarely interact in person with a librarian. As for church, I burned out years ago on having a relationship with a specific congregation for many reasons, some of which I have written about before in detail. However, I still interact with the church on-line. I write reflections, I read the lectionary, I meditate on the nature of god, forgiveness, good and evil, death, the nature of prayer, and the afterlife.
A part of me mourns the loss of my childhood intimacy with both libraries and churches. It was wonderful being surrounded by people who believed in my potential and who actively encouraged me to become who I am today.
Upon reflection, I think it is just a normal function of growing up. It is the job of adults and children's librarians to focus on the development of children; to surround them with love and teach them the tools to be able to function in the adult world (where, if we are lucky in our health, we will spend most of our lives); and to give them a safe space to practice for adult-hood.
When I was a fledging adult, I wanted nothing more than to free myself from the oversight of adults-- I wanted to be an adult. I was excited to be out in the world and ready to leave the restrictions of childhood behind.
Now that I am a full-time adult, with a fledging of my own, I can only hope that I did my part of the job in this cycle. I poured my love and energy into his school. I helped his teachers, encouraged his interests, and taught him as much as I could about being a functioning adult. Now he teases me about starting college, getting his drivers license, and leaving home. We have a two more years but he is starting to pull free-- which is as it should be
It just occasionally makes me yearn for the kindly librarian filling my bag with books or the priest walking me through how to serve as an acolyte.
I am haunted by the smell of stacks of books and the scent of burning beeswax.
And I realize that there are worse ghosts to have.
-----
This essay was originally published at the Episcopal Cafe: Speaking to the Soul on 08 October 2015.
08 October 2015
24 September 2015
Faithful Scholars
September 30th is the feast day of Jerome patron saint of archaeologists, archivists, Bible scholars, librarians, libraries, school children, students, and translators*. Known for his re-translation of the bible from Hebrew to Latin (the Vulgate Bible), he had a long career in the Roman Catholic Church. At times he was close to the center of power as a favorite of popes and at other times he was either a self-imposed hermit or a true outcast. As such he had wide experience of the ups and downs of life in the church. He went out of his way to learn Hebrew at a time when Greek was the language of scholars (though how well he learned it seems to be up for discussion in scholarly circles).
The lessons for the day reflect this scholarly bent, with Timothy exhorting followers of Christ to be:
Psalm 19 giving us the classic sermon closing line of:
Something I have always appreciated about the Episcopal Church is its focus on learning and on providing paths for education for lay-people. From Sunday school to Education for Ministry; from diocesan-wide youth events to weekend trainings for adults; and from anti-racism training to mandatory Safeguarding God's Children training-- all of these events help foster life-long learning in the church.
I believe it also fosters life-long learning outside of the church environment by making learning and becoming educated a normal activity. In the church I grew up in I was encouraged to not just learn rote scripture or memorize what a passage was 'supposed to mean' but to actively engage with the classic three-legged stool of episcopalian metaphor, and the teachers I had worked hard to engage us where we were at. Ultimately, this reinforced my understanding that learning in general was a Good Thing.
I took the ideas I learned in Sunday School to college with me and those skills helped me analyze texts and synthesize my thoughts throughout my college career (and this was back in the day of the card catalog).
Just after college, stuck in the wilds of Texas, EFM (Education for Ministry) was my salvation. I met nice people, engaged with the scripture, and didn't feel quite as desperately alone as I did most of the year we lived there. It was also my introduction to a formula for learning that I have used ever since.
This idea was further developed when I took leadership skills training and train-the-trainer workshops through the Diocese of Olympia continuing my experience of the Episcopal church as a place that encourages all types of learning from structured classes to intentional self-reflection.
It is my hope that, especially in this age of digital communication, my experience will not be rare or unusual and that the Episcopal Church will continue to be an heir to Jerome and all other scholars who valued study and learning and put that at the heart of faith.
-----
*Also apparently patron saint of flame wars-- so truly a saint for modern times.
Resources used:
"Jerome." The Lectionary Page: Jerome. Ed. Kelly W. Puckett. N.p., 11 Sept. 2015. Web. 22 Sept. 2015..
.
Kiefer, James E. "Jerome, Scholar, Translator, and Theologian." Jerome, Scholar,
Translator, and Theologian. Society of Archbishop Justus, 29 Aug. 1999. Web. 23 Sept. 2015..
The lessons for the day reflect this scholarly bent, with Timothy exhorting followers of Christ to be:
be proficient, equipped for every good work
Psalm 19 giving us the classic sermon closing line of:
Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O LORD, my strength and my redeemer.Psalm 119 stating:
Your commandment has made me wiser than my enemies, and it is always with me.and the Gospel of Luke giving us:
I have more understanding than all my teachers, for your decrees are my study.
I am wiser than the elders, because I observe your commandments.
Then he opened their minds to understand the scriptures
Something I have always appreciated about the Episcopal Church is its focus on learning and on providing paths for education for lay-people. From Sunday school to Education for Ministry; from diocesan-wide youth events to weekend trainings for adults; and from anti-racism training to mandatory Safeguarding God's Children training-- all of these events help foster life-long learning in the church.
I believe it also fosters life-long learning outside of the church environment by making learning and becoming educated a normal activity. In the church I grew up in I was encouraged to not just learn rote scripture or memorize what a passage was 'supposed to mean' but to actively engage with the classic three-legged stool of episcopalian metaphor, and the teachers I had worked hard to engage us where we were at. Ultimately, this reinforced my understanding that learning in general was a Good Thing.
I took the ideas I learned in Sunday School to college with me and those skills helped me analyze texts and synthesize my thoughts throughout my college career (and this was back in the day of the card catalog).
Just after college, stuck in the wilds of Texas, EFM (Education for Ministry) was my salvation. I met nice people, engaged with the scripture, and didn't feel quite as desperately alone as I did most of the year we lived there. It was also my introduction to a formula for learning that I have used ever since.
Experience + Reflection = Learning
This idea was further developed when I took leadership skills training and train-the-trainer workshops through the Diocese of Olympia continuing my experience of the Episcopal church as a place that encourages all types of learning from structured classes to intentional self-reflection.
It is my hope that, especially in this age of digital communication, my experience will not be rare or unusual and that the Episcopal Church will continue to be an heir to Jerome and all other scholars who valued study and learning and put that at the heart of faith.
-----
*Also apparently patron saint of flame wars-- so truly a saint for modern times.
Resources used:
"Jerome." The Lectionary Page: Jerome. Ed. Kelly W. Puckett. N.p., 11 Sept. 2015. Web. 22 Sept. 2015.
Kiefer, James E. "Jerome, Scholar, Translator, and Theologian." Jerome, Scholar,
Translator, and Theologian. Society of Archbishop Justus, 29 Aug. 1999. Web. 23 Sept. 2015.
17 September 2015
Beauty in the midst
Last week I was reading about Constance and Her Companions. One of the fabulous things about the Internet is how much information used to be obscure, hard to find, or just existing in a single copy in a library somewhere is now no more than a quick search engine click away.
In this case it was a compilation of writings by the sisters that were gathered an annotated by an unknown person just a year after the epidemic that killed all but one them.
It is a long document, but worth reading. When I read it, one short sentence leapt out at me. From August 29, 1878, sandwiched in between notes about the number of new cases of fever that day and a note that four 'romish' priests were dead was the line:
That line made me stop and think about how easy it is to fall into the idea that I should feel a certain way in some circumstances. That I should be solemn at a funeral, sad at the bedside of a dying friend, and happy at the birth of a child when frequently my feelings are much more complex and unpredictable.
When my son was born I did feel so much joy that I started crying, but at the same time I felt terror, exhaustion, and straight up crankiness. At my father-in-law's funeral I was distracted between feeling his loss, a tendency to giggle at odd things, and distracted anxiety that my son (then around four) wouldn't sit still at the right times and it would be my fault.*
I never had just one type of feeling during those times when I had a cultural expectation of what I was 'supposed to feel' and when I saw the line from Sister Constance's papers quoted above it brought me up short. Here she was in the midst of suffering and death and she could still see beauty and feel it move her. She felt 'almost heartless' but I think it was a gift from God and it reminded me of another story.
My housemate's family were in the displaced persons (DP) camps in Europe at the end of World War II. They were in the camps for a long time and lived with a great deal of uncertainty about what would happen to them. In spite of that, the adults got together and set up schools for the children and classes for the adults. The adult classes were places where skilled artisans could teach others their trades including leather and metal working. Using scraps and sharing what little they had, they learned to make art from one another. In the midst of confusion and doubt they banded together to keep each other's spirits up and minds engaged in the world around them, until, at last they made it out of Europe to the United States. My housemate has a few of the things that her grandfather made in the camps and even without the context of where and when they were made, they are beautiful.
I think the trait to see beauty even in the midst of death and destruction, the ability to make beauty out of nearly nothing, and to raise others up into beauty makes us both fully human and in touch with the divine.
So Sister Constance was not heartless in her recognition of beauty, she was touched by creation in the best possible way.
---
*Disclaimer: all of the fear of being judged by my in-laws came from my own insecurities and never from them, but it took me about 15 years to figure that out.
Resources used:
"The Sisters of St. Mary at Memphis: With the Acts and Sufferings of the Priests and Others Who Were There with Them during the Yellow Fever Season of 1878." The Sisters of St. Mary at Memphis. Ed. Unknown. Project Canterbury, n.d. Web. 16 Sept. 2015.
This essay was orginially published at Episcopal Cafe: Speaking to the Soul on 16 Sept 2015
In this case it was a compilation of writings by the sisters that were gathered an annotated by an unknown person just a year after the epidemic that killed all but one them.
It is a long document, but worth reading. When I read it, one short sentence leapt out at me. From August 29, 1878, sandwiched in between notes about the number of new cases of fever that day and a note that four 'romish' priests were dead was the line:
"One cares so much for the lovely weather, the evening light; one sees such exquisite pictures everywhere. It seems almost heartless to care for them!
That line made me stop and think about how easy it is to fall into the idea that I should feel a certain way in some circumstances. That I should be solemn at a funeral, sad at the bedside of a dying friend, and happy at the birth of a child when frequently my feelings are much more complex and unpredictable.
When my son was born I did feel so much joy that I started crying, but at the same time I felt terror, exhaustion, and straight up crankiness. At my father-in-law's funeral I was distracted between feeling his loss, a tendency to giggle at odd things, and distracted anxiety that my son (then around four) wouldn't sit still at the right times and it would be my fault.*
I never had just one type of feeling during those times when I had a cultural expectation of what I was 'supposed to feel' and when I saw the line from Sister Constance's papers quoted above it brought me up short. Here she was in the midst of suffering and death and she could still see beauty and feel it move her. She felt 'almost heartless' but I think it was a gift from God and it reminded me of another story.
My housemate's family were in the displaced persons (DP) camps in Europe at the end of World War II. They were in the camps for a long time and lived with a great deal of uncertainty about what would happen to them. In spite of that, the adults got together and set up schools for the children and classes for the adults. The adult classes were places where skilled artisans could teach others their trades including leather and metal working. Using scraps and sharing what little they had, they learned to make art from one another. In the midst of confusion and doubt they banded together to keep each other's spirits up and minds engaged in the world around them, until, at last they made it out of Europe to the United States. My housemate has a few of the things that her grandfather made in the camps and even without the context of where and when they were made, they are beautiful.
I think the trait to see beauty even in the midst of death and destruction, the ability to make beauty out of nearly nothing, and to raise others up into beauty makes us both fully human and in touch with the divine.
So Sister Constance was not heartless in her recognition of beauty, she was touched by creation in the best possible way.
---
*Disclaimer: all of the fear of being judged by my in-laws came from my own insecurities and never from them, but it took me about 15 years to figure that out.
Resources used:
"The Sisters of St. Mary at Memphis: With the Acts and Sufferings of the Priests and Others Who Were There with Them during the Yellow Fever Season of 1878." The Sisters of St. Mary at Memphis. Ed. Unknown. Project Canterbury, n.d. Web. 16 Sept. 2015.
This essay was orginially published at Episcopal Cafe: Speaking to the Soul on 16 Sept 2015
10 September 2015
Greatest Hits: Psalm 51
What started as project to methodically read the psalms in order has turned into hoping in and skipping around the psalms based on what other reading I have been doing, searches for the occurrence of particular words or phrases, and in following the lectionary.
As I was looking at some of the lessons for August, I read Psalm 51 and realized that it is one of what I think of as "the greatest hits" in Psalms. Unlike many of the psalms that I examined when I was reading them in order, this psalm is so familiar to me that, less than halfway though reading, it I remembered how it went.
Curious, I went and looked it up in the Book of Common Prayer (which can be downloaded as a searchable PDF!) and found that, in addition to appearing in the Psalter, Psalm 51 also appears in the liturgy for Ash Wednesday services, and a section of it is presented in the Daily Devotions for Individuals and Families for Morning.
Since I had a searchable version of the BCP I looked for Psalm 51 in the lectionary and found, before I lost count, that it is called on at least 10 different times throughout the entire liturgical calender.
As I was looking at some of the lessons for August, I read Psalm 51 and realized that it is one of what I think of as "the greatest hits" in Psalms. Unlike many of the psalms that I examined when I was reading them in order, this psalm is so familiar to me that, less than halfway though reading, it I remembered how it went.
Curious, I went and looked it up in the Book of Common Prayer (which can be downloaded as a searchable PDF!) and found that, in addition to appearing in the Psalter, Psalm 51 also appears in the liturgy for Ash Wednesday services, and a section of it is presented in the Daily Devotions for Individuals and Families for Morning.
Since I had a searchable version of the BCP I looked for Psalm 51 in the lectionary and found, before I lost count, that it is called on at least 10 different times throughout the entire liturgical calender.
This is the psalm as I stumbled upon it during my reading:
51 Miserere mei, Deus
Have mercy on me, O God, according to your loving-kindness; *
in your great compassion blot out my offenses.
Wash me through and through from my wickedness *
and cleanse me from my sin.
For I know my transgressions, *
and my sin is ever before me.
Against you only have I sinned *
and done what is evil in your sight.
And so you are justified when you speak *
and upright in your judgment.
Indeed, I have been wicked from my birth, *
a sinner from my mother's womb.
For behold, you look for truth deep within me, *
and will make me understand wisdom secretly.
Purge me from my sin, and I shall be pure; *
wash me, and I shall be clean indeed.
Make me hear of joy and gladness, *
that the body you have broken may rejoice.
Hide your face from my sins *
and blot out all my iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God, *
and renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from your presence *
and take not your holy Spirit from me.
Give me the joy of your saving help again *
and sustain me with your bountiful Spirit.
I shall teach your ways to the wicked, *
and sinners shall return to you.
Deliver me from death, O God, *
and my tongue shall sing of your righteousness, O God of my salvation.
Open my lips, O Lord, *
and my mouth shall proclaim your praise.
Had you desired it, I would have offered sacrifice, *
but you take no delight in burnt-offerings.
The sacrifice of God is a troubled spirit; *
a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.
Be favorable and gracious to Zion, *
and rebuild the walls of Jerusalem.
Then you will be pleased with the appointed sacrifices, with burnt-offerings and oblations; *
then shall they offer young bullocks upon your altar.
~(BCP, Psalm 51, pp 656-657)
This seems like an excellent opportunity to look at this frequently used psalm from a different point of view.
Robert Alter makes the case that the first and last two lines of this psalm were added by a later editor. The first two were likely added by editors to set the psalm during David's time even though it was probably composed centuries later (and those two are left off of the psalm as it appears in the BCP). The last two were added to rebut or soften the original author's focus on personal atonement (as opposed to making burnt-offerings at the temple). Both of these ideas make sense in the context as provided and once pointed out are hard not to see. There is a sudden shift from a historical setting to a personal plea and then back to an institutional setting at the close (which hints that perhaps some burnt-offerings would be welcome by God- in direct contradiction to the main authors heartfelt plea only a few verses earlier).
51 Miserere mei, Deus
Have mercy on me, O God, according to your loving-kindness; *
in your great compassion blot out my offenses.
Wash me through and through from my wickedness *
and cleanse me from my sin.
For I know my transgressions, *
and my sin is ever before me.
Against you only have I sinned *
and done what is evil in your sight.
And so you are justified when you speak *
and upright in your judgment.
Indeed, I have been wicked from my birth, *
a sinner from my mother's womb.
For behold, you look for truth deep within me, *
and will make me understand wisdom secretly.
Purge me from my sin, and I shall be pure; *
wash me, and I shall be clean indeed.
Make me hear of joy and gladness, *
that the body you have broken may rejoice.
Hide your face from my sins *
and blot out all my iniquities.
Create in me a clean heart, O God, *
and renew a right spirit within me.
Cast me not away from your presence *
and take not your holy Spirit from me.
Give me the joy of your saving help again *
and sustain me with your bountiful Spirit.
I shall teach your ways to the wicked, *
and sinners shall return to you.
Deliver me from death, O God, *
and my tongue shall sing of your righteousness, O God of my salvation.
Open my lips, O Lord, *
and my mouth shall proclaim your praise.
Had you desired it, I would have offered sacrifice, *
but you take no delight in burnt-offerings.
The sacrifice of God is a troubled spirit; *
a broken and contrite heart, O God, you will not despise.
Be favorable and gracious to Zion, *
and rebuild the walls of Jerusalem.
Then you will be pleased with the appointed sacrifices, with burnt-offerings and oblations; *
then shall they offer young bullocks upon your altar.
~(BCP, Psalm 51, pp 656-657)
This seems like an excellent opportunity to look at this frequently used psalm from a different point of view.
Robert Alter makes the case that the first and last two lines of this psalm were added by a later editor. The first two were likely added by editors to set the psalm during David's time even though it was probably composed centuries later (and those two are left off of the psalm as it appears in the BCP). The last two were added to rebut or soften the original author's focus on personal atonement (as opposed to making burnt-offerings at the temple). Both of these ideas make sense in the context as provided and once pointed out are hard not to see. There is a sudden shift from a historical setting to a personal plea and then back to an institutional setting at the close (which hints that perhaps some burnt-offerings would be welcome by God- in direct contradiction to the main authors heartfelt plea only a few verses earlier).
Here is the psalm from Mr Alter's book as it would appear if he had left the 'added' verses off.
3 Grant me grace, God, as befits Your kindness,
with Your great mercy wipe away my crimes.
4 Thoroughly wash my transgressions away
and cleanse me from my offense.
5 For my crimes I know,
and my offense is before me always
6 You alone have I offended
and what is evil in Your eyes I have done.
7 So you are just when You sentence,
You are right when You judge.
8 Look, You desired truth in what is hidden,
in what is concealed make wisdom known to me.
9 Purify me with a hyssop, that I be clean.
Wash me, that I be whiter than snow.
10 Let me hear gladness and joy,
let the bones that You crushed exult.
11 Avert Your face from my offenses,
and all my misdeeds wipe away.
12 A pure heart create for me, God,
and a firm spirit renew within me
13 Do not fling me from Your presence,
and Your holy spirit take not from me.
14 Give me back the gladness of Your rescue
and with a noble spirit sustain me.
15 Let me teach transgressors Your ways,
and offenders will come back to You.
16 Save me from bloodshed, O God,
God of my rescue,
Let my tongue sing out Your bounty.
17 O Master, open my lips,
that my mouth may tell Your praise.
18 For You desire not that I should give sacrifice,
burnt-offering You greet not with pleasure.
19 God's sacrifices-- a broken spirit.
A broken, crushed heart God spurns not.
Striped of its familiar wording, of the editorializing verses, and with the much more vigorous 'fling' used in place of the less emphatic 'cast' this 'greatest hits' psalm takes on a much more personal and immediate feel. It also keeps the focus on the grace of God that is mentioned in the first line. At no point does the author claim to be worthy of rescue. Instead the author lists out all the brokenness that needs healing or purifying or strengthening. The offering is not 'young bullocks upon Your altar' but is, instead, 'a broken spirit, a broken, crushed heart.'
The author lives in hope, hoping to teach others and hoping to show them the way back to God but it is an offer of service, rather than a demand for such a gift.
Unlike young bullocks, broken spirits and crushed hearts are not in short supply as suitable offerings to God.
-----
This essay originally published at Episcopal Cafe: Speaking to the Soul in September 2015.
3 Grant me grace, God, as befits Your kindness,
with Your great mercy wipe away my crimes.
4 Thoroughly wash my transgressions away
and cleanse me from my offense.
5 For my crimes I know,
and my offense is before me always
6 You alone have I offended
and what is evil in Your eyes I have done.
7 So you are just when You sentence,
You are right when You judge.
8 Look, You desired truth in what is hidden,
in what is concealed make wisdom known to me.
9 Purify me with a hyssop, that I be clean.
Wash me, that I be whiter than snow.
10 Let me hear gladness and joy,
let the bones that You crushed exult.
11 Avert Your face from my offenses,
and all my misdeeds wipe away.
12 A pure heart create for me, God,
and a firm spirit renew within me
13 Do not fling me from Your presence,
and Your holy spirit take not from me.
14 Give me back the gladness of Your rescue
and with a noble spirit sustain me.
15 Let me teach transgressors Your ways,
and offenders will come back to You.
16 Save me from bloodshed, O God,
God of my rescue,
Let my tongue sing out Your bounty.
17 O Master, open my lips,
that my mouth may tell Your praise.
18 For You desire not that I should give sacrifice,
burnt-offering You greet not with pleasure.
19 God's sacrifices-- a broken spirit.
A broken, crushed heart God spurns not.
Striped of its familiar wording, of the editorializing verses, and with the much more vigorous 'fling' used in place of the less emphatic 'cast' this 'greatest hits' psalm takes on a much more personal and immediate feel. It also keeps the focus on the grace of God that is mentioned in the first line. At no point does the author claim to be worthy of rescue. Instead the author lists out all the brokenness that needs healing or purifying or strengthening. The offering is not 'young bullocks upon Your altar' but is, instead, 'a broken spirit, a broken, crushed heart.'
The author lives in hope, hoping to teach others and hoping to show them the way back to God but it is an offer of service, rather than a demand for such a gift.
Unlike young bullocks, broken spirits and crushed hearts are not in short supply as suitable offerings to God.
-----
This essay originally published at Episcopal Cafe: Speaking to the Soul in September 2015.
Resources used in this essay:
The downloadable Book of Common Prayer
Alter, R. (2007). The Book of Psalms:: A translation with commentary (pp. 180-183). New York: W.W. Norton.
02 September 2015
Washed in the blood
(Warning for visceral description of blood.)
I've never been a big fan of the book of Revelation and it has been years since I read the entire thing from start to finish. However, it does crop up in the lectionary from time to time and this time it is: Revelation 7:13-17.
As I was reading though the lessons, the phrase "they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb" sprang out at me and I really thought about what it would be like to wash something in blood and have faith that it would come out, not only clean, but purified.
Fresh blood is warm and sticky. It has a distinctive smell that can drive animals into fear or frenzy. Dried blood leaves indelible stains. White cloth dipped in blood will, in the normal course of events, be permanently marred.
So what does it mean to be washed in blood as a visceral experience? Would that metaphor have more power for people who had regular experience of both animal sacrifice and killing and eating their own stock?
I, for one, rarely eat meat and what little I do eat, I buy from a grocery store when it has been drained of blood and prepared for prompt use. I have never hunted, and the only animals whose death I have witnessed have been well-loved pets (and most of those from old age). The most blood I have experience with is my own, shed either through menstruation or by accident.
In the realm of metaphor, most of what I have seen comes from the communion table where wine subs in for the Blood of Christ. Communion wine might be dry or sweet, but it tastes noting like the salty blood from an inadvertent paper-cut and has none of blood's proverbial thickness. In my thinking, blood stands for loss and suffering; for separation and impurity; and for sacrifice and death.
The idea that one could take a garment, or a person, wash them in blood, and have them come out clean says to me that these are people who have suffered and lost, who have been immersed in suffering, who have had pain stick to them like dried blood; and yet, they have come though the other side of suffering clean and dry, their robes made white, their pain relieved.
As the psalm for the day says:
Restore, O Lord, our fortunes
like freshets in the Negeb.
They who sow in tears
in glad song will reap.
He walks along and weeps,
the bearer of the seed bag.
He will surely come in with glad song
bearing in his sheaves.
(Psalm 126:4-6 from "The Book of Psalms" by Robert Alter)
------
I've never been a big fan of the book of Revelation and it has been years since I read the entire thing from start to finish. However, it does crop up in the lectionary from time to time and this time it is: Revelation 7:13-17.
As I was reading though the lessons, the phrase "they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb" sprang out at me and I really thought about what it would be like to wash something in blood and have faith that it would come out, not only clean, but purified.
Fresh blood is warm and sticky. It has a distinctive smell that can drive animals into fear or frenzy. Dried blood leaves indelible stains. White cloth dipped in blood will, in the normal course of events, be permanently marred.
So what does it mean to be washed in blood as a visceral experience? Would that metaphor have more power for people who had regular experience of both animal sacrifice and killing and eating their own stock?
I, for one, rarely eat meat and what little I do eat, I buy from a grocery store when it has been drained of blood and prepared for prompt use. I have never hunted, and the only animals whose death I have witnessed have been well-loved pets (and most of those from old age). The most blood I have experience with is my own, shed either through menstruation or by accident.
In the realm of metaphor, most of what I have seen comes from the communion table where wine subs in for the Blood of Christ. Communion wine might be dry or sweet, but it tastes noting like the salty blood from an inadvertent paper-cut and has none of blood's proverbial thickness. In my thinking, blood stands for loss and suffering; for separation and impurity; and for sacrifice and death.
The idea that one could take a garment, or a person, wash them in blood, and have them come out clean says to me that these are people who have suffered and lost, who have been immersed in suffering, who have had pain stick to them like dried blood; and yet, they have come though the other side of suffering clean and dry, their robes made white, their pain relieved.
As the psalm for the day says:
Restore, O Lord, our fortunes
like freshets in the Negeb.
They who sow in tears
in glad song will reap.
He walks along and weeps,
the bearer of the seed bag.
He will surely come in with glad song
bearing in his sheaves.
(Psalm 126:4-6 from "The Book of Psalms" by Robert Alter)
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Resources used:
Bible Gateway (all quotes in this essay are from the NRSV translation)
Bible Gateway (all quotes in this essay are from the NRSV translation)
Alter, R. (2007). The Book of Psalms: A translation with commentary (pp. 447-448). New York: W.W. Norton.
Originally published in: Speaking to the Soul: Washed in the blood on 1 September 2015
Originally published in: Speaking to the Soul: Washed in the blood on 1 September 2015
30 July 2015
Facing Mortality: one year later
My housemate's mother passed away in July 2014 and my housemate is acting as the estate's personal representative. This post is inspired by her experience.
It has been a full year since my housemate's mother died.
The tide of her mail, bills, and boxes of personal papers and artwork has receded. It now takes up a small corner of the den instead of two banquet tables and my housemate has made progress on cleaning out her mother's house but there is still work to be done.
Things that have been helpful to her:
- Having a space at our house where she could keep an 'office' of her mother's paperwork. In the beginning there were a lot of different things to keep up on like medical billings, insurance, setting up an estate bank account, and having a place to put the mail as it came in. We ended up with two large plastic bins for junk mail, catalogs, and subscriptions-- since dealing with them wasn't time sensitive and a smaller inbox for bank statements, medical bills, and other potentially important and time critical mail. The nice thing about being able to use our den for this during the first year, was that my housemate could close the door and walk away. It wasn't piled up in her bedroom.
- Having me process junk mail in batches, including an hour spent on the phone telling catalog sales people to take her mother's name, and our address, off of their mailing list. Once I realized that telling folks straight up that the person they were trying to sell to had died, I found that they were all quick to take care of matters. One woman went so far as to offer to look up the name in other databases she had access to and she saved me 3 more phone calls as a result. It made me sad to have to repeat the same information over and over, but not nearly as sad as my housemate might have felt.
- Making a database of addresses from the collection of papers, cards, and old address books that we found during while looking for official paperwork like wills and car title.
- Being lucky enough that her mom's house was paid for. This allowed her to use it as a base of operations and only bring essential paperwork over to our house. It also has meant that she could take her time going through her mother's things at a pace that worked for her. It would have been much more stressful if she had had to go through things quickly.
- Hiring a lawyer who specialized in estate work to help her with the legal process of filing the correct forms with the county courthouse. The house is in another county from where we live and is a two-hour drive so having someone local was very helpful. It also didn't cost that much and everything was included in one upfront fee.
- Having weekend-long family work-parties at the house. There was an overwhelming amount of things to sort through and having a passel of folks there, that my housemate trusted got some big jobs done. My housemate's mother had been operating in survival mode for several years before she died (one of the many reasons she opted for the risks of surgery) so in addition to dealing with the belongings of a normal household, there were layers of projects that had been to be abandoned due to lack of energy that needed careful sorting through. One of the ways she coped with low energy was to have caches of items she would need near where she would use them. Things people helped with:
- Sorting tools in to broken, duplicates, and usable categories
- Rounding up caches of costume jewelry and putting sets back together
- Sorting, washing and packing clothes for donation Sorting perishable and non-perishable food and taking it to the local food bank along with unused personal products like soap and shampoo
- Cleaning out the potting shed and re-organizing it
- Finding the stashes of yard tools and consolidating them
- Gathering up office and art supplies and sorting them (many will be going to a local school)
- Dump runs and runs to the recycling center
- Rounding up potentially hazardous materials and prepping them to go to the county haz-mat facility
- Cleaning out the extra freezers and refrigerators on the property
- Leafing through books before sorting and packing them for distribution to family, friends, and local thrift stores.
- Assessing and make some minor repairs to fixtures in the house
Even with all the time spent on the estate so far, there is still a fair amount to do. Including following through with what we have learned and making sure our own estates are in order. One good thing that came out of this is the awareness of the complexity of dealing with even a simple estate and the steps we can all take to make life easier for those we leave behind.
21 July 2015
Failing at Faith
In the gospel of Matthew 14: 22-32, the miracle is not that Jesus walks on water, but that Peter even tries.
If you have ever learned an instrument, ridden a bicycle, or learned any new physical skill, you will remember that, as you learned, it was difficult to sustain a newly acquired ability.
You might have a moment where you disappear into the action and everything is working smoothly. Then you think about what you are doing and mangle the music, or fall off the bike. A brief loss of focus and the competence vanishes and is replaced by a feeling of frustration that you will never master the skill.
So it is with faith, Peter steps out of the boat, experiences a brief moment of competence and belief that he can do the impossible, he can participate in the miracle. He, for just a moment, gives his whole being to the enterprise and walks upon the water.
However, Peter, like all of us, is only human and sustaining that level of devotion and focus is beyond him.
You might have a moment where you disappear into the action and everything is working smoothly. Then you think about what you are doing and mangle the music, or fall off the bike. A brief loss of focus and the competence vanishes and is replaced by a feeling of frustration that you will never master the skill.
So it is with faith, Peter steps out of the boat, experiences a brief moment of competence and belief that he can do the impossible, he can participate in the miracle. He, for just a moment, gives his whole being to the enterprise and walks upon the water.
However, Peter, like all of us, is only human and sustaining that level of devotion and focus is beyond him.
That said, the fact that he tried is the true miracle. He not only steps out onto the water, but asks Jesus to make his walking on the water a command. Peter opened himself fully to the idea that all things might be possible if Jesus asked it of him.
Then the wind comes up, he is distracted and falls into the water. The small, intimate bubble of quiet that had seemed to hold just Peter and Jesus is broken into by the elements that fishermen know to fear. In a heartbeat, Peter goes from trusting disciple to fearful waterman. The connection between student and teacher is not enough to keep Peter walking on top of the water.
However, when he falls, he only loses faith that he could emulate Jesus, he doesn't lose faith that Jesus can save him from the depths. He goes from the high of 'I can do this myself!' to the low of 'Please catch me!' that is a universal human experience shared by anyone who who has wobbled down the street on a bicycle or played their first flawless scale on a guitar.
But just because I fall off my bike, does not mean that my teachers have forgotten how to ride. I may lose faith in my ability to perform a new skill; however, if my teacher is wise and patient, they will reach out to me and help me try again until I can master the elation of momentary success and turn it into a persistent skill.
Jesus may be frustrated that Peter fell, but he still reaches out his hands and pulls Peter back into the boat fully justifying Peter's faith in him as a teacher.
The best teachers will let us fail, without letting us fall.
How else can we learn to have faith?
Then the wind comes up, he is distracted and falls into the water. The small, intimate bubble of quiet that had seemed to hold just Peter and Jesus is broken into by the elements that fishermen know to fear. In a heartbeat, Peter goes from trusting disciple to fearful waterman. The connection between student and teacher is not enough to keep Peter walking on top of the water.
However, when he falls, he only loses faith that he could emulate Jesus, he doesn't lose faith that Jesus can save him from the depths. He goes from the high of 'I can do this myself!' to the low of 'Please catch me!' that is a universal human experience shared by anyone who who has wobbled down the street on a bicycle or played their first flawless scale on a guitar.
But just because I fall off my bike, does not mean that my teachers have forgotten how to ride. I may lose faith in my ability to perform a new skill; however, if my teacher is wise and patient, they will reach out to me and help me try again until I can master the elation of momentary success and turn it into a persistent skill.
Jesus may be frustrated that Peter fell, but he still reaches out his hands and pulls Peter back into the boat fully justifying Peter's faith in him as a teacher.
The best teachers will let us fail, without letting us fall.
How else can we learn to have faith?
20 July 2015
Mother / Daughter Bonding
My mother spent 30 years attending the General Convention of the Episcopal Church (with one convention off in 1996). Her first convention was in 1982 as a lay deputy. I was a rising junior in High School and would turn 17 later that year. My brothers were 12 and 8 respectively.
Her last convention as a deputy was the 77th General Convention in 2012, by then she had been an ordained priest for 16 years.
That was a busy year for both of us. She went to convention that summer and then she joined my 13 year-old-son and me on a trip to France in the fall-- a first for all three of us. It was also the first time she was sure in herself that she would not be returning as a deputy to convention. After three decades of service, she had reached the end of that particular ministry.
My understanding of the church has always been intertwined with my relationship with my mom. When I was a child, she was active in the local church. By the time I left for college she was serving in the national church and traveling around the world as a part of her "church-job" (a job for which she was unpaid). As my college career was winding down, her's was gearing up-- she and my middle brother were both in college at the same time in the 1990's. I still remember the moment she called me having just completed her first college paper since the 1960's-- she said it was the first time she'd had the luxury of being able to stay up and complete a train of thought since she had had children (something I took to heart when my husband and I were making the decision to have a child of our own).
In 1996, she was ordained to the priesthood. My husband and I sang at her ordination and I could barely make it through the verses, my heart was so full of pride and joy.
As she lived fully into her new role as a priest, I started to struggle with my relationship to my local congregation. My issues with the facts of life in a small church, plus my own medical concerns (insomnia is not compatible with a 10am service attendance), led me to have only a tangental relationship with weekly worship. Through it all, I retained my connection to the greater church. I gave money to Episcopal Relief and Development in lieu of a local congregation after my first Seattle-area church went under. I followed the national church news through developing on-line media. I named my blog Ceramic Episcopalian, because, while I might not be going to church on a weekly basis, I thought about God and my relationship to my faith on a daily basis. Many of those thoughts found their way onto my blog in the form of personal essays.
I had been watching the live-stream of the 78th General Convention, in part because I had been obsessively following SCOTUSBlog as they live-blogged the release of the court's opinions on right to marry and on the outcome of the suit against the Affordable Care Act. It was an easy jump from there to follow the #GC78 twitter hashtag and thence to waiting and watching as the House of Deputies confirmed the selection of Bishop Curry as presiding bishop elect.
We were in the midst of a rare June heatwave in the Pacfic Northwest and temperatures in the 90's kept me inside, desperately trying to conserve the dose of cool air we got at night when we threw the windows wide and turned the fans on high.
Her last convention as a deputy was the 77th General Convention in 2012, by then she had been an ordained priest for 16 years.
That was a busy year for both of us. She went to convention that summer and then she joined my 13 year-old-son and me on a trip to France in the fall-- a first for all three of us. It was also the first time she was sure in herself that she would not be returning as a deputy to convention. After three decades of service, she had reached the end of that particular ministry.
My understanding of the church has always been intertwined with my relationship with my mom. When I was a child, she was active in the local church. By the time I left for college she was serving in the national church and traveling around the world as a part of her "church-job" (a job for which she was unpaid). As my college career was winding down, her's was gearing up-- she and my middle brother were both in college at the same time in the 1990's. I still remember the moment she called me having just completed her first college paper since the 1960's-- she said it was the first time she'd had the luxury of being able to stay up and complete a train of thought since she had had children (something I took to heart when my husband and I were making the decision to have a child of our own).
In 1996, she was ordained to the priesthood. My husband and I sang at her ordination and I could barely make it through the verses, my heart was so full of pride and joy.
As she lived fully into her new role as a priest, I started to struggle with my relationship to my local congregation. My issues with the facts of life in a small church, plus my own medical concerns (insomnia is not compatible with a 10am service attendance), led me to have only a tangental relationship with weekly worship. Through it all, I retained my connection to the greater church. I gave money to Episcopal Relief and Development in lieu of a local congregation after my first Seattle-area church went under. I followed the national church news through developing on-line media. I named my blog Ceramic Episcopalian, because, while I might not be going to church on a weekly basis, I thought about God and my relationship to my faith on a daily basis. Many of those thoughts found their way onto my blog in the form of personal essays.
For a while I settled on the idea that I was a tribal episcopalian-- raised in the faith, but no longer living it. That all changed on the 1st of July.
I had been watching the live-stream of the 78th General Convention, in part because I had been obsessively following SCOTUSBlog as they live-blogged the release of the court's opinions on right to marry and on the outcome of the suit against the Affordable Care Act. It was an easy jump from there to follow the #GC78 twitter hashtag and thence to waiting and watching as the House of Deputies confirmed the selection of Bishop Curry as presiding bishop elect.
We were in the midst of a rare June heatwave in the Pacfic Northwest and temperatures in the 90's kept me inside, desperately trying to conserve the dose of cool air we got at night when we threw the windows wide and turned the fans on high.
Mom and I started swapping notes through Facebook about what we were seeing in the twitter and live-stream feeds.
Then on Wednesday, July 1st, my mom had to run into Portland with my dad for their usual town appointments-- which meant she was cut off from the live-stream for most of the day. So I took it upon myself to send her regular updates.
It was a very interesting day to watch the House of Deputies (HoD) as they worked their way through some of the major resolutions on the future structure of the church and then later in afternoon they tackled the marriage resolutions. That is when I started seeing the phrase 'don't let perfect be the enemy of good' pop up on both Twitter and on the floor of the HoD.
Throughout their discussions and debates I continued to summarize what was going on for my mom. When she had time, she would comment on what I was seeing. For the first time, I could see the work she had done for the past 30 years. Even though she was not a Deputy to this convention, she was up on all of the resolutions and could frequently identify them by number right away (I kept having to refer to the electronic blue book).
Throughout their discussions and debates I continued to summarize what was going on for my mom. When she had time, she would comment on what I was seeing. For the first time, I could see the work she had done for the past 30 years. Even though she was not a Deputy to this convention, she was up on all of the resolutions and could frequently identify them by number right away (I kept having to refer to the electronic blue book).
It was amazing and delightful.
I found that the increased attention needed to report things to my mom, rewarded me with a greater understanding of what the Deputies were talking about. At the end of the day, I was exhausted and all I had done was sit on my comfy couch to hide from the heat outdoors and pay attention to what folks in my church were saying. I can't imagine how wrung out the Deputies themselves felt after starting their day at 7:30 am committee meetings and ending a long legislative day after 9:00 pm with more committee meetings.
I found that the increased attention needed to report things to my mom, rewarded me with a greater understanding of what the Deputies were talking about. At the end of the day, I was exhausted and all I had done was sit on my comfy couch to hide from the heat outdoors and pay attention to what folks in my church were saying. I can't imagine how wrung out the Deputies themselves felt after starting their day at 7:30 am committee meetings and ending a long legislative day after 9:00 pm with more committee meetings.
That said, I came away with a rich appreciation for the history and tradition of my church and of the power of 800 plus people meeting in the same room to pray together, follow parliamentary procedure together, and put their best selves forward for the good of the order and the life of the church.
I have never been so proud to be an Episcopalian and, from now on, I will drop the 'tribal' from my description of myself in relation to the faith I was raised in. I found myself explaining the inner workings of Episcopal governance to my friends (most of whom are atheist/ spiritual/ taoist/ seeker or ex-Christians). The only person explaining more complicated arcane topics in my life was my husband when he talked about his latest bridge hands.
My mom tells the story of how I was the reason she returned to the church. I don't know all the details, but like many college students and young marrieds, she slipped away from regular attendance at church. Then, about 2 years after I was born, she decided she should look into getting me 'done' (baptized). She returned to the Episcopal church she had been raised in and in the process of taking care of my spiritual needs, found her own path.
That path continues to this day. She has 'retired' from General Convention but is still very active in her local congregation and in the online presence of the church. She coordinates the local church newsletter and helps out with the Episcopal Cafe. She is an evangelist for the church's strong digital media footprint in the world and she puts her time where her passion lies. Seeing her live into her faith, even as her role in the church continues to evolve and change is an inspiration to me.
I have never been so proud to be an Episcopalian and, from now on, I will drop the 'tribal' from my description of myself in relation to the faith I was raised in. I found myself explaining the inner workings of Episcopal governance to my friends (most of whom are atheist/ spiritual/ taoist/ seeker or ex-Christians). The only person explaining more complicated arcane topics in my life was my husband when he talked about his latest bridge hands.
My mom tells the story of how I was the reason she returned to the church. I don't know all the details, but like many college students and young marrieds, she slipped away from regular attendance at church. Then, about 2 years after I was born, she decided she should look into getting me 'done' (baptized). She returned to the Episcopal church she had been raised in and in the process of taking care of my spiritual needs, found her own path.
That path continues to this day. She has 'retired' from General Convention but is still very active in her local congregation and in the online presence of the church. She coordinates the local church newsletter and helps out with the Episcopal Cafe. She is an evangelist for the church's strong digital media footprint in the world and she puts her time where her passion lies. Seeing her live into her faith, even as her role in the church continues to evolve and change is an inspiration to me.
And learning, through the power of digital media, how hard she and thousands of unpaid Deputies have worked through the years to guide the national church, to try and understand our role in the world, and to come together every three years to live out our witness as a people of faith makes me proud to be an Episcopalian.
I may have spoken too soon when I said I would leave the word 'tribal' behind, because, through watching my church in action, I feel I have rediscovered my tribe.
It is a cranky tribe full of smart people who can follow parliamentary procedure and complex rules of queuing and voting in one moment and open themselves to prayer and learning new ways of relating to one another under the guidance of the HoD chaplain.
It is a people of rules and of the book, but also a people who will try to listen to all sides of a debate and prayerfully consider not only what is right, but how folks are going to feel if they lose a vote that is dear to them.
It is a tribe of funny, creative people who make up songs to celebrate the new technology of virtual binders and electronic voting gizmos.
It is a tribe of crafty knitters, whose needles click as they try to parse a complex legislative proposal.
It is a tribe of loving people who are trying to be compassionate in the midst of sleep deprivation and while working on difficult issues.
I am grateful for the opportunity to see my church in action though the members of the House of Deputies. I am grateful for chance to get to share the same worship time with time as they begin their day. But most of all I am grateful for the mother/daughter bonding that the church gave me, starting with my baptism and continuing on into the future.
I am, and forever shall be, an Episcopalian.
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This piece was originally published on July 19th, 2015 in The Magazine at the Episcopal Cafe as "A Cloud of Witnesses."
I may have spoken too soon when I said I would leave the word 'tribal' behind, because, through watching my church in action, I feel I have rediscovered my tribe.
It is a cranky tribe full of smart people who can follow parliamentary procedure and complex rules of queuing and voting in one moment and open themselves to prayer and learning new ways of relating to one another under the guidance of the HoD chaplain.
It is a people of rules and of the book, but also a people who will try to listen to all sides of a debate and prayerfully consider not only what is right, but how folks are going to feel if they lose a vote that is dear to them.
It is a tribe of funny, creative people who make up songs to celebrate the new technology of virtual binders and electronic voting gizmos.
It is a tribe of crafty knitters, whose needles click as they try to parse a complex legislative proposal.
It is a tribe of loving people who are trying to be compassionate in the midst of sleep deprivation and while working on difficult issues.
I am grateful for the opportunity to see my church in action though the members of the House of Deputies. I am grateful for chance to get to share the same worship time with time as they begin their day. But most of all I am grateful for the mother/daughter bonding that the church gave me, starting with my baptism and continuing on into the future.
I am, and forever shall be, an Episcopalian.
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This piece was originally published on July 19th, 2015 in The Magazine at the Episcopal Cafe as "A Cloud of Witnesses."
14 July 2015
Perfect is the enemy of good
Perfect is the enemy of good
This is a phrase I saw on Twitter and heard coming from deputies own mouths during the 78th General Convention of the Episcopal Church in Salt Lake City and it has stuck with me in the week since convention ended.
I know from my own experience that it is very easy to set a complex project aside in order to spend time thinking about how to solve a problem. However, what I have learned in project after project is that there is a difference between taking a break to rest and come at a problem with fresh eyes and putting a project away to wait for inspiration to come and solve the problem.
In nearly all cases, the first method usually gets results while the second is a project killer.
One of my many hobbies is costuming. I make costumes with my housemate and we wear them to our local science fiction convention or dress up for our annual Halloween party. I have made some pretty complicated things over the past 10 years, and what all of the completed projects have in common is a lot of seat time in front of my work table. I might be spending that time swearing, or asking our favorite workroom question: "Am I crazy?", but projects don't make themselves and most particularly, problems don't solve themselves.
It takes active, engaged, thinking to come up with solutions to why a pattern isn't draping correctly; or how to secure wings to a corset in a way that won't either damage the corset or limit it's use in future projects.
Every project from costuming to web design, from writing to gardening, has many moments where the part I am working on is beyond my skill or experience. Once I am out of my comfort zone, it becomes much easier to set the entire project aside and be temped to 'wait for a solution to come.'
In all honesty, I have never had a solution come to me without work.
Solutions take research, they take planning, they take trying a new approach an having it fail. Waiting for the perfect solution to spring from my mind fully formed is a sign that I am never going to finish the project, because waiting for the perfect solution is a passive activity. Creating something, anything, from a good meal, to an elaborate Victorian outfit, is an active state.
Creation is action. If I am not actively working on the problem, I am not creating.
That is not to say that I shouldn't rest and recharge. Actions take energy and no one can be active all time; but there is a difference between resting before coming back to a project and procrastinating.
Sometimes procrastination is a sign that I have hit the limit of my skills. I want the finished piece to be better than I can make it. However, perfect is the enemy of good. I am never going to make anything that is perfect. That is the nature of being a limited being. My time on earth is limited, my physical body has good days and bad days, days where I have excellent fine-motor control, and days when I can't think my way out of a paper bag. I'm never going to have both enough time and enough skill to make a perfect thing.
But I can make a good thing. I can even make a pretty darn good thing. But not if I don't work at it. Believing that something can be made perfect kills the good things I am capable of. I will never finish an essay and hand it off to an editor, or write a story for others to enjoy, or have a costume to wear if I don't sit down and do every step that is required of a finished project.
And there is a certain virtue in finishing a project, declaring it 'good enough' and perhaps the best thing you are capable of doing right now, and signing off on it. One of the most useful things I learned from writing fiction with my friends was that if I kept constantly revising my stories until they were perfect, no one but me would ever get to see them. Art has to be released into the world to be art, political acts have to be done and not just talked about to make change.
Perfect is the enemy of good.
Use the next project to improve rather than trying to make the current one perfect. That is what I try to remember when I look at a daunting project.
As we say in our workroom, "Sewing is slow magic, it goes very slowly until the end, when suddenly it is done, like magic!"
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This essay was originally published on The Episcopal Cafe: Speaking to the Soul on 13 July 2015.
As we say in our workroom, "Sewing is slow magic, it goes very slowly until the end, when suddenly it is done, like magic!"
------
This essay was originally published on The Episcopal Cafe: Speaking to the Soul on 13 July 2015.
20 June 2015
Combating My Racism
Intentional things I do to help combat the inherent racial prejudices I have as a white woman:
- Acknowledge that I was raised in a racist culture where Native Americans were the target of racially motivated jokes, harassment, cultural destruction and desecration, resource removal, and assault.
- Take training that helps me identify both my own irrational fears (and why they are irrational) and the social conditioning I was raised with (even though my parents tried very hard to combat this).
- Realize that my own experiences of oppression (as an invisible sexual minority) do not qualify me to comment on the oppression of others and their lived experience. Instead, use it to remind myself to _listen_ when people share their experience-- this includes watching my body language and ensuring that I listen with my whole being and not just with surface attention.
- Stop myself from trying to offer suggestions unless I am directly asked. (This is very hard for me as both a busy-body and a natural advice giver).
- Consume media with intention: this includes paying attention to how race is portrayed in fiction, seeking out fiction that showcases non-white voices, reading about current events on web pages and blogs that are written by people of color.
- Rejoice as my neighborhood becomes more diverse and look for ways to be welcoming.
- Actively combat NIMBYism (not in my back yard) on issues that center around keeping "the wrong people" out of my community.
- Remind myself that there is always more that I can learn.
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