Rather be damned than right

I'm reading To Know as We are Known: Education as a Spiritual Journey by Parker Palmer. I have a really difficult time reading anything, even books like this which have been labeled an "easy read." I'm not sure why, but I'm a very slow reader and find I have a hard time grasping the words on the page. (Weird confession for someone with a master's in English, but there you have it.) One of the things I've found over the years that helps me retain what I've read is to try immediately to apply what I've read to my life and see if it sticks. If I'm understanding Palmer correctly, he would agree with this approach.

Palmer sees true learning as a two way street: the one that is learning and the one that teaches (be it a human or an object) are both affected by reflected by the other the encounter. Taking great liberties, it seems Palmer is saying, "to learn it, live it." He seems to put learning and prayer in the same plane -- or perhaps as the same thing. "As I move toward the heart of reality," Palmer reflects, "reality is moving toward my heart. As I recollect the unity of life, life is recollecting me in my original wholeness. In prayer, I not only address the love at the core of all things; I listen as that love addresses me, calling me out of isolation and self-centeredness into community and compassion. In prayer, I begin to realize that I not only know but am known." (Page 11 for those keeping track at home.)

For many of you, it comes as no surprise that I have issues with prayer. I've mentioned it in past blogs. It's a struggle for me to articulate what prayer means to me; to actually have to articulate how I practice it would completely paralyze me, but Palmer's observation that in prayer for others he is drawn out of isolation and becomes in community with others is a pretty close reflection to how I view it, as well ... although it wouldn't be nearly as succinct or articulate coming from my lips. What this has to do with education is that he continuously touts the benefits of looking at knowledge not in the language of power and domination (one has a master in a particular field because one has successfully conquered it), but rather, one might look at knowledge as a web -- what we know is connected to others, other people, other objects, other ideas. When one puts as much effort into seeing the web as one does in "mastering" the topic, the world opens up in new ways. Palmer seems to be imploring educators to open up their minds and hearts to the others in the classroom not only for the student's well-being, but also for the sake of their own souls.

Another of Palmer's concepts revolves around truth. Truth, as he sees it, may not be "right." You can give an academically correct answer that rings hollow. It is not true. I think this is how a lot of confirmation kids must feel when they encounter a "my way or the highway" pastor. For them to give the correct answer in the eyes of the ordained means to lie to themselves -- one of the reasons my first stint at confirmation at the tender age of 12 was a colossal failure. In my heart of hearts, I said to myself "I'll be damned if I'm right for this guy." Looking back, even when I look at the kid I was -- I'm the one in the upper right in the old snapshot at the top of this post -- I still feel that way. I reject the notion some have that a kid grows out of obstinance; sometimes it's the adult who's way off track. I'm glad to know that I've managed to hold onto that truth after three decades. I hope I have the grace to hang onto that when I'm feeling insecure in front of students in a classroom. I'm damned if I don't let a kid speak a deeper truth than I can muster with all my high falutin' and expensive words.

Discernment

It appears my blog took a bit of a summer vacation. That's not to say nothing happened for the past couple of months, just that I haven't carved out the time to note it here. I'm pretty sure the important highlights will naturally crop up later on in other posts, so I'll spare you the boring catalog of what I did this summer and just get to what's currently on my mind.

I crossed another important milestone this week. I'm now what's known as a "Student in Discernment" with my denomination. Discernment is kind of a heavy word. Lots of connotations for people. Some have good associations. Some bad. I actually like this designation better than what my current state used to be referred to: "Student in Care of the Association." To me, that sounds like the association has a big bucket of care that they dump upon unsuspecting seminarians, nearly drowning them in hand-wringing worry in the process. I'd much rather be doing something active with my association, like discern my calling as a part of our shared community than to be fussed over. Connotations can flavor the activity. My two cents.

So, what did I do to mark this momentous event that is expected to eventually lead to ordained ministry? I got a tattoo. Yeah, I know. Some of you will go all Leviticus on me about this. I'm not about to launch into that whole can of worms today. That's your issue to grapple with, not mine. And, this isn't my first tattoo. About 12 or 13 years ago, the women in my family trooped to a now defunct tat shop in Newport, Minnesota for our first venture in marking our bodies. It was my mother's idea. My sister and I both thought it sounded like a reasonable thing to do, so we joined her in an early fall excursion.

Now as my mother approaches her 74th birthday, she's wanting to do another piece of body art, but my sister and I got out of the gate a little ahead of her this time. We selected the same image, different markings. We chose a dragonfly as the basic outline, although mine is more like a dragon-butter-fire-fly combo. Besides that I just think dragonflies are cool, there is a little bit of symbolism going on here.

I wanted to go with a firefly because it's an image I've used a couple of times in the past couple of years when trying to describe my faith journey and also my current path for discernment. Nothing has been crystal clear for me and if I try to look too far out, I make myself crazy. Yet, even in the darkest times, there's some faint light that's been leading me forward. Sometimes that light has about the same power as a firefly, but that's light enough. So, my invented insect has a glowing tail to remind me that there's always light, but it might not be obvious.

The butterfly is about the most stereotypical Christian symbol around, resurrection and all that jazz. I figure it's one that most folk can easily identify with and understand. But, here's the other thing about the butterfly: Its wings are an aeronautical wonder. They're super fragile, to the point that the slightest touch can crumble them. Yet, their wings are also strong enough to take them from the upper Midwest to as far south as Mexico. How is this possible? The wings have an amazing support structure that helps to distribute the stress of flying so that no single part of the wing is so taxed that it can break in flight. In theory, that's what my discernment peeps will be for me, a support system that will help me avoid crashing in mid-flight ... and that's what I hope I can help establish in whatever form my ministry moves to in the future. None of us alone can withstand the strain of living without the sometimes hidden support structure that holds us all together. Even introverts like me get that. But, a visible reminder doesn't hurt.

The dragonfly. What's up with the dragonfly? Besides being an exceptionally nifty insect, I like how it looks like it's zipping along, willy-nilly, with no particular purpose, yet, it's actually pulling off a zillion useful jobs for its ecosystem ... not the least of which is keeping down the skeeter population. So, yeah. All that churning that's going on...perhaps there is some useful purpose to it in the end. Who's to say?

So that's the reason for the image and the timing - I wanted to commemorate this milestone with something that will help remind me of some important stuff on the days that I'm just not feeling it: My connection with my family, my faith community and with God. The location? Well, it's just above my inner right ankle. What's the symbolism there? Sorry to disappoint. One very practical reason for its location is that as I get older, I'm pretty sure I'll still be able to cross my leg so that I can see it. No saying the same would hold true if it were in another location. Not everything has to be deep all the time. Heck, if we don't agonize over a story of God mooning Moses, a little permanent ink just adds more color to the party.

Washing in the Jordan seven times

Those who have been following this blog for a while know that in the past several months, I've been seeing a counselor who works a lot with folks who are seeking a vocation on the churchy side of the street. It's not that I was worried my immortal soul was in jeopardy or that my relationship with God had fallen apart ... or even that I thought I was losing my grip on sanity. (No more so than other seminarians who struggle to balance work, family and school obligations, anyway.) I was just feeling stretched a little thin and unfocused. I was beginning to think if I didn't start getting new tools to get a grip, too much could slip away before I'd even notice.

So, a few times a month I checked in with my counselor and followed her suggestions on being aware of what I'm doing, being intentional in my spiritual practice, and working through some of the character traits that could get in my way of effective ministry, like impatience. Many of those exercises have been worked through right here on this blog, like identifying the milestones in my life that are important to me and where I'm going, thinking about the role of prayer in my life and how it could affect my future vocation, searching for ways to bring grace and patience into frustrating situations, and how to balance my introversion (note I didn't say "overcome" it) with the need I'll have to work a room when I'm in a ministerial role. Like most good counseling experiences I'm familiar with, I've learned that very little of the sessions have to do with tremendous insights from the counselor; it's more a case of the one paying the bills taking time to actually think about the issues at hand, whether there's an actual resolution to be had or not.

My counselor went over my list of goals last week and announced it appeared we'd discussed each of them and while I had some work to do, it was stuff I could do on my own (and here's the surprising part) with some help from my dog Beans. Huh? What help could a 2 year old bundle of unfocused energy be for me? I felt a bit like the famous general (and leper) Naaman must have felt when he traveled to Elisha's place to ask for a cure and was told to go wash in the Jordan seven times and he'd be healed. (Yeah, I know, this is pretty esoteric stuff for a large batch of my readership. You can read the whole story here.)

The point she was trying to make, I think, is that sometimes we're too quick to shell out big bucks for a cure (you know, like up to $125 a session, including insurance billing) when there's a simpler solution right under our noses. For me, the "simple" solution is to continue working with Beans in his Therapy Dog classes. Granted, we're not going to pass this time -- trying to bite someone on the first night of class pretty much disqualifies the human/canine team from getting a completion certificate. (I won't say which of us did the chomping -- we're in it together, so it was our combined action.) However, there are a lot of lessons that transfer nicely from the therapist's couch to the classroom: socializing, patience, empathy, reading others' emotions and learning how to work with what you have.

I have to say, my counselor is right. Instead of getting exasperated because we haven't completed a lesson perfectly, we both need to enjoy being in the moment and in each other's company. We need to learn to adapt to each other's shortcomings and help accentuate the good qualities of each other and lend a helping hand (or paw) when the other is just not getting it. Actually, Beans is a much better team member than I am. No matter how many times I screw up, he still offers his paw for a high-five or a shake and is ready for whatever comes our way next. Sometimes there are things he hates. It's obvious, but he still has a sense of enduring unpleasantness that many of us could only hope to emulate. I think Beans would joyfully take the chance to jump in the Jordan seven times, especially if I were right there with him. Well, buddy, for the next six sessions of this class, and for the rest of your life, you can count me in. Let's get muddy!

A new sense of timing

My mother-in-law died “suddenly but not unexpectedly,” as my spouse has been putting it, a week ago today. Since the moment the phone rang at about 5 a.m. that Sunday morning, time has taken on an entirely new meaning. We’ve had no true control of time. We need to go to the bank and get cash before we travel…to bad, it’s Sunday. Our lawn was already an eyesore with our two riders both out of commission and hopes of getting them into the shop on Monday. Pity. We’ll be in a different time zone before the shop even opens. In a cruel twist of irony, Bob was beginning to settle on dates a few weeks out when he would drive out to Pennsylvania and visit his mom and dad for a couple of weeks. Again, time waits for no one.

Driving in a haze. Arriving in a haze. Visitations. Special fraternal ceremonies. A funeral. A burying. It all happened in a blur in the span of about 24 hours. Then there’s the day after. After the funeral. After most of the people have returned home or gotten back into their old routines. This is when it felt as if we were entering holy time – the time when we watched an 81-year-old man learn what it might mean to live a solo life after nearly 56 years of marriage. We hear slips of the tongue about wanting to hold off on deciding on travel or finalizing the grocery list until he can consult with his wife, and the almost immediate realization of what he’s said and the bashful chuckle. There's the beginnings of placing time in the categories of "before" and "after."

There’s a transition to going from two to one, like a different kind of a birth. There are the muffled cries of pain, the confusion, the chaos. Then there are the still moments where one can catch one’s breath and see a different kind of future. It won’t be the same as before, to be sure, but there is a future. New possibilities open up for getting out and about and seeing the countryside. Plane reservations are made. Amidst the dread of the last car pulling away and being finally alone within the four walls of home, there is possibility. Hope perseveres. Time takes on new meaning.

On being appropriately sticky

I think the biggest regret I'll have about not having children is that I won't get to be an old grandma. Not the kind that bounces small children off of my knee and has a magic way of stopping them from crying. That ain't gonna happen. Ever. But I do love having my family around. That goes for the blood kind and the "family by choice" variety.

I'm a little too anti-social for the fantasy of some (such as my spouse) that we own a ginormous house in which every member of our extended family has a room and we meet up frequently for family meals, but if it's been too long in-between visits from my beloved cousins and their families, I feel like a little piece of me is dying. Same goes for my parents, siblings and close friends.

When the Creator was putting together the components for humanity, I believe there was some realization that everything that was needed to make us human could not be held in one container. The solution: Have those who are closest to the person hold onto some of the needed elements.

So we have parents, siblings, cousins, friends and even pets who hold part of the best of who we are ... and sometimes the worst of who we are. That means sometimes we have to reach out to others to get those good bits back. Sometimes we may be faced with leaving some of broken of unsavory bits behind. Whether it's for a moment or a lifetime, it's hard to say. It's hard to walk away from a part of who we are, but that happens in this less-than-perfect world, too. That's something we have to be aware of, but today, I want to recognize those who have made my being a little richer and have brought me to myself in ways that I could never get to on my own.

I know I carry a whole basket of interesting bits for others. I hope that I have more shiny sequins, funky shaped pieces of sea glass and construction paper in my assortment than I do razor blades and rotten apples. The key for humanity is helping to hand back to cool things and help dispose of the unhelpful pieces before they're handed off for someone else to deal with. There's no need to hold onto those for the next generation.

While I may never be anyone's grandma, I hope along with my collection of odds and ends, I can carry a paste jar to help affix some of the good things the people I love tote around for other people I love. I can think of no finer compliment than to be called sticky.

@ trad clrgy: OMG keep up or u r toast

Today is Pentecost. Some folks call it the "birthday of the church" which I find to be pushing it a might, but it is one of my favorite days, despite the silly labels that people try to place on it. There's a reading from Acts that's typically done that even those who aren't all that familiar with the Bible but still attend a church now and again kinda recall.

The reading is an English major's wacky bag of mixed metaphors: We've got a rush of a violent wind, fire-like tongues, people who don't speak the same language, the notion of public drunkenness, and a Spirit that pours out among the people. There's a little something for everyone. Some years it's the wind that gets to me; other years it's the fire or the thought of the spirit sloshing about and getting everyone a little wet. This year, I think because I'm trying to understand myself in relation to the world, it's the speaking the same language that got my attention. How cool it would be if I could get through this whole seminary thing and still be able to speak authentically in my own tongue and yet be understood by others. Even cooler, if there was some sort of a spiritual translator who would fill me in on what's going on in the strange world of other's minds.

And here I'm only talking about the ones who speak English. The thought of having this instant translation service extend to the far reaches of the globe is mind-blowing, but given the way technology has made the world a smaller place that communicates across borders, in one sense, Pentecost moments happen all the time. The global exchanges couldn't happen without a great intermediary (in this case a bank of supercomputers) running trades and calculating exchange rates for individuals from Tuscany to Tuscaloosa to Tanzania. And that's just the foreign financial markets. Social media has made breaking down international barriers much easier for the individual. Ironically, sometimes I find it much easier to communicate with a person on the other hemisphere than I do the person sitting next to me on the bus. The distance to reach out to my seat mate at times is far too great to traverse.

One generation out and the "gee whiz" factor of the Pentecost story is going to be totally lost on the younger American audience (don't balk at the word "audience" we've long ago made worship entertainment, so let's face facts and call a spade a spade). How relevant will it be to them to hear about something that can happen in real-time from their telephones or whatever new technological device that can do the same thing, without all the wind and fire?

Reconciling tradition with technology is a challenge that is going to take down many a preacher in the future. I already see it in times when clergy diminish the relevance of tools like Facebook, Twitter, Caring Bridge and texting. For entire populations, these are the communication methods of choice. The people who choose to use them don't do so to isolate themselves from others; they use them to stay connected with people they care about in ways that those who don't even try to understand the technology can scarcely fathom.

All I can say is God help us if we don't allow the Spirit to run through fiber optic lines or wifi or satellite. Let our daughters and sons prophesy and see visions. God help us if we try to muzzle the still-speaking voice that is emerging on the waves of the Spirit poured out among us. I fear if we get in the way, there will be hell to pay.

Playing the field

I come from a long line of schmoozers. There are people in my realm who can chat up a rock and probably coerce an intelligible answer from it. My Grandpa Joe made a point of looking for connections and casting about until he found one. And he always found some common ground - someone they both knew, attended the same school, worked for the same company. He was not satisfied until there was an intersection of his life with the other person's. There are many in my family who have this knack for connection. I'm not one of them.

When it comes to networking, fellowship or the 1950s style cocktail party, you're apt to find me in a corner, hallway or kitchen, not in the center of the room working the crowd. While others feed off of the energy in the group, it drains me to the point of exhaustion. It's not that I'm afraid of gatherings, I can hold my own ... if I have to. But, while some seek these situations out, I'm calling my dentist office to see if there's a last-minute cancellation so I can go in for an elective root canal. Seriously, give me a room with a thousand people and a podium and I'm good, but give me 10 - 100 people in an enclosed space with no structure and you'll see me break into a sweat.

This can be a bit of a handicap in the line of work I'm pouring a lot of my time and financial resources to achieve. Maybe because I'm an inherently practical person, I identified my discomfort with small talk/small crowds as something to work on with my counselor. I'd hate to get a few years down the line and discover the time and energy was wasted because this small group thing was a deal breaker.

I've been doing some talking with people who seem to do a better job of working a room. Turns out a lot of what they're after are the same things I seek to do in more intimate settings; they're just more efficient or something at doing it on a bigger scale. What I mean is that I'll find the one person with whom I can connect, and assuming they're cool with me, I could spend the rest of the time with that one person. I guess I'm sort of a monogamous schmoozer, while others tend to like to play the field a little more. While I don't need to be a promiscuous mixer, it might be helpful if I didn't marry the first person that comes along, either.

I came up with a watch phrase for when I find myself getting impatient: Carrots and celery. I guess for the next little while, as I'm getting used to the idea of working a small crowd, I'll need to repeat, "You don't have to get hitched." Come to think of it, I'm sure my unintended spouse would appreciate a more open relationship, as well.