In My Own Little Corner

I’m unofficially, temporarily back in the office for the first time since March 2020. The rest of the university (including students, yay!) returned last month. My department is under construction, so we’re working remotely until the project is completed. Construction is expected to last the duration of the fall semester, and was projected to begin August 1. It is now September 16; it still hasn’t started. I’m taking advantage of being in the office while my officemate is on paternity leave. I’m enjoying being in a space intended for work, quiet and with effective air conditioning that I don’t pay for. 

It’s been interesting this week relying on muscle memory for old habits I had to pause last year. I forgot how to pack a lunch the night before, how to bring a sweater no matter the time of year because it’s always cold indoors. How to walk across campus to a meeting. 

As I crossed the lawn onto campus Monday morning, I was struck with the realization that I’m working for an actual place, not just an idea. 

Returning to work means returning to commuting by train. Taking the train again is, as always, a mixed bag. Today, a man was smoking a cigarette on the train, and I stepped on a pile of broken glass in my flats (I’m OK!). Train stations continue to smell like urine, whether or not you can see the puddles. Commuting by train is, for me, a mostly ugly experience. Public transit is an emotionally and physically complicated place to be, strewn everywhere with examples of human suffering and thriving and garbage of every description. 

Walking down the steps to the train station is like reading a series of clues. What was the situation that caused someone to take off first their left shoe, then their sweater, then three different face masks, then a pair of pants, and then their right shoe, all while running down the stairs? 

Yesterday morning, I dropped my lunchbag on my kitchen floor and the glass container inside shattered. I did not cry. Morning resiliency isn’t a strength of mine, so I chose to stay home. Even after only two days in the office, working from home was jarring. The apartment next door is being painted, and it is the loudest, most antagonistic noise you could imagine. I sat on the couch, typing and watching men on skinny, wooden ladders spackle and sand high in the air. I was not very productive. I stayed in my pajamas for too long and watched too many episodes of Nine Perfect Strangers, which is too engrossing to just have on in the background. 

Today, I’m back in the office, enjoying the morning calm and the vase of red and white dianthus basking in the glow of my desk lamp. 

Feeling thankful (and a little grossed out). Time to do the writing I get paid for.

To Wrestle with Angels: On Doubt

Here is what I mean by doubt.

I don't think doubt is a virtue or a vice. I think it is a real thing that happens to humans.

I'm not advocating wallowing in a pit of doubt forever because you have given up believing in anything.

I think it's good to be honest about the parts of Christianity (or any faith) that you wrestle with. And I'm using that word, "wrestle," very intentionally. I think of Jacob physically wrestling with God in the OT; that is the picture that comes to mind. Note that Jacob doesn't let go. He holds on. I affirm every single thing in the Apostles' Creed, and I affirm it without much trouble. I believe the Bible is God's word, and I affirm that without much trouble, too.

Wrestling is how the blessing gets in. It's saying, "Perhaps there are things I don't know." Or "Perhaps, the things I know have more facets to them than I previously thought." Or "Perhaps this thing I know is much bigger than I thought." Or "I thought this was smooth, but it has jagged edges." Or "I thought it was soft, but I'm discovering some hard parts." Or "Perhaps I was wrong completely." It takes courage and humility to admit you don't have all the answers all the time.

What I mean is, some days it's hard to believe things, and some days it's not. I want to be honest, and I want people to be honest with me, about what's going on in our lives. I want to live authentically, which to me means being able to say, "God's word says x. I believe that God's word is true. But today, it's hard for me to hold to the truth of x, to a strong, specific belief in x. Ask me again tomorrow."

Or maybe belief is a sliding scale, and it's OK if on Tuesday I 70% believe God and on Friday I 100% believe him. Maybe the Thursday after next I'll be down to 20%. The point is that I'm still somewhere on the scale, that I haven't thrown up my hands and said "Can anything be known? Is anything even true? Does it matter at all?"

Doubt means that sometimes I have to be in a place where I have more questions than answers. Or it means that the answers and questions appear to be mortal enemies. Or they slide off one another like oil and water, and I can't hold them together in one hand. On those days I can hold them in separate hands and say "Lord, I believe. Help thou mine unbelief." Or even, "Jesus, I really don't get this at all. Help me, please." And then I get up and go to work and come home and watch Netflix and wash the dishes. And then I go to bed to wake up and do it again.

It's real and human and OK to not be 100% certain about everything 100% of the time. Jesus is compassionate: he knows our frame, remembers that we're dust.

Different communities of people who love Jesus fall on different sides of this issue. I'm falling on the side of believing that doubt can be a helpful and a healthy tool. The author Kathleen Norris, in her book Amazing Grace, writes “Doubt is merely the seed of faith, a sign that faith is alive and ready to grow.” I actually believe that doubt is a means of engaging with God.

I'm not saying let's all put on berets and smoke cigarettes and talk languidly about our collective ennui and put stones in our pockets and walk into the river to drown ourselves. I'm saying I intend to live in communities where we can admit to faults and failings and uncertainties and let each other sit in those spaces for as long as it takes.

Also, I believe that it's good and OK to say that you're thinking through something, that you're still deciding and don't know where you'll land. I think it's right to say, "I've been told this is true, and I'm still deciding about that. I don't know if I believe it yet." The head and the heart must work together.

I affirm that it's OK to be uncertain. I affirm that it's good to be honest with yourself and with others about your uncertainty. I affirm that I want to leave space for my doubt and the doubt of others.

I affirm that Christianity is a story worth wrestling with.

That's it.

That Which We Call a Rose

Obviously, today is a hard day. A bad man has been elected president, and all America seems to be reeling in shock. Except, this cannot be the case, for there are many, many Americans who are celebrating now. How can this be? How can it be that the name I call myself, an American, is the same name used to identify those who hate me for being what I am?

What's in a name?

This election has made the truth seeking part of me so happy, because it feels like now that our dirty laundry has been tossed into the street for everyone to see, we can start to sort it out and maybe, someday, it'll all be clean. But another part of me knows that for dirty laundry to become clean, one has to be able to differentiate between what is laundry and what is dirt.

I am a Christian. This is another complicated word today, because, somehow, the new president-elect claims participation in this ancient faith, and I have been horrified by everything that he has said and done and promised to do.

What's in a name?

I am proud to be a Christian. I am proud to follow the life and teachings of Jesus; I believe that he lived, and died, and rose from the dead. I believe that he is coming again. I believe he is our true Deliverer. I believe that he is good. I believe that he loves us. All of us.

At the same time, I am ashamed to use that title, Christian, because so, so many evil things have been done in that name.

What's in a name?

If right now, you are horrified by what Christians have done or failed to do, by what Christians have said or failed to say, I am right there with you. I just want to say, not all that glistens is gold. Not all who claim to follow Christ know where he's going.

What's in a name?

All that Christians have been asked to do is to love God with everything they have, and to love their neighbors as themselves. That does not mean merging identities with political parties. That does not mean hating the other. That does not mean doing violence in the name of God. That does not mean choosing which lives count as important. That does not mean controlling the government.

What's in a name?

In the Bible, God promises a faithful remnant, a group of people throughout history who in word, as well as in deed, aim to live as Jesus lived. God also promises in the Bible that there will always be people who claim to follow Him but are actually liars. There is only one test: no matter what a person says, it is by their actions that they are known. Any Christian who does not love God and their neighbor is not a true believer.

What's in a name?

Nothing, and everything.

Reimagining The White Man's Burden: On Shame

I had an interesting conversation with one of my coworkers today. We were talking about our school's cultural awareness program and the ways that I think it could be improved. She expressed reluctance to spearhead discussions about racism and discrimination because she is white. She mentioned that in college, she took a course that focused on the history of oppression. To paraphrase, the course led through various injustices in history and pointed out that each of these atrocities had been perpetrated by white people. She said that the course made her feel ashamed, like it was all her fault.

I've been thinking about this all day, and while I expressed sympathy in the moment, I wonder about the worthiness and honesty of my response. 

Generally speaking, I don't want to say, "Don't feel bad" to a white person who feels shame on behalf of other white people because I feel bad on behalf of other black people. It hurts you to think about your ancestors enslaving blacks, and it hurts me to think about my ancestors being enslaved. It hurts you to feel like people are still blaming you for civil and social injustice, and it hurts me to still be treated and viewed as less than a white person. It is, to a great degree, our heritage as Americans to feel shame: for what we have done or for what has been done to us.  

Mostly, I don't care when white people complain about white guilt and shame. Shame is like a shadow for me. I still live in a society that, in many ways, disrespects, dehumanizes, marginalizes, and oppresses black people. Every day, I have to decide how I will deal with this shame: will I ignore it, internalize it, or fight it?

I didn't choose this shame either, but it's here. I want to say, "Too bad, deal with it." I want to say, "Join the club."

The polarization of race, especially black vs. white, is a problem, and we can't find solutions to racism by ignoring white voices. And I want to be compassionate in my conversations with white people, even when those white people cannot even begin to understand what it is like to be discriminated against because of their skin color.

If you are white, what do you think about this? Do you agree that shame is the burden of the white American? Do you believe that this is fair or unfair? Should we try to alleviate the white man's burden? Or should we simply learn ways to deal with it?  

 Does this picture make you feel shame? Me, too. 

For [Jesus] himself is our peace, who has made us both one and has broken down in his flesh the dividing wall of hostility. . .that he might create in himself one new man in place of the two, so making peace, and might reconcile us both to God in one body through the cross, thereby killing the hostility. And he came and preached peace to you who were far off and peace to those who were near. For through him we both have access in one Spirit to the Father. So then you are no longer strangers and aliens, but you are fellow citizens with the saints and members of the household of God. -Ephesians 2:14-19

The Name I Call Myself: On Race (Pt. 1)

How I Celebrated Black History Month
I first realized that I was treacherously unsatisfied with Black History Month about 4 years ago. I have worked in education for the past 12 years, in special education for the last 8. In this time, I have been one of only a handful of black students and coworkers, which has meant, no matter how "diverse" my workplaces have been, that I have continued to exist as a minority among minorities.

When black history month is celebrated in a school, it usually looks something like this:

• Plaster grainy, black&white photographs of famous African-Americans on the walls. Always draw from a pool of the same 20 people. Descriptions of what these people are known for may or may not be included. 
• Talk about segregation in the 1960's and the civil rights movement A LOT. Make it clear to the students that segregation WAS. Use more black&white photos (this time from the 1960's). Talk a lot about buses and water fountains (use my presence in the room as an example that segregation is totally over, if convenient). Talk about how hard it was to be a black person. Invite white students to shake their heads sorrowfully at the reality of former injustices. Do not leave room for me to comment on the lesson. 
• Talk extensively about Martin Luther King, Jr. and how, because of him, black and white people, nay all peoples in America, can be friends. Talk about how great it is that no one is racist now. Emphasize that the president is black.

In my classroom, I have a cultural awareness poster that I change every month to go along with our monthly assemblies. For February in years past, I have done what is expected: I printed out various photos of famous African-Americans and put them up on the poster, along with a poem by Langston Hughes and a map of Africa filled with titles of various careers and occupations that have been held by blacks. I spice things up by intentionally using photos of famous black Americans both in color and black&white, both dead and alive, both male and female. I always feel that I have gone the extra mile, hopefully providing visual proof that not all good black people are dead.

This year, I started asking questions. What is the point of Black History Month? Why do I cringe at the thought of it? What, if anything, can be accomplished in the 28 days we have been given to combat hundreds of years worth of disrespect and dehumanization? Then, it struck me. I find it atrocious that we have to put up, during Black History Month, pictures of African-Americans that are "worthy." It feels like the whole month is spent saying that black people are not all good-for-nothing. It feels like a display of exceptions. And, the worst part of all, it means a month of sitting through classes, staff meetings, and assemblies where people who are not black describe to other people who are not black, in my presence, with an air of unquestionable authority, what blackness is. This gave me an idea.

I returned to my poster. On a 3x5 card in bright red marker I wrote: "BLACK PEOPLE ARE. . ." Then, on more 3x5 cards, in the same red ink I wrote adjectives that corresponded with the photographs I'd chosen. Under a picture of Jesse Owens leaping over a hurdle I wrote "FAST." Under a picture of Harriet Tubman I wrote "BRAVE." Under a picture of Maya Angelou I wrote "CREATIVE." Under a picture of George Washington Carver I wrote "INTELLIGENT." I felt shocked at myself for my boldness: how dare I affirm explicitly and without permission what I know to be true? How dare I not qualify my assertion with the word "some." This is not how Black History Month is supposed to be celebrated.

I think black history month ought to be about creating new language, forming new assumptions, and letting 1,000 positive adjectives fall from our mouths, all about what it means to be black. I just want someone to run around Los Angeles, covering billboards with the phrase "Black people are. . . " and then writing in one hundred thousand good words. Why? Because the other 337 days of the year society is saying "Black people are. . ." and ending that statement in 1,000,000,000 ugly ways. The best thing we can do during Black History Month is to say that it is good to be black, and then to hush and let the words sink in, uncontested.

So I spent this Black History Month entrenched in blackness. I intentionally spent the time celebrating the work of black musicians, artists, authors, and filmmakers. I read books by black authors talking about blackness, I listened to spoken word artists talking about how to love themselves when everyone around them is calling them unlovable. I engaged in discussions with my white friends about their experiences and how they were different from my own; I had long talks with my mother about her experience of blackness in Jamaica and then during the civil rights movement in America as an immigrant. I visited a black, Episcopalian church, I listened to a lot of Nina Simone. I thought about lies I have been told my whole life. I looked for, and found, living black role models, because it is important that we know that not all good black people are dead. And I worked on explicit self-definition, remembering that most of the problems we have with race in America come from us naming each other to make ourselves look better-than, which is an act of destruction.

My Back History Month Bibliography (to date):

• Z.Z. Packer Drinking Coffee Elsewhere
• Tracy K. Smith Ordinary Light
• Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie Americanah
• Toni Morrison Playing in the Dark: Whiteness and the Literary Imagination 
• Toni Morrison God Help the Child
• Helen Oyeyemi Boy, Snow, Bird
• Zora Neale Hurston Mules and Men
• Tamara Winfrey Harris The Sisters Are Alright: Changing the Broken Narrative of Black Women in America 
• Issa Rae The Misadventures of Awkward Black Girl
• Fran Ross Oreo
• Essence Magazine
• New African Woman Magazine 

The Principle of Self-Determination 
The point: freedom is me naming myself, narrating my own experience, and describing the scope of my own strengths and limitations. It does not matter how kind one's words or intentions are, they are judgments, limits, restrictions, invasions, and impositions. It simply isn't anyone else's job to tell me who or what I am. No one should attempt to tell me that I am worthy or that I am unworthy. Being black is what I say it is. And I say that it is good.


I'm just warming up, really.

Happy Poverty

When I was brought low, he saved me.

I have a few quotations taped on the side of my desk, next to my bed. It's a couple of Bible verses, a Rumi poem, a few notes to myself about things I want to remember, a poem by Mary Oliver, a Psalm. I keep them there so that when I wake up in the morning, I remember the important things, and when I'm feeling especially low, I remember the good.

The smallest quotation, written in Sharpie on a tiny orange post-it note, is taken from the Beatitudes.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of Heaven. 

Today, this is the most important sentence in the entire world. I've had two weeks off for the holidays. This always seems so good to me, time to spend with friends, time to wander, time to bake and read, time to sleep in, time to color and binge watch Netflix. But no matter what else I'm involved in, no matter what activities my body is devoted to, these long breaks always leave time to my heart for thinking, and that means all the topics I've been avoiding suddenly, silently resurface.

There is something about Christmas and New Year's that makes me evaluate my life. Stringently. Part of being around so many loved ones means that I am constantly comparing myself to them: everyone seems to be smarter, prettier, holier, more successful, inexplicably happier. And part of it is that I'm forced to judge my life over the past year. Am I, compared to myself 12 months ago, any holier, smarter, prettier, happier, or more successful? Somehow the answer is always the same: No, you are not. No, Self, you are the same Self you were last year: equally jealous, lonely, angry, weary, pitiable, selfish, fearful, unsuccessful, and sad. This reality always hits me like a sack of potatoes in the face: it hurts.

I don't know what it is, but I can't seem to let go of the fact that other people are better than me. I know God is better than me, this is an un-troubling idea, but even while I write this, I feel annoyed and upset because I have friends who have blog posts that are better written than this one will be.

I want to be a glorious unicorn, but I know I am a worm.

But I want someone to call down from the sky, No, you are not a worm. You have been a glorious unicorn all this time! You are sparkly and you are lovely. You are worthy of love and goodness. 

I hate being spiritually poor.

I googled "What does it mean to be poor in spirit?" and then skimmed a couple of articles from what I thought might be opposing viewpoints. The answer seems to be the same across the board. Spiritual poverty is the inheritance of every human since the Garden of Eden. But to be poor in spirit is to admit and recognize one's spiritual bankruptcy, and to throw one's self upon the mercy of God.

When I look honestly at myself, all I find is spiritual poverty. And it is so discouraging. I don't want to be poor. I want to be good enough. I want to hold up my head in a crowd. I want to feel proud of my accomplishments, of my whole being. But I'm not. I'm ashamed, and I'm sad.

Charles Spurgeon's sermon on this Beatitude emphasizes that the word "blessed" as it appears in this self-effacing maxim is the same word used in the Beatitudes I'd more willingly claim: "blessed are the peacemakers. . . .blessed are the pure in heart. . ." There is no less goodness or happiness in accepting one's spiritual poverty than there is in being a person of righteous reputation. Everyone who is pure in heart, who is persecuted for the sake of righteousness, who hungers and thirsts for goodness, takes their first step on the same road: blessed are the poor in spirit. 

But it is not enough for me, 89% of the time, to be told that God loves my awareness of my own poverty. It is not enough for me to be told that when God looks at me he sees Christ. I don't want him to see Christ! I want him to see me, and love me for my goodness. This is, of course, impossible.

Something that God has been hammering into my head over the past few years, is that it is blessed to receive. We are so good at giving sometimes, having been told by our Lord that it is the better option, that I think we have forgotten how to receive.

Being a spiritual pauper means being a recipient of grace, and being a recipient of grace is the best possible outcome for humanity. But it is hard to receive sometimes. I love being given presents, but it's always easier for me when I give in return a gift of equal value. It is easier to take with one hand while I am giving with another. It is very, very hard to be the person with both hands open, being the vehicle of blessing for someone else who wants to share their blessing with you. It is hard to say, "I accept this gift, knowing that I can in no way give back to you in equal or greater amount. I take, accepting that this gift is by no means fair, because it is unearned, unmerited, and cannot be recompensed."

It's hard to accept good without feeling guilty. Without feeling that you need to make up for it somehow, that you need to balance the scales. But that is entirely what being poor in spirit means. Our hands open to God, our mouths open like ugly little squawking bird-babies, waiting for God, our Nourishing-Mother, to dump sustenance into our impatient, starving mouths.

Bah. Blessed. Happy are you when you realize your hands are empty. Happy are you when you let someone else fill them. Happy are you when you take what you have been given, and glory in the fact that you have nothing of equal value to give in return. Happy are you when you gladly receive all good gifts, whether from God or from man, and are simply happy to have them.

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven, and they have done nothing to deserve it but to hold out their empty hands. Happy Poverty.

Like the Moon We Borrow Our Light: On Vows

"Lots of churches take the celebration of Jesus' baptism as an occasion for congregants to renew their own baptismal vows. I find this hard. I remember what I pledged at my baptism and how badly I've done at keeping those pledges and I wonder if I dare make them again." 

--Lauren Winner, Girl Meets God

 Lauren Winner, who is one of my favorite living authors, seems to think that every believer is bound by vows made to God during their conversion and baptism. I never think of my relationship with God in this way, and I'm beginning to think that it would be helpful if I did. I often think it would be good for me to either marry or join a monastic order because I love the idea of being bound by a lifelong vow. I think making eternal commitments is easier somehow, because one must simply form one's life around that promise, instead of living committed to something for a time and then beginning over again. 

But when I gave God my heart, I made a vow that was not only lifelong, but everlasting. When I accepted his promises to me, I made promises to him: promises to love, trust, and obey him, no matter what happens. It's shocking to think of my relationship with God this way, because it means that I have broken my vows so many times. It reminds me of Dante's Paradise, and the way he organizes heaven, with the moon as the lowest realm, assigned to nuns who broke their vows. They are shades, scarcely visible because of the unsubstantial nature of their own wills. Hahaha. The irony of this is overwhelming.

One of the best poems I read in college was Donne's "A Hymn to Christ, at the Author's Last Going into Germany." I repeat it to myself sometimes because it reminds me of the total allegiance I have made to God, and of my own need to ensure that my love is well-ordered, with God as the center of my affections. Here are the last two stanzas of the poem:

Seal then this bill of my divorce to all,
On whom those fainter beams of love did fall ;
Marry those loves, which in youth scatter'd be
On fame, wit, hopes—false mistresses—to Thee.
Churches are best for prayer, that have least light ;
To see God only, I go out of sight ;
    And to escape stormy days, I choose
        An everlasting night.

I sacrifice this island unto Thee,
And all whom I love there, and who loved me ;
When I have put our seas 'twixt them and me,
Put thou Thy seas betwixt my sins and Thee.
As the tree's sap doth seek the root below
In winter, in my winter now I go,
    Where none but Thee, the eternal root
        Of true love, I may know.

Right now I'm struggling with obedience. It's amazing how convoluted my desires can be. Some days, I genuinely want to obey God. And other days, I only want to want to be obedient. I spend a lot of time asking myself if obedience is actually worthwhile. This is hard. Today I'm feeling like it would just be easier if I had no will of my own, because then I wouldn't have to be so concerned with the state of my affections all the time. I'm deeply concerned with the order of my loves right now: do I really love God with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength? Sometimes, I feel like I can't obey God because I don't really trust him all that much, but, if my vows mean anything, then I have promised to obey him even when I don't understand what he's asking or why.

Abraham obeyed right up to the point of killing Isaac, only stopping because God intervened. Does my heart align to the will of God so completely? I will tell you right now: it does not. But how do I come to this place of perfect surrender? How do I stop questioning whether what God wants me to do, or not do, is really the right thing or the best thing or the thing that I am actually going to do? How do I just pursue obedience regardless of the circumstances? Micah 6: 8 fell on my head the other day like an anvil . .it makes me feel, O, so convicted about the way I've been thinking about life.

"He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the LORD require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?"

I think a lot of obedience comes down to trusting God, to walking with him in humility. If I trust that God is entirely holy, then I trust that doing what he opposes is inherently disgusting and dangerous. If I trust that God loves me utterly, then I can trust that what he asks is for my own good. If I trust that God punishes sin, then I can trust that God will hold me accountable for the sins that I commit. 

"Trust and obey/there is no better way/to be happy in Jesus/than to trust and obey."

That refrain is stuck in my head right now, it's so blessedly simple to sing and ponder, but so hard to practice. This post is full of music. Here is another song I'm wrestling with right now.

"Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders
Let me walk upon the waters
Wherever You would call me
Take me deeper than my feet could ever wander
And my faith will be made stronger
In the presence of my Savior"

Do you ever find it hard to trust, dear Reader? I can't sing those words glibly. I can't sing them without picturing myself in the ocean frantically trying to swim with the depths of the sea falling far below my scrambling toes. Obedience is scary, I tell you. But the reason we obey is because submission to the will of God is our greatest good. Apart from grace, all is lost. Charles Spurgeon says: 

"Like the moon, we borrow our light; bright as we are when grace shines on us, we are darkness itself when the Sun of Righteousness withdraws himself. Therefore let us cry to God never to leave us."

The problem with those moony nuns in La Divina Comedia is that they believed something else could be better than obeying God. All thoughts on monastic vows aside, I understand their complaint. But I don't want to be a nun on the moon, I want to trust that God is who he says he is, that my life contains meaning and substance only when I cling to him, and that there is nothing offered by the world that can compete with the great good I find in Jesus. So I guess I had better endeavor to keep my promises. 

Winner, speaking to her priest, before being baptized: "This is ridiculous, I can't promise these things. Half the time I don't trust God one iota. I can't stand up there and promise that I will trust Him forever and ever. Who on earth makes these promises?"

The priest replied: "You don't just answer all these questions in the affirmative. You say, 'I will, with God's help'." 

Not my will, O Lord, but yours be done.