Modern Prophecy and Writing in the Margins

Paul Elie has a fascinating blog post about Flannery O'Connor.  He's been traveling in Africa, and he sees that region, the Global South, as very similar to O'Connor's South, the U.S. South of the middle of the 20th century, so different from the U.S. South of today.

This part sticks with me.  First he quotes himself from an earlier lecture that he gave:  "Her work will make sense when the “Protestant South” is the territory of Central and South America. It will make sense when the admirable nihilist, the practitioner of a do-it-yourself Christianity, is an oilworker on a derrick in Nigeria or a “house Christian” in Beijing. It will make sense because she looked forward, not back—looked forward imaginatively through the “realism of distances,” another term for prophecy."

And then he continues:  "Well, to travel in southern Africa is to know that this is true already – or rather, that it has become more true in this part of the global South while it has become less true in Atlanta and Louisville and New Orleans.  The coexistence of races, and the separation of the races; the busyness and disorganization and drama of public life at streetside and open market; the do-it-yourself churches with their creeds handpainted on the walls outside; the constancy of poverty; the sense that life is precious, because life is dangerous, and one’s own survival is not assured – all these are recognizable in the big cities, the villages, the townships of South Africa."

He talks about writers who speak to the periphery and how the periphery is larger than we imagine.  I have spent much of my life thinking about writers who either choose to depict life in the margins/periphery or writers who have been marginalized, which can be a different group.

I have been thinking about writers who are trying to create work that builds bridges between cultures who haven't often talked to each other.  I've thought about my own work, as I've been creating a query letter for my book that is a memoir and a collection of essays.  Could my work, that's coming out of a Christian tradition, appeal to my atheist friend?

I don't always think of myself as writing from the periphery, but I am working at a for-profit school, a marginalized place in some ways for people from a traditional academic background.  I am a Christian in a world that feels indifferent to faith--and I feel fortunate for the indifference, as I am well aware that in many parts of the world, I wouldn't be just marginalized but under threat of death.  And I am also an artist making my way in a capitalist world, an immigrant/pilgrim of a different sort.

In a way, I feel I'm claiming a title that I don't deserve by claiming my status as writing from the periphery.  After all, I'm solidly middle class, with resources that many middle class people don't have.  I have multiple degrees.  I exercise and eat sensibly most days.  I have a rather boring life, where I go to work every week day and return at night to a loving husband. 

Can this be the world where prophetic visions are birthed?

Saturday Gratitude: for Strong Backs and Strong Arms

I expected to be more sore today.  Yesterday, after a vigorous spin class, I popped by the house of friends.  They were getting 2 pallets of mulch and 2 pallets of river rock delivered.  As with many an item, the delivery stops at the driveway, so they planned to spend as much time on Saturday as it took to get the mulch and rock to the backyard, behind a fence with a lock.

I planned to help.  I thought I would stay for an hour.  But it was such a nice day, and the work went fairly quickly, and it was so strangely satisfying.  My spouse was out of town, so my day was completely my own.  After the week I had at work (shredding, sorting, 3 hour long HR meetings, sad/angry people), it was so WONDERFUL to feel like we were making progress and to feel like I was truly helping.

It was also wonderful to realize that my body works in this way.  We were 3 women age 49 and over, and we could move 4 pallets in less than 2 hours.  Each bag of rocks weighed 40 pounds, and I moved at least 20 of them.  We all work out, but we don't do a lot of manual labor. Although I wouldn't want to do it every day, and certainly not for a living, it was good to know that I can do it.
In fact, we stopped at one point about halfway through and all looked at each other.  One friend said, "Let us now give thanks for strong backs."  I said, "Let us now give thanks for strong backs and strong arms."  It felt like a holy moment of prayer.  I don't know if they felt it too.  I do feel that the work continued to go smoothly, when it could have fallen apart at any moment. 

I did feel like we were sincerely giving thanks.  I was thanking my maker, and it wouldn't surprise me if the other two women were too.  We were also thanking ourselves, for getting to the gym and keeping ourselves strong.  And I was thankful to live in a society, where 3 women can be outside for several hours without being threatened.

Today I'll offer prayers for all those who are not so lucky.

Work in Progress: An Idea for a Retreat

My mom and I have been asked to lead a retreat for her church.  Because I view this blog as a repository of ideas to share and a way to look for feedback and a way to record this kind of work in progress--for all these reasons, let me post my initial ideas.

Let's say that the retreat will be a study of parables, both some parables in depth, and the larger idea of parables:  why did Jesus use them?  What can we learn from them that we don't already know?  If the group needs a blurb, here's one:

 

 Parables comprise 40% of the Gospel of Matthew, 36% of the Gospel of Luke.  But we rarely study the parable as an art form.  Join us on this retreat to learn how Jesus used parables and what we can learn from them.  We'll dive deeply into some of the more famous parables to see what we might have missed.  Maybe we'll even write some parables of our own.  And we'll learn how we can be living parables.  

 

A catchy title . . . hmmm.  Would the title Living Parables catch your attention if you didn't already know me?  

 

Existential Crises

Some weeks, I feel good about what I'm doing with my life:  good about what I can do as an administrator, good about my teaching, good about my writing.  During really good weeks, I also feel like I'm a good wife, a good friend, a good daughter/sister/aunt.

This week has not been one of those weeks.  This week has been a week where I think back to grad school days:  I had such promise then, and I didn't even realize it!

This has been a week where I sorted through boxes of old assessment artifacts, carefully collected, dutifully analyzed, the subject of many reports, stored for years, and never asked for, reports never read.  It's been a week where I'm asked to create spreadsheets of information that already exists on other spreadsheets.  And then, because my existential crisis wasn't deep enough, I went to a mandatory, 3 hour HR training session on how to discipline and document misbehaving employees.

Our church will be spending the next two weeks with Matthew 16:  13-28, and I found it a refreshing read this morning.  In this Gospel reading, we find Jesus asking some of the basic questions. “Who do men say that I am?” “Who do you say that I am?” It’s a curious exchange that has Peter proclaiming Jesus as Lord, and Jesus instructing him not to tell anybody about himself.

Hmmm. Is this a basic existential moment? Surely, of all the humans who have walked the earth, Jesus would have the least reason for asking these questions—depending, of course, on your view of Jesus. Many of us believe that Jesus understood his purpose from babyhood, or at least during his childhood, when he disappeared only to be found in the Temple, teaching the priests (that story appears in Luke, not in the other Gospels). On the other hand, some scholars speculate that Jesus didn’t understand the full scope of his mission, that Jesus, like many of us, spent his days asking God, “Am I doing what you want me to do?”

We see in this text Peter getting the kind of affirmation that many of us crave. Jesus tells Peter that he will be the cornerstone, the rock.

I think of Peter and imagine that in times of frustration, he must have looked back at this moment with Christ. What a comfort that memory must be.

I spent much of my younger years longing to be sure that I was doing what God put me on earth to do, as if I had only one destiny, and I might be missing it.

My parents, in their wisdom, kept reminding me that God can use me no matter where I am. God is the original collage artist, taking bits and pieces that don’t seem to go together, and creating them into a cohesive whole.

During weeks like these, I remind myself of the multitude of small acts that I make each and every day to make life better for those at our school.  I listen to distressed colleagues, and if I can try to solve problems, I offer a solution--but I remind myself that sometimes, all I am called to do is listen.  This week I helped a sick student who was scared she was dying--but I convinced her that her flu was simply reasserting itself.  I helped a student with all sorts of complicating issues find his classroom which had been moved.  I managed to find a few extra classes for our adjuncts.  I helped a student who needed syllabi from 2008-2009 when she attended, plus credential information for the faculty.  Yes, I have those files on the computer!  I helped a student who needed transfer credit for classes she took in Germany.  This list could go on and on.

As we head away from Candlemas and towards Transfiguration Sunday, I do find myself haunted by the questions of light and our mission on earth.  Are we transfiguring the world?  Do these small acts of compassion make a difference?

I have to believe that they do.

Meditation on This Sunday's Gospel

The readings for Sunday, Feb. 8, 2015:

First Reading: Isaiah 40:21-31

Psalm: Psalm 147:1-12, 21c (Psalm 147:1-11, 20c NRSV)

Second Reading: 1 Corinthians 9:16-23

Gospel: Mark 1:29-39

Again we see Jesus early in his ministry, which at this point, seems to consist of healing and casting out demons. The issue of rest, or lack of it, speaks to me in the Gospel this week.

Notice that Jesus heals Simon's mother-in-law--and what is the first thing that she does? She gets up and serves them. Maybe she shows the appropriate response: what to do with a miraculous healing? Why, cook dinner, of course. But the story reminds me of many female friends I have who will get up from their sickbeds, even when they're burning with fever, to do things for the family, like cooking dinner or doing the laundry. What's behind this busyness?

Also this story faintly foreshadows the story of Mary and Martha. Martha can't stop her frantic rushing around, getting the meal ready. Mary takes time out of daily tasks to listen to Jesus.

Look at Jesus, later in the chapter. He's been on a whirlwind tour of preaching and healing. He gets up early in the morning, "a great while before day" (verse 35), and he retreats. He goes to a lonely place.

It's getting harder and harder to find lonely places. In graduate school, I used to get up at 4 in the morning to get some writing done--it was wonderful, because all the stores were closed at that hour, everyone slept, and because we couldn’t afford cable, there was nothing on TV--no distractions, in other words. I still often get up early to enjoy the lack of distraction.

We could learn a lot from Jesus--turn off the TV, don't answer the phone, disconnect from the Internet, stop our busy chasing after we don't even know what anymore. In short, we need to go to a lonely place.

Notice, too, that Jesus doesn't just flop on a rock and zone out. Jesus spends his down time praying. He uses this Sabbath Time to get in touch with God. We daydream about a lot of things to recharge our batteries: trips to a spa, a super vacation, early retirement. But the way Jesus shows us is simplicity incarnate.

God calls us to a servant's destiny. We are put on earth to be of service to others, doing the same things that Jesus did: preaching, feeding, teaching, healing. People who scoff at the idea of service often fail to understand what wonderful community can be formed during these times of service. Through our service and community building, we become more connected, which heals us—and the world—in all sorts of ways.

But God doesn't expect us to do these things without periods of rest. We need times of retreat, even if we can only schedule short times. We need times of prayer. We need time to listen for God, because the cries of the needy can drown out the still, small voice of God. We need time to refresh, and the easiest way to renew ourselves for the tasks ahead is to pray. The world, with all its aching yearning, will still be there after we emerge from our time of retreat.

Candlemas: Holding the Light of the World in Our Hands

On February 2, the season of Christmastide comes to a close.  This sentence might mystify those of us who take the Christmas decorations down on December 26.   Maybe we smugly wait until January 6, thinking that we know the true meaning of the Christmas season.

I, too, hadn't really celebrated Candlemas until a few years ago--it was a trip to Mepkin Abbey that enlightened me in more ways than one.

Over at the Living Lutheran site, I've written about a post about that time at Mepkin Abbey and the larger meaning of Candlemas.  Here are some quotes to whet your appetite:

"Candlemas celebrates the presentation of Jesus at the temple 40 days after his birth. Simeon holds and blesses the baby Jesus. During a Candlemas homily, one of the Mepkin monks asked us to imagine Simeon who got to hold the light of the world in his hands."

"Today would be a good day to light a candle and to think about our own lights. Are we dimly burning wicks? Take heart – the Bible promises that we can still be useful! Does our light burn pure and true? Take care to protect that flame."

"And for those of us who feel like it’s been too long since we saw sunlight, be of good cheer. The holidays of early February (Groundhog Day, Candlemas, St. Brigid's Day, Imbolc and Oimelc) remind us that the light hasn't really left us. Spring will be here soon."

Go here for the complete post.

The Feast Day of Saint Brigid

Today is the feast day of St. Brigid, one of the patron saints of Ireland.  She is one of the early Christians who stood at the intersection of Christianity, Druidism, and the other pagan religions of Ireland.  She is also one of those extraordinary women who did amazing things, despite the patriarchal culture in which she lived.

Like so many of our early Christian church mothers, she felt called by God from a very early age.  She resisted attempts to get her married:  one account has her scooping out her diseased eye in protest of an impending marriage--and later, healing her dangling eyeball by putting it back in her head.  When we go back to read about the lives of women in medieval times, it's amazing that more women didn't fight harder to go join the cloistered life.

St. Brigid founded some of the first Christian monasteries in Ireland, most famously the legendary one in Kildare.  She also founded a school of art that focuses on metal working and illumination.  The illustrated manuscript, the Book of Kildare, was created under her auspices.  Unfortunately, it's been lost since the Reformation, so we know it by its reputation only.

She's also famous for her generosity, especially to the poor.  She showed this compassion early on, giving away all of her mother's butter to a poor person--and then, by her prayers, the butter was restored.

As a 21st century woman, I'm amazed at what she was able to accomplish, during times that are much more difficult than mine.  Founding numerous religious orders, motivating artists, compassion to the poor, devotion to God--she seemed to have had no trouble leading an authentic, integrated life.  Why does it seem so hard to me?

Of course, I know Brigid across a space of centuries, through the gauze of hagiography and legend.  If Brigid could speak, what would she say?   Would she tell us of the sleepless nights where she wondered how she was going to find enough food, enough contributions, to keep her religious orders afloat?  Would she bemoan all her administrative duties, which sucked away so much energy, when all she really wanted to do was to illuminate manuscripts?

What do our lives say about our beliefs?  If centuries from now, a middle-aged woman read about your life as you're living it, would she be inspired?  Are we leading authentic, integrated lives?  Are we building concrete institutions that will outlast us by centuries?