I'm playing around with NPR's music site right now, which is awesome. You know how there are certain artists and songs that when played invoke nostalgia, pain, loss, grief, hope, joy, and beauty all in the same moment?
Listening to:
Cloud Cult
The Mountain Goats
Sera Cahoone
Sufjan Stevens
Iron and Wine
Explosions of the Sky
The New Pornographers
My heart is hurting (in a good way).
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life. Show all posts
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Friday, July 11, 2008
From time to time, I think about being a woman. For better or for worse, I grew up in a pretty egalitarian house. Growing up, I never got the sense from my parents that anything was off limits to me as a woman. In fact, in terms of balancing power, my parents offered my sister and I a pretty equal voice in everything. This had its good and bad sides. The good side: my sister and I were taught that we had a voice and it was valuable. Our voices were meant to be used. The bad side? We were essentially treated like mini-adults and it was difficult to differentiate roles at times.
It wasn’t until I got to high school and later in college that I started to get concrete gender messages about roles, relationships and expectations that increasingly were framed in “biblical terms.” As someone who has strong spiritual and intellectual gifts – and not yet a desire to enter into motherhood – this prompted quite a bit of confusion. Ironically, I feel a lot less of this pressure living in Texas than in Seattle. I’m not exactly sure why. I have a few theories. 1) It is so assumed that it’s not really contested. 2) I don’t feel bound by the rules of the culture so I don’t feel pressure to conform 3) I’m really grounded in my own sense of calling and self as a child of God. I also think that the environment of Seattle lends itself to theological extremes.
I used to feel very threatened by different perspectives on gender and roles, but these days it hardly comes up anymore. I know where I am at, and even better, Than and I have both come to a similar place on the issue through dialogue and independently. I’ve also learned to accept and appreciate if other women and couples have chosen a different model for their own selves and relationships. Instead of starting from a place of fear and suspicion, I choose to give them the benefit of the doubt and trust that they are equally seeking to live out their vocations and God’s calling in their lives.
Some people really like and need to have definite categories and roles – I’m much more open ended and tend to have a shared perspective on roles and power. In fact, I tend to view most relationships as egalitarian; I automatically view myself as a colleague, partner, co-collaborator with those in positions of power above me and I expect that I and others will be treated as such. This probably goes back to my family structure. I know this has its weaknesses and downsides, but it has also informed my strong ethic of making sure all voices are heard and working to create dialogical space for silenced and marginalized voices within institutions.
Every now and then I realize not everyone operates under the same set of assumptions as me, especially when structures are automatically imposed on me or my voice is inherently denied. All of a sudden I realize, oh yeah, I am a woman. When a work meeting starts and I know I won’t be asked to pray -- I am a woman. When I research graduate schools and realize that 95% of the scholars I want to study under are men, I know I am a woman. When I’m asked to bring snacks to an office meeting and none of my male colleagues are asked… yep, I’m a woman.
Most of the time, I operate under the assumption of gender equality, but then I start thinking about it and these little things really add up. Why are there so fewer prominent female writers, thinkers, scholars, activists, and theologians? I can’t deny that most of my models are men. I know there are women out there doing all of these things, but they just are not given the same level of visibility. And yet I feel called to be a writer, thinker, scholar, activist, theologian.
I’m not an "ambitious career woman", I’m just trying to use the gifts God has given me and steward the passions God has placed in my heart. I’m not opposed to families and motherhood, yet I’m highly self-conscious that I will be perceived as such. I wonder how often men worry that they will be perceived this way as a result of their vocational pursuits?
It wasn’t until I got to high school and later in college that I started to get concrete gender messages about roles, relationships and expectations that increasingly were framed in “biblical terms.” As someone who has strong spiritual and intellectual gifts – and not yet a desire to enter into motherhood – this prompted quite a bit of confusion. Ironically, I feel a lot less of this pressure living in Texas than in Seattle. I’m not exactly sure why. I have a few theories. 1) It is so assumed that it’s not really contested. 2) I don’t feel bound by the rules of the culture so I don’t feel pressure to conform 3) I’m really grounded in my own sense of calling and self as a child of God. I also think that the environment of Seattle lends itself to theological extremes.
I used to feel very threatened by different perspectives on gender and roles, but these days it hardly comes up anymore. I know where I am at, and even better, Than and I have both come to a similar place on the issue through dialogue and independently. I’ve also learned to accept and appreciate if other women and couples have chosen a different model for their own selves and relationships. Instead of starting from a place of fear and suspicion, I choose to give them the benefit of the doubt and trust that they are equally seeking to live out their vocations and God’s calling in their lives.
Some people really like and need to have definite categories and roles – I’m much more open ended and tend to have a shared perspective on roles and power. In fact, I tend to view most relationships as egalitarian; I automatically view myself as a colleague, partner, co-collaborator with those in positions of power above me and I expect that I and others will be treated as such. This probably goes back to my family structure. I know this has its weaknesses and downsides, but it has also informed my strong ethic of making sure all voices are heard and working to create dialogical space for silenced and marginalized voices within institutions.
Every now and then I realize not everyone operates under the same set of assumptions as me, especially when structures are automatically imposed on me or my voice is inherently denied. All of a sudden I realize, oh yeah, I am a woman. When a work meeting starts and I know I won’t be asked to pray -- I am a woman. When I research graduate schools and realize that 95% of the scholars I want to study under are men, I know I am a woman. When I’m asked to bring snacks to an office meeting and none of my male colleagues are asked… yep, I’m a woman.
Most of the time, I operate under the assumption of gender equality, but then I start thinking about it and these little things really add up. Why are there so fewer prominent female writers, thinkers, scholars, activists, and theologians? I can’t deny that most of my models are men. I know there are women out there doing all of these things, but they just are not given the same level of visibility. And yet I feel called to be a writer, thinker, scholar, activist, theologian.
I’m not an "ambitious career woman", I’m just trying to use the gifts God has given me and steward the passions God has placed in my heart. I’m not opposed to families and motherhood, yet I’m highly self-conscious that I will be perceived as such. I wonder how often men worry that they will be perceived this way as a result of their vocational pursuits?
Thursday, July 10, 2008
confessions of a prospective graduate student
Every new step in my graduate school application journey is accompanied by a surge of fear, insecurity, and anxiety. It is such a struggle to maintain perspective and see myself clearly. Most days, I spend more time trying to cut down the tangled roots of insecurity, fear, pride, narcissism, and jealousy than actually working on my writing sample, research, and personal statements. I just wish I could feel more grounded and confident in my skills, giftings and abilities while being content to accept my limitations. But I’m a perfectionist. I want to be affirmed, and I want to be recognized. As much as I hate to admit it, I care what others think.
I’m hesitant to tell others about graduate school, and I regularly downplay my desires and ambitions. I just don’t want to seem like I am shooting too high: my dreams and desires are where I feel most vulnerable. On the other hand, learning and academia is such an important part of my sense of vocation that I feel inauthentic not sharing it with others. My greatest fear in putting myself out there through sharing, writing, and applying is that I will inaccurately judge my abilities and fall flat on my face and everyone (but me) will have seen it from miles away. After all, who am I to think that I could get an advanced degree and spend my life researching, reading, writing, and teaching?
I wish that I could rid myself of these hypercritical, overly inflated, insecurities that end up being directed towards myself or others. This is partly why I have held off on applying for so long. I am pretty sure I haven’t killed off my mean streak of perfectionism, only sent it into hiding. Going back to school might be the equivalent of an alcoholic sitting in a bar, so my strategy has been to just stay away. There is so much pain associated with my personal journey of coming to terms with my perfectionism and also my intimate knowledge of my own vulnerabilities. In the back of my mind, I can't help but worry that my old demons will return, and I will be facing another season of exhaustion, trauma, and depression.
But at the same time, I feel a growing desire to confront this fear head on, to claim my desires, and enter the unknown. I know I’m probably not ever going to get rid of my perfectionism, but I hope – and pray – that I have gained enough confidence and grounding to not only survive but thrive in graduate school, while maintaining clarity, integrity, and balance.
So, I'm engaged in a struggle right now between doubt and belief, fear and confidence, insecurity and faith. And I know from watching my husband in graduate school that it doesn't really go away. I wonder if this simply part of the vocational journey?
I’m hesitant to tell others about graduate school, and I regularly downplay my desires and ambitions. I just don’t want to seem like I am shooting too high: my dreams and desires are where I feel most vulnerable. On the other hand, learning and academia is such an important part of my sense of vocation that I feel inauthentic not sharing it with others. My greatest fear in putting myself out there through sharing, writing, and applying is that I will inaccurately judge my abilities and fall flat on my face and everyone (but me) will have seen it from miles away. After all, who am I to think that I could get an advanced degree and spend my life researching, reading, writing, and teaching?
I wish that I could rid myself of these hypercritical, overly inflated, insecurities that end up being directed towards myself or others. This is partly why I have held off on applying for so long. I am pretty sure I haven’t killed off my mean streak of perfectionism, only sent it into hiding. Going back to school might be the equivalent of an alcoholic sitting in a bar, so my strategy has been to just stay away. There is so much pain associated with my personal journey of coming to terms with my perfectionism and also my intimate knowledge of my own vulnerabilities. In the back of my mind, I can't help but worry that my old demons will return, and I will be facing another season of exhaustion, trauma, and depression.
But at the same time, I feel a growing desire to confront this fear head on, to claim my desires, and enter the unknown. I know I’m probably not ever going to get rid of my perfectionism, but I hope – and pray – that I have gained enough confidence and grounding to not only survive but thrive in graduate school, while maintaining clarity, integrity, and balance.
So, I'm engaged in a struggle right now between doubt and belief, fear and confidence, insecurity and faith. And I know from watching my husband in graduate school that it doesn't really go away. I wonder if this simply part of the vocational journey?
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
creative simplicity
One of the most awe inspiring aspects of this year has been God’s ongoing provision for us financially. Yet, with gas and food prices rising, I am starting to feel the definite pinch on our budget. It’s incredibly easy to shift into my default position of fear and anxiety and to respond with an increased desire for control. I’m constantly working to let go, relax, stop worrying about what I’m going to eat and wear, and instead let myself trust in God’s goodness and provision.
Living on a tight budget has taught me a lot and made me more conscious of the poor and vulnerable. When I start to feel powerless in light of limited funds and despite my well paying job (ok, so it’s not great, but it’s sufficiently more than minimum wage), I think about the sheer burden of poverty held by so many. Poverty is a prison. It impacts every choice and every decision. It controls movement, nutrition, health, well-being. For many, there just seems to be no escape.
In light of all this, I have been thinking about the difference between poverty and simplicity. On the surface, simplicity seems to be a lifestyle based on empowerment, while poverty seems to strip power. So, recently I have wondered, what’s the relationship between living simply and poverty? How can living simply empower the impoverished? How I can shift my perspective from one of fear, anxiety, and captivity to a life lived in trust, joy and contentment. How can I tap into my limited resources and experience the gracious space and freedom of the Spirit?
It’s so tricky. It’s difficult to explain the difference between living in a spirit of simplicity and feeling trapped by limited resources, but I can certainly feel it. Possibility replaces paralysis. Agency replaces entrapment. When I am living in simplicity and trust, a weight is lifted. I am liberated to be present and feel grateful. There is freedom to use my resources and freedom to accept my material realities/limitations without feeling burdened by them. I am empowered to create instead of consume. So, I get creative about cooking with limited ingredients. I get creative about how to serve people and gift them. I go outside and see color and beauty in creation --- a gift that is open to both rich and poor alike, though the rich often try to make it a commodity.
I believe that the Spirit of God rests with the poor and vulnerable. Anyone who has worked with the poor knows that God gifts the poor with incredible creativity and eyes to see what the privileged often miss. The Spirit’s empowerment and gifts of joy, beauty and creativity liberate the poor from the immediate shackles of daily existence. I love this subversion, and I long to capture more of this power in my life. A life of creative simplicity and trust seems to be the only effective way for me resist the imperialism of wealth, consumerism and privilege. The poor teach me that I need not be wealthy to experience God’s gracious beauty and bounty, and I do the poor a disservice when I do not appreciate and validate the good news of God’s Spirit upon them. They have so much to teach and offer.
I’m rereading Richard Foster’s Freedom of Simplicity. It is an amazing book. I can’t believe he wrote it in the 1970s! It is so relevant to our present time, although I guess more and more this decade is resembling the 1970s. Foster is quick to caution against any prescribed way of living simply. To be clear, I don’t think we should ever glamorize or elevate poverty itself nor should we reject the value of the material goods. I – like so many – desire to increase my wealth, status, and improve my well being. I don’t believe this desire is completely bad. I have hopes and dreams that require mobility and unfortunately money. Living simply, is a complex, varied, and lifelong journey and as Foster says “repudiates easy, dogmatic answers to tough intricate problems.” I wish it could be as easy as give all of your money away! I watched Into the Wild a few weeks ago, and I think this movie/story shows the danger, naivety, and tragedy of such simplistic decisiveness.
So, I’m still wrestling. But in the meantime, I’m seeking to create beauty in the desert, and I am amazed at what I’m discovering as I wait for and trust in God’s provision.
This post is dedicated to my friends:
I’m amazed and inspired by all of you who are artists – official or unofficial. You have used your gifts to give dignity to the poor by letting their lives speak and capturing their beauty and worth, whether in Tanzania, Afghanistan, Haiti, Guatemala, the streets of Seattle, Costa Rica, Kenya, or South Africa. Your commitment has taught me so much and encourages me to seek redemption right here in Texas. Thank you.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
heart home
How can I live better? I have been thinking about this a lot the last few weeks as I have found myself unsatisfied with several areas of my life. Boredom is a bitch. It makes me seek to fill my time and fill myself with all sorts of irrelevant things. I watch way too much TV. I spend way too much time surfing the internet. I spend way too much time obsessing about nutrition, my body, wrinkles, fashion, cooking etc. I never really used to think about these things very much. Now, I think about them frequently, mostly because I am bored but also because of what I see reflected in the culture around me.It’s a lot easier for me now to understand the role consumerism plays in American life. While we are very busy, this business often translates to emptiness and lack of rootedness. In turn, this translates to quick fix solutions and cravings for moments of pleasure to help relieve the monotony of our days. This translates into spending money. They cycle repeats itself.
In Texas, most people go out for the majority of their meals. (I don’t think this is particular to Texas. This was a regular part of my life in Seattle.) Obesity is rampant. Yet, I am surrounded by beautiful fit college girls every day. This has made me self conscious about where I fit on the spectrum. I don’t want to be the one showing up to church with a 64 ounce cup of soda, nor do I want to constantly be working out and consumed by my appearance.
I find myself oscillating between trying to resist the culture and trying to adapt to it. Either way, both feel empty and consuming. Right now, it feels like I have no space within me or outside of me that is free from consuming forces. I don’t like this, and yet I feel resigned to it unsure of how to be free and live better.
The tasks of daily life are consuming. I’m tired of thinking about money. I’m tired of thinking about cooking and shopping. I’m tired of thinking about gas. Yes, I need to think about these things, but I probably over think them because I’m not sure how else to fill the space.
I still haven’t really found a place where I can just be. I have started walking to work in the mornings, and this has helped a lot. I’m not looking to put more stuff on my calendar. I’m not looking to fill my time. Instead, I’m longing for something I haven’t quite found yet.
Perhaps, in the words of Eugene Cho, it’s my “heart home.” As I have written before, I believe we can never get back to home. Our experience in this world is one of exile and wandering towards shalom. Any attempt to return to home is misguided to me, and yet the power and longing for one's “heart home” is very real.
My friends used to make fun of me because I would say: “I just want to be.” My heart home, I think, is a space where everything feels in balance, and I feel content with simply being myself in the world. I’ve experienced this sense in different places of the world so I know it’s not tied to a particular location, though at the same time it can’t be divorced from particularity. My heart home is always tied to specific sounds, colors, tastes, smells, experiences. I know enough about myself to know that my “heart home” is somewhere between the mountains, the ocean, urban life, and absolute quiet. Changing seasons. Snow and the hot sun. Burnt orange and red leaves. A room full of light. Bold and bright colors. People.
Every now and then, it will hit me. And I will get tears in my eyes. The wind in Texas will smell like South African wind. The coastline in Cape Town will remind me of Scotland. The mountains in New Mexico will bring me peace. And so on. I’m always amazed by the familiarities and similarities of different places in the world. While the connection may not be apparent, the feeling or response it elicits in me is remarkably similar and always a gift.But right now, I feel far away from all this. I’m not sure if it’s physical, spiritual, mental, emotional or simply geographical. And I’m tired of trying to figure it out and adjust. I just know that I’m dissatisfied and think that there must be a way to live better, to cultivate some sense of “heart home” right here in Texas. Or maybe it is not up to me to cultivate, but rather to receive as a gift. Or maybe I just have to accept that this isn't a place for me to really call home. Either way, I desperately need spaces where I can be if I am to resist and hopefully respond to the consumerism and disconnection I am struggling with.
Small things are enough sometimes: a cup of tea, art, a gentle breeze, wine with friends, and shadows of the late afternoon sun.
Monday, June 16, 2008
how do we forgive our fathers?
If you haven't seen the movie Smoke Signals, it is an incredible film. It ends with a striking poem, and I'm including the clip below. I've been thinking a lot about forgiveness these days as I have felt called to extend several gestures of forgiveness and reconciliation to my own father in the last few months. I won't lie, it's been pretty difficult and I haven't wanted to do it. I identify strongly with the last line of the poem: if we forgive our fathers, what is left?
However, I feel called to forgiveness as I am learning to take seriously the gift I hold within me. I have the power to bless even when it is not deserved, and I should never underestimate the transformational nature of this grace even if I do not see it's fruit immediately or ever.
Forgiveness has been a process; it has come slowly piece by piece. First, I had to recognize the pain and name it. I had to grieve and mourn. I had to set boundaries. I had to confront so that I knew what was at stake when (and if) I forgave, and I had to let go. Finally, I was able to write to my father this week and say: "whatever your failings as a father, I forgive you." Even in this expression, I did not deny the pain or the lingering questions I still have. I did not deny what has been lost. I did not deny that there are failings.
My dad called after he got the father's day letter (I was so nervous). To my surprise, he thanked me many times for my letter and said that it was very "generous" of me. He said he would put my letter in his book of memories. That was it.
Even as I write, I feel conflicted. However, when I think about forgiveness, I realize it is more for me than for my father. In an act of freedom, in a spirit of empowerment, I can bless and forgive knowing that he doesn't really deserve it but I can make the choice to bless anyway. I have the power to free my father from the impossible burden of having to make things right. And so I used this power because I felt called to out of love, not necessarily because I wanted to.
I definitely don't think forgiveness is cheap, easy, or immediate. It is not denial. It is not escapism. There is still much more for me to let go. If I had attempted this step of verbal forgiveness any earlier, it would have been about getting a specific response from my father or seeing a change of behavior. However, at this time, in this place, it wasn't about what my dad could offer me because I recognize he is a weak and broken man. Instead, it was about me choosing as an adult to let go and recognizing that time is short. Not to be too morbid, but in my relationship with my father death is always on the back burner because of his age. So, quite literally, it has became a choice between forgiveness or death. In forgiving, I choose to hope in the future. This father's day, I gave my dad the gift of life. What he chooses to do with this will be up to him.
Do we forgive our fathers in our age or in theirs?
Or in their deaths, saying it to them, or not saying it?
If we forgive our fathers, what is left?
The space of forgiveness is strangely empty, but in this space, there exists the possibility of new life. It's a gift, but not a guarantee. But what is the alternative? It is I who must make peace.
However, I feel called to forgiveness as I am learning to take seriously the gift I hold within me. I have the power to bless even when it is not deserved, and I should never underestimate the transformational nature of this grace even if I do not see it's fruit immediately or ever.
Forgiveness has been a process; it has come slowly piece by piece. First, I had to recognize the pain and name it. I had to grieve and mourn. I had to set boundaries. I had to confront so that I knew what was at stake when (and if) I forgave, and I had to let go. Finally, I was able to write to my father this week and say: "whatever your failings as a father, I forgive you." Even in this expression, I did not deny the pain or the lingering questions I still have. I did not deny what has been lost. I did not deny that there are failings.
My dad called after he got the father's day letter (I was so nervous). To my surprise, he thanked me many times for my letter and said that it was very "generous" of me. He said he would put my letter in his book of memories. That was it.
Even as I write, I feel conflicted. However, when I think about forgiveness, I realize it is more for me than for my father. In an act of freedom, in a spirit of empowerment, I can bless and forgive knowing that he doesn't really deserve it but I can make the choice to bless anyway. I have the power to free my father from the impossible burden of having to make things right. And so I used this power because I felt called to out of love, not necessarily because I wanted to.
I definitely don't think forgiveness is cheap, easy, or immediate. It is not denial. It is not escapism. There is still much more for me to let go. If I had attempted this step of verbal forgiveness any earlier, it would have been about getting a specific response from my father or seeing a change of behavior. However, at this time, in this place, it wasn't about what my dad could offer me because I recognize he is a weak and broken man. Instead, it was about me choosing as an adult to let go and recognizing that time is short. Not to be too morbid, but in my relationship with my father death is always on the back burner because of his age. So, quite literally, it has became a choice between forgiveness or death. In forgiving, I choose to hope in the future. This father's day, I gave my dad the gift of life. What he chooses to do with this will be up to him.
Do we forgive our fathers in our age or in theirs?
Or in their deaths, saying it to them, or not saying it?
If we forgive our fathers, what is left?
The space of forgiveness is strangely empty, but in this space, there exists the possibility of new life. It's a gift, but not a guarantee. But what is the alternative? It is I who must make peace.
Saturday, June 14, 2008
exile, wandering,and Taize
I am currently listening to a Taize broadcast: “The Kingdom of God is Justice and Peace and Joy in the Holy Spirit.”
Themes of exile and home have been heavy on my heart the last few weeks as I find myself struggling with living in my new home and longing to visit Seattle and Leavenworth, which in my mind represent “home.” It is so easy to characterize my experience here as exile --- but then I watch a film like God Grew Tired of Us about the lost boys of Sudan, and I am humbled by the dignity and courage of refugees who may NEVER have the opportunity to go back to their home country. And I feel sad about the fact that I may not be able to go back to the Northwest for a year!
Next week, I am returning to Winkler, Manitoba. It has been 12 or 13 years since I last visited. Much has changed. My grandparents have moved out of their house and gradually their bodies have eroded. My last memories include wandering through corn fields in the summer heat and eating rollkucken with watermelon. I am excited about this journey. As a child, I was at the whim of my parent’s finances. Now, as an adult, I can choose my priorities. I am excited to share Mennonite culture with Than because, though invisible to outsiders, it still shapes me. I want to continue to keep what little fragments I have alive.
Place is very important to me. I mourn the fact that I have not been able to return to Germany, the land of my childhood, since we moved. Each time I have been back to Europe, it has been therapeutic, but I still have remained on the periphery. At the same time, I have been challenged and convicted by a recent quote sent to me on exile. This quote is from a much longer article called Wanders by Choice by Eva Hoffman. Read the full article here:
“Since Adam and Eve left the Garden of Eden, is there anyone who does not, in some way feel like an exile? We feel ejected from our first homes and landscapes, from our first romance, from our authentic self. An ideal sense of belonging, of attuning with others and ourselves, eludes us.
Exile was always considered one of the worst punishments possible because people’s identities were defined by their role and place in society. In recent years, however, we have come to value in our culture those qualities of experience that exile brings—uncertainty, displacement, fragmented identity. Post-modern nomads consider home mostly as a site of narrow-mindedness and nationalism. Now exile is sexy and glamorous. But it comes at enormous cost.
I wonder if in this world of easy come, easy go, of sliding among places and meanings without alighting on them for very long, we don’t lose internal focus…we risk being overwhelmed by what Milan Kundera calls “the unbearable lightness of being.” It is the illness that comes to unanchored people, those who travel perpetually to new moments and sensations and to whom no internal feeling is more important than another.”
I am challenged by this quote because I, like many in my generation, am so easily seduced (and discontented) by the romantic idea of postmodern exile. While I have been privileged to grown up in a swirling mix of cultures and to have traveled the world, the downside has been at times this loss of internal focus or rootedness. I’m also challenged by Hoffman’s subtle critique of those who become wanderers by choice, exiles for material or intellectual gain. Am I simply a new type of global consumer; a consumer of ideas, experiences, sensations, cultures, and traumas? And if so, do I risk trivializing real experiences of loss and forced exile?
As someone who desires to engage the world and its pressing needs, I am so easily tempted by the twin forces of disconnection and consumption. If I do not stay rooted in Christ and the reality that I am already home in Christ, I lose my relevancy, my vision, and my calling.
In my days of despair, I am reminded that all one day we will all find our way back home. And it may not be a place. Rather, in the words of philosopher John Caputo, “it is a time. A time when God rules rather than the world.” When we pray for God’s Kingdom to come on earth, we are asking that all of life become a time when God rules, that time be kept by God, as opposed to how it is kept in the world. In such a time, justice and mercy will rule, and we will no longer worry about being strangers because all strangers will be welcomed as friends. A recognition of God’s time is not escapism to a mythical paradise, but a radical engagement with the here and now as we cultivate actual, earthly spaces of community, hope and love.
I try to keep all this in mind when taking stock of my present circumstances. Though I question my motives and recognize my inner contradictions, I am still grateful to be here. I am being transformed not simply by this place, but by its people. I’m not sure what all this means philosophically, but I do know that I will carry this community in my heart long after I leave. I have to believe whatever pain I feel then, as I do now, is a result of connection and love. In this way, I don't believe that I am simply a deluded postmodern nomad. Love creates connection that counteracts this "unbearable lightness of being." It may just be our only hope.
Themes of exile and home have been heavy on my heart the last few weeks as I find myself struggling with living in my new home and longing to visit Seattle and Leavenworth, which in my mind represent “home.” It is so easy to characterize my experience here as exile --- but then I watch a film like God Grew Tired of Us about the lost boys of Sudan, and I am humbled by the dignity and courage of refugees who may NEVER have the opportunity to go back to their home country. And I feel sad about the fact that I may not be able to go back to the Northwest for a year!
Next week, I am returning to Winkler, Manitoba. It has been 12 or 13 years since I last visited. Much has changed. My grandparents have moved out of their house and gradually their bodies have eroded. My last memories include wandering through corn fields in the summer heat and eating rollkucken with watermelon. I am excited about this journey. As a child, I was at the whim of my parent’s finances. Now, as an adult, I can choose my priorities. I am excited to share Mennonite culture with Than because, though invisible to outsiders, it still shapes me. I want to continue to keep what little fragments I have alive.
Place is very important to me. I mourn the fact that I have not been able to return to Germany, the land of my childhood, since we moved. Each time I have been back to Europe, it has been therapeutic, but I still have remained on the periphery. At the same time, I have been challenged and convicted by a recent quote sent to me on exile. This quote is from a much longer article called Wanders by Choice by Eva Hoffman. Read the full article here:
“Since Adam and Eve left the Garden of Eden, is there anyone who does not, in some way feel like an exile? We feel ejected from our first homes and landscapes, from our first romance, from our authentic self. An ideal sense of belonging, of attuning with others and ourselves, eludes us.
Exile was always considered one of the worst punishments possible because people’s identities were defined by their role and place in society. In recent years, however, we have come to value in our culture those qualities of experience that exile brings—uncertainty, displacement, fragmented identity. Post-modern nomads consider home mostly as a site of narrow-mindedness and nationalism. Now exile is sexy and glamorous. But it comes at enormous cost.
I wonder if in this world of easy come, easy go, of sliding among places and meanings without alighting on them for very long, we don’t lose internal focus…we risk being overwhelmed by what Milan Kundera calls “the unbearable lightness of being.” It is the illness that comes to unanchored people, those who travel perpetually to new moments and sensations and to whom no internal feeling is more important than another.”
I am challenged by this quote because I, like many in my generation, am so easily seduced (and discontented) by the romantic idea of postmodern exile. While I have been privileged to grown up in a swirling mix of cultures and to have traveled the world, the downside has been at times this loss of internal focus or rootedness. I’m also challenged by Hoffman’s subtle critique of those who become wanderers by choice, exiles for material or intellectual gain. Am I simply a new type of global consumer; a consumer of ideas, experiences, sensations, cultures, and traumas? And if so, do I risk trivializing real experiences of loss and forced exile?
As someone who desires to engage the world and its pressing needs, I am so easily tempted by the twin forces of disconnection and consumption. If I do not stay rooted in Christ and the reality that I am already home in Christ, I lose my relevancy, my vision, and my calling.
In my days of despair, I am reminded that all one day we will all find our way back home. And it may not be a place. Rather, in the words of philosopher John Caputo, “it is a time. A time when God rules rather than the world.” When we pray for God’s Kingdom to come on earth, we are asking that all of life become a time when God rules, that time be kept by God, as opposed to how it is kept in the world. In such a time, justice and mercy will rule, and we will no longer worry about being strangers because all strangers will be welcomed as friends. A recognition of God’s time is not escapism to a mythical paradise, but a radical engagement with the here and now as we cultivate actual, earthly spaces of community, hope and love.
I try to keep all this in mind when taking stock of my present circumstances. Though I question my motives and recognize my inner contradictions, I am still grateful to be here. I am being transformed not simply by this place, but by its people. I’m not sure what all this means philosophically, but I do know that I will carry this community in my heart long after I leave. I have to believe whatever pain I feel then, as I do now, is a result of connection and love. In this way, I don't believe that I am simply a deluded postmodern nomad. Love creates connection that counteracts this "unbearable lightness of being." It may just be our only hope.
Monday, June 11, 2007
empty
As we celebrate comings and goings, death finds us in a courageous dance like embers in a subsiding flame suddenly breathed to life. I want to dance. I don’t want to miss this. Yet, there is a sudden sense that the stage is shifting beneath my feet until almost unrecognizable. I never knew this could be so lonely.
In six weeks I will be married. At the moment, though, the more monumental shift seems to be that in six weeks I’ll be moving. Marriage feels natural. Moving feels terrifying – like a violent birthing – and yet it is also exciting as I know that my move into the unknown is preceded and motivated out of love, faith, hope and joy.
Perhaps I am less terrified as I am sad. It hurts to leave what is known, and yet rapidly feels foreign and fading: the people, the places, the tall mountains and dark soil. It will never be the same again, and the call – always – is to keep moving, further up and further in, to travel deeper and wider than I ever thought possible. But how this transience aches. Nothing lasts forever.
Still, I have to get on with the business of life. It is heart wrenching work: surrendering to this ebb and flow.
In six weeks I will be married. At the moment, though, the more monumental shift seems to be that in six weeks I’ll be moving. Marriage feels natural. Moving feels terrifying – like a violent birthing – and yet it is also exciting as I know that my move into the unknown is preceded and motivated out of love, faith, hope and joy.
Perhaps I am less terrified as I am sad. It hurts to leave what is known, and yet rapidly feels foreign and fading: the people, the places, the tall mountains and dark soil. It will never be the same again, and the call – always – is to keep moving, further up and further in, to travel deeper and wider than I ever thought possible. But how this transience aches. Nothing lasts forever.
Still, I have to get on with the business of life. It is heart wrenching work: surrendering to this ebb and flow.
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