Thealogical Lady: A Blog

Spirit Whispers: Go

8/19/2014

It's about 11pm as I write this. My household has been asleep for two hours. Meanwhile I, who have been crashing into bed early for weeks, am restless. Something stirs in me, so my fingers rest on the keyboard, prepared to work out whatever it is that's keeping me awake.

The last few weeks--ever since the crisis in Gaza escalated--have been a nightmare. I can't get the people of God out of my head. Which people? All of them. We all belong to God--we all belong to the cosmos. And yet we treat each other like villains, or sewer rodents, or mold on our bathroom tile.

My heart has agonized over the global lie that "we" are better than "them," "I" am better than "you," "my people" are worthier than "those people."

The world is in a terrifying, seething rage, and meanwhile I carry on as usual with my daily responsibilities. What else can I do? What can a white woman in Tempe do for a dead black man in Ferguson? What can an American adult do for an orphaned, dying Palestinian child? What can a religious person here do for a Yazidi there?

The world needs to be swept up by peace, and the same old same old isn't going to make it so. I see beautiful ideas for religious renewal that might do some good, and I see also that the needs of the world require something deeper than beauty.

I write this for myself. I write it for others whose hearts are breaking from the weight of the world's anger. I write it for those who haven't found a way to break through their own disillusionment and tiredness.

I write it for those who have broken through. I want to know what's working. And I want to figure out what I can do.

Because I can't just sit around. And I can't sleep, either.

Help me, because my imagination is failing: beyond praying and hoping and waiting for people to come to their senses, what can we do?

Image by Anastasia Allen

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Spirit Whispers: Well

8/18/2014

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For Jana.

An hour of work
to pierce a pair of square feet,
roots hidden, shallow and fierce
beneath the surface.

I pierced, pulled, pushed,
watering as I went with
drop after drop
of my sweat.

My blood simmered as each stubborn stem
gave way to me.
I tossed each aside,
and then there were none,
just strands of what had been,
and loosened soil
for new planting.

A recluse pattered by, catching my eye
as I dug.
I offered a gloved finger
then blew the spider away.
Not now, my sister.

And I dug,
earth spilling into my gloves,
painting my hands with crust.

The succulent fell into the place I had made for her
with a sigh.

I stood, turned, and gathered the remains of what had been
into the trash bin, to be transformed
into compost for another life
to beget life.

The faucet squeaked its protest as I turned it.
When I found the nozzle's boldest setting,
I sprayed away the lifeless dust around the brick-lined abode
until my two square feet
and their new in-dweller
were alone.

Tonight, under the starry sky of the searing desert,
they will begin to confide their deepest secrets,
and learn how to feed one another.

And dear Lady Succulent-
with her thick, soft skin
surrounding mighty wells of gentle balm-
she and her loamy lover
will teach me how to live
well in the desert.

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Spirit Whispers: The power of story

8/17/2014

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The following is the text of a homily I preached this morning at St. Augustine's Episcopal Parish in Tempe, Arizona.

I’d like you to pause for a moment and think about your favorite book. Think about the title, the story, and the characters. Think about the actual copy or copies of the book that you’ve read, and where you were when you last read it. By a show of hands, how many of you have read your favorite book half a dozen times or more?

I reread one of my favorite books this week. My copy of Lawrence Thornton’s Imagining Argentina has yellowing paper, a splitting spine, and some of the most compelling characters I’ve ever met in words. I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve read and recommended Imagining Argentina to others. It’s a hard book to read, but the vision of hope it presents is powerful precisely because the heart of the book is so difficult. I find that lots of books and stories are great to sink my teeth into, but then there are those precious books whose stories sink into me, and my life is different—more thoughtful, more considered, more virtuous—for it.

When Fr. Gil announced several months ago that I would be preaching on August 17, I looked up the lessons of the day and practically jumped for joy. The stories of the Bible we hear today from the Old Testament and the gospel are two of my favorite stories from scripture.

Fast forward to earlier this week, when I read an e-mail containing a message from our Presiding Bishop, Katharine Jefferts Schori. She wrote to ask the entire Episcopal Church to make today, August 17, a day of prayer for those in Iraq.

It would be pretty hard not to pay attention to all the stories of what’s going on internationally these days. The Gaza Strip has been a focal point of terror between Palestine and Israel. Iraq is in the news for its highly visible genocide of Christians, among others. Thousands of militants who believe war is the only way to end war are ending the lives of innocent people, while they simultaneously inspire the uprising of new war-mongerers on every side. The desire to maintain the purity of one’s own land is the driving force behind much of this violence and prejudice. Even in our country, young unarmed men and women are being shot and killed by those who only seem to see that these young people are on the wrong side of the American color divide. Children are being detained like prisoners on our borders, in limbo between a land they cannot thrive in and a land that treats them as chaff among amber waves of grain.

I don’t know about you, but I haven’t slept well for weeks. These stories echo painfully in my heart. They force me to acknowledge that that simmering hatred becomes a blazing rage in manifold ways each day among people both far away and here at home, people who claim to be driven by the call of the law, or the call of God—people like me.

On this day of prayer for those innocents who are dying in Iraq, I see in today’s lessons stories that are less interesting than urgent, more deep than obvious.

The story of Joseph is an epic--we first meet him as a boy, Jacob's son. His many older brothers, in a fit of collective jealousy, throw him into a well, leaving him for dead. Then they change their minds, pull him out of the well, and sell him into slavery instead, figuring they ought to get something out of him. Joseph ends up in Egypt and endures prison and other grave hardships, with no hope but God's promise to help him. Eventually he becomes Pharaoh's most trusted advisor. When we encounter him in today's lesson, his brothers have just arrived, desperate for mercy from Pharaoh’s advisor in the midst of famine. They don’t know that the powerful man before them is their brother. As Joseph prepares to reveal his identity to his brothers, he sends everyone else away. In the end, all of Egypt, even the Pharaoh's household, hears his cries when he is alone with his brothers for the first time in years.

Next, in the gospel story, we hear about a Canaanite woman, a foreign woman, who comes to Jesus begging healing for her daughter who is possessed by a demon. At first Jesus ignores her, as if she weren’t even there. Then his disciples get antsy and ask him to send her away. To appease his friends, he gives her an excuse. She persists. He gives another excuse; she persists again, but this time she refers to him as master of the story that they’re creating through their dialogue, and it’s at that point where the story turns.

The difficulty with these stories for me comes when I try to put myself in them. I'm not powerful Pharaoh. I’m not wise, faithful Joseph. I’m not the woman begging on her knees for her daughter's life, and I’m certainly not Jesus.

When I put myself in these stories, the characters that resemble me most are the jealous, grudging brothers and the possessive, anxious disciples. I live a comfortable, privileged life. I don't easily relinquish my comfort, particularly for someone I don't like or whom I have no direct connection to. With all the horrors I read about in the news, whether in Gaza or in Iraq or in the United States, I perceive the selfishness of my fellow humans keenly, because it is that same selfishness on a grand scale that I practice on a micro-scale. I see in middle-eastern war-mongerers, as well as white-skinned insiders screaming at and threatening brown-skinned outsiders, unholy icons of the many ways in which my heart is hard and impenetrable. I cry over what I read in the news and in these scriptures, because I know how hard my heart is to break open, and I know it can't be any easier to break open any of theirs.

But here's the thing: Joseph's brothers, who sent Joseph to his doom, watched as God's grace broke through their evil deeds. God’s grace revealed not only their brother who had saved all of Egypt and surrounding lands from famine, but revealed their brother who loved them more than ever.

And then there’s the foreign woman from the gospel. By calling Jesus “Master,” she forces him to pay attention to her. Not only does he pay attention to her, but his understanding of what it means to be Lord is subverted by her. Through this woman’s unflagging persistence in the face of blatant rejection and humiliation, Jesus—God’s own chosen one-- perceives that his power as Lord is not just for the sake of “his people,” but for all who call on him for saving help. Through this foreign woman, God's grace breaks through the walls Jesus and his people had built against this woman, this outsider.

If God can accomplish mighty, gracious deeds through possessive, jealous, rebellious hearts like those of Joseph’s brothers, and if God's grace can break through the walls that Jesus' disciples and even Jesus put up to guard their selfish interests--then perhaps God's grace can break through right here in our midst.

What if the stories of war-mongerers and privileged insiders were subverted by stories more persistent and enduring than theirs? What if they were to see that they are indeed called by God--not called to hate and shut out strangers, but rather to love and to welcome and uplift them? I wonder, if we each take a moment to remember again our favorite books and stories, what we might discover about ourselves from them. What do we find most compelling? Do we embrace the bravery and outrageous kindness and selflessness that we encounter in our most beloved, imperfect characters?

What if we were to embrace Joseph’s love of those who had utterly betrayed him? What if you and I embraced Jesus’ humility in accepting that we, as citizens of the most powerful nation on earth, are accountable to more than just the people we call our own? What if we listened not to our own wisdom, but the wisdom that inspires us to become who we are called to be? Maybe the Word of God, Holy Sophia, would become incarnate in us as it did in Mary when she made her bold, unwavering, all-embracing “Yes.”

Perhaps, if each of us said yes to the wisdom in the stories that are most precious and compelling to us, we, like Mary, would become God-bearers in the world. Perhaps then, beginning with you and me, God’s peace would spread to all lands and peoples, and then perhaps the peoples of the world, both here and elsewhere, would come at last to dwell in the everlasting peace of God.

Amen.

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Spirit Whispers: Bear one another's burdens... (Guest Post)

8/12/2014

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Rebecca Longbow is a writer of poetry, short fiction, and creative non-fiction. Her name has been changed to protect her privacy.

She said it was seven years ago. She said she never told me, but she never forgot how helpless I seemed.

I’m going through a divorce right now. When I told a lady I’ve recently gotten to know again, she recounted seeing me struggle in my marriage. I never knew anyone noticed. No one said a word. I always felt so alone in this struggle.

When she told me, I was touched that she remembered. I was touched she cared back then.

She told me that one day it was raining heavily. She said my family drove up in a car. My then husband quickly ran in from the rain, leaving me to struggle with an infant in a car seat, a toddler, and a son with sensory issues all alone. She said she couldn’t believe my husband would be so insensitive.

When she first told me, I was touched that she remembered that it happened. I was touched that she cared. Later that night though, my emotions changed to sadness tinged with anger. She saw. She was mad at my husband. She couldn’t believe he would let me struggle alone.

And then she also let me struggle alone. She did not come over and offer to help carry the diaper bag or hold an umbrella.

In 7 years, she never told me that she noticed I was struggling. She never said, “I thought of you today and I wanted you to know I care about you.” A smile and helping hand would have meant the world to me that day.

I’ve found that is the silence of most in churches that I know. They say, “I can’t believe you waited this long to leave him.”

Yes, I waited. You know why? Because I assumed people either couldn’t see me or all or could see but agreed with how he treated me. No one spoke up. No one told me I didn’t have to live like this. No one told me I was worthwhile. They just watched as he tore me down.

They told me that I didn’t smile enough. They made comments about how I ought to volunteer more. I’m sure there were good intentions like, “not meddling in a marriage.” But there is a broad path between “not meddling” and being that person to help me in the rain.

I wasn’t worth getting wet for. My children were not worth it to her.

Sometimes I don’t know if I embrace a god. But when I think of what I believe, I believe in grace. I believe in forgiveness. I believe in my struggle to forgive all those who turned their heads. I believe in helping hands. I believe in smiles. I believe in extending grace to parents and others, in grocery stores and parking lots and on airplanes.

I’ve learned to be the helper this lady was not to me for those seven years. And I always will. I can never forget her story. And for all the people like me in the world, I want to be there even if just with a sympathetic smile and a kind word.

I think that is part of what draws me to the students I teach in an alternative school. They are the ones others turn from, the teens who show up on the news and in the jail. If I have a religion, it’s the religion of “do not turn away.” I will not turn my face and choose silence over love. My love may not change a life. But even if I’m just the little thought that “someone seems to care about me,” I will have lived a life of meaning.

For me, for now, that is my religion. To care beyond limits. If I ever learn how to do that completely, then I may pursue exactly who I should address if I pray. For now, I try to live prayers of kindness out loud. That feels more real than the many petitions I used to utter. I’m not against the saying of prayers. I’m just trying to find more balance in my life, more living on intentions than praying them.

And, as hurt as I was at first, I’m really glad my friend told me about how she noticed my plight that day in the rain. I’ve learned from her experience in ways I might not have if she had simply helped me that day, instead of telling me years later. The lesson to help others is now firmly cemented in my mind.

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Spirit Whispers: When It Comes to Healing (Guest Post)

8/7/2014

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Elizabeth A. Hawksworth is a published poet and historical fiction writer as well as a prominent blogger on topics of feminism, body positivity, fatphobia, writing, nannying, social justice, and spirituality. She is bold in writing about issues of ultimate concern when remaining silent and unnoticed would be, in the moment, easier. Here is part of her story.

A few hours north of Sarnia, Ontario, there is a quiet place nestled in a forest. Built with rustic logs, smelling like pine pitch, and surrounded by acres of misty trees, this small building stands, institutional and peaceful; utilitarian and somehow unique. In its natural surroundings, staring at a painting of the Baby Jesus, I found God.

Prayer, for me, has been a way to get through everyday life. I pray for health. I pray to be a better person. I pray for my family, my friends. I pray for things I want, things I don’t deserve, things I’m desperate about, things I can’t deal with. It’s not a fancy prayer. It’s often a mantra, repeated over and over, sometimes under my breath, sometimes out loud, sometimes mouthed in public places, and sometimes earnestly in the dark. And I pray every night, without fail, before I can close my eyes and sleep. I have to touch base. I have to let Him know. I need You. Please help me.

In that church retreat, hidden in the woods, I learned how to pray for more than just myself. I unlocked the talent I had all along – the talent of being able to use my words to change the world for the better. And I never felt closer to God, or more powerful with Him through me than I did then – creating creeds, weaving poetry, sharing with everyone my own personal faith, placing my feet on the path to social justice. If you had asked me then, I would have told you that I didn’t think I would ever be able to part from my relationship with God.

How things change.

I was badly wounded by the Church when I was a teenager. Shy, uncertain, and angry, I was struggling with my own sexuality and my sense of being. Holding hands with God, or so I thought, I faced the people who, also holding hands with God, told me that I didn’t belong. That I would burn in hell. That I was a sinner, a deliberate sinner, one who was so full of pride and bravado and hubris and lies, that I would never be welcome unless I changed who I was at the core. I had grown up solid in my belief that God makes us in His perfect image, and never makes mistakes. Now, I wasn’t sure if I was wrong, or if they were, but my hurt overwhelmed my faith.

I went back at 18, denying who I was. I joined a church of beauty and majesty, of tradition as old as time, and restrictions worse than any other church I’d ever been to. Was it punishment for the supposed sin of who I thought I was? To this day, I can’t answer that. All I know is that everywhere I turned, I found leaders, church members, even the Bible itself, it seemed, telling me that the person I am would never be good enough for God.

So I left. And I tried to forget.

I’m a rational person, most of the time. I also hold grudges, long after I should. And the hurt faded into twinges and then roared back to life in explosive, fiery anger. I wanted to hurt the Church the way it had hurt me. I wanted to hurt God. I wanted to burn in hell the way they said, just so that I could be myself without pretense, so I could live in sin without consequence and guilt.

And inside, I cried out for the God I knew in that quiet forest retreat. I begged Him to help me. I pushed Him away with both hands while simultaneously crying for Him in the night. And to His credit, He hasn’t let me go, though most days, I continue to angrily push and push and push, as hard as I can. He has forgiven me and continues to forgive me, despite all of my anger and moral failings, despite my hurt and my pride. He has quietly proven over and over that He thinks I am good enough for Him.

Knowing this, I suspect that one day, I will heal completely from my scars and from my open, bleeding wounds, the way that even the biggest wounds do heal. The scars will always hurt a little, but they won’t always be open and raw, ready to bleed again at another article about Christians saying “God hates fags”, or someone telling me that you can’t be Christian and gay.

But here’s the thing about healing. When you forgive someone, you don’t do it for them – not really. They benefit from it. They may think that you are doing them a favour. And maybe, part of healing is to acknowledge that you acted wrongly, too, even if at the time, you don’t think you did. Maybe part of it is to be like God, and not push away your fellow human, even if that fellow human has done cutting, horrible things to your psyche and to your sense of self.

The thing about healing is that forgiveness is mostly for you. It’s to reach out with your own humanity and be the bigger person. It doesn’t mean you forget, and it doesn’t mean that you have to draw that person back into your heart. What it does mean is that where the rushing, raging rivers have broken the bridge of faith, forgiveness helps to place new planks, to tie the knots back into the ropes. Where the bridge has rotted in places, forgiveness places brand new materials to make your bridge stronger than ever before. Where the bridge is shaky, forgiveness helps to steady it so that when you walk across it and try to meet God on the other side, it’s not so hard and scary to cross it.

Because when it comes to healing, it might take awhile. It might take a long time to rebuild your bridge. And I’m not saying that someone isn’t going to come along and say cutting things that will throw it into disrepair. I’ve rebuilt my bridge many times now . . . and I’ve begged God to help me find the strength to do it again.

Your bridge isn’t just to God. Your bridge is to your fellow humans, as well. The ones that put up walls to keep others out – your bridge goes to their door and invites them to come and meet you in the middle. The ones that tell you you’re not welcome – your bridge goes to them and tells them that they are welcome to come and belong with you. And the ones that meet you with hatred – your bridge shows them that the easier path is love.

Because maybe the place you’re all trying to reach is that little church retreat in the woods, with the whispering leaves and the distant rush of the many creeks. Maybe the path you all want to walk is the shady wide dirt path with the dappled sunlight through the trees, that wide and welcoming path that has benches to rest on and clear pools to drink from. Maybe the paths we choose are inevitably the harder ones because the stony paths teach you what smooth footing feels like, and we have to learn, in order to grow.

Maybe the pain and the blood are something we all experience, even when we’re the ones wielding the swords that hurt. And maybe when it comes to healing, you find it in the silence and the dark, the pleas and the desperation, the fact that when you couldn’t walk anymore, He carried you – and carries you still.

Maybe when it comes to healing, it becomes the easier path to take – broken bridge, and all.

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Spirit Whispers: I'm sorry

8/3/2014

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I'm sorry
she says
softening her tone
averting her gaze
shifting her posture
willing the other to see that she means no harm

I'm sorry
she says
when she actually means
Pardon me
-or-
No, thank you
-or-
Here's what I think about it

I'm sorry
she says
when it's the other person
who screwed up, caused harm, bears blame
the other person
who offered what she doesn't need or want
the other person
who just heard her apologize for no good reason and is no longer interested

I'm sorry
she also says
on the rare occasion
when her apology
has merit

Why does she
hide behind
that simpering sorry?

Is it fitting to say sorry in a crowd that seeks her vision
rather than to say what she means?

Is it fitting to say sorry to a man in order to submit in the way she expects he expects
when young women are watching every move she makes?

Is it honest to say sorry to a challenger
rather than to speak forth the prophetic fire that blazes within her?

Why does she say
sorry, sorry, sorry
when so little of what she does
deserves her easy
self-deprecation
self-humiliation
self-abasement?

What if
she stopped
watering down
her virtue

and instead

began her day
with a strong cup of
I'm not sorry
?

(What a
HERE I AM, LORD
that would be)

~~~

The above is inspired by two people I respect who recently asked me, on separate occasions, why I say sorry when I do. I have long regarded "I'm sorry" as a gesture of hospitality in tense or difficult situations, but I am beginning to rethink that. I am grateful to my gentle adversaries for inviting me to see beyond my limited vision of what genuine hospitality might look like from a (female) leader.

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Spirit Whispers: Go

Spirit Whispers: Well

Spirit Whispers: The power of story

Spirit Whispers: Bear one another's burdens... (Guest Post)

Spirit Whispers: When It Comes to Healing (Guest Post)

Spirit Whispers: I'm sorry

M. Kate Allen

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