2014.05.25 Inalienable Speech—and Thought?

It’s graduation season, an exciting-hopeful-crazy time, full of terror. What are we commencing to do? Will I meet a boy in college? Fall in love? Did I tell my kid enough about what to avoid, on and on. Will I be homesick?  Go!—with all my love and Godde’s grace! Here’s a little cash.

Bless you, Gillian, the family high school grad, 2014.  (GG with Uncle John)

 

I’ve been reading in the news about some disturbances at colleges about choices of graduation speakers, choices that offended some students’ political views.  Inalienable rights of speech and thought came into question. Whose rights?   (Inalienable, btw, means you can’t give this away, nor can it be taken from you.) I presume that includes the right to think and speak and have ideas.

Ruth Simmons, retired former president of Brown University, was the first black president of Smith College, my alma mater, from 1995-2001. I remember feeling proud of Smith when she was selected, and also irrationally miffed at Brown for “stealing” her away and Simmons for abandoning my alma mater.  But after all, at Brown she got to have two firsts: first woman and first black. Still, Simmons did not take the job for those reasons. She's not like that. She is humble—and religious. She stepped in at the last minute to deliver the commencement address at Smith on May 18, 2014.

She filled after Christine Lagarde, FIRST woman to head the IMF (International Monetary Fund),  pulled out. There had been some protesting about the choice of Lagarde whose perspectives come from a conservative point of view—the "1-percent" view, you might say.

Lagarde said that this was an occasion of celebration and joy, and that no tensions, if avoidable, should interfere with that spirit, nor with the focus on honoring the grads who had worked so hard.  Her decision seemed gracious.

The current president of Smith, Kathleen McCartney, accepted Lagarde’s decision with regret and commented, "I was interested in hearing what she had to say.”

 

It would not, I believe, have hurt Smith grads, their families, and the whole gathered academic community to hear from a woman leader with a challenging viewpoint. This is what their liberal education prepared them for. That’s what I learned at Smith, a gift of thinking for myself, not in isolation, but with courage. That's also what I learned as a Christian priest who welcomes everyone to the table.



Simmons was quite brilliant, also tearful and witty, with a little quip about herself being a religious person but having faith in the inalienable right to practice one’s religion without persecution. Not bad for the daughter of a Baptist minister, she grinned. She carefully articulated the liberal, same root as liberation, values of the college and the importance of fighting for everyone’s right to have a voice, even and especially if it represented a challenge. Oh Godde, ya hafta think!

The college, Simmons said, should not “lapse into a place of quiet repose” but rather fight for “the jangling discord of learning at its best.” — “to protect the right of each one to each one’s views.” Simmons closed with a passionate call to graduates, in whatever they chose to do, “to do it in the full spirit of who you are and who (I do know it’s whom) you care about.”  "Above all, she concluded to cheers and ovation, “take care of your voice!”  

That feels like gospel!

I could not help but think that the church should not become a place of “quiet repose” as so many expect, want, and even need.

The church is an organic community of living breathing souls, all of them with voice, and all of them covenanted to love Godde, self and neighbor.  Jesus was slaughtered for his voice. It takes courage to speak your mind and heart. 

Take care of your voice through careful thought, conversation, and with prayer: Godde, help us not to lapse into quiet repose, except when we sleep each night, and, for Christ’s sake, guard us against waking repose. Amen.

2014.05.18 The Spirituality of Curiosity

Curiosity is a very pleasant place to dwell. Relaxing even.
And most certainly fruitful.

The above quote is from a prose poem, “Experiments,”  by Margaret Wheatley. I love this delicious idea. Of course I do. It's true of me. I used to drive my parents crazy with questions and more questions. All kids do that as they grow but I never grew out of it. My curiosity is insatiable really. I wish my brain could keep up with what I want to find out.

Since my curious bent knows no limits it has quite naturally turned to theology. I mean if you’re going to question everything, then eventually, or even first off, you must question the most mysterious thing we can name. Still, as long as I question it means that I’m faithful, which means not stuck on certainty.

Here is more from the Wheatley excerpt: 

Curiosity it a very compelling space—open, rich friendly. We’re willing to be surprised rather than having to get it right. We’re interested in others’ perspectives, intrigued by differences, stimulated by new thoughts. 

Curiosity is a very pleasant to dwell. Relaxing even.
And most certainly fruitful.

All it requires is letting go of certainty and admitting we
don’t know what we’re doing.

Let the experiments begin.

I doubt if curiosity ever killed any cats. They’re too smart. But I often get into trouble with my questions. To some people they can feel rude and invasive. Others love it and see my curiosity as a sign of caring, which it is.

There is a lovely woman in our neighborhood who drives a motorized wheelchair all over town, moving along the city streets, potholed and hazardous enough for cars, bikes and pedestrians, but for a wheelchair?  She goes some distance to get over to Mass. Ave. and the Dunkin’ Donut shop. One day I met her. She was toodling along in the rain holding an umbrella in one hand and steadying a sizable bag in her lap. She called to me for help. “May I borrow your cell phone? I forgot mine and also my keys.”

I gave her my old-fashioned flip-top phone, then helped her dial. Her husband didn’t pick up so we dialed her son. “Hi, it’s mom. I’m out here on someone else’s cell and I forgot my keys so will you go unlock the door? OK. Thanks.”

She thanked me profusely and we chatted a bit as neighbors do. We exchanged names and I then went on my way, reassured that she would go on home and be able to get in. I thought to myself: what an attractive friendly woman; I and wonder why she lives in a wheelchair. Did I mention that she has flaming red hair coiffed in a neat pageboy?

I expected she’d go right home. I went over to the square to do my errands and while walking back, still in the rain, I spotted her sitting near the window of the Dunkin’ Donuts shop drinking her special coffee. I tapped on the window and waved. She waved back and we grinned.

The next time I saw her she was on another street, this time traversing snowy, icy surfaces and griping about this winter like everyone else was. She is either intrepid or insane. 

“I just have to get out into the world,” she said. “Every day is a curiosity.”

“I know what you mean,” I said.

I had swallowed my curiosity and kept myself from asking what kept her in a wheelchair. I’ve met her several times now, and I call her by name and say hello. One day I asked her, “What keeps you in a wheelchair, Theresa?”

“I have MS,” she said with a smile.

“I’m so sorry,” I said smiling back. Should I have been more gushy, boo hoo-ish? Or apologize for my question?  No, I decided, remembering that she was as curious about each day as I was, and listening to my heart, which beat with compassion and admiration for this woman’s spunk.

It’s my mind that generates the curiosity. When accompanied by a compassionate heart, curiosity is more loving than invasive—”a very pleasant place to dwell indeed.”

I thought of the first disciples. If they hadn’t been curious they’d never have discerned resurrection.  Jesus often asked bold questions. Imagine asking a hopelessly crippled paralytic man if he wanted to be made well? Obvious, but Jesus was curious to know what the man wanted before he whipped out a miracle healing. The man’s own heart’s desire was as important to Jesus as Godde’s was for healing. 

(I promise I won’t ask Theresa if she wants to be healed next time we meet. I’m not that curious—and besides, I couldn’t deliver.)

Prayer will be enough—an act of honest care, of faith, not certainty. 

2014.05.11 Divine Mothering, Psalm 23

In honor of Mother’s Day and the mothering nature of Godde’s spirit—tender and bold—in all things, I share this beautiful prayer psalm written by Bobby McFerrin, vocalist and poet, born 1950.  By mothering I mean that capacity given to all humanity to hold close, to nurture, to guide and guard, empower, and to feed.

Julian of Norwich, mystic and saint, wrote of Jesus Christ thus: “Jesus, our beloved mother, who feeds us with his most precious body and blood. . .”


McFerrin wrote this version of the psalm and dedicated it to his own mother.  You can hear him chant it on YouTube (google his name of course:)—or click:
 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9fzWq-d8jU    I promise you it will make you weep.


The 23rd Psalm
By Bobby McFerrin

The Lord is my Shepard, I have all I need,
She makes me lie down in green meadows,
Beside the still waters, She will lead.

She restores my soul, She rights my wrongs,
She leads me in a path of good things,
And fills my heart with songs.

Even though I walk, through a dark & dreary land,
There is nothing that can shake me,
She has said She won't forsake me,
I'm in her hand.

She sets a table before me, in the presence of my foes,
She anoints my head with oil,
And my cup overflows.

Surely, surely goodness & kindness will follow me,
All the days of my life,
And I will live in her house,
Forever, forever & ever.

Glory be to our Mother, & Daughter,
And to the Holy of Holies,
As it was in the beginning, is now & ever shall be,
World, without end. Amen.

2014.05.04 Day Prayer

Lord,

It is dawn
The dawn is for awaking.
Let me awake into the Life of God.

It is day.
What has been dreamed has been dreamed
what has not been dreamed will wait.

Dawn is light
Let my fear of radiance in myself and in the world
rest in You.

Day is alive;
Let the liveliness of Your Life enfold me,
all who are dear to me,
and all who know no vitality.

Day drifts into dusk and 'tween light.
May I embrace this waning with hope—
deep sleep, sweet dark, silent vigor

AMEN.
                         (This prayer is patterned after Night Prayer in the New Zealand prayer book.)

2014.04.27 Serious Daring

Eudora Welty, b. 1909, offered this wisdom to all writers: “I am a writer who came of a sheltered life. A sheltered life can be a daring life as well. For all serious daring starts from within.”

This is absolutely delicious to the ears of a seriously daring introvert who grew up under the tutelage of a seriously extroverted mother. 

Welty’s wisdom is gospel for any writer, and it may be so for any woman striving to be heard in patriarchal societies, churches, and cultures.  Emily Dickinson gave birth to some of the best poetry in the world—from within her rooms and from within her own soul. She wrote of love: “That love is all there is, is all we know of love.”  Few could top that for serious daring from within!

Now, speaking of topping anything, I am currently wondering if I am an utter fool to keep on believing in my writing gifts and feminist slants. I’m riding on god knows what wave of feminist spirituality, probably fourth wave, which is more spiritually inclined.

Religious women are getting sick of feeling excluded from conversations in a secularist culture. Not long ago I attended a reading by Gail Collins from her fine book, When Everything Changed. The Story of American Women from the Sixties to The Present. Collins’ book is revelatory of the ongoing subordinate status of women in a patriarchal culture. It’s very thorough, often humorous, and also makes you wince. At the Q and A time I asked: “I don’t know if this omission was purposeful or not, but I noticed that there is nothing at all (I’d checked carefully) in your fine book about what was, and is, going on for women in religion during this time period—and there’s a lot.”  A hush fell over the small group of maybe 40 people, during which I thought to myself: Either I hit a nerve or I’m about to be run out of town.  (But I saw a few heads nod.)

Collins finally spoke, “You’re right and I’m sorry.” Then she explained all the instructions she had given to her researchers and how they used only secular journalistic sources, blah blah. Then she said, “I should have interviewed you for my book.”  I thought: You should have, and said, “Thank you. Maybe another book.” Maybe mine? People laughed and the tension was over. Collins was honest and gracious, yet it saddened me how isolated religion is from our culture, and how we women all have the same concerns about being treated with equality and dignity.

I won’t write a book like Collins’s. I don’t have the time or the energy, but what I do write does matter, so I persevere anyway, after a recuperative break to breathe, finishing my memoir and researching publishers—small ones.

I’ve questioned my desire to get published by a publishing house. I don’t aspire to any of the big houses. Well, I once did. Growing up and into one's gifts is a steady process of right-sizing for humility. But do I seriously dare to think I have something to say? Well, yes, in fact.

Is the case that my story illustrates relevant?— the need to establish full dignity and inclusion of women in all areas of ministry AND the need to liberate divinity from oppression by masculine pronouns? Yes, I believe so. Christian feminists continue to insist that words matter and language shapes how we feel about ourselves as well as how our relations are structured. Many people think that God is just as God is described in the Bible. Really? Every description? Count ’em. What we think is God is a portrait of God—not the same, Dorian! Scripture is full of portraits of God. Our work is to discern with integrity and not to make any one an idol. Perhaps the Church has sold its soul to market just one portrait: He-Man deity inflated with transcendence? It still sells.

It’s hard on our spirituality to live in a consumerist and market-driven culture. Nowadays for example, an author needs a sizable platform, a dazzling provocative brand, a perfect pitch, and an irresistibly alluring hook just to get in over the transom. Good Gawd, what an insane world. Anne Lamotte was right when she labeled America “the U.S. of advertising.”  Even my beloved late dad, the 1940s “mad man,”would agree.

I think we writers ought to rebel completely and make our own markets. Most of us, after all, have had some assertiveness training along the way! Between market demands and economics, our part feels almost negligible. Look how fast celebrities turn out memoirs! Really, I think it’s baloney-on-the-run—celebrity writing for either fame or fortune, or both.

Writers, it is time for some serious daring. Write your very best; make every word accountable; don’t sell your soul, or your words, to the market; let your soul speak. Publish yourself. It’s one way to protest and be prophetic—a prophet being one who sees the world for what it is and acts accordingly.

Thank you, Ms. Welty.