summertime...

...and the livin' is easy.

Here's a little summer treat, a lovely quote from Ralph Waldo Emerson, made all arty by yours truly. Enjoy. (click image to see larger, better quality version)

the table

The table: locus of our lives together. "No matter what, we must eat to live" says Joy Harjo in her poem "Perhaps the World Ends Here":

perhaps the world ends here

By Joy Harjo

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of the earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At the table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sign with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

I adore this poem, and this weekend as I was drafting this blog entry I kept coming back to the poem. I find myself sitting at a multiplicity of tables in my life.

There is the lunch table with my work colleagues where we sit in the cafeteria of the Bay department store downtown and discuss everything from movies to politics to meditation.

There are the lunch tables at school where our busy student lives collide for hours/minutes/moments to eat and share in our common chaos.

There is the familiar dinner table I grew up at that is still in my parents home, where I know I can always go, knowing I'll leave full.

There are the tables at church, old and new, small and large, where I sit crowded in with all sorts of people I love.

There are the dinner tables of friends: varied sizes and types, with their vinyl benches, wooden chairs, office chairs, couches and laps, formal and informal.

And there is the table in my own home, where I set down dishes that hopefully read "love" and bring out food that contains part of myself and my com/passion.

I like to believe that tables are always holy places, be they adorned with decorations at the front of a church or weathered and sitting in the middle of a park. Sitting down together to eat is a sacred act, or else we would not have had a history of so many cultures where who one ate with, what one ate, and where one ate meant so much. Is your table a holy place? How can we endeavor to make all of our tables holy places?

the rub of theology

When some of my friends and I talk theology we often find ourselves at some point rubbing our own skin or touching each other to try and show what we're trying to get at. "It's about this" one of us will say, stroking another's hand or arm, skin on skin, the intimacy of touch and the basic-ness of body as demonstration of the type of truth we are trying to articulate.

Why is it that this sensual act is where "the rub" is with theology for me and for much of my community? There is something very important to me in the act of touch, in the act of closeness. I think it is in part due to one of the most basic elements of my theology: this life and these people in this place at this time deserve my love and compassion. My metaphysical world is not void of non-material substance that is of value, but I try to remember the value of the material world as well, which I think is also central to Christian theology.

Our flesh is so precious: our contemporary cosmologists, our physicists, tell us that matter is extraordinarily rare in our universe. This body that sits typing is made up of more empty space than matter, and the universe has even more empty space. How precious and wonderful and rare we all are with our tiny amounts of matter in relation to the vastness of space. Christian doctrine backs up this preciousness of the flesh as God takes to flesh and becomes incarnate, in-spiring and enlivening our skin and bones, not only in the body of Jesus but in the dry bones in the desert, in ha-adamah the first earth creature, in the water, in the wind, in the bread, in the wine, in our tongues.

And yet these spirit-imbued fleshy bodies are fragile and vulnerable. We need each other for protection, for touch, for creating new life. And we need food to eat and shelter and warmth and clean water, for we are easily hurt; we simply cannot survive alone and exposed. Perhaps it is this very vulnerability that causes us to doubt so much our own preciousness, to doubt that divinity would dare to move in this weak flesh, these frail bones.

Ludwig Feuerbach told us in the mid-1800's that our idea of God is merely a projection of ourselves - or more specifically for Feuerbach, Man. More recently, feminist philosopher of religion, Grace Jantzen, took up this notion of projection and dared to suggest, with help from Luce Irigaray, that projection does not necessarily have to imply atheism. If our projections are ethical, ideal and life-giving, then they ought to draw us toward being more, toward becoming divine ourselves. Becoming divine, says Jantzen, ought to be the goal of all religion.

Could the frailty of our flesh be part of what has precluded some philosophers and theologians from allowing this possibility of allowing ourselves divine projections and moving toward those projections? How could something divine come from this frail flesh, they might ask. To which I would respond - how can divinity come from anywhere else but right here? *Shannon caresses her own arm*

As a friend spoke the other night of the frailty of human bodies, I was struck with a sense of awe for life, and compassion for all life. I am surrounded by fellow beings who are living with pain: watching my grandma in the hospital, watching friends and family members recover from surgeries and accidents and traumas, experiencing the unreliability of my own body - the brokenness of it all can be overwhelming. Yet we are here and we are alive and we are together and divinity breathes anew each moment, even right here where my wrist hurts, and right there where stitches close your wound, and right there where the pain is so deep we cannot touch it, and right there where new life defiantly begins. Right here, in this flesh is where we find "the rub" of theology, is where our religious lives take shape, is where all life becomes divine.


Ludwig Feuerbach. The Essence of Christianity.
Grace Jantzen. Becoming Divine: Towards a Feminist Philosophy of Religion.
Luce Irigaray. This Sex which is not One. and Sexes and Genealogies.

transformed by God

I spent the summer between my third and fourth years in University doing church camps and reunions at the Community of Christ campground at Lewis River in southwest Washington. That summer I had a transformative experience that changed the way I approached my whole life.

It was a very intense and busy summer. Included in that busy intensity were a lot of joys and wonderful experiences, but there were also a lot of struggles and challenges that went along with the fun of being at camp. One week towards the middle of the summer, I found myself in a very difficult camp where there were many stressful issues to deal with including challenging campers and staff. One morning towards the end of the week I was feeling particularly overwhelmed and asked the directors if I could have a bit of a break for about an hour. I walked beside the creek that is on the campground until I arrived at a lovely waterfall that I had heard was up the hill. There I sat down on a rock to rest a bit and collect my thoughts. I cried a little and thought a lot. I contemplated what had happened, how I was feeling, and how I would deal with the rest of the week ahead of me. As I sat there contemplatively problem-solving by listening and relaxing, I had a sudden rush of insight or revelation. Insight that, although simple, felt profound. The insight was that I did not want to simply give up on what I was doing. This was profound because I compared it to how I had felt in the preceding years when I came up against difficulties and challenges in my life. In most stark contrast was my experience in my computer classes: when I was computer programming and hit a problem that seemed un-solvable, I would feel like I wanted to give up. But this camp experience was different. Although the problems seemed just as unsolvable as a difficult computer program, I did not want to give up.

This realization had a profound effect on me because it made me look at my life choices in an entirely different light. Why should I keep doing something that I don’t want to stick with in tough times, when I’d found something else that I wanted to stick with even when it seemed to be an impossible challenge? That summer I began to seriously contemplate and discern what a career in ministry might look like for me. That fall I decided I had a lot to learn about ministry, so I decided to attend theology school. And then the following spring I was accepted at Vancouver School of Theology. Theology school has been challenging too, but there has always been an underlying commitment to the work I’m doing, which has kept and continues to keep me from giving up entirely.

If I dig even deeper into why it is that I refuse to give up, I would probably have to say that it has to do with a desire to serve God and neighbour with my whole being. And if I were to dig deeper into where that desire to serve God and neighbour comes from, I arrive at a simple but complex and profound answer: love. When I think more about my summer in Lewis River I realise that at that point in my life I was still holding very close to my heart an experience of the love of God that had transformed me. I had gone through a very dark spiritual place where I doubted God, doubted love, and doubted myself.

One night at a retreat, I walked a twisting labyrinth path that had various stations, and a cd to accompany the journey. At each station within the labyrinth the walkers were to listen to a different track on the cd that each was listening to on a personal cd player with headphones. The station I remember most clearly and vividly was one that had cushions sitting in front of a mirror, so that one could sit down on the cushions and then look at oneself in the mirror. As I sat down, the cd played soft music, and then a voice track began: “Look at yourself in the mirror” it said. “Look at the beautiful child of God that you are. You were made in God’s image and you are loved by God.” With those simple words came a rush of tears – a sign that I have learned for me often means I am experiencing a deep truth. And I realised that in my pain and searching I had lost track of that simple yet profound truth: that I am made in God’s image and loved unconditionally by God. It is this profound truth that my desire to love God and neighbour flows from.

I want to let God’s complete love for me and the whole world take over my whole self: body, mind and spirit. I want that overwhelming compassion and unconditional love of God for all life to take over and determine each and every step I take. I want to travel along paths that challenge me, that force me to be the very best version of myself, and to use all of my skills and gifts. My life has been transformed by God, mainly by God’s love, and I want everything I do to reflect that transformation.

(excerpted from my sermon this morning)

what it means to be alive

"This is life, this is what living is all about."

I found myself saying this phrase or something close to it on multiple occasions this week. This past week has held some crazy times for me. First of all, I'm not living at my place right now, for about the past 10 days I've been staying at the house of some friends' while new flooring is put into the place where I live. I feel like a bit of a refugee. Second of all, in the midst of this disruption to life, on Monday night my grandmother (my Mom's Mom) had a bad fall and hurt herself very badly. Her skull and several vertebrae fractured. For several days we were not sure if she would make it. About seven and a half years ago my grandfather on the same side fell too, had a terrible head injury, and never recovered. You can imagine how spooky it was for the family to have this similar event with grandma. She is recovering now, but it will be a long recovery, and there is no way to know for sure what a "full recovery" will look like for her.

It has been a huge thing for me to be able to go see her in the hospital in Chilliwack (1.5 hour drive away), to hold her hand, to listen to her snore, to stroke her back as she sleeps. She is a beautiful and incredibly strong person, so it is also difficult to see her in such a weak state.

My Mom is the eldest of seven siblings, and we are a very close family, but it has been a struggle to get through this very intense and stressful time together, another thing added on top of the multiplicity of stresses and strains that seven people plus their spouses and children are already under in regular day-to-day life.

And in the midst of all of this I have realized that this sort of thing is exactly what life is about. Life isn't about picture-perfect family gatherings and smooth sailing all the way. Life is messy, life is painful, life is maddening, life weighs heavily, life is tenuous. And then life is also beautiful: the sound of my grandmother's snoring, the touch of her soft hand, the big bear hug from an uncle, the beautiful honesty and truthfulness that comes in a plea for help. This is what it means to be alive, beautifully, joyously, painfully alive.

some poetry

The floors are being replaced in my apartment and so my life is in a bit of chaos right now. I've sought refuge at the house of some friends (church friends are so handy for this kind of thing), but I don't have much energy to spare for blogging. So this week I will subject you to some poetry. Maybe you'll like it, maybe you won't. I enjoy writing it, and that's what really matters I think.

All of these were written on public transit: on buses, at bus stops, or on skytrain, just little bite-sized mouthfuls of haiku.




mountains stretch across
horizon jagged and dark.
rough silent backdrop.

air sparkles, snaps with
electric infectious sound.
mouth corners creep up.

cool breeze caresses
my face. moment of bliss. sweet
serene surrender.

sprawling patches of
bright white daisies lazily
ooze out of the grass.

green buds caress clear
blue sky bathed in summer light.
branches reach new life.

bright dawn light sparkles
on the river below me.
eyes open to hope.

fresh darkness plays with
each last whisper of daylight.
teasing dance of dusk.

silence sits pregnant
wonders when wisdom will birth.
who is her midwife?

my passion binds me
to you with bonds of hot fire
eros burns my core.

in my dreams you taste
like roasted almonds, salty sweet,
hot in your passion.

sonic seduction,
sweet moist luscious symphony
lures me into you.

packing up ghosts

So I'm packing up all of my "stuff", literally, as my apartment-mate and I get ready for new cork floors to be installed this week, and I find that as I pack up my physical stuff, I can't help but find myself packing-up emotional "stuff" as well. I've been trying to do a bit of purging while I pack, and inevitably I find myself coming across bits of flotsam and jetsam that are haunted with the ghosts of past friends and lovers, bits that drag old memories out of the dusty corners of my mind. Some of the memories are great and fun to re-visit. Others are heart-wrenchingly painful.

I laughed hysterically at pictures of our grade 4 trip to Victoria, and nearly cried when I came across a letter from an old flame. I kept my old prayer journal from college, and tossed a postcard from someone I'm still trying to forget. I filed away old bank statements and tucked into a drawer a pile of stones whose significance I've forgotten but whose beauty made a convincing petition for their keeping.

I'm a highly reflective person, and so I'm a sentimental sucker for shuffling through the bits and pieces of my past, both the literal and figurative bits. The ghosts of the past never quite completely disappear, and I find myself startled by how the ghost that haunts some little item can assail me so swiftly and so effectively that I can barely stay standing, barely hold back the tears.

The shocking thing is how pleasurable the overall purging process has been. Here I sit in a nearly empty room, excited about the chance to re-arrange my furniture, shocked at how much stuff I own, and yet also unable to part with even some of the most painful stuff. Hopefully as I unpack I'll have the time and emotional energy to let go of some of the painful pieces and both confront and exorcise some of the ghosts. I also hope I have the time and energy to properly put away the pleasurable pieces where they can provide me with joy.

fishing around for some answers

So I happened upon this article in the Vancouver Sun on Monday: "Fishing around for a religious connection". It 'caught' my attention because it was about both fishing and the church, two things I'm always interested in reading about. I work at a commercial fishing nonprofit organization, and so I always pay attention to what is being said about fishing in the media.

Once I began reading the article, I realized it hit on a topic that seems to have been bleeping on my radar screen fairly regularly in the past few months: "the feminization of the church". My first, sarcastic response is: "And they say that like it's a bad thing?". But as I think about it more and more, I wonder what exactly that phrase means. What do they mean by "feminization"?

The Sun article by religion columnist Douglas Todd talks about a man who conducts fishing trips for men looking for a Christian, religious experience, men who are not finding satisfying experiences in churches.
From the article:
"'Church is too boring for men,' says Ed Trainer, head of International Fishing Ministries. 'Church is set up like a country club for women.'"
...
"The author of Why Men Hate Going to Church, David Murrow, says studies show the average U.S. congregation is 61-per-cent female. Alaska-based Murrow says many men see church-going as soft, uncomfortable 'womanly' behaviour."
...
"Barb Trainer, 46, who runs International Fishing Ministries with her husband, says, 'The church has been feminized. It appeals to women in that it focuses on emotion and children and coffee. It's not bold enough for men.'"
...

I really am curious about what issue these complaints are trying to diagnose. Apparently statistics show that more women are going to church these days than men, but does sheer numbers really a 'feminization' make? And when that word 'feminize' is used, it is used in a very traditional, non-deconstructed very pejorative and almost antiquated way of characterizing certain ideas or practices. Is there a way we can articulate what is going on in the church without resorting to polarized, stereotypical gender norms that not only assume what 'feminine' is but assume it must be bad?

I can agree with the idea that the bulk of Christianity in North America has, in fact "gone soft" in many ways. Most of mainline Christianity doesn't require or request much of its adherents: from the talk in many churches, as long as you make a financial contribution to help keep the institution on life support, you are doing fine. Yes, that is the cynic in me talking, but even my most optimistic self agrees that it is an accurate diagnosis. Radical, sacrificial discipleship is rarely required or even suggested. In my opinion, discipleship and sacrifice could be integral to overcoming contemporary issues such as global warming and global poverty. Instead of being a public witness of a different way of living and engaging with the world, Christian faith has become a matter of private devotion, and disengagement from the world.

But even though I agree with the "softening" of Christianity, I don't call it "feminization". I can see why popular thought would equate the two: there is the very basic idea that stems straight from the sexual realm that hard is good and soft is bad, and man is hard and woman is soft, and man is good and woman is bad. (I have just terribly over-simplified a huge area of study of which I could be much more articulate, but I am tired and this is not an academic paper and hopefully you get the gist of what I'm trying to say) The other part that leads to the "feminization" label is what could more accurately be called "privatization", but since the feminine has long been associated with the private realm, there too we see how matters get convoluted.

Yet another aspect that can be clarified by using terms more specific than masculine/feminine is the sentimentalization of religion. The sentimental has long been associated with the feminine, in opposition to higher masculine rationality/reason. As religion becomes less rational and more sentimental, there is a tendency to again name it as a gender binary.

All of these dualisms where one is privileged over the other are in the end inadequate because in reality all are always at work and what is needed is balance between extremes. For Paul, Christianity was a religion that broke down dualisms: In Christ there is neither Jew nor Greek, Slave nor Free, Male nor Female.... And yet we still resort to naming what goes on in the body of Christ as one of those aspects being privileged.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that considering what a lousy time women have had in churches in general for the majority of the history of Christianity, could we cut the churches a little slack in the feminization department? And can we please, please, try to describe what is going on without attributing it to a gender? Can we say that the church is too private or too disengaged or too soft, or too sentimental rather than saying it is too feminine? But then I also wonder whether we haven't actually deconstructed gender norms enough to unhinge those adjectives from the feminine at all....

I also want to know what men who are involved with churches think about this whole feminization thing - is it an accurate diagnosis? Why? Why not? What is going on in the churches, why don't men want to come? Why is being religious or going to church not seen as a good thing to do? And even if it is "weak", why is that bad? Is weakness a bad thing? Christianity's "saviour" is a crucified man who refused to fight back - is that strong? Can a lamb be victorious? I wonder if deconstruction of gender norms and turning-over of the world actually runs very deeply in this religion....

What do you think?

on ambition and humility

It is not easy for a dedicated feminist theologian to admit that she has a certain affection for the confessions of St. Augustine. Countless contemporary theologians have launched various critiques of Augustine's theology and how it has negatively affected Christianity through his negative view of women and problematic views about the body. I do have a certain affinity for Augustine's Confessions though, an affection cultivated by an inspiring teacher (Sallie McFague), a brilliant translation
(Garry Wills, Penguin Classics), and a willingness to lose a bit of myself in the process of reading.

This week I found myself returning to a particularly biting chapter simply titled "Ambition". It begins with Augustine saying "I panted after honors, wealth, marriage - and you [God] just laughed." I returned because this week I was struck with serious doubts about my own ambition for honour. I had a sort of "state of the union" or summit meeting with my two main theology professors, the meeting that apparently most people have at some point in their academic career, the meeting where they say that I am doing ok but that it is time to step up my game and take things to the next level. The meeting where they say that it is time to start taking things seriously and working hard to maintain focus. They were extremely nice about it, but at the same time, I couldn't help but wonder if I'm on the right path, if I'm really cut out for this work, if I should be doing something else...

It can be hard to tell, sometimes, why I want to be a part of theological academia, it is certainly not about the money, professors generally aren't millionaires. It is perhaps about the recognition, the "fame" I might get even inside my own little denomination. It is perhaps about the potential job security of having teaching credentials and being the right age to step-in as the so-called "Baby Boomers" retire from academia.

But it is also about the love of wisdom - erosophy if you will - that pulls me along this path. And my love of wisdom is so tightly tied-up with my love of God, that for me, this is a faith journey. Once in awhile I think it is good to get a sort of "wake-up call" that forces one to re-examine one's life choices. Especially if the final calculation is a hopeful one. So thank you to my professors for the scholarly coaching, and thank you Augustine, for examining your life in a way that helps me examine mine.

reacquainting with an old friend

This past weekend I was at Samish Island for a church Fine Arts retreat. It was a weekend full of great music, wonderful people, and lots of creative energy. There were lots of lovely moments. My favourite part of the weekend was sitting on the beach on Saturday morning and visiting with an old friend: my favourite tree. I met this tree about two years ago, and I say "met" because this tree has its own personality and distinctive character that seems to give it its own subjectivity.

I met this tree in the summer when I was approaching my last year of my MDiv program at theology school. I
was trying to figure out what I was going to do once I graduated, and was feeling rather disjointed and frightened about not knowing what was next for me. So I met this tree that has become a living metaphor for what theology school has been like for me. The tree clings to the side of a cliff with many of its roots exposed from being battered by the elements. It seems to sit rather precariously, yet it has massive roots that reach deeply into the hillside. There are other plants that live amidst its root system, and there are other trees that surround it further back in the hill, which will hold their ground long after my tree succumbs to the elements.

It is a metaphor for theology school for me mainly because of the roots: I feel like one of the things that this work has done to me is cause me to dig deep and expose the deep roots of myself and my theology, as well as the roots of my church and the larger faith tradition I belong to. It's not always a pretty process. Sometimes parts get exposed that I wish I didn't have to see. Sometimes it feels like I'm going to fall over. Sometimes it feels like it would be easier to just pretend those roots aren't there, and cut off the life that flows to and from them... but like the tree, which surprisingly still has sap running through even the most dead-looking roots, manages to hold on and maintain its vitality.

Last year I went to the beach to see my tree, and was afraid that the fallen tree I saw stretched across the rocky shore was my tree - but no, my tree was still there. This year I was afraid the terrible wind storms we had in the late fall all along the coast might have spelled the end of my tree's life, but no, it is still clinging to the cliffside, rooting itself more and more deeply all the time, exposing itself more and more all the time.

The tree was a key image for me in my own discernment of my vocation. It helped me discover that I enjoy that process of revealing roots, digging deeper, and always risking more and more. For me, that is what the theological academy promises - the possibility of constant revealing, deepening, and risking.

It's amazing the things that the world around us can teach us. It's amazing the wisdom that seems to be built into creation itself. Stop, look, listen, sniff, touch, taste and see what God has asked the world to teach you.