A Psalm in Times of Threatening Weather

O Holy Being, the waters begin their approach.
The beating of my heart rivals the pounding surf...
Every muscle tense, every breath aware that it is numbered.
Where are you to be found?

Ascribe to the Lord all thanks and praise, I know.
Mark all creation with the citation of Sacred Authorship.
Lie prostrate before the mighty "acts of God" that are the wind and the waves.
Yet where is the logic in this destruction?

I try to take refuge in your omniscience and omnipotence.
Perhaps you test, you teach, you toughen through devastation.
But what reward, what lesson, what strength is worth lives which you carefully crafted?
I find none.

I fail to distract myself from my fear with these unanswerable questions.
What I wish I could say, what I wish I could sing, what I wish I could pray...
What I long to know, to believe, to sense in my innermost being, I speak into existence:
Be here.

Love in Parable: On Authentic Experience

If asked to name my first true love, and if pressed to be completely and brazenly honest, I would have to name that dangerously alluring siren - music.  Music and I go way back.  In fact, I cannot recall the moment of our first encounter.  It was simply always there.  But my initial expressions of interest surfaced at age three or four, when I would compose delightful songs about animals while sitting at my grandmother's piano.  I then made my compositional debut as a kindergartner performing in the elementary school talent show.  Since then, music and I have had a complicated history, though never lacking in passion.

Sure, there were times when I felt I didn't understand it at all.  There were certainly tears of frustration when it didn't respond the way I wanted it to.  I remember welcoming the arrival of new music teachers who would help me achieve delicate nuance and technical proficiency, and mourning those relationships during times of transition.  I still wince at accusations of being "instrumentally promiscuous" (I simply could not choose between flute and piano, to say nothing of my on-again-off-again flirtation with the organ).  But it mattered less who was doing the coaxing or through what medium the music was channeled... so long as I could have the experience of being one with the Sound.

In a recent church visioning retreat, I and the other participants were invited to consider what sort of "experience" we as a community hope to provide or enable.  Something about this question resonated deeply with my life, my aspirations, even my dissertation.  Because that's really what makes life worth living, isn't it?  That's really what makes us human.  Not intellectual understanding or superficial titles and categories, but authentic experiences that demand to be shared.  Encounters that are worth talking about, singing about, praying about.  In other words, it's all about keeping it real.  May this search for authentic relationship guide us in our daily lives - at home, at work, at play, at worship.  Amen.

Inked for Life

For Christmas, my aunt gave me a book called Sacred Skin. It’s about the ancient Thai tradition of tattooing, called sak yant. These special tattoos aren’t just eye-catching designs or even a means of individual self-expression. It’s actually almost the opposite. People who get tattooed develop a relationship with a tattoo master, who is often a Buddhist monk. The master establishes a set of rules for the disciple to follow for life. These rules usually include the Five Precepts of Buddhism, the equivalent to the Ten Commandments. There are prayers said during the tattoo ceremony, and if all goes well, the tattoo should protect and bring luck to the disciple. But the power of the tattoo is only effective if the one who bears it lives according to the rules. Yes, the tattoo is a reminder of promises that have been made, but if a disciple’s life and actions don’t reflect that, the image is useless. When the disciple does follow the rules, though, the ink is very powerful. It changes your entire being, and it symbolizes that the disciple and the master are bound for life.

Jeremiah 31:33 - "But this is the covenant that I will make with the house of Israel after those days says the Lord: I will put my law within them, and I will write it on their hearts; and I will be their God, and they shall be my people." God’s tattoo is what we find when we get to the bottom of our hearts. A permanent marker of our relationship with God, of our identity as people of God. A sacred image that reminds us of how we should live and move while on this earth. We each have one, and I imagine they all look a little bit different. Some symbolize our responsibility to care for others, to promote justice and equality, to place our hope in the possibility of radical transformation. “People will always do bad things and rules will always be broken, but as one master pointed out, the sacred tattoos are silent and powerful reminders of a righteous path that all of us, whether we wear yant or not, should aspire to follow.”

[Quote: Sacred Skin, http://www.amazon.com/Sacred-Skin-Thailands-Spirit-Tattoos/dp/9628563793
Image: http://www.soravij.com/showcase/yantra/yantra.html]

On Authentic Encounter and "Positive Materialism"

So I’m a young adult, not quite thirty. A proud member of the generation that recalls with fondness slap bracelets, New Kids on the Block, and mismatched neon socks (please tell me the socks weren’t just me…). Though my family acquired our first computer somewhat later than most other families I knew, I began my love-hate relationship with technology at the age of eight. My second grade education initiated me into the joys of the floppy disk, which I used primarily for completing Accelerated Reader tests and playing Oregon Trail. You might think that as a music lover, a professional student and an avid pleasure reader that I would be well-equipped with all the latest technology for the ears and eyes: Kindle/Nook, an iPod less than five years old, iPad loaded with apps customized for people just like me, etc. But I’m not. Not even close. My television screen is only slightly larger than my laptop. I don't subscribe to cable. I don’t even subscribe to a data plan for my phone (which means that my phone is not even “smart” enough to require a data plan). In short, I’m a veritable Luddite for the modern era. And as such, the demise of the paper book causes me much fear and trembling.

I’m well aware of the benefits (I hesitate to say “advantages”) of the e-book: instant access, readability across platforms, ability to highlight, earth-friendliness and whatnot. But for me, reading is not simply about absorbing ideas – it’s a multi-sensory experience. The physicality of the book matters. Is the print set deep into the page? Is the paper smooth and glossy, or thin and brittle? What color is the exterior? Does the book lay flat with little persuasion, or does it stubbornly insist on closing itself? Does it smell new and inky, or ancient and moldy? (No laughter, please… the best-smelling book I ever read was a new copy of Thomas Merton’s Thoughts in Solitude.) As much as I deplore the evils of excessive materialism in present-day American culture, I require something tangible to complement invisible ideas. And I require the same from my religion.

In its quest to categorically distance itself from Roman Catholicism, Protestantism has generally steered clear of pungent smells, vivid images, and gestures of any kind. But how can one understand the mysteries of death and rebirth without being washed in water? How better to understand the pain of self-sacrifice than witnessing the loaf of bread being torn asunder? How can one feel a part of a body/community without physically reaching out? How can one express one's deepest joy and pain without making a sound? I’m not content to simply know or believe (not that either knowledge or belief is necessarily simple). I have to feel it in my bones. I can’t just think transformative thoughts – I need to experience transformation in full, from head to toe. I resist cerebral, virtual relationships, preferring instead to exchange a glance, to feel the brush of the hand, to hear a breath and a heartbeat. Authentic encounter grows out of these singular moments, moments that do not sync across platforms. Moments that cannot be replicated. I’m not saying that I fully embody these lofty aims. Rather, I place my hope in the possibility that the best things are worth my full mental, spiritual, emotional and physical engagement.

Epiphany 2012

Matthew 2:2 "Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage."

On this day we observe Epiphany, the appearing or manifestation of Christ to the three magi. On most other days of the year, though, we use the term “epiphany” to denote a sudden revelation, or a flash of insight. For a long time, I have thought of epiphanic experiences as rather passive. I go about my day, doing my ordinary activities, when all of a sudden a startling vision materializes before my very eyes. I did nothing special to cause this epiphany, it simply happened to me.

But it has recently occurred to me that epiphanies are just as much about the reception of visions as the spontaneous manifestation of them. How do we make sense of what we see? How do we understand that which is before our eyes? How do we reconcile what we have sought with what we have found (or perhaps with what has found us)?

I think the magi would have understood this. They were astrologers, after all. They made their living seeking truth from the stars – constantly searching, finding, interpreting, and eventually proclaiming. On this particular Epiphany, the star reminds me that the task of meaning-making is one we all share.

On Advent and Active Waiting

Most Americans I know despise waiting. In fact, we do just about everything we can to avoid waiting. And when we do find ourselves waiting, we try to pretend that we’re not. We attempt to look productive. We read books or magazines. We stare blankly at televisions, or laptops, or we mess with our phones or IPods. And our culture provides us with constant aural and visual stimulation distracting us from the wait, distracting us from ourselves, distracting us from the world around us.

The problem with waiting is that it feels like we’re doing nothing. And so we attempt to eradicate waiting from our everyday lives. We constantly pass over these fantastic opportunities to practice this crucial life skill. It’s as though we’re afraid of waiting, afraid of being in that in-between space, suspended between now and then. Because if we turn off the TV, we might discover that we don’t know how to be together anymore. If we turn off the music, we don’t know what kind of thoughts might surface to fill the silence. If we get rid of the distractions and actually notice the world around us, we might feel compelled to do something about it. If we truly commit to waiting, we might come face to face with ourselves, with our demons, or even worse, with God. And that can be frightening.

What, then, are we to do with Advent? How do we deal with this season of waiting and preparation? How shall we wait, and for what or whom do we wait? For me, Advent is a time to prepare for transformation, particularly the kind of transformation I witness in the personal and social ministries of Jesus. It’s a time to be honest about the state of our lives, our communities and the world. It’s a time to start seeing things differently, to acknowledge suffering and injustice instead of pretending they’re not there. It’s a time to confront those things we normally mask or avoid… those things we’re afraid of discovering in the silence, in the waiting.

There’s reason why people in the bible speak so often about fearing God. There’s a reason why shepherds fall on their faces when angels appear. Because real encounter is intense. Real relationship turns your life on its head. Real connection leads to real change. And that is what God has in store for us with the Christ child. Isn’t that worth the wait?

On Memory and the Making of History

I often think of November as a month of remembrance. It begins with All Saints’ Day – a day to remember those persons who once lived and moved among us in body, but whose presences now grace our lives through memory. On Thanksgiving, despite family squabbles that may temporarily cloud our otherwise sound judgment, we attempt to recall those things for which we are thankful. In other words, we gather together our memories of blessings and abundance.

As a historian, I think about memory a lot. I examine records of the past to try to unearth what the past felt like when it was still the present. A hopeless task, ultimately. I have come to question whether or not we can ever really know anything about the past – even our own pasts. Memories, after all, are not accurate snapshots of what actually happened, but the impressions our minds create about the past. Historical records tend to tell us more about their authors than about the people and events they actually describe. Historical facts, ultimately, are statements made by someone who wants us to remember a person, place or event in a particular way.

Many of the books in the bible have been written in a historical style. In books such as Exodus, our ancestors in faith offer us their memories of their relationship with God. Is it possible that they got some of the “facts” wrong? Entirely. Did they have social and political agendas when creating their histories? Certainly. Does this make their writings any less valuable today? Not one bit. We also have our own histories of following, rejecting, wondering about and wrestling with God. These stories resonate with the spirit of our ancestors. Their God is our God, their flaws are our flaws, their triumphs ours. We claim these stories not because they present us with sterile facts, but because they are shot through with the joy and challenge and pain that we encounter as followers of God traveling through the wilderness. Memory alters and time distorts, but the Spirit of God still breathes through our past, present and future. Let us remember the old, old story even as we write a new one.