The plan was perfect. The four of us left the conference center, ready to cast aside the three days of sitting in a cold room, listening to cold speakers. Once a year we gathered for our discipline's major conference and once a year, we caught up with each other. Literally coming from North, South, East, West, it was a time to renew our friendship, a friendship borne out of the trauma of graduate school. And though we were now at varying stages of our careers and lives, we looked forward to this annual ritual of leaving the conference behind, finding a great restaurant, and getting to know each other once again.
We piled into the rental car, a brand new model equipped with a turn-by-turn navigation system. Ever the cautious one, I had even come prepared with a printed copy of directions from MapQuest. Between the four of us, we were equipped to navigate the streets of this unfamiliar city with GPS, cell phones, MapQuest, and laptops. Between the four of us, we had 15 post-secondary degrees from some of the most elite universities in the world. Between the four of us, we had lived in almost every corner of the globe and had traveled to every single continent. But on this day and in this place, the four of us were lost. And no amount of technology, education, or street savvy seemed to make a difference. We were hopelessly lost.
A quick detour to a gas station got us back on the right path. Directions hastily scribbled down on a napkin proved more effective than any of our technology. With only about 30 minutes off our schedule, we quickly settled into the restaurant and began catching up on each other's lives. Hours later, it was an uneventful trip back to the conference hotel and tearful goodbyes. All in all, this adventure became just a great story I share with my other friends: how four tech-savvy, GPS-equipped women got lost, but eventually found their way.
But as I stood in church today, singing praise to a God who found me and rescued me when I was lost, this story took on a much deeper meaning. God is the force who is ever present, always available, always accessible, always there with arms stretched wide open. I am the wayward child, with her toys, constantly on the go. I am constantly moving, seeking, traveling, struggling, resisting, rejecting, and disobeying. And I am the one, in my conviction and repentance, using artificial tools, and unnecessary props, and useless strategies to get back to the place, that place of peace and contentment that I have lost.
So finding myself frustrated by the lack of results of my fragile human endeavors, I abandon the hope that by myself I can ever be found, that by myself, I can ever find the right path. And it is the act of surrendering my devices and my vain attempts to find my own route, which yields a clarity of purpose and direction as to the way I should go. It is a lesson I learn again and again; I have never been so far lost that the grace of God has failed to find me.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
For the Love of Snow
Walking to church in the snow yesterday was an act of worship. The morning was completely quiet and still. It was so early in the morning that only two cars passed me as I walked. It was a rare combination of absolute peace, freshly fallen snow, and an overcast sky.
Shedding my usual self-consciousness, I walked and played in the snow like a little child. I stuck out my tongue to catch snowflakes and feel them quickly melt. I took delight in being the first person to leave my footprint in the snow. And as the snow continued to fall, I took note of those places where the new snow completely covered my old footprints, erasing even this barely visible reminder of where I had walked. I took off my gloves to feel the gentleness of the snow on my hand. I had forgotten that snow has the feel of soft lace. As it quickly evaporated in my hands, the snow left perfect drops of cool water in my palm. Walking in the snow was a time of unexpected beauty for me.
I actually don't like snow. Snow means crazy traffic, multiple layers of clothing, and schedule disruptions. Snow means de-icing and shoveling the walkways of the house. Snow quickly becomes dirty and those gray piles of ice, snow, and debris litter the sidewalks for days and weeks. I'm a warm-weather woman and I miss the days when I lived in the South and the town would literally shut down if a snowflake dared to fall out of the sky. That seemed a reasonable response to me. Instead, I am back in the Northeast, where the hearty souls around me take great pride in how they are able to carry on business as usual during a blizzard.
But as I walked to church yesterday, I was reminded that this very moment was the time to worship in the beauty of God's holiness. The earth felt holy; it felt sacred as I walked through the snow. I looked around and saw God's beauty, and not the inconvenience of bad weather. I became like a little child when I was willing to surrender my adult cares. And like a child, the snow became a source of wonder for me. It was a reminder that God's mercies truly are new every morning and in each unique snowflake.
I got to church with snow in my hair and all over my coat. It was a working Sunday for me and I had to miss much of the worship part of the service to attend to my various duties. But it didn't matter. My heart was full with worship and out of the overflow of that worship, I was able to pour out love onto everyone I saw. I'm still warm weather girl at heart, but I'm learning to fully appreciate the beauty of all God's creation.
Shedding my usual self-consciousness, I walked and played in the snow like a little child. I stuck out my tongue to catch snowflakes and feel them quickly melt. I took delight in being the first person to leave my footprint in the snow. And as the snow continued to fall, I took note of those places where the new snow completely covered my old footprints, erasing even this barely visible reminder of where I had walked. I took off my gloves to feel the gentleness of the snow on my hand. I had forgotten that snow has the feel of soft lace. As it quickly evaporated in my hands, the snow left perfect drops of cool water in my palm. Walking in the snow was a time of unexpected beauty for me.
I actually don't like snow. Snow means crazy traffic, multiple layers of clothing, and schedule disruptions. Snow means de-icing and shoveling the walkways of the house. Snow quickly becomes dirty and those gray piles of ice, snow, and debris litter the sidewalks for days and weeks. I'm a warm-weather woman and I miss the days when I lived in the South and the town would literally shut down if a snowflake dared to fall out of the sky. That seemed a reasonable response to me. Instead, I am back in the Northeast, where the hearty souls around me take great pride in how they are able to carry on business as usual during a blizzard.
But as I walked to church yesterday, I was reminded that this very moment was the time to worship in the beauty of God's holiness. The earth felt holy; it felt sacred as I walked through the snow. I looked around and saw God's beauty, and not the inconvenience of bad weather. I became like a little child when I was willing to surrender my adult cares. And like a child, the snow became a source of wonder for me. It was a reminder that God's mercies truly are new every morning and in each unique snowflake.
I got to church with snow in my hair and all over my coat. It was a working Sunday for me and I had to miss much of the worship part of the service to attend to my various duties. But it didn't matter. My heart was full with worship and out of the overflow of that worship, I was able to pour out love onto everyone I saw. I'm still warm weather girl at heart, but I'm learning to fully appreciate the beauty of all God's creation.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Place Memories
While on a recent vacation, I checked into my hotel and was out the door again in under ten minutes. I was headed to a little bookstore and coffee shop that I adored. I had spent much of my travel time thinking about this little store and looking forward to spending some quality time there. So I cannot adequately express the disappointment I felt when I arrived at the location and discovered that the shop had closed several months earlier. I think I stood there for five minutes in a state of disbelief. I had tears welling up in my eyes as I walked back to the hotel. I asked the concierge what happened to the store. She indicated that the store had faced financial trouble, and then she helpfully offered several recommendations for other places. There was certainly no lack of bookstores in this college town. But I really wasn't looking for a bookstore.
I wish this was a story about my outrage over the large, impersonal, corporate conglomerates that drive local stores out of business. But it isn't. I had spent several hours at this bookstore with someone I loved. We drank tea and talked politics; we ate cookies and argued about literature. It was a place full of memories of someone who was now gone and someone whom I terribly missed. I had spent one of the happiest days of my life at this bookstore and I was back to relive those memories. The bookstore was gone, and although my memories were still in tack, I still felt a sense of loss. Humble as it was, it was a special place for me.
Places, houses, tangible objects have the power to evoke something powerful within us. A piece of jewelry can take us back to the most special day of our lives; a childhood home can evoke feelings of great love or great sorrow; even a particular outfit can remind us of some occasion or some special person. But the Bible urges us, again and again, to not hold the things of this world too tightly. We are instructed to hold tangible objects loosely, to not invest our hopes and dreams in material things. I understand the reasoning behind this: we must be careful not to make material things our idols. We must maintain our focus on the eternal things that really matter: how we love God, how we love each other, how we treat each other.
But standing in front of that bookstore with tears in my eyes, I fully understood another reason why we are admonished not to put our hopes in tangible things. Places and objects are so incredibly fleeting, that we will always be disappointed. But memories and emotions are so incredibly powerful, that they can always be a part of us. And so we are encouraged to live in the moment, not in the memory of a place, or a time, that has passed and may not longer be physically there. Nor can we live in the expectation of an uncertain future.
I had traveled hundreds of miles, in part, to recreate an experience that was essentially impossible to recreate. It had been one moment in a particular, day, time, and season of my life. And although that past moment was precious, I was in this particular time and in this particular place, fresh and anew. I knew that I needed to embrace the joy of a moment not ever seen, instead of a past that I could not relive. It is a lesson I need to take with me and hide in my heart: the past is precious, but the present is priceless.
I wish this was a story about my outrage over the large, impersonal, corporate conglomerates that drive local stores out of business. But it isn't. I had spent several hours at this bookstore with someone I loved. We drank tea and talked politics; we ate cookies and argued about literature. It was a place full of memories of someone who was now gone and someone whom I terribly missed. I had spent one of the happiest days of my life at this bookstore and I was back to relive those memories. The bookstore was gone, and although my memories were still in tack, I still felt a sense of loss. Humble as it was, it was a special place for me.
Places, houses, tangible objects have the power to evoke something powerful within us. A piece of jewelry can take us back to the most special day of our lives; a childhood home can evoke feelings of great love or great sorrow; even a particular outfit can remind us of some occasion or some special person. But the Bible urges us, again and again, to not hold the things of this world too tightly. We are instructed to hold tangible objects loosely, to not invest our hopes and dreams in material things. I understand the reasoning behind this: we must be careful not to make material things our idols. We must maintain our focus on the eternal things that really matter: how we love God, how we love each other, how we treat each other.
But standing in front of that bookstore with tears in my eyes, I fully understood another reason why we are admonished not to put our hopes in tangible things. Places and objects are so incredibly fleeting, that we will always be disappointed. But memories and emotions are so incredibly powerful, that they can always be a part of us. And so we are encouraged to live in the moment, not in the memory of a place, or a time, that has passed and may not longer be physically there. Nor can we live in the expectation of an uncertain future.
I had traveled hundreds of miles, in part, to recreate an experience that was essentially impossible to recreate. It had been one moment in a particular, day, time, and season of my life. And although that past moment was precious, I was in this particular time and in this particular place, fresh and anew. I knew that I needed to embrace the joy of a moment not ever seen, instead of a past that I could not relive. It is a lesson I need to take with me and hide in my heart: the past is precious, but the present is priceless.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Common Ground
I gave a talk at a church last semester and ended my remarks with a quote from some Hindu poetry. It reflected the theme of my talk and eloquently concluded my own remarks. And I try, whenever I get the chance, to introduce my audience to something new - some new work of literature or some new bit of information. I knew this particular audience well and I knew that most of them had not heard of wisdom poetry from non-Christian traditions.
A man approached me after the talk and thanked me for my remarks, but told me he was displeased with my use of non-Christian material in a talk that was geared for a Christian audience. He warned me of the dangers of religious syncretism and urged me to keep the message of the Gospel "pure." He told me that by concluding my remarks with a non-Christian text, I had elevated a different faith system to the same level of Christianity. And with a wink and a nod, he left me with those words.
If I am honest, I would have to admit that his words and his tone gave me pause. What did I think about religious syncretism and what does it mean for all faiths to be "equal"? As a scholar of African American religious history, as well as a Christian believer, I know that the Black church is a syncretic faith - it was borne of African and Western elements. Christianity itself is a syncretic belief system, with rituals and creeds from faiths including Judaism and early paganism. What was at stake for me in talking about other faith traditions was an attitude of openness to something new and something different. But it was also respecting that the way I care passionately about my beliefs, reflects the passion others feel about their own beliefs. And in that passion, in that commitment to our respective faiths, we can find common ground.
I believe that the acknowledgment, respect, and careful study of other religious traditions only serves to strengthen and enhance our own spiritual walks. I have been completely humbled watching devout Muslim men stop their very movements, unfurl their prayer mats, orient themselves towards Mecca, and pray. It made me realize that my own prayer life has been severely lacking in real commitment. I have come to tears listening to my very hip and very liberal Jewish neighbor describe why she observes the mikvah, a ritual bath. She has helped me to think about the necessity and place of specifically feminine rites and rituals. These experiences have led me to deeper spiritual places in my own faith, for which I am grateful.
Why is it so scary to find common ground? Why do we fear what we may learn from others? Is our own faith so weak that we cannot stand a theological challenge? Are we so narrow-minded that we cannot see the love and joy others experience in their own faith? Do we fail to understand that the same questions about life and death and love and eternity drive us all to seek something outside of ourselves - in churches, or mosques, or synagogues, or temples? As I begin this new year, I pray that a place of common ground unites people of faith - not so that each faith is diluted, but so that individual believers are sharpened and quickened on their spiritual journeys.
A man approached me after the talk and thanked me for my remarks, but told me he was displeased with my use of non-Christian material in a talk that was geared for a Christian audience. He warned me of the dangers of religious syncretism and urged me to keep the message of the Gospel "pure." He told me that by concluding my remarks with a non-Christian text, I had elevated a different faith system to the same level of Christianity. And with a wink and a nod, he left me with those words.
If I am honest, I would have to admit that his words and his tone gave me pause. What did I think about religious syncretism and what does it mean for all faiths to be "equal"? As a scholar of African American religious history, as well as a Christian believer, I know that the Black church is a syncretic faith - it was borne of African and Western elements. Christianity itself is a syncretic belief system, with rituals and creeds from faiths including Judaism and early paganism. What was at stake for me in talking about other faith traditions was an attitude of openness to something new and something different. But it was also respecting that the way I care passionately about my beliefs, reflects the passion others feel about their own beliefs. And in that passion, in that commitment to our respective faiths, we can find common ground.
I believe that the acknowledgment, respect, and careful study of other religious traditions only serves to strengthen and enhance our own spiritual walks. I have been completely humbled watching devout Muslim men stop their very movements, unfurl their prayer mats, orient themselves towards Mecca, and pray. It made me realize that my own prayer life has been severely lacking in real commitment. I have come to tears listening to my very hip and very liberal Jewish neighbor describe why she observes the mikvah, a ritual bath. She has helped me to think about the necessity and place of specifically feminine rites and rituals. These experiences have led me to deeper spiritual places in my own faith, for which I am grateful.
Why is it so scary to find common ground? Why do we fear what we may learn from others? Is our own faith so weak that we cannot stand a theological challenge? Are we so narrow-minded that we cannot see the love and joy others experience in their own faith? Do we fail to understand that the same questions about life and death and love and eternity drive us all to seek something outside of ourselves - in churches, or mosques, or synagogues, or temples? As I begin this new year, I pray that a place of common ground unites people of faith - not so that each faith is diluted, but so that individual believers are sharpened and quickened on their spiritual journeys.
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