Blanking on the Seventh Day?

Recently I have been dashing off paintings in a watercolor journal as a spiritual practice. I generally read through the coming Sunday's lectionary passages each morning, and a few weeks ago the first selection was the first chapter of Genesis. I'd been contemplating the biblical creation account recently, and the timing of the lectionary text struck me as significant, somehow. I decided to spend a little more time with it, to consider its poetry, to let it sink in rather than grappling with it intellectually. So I pulled out my cheap-cheap Crayola watercolors and started a painting a day, most days of the week.

I am not a visual artist. I loved drawing as a child, but I'm not very good with representational art. The rules for this recent spiritual practice, thus, have been that I'm not allowed to over-think it, or plan out my 4x6 page, or agonize, or even draw ahead of time. I've been trying to let go, to explore how washes of color overlaid with the ancient words represented the truths of the story. The movement of brush to jam jar of water to dried paint to page--the seep and spread of blues and browns and greens--the careful strokes to form letters--have begun to bring me great joy. I've been praying differently. I look forward to mornings.
Over two weeks, I completed six paintings. I walked past them as these days progressed, drying on the dining room table. I grew accustomed to filling my jam jar while I made my tea, dipped a brush in coffee once instead of water, laughed at my pitiful attempts at a grizzly bear on day six.

And then I came to the end. Day seven. God rested.

I filled my jar, opened my plastic watercolor palette, spread my journal flat, took up my brush. I re-read the passage in Genesis:

1 Thus the heavens and the earth were completed in all their vast array.
2 By the seventh day God had finished the work he had been doing; so on the seventh day he rested from all his work. 3 Then God blessed the seventh day and made it holy, because on it he rested from all the work of creating that he had done.  (Genesis 2:1-3, TNIV)

I stared at my small rectangle of white, its thick quiet presence a welcome to my paint. I drank my tea. I slouched in my chair. I ate my breakfast. I stood.

The jam jar of water sat on the table all day, the journal open next to it, the little cakes of paint waiting. Come evening, the jar remained, its water clear as morning and only slightly diminished by evaporation. I could have taken up that jar to drink. Before going to bed, I poured it out.

How am I to paint God resting?

Light and dark, sky and sea, land and water, trees and grasses, sun and moon and stars, creatures to fly and swim, creatures to crawl and walk--all these things I can imagine. For all these creations I can splash paint onto a page, drag its tones to the very corners of the paper, set down language and colors together. I can flip through these dried depictions, smile at the rather cheerful moon, delight in the fade of yellow to orange, the mystery of blue sky and blue sea. I can see that, yes, indeed, it was very good.

But what does rest look like? What color is it? What shape? What does it mean for God to rest? For a day to be holy?

What does it mean for work to be finished? What does it mean for something to be fully completed and fully good? How does one represent the act and the feeling of stepping back and simply relishing what has been done?

My page is still blank, leaving me with something to think about. And how would you fill it?

the meat and the matrix

The rain comes and goes. My desk lamp flickers in and out every once in a while, incandescent flirtation. I have an empty coffee cup, a crumpled paper snowflake, a green pen, and the impossibility of summarizing Luce Irigaray, all looking up at me from the half-shadowed desk. Perhaps I will pop popcorn for dinner. Perhaps I will drink water into clarity.

Everything is a mystery.

I called my mom tonight, and she listened to me talk about how disoriented I feel recently, how exhausted, how quickly the world seems to speed by as I spend hours and hours of each day tucked between books' covers. I am pulled taut by the irony of spending all this time in my reading and studying and thoughts, ignoring my skin muscles tendons blood bones until my eyes twitch and my thumbs ache with holding pages open and my stomach growls for attention -- ironic because I'm studying, in part, the problems of separating out our bodies from our minds and our souls.

The cicadas are insistent. The air is cooling off. The sky is fading.

Let us find the beauty in seraphed printed alphabets and the scent of thin-pressed paper pulp and glue, yes, and let us find beauty in still life photographs posted on the rich blogland (as I so often do, and remember to breathe), but let us also find beauty in making eye contact with a stranger on the sidewalk, and let us find beauty in the minuscule trapezoids on the backs of our own hands, the jut of a collarbone, the rough of a heel. J had me feel S's glossy brown arm in church this morning, to note the smoothness of her skin: let us find beauty in the moments where we touch one another.

Little boys bounce a ball in the dusky courtyard. Somewhere a song has ended.

oh, life, you do me in sometimes

This evening has almost everything good about a midsummer seven-o'clock-p.m. going for it. I made a dinner of oven fried chicken and potatoes and asparagus, which we gobbled with salt and ketchup and spicy mustard. The potatoes browned just perfectly, and the asparagus steamed in the oven to the perfect shade of green, and it was thin and tender and I loved it.

Just now, the almost-setting sun is catching its yellow light on the living room screens, marking the east wall with stripes of milky gold. Josh clanks dishes gently as he washes them. Cars whirr by on their way home, I imagine, to apartments where their occupants will throw open the windows and invite in the breezes.

I have invited in the breezes. I am always inviting in the breezes. This is part of my heritage, as is closing my eyes to the sound of wind in maple leaves. This is part of what I learned from my family's Very Strong Women, and as I am an aspiring Very Strong Woman, I obey my intuition regarding the inviting of breezes and the welcoming of maple leaf music.

Yes, this evening is a good one, and Bill McLaughlin is on the radio, and I have renewed all my library books, and I am glad for it all. It is not always like this, of course. That is part of the story.

why it is so effing hard to be a Christian

swear words

A few days ago I spoke with a church leader who characterized the "emergent church types" as people who, among other things, curse a lot, and I've since been mulling over this description. Those of you who know me know that I do not curse/cuss/swear much. Or at all. I attribute this to my fundamentalist Baptist upbringing, my stubbornness in the face of school friends who made a game of trying to get me to say certain words ("Say buh. Okay, now say itch. Say them fast together! Haha! She almost said it!"), and my distaste for speaking any words I consider particularly ugly. I'm aware that this last cause might be considered pathological.

I'm also aware that this cuss-busters style might be considered judgmental. I've had plenty of moments in my life where peers' realization that I will not swear leads them to wonder if I'm judging them for doing so. When I was thirteen, the answer was a resounding yes. I was judging them. But then, at that point in my life, I was also judging people for using the New International Version of the Bible and for wearing jeans to church and for listening to music with drums. Nowadays, my silence in the swears department does not indicate that I'm judging other people's language (in the same way that I am really and truly not judging your grammar). I'm well acquainted with four-letter words; they do not shock me; they are part of normalized human expression. [Footnote: from a completely different perspective, I am uncomfortable with the fact that most of the curse words in English belittle either human sexuality (and often women in particular) or spirituality. The counterargument is that nobody actually associates the words with their original meanings. I still wonder, though, if there are deeper resonances: call a woman a b**** or a man a son-of-one, and the force of the word still arises from its literal meaning.]

In any case, rather than particular words, I'm much more concerned with language that is used to show a lack of respect, a lack of care, a lack of love. My rubric for judgment (for myself and, when necessary, for others) is not which words one uses, but how one uses them. For instance, in my conservative childhood, I heard plenty of hurtful language--language that demeaned, language that wounded, language that judged too quickly--with nary a "naughty word" in it. This sort of legalism, this self-satisfaction that we've kept the rules, distracts us sometimes from the broader call to love everyone (including our enemies), even with our language.

Back to the characterization of "emergent types" as those who "swear a lot." I'm in no place to determine where this opinion came from, or what sort of swearing "these people" are doing. But sometimes I find myself compelled to spice up my language a bit just to prove to those around me that I'm not "one of those" types (or at least not anymore). The most I've managed is "crappy." Which is to say, I can understand the impulse to distance oneself from the legalistic religious folk (even from previous versions of oneself) by swearing on purpose. But this is just the beginning.


an unbelieving context

For me, the heart of the issue is really a question of different versions of "Christianity" at large in our culture and the drive to distance oneself from certain versions. How do I make clear to people that while I was raised in a religion that had institutionalized a good deal of bad along with the good, I've since grown into a faith that is based much less on fear and control? How do I explain that while I'm still (help me) an "evangelical," Pat Robertson tends to turn my stomach?

Sometimes my academic research helps me think about this. In his incredibly long but very insightful book A Secular Age, Charles Taylor takes on the difficult task of exploring how Western civilization changed from an "enchanted world" in 1500 to a "disenchanted world" in 2000. In other words, how is it that in 1500 it was the norm to believe in God and the spiritual realm, for this to be the most ultimate and assumed reality, whereas 500 years later no one assumes the existence of God, and even those of us who choose to believe in Him make that choice in a world full of other possibilities? Taylor argues against the simplified view that science replaced religion and argues instead that a complex and related series of changes in theology and popular religion, social norms, government, economies, philosophy, art, science, and daily life worked to bring about the change.

This is the first reason it's hard to be a Christian today: western culture typically assumes that God does not exist nowadays, rather than that he does. What we learn in school, what we see on TV, what we hear on the news--it usually privileges the view that the physical, material world around us is all there is. I'm not just talking about teaching evolution in schools here -- I'm talking about the structures of our everyday lives. The way we are socialized to spend our time, do our work (more and more of it, statistics show), watch the media, spend our money: the underlying value in all of these norms is that this world is all there is, that none of our decisions have any greater value beyond the years until our deaths. The transcendent, if occasionally spoken about, isn't made real to us in the fabric of our daily lives.

So the first challenge nowadays is establishing that there is more than cells and atoms at all. This at least gets us to the place where our 16th-century forebears were. But belief in God is not the same thing as Christianity (as the book of James tells us, the demons also believe--and tremble). This is as far as a lot of apologetics go since the 19th century -- proof of the existence of a God. But again, that's not Christ-following. I suspect that the citizens who assumed the existence of God in 1500 were not all Christians, either.

they will know we are Christians by our...?

Of course, the next step is belief in Christ: in both his historical person and in the radically mysterious and humanly impossible claims about his death and resurrection and his power to save--basically, his deity. This isn't exactly easy, either -- I'd say it takes a bit of faith.

But because we come to this concept of "Christianity" after around 2000 years of its history, we arrive at another complication. "Christianity" as a movement has a horrible history of oppression and violence: how does one contend with the shame of this heritage? "Christianity" also has a history of schisms, so we have myriad "versions" available: which does one choose?

Charles Taylor talks about this history of dissention, but he also demonstrates how Christianity came to be associated in the 17th and 18th centuries with other developments taking place in western civilization: developments like the value of order, civility, morality, decency. These values were not always part of what it meant to follow Christ. (One of my friends likes to point out the difference between biblical "kindness," "charity," or "love" and the non-biblical idea of "niceness," for instance.) As the middle classes rose, Christianity came to be associated with ideas of human flourishing and comfort as our ultimate goals ("of course God wants you to be happy!"). Needless to say, these ideas are very prevalent in the "moral majority" version of Christianity common in the U.S.

Hence the concern with swearing: it's a public display of "indecency." Our association of order and civility with Christianity impels us to create systems of rules: Don't drink. Don't dance. Don't swear. Don't miss church. Don't look bad in public. (Not: respect your body as a precious creation of God, and practice moderation; respect other people's bodies, and avoid using them for your own sensual pleasure; treat everyone with a love rooted in God's love for them; gather together for encouragement; always be ready to give answer for the hope that lies in you.)

The point here is not really the legalism (that's another topic for another time). The point here is that "Christianity" in the last several hundred years has taken on a lot of associations and norms that I don't think are rooted in the gospel. In other words, this is another element of the influence of culture on the church, only in this case we don't even realize it.

If we understand Christianity to mean a deep faith in the God-Man Christ Jesus, in his work in the world, on the cross, in his resurrection and ascension, in the fact that he is the only possible intermediary so that we can, through faith in him, enter into a truly personal relationship with a Triune God -- if we understand Christianity, too, as a radical call, as manifest in the bible, to commit our entire lives to Christ, to answer his invitation "follow me," to be part of his "body" the church on this earth, a representative of God's incomprehensible love and a taste of the kingdom to come when justice and peace will finally reign -- if we understand Christianity to mean all these things, then we must understand it to be profoundly countercultural.

And this is difficult. Because not only must we struggle against the pervasive cultural assumption that there is no transcendent, no "metaphysical" reality beyond the physical, we must also struggle against the cultural elements of "Christianity" as it is passed down to us and practiced around us that are not true elements of the Good News of Christ. We must develop--by the grace of God, and with the wisdom of His Spirit working in us--the capacity to think critically, to sort through the culture of Christianity and determine what is faithful to Christ's purpose for us and what is not.

This is why we need each other -- to sort through the mess together. To share perspectives. To call each other back from the extreme sides of the paradox and into synthesis (for instance, one might remind me that in another sense, it is profoundly easy to be a Christian, in the sense of childlike faith). We need to find a more adequate way to define ourselves against Christianities that are not faithful to the radical Gospel of Christ. Because honestly, I think this is something we need to do. But I also honestly don't think cursing up a storm is the way to do it, as good as the motivation may be. What do you think? And this time around, I really do want you to tell me, especially if you've made it this far.

grateful for: g-ma and g-pa

Here are my grandparents a year ago, at Grandma's 70th birthday party. They are beautiful people, but Grandma's pretty sick right now. Please keep praying for her--and for Grandpa, who's busy taking good care of her.

I am grateful for their love. I am thankful for the huge garden Grandma kept when I was younger, with its tender cucumbers (cubobbers) climbing the fence. To this day, I can't smell fresh dill without remembering Grandma's herb patch in the back corner of the yard -- the patch where we found an Indian arrowhead while digging one day. I'm thankful for sleepovers, with microwave popcorn and crystal light in a big shared leather chair.

I'm thankful that Grandpa's love of reading and problem solving seeped into me. I'm thankful for their senses of humor, their kindness, their hospitality, their generosity. I'm grateful beyond words for their love.

Sometimes it's hard to remember, in the midst of an illness like cancer, that there's any room for hope. But here's a picture of Josh's miraculous radish plant, which somehow thrived on our back fire escape, in an alley with dank air and limited sunshine. Grown in dubious city dirt dug with a fork from the cigarette-butt-seasoned courtyard of our building, the plant rose to astonishing heights and burst into pink blossoms. There's a lesson in beauty and life overcoming the obstacles if I ever saw one.

New Look

It's about time, eh? I've actually had a much prettier plan in mind for months, but haven't had the time/technology/motivation to make it happen.

The quote is pulled directly from Brian McLaren's Everything Must Change (213). I'm hardly a hardcore McLarenite, but I do find that his books challenging and provocative. This one is particularly political, not written for a specifically religious audience; in it, he examines the global effects of late capitalism and considers how these relate to a contextualized Christian faith. His sociological research is pretty sound, though some of the biblical exegesis leaves me unconvinced. I am convinced, though, that many of the norms Christians take for granted--not so-called moral issues like sex on TV, but things like our complicity in global structures that exploit others for our own comfort--are profoundly antithetical to the Good News, and that when we become aware of them, we are rendered responsible. And when I say responsible, I mean it in the sense Emmanuel Levinas, one of my favorite philosophers, explains it: we carry the burden of the other's wellbeing on our shoulders and we have no choice but to respond, since even ignoring or doing nothing is a form of response (and one that certainly sends a message).

To be grateful for the good things in our lives, though, for our families and food and so forth, can be a profoundly subversive stance. Gratitude, in our day and age, means refusing the constant call to want more and more, the nagging dissatisfaction that is inculcated in us through a barrage of advertisements, media images, and social values that have little to do with what is truly Good. Gratitude--taking the time to contemplate and appreciate blessings and experiences--can change our entire outlooks on everything. I've been listening to Josh prepare a sermon on this very topic and can't get the words out of my head:

Rejoice always
Pray constantly
Give thanks in all things
(I Thess 5.16-18)

Of course, this is the season when we purport to pause and give thanks. This year, I'm challenging myself (and you) to actually do it.

simplicity

I'm all over the place.

This blog is supposed to be an experiment in bringing together the many disparate areas of my life, but too frequently silence is the only result. One of my goals for this, my twenty-fifth year, is to keep pursuing balance, whole humanness, simplicity. I planned to continue to clear clutter (in the musty closets and in my musty mind) and to more actively trace the connections between my various passions and activities. But too often I feel more borderline schizoid than whole in the sense I'm reaching for.

How, in a fast-paced world chock full of opportunities, does one weed out the excess? I love to play the piano, but I usually opt to look through a magazine for recipes rather than to struggle through a new prelude or dash off a familiar tune. Which reminds me that I love too cook (!), but find it difficult to keep on top of meal plans with my grad school responsibilities. Which reminds me that I'm such a student, such a reader, such a writer, but never manage to go the next (and necessary) step of researching conferences and journals for submission. Which reminds me that I love to write creatively, but let's not even walk down that path...

Which reminds me that I love to go hiking (but without the heavy packpacks, love), but schedules and gas prices keep us from even occasional weekend treks. Which reminds me that I have so many faraway and wonderful friends, but do I keep up with them very well? No. And I love to stitch things and paint things and glue things, but do I do this very often, or set up an etsy shop to at least fund my hobbies? Nope.

Part of me thinks it's an issue of risk-taking and extravagance. I'm stingy sometimes, with money (have to be) and with experience (don't really have to be). Why is that?

But it's also the impossibility of keeping everything as a top priority. My mind only holds so much at a time, and I tend to get engrossed in projects or ideas one at a time. And when I'm not in the midst of a project, I have a horrible time choosing which one to do next. The pace of grad school usually solves this problem for me, but I finished an assigned novel this morning (White Teeth--fascinating) and have spent the ensuing three hours on laundry and fiddling about, unable to choose whether to throw myself into hemming napkins or writing a story or writing an abstract for a conference proposal or taking a walk down to the beach and risking cold rain.

Maybe it would be easier if I didn't enjoy so many things, but I do. In my efforts to simplify and focus, I can't just chop off the inconvenient tangents that mean a lot to me. And I've already chopped off most of those that don't (like going out much, or shopping, or ever getting my hair cut, or organizing the freezer so things don't fall out of it and bruise my toe when I open the door). So what's left?

This is a rant, but I'm going to post it anyway. What do you think?

Am I a son of God?

Somewhere in North Dakota or Minnesota, on our way home from Montana a few weeks ago, Josh and I heard a radio sermon from the very familiar Independent Baptist tradition. The preacher went on without stopping for at least 40 minutes; his accent was southern-tinged; his translation was King James; and his topic was the family.

At one point in the sermon he paused over an address in the text that began, "My brothers" or "My son" (I can't recall which, exactly). "Now," he fumed, "I'll not have any of this gender stuff. It's not 'my brothers and sisters' or 'my sons and daughters.' That's not what the inspired text says. Clearly the male is meant to address everyone, and if you can't understand that, well ... But that's another topic for another time."

I can't tell you how many times I've heard this line of thinking. In the fundamentalist churches where I grew up, at the evangelical university where I did undergrad, and even at the more moderate churches I visited in college. "Adjust your thinking," was usually the argument. "Mankind means everyone. Read those addresses to men as gender neutral. Don't get upset like the angry feminists!"

Another argument I remember hearing more than once was that the New Testament passages that called believers "sons of God" [as in the lilting chorus, "Behold what manner of love the Father hath given unto us..."] were importantly translated as sons because back in the biblical day, sons had rights to inheritance and privileges that weren't available to daughters.

On the one hand, this claim is radical: the implication is that men and women (because we know clearly from scripture that both men and women were coming to Christ) were given the spiritual equivalent of benefits usually only offered to men. In Christ, there is neither male nor female, Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, yes? For a woman to be lifted to the rank of inheriting son--well, that's some pretty good news.

On the other hand, though, we seem to be at cross-purposes. Growing up in church, I was taught over and over again that we were all created in the image of God, loved by God, so precious in His sight that He sent His Son for all of us (a la John 3.16). This seemed to be pretty gender neutral. But I was also taught that the masculine pronoun didn't always just stand for men--that it was big enough to stand for everyone. Sometimes. I was taught that there were places in the Bible I should understand to refer to me, even though it said "he" or "brothers" or "sons," and there were other places where it didn't. And by golly, it was a privilege to be counted among those the Bible did refer to more generally in masculine terms.

So the explicit teaching was that, even as a little girl, with girl body parts and girl dresses, I was equal to boys, just different. But the implicit teaching was that boys really were superior, that God had done me a favor in overlooking my girlness and decided to call me a son anyway.


Now let's get historical. In many cultures, particularly agrarian ones, limiting inheritance rights to sons (and usually firstborn sons) was best for the long-term wellbeing of a family. It consolidated resources, kept tracts of land and herds and such going in instances where parceling it out among offspring (or to the families daughters married into!) would have decreased the family's overall wealth and eventually resulted in bits of resources that couldn't sustain a family.

But while these norms are practical, they rely on assumptions about gender roles and responsibilities that aren't so prevalent today. They also kept men in real power over women (and the otherwise less fortunate) in ways that allowed for a long history of normalized abuse. This should come as no surprise: humans' sinful nature results in selfishness and a desire for power; couple that with male physical strength and a long history of male rule, and it's no wonder gender relations have come out uneven (this is part of the curse--Gen. 3:16). Any insistence that men have done a good job with the power they've held historically totally ignores (1) history and (2) sin nature.

But Jesus came to break the curse, to set captives free, to restore right relationships between people and God and between people and other people. No matter what your opinions about gender roles, I think we can agree that men are not naturally superior (I hope we can agree on that). Particularly in an industrialized society that does not rely so consistently on our muscle mass to determine roles, women and men take on many of the same tasks that rely on their intellect and creativity.

I think we can also agree that in Christ, there are neither male nor female, slave nor free, Jew nor Greek: we are equal in the sight of God. We may have different roles within marriage and even within churches (though I suspect our readings of New Testament teachings on these matters really need careful contextualization and awareness of our assumptions), but we are all as desperately in need of Christ's redemptive, transforming work in our lives, we are all as reliant on the guidance and comfort of the Holy Spirit, we are all created in God's image and loved by the Father.

At least in the contemporary U.S., material gender norms have changed enough (for the better!) that to call a woman a "son" is no longer a sign of granting her radical privilege but is, instead, an indication of continuing belief that men are somehow superior. In biblical translation and teaching, I think we've come to the place where we should recognize the harm it does to little girls and grown up women (and to little boys and grown up men) to be told over and over that women should just "insert" themselves into the "brotherhood" of all believers, that they should understand that "mankind" can stand for all people. (White) male experience is not universal; God did not ordain that it be so.

And so I believe that I am most appropriately called a daughter of God. I believe that He has never approved of abuses of male power that led to assumptions of female inferiority; I believe that His consistent concern for the oppressed has always extended to oppressed women; I believe that, in saving me, He did not have to overlook my little girl ovaries but that my decidedly female body is made in His image; I believe that He sent His Son to save me in all my feminine specificity, and that one day, when all is made right and there is a new heaven and a new earth, my glorified body will not include a penis.

Behold, what manner of love.