I've been traveling, gone from the places of usual,
transported central from the left.
These skies look the same, yet unleash foreign objects
that can determine the possibilities for an entire day.
This hotel room is the same as almost every hotel room
I've ever slept in, yet what I prepare for in this hotel room
might determine the possibilities for the rest of my life.
"All the art of living lies in a fine mingling of letting go and holding on." Henry Ellis
Friday, January 8, 2010
Monday, December 14, 2009
This Wonderful Friend of Mine
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Let Me Be Specific
I gotta thank G-d.
and I gotta let you know exactly what I'm thanking, though I can never communicate exactly what it is that's turned rust to gold.
But I'm going to try because I gotta thank G-d.
There have been moments in the last five months when I didn't think I'd make it out alive, moments where I wept in the darkness of the coldnest night, clinging to some distant hope of any moment less physically painful. This back injury has taken me to the precipice of my faith in life and pushed me over the edge. There have been mornings when I woke up only to hate the idea of moving out of bed because I could feel the futility of motion and the death of the possibilities for the next 24 hours accompanying that restricted motion.
I held the phone to my ear, crying out, wailing, sighing--heard in my worst periods of struggle by faithful companions who would remind me: it's not always going to feel like this. They'd ask questions like: what color is the pain? does it have a message for you? And when I couldn't answer because the agony ripped my voice away, they'd just listen to the wimpering in silent devotion.
And then this morning, after receiving an injection of steriods three days ago, I woke up okay.
DO YOU HEAR ME?
I WOKE UP OKAY. MOBILE, PAINLESS, FREE. Today. Yes I did.
And I gotta thank my beloved. Hear me: I thank G-d.
I thank G-d for the chemicals in that shot. I thank G-d for my spine specialist and all the researchers, medical experts and makers of bio-medical technology that enabled that injection to be administered. I thank G-d for my friend Debra who took me to my appointment on time and let me cry--hard--when it hurt me and I didn't believe it was going to help. I thank G-d for every single person who prayed healing prayers for me. I don't care the words, the tradition or the outcome of those prayers. I'm grateful to G-d for people who give a shit enough to think of someone else's pain and to place their intention into the arms of something greater than themselves in order to be useful for the purposes of love. I thank G-d for my mother who told me she'd take care of me no matter what and payed my first month's insurance bill because I was unemployed. I am thankful to G-d that I even have health insurance. I thank G-d for the loving, gentle suggestions of mentors, friends and faith companions since the injury occurred in March: keep writing, keep walking, keep talking about it. I survived because of those suggestions. I survived because of that care. And I gotta thank G-d.
I am surviving. I gotta thank G-d. I hope you hear me.
and I gotta let you know exactly what I'm thanking, though I can never communicate exactly what it is that's turned rust to gold.
But I'm going to try because I gotta thank G-d.
There have been moments in the last five months when I didn't think I'd make it out alive, moments where I wept in the darkness of the coldnest night, clinging to some distant hope of any moment less physically painful. This back injury has taken me to the precipice of my faith in life and pushed me over the edge. There have been mornings when I woke up only to hate the idea of moving out of bed because I could feel the futility of motion and the death of the possibilities for the next 24 hours accompanying that restricted motion.
I held the phone to my ear, crying out, wailing, sighing--heard in my worst periods of struggle by faithful companions who would remind me: it's not always going to feel like this. They'd ask questions like: what color is the pain? does it have a message for you? And when I couldn't answer because the agony ripped my voice away, they'd just listen to the wimpering in silent devotion.
And then this morning, after receiving an injection of steriods three days ago, I woke up okay.
DO YOU HEAR ME?
I WOKE UP OKAY. MOBILE, PAINLESS, FREE. Today. Yes I did.
And I gotta thank my beloved. Hear me: I thank G-d.
I thank G-d for the chemicals in that shot. I thank G-d for my spine specialist and all the researchers, medical experts and makers of bio-medical technology that enabled that injection to be administered. I thank G-d for my friend Debra who took me to my appointment on time and let me cry--hard--when it hurt me and I didn't believe it was going to help. I thank G-d for every single person who prayed healing prayers for me. I don't care the words, the tradition or the outcome of those prayers. I'm grateful to G-d for people who give a shit enough to think of someone else's pain and to place their intention into the arms of something greater than themselves in order to be useful for the purposes of love. I thank G-d for my mother who told me she'd take care of me no matter what and payed my first month's insurance bill because I was unemployed. I am thankful to G-d that I even have health insurance. I thank G-d for the loving, gentle suggestions of mentors, friends and faith companions since the injury occurred in March: keep writing, keep walking, keep talking about it. I survived because of those suggestions. I survived because of that care. And I gotta thank G-d.
I am surviving. I gotta thank G-d. I hope you hear me.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
The Plague Upon This House
Ultimate irony:
you water the plants, feed the birds and make the bed upon which both of you sleep
yet she remains parched, unfed, and restless
wishing a love between you, once alive and life-giving
might awaken again.
Hollow soul:
what has deadened you,
positioned your body in defense
and closed any possibilities for openness?
I witness
and find this poisonous ruptured relationship
a challenge to my pastoral stance.
What can I do to heal such cantankerous hostility?
How might I occupy the triangle without being torn apart by it?
What prayers might move against the tides threatening to drown her heart?
you water the plants, feed the birds and make the bed upon which both of you sleep
yet she remains parched, unfed, and restless
wishing a love between you, once alive and life-giving
might awaken again.
Hollow soul:
what has deadened you,
positioned your body in defense
and closed any possibilities for openness?
I witness
and find this poisonous ruptured relationship
a challenge to my pastoral stance.
What can I do to heal such cantankerous hostility?
How might I occupy the triangle without being torn apart by it?
What prayers might move against the tides threatening to drown her heart?
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Link to Patheos Advent Series
Here's the link to the Advent series I'm doing with Corbin & Tai Amri. Check it out. Comments welcomed there or here.
http://www.patheos.com/Resources/Additional-Resources/Advent-Intentionality.html
Waiting on the Christ of compassion to come...
Ejoye
http://www.patheos.com/Resources/Additional-Resources/Advent-Intentionality.html
Waiting on the Christ of compassion to come...
Ejoye
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Dying to Believe
November 5th, 2008.
We gathered, about 12 all together, in a tiny living room
in a tiny apartment. We were on the second floor.
Below people began screaming, so we went to the windows.
My mom called. She was crying. East Coast got word first.
Then they--John Stewart and Steven Colbert--announced it.
You won.
My living room companions clapped. Some yelled.
Some jumped up and began running around. I just wept and wept. I couldn't believe it.
You won.
The acceptance speech put us all in check; you knew the work cut out for you
and didn't hesitate to tell us about it. Further humbled by your grace,
the spirit of reverence for responsibility took hold. For a moment we were silent.
The screaming below got louder and louder, so we hit the streets.
We passed around ideas of where to go: Jack London Square?
City Hall? 20 minutes later we joined other political wanderers
at the corner of Broadway & Grand, right outside Luka's Taproom.
All the colors and queers began drumming, dancing and sanctifying the intersection.
Oakland's finest were in full effect. No censoring or controlling the movement that night.
The people owned the pavement, for once. Police officers put up their barricades for us, for you.
They actually let us get rowdy. People wrapped themselves in American Flags and circled
the community. Black people held each other like tearful lovers reuniting after years apart.
The old long-haired white hippie left-overs from the 60's crowded together with candles.
Even the punk-rock bandits poured in offering shouts of joy.
You brought us all there, that corner in Oakland, on that day.
You won.
In the middle of the celebration I recalled the moment I turned the corner on you.
When John Legend sang at the National Democratic Convention, he used these words:
"I'm dying to believe that you're out there."
As a theologian I reflected upon the rhetoric of hope,
the possibilities for transformative political leadership,
a shift in my generation's attitude toward agency and change--all the things you stood for
and all things bigger than you.
We wanted justice.
We wanted diversity in leadership.
We wanted grass roots movement.
People worked tirelessly for you, dying to believe that what you offered might actually come true.
And it did: that night when you won. We danced our assess off and screamed our lungs
into scratchyness the next morning. On the corner of Broadway & Grand, we prayed
our gratitude for the "new thing" happening because of your willingness to lead us.
December 2nd, 2009
$1.08 trillion total funding for "both" (as if we're only occupying 2 countries) wars through fiscal 2010.
30,000 troops on their way to Afghanistan as of your declaration last night.
98,000 proposed U.S. troop level in Afghanistan in total.
I don't think you want this, deep down. Somebody must own you. I say institute the draft, right now.
This morning I saw the headlines--I was leading an Advent workshop last night
and couldn't hear your speech (how ironic)--and felt a gut-wrenching spiritual ache.
The ache of disillusionment.
The ache of wondering if we all got fooled into thinking it'd be different.
The ache of wondering if you got fooled into thinking you'd be different.
The ache of pondering how it feels to be a citizen today
given how it felt to be a citizen on the corner of Broadway & Grand on November 5th 2008.
I'm dying to believe that you're out there, that you are still the person I worked so hard to elect,
that you care about the working class, and people of color and you wouldn't sacrifice
your principles to put them on front lines for money or any other pimped out virtue.
I'm dying to believe that you're out there, that you think about Iraqi, Afghani and Pakistani
children when you look into Malia and Sasha's eyes.
I'm dying to believe the hope we birthed wasn't a waste.
We gathered, about 12 all together, in a tiny living room
in a tiny apartment. We were on the second floor.
Below people began screaming, so we went to the windows.
My mom called. She was crying. East Coast got word first.
Then they--John Stewart and Steven Colbert--announced it.
You won.
My living room companions clapped. Some yelled.
Some jumped up and began running around. I just wept and wept. I couldn't believe it.
You won.
The acceptance speech put us all in check; you knew the work cut out for you
and didn't hesitate to tell us about it. Further humbled by your grace,
the spirit of reverence for responsibility took hold. For a moment we were silent.
The screaming below got louder and louder, so we hit the streets.
We passed around ideas of where to go: Jack London Square?
City Hall? 20 minutes later we joined other political wanderers
at the corner of Broadway & Grand, right outside Luka's Taproom.
All the colors and queers began drumming, dancing and sanctifying the intersection.
Oakland's finest were in full effect. No censoring or controlling the movement that night.
The people owned the pavement, for once. Police officers put up their barricades for us, for you.
They actually let us get rowdy. People wrapped themselves in American Flags and circled
the community. Black people held each other like tearful lovers reuniting after years apart.
The old long-haired white hippie left-overs from the 60's crowded together with candles.
Even the punk-rock bandits poured in offering shouts of joy.
You brought us all there, that corner in Oakland, on that day.
You won.
In the middle of the celebration I recalled the moment I turned the corner on you.
When John Legend sang at the National Democratic Convention, he used these words:
"I'm dying to believe that you're out there."
As a theologian I reflected upon the rhetoric of hope,
the possibilities for transformative political leadership,
a shift in my generation's attitude toward agency and change--all the things you stood for
and all things bigger than you.
We wanted justice.
We wanted diversity in leadership.
We wanted grass roots movement.
People worked tirelessly for you, dying to believe that what you offered might actually come true.
And it did: that night when you won. We danced our assess off and screamed our lungs
into scratchyness the next morning. On the corner of Broadway & Grand, we prayed
our gratitude for the "new thing" happening because of your willingness to lead us.
December 2nd, 2009
$1.08 trillion total funding for "both" (as if we're only occupying 2 countries) wars through fiscal 2010.
30,000 troops on their way to Afghanistan as of your declaration last night.
98,000 proposed U.S. troop level in Afghanistan in total.
I don't think you want this, deep down. Somebody must own you. I say institute the draft, right now.
This morning I saw the headlines--I was leading an Advent workshop last night
and couldn't hear your speech (how ironic)--and felt a gut-wrenching spiritual ache.
The ache of disillusionment.
The ache of wondering if we all got fooled into thinking it'd be different.
The ache of wondering if you got fooled into thinking you'd be different.
The ache of pondering how it feels to be a citizen today
given how it felt to be a citizen on the corner of Broadway & Grand on November 5th 2008.
I'm dying to believe that you're out there, that you are still the person I worked so hard to elect,
that you care about the working class, and people of color and you wouldn't sacrifice
your principles to put them on front lines for money or any other pimped out virtue.
I'm dying to believe that you're out there, that you think about Iraqi, Afghani and Pakistani
children when you look into Malia and Sasha's eyes.
I'm dying to believe the hope we birthed wasn't a waste.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Hey all:
I wrote an article on my experience in CPE (clinical pastoral education) for the PSR (pacific school of religion) bulletin. If you want to check it out, hit the link below. I'd love to hear your comments on this site. Happy reading.
http://www.psr.edu/war-and-peace-my-year-clinical-pastoral-education
Yours in the struggle(s) for peace,
eJOYe
I wrote an article on my experience in CPE (clinical pastoral education) for the PSR (pacific school of religion) bulletin. If you want to check it out, hit the link below. I'd love to hear your comments on this site. Happy reading.
http://www.psr.edu/war-and-peace-my-year-clinical-pastoral-education
Yours in the struggle(s) for peace,
eJOYe
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Loving Life The Way it is Right Now
Friday was the last day I couldn't drive nor walk around the block more than once. Friday marked the difference between laying flat and being able to stand (somewhat) straight for more than three minutes. Friday my pain level went from a 9 to a 6 1/2--the qualitative distance between those levels for my body mirroring the quantitative distance between states like California and New York on a map. When you've got nothing, you get tremendously grateful for something even if that something would have felt pathetic before you lost everything. Back to Friday.
Makes sense that my spiritual director would usher in the period of transition, the transition from immobility to inches-given. We were supposed to have dinner in Oakland but there was no way I could drive up from Palo Alto, so we decided to talk on the phone. She's a magical human being, my spiritual director. Even so, it took me 30 minutes to get honest about the struggle, 30 minutes to admit my despair and absolute bewilderment. At first I hesitated. I didn't want to use the word "unemployment" because she used to be my boss. I didn't want to use the words "lack of faith" because she's also now my pastor. I didn't want to tell her how bad my back pain had been the last 4 days, how only 2 days ago I'd begged my physician for Morphine and when he refused to order the shot and told me to go to the ER (how can a person with level 9 pain drive themselves to the ER?), I'd asked G-d to give me death. I thought she'd be disappointed. She's the kind of person everyone works hard--i mean hard--to avoid disappointing because she's grace-filled, beautiful and dependable. Because she is these things, she asked the questions that coaxed me into honesty. She asked if I'd been writing. I said no. I couldn't write because I was too ashamed.
Then we began talking about the lives of pastors: what they do, not just how they work within the walls of a congregation. She talked about vocation being larger than employment, particularly in the ministry. Pastors are people who bring theological and ecclesiological reflection to all aspects of life, not just the life of a congregation where they are employed. We look at all struggle and victory, all brush-ups with grace and evil with several things in mind: 1) our people 2) our G-d & 3) the intersections between the two. I began talking about how this struggle with getting a job, with getting adequate health care, and dealing with chronic pain have given me a wider circle of compassion. I told her about my new found empathy for people who have to be on disability, people who spend too much time staring up at the ceiling because that's the only option they've got. I told her I would never, ever, in the future forsake the blessing of having a job. I told her I would never forsake another pain free day. She then asked if I would be willing to write during this time as a way of providing testimony, as a way of pastoring from the wilderness.
G-d knows I am not the only one in the wilderness right now. In fact, my wilderness looks like a nicely trimmed vineyard in comparison to some people's struggle these days. I may be moving back home, but at least I've got a financially stable family to welcome me back. I may be without steady employment, but I qualify for federal help that's enabling me to pay my bills. My skin color, education level, class privilege and body ability guarantee me a future within my denomination that, unfairly, many cannot claim. I may be leaving the Bay Area where countless friends and memories hold my heart, but at least I've made those connections and dwelled in that precious space at all. Amidst the struggle I am both grateful for what I have and committed to fighting against those things holding people in greater bondage than I can even comprehend. I will not allow this time of suffering to isolate or silence me. Thanks to Marjorie's suggestion, I will use this time to connect, to express, to fight, to hold on, and yes, to love G-d. Therefore, this blog space will serve as a key portal for these attempts to break open and to reach you.
There’s more…
On Saturday I actually survived the drive to the East Bay. I had the opportunity to write and direct the communion liturgy of Michelle Haris-Gloyer's Ordination service. I love Michelle. Working with her on any liturgical project feels like breathing sacred air: it just flows. We blended the traditional institution of the Lord's Supper with the language of 2 Cor 4. We relished in the patterns and poetic flow of those two texts in conversation. Michelle desired "multiple voices at the table" so we invited 8 servers to participate in the spoken word. The actual delivery wasn't perfect (well, im*h*o) because we only had a few practice runs, but the process of relationally engaging, envisioning, writing and rehearsing reminded me of why I want to do ministry. There's no greater joy(e) than experiencing the burst of novelty at the intersection of tradition and innovation. No greater love than worship. I may not be “in the church” but my heart is in this work, no doubt.
After the service I ran into Christina Hutchins who is pastor, poet, theologian, philosopher and all-around goodness. She's the person who throws out Koan sayings that knock you spiritually senseless one minute and then 20 minutes later comes up with an absolutely irreverent joke that makes you laugh so hard you almost pee. I adore her. Anyway: we hadn't seen each other in a while and she asked me how I was doing. I gave her the 1 minute version of "jobless, in pain and moving home to my mother's house." She looked me deep in the eyes and said "you could practice loving your life the way it is right now." In some ways I think she was taking me to the same core principle that Marjorie ushered me into on Friday night. Her words stayed with me for 3 days, read: they actually meant something.
Ever since I've been wondering about the practice of "loving life the way it is right now." What does it mean to actually do the work of loving something that feels so damn bad? This question, this meditation of sorts, has thrown me "back to the basics." Yes, it's letting the "test become testimony" (as Marjorie would say) and so yes, the loving is about expression and writing. But mostly: it's about paying attention. And I can only pay attention to the present moment because the future is a downhill-rolling-fear-filled-snow-ball phenomenon if there ever was one. I am looking and listening more deeply today than I ever have. And guess what?: the practice is saving me moment to moment.
I'm here to testify: the present moment contains the most G-d you'll ever find. Thank you Marjorie, Michelle, and Christina.
In the coming weeks and months I am going to practice gratitude in this blog space. The practice of gratitude is about intention, about paying particular (intentionally appreciative) attention to the present moment. The practice of gratitude is the practice of “loving life the way it is right now.” And, hey, it’s seasonally appropriate. My hope is that you will continue checking in and that you will share your gratitude (or anything else you want) in this space as well. I am particularly reliant upon this space to hold connections as I transition from the Bay back to Southern Cal. I want to keep loving your lives—just the way they are right now—too. Be in touch, beloved,
Makes sense that my spiritual director would usher in the period of transition, the transition from immobility to inches-given. We were supposed to have dinner in Oakland but there was no way I could drive up from Palo Alto, so we decided to talk on the phone. She's a magical human being, my spiritual director. Even so, it took me 30 minutes to get honest about the struggle, 30 minutes to admit my despair and absolute bewilderment. At first I hesitated. I didn't want to use the word "unemployment" because she used to be my boss. I didn't want to use the words "lack of faith" because she's also now my pastor. I didn't want to tell her how bad my back pain had been the last 4 days, how only 2 days ago I'd begged my physician for Morphine and when he refused to order the shot and told me to go to the ER (how can a person with level 9 pain drive themselves to the ER?), I'd asked G-d to give me death. I thought she'd be disappointed. She's the kind of person everyone works hard--i mean hard--to avoid disappointing because she's grace-filled, beautiful and dependable. Because she is these things, she asked the questions that coaxed me into honesty. She asked if I'd been writing. I said no. I couldn't write because I was too ashamed.
Then we began talking about the lives of pastors: what they do, not just how they work within the walls of a congregation. She talked about vocation being larger than employment, particularly in the ministry. Pastors are people who bring theological and ecclesiological reflection to all aspects of life, not just the life of a congregation where they are employed. We look at all struggle and victory, all brush-ups with grace and evil with several things in mind: 1) our people 2) our G-d & 3) the intersections between the two. I began talking about how this struggle with getting a job, with getting adequate health care, and dealing with chronic pain have given me a wider circle of compassion. I told her about my new found empathy for people who have to be on disability, people who spend too much time staring up at the ceiling because that's the only option they've got. I told her I would never, ever, in the future forsake the blessing of having a job. I told her I would never forsake another pain free day. She then asked if I would be willing to write during this time as a way of providing testimony, as a way of pastoring from the wilderness.
G-d knows I am not the only one in the wilderness right now. In fact, my wilderness looks like a nicely trimmed vineyard in comparison to some people's struggle these days. I may be moving back home, but at least I've got a financially stable family to welcome me back. I may be without steady employment, but I qualify for federal help that's enabling me to pay my bills. My skin color, education level, class privilege and body ability guarantee me a future within my denomination that, unfairly, many cannot claim. I may be leaving the Bay Area where countless friends and memories hold my heart, but at least I've made those connections and dwelled in that precious space at all. Amidst the struggle I am both grateful for what I have and committed to fighting against those things holding people in greater bondage than I can even comprehend. I will not allow this time of suffering to isolate or silence me. Thanks to Marjorie's suggestion, I will use this time to connect, to express, to fight, to hold on, and yes, to love G-d. Therefore, this blog space will serve as a key portal for these attempts to break open and to reach you.
There’s more…
On Saturday I actually survived the drive to the East Bay. I had the opportunity to write and direct the communion liturgy of Michelle Haris-Gloyer's Ordination service. I love Michelle. Working with her on any liturgical project feels like breathing sacred air: it just flows. We blended the traditional institution of the Lord's Supper with the language of 2 Cor 4. We relished in the patterns and poetic flow of those two texts in conversation. Michelle desired "multiple voices at the table" so we invited 8 servers to participate in the spoken word. The actual delivery wasn't perfect (well, im*h*o) because we only had a few practice runs, but the process of relationally engaging, envisioning, writing and rehearsing reminded me of why I want to do ministry. There's no greater joy(e) than experiencing the burst of novelty at the intersection of tradition and innovation. No greater love than worship. I may not be “in the church” but my heart is in this work, no doubt.
After the service I ran into Christina Hutchins who is pastor, poet, theologian, philosopher and all-around goodness. She's the person who throws out Koan sayings that knock you spiritually senseless one minute and then 20 minutes later comes up with an absolutely irreverent joke that makes you laugh so hard you almost pee. I adore her. Anyway: we hadn't seen each other in a while and she asked me how I was doing. I gave her the 1 minute version of "jobless, in pain and moving home to my mother's house." She looked me deep in the eyes and said "you could practice loving your life the way it is right now." In some ways I think she was taking me to the same core principle that Marjorie ushered me into on Friday night. Her words stayed with me for 3 days, read: they actually meant something.
Ever since I've been wondering about the practice of "loving life the way it is right now." What does it mean to actually do the work of loving something that feels so damn bad? This question, this meditation of sorts, has thrown me "back to the basics." Yes, it's letting the "test become testimony" (as Marjorie would say) and so yes, the loving is about expression and writing. But mostly: it's about paying attention. And I can only pay attention to the present moment because the future is a downhill-rolling-fear-filled-snow-ball phenomenon if there ever was one. I am looking and listening more deeply today than I ever have. And guess what?: the practice is saving me moment to moment.
I'm here to testify: the present moment contains the most G-d you'll ever find. Thank you Marjorie, Michelle, and Christina.
In the coming weeks and months I am going to practice gratitude in this blog space. The practice of gratitude is about intention, about paying particular (intentionally appreciative) attention to the present moment. The practice of gratitude is the practice of “loving life the way it is right now.” And, hey, it’s seasonally appropriate. My hope is that you will continue checking in and that you will share your gratitude (or anything else you want) in this space as well. I am particularly reliant upon this space to hold connections as I transition from the Bay back to Southern Cal. I want to keep loving your lives—just the way they are right now—too. Be in touch, beloved,
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Advent
(Hey all: I've started an Advent writing project with Tai Amri and Corbin. This is my first post. My boys will respond on a webzine called Patheos. I will post the link later and if you find interest in this material, check us out.)
Advent, the season that includes both religious holiday and secular consumeristic spin-outs, is a time of preparation. For Christians in particular, this is a time to halt, a time of pause, a period of waiting. But we do not wait for waiting's sake. We await the event of incarnation, a birthing of divinity and humanity in the world. We move collectively during this time of preparation, as a people, toward the promise of Christmas. Like any other liturgical season, Advent takes form in our lives through practice. We practice Advent. And again, like any other liturgical season, the practices of Advent take on drastically different forms given the Christian sect/denomination/community wherein they are being ritualized. For instance, while some Christians will pray, light candles and open miniature calendar doors each evening during Advent, other Christians will spend the bulk of Advent shopping for gifts, preparing meals and attending bi-weekly church services. It's all about context.
The diversity of Advent practice is made more complicated by the undeniably far-reaching reign of commercial industries capitalizing on this time in order to make a profit. We hear Jingle Bells set to Best Buy's advertisements, see GAP models adorning cute little santa hats in order to sell ordinary blue jeans, and find Christmas Blend coffee stocked heavily on the shelves at any local Starbucks. With equal force, those finding the man of Nazareth missing from this holiday extravaganza, step in the streets with their "No Christmas without Christ" signs or "Jesus is the reason for the season" buttons. All of these things—pious prayer, corporate cash-ins and religious resistance to consumerism--are about the practice of Advent. There’s a spectrum here and quite honestly during my 28 years of Christianity I’ve probably gone to the extreme on both sides. Today, after seminary training and years of work in the field of ministry, I find myself somewhere between unconscious consumerism and self-righteous blasting of all-things-Capitalist. I find myself practicing the “middle way.”
There's meaning to be found in buying just the right gift for just the right someone, even if you find that gift at Best Buy. There's value to be found in lining up and resisting the forces of classism, homeless and hunger in our city streets--and doing that resisting in the name of Christ precisely because Jesus came into this world through a homeless, unwed, pregnant, teen-age girl. Reverence for life and reverence for the liberation made known in Jesus can increase with every candle lighting, every sung version of "Oh Holy Night." However, there’s the danger of “going through the (Advent) motions” just to get through the holidays. This is the danger of meaningless habituation that accompanies any ritualistic activity. We can pick gifts off the shelf without thinking much about the person receiving them or where those gifts were made and under what conditions. We can prepare a Christmas meal for our extended friends and family because we’re supposed to, not because we actually want to. We can go about the obligatory, business as usual practices "we've done every year," or we can go about the work of checking our intentions. Perhaps the most faithful discipline we can engage as we approach the season of Advent in 2009 is the practice of Advent intentionality.
As a progressive Protestant I’ve seen the shortfalls of “thinking” about religion—my people are notorious for thinking themselves right out of holy living--and so I am not advocating a more heady way of approaching Advent. Instead I’d like us to consider that we’ve always practiced Advent and there’s something to be discovered in revisiting those practices with the lessons of faith we’ve learned in the last year. Certainly this will lead us to change some practices and to hold onto others with greater appreciation.
Advent, the season that includes both religious holiday and secular consumeristic spin-outs, is a time of preparation. For Christians in particular, this is a time to halt, a time of pause, a period of waiting. But we do not wait for waiting's sake. We await the event of incarnation, a birthing of divinity and humanity in the world. We move collectively during this time of preparation, as a people, toward the promise of Christmas. Like any other liturgical season, Advent takes form in our lives through practice. We practice Advent. And again, like any other liturgical season, the practices of Advent take on drastically different forms given the Christian sect/denomination/community wherein they are being ritualized. For instance, while some Christians will pray, light candles and open miniature calendar doors each evening during Advent, other Christians will spend the bulk of Advent shopping for gifts, preparing meals and attending bi-weekly church services. It's all about context.
The diversity of Advent practice is made more complicated by the undeniably far-reaching reign of commercial industries capitalizing on this time in order to make a profit. We hear Jingle Bells set to Best Buy's advertisements, see GAP models adorning cute little santa hats in order to sell ordinary blue jeans, and find Christmas Blend coffee stocked heavily on the shelves at any local Starbucks. With equal force, those finding the man of Nazareth missing from this holiday extravaganza, step in the streets with their "No Christmas without Christ" signs or "Jesus is the reason for the season" buttons. All of these things—pious prayer, corporate cash-ins and religious resistance to consumerism--are about the practice of Advent. There’s a spectrum here and quite honestly during my 28 years of Christianity I’ve probably gone to the extreme on both sides. Today, after seminary training and years of work in the field of ministry, I find myself somewhere between unconscious consumerism and self-righteous blasting of all-things-Capitalist. I find myself practicing the “middle way.”
There's meaning to be found in buying just the right gift for just the right someone, even if you find that gift at Best Buy. There's value to be found in lining up and resisting the forces of classism, homeless and hunger in our city streets--and doing that resisting in the name of Christ precisely because Jesus came into this world through a homeless, unwed, pregnant, teen-age girl. Reverence for life and reverence for the liberation made known in Jesus can increase with every candle lighting, every sung version of "Oh Holy Night." However, there’s the danger of “going through the (Advent) motions” just to get through the holidays. This is the danger of meaningless habituation that accompanies any ritualistic activity. We can pick gifts off the shelf without thinking much about the person receiving them or where those gifts were made and under what conditions. We can prepare a Christmas meal for our extended friends and family because we’re supposed to, not because we actually want to. We can go about the obligatory, business as usual practices "we've done every year," or we can go about the work of checking our intentions. Perhaps the most faithful discipline we can engage as we approach the season of Advent in 2009 is the practice of Advent intentionality.
As a progressive Protestant I’ve seen the shortfalls of “thinking” about religion—my people are notorious for thinking themselves right out of holy living--and so I am not advocating a more heady way of approaching Advent. Instead I’d like us to consider that we’ve always practiced Advent and there’s something to be discovered in revisiting those practices with the lessons of faith we’ve learned in the last year. Certainly this will lead us to change some practices and to hold onto others with greater appreciation.
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