Cache

Posts below = a cache of musings from seven good years.  Formative years.  

windy

Traveling up Lake Shore Drive en route to work this evening I caught a glance east at a handful of boats beyond the harbor with sails set and full.  Earlier this week I took Lauren out sailing (with a hired boat and captain, not a skill I have... yet) for a crispy morning cruise.  I made breakfast sandwiches and mimosas.  I laid on my back under the sail when the captain turned back toward shore, and I watched the boom swing above me from one wind-harnessing extreme to another.

The city was right there, always in view, but I was absent from it.  I realized with an aquatic rush of delight that this brand of wilderness has been at hand constantly; that we urban dwellers buzz in astonishingly close proximity to a wild alterity that feeds on the same winds that daily brush my body.  The winds  course between buildings, chasing through avenues on their way to vastness outside of city precincts.

In the midst of the buzz on my way to work this evening I saw those boats and saw myself reciprocally through the boats-eye-view and felt the levity of a sudden, welcome insignificance.

Monsanto as Beelzebub

My comrade responded to the latest post here (and to other conversations we've shared on rooftops while fabricating the concept of a liberating apocalypse; and to Dissent Magazine's most recent issue) with 17 lines of verse that pretty well sum it up, casting inculpation where it's due:


& we'll talk on & on about
farms & food & subsidies
Monsanto-as-Beelzebub
apocalyptic deities
the earth deserves another flood
(a potent rinse of pesticides)
reprising our own myth
rewrite erase rewrite:
the ensuing desolation strewn
with slow-growth plots
& ruptured food-chains;
and those once-regal banners
(proclaiming the eternal rule of humanity)
are reduced to fumes
arcing from the desert floor - 
the last belch of a world
finished with its masters


(By Benjamin Blevins)

Nuclear

Threats of catastrophe have shifted during the past several decades.  While the continual existence of nuclear weapons makes it impossible to ignore the possibility of nuclear holocaust, the nuclear threat that is actually effecting global calamity today is much more insidious.

Today is Earth Day, which means more to some of us than it does to others.  I am not opposed to giving the earth a holiday.  But celebrating earth a day a year is an insufficient means of campaigning for a conscious recollection of the diverse ecology that supports our livelihood, our economic ventures, and our hope for future sustenance.  In America, holidays tend to draw people together as occasions for cellular celebration.  We celebrate sometimes with our communities and most often with our nuclear families.  No harm done there.  Family reunions and community gatherings can be enchanting.  At the same time, however, our national fixation on the nuclear family poses as great a threat as the Cold War era nuclear arms race.

Trying to meet our family’s needs is one thing.  Privileging the excessive satisfaction of the desires of our nuclear families is another altogether.  Whose comfort are we willing to neglect in order to extend excess to our closest relations?  Who are we willing to cast as “them” in order to ensure the opulence of “us”?  This nuclear threat, seeing our small collective of relatives as an insular unit, distracts us from engendering the consciousness we need to survive and thrive as humans and as members of our earth-home.  By focusing on nuclear home-life, constructing our own tiny empires, we have forgotten the actual house-rules (eco-nomy) inherent to our earthly home.  Our excess, our surplus, our capital is not taken from the vaults of an inanimate bank.  It is mined from the sources of the livelihood of others.

I am skeptical about the possibility that a shift in individual behaviors would bring about any great amount of social change to the contemporary patterns of global relations.  I doubt that a great enough number of those of us who are privileged and excessively comfortable will recognize the calamitous impact of our luxurious expenditures.  It’s far too easy to coddle our consciences by comparison to others who are even more opulent than we are.  But I am hopeful that the catastrophe we are invoking (and it is primarily we privileged who are invoking it) may demand its own change.  In that sense the apocalypse (nuclear or otherwise) may be inevitable.  This inevitability (and current reality) of catastrophe does not necessitate resignation or despair.  At the very least let's prepare ourselves and be ready to re-craft society without the ignorant and myopic elements that dominate today.

In the meantime, as you’re celebrating with your families today try to think radically about the sources and costs of your sustenance.  And figure out someway to express gratitude.

Gulch God

I read this today during the CTS Ecojustice chapel accompanied by the flowing snarky sounds of a bass clarinet. I wrote it a month ago hiking through the Paria canyon. It's a touch of peripatetic theology in verse...

There’s that western God:

Consistently conceived as immutable, unchanging, absolute, insoluble, static, fixed, removed.

The same sort of God yesterday today and forever.

This divine tradition situated in our subconscious posing as irrefutable reality.

God is stuck.

Ironic: this notion of unchanging, immovable, absolute God;

Such a far cry from the dynamic impressions of God that saturate the soil of biblical tradition.

The bible God is an impassioned God.

Hardly a final fix to the human quest for relational integrity

Or the fervent, feverish desire to experience something, someone, anything that awes us.

The God that is streaming ruah, flowing pneuma, torrential spirit

Is nothing if not dynamic, forceful, powerful

In motion.

The wild God, God of the gulch:

She invokes an acknowledgment of aquatic movement

And stone sculpting thrust.

She is the God who compels weary feet to the confluence.

The confluence of what?

Is it the confluence where our deep fears meet with contrived certainties that comfort at the cost of asphyxiation?

Is it the confluence of our grandest delusions (of ourselves detached and in control) merging into a supposed solution with the Absolute who sees to our absolution?

No.

God is neither a certainty nor a solution.

God is not cheap comfort.

God is not a coddler of our conscience.

God is at the confluence of threshold and compulsion.

The threshold at hand is comprised of stone and sand

And river and sun.

Find a window that frames a scene of others in motion, in life;

And cast your gaze through.

Find a threshold that parts the way between self-fixation and sensational relation;

And edge toward.

At the confluence of windowed gaze, where threshold meets lure,

When others and self spark divine and ignite in interdependent flame,

Sense God pass through and whisper compulsion to join.

Remain

In class last Tuesday my professor said:

“At CTS we are imbibing scholarly traditions that are anomalous to what the majority of Christians are familiar with.”

Indeed...

We are reconciling our cultural and racial identities with our religious identities. Some of us are asking, “How do I remain black and Christian?”

We are queering our religious understanding and our political stances. Some of us are asking, “How do I remain gay and Christian?”

We are opening ourselves to questions and uncertainties thus resisting arrogant absolutisms and challenging the hubris of ideologues. Some of us are asking, “How do I remain skeptical and Christian?”

“One can never wrestle enough with God if one does so out of a pure desire for truth… Christ likes for us to prefer truth to him because, before being Christ he is truth. If one turns aside from him to go toward the truth, one will not go far before falling into his arms.” [Simone Weil “Waiting for God”]

Some of us are asking, “Need I remain Christian?”

Rigid Theology

What is more Christian: dominion or partnership?

A few days back Rick Santorum was on Face the Nation doing his best to clarify some of the criticism he had previosly directed toward President Obama. One of his critiques is that President Obama’s policies on energy don’t stem from a desire to help American people, but stem from a “phony ideal… a phony theology”. What’s more, suggested Santorum, it’s by no means a theology that comes from the Bible.

When asked, What in the world he was talking about? Santorum said:

“I was talking about the radical environmentalists… this idea that man is here to serve the earth as opposed to husband its resources and be good stewards of the earth… we are not here to serve the earth. The earth is not the objective. Man is the objective. I’m talking about the belief that man should be in charge of the earth, should have dominion over it, and should be good stewards of it.”

In a book about faith, Buddhist meditation instructor Sharon Salzberg wrote:

“It is not the existence of beliefs that is the problem, but what happens to us when we hold them rigidly, without examining them, when we presume the absolute centrality of our views and become disdainful of others. Placing ourselves in a position of privilege – beliefs are treasured commodities and we are the proud owners – implies that we alone possess the earth, we possess the Truth.”

I am not a conservative Republican politician nor am I a Buddhist practitioner. I am however a student of the Christian Bible and a trained theologian, and I can attest with confidence that Santorum’s antiquated belief “that man [sic] should be in charge of the earth” is a lonely one in the field of mainstream theology. I would ask Santorum that he stick to crafting policy, and not dabble so erroneously in the construction and interpretation of God concepts.

If we continue to treat the earth as a thing we possess and dominate, much as men have treated women for millennia (a fact slovenly overlooked by Santorum), and if we maintain a rigid posture toward the earth we will break. And on our way to this self-induced destruction we will (continue to) abort countless lives, human and nonhuman, thus deserting our potential to partner with the fecundity of the earth in the process of inciting beauty rather than waste.

I ask you, What is more conducive to the Christian gospel? A rigid posture of domination, ownership, indifference, and power-over? Or a careful posture of partnership, mutuality, empathy, and power-with?

The Accountability of Responsibility

Once upon a time I drew from a list of conventional conservative Christian morals to inform my decisions about what was right and what wasn't. My last post suggested a disruption in my relationship with these conventions. This raises the question: Without an immediate, intimate connection to the posits of Christianity what influences my lifestyle decisions? What prompts my ethical posture in the world?

Do I still believe in right and wrong? The short answer is: I don't think the differentiation between right and wrong is cut and dry. But neither do I think that striving to live well, seek righteousness, or pursue justice are inconsequential matters.

Something drives us all. Something informs our decisions. Here is the reflection paper I wrote for my Ethics class this week:

A decade ago I encountered the quote: “Don’t ask yourself what the world needs. Ask yourself what makes you come alive, because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” I believed that idea to be true. I am no longer so sure. Since coming to Chicago Theological Seminary I have encountered another idea, a different reality. I have encountered the reality that the world needs more than people who have “come alive”. Women, people of color, and indigenous populations require recognition of dignity that patriarchal and imperial cultures have long withheld. Many people in the world who are impoverished beyond the ability to survive need resources that will provide for the basic sustenance of life. The earth itself aches with urgency for us to pay careful attention to the demands we place on it, and it in turn demands that we attend to the natural ecological rhythms that sustain the diversity of life.

My first ethical considerations were informed by the only world I knew as a child. I was a Wesleyan evangelical Christian who believed that the Bible functioned lucidly as the ultimate authority in all matters of life. Such assurance granted me profound relief in making decisions. I accepted an exclusivist reading of the Bible and the testimony of my insular community as absolute. This acceptance of an external authority governed my behaviors and rendered me free of the responsibility to consider the implications of my style of life. I did not have to think about what was right or best or true. I was simply required to behave myself according to my community's code of conduct. Good behavior was primarily contingent on acts that I omitted, desires that I repressed, and ideas to which I submitted. Since then I have learned to think, and to question my impulse to be well behaved.

Life would be easier if I could still base my ethics on good behavior or on the simple question, “What makes me come alive?” But I can no longer, with a sense of integrity, ground my actions in such myopic concepts. I am troubled by a conflict. I remain convinced that, indeed, I must foster my dreams and drive for personal abundance in life. Yet that conviction is critiqued by an expanded consciousness including my recognition of personal privilege and exposure to the stretch of social and ecological injustices around the globe and in my neighborhood. I am not sure where my recognition of privilege ought to take me. How does my identity as a straight, white, credentialed, employed, sheltered, relatively affluent male inform and problematize my active intentions, ethical postures, and political stances? I think it depends on how my narrative intersects with the narratives of others with whom I am engaged.

Ynestra King wrote, “Practice does not wait for theory – it comes out of the imperatives of history.” With this insight I recognize that I may not be able to find or invent an ethical theory that will promise me absolute ease of conscience. But I must still act according to some driving principle. That principle for me is the responsibility I have to pay attention to relational encounters. Any theory that has proven influential has come to me on the heals of an encounter with an other that has resonantly prompted a shift in ethical posture. My ethics are based on how I relate to others – human and nonhuman. They are therefore relative, subject to the nature of the relationship at hand. This requires a careful measure of deliberation. I must address ethical decisions case-by-case and conversation-by-conversation.

I know of no absolute authority or standard that grants me the assurance that I have acted right. But I believe that, “Listening to all voices of subjugation and hearing their insurrectionary truths make us better able to question our own political and personal practices.” I am unwilling to dismiss my ethical responsibility by insisting that a sacred text, divine authority, or code of conduct has made it clear that I am to act one way and not another. I have to attend to my intuition, listening to my conscience, and I must reckon with the realities of my environment, letting my community impact me. This is a risky endeavor toward ethics. It is not sure. It provides a hazy accountability at best. But I think it is better to be aware of this than not. It is better to embrace the implications of my actions as my responsibility, rather than ultimately displace my decisions on an external source. I am responsible, and to a certain extent that keeps me ethical.

Metamorphosis Shown

I tuned in to Re:Sound on NPR while driving home from downtown this afternoon. It was Re:Sound #139 The Matamorphosis Show, recounting two stories of two people navigating an alteration of identity. I listened to half in the car, then streamed it online from my kitchen to listen to the rest. I cried big, honest, insistent tears at one point. I try to listen to my tears when they come. Tears seldom lie.

The first story is called Breaking Away. It’s about Luzer Twersky who was raised as a Hasidic Jew and decided, at the age of 23, to leave everything he was familiar with and engage secular society.

The second story is called Finding Miles. It’s about a man named Miles and recounts his transition from female to male, from identifying as Megan to identifying as Miles.

Each story starkly typifies the human experience of change, identity, and agency. Each narrative emphasizes the role of family, especially parents, in the person’s metamorphosis. Luzer experienced a sort of excommunication from his family, a shunning from his parents, when he confessed to no longer being a practicing Hasid. Miles used a long letter to come out to his parents as transsexual, and the way that they responded… that’s what brought me to tears. I hope you’ll listen to the stories if you get a chance. They demystify experiences that are not familiar to a lot of people, yet their experiences were incredibly resonant.

Earlier this month I came out to several of my close family members. My confession was more akin to Luzer’s, and the response I received was more akin to the one Miles received. But there were pieces of all of each of their narratives. I told my people that I am not an Evangelical Christian, which for some in my family is equal to saying, without the qualifier, “I am not a Christian.” I didn’t qualify my confession in order to try and squeeze into some alternate mold of Christianity. It’s just that as far as I’m concerned there is, and regardless of my lifestyle or beliefs always will be, something of my identity that is informed by Christianity.

But I am not a Christian. Not in any orthodox sense. I don’t confess Christian creeds. I don’t practice Christian habits. I don’t go to church. I don’t assert salvation through Christ alone, or posit that truth is found in the Bible alone.

I need to be careful, because I have dear friends who would align with many of my liberal views and my openness toward lifestyles that deviate from the Judeo-Christian moral norms, and these friends still identify as Christians. I’m so grateful for them. Grateful for my encounter with brands of Christianity that have room for me. I’ve discovered this roomy Christianity through voices such as Fredrick Beuchner, Marcus Borg, John Hick, and Catherine Keller; and I’ve discovered it first hand in community at CTS. But to be honest with my tribe, the ones who hold fast to the Christianity that I inherited but have since departed from, I have felt compelled to provide clarity, rather than incite confusion, by letting my confession be candid according to their terms. At least for now, at this stage, I have found severance to prove functional in communicating who I am and who I’m not. It’s emotional, for me and them. Parts of it feel like estrangement, other parts feel like unconditional love. But I feel more than anything the levity of honesty and the profundity of telling the truth.

Just finished reading...

Before I read it I thought the title referred to those in a society who are ostracized, lacking possession of either dignity or basic subsistence. But it's actually about a society that rejects possession as necessary.

It's about work, initiative - not as performance but as pure compulsion.

It's about confronting customs, disregarding laws, walking through walls.

It's about home, flight, empty-handedness.

It's about solitude and solidarity.

It's about partnership, its pains and pleasures.

It's about individuality and interval, relativity and return.

At first it seems to be about thinking about the world from a perspective that expects that other worlds exist, or at least acknowledging other realities.

But then it becomes something different, about perceiving time (the span of a day, a moment, the gap between birth and death) and perceiving space (the thing our bodies occupy, push against, evade, retreat from, return to) neither as confines to be broken or resources to be used, but as realities to be both questioned and engaged.

It's about risking death and risking disapproval, the latter being the more difficult of the two.

I definitely recommend it, but leave it to you, if any of these themes so compel you, to decide whether or not to read it.