Plato's simile of the line

Opinion is composed of sense perception: images and physical objects or experience and examples that exist in a tangibly perceived manner.

Knowledge is composed of universal or higher metaphysical reason or understanding that is intelligible beyond the material sense.

The events of the day target a plethora of media reactions: images of parents wrenched with pain, children's faces pulled in fear, swat teams, President Obama's fallen face, and the numbers: 29 Dead. Each piece of media serves as a visual argument, a rhetorically loaded case for justice, gun control, fear, _____... .

And media spawns quickly.

Reactions, comments, opinions are given on Facebook, blogs, email, twitter. People are angry, heartbroken, disturbed, fearful, prayerful, pained, shocked, and in disbelief.

The media makes a case: INJUSTICE, it splashes across the headlines. FEAR, it breathes... and every reactionary, picture-thinking, sense-oriented human aligns his opinion and consequently his words, actions, and definition of the event with the rhetorically crafted, persuasive media argument.

There is another perspective. One must zoom out a bit to see it. And quickly, before the anomaly is normed, if it isn't too late.

The event is tragic, unjust, and frightening. It is, thankfully, a single event in time.

Fallacy number 1 is the mistake that will be made, to take one instance and alter the remainder of expectations around a single occurrance. This is a very short-sighted, but common event in America's recent history. As we covet maximum security, self-preservation, continually denying the TRUTH of human frailty, death, injustice, poverty, and pain, every breech in our facade must be barricaded. It is a fight for control and the preservation of denial: hence, discussion of gun control from President Obama and petitions circulating on social media, and the headline in the NY Times, "How to discuss this event with [instill fear in] your elementary-aged children."

Zooming out, beyond pictures and the isolated events of the day, one sees the scope of human history for the mechanistic battle of good and evil that has persisted since the beginning of time. Men rise up as forces of injustice; they are crazed, possessed, defined by lusts for power, pride, and revenge, and tragedy results. Masses still exist to be wielded, either to fight or to join the conspirator. The story is not new, and it is graphed by rarefied spikes on a generally pacified line of human history: evil men, evil acts do occur, and they aren't anticipated. We can live in constant fear of an enemy of unknown origins, bolstering against all of the surprise attacks on our front, teaching children to fear and ourselves losing faith in goodness, justice, and truth, or we can choose to acknowledge the higher, reasonable truth, that we will always mourn tragedy, but that we must collectively rejoin the side of Good, rather than cower to evil.

A complimentary error results from opinion that is driven by visuals: what is not seen or present as a flaunting of justice simply does not exist. America breaks open in corollary to a publicized tragedy over children who lie at peace with Jesus when daily, masses of children in the U.S. and abroad are beaten, sexually and verbally abused, kidnapped for sex slavery, starved, drugged, and robbed of innocence, goodness, and love over and over and over again while help remains a hope deferred, as Americans cannot see it, therefore the circumstance, and that child do not exist.

A woman who says, at 21 years old, "You are the first person to tell me that being molested and raped is not normal. My mom, my sister, my friends, ... we all experience it. I never heard that that wasn't okay" has grown up in the public school system.

Victims of heinous crimes surround us. Sounding an opinion in response to a media-induced anomaly while hunkering in denial daily is nothing more than confirming that the media is your puppet master. By strings, they bait your emotions and plant fear in your hearts: it's the economy of a visual, digital world.

Strive for knowledge basted with reason and live with dignity by refusing to see people only when the facade of denial is verified as destructible. Evil thrives on fear, negligence, and masses who do not think, but live by their eyes and the masterful words of powerful institutions.

Inwardness

Inspired by a lecture given by Jack Crabtree titled Kierkegaard and Inwardness Part 1.


"Salvation by grace, through faith."
Where did that tenet of doctrine come from? Is it necessarily indisputable fact that this is biblical? Is faith enough to [get to heaven; have a relationship with God; be a good Christian; honor God; etc.]?
A protestant Christian, even some veins of Catholic Christians would resound yes to the above questions and probably not know why, except that someone told them so. Or they would cite Romans 1-4, and not Romans 8 and 9 or 1 John.

The script or syllogism of "faith."
If one believes in God, and that Jesus was God's son who came down from heaven to die for man's sin, and if the man repents and claims Jesus as Lord, then he will be saved. Some denominations also throw in baptism as a requirement for salvation.

That's it. Claimed and saved. Once and done.

Now, if one is a good Christian, spiritual disciplines will be included: prayer, bible reading, bible study, accountability groups, church on Sunday in addition to striving toward right attitudes and spiritual "gifts" or "fruits" These spiritual tasks serve as outward signs and actions that one does because of his classification as a Christian.

Christianity by this model is easier than getting up in the morning, than talking to a neighbor, or than making a sandwich. There is no personal commitment to action or questions or physical exertion, mental psycho-emotional deliberation, overcoming, pain, restraint, and expression of gratitude that anchors the very core of soul and being to truth that is radical, transforming, and in every way opposed to the flow and current of culture, society, and self that is briskly carrying each individual pleasantly through life.

(I am the following; I'm not exempting myself)

Christians hate. Christians do what they want to, when they want to, and in a manner that pleases, without consideration of anyone else. Christians obsess about image, material goods, food, technology, travel. Christians serve themselves all day long. Christians demand others to meet their needs or else they are justified and entitled to disrespecting the person who offends their immediate need. Christians complain. Christians check-out, are lazy, distracted, and unthinking. Christians blindly herd down the wide road; they have spoken the script, and they attend church, so in their minds, they're good.

From the outside this has been called hypocrisy. From the inside it's called white-washed and deceived. 2,000 years ago, Jesus warned,

These people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far away. Their worship is a farce, for they replace God's commands with their own man-made teachings. 

Listen to what I say and try to understand...you are defiled by what you say and do. 

Evil words come from an evil heart and defile the person who says them. For from the heart come evil thoughts, murder, adultery, all other sexual immorality, theft, lying, and slander. These are what defile you. 

Matthew 15:8-19

Convicted about these thoughts over the weekend, I repented. Yesterday, I was determined to go into my classroom and show my students love rather than unleashing to angst that I feel toward them, but at the end of the class period, a boy came up to me and said, "We really frustrate you, don't we?"
I paused, angry, ashamed, failed. "Yes, to be honest."
"I can tell."

He can tell. This young man is not a Christian, but even his moral sense guides him to understand words that come from a heart that is ugly and unloving.

If faith is enough, then faith is much more than words and actions, and many of us are deceived into thinking that everything is right and good between ourselves and a holy, righteous, just God.

500 Acres Analogy

Imagine you are a farmer with one thousand acres of land. Five hundred acres is producing wonderful fruit and an abundant harvest. You have a variety of crops and a small orchard of fruit trees. But the other five hundred acres is completely neglected. This land is overrun with weeds; there are rocks in the field and a couple of abandoned old cars that have grass growing up through them.

Now consider how you want your future to be bigger than your past. You cannot plant your crops an extra time each year. The first five hundred acres is already producing all the fruit it is capable of producing. You could slave on the first five hundred acres and squeeze a little more out of it, increasing the crop size by a fraction.

If you genuinely want to build a bigger future, you will need to get into that neglected second five hundred acres of land and transform it into producing land. You need to get those old cars out of the field and remove the rocks. You need to pill out the weeds and till the soil. In this way you can almost double the harvest that you are producing.

The first five hundred acres is your strengths. Our culture obsesses over these and encourages us to focus on these alone. But that is because our culture does not have a vision for the human person. The culture has no interest in you becoming whole...But God has a much greater vision for you. And it is for this reason that he gently encourages you to explore the other five hundred acres of your farm --your weaknesses.

Matthew Kelley "Rediscover Catholicism"

Narcissistic Reflections

Many years ago, and repeated by literary and uncultured Austen fans to this day, Jane Austen penned, "It is a truth, universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife." This syllogism is just one of many typifications of human activity: "First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby in the baby carriage;" education, graduate school, money; house in the suburbs, two kids (a boy and a girl), minivan, soccer practice; Etc.

Besides functioning as fodder for satire and stereotypes for young adults to form adverse ideologies against, they represent truth, at the core. Few every wonder if these syllogisms are a byproduct of marketing a Made-in-America system for maintaining a consumer market, class system, and predictable, easily controlled citizenry (the few who think this are conspiracy theorists and watch too much Made-in-America television with the same objective).

Otherwise, the syllogisms are true because they happen naturally, a boy-meets-girl phenomenon -nature's (or God's) programming, for countless reasons.

I find myself slipping, or rather my mastery over ideals is slipping while I slowly descend into cliche territory. For example, while dating, I thought it completely gasp-worthy that a husband or wife would sit on opposite couches. I vowed never to let this happen (while I type from across the room). It was unthinkable that people would lazily roll luggage at an airport. They have no business packing weight that they themselves cannot carry, I thought. The wheels on my suitcase go round-and-round (blush). From the dark side I feel no guilt or reservation to conform or appease my pleasure in these areas. The convictions, I now hold, were naive.

But the descent becomes more slippery as time passes, as friends buy homes, and "nesting" sets in, babies are born, mini-vans purchased, and our 6th anniversary rolls around. Stereotypes have a ricochet affect that begins in generational mass movements. No one follows the trend of the weird guy from high school who went on to become an astrophysicist and locks himself most days in observation, needing to be reminded to eat and use the bathroom: singularities rarely start a movement. Usually it comes from looking around, beside, and into oneself to find comparisons, similarities that draw longings from within, natural or conditioned. And for myself I wonder what to make of these.

I could give in, adopt the dog, buy the house, have babies, and on... and truth, a part of me sighs a deep, warm sigh at this prospect. I have the home picked out; life is planned for the next 18-25 years and full of the unknown goodness of family life.

But I teeter. I don't want to slip and fall. I want to lean far from the edge. Not toward money. Not toward notoriety or class or ideal or career or I/me.
I want instead to delve into new. Things that never end: people whom I never figure out, ideas that tease and tangle my brain, doing something for which success is almost unattainable. I like challenges: being ridiculously bold and uncharacteristically behaved, facing a gripping fear, doing something that no one else will, pushing myself beyond a previous limit. I enjoy depth of anything: conversation, woods, silence, longing, memories, ideas; these fathoms are the stuff of life! I like when there isn't an obvious solution: analysis is the most satisfying pasttime. I like business, and motionlessness.

I don't want to fall into them. I want to stand as me. I'm not done with me, not yet. This narcissistic reflection, some would say, galls them, who have given and sacrificed and found the greatest of riches in family and suburban community and Western Christian fellowship. But I don't think, no, I know that I would not find LIFE there. Capital life that gleams bright and courses warm. Unless I gave everything, every dream, every thought, every joy, every expectation, every physical, emotional, and spiritual tendency, and I slipped ever gently down into them. To them. And I chose to serve forever, forsaking myself. Abandoning my will. For me I would not join the sisterhood of women delighted, as some do; I would join forsaken, timid, alone, and faithless.

Can I choose me? This is what I wonder? In choosing education, rent, poverty, and the reckless unknown I would know sacrifice, but not the stripping of myself completely. It would be sacrifice that, in the end, strengthens for service, empowers through empathy, and resonates with a spirit, mind, and body that I was gifted when I was born, by a God who intended me to serve the world AS I AM. Can I choose me, and through this the world? Or, do I slip softly, easily, effacing myself of identity to become one with/for them?

A quick thought

I'm here, mostly lurking behind a few books, several papers, and hours of trying to remember the most basic steps of writing.

We often train to go forward, strive, strain, and struggle to move beyond where we have been, but going back is a foreign exercise that has my mind feeling like it's a dog chasing its tail --the exertion is aimless and confusing at best.

There is a divide between those who enjoy and appreciate a glance back, and those who shrug it off as irrelevant bits of self.

Born Into Seeing

I have been wrangling a most difficult group for the past four weeks as they employ the fundamentals of writing. Save for a few that just warm my heart, I have been bullied and tested and spoken to with profanities. But, this frigid water that has been splashed in my face has cleansing qualities. Opening my eyes, with beads of water still dangling from eyelashes, the world is somehow new.

Born into... What an absolutely material phrase. Friends' babies come to mind, nearly 20 of them, now speaking first words or teetering on wobbly toes, teething and grunting and squealing sounds, being wrapped tightly and beheld with loving eyes; in these portraits I find grasping fingers of shoots embedding in material contexts.

Born into haunts me every day when I see my students' glares, blackened eye sockets, prematurely wrinkled and weary faces; I hear their sneers, the fighting voice -against failure, a system, oneself.

Poverty alters one's body forever: Starvation from love. Decay of praise. Emaciation of attention. Scant touch. Poor health. Rigid hands that never clapped. Abject words. Silenced songs. Barred pleasure. Jaundiced muscles not encouraged to move. Crippled hope.

Their stories of abandonment and shame grip my insides: my family was threatened with a water hose when we showed up at a yard sale because we were hispanic; I gave my son up for adoption 8 months ago and I am plagued by guilt every day; I have three children under 3 -one cannot walk and she needs multiple surgeries, but I don't have a job; I have worked at a liquor store all of my life and I don't know nothin' about writing or talking proper; I can't come to class because after a fight with my boyfriend, my appearance would be a disruption to the class.

I have heard these stories and worse before, but to live daily in their presence, to see the flinching, the absolute self-loathing, the fight-or-flight defenses, the signs of passivity and acceptance of abuse seep into every facet of their conduct and performance, language, and expectation of human interaction is like seeing straight through to a child who cooed and was yelled at: "shut up," who toddled her first step and fell to the hard ground without anyone to celebrate with her, who heard and felt punishment, criticism, and disdain, but never praise, never encouragement, never that she was loved or beautiful or valuable. 

When I stand at the front of the room and I face them, the glaring, persecuting stares, there are moments when my words abate because I see through their faces and my heart absolutely breaks.

Could they overcome, change, find hope, receive Jesus, fight harder, learn the rules? Perhaps. If they could cease to be born into; if it were possible to reach into their past and extend arms to them as they rocked on hands and knees eager to crawl, when their sallow eyes welled with tears, when a soothing, singing, praise giving voice was needed to calm their hearts.

I have always seen people. I have always known my own born into. I have pretended to care countless times. I have known facts and I have heard stories. I attended a church with a mission toward people. But what did it mean to see? to understand? to convert? to change? to reach... them?

They remained them, and I was me. Have I tried to make them me? Have I tried to become them? It's reciprocally impossible.

Born into: I cannot know the material reality that grounds beingness for another.

Perhaps this means that I will fail to help, fail to love, fail to see until compassion and empathy coat my ears. They tell me what they need. Who they are. How to love.

And seeing comes at times with the cost of being bullied, tested, spoken at profanely: tried. But this helps to see, baptizes [admits one], in a sense, to the reality of another.

Perhaps this explains Born again.

Jesus came because we were born into death. And suffered the cost, himself being born into death to bring opportunity for baptism into new life.

"What do you mean?" exclaimed Nicodemus. "How can an old man go back into his mother's womb and be born again?" 

"Don’t be surprised when I say, ‘You must be born again.’ The wind blows wherever it wants. Just as you can hear the wind but can’t tell where it comes from or where it is going, so you can’t explain how people are born of the Spirit.”

The way of becoming born again, to be re born-into is not a reasonable, rational occurrence that responds to material action. It is spirit. By the Spirit. When He chooses. When we submit.

My exposure to Christian idealisms has involved socializing the poor and "uncultured" masses with the individualist, materialized gospel of wealth, education, and white, twenty-something, middle-class values. They need us for food, money, direction, hope, community, and to meet their material need. We aim to make converts to our gospel rather than being open to converting to their gospel in which God is the sole provider, the sole hope that they have, and in their Catholic, revivalist, private expressions of faith, He hears them and meets their needs every single day until we tell them that He provides so much more: we offer our born-into contexts as proof that God gives shelter, love, praise, affirmation, good feelings, warmth, and happiness.

They know that these are not for everyone. In their own fighting, stubborn way they know something of the reality of the world that we do not, and something of the way of Jesus that we do not: a narrow path of pain and fear, loneliness, judgment, condemnation, and extra-material truth.

They may not need me, but I need them to show me the way.

Here or There

A small town just east of the Cascades: Yakima, WA.

Tucked here and there off of the main streets are residential neighborhoods with age-old tree-lined streets, at this time of year shedding colored leaves, and boasting early 1900's era 1-3 bedroom homes of every shape and style framed by flowers, pumpkins on doorsteps, and elderly people or children playing outside and chatting with neighbors.

On our street, 23rd Ave., the children congregate nightly, after homework and dinner, to play football, leap frog, princess, or cop, and their laughter lasts until the sun sets. Meanwhile, the elderly residents stroll down the sidewalk or sit in lawn chairs greeting one another, with their cats at times slinking along behind them. When we're out gardening or have gone on a walk to the park and back, there are people to stop and talk with, who look up from moving their hoses or picking weeds to say hello and ask about or share a life story.

The quaint neighborhoods that are something out of a glorified small-town movie setting center around parks, social outings for community development events, and  the downtown historic district, though somewhat less occupied than it has been in the past (rumored to have resulted from a greedy landowner charging too much rent). Coffee shops, a bakery, unique one-of-a-kind restaurants with twinkle lights, a French-garden inspired theme, or the essence of a boardwalk along newly habited ancient train cars creates an aura of times gone-by. Charming.

While these appeal to the dreamer, the idealist, and comfortably situated, classed members of society, the city has an equal number of people who struggle, who are very poor, uneducated, sick, and who come from generations that reinforce this life. Characteristics of poverty are as overt as diamonds and perfect, manicured lawn are for wealth. The positioning of these neighbors within similar, general regions of the city seems to have the effect of not letting either settle. The wealth is tame, while poverty seems to have movement. I notice this in my community college courses, there is a push-back against a complacent mentality; instead, people strive to move, to learn, to help their children, to attend a four-year college, to earn professional degrees. It's a city that is alive with movement, impact, and personal responsibility.

It is a place where people smile or offer a few kind words as you pass, where material pressures and external appearances are not so concerning as striving to enjoy life, help one's neighbors, and to know and be known.

Life consists in running on a well-trod path. I go to 10 places interchangeably: YVCC, church, JoAnn's Fabric, The Home Depot, Target, Albertsons, TJMaxx, Costco, Starbucks, and the library. When I feel like mixing it up I have a few alternate options: Crafter's Warehouse, The Little Red Hen Yarn Shop, Safeway, the other Starbucks, and The Farm Store. When I want to walk, Patrick and I walk to the same (perhaps the only) park, at times, multiple times in one day.

The effect is a fish swimming circles in a fishbowl. Fortunate for Godlie, he doesn't know anything different, and his tiny pea brain makes each lap a new adventure.

For the past five years, as I commuted four days per week between Laguna and Long Beach I had my pick of 10 or more Trader Joe's locations; I passed Fashion Island and South Coast Plaza with nearly every retail location desired; on the drive home, I often stopped at either Crystal Cove State Park to hike on the right side of PCH, or to walk/read/whale watch on the ocean side, at Huntington State Beach near the pier to watch surfers, the dog park to watch happy pups running from the waves, or at Bolsa Chica State Beach. When Patrick got home we could ride our bikes to 2nd st. to the beach path, to CSULB, or to Megan's house in Rose Park. We walked or rode our skateboards to the marina to ride around on the blacktop. I don't think that I went to the same park twice.

Yakima is far from the city that I am familiar with and comfortable in. Yet, it is where I have family, a place to live for now, and a job with students to teach. Often I strive to get out, wanting to get back to the familiar, stifled by the smallness, the seeming insignificance, the lack of cool, the want of progress, but for now I maintain that it is a small bit of home.

Intellect, Theology, Life, and Humility Come into Question

"The pull of (and lust for) intellectual respectability is fatal to many. My advice to you: if you go back to school for a doctorate, go with your eyes wide open to the dangers and don't trust that you are strong enough to resist its power. Any intelligent person can succeed intellectually and academically, but only those who are becoming "pure of heart" can survive spiritually."

I made a new friend named Jack. I wrote to him one day out of desperation, when it seemed that I was the lone person in the entire world who cared about Søren Kierkegaard and other vital elements of life. (I realize that implies that S.K. is essential. Like air. And food. And water. He is.)

Anyway, Jack or Dr. John Crabtree gave a talk as part of a series called "Kierkegaard's Coffee House." I found the talk on iTunes U and decided to think of him as a normal person like you or me, and I wrote to him.

I need to qualify this act of courage. Last year I emailed a professor at Stanford because I had a question. I figured that it would be okay, but I was told in no uncertain terms that I was never to contact him again as I was not accurately representing his work, and further, that my audacity in contacting him was shocking.

So, I braced myself when I received his first response.

[Regarding Kierkegaard], I am likely not the best person to be asking. While all of my formal professional training is in philosophy, I do not consider myself a professional philosopher. It has never been that interesting to me. My passion has always been the Bible and that is the world I live in. And even there, I am in a  world of my own. I am neither a professional pastor nor a professional Bible scholar. I am an old-fashioned philosopher in the spirit of Socrates seeking to better understand what it is that God has revealed to us about why we are here and what we're supposed to do about it. I am fascinated by Jesus and what he came to teach us. I am not so fascinated by Christian culture and its various institutions. So, all that is to say, I am not very well-connected nor well-informed about either the academic world or the Christian world.

Cool! (to say the least)

I responded, first about philosophy, and then about Christianity in all of its dimensions.

I think that I am drawn to philosophy because, for me, the probing works and treatises are religious texts. They beg the question of God in every sentence, and I have to go to Him for answers. They lead me to God, whereas the bible, the church, and spiritual disciplines as I have known them, have lead me to Christianity, to guilt and frustration at my “judgment and criticism” because I am confused and discontent in my spirit and rational understanding about Christian tradition.

I have a committed desire to pursue Jesus, God, and the Holy Spirit endlessly for the rest of my life. Embedded in this commitment is pursuing the purpose/meaning of human existence on earth, and specifically my existence on earth in relation to the reality of God and the story that He has written. And everything in me cries out to use every moment of my life and every bit of my capacity to honor Him. Up to this point, I have found this most completely when I study and research and write about philosophy.

 And here is why I am really sharing this, his most recent response, which stopped me in my pursuit and froze words in my mouth:

My story is rather ironic really. I became an adult during the counter-culture of the 1960's and I began to come alive spiritually as a follower of Jesus right on the cusp of the "Jesus movement." I had just graduated from Stanford University, Phi Beta Kappa etc., so—I had a foot in the door of academia and I think I could have succeeded down that road (graduate school at Princeton, professorships, papers, etc.)—but everything I was learning about and from Jesus drew a rather sharp line between love of the Father and love of the world. And academia clearly has both feet planted in the world. So, two factors determined the direction of my life: as a counter-cultural hippy-type-freak in the 60's and early 70's, it seemed plausible that the establishment would collapse and we really would see alternative institutions take their place, and, as a young, didn't-know-much disciple of Jesus, I understood that a true disciple would never really fit in the world (that is, the "establishment"). So, it seemed clear to me to take a different track from academia; and I did. It seems ironic to me now—and yet I understand that it was a wonderful gift from God—that the counter-culture and all of its power and momentum quickly got mainstreamed into the establishment and disappeared. All of us "age of Aquarius" types (I am only partly serious) were left with no graduate degrees, no credentials, no money, no nothing. America, taken over by the establishment, had gone on without us. It was the ex-hippies that had thrown in their lot with the establishment (against all their vaunted principles) that had the jobs and positions that the world has to offer. I realize that this probably makes me sound bitter. Honestly, I am not. I have had a wonderful life and I would not trade it for anything. The reason I am telling you this story is to suggest two things: (1) On the one hand, there is a tremendous advantage to be had by NOT going into the academy (formally), jumping through all the hoops, and being subjected to all its formative powers. My time spent in the academy (much later—when my bullshit meter was much-better calibrated— I went back to grad school and got my Ph.D.) has made me keenly aware of the dangerous and treacherous temptations that lurk there. The pull of (and lust for) intellectual respectability is fatal to many. My advice to you: if you go back to school for a doctorate, go with your eyes wide open to the dangers and don't trust that you are strong enough to resist its power. Any intelligent person can succeed intellectually and academically, but only those who are becoming "pure of heart" can survive spiritually. (2) On the other hand, there is a tremendous advantage to going the route of formal, established academic institutions. Just because that was not my path does not mean that it is an invalid one. It is a dangerous one (see point 1), but it can nonetheless be exactly the path that God wants one to take. I told you my story in order to suggest that my path was a relatively unique one. I needed to go that way to learn what God wanted me to learn. I think God wanted to burn into my heart and mind the nature of discipleship as an utterly individual and ferociously independent task. I think God wanted to show me and persuade me that one could arrive at a place of confident understanding that did not depend on the approval of experts and gatekeepers. To give me the gift that God wanted to give me, it was appropriate that I proceed by way of alternative and culturally "insignificant" endeavors—ones that did not automatically give me any credentials. But that may not be the path he has for you. I would have nothing but the utmost respect for someone who went into the academy and brightly upheld the light of Jesus' gospel in the midst of that darkness and who loved the members of the academy with a Christ-like love. It makes all the sense in the world that God might call someone to that task.

My only other comment concerns my own relationship to philosophy. Intellectually, I love philosophy for the intellectual challenge of it, for the intellectual stimulation of it, and for some of the grand vistas afforded by other worldviews. But I have never found Truth in philosophy. Indeed, if I look to philosophy for truth, I find it quite empty. The older I get and the more I know, the more I understand that it is Jesus who has the words of eternal Life. (This needs to be qualified. I have been helped greatly by the insights of various philosophers, both Christians and non-Christians. Philosophy has done much to help me understand the teaching of Jesus better. My point, however, is that I do not find Truth in the worldviews, systems, and methodologies of any of the Philosophers—except, of course, the rare philosopher who is simply seeking to translate Jesus' teaching.) There is a simple and easy mistake that I think people like me (who came out of a significantly anti-intellectual Christian culture and background) make: They go to a secular university that promotes an active life of the mind and think that, in that, they have found Life itself. They have found life, it is true. They have been liberated to be the intelligent, thinking, creative, thinkers that God created them to be. They experience a resurrection of sorts. They (at the encouragement, or insistence, of Christian culture) had buried their minds as dead; and their minds have come back to life. But such a "life" is only a worldly life. It is the "life" of a creature; but it is not the Life of a child of God. And the Life of a child of God is hidden in, and found in, Jesus and his teaching; not in philosophy.

If you find yourself enamored and seduced by intellect and the life that seems to spring from it, think hard about your motivation and the source of this life.

Lastly, a plug for Gutenberg college. Nearly every lecture is available online or through iTunes, and I have rarely heard wisdom and insight so counter to the world, even the truth professed in the Christian world that is as sharp as biblical truth is intended to be.

Personally, I have enjoyed Jack's series on John's Letters, particularly enjoying the first in that series called "Translation and Interpretation Myths."

And so it begins.

I'm teaching again, trying out this gig that is, apparently, about the only job that I am qualified to perform with an advanced degree in English.
I have my class list. I've chosen my book. I created the course website and content, smoothed, and evaluated it. And I showed up to my community college classroom, baiting myself to believe that this semester just might be different.
English 95 is not a magical course. English 95 is only a prerequisite for English 100. English 95 is not graded. English 95 is difficult to believe in. But I must alter each of these realities, turning them about-face in one fell swoop before my students' eyes glaze over and they are gone, for the entire semester.
This, friends, is not an easy task! It is like convincing teenage boys to dance ballet and five-year-olds that broccoli is oh-so-yummy. The truth, and my song-and-dance that I call "English 95 is fun, fun, fun!" are at odds, and they know it most of the time.
My wild card, to let you in on a secret, is that I don't teach writing at all (well, maybe it's like 90/10). I teach these adults to know themselves, to think, and to swap their mechanism for motivation from external reward and punishment systems for the intrinsic motivators of autonomy, mastery, and purpose.
By default, the hatch where all of the natural writing talent is locked within each person opens. A student at once begins to care about her writing. Her process of thinking about a thesis and supportive evidence is no longer agonizing because the conviction and idea that reside within one's mind are familiar, not foreign and uncomfortable. She begins to see that writing is not a stale process performed to please a teacher, but that she enjoys sharing herself with others, that she is more free to recognize and express her unique insights and discoveries about the world, literature, science, or her personal journey.
While I believe in this wildcard's effectual result and have experienced its transformative power, the change takes time, nearly the entire semester. And to get there is like tugging a rhinoceros with a rope up a flight of stairs, then another, and convincing him to jump from a balcony. Imagine how much energy it takes to fight their fear and apathy. (Sigh).

It's day 2. Four students did their homework last night, of about 30. It is possible that 26 dropped the class after my introduction...(not likely). Which means that I have a task in front of me, one that I was paid to do, but that is a far cry from anything that I learned in grad school: encouraging and motivating human beings who don't believe in themselves.
I would tell you some of their stories that they shared on the first day when I asked, "Why are you here?" But, to protect their privacy, I will share that this bunch has a reason to be discouraged, and have reinforced their resistance to searching within for years and years as calluses and routines have hardened them to believe that they're not good for much, intellectually, which I know is never true. It seems like it will take a million years for them to believe me.

"Like"

I don't usually click the thumbs up button on Facebook, but let's say that I did, these items would be on my current hit list.

I love the book 1,000 Gifts
I also like Kisses From Katie.

I like looking at the men's non-clothing items from J.Crew because they highlight such neat things. Like Fjällräven's Kanken backpack, the DODO case for iPads, and Ebbets Field Flannels authentic reproduction baseball caps. I like to learn about and support smaller companies, and it's neat when people turn hobbies into successful, quality businesses.




I like espresso from Rose Park and Lord Windsor roasters. And I like to pull each shot from the Rancillio Silvia rather than pressing a button or paying for someone else to make it and then not caring for their ratios of espresso and milk. It's an investment initially, but I'm sure thousands of shots have been pulled in the nearly 10 years that it has been in the Vincent family.

I like candles a lot! Voluspa's Gogi Berry candle and many of the seasonal Slatkin and Co. scents from Bath and Body --Leaves is my favorite fall scent. The B&B candles usually go on sale for 50% off at the end of the season or if you complete the call-in or online survey, you get $10 off of a purchase over $30. This is the only survey that I bother to do, and ones from Panda Express for a free entrée!

My favorite small town to visit in Washington is Port Townsend, and in CA it's San Luis Obispo (for the memories).

And when I have to choose a drink, I like Cascade Ice Pomegranate Mango sparkling water because it isn't sweetened, only bubbly with the essence of potent fruit. Found in the water isle at grocery stores in Washington, not sure about CA.

I've been listening to Audrey Assad quite a bit, both her debut album "The House You're Building," and "Heart."

"Important Things to Remember"

We are here waiting, still in an undecided place, but as far as updates go... Patrick had an interview nearly four weeks ago for an aerospace company in Seattle and was told last week to expect an offer, as they were working to write one on Thursday or Friday. He also has an interview today and tomorrow at another company for a similar position, and they are on a more committed timeline.

I met with the Dean of Arts and Sciences for a college in a southern suburb of Seattle yesterday about some courses that she needs to fill; she called me last Friday to come in and discuss the courses. As I sat in front of her honest face yesterday, prepared to respond to her first question, "Why do you want to teach English 97 (how to write a sentence)?," I saw my future flash before me. I would teach outlining, developmental writing, the five paragraph essay, and possibly, eventually evolve into an English Ph.D. candidate privileged enough to teach juniors and seniors the intricacy of metaphoric language and embedded feminist theory in Thoreau’s Walden. I felt a lump in my throat, and I could only respond with honesty. Why do I want to teach English 98 at Pierce college? I don’t. So I was silent, and the interview ended courteously. In fact, she may still call me because they are that desperate. 

Waiting isn't easy, but it isn't difficult either. It's simply a setting in life that is unique. I wander through days distracted and patient, occupied with books, musings, and conversations. But when faced with the small daily decisions, the larger life-purpose questions are not far behind and surface persistently.

For example, I could choose to blog, work on a novel, study for the GRE, or read parenting manuals during my excess free time (note: we are not planning to have children at this point, but it is simply an option that many my age choose to pursue), but choosing one activity supports a certain future aspiration, and at the same time neglecting another selects against a pathway. If I want to become a novelist, a journalist, a professor, or a mother, those are distinct paths that require planning and preparation that could benefit from my time. But I cannot choose. I know most days what I would prefer, and other days what I will absolutely not choose, but they all seem to linger as I finish my bowl of Wheaties each morning and contemplate a first activity.

All of that is to say that life is rarely rosy and simple, even in the freedom of abundant time.

I received a gift from my mother-in-law, Sarah. A book titled, The World According to Mr. Rogers. He wrote a short passage that says,

"I wrote in a song that in the long, long trip of growing, there are stops along the way. It's important to know when we need to stop, reflect, and receive. In our competitive world, that might be called a waste of time. I've learned that those times can be the preamble to periods of enormous growth."

As a child I watched Mr. Rogers while multi-taking. Some of the limited few PBS shows that I was allowed to watch, captivated my full attention. But I always found the pace, the songs, and the rhythmic zipping up of the sweater, feeding the fish, and eating a wholesome lunch with a glass of milk, simply routine. I could put together a puzzle and play with a plastic farm while listening to his solemn lessons.

Reflecting on the way that I experienced his program, and simultaneously reading his words of wisdom, I see the authentic conviction that ran from the show, consistent with his personal life. Although marketed to children, Mr. Rogers reflected a life of patience, perseverance, peace, and pleasure in moments that others such as Sesame Street and Barney or The Puzzle Place did not do as well between outbursts of songs, dancing, bright colors, and quick edits between scenes to hold a short attention span.

I have the sense that Fred Rogers, even from his theme song, grasped the essence of being. "So let's make the most of this beautiful day; since we're together we might as well say...won't you be my neighbor?" Both italicized phrases are being phrases rather than doing phrases. They suggest acceptance and embrace of a moment, epitomizing the life and potential in circumstances as they are, to find beauty and an opportunity for service, friendship, love, and growth.

He's a new hero. I didn't understand him as a child, but as an adult his wisdom has provided far more richly than Ernie's snigger or Elmo's giggle ever have.

Back to Seattle again in the morning. Let's talk again soon.

Thoughts on Family Revolving Around the Question "Why?" Pt. 1

I'm wondering out loud. Please keep that in mind.

At two years old. My "baby" was a rabbit: fuzzy, white, and had long ears.

Why do people have children?
Something tells me that I just shouldn't ask so many questions, but I have to wonder why?

Of course I had dolls and a pink Little Tikes buggy to push them in. I painted their cloth nails, brushed their teeth with real toothpaste, smeared Bonnie Bell bubblegum chapstick on their plastic mouths, and I even plucked almost all of the eyelashes off of one doll because my sister told me that it was proven, "in the encyclopedia," that if you have an eyelash on your finger, make a wish, and blow it away, then the wish WILL come true! I had so many wishes for a bunny rabbit, a puppy, a minnie mouse room, a trampoline...before I realized that dolls don't grow eyelashes after they have come out, and I wasn't any closer to my wishes coming true. My dolls survived the very un-prissy, often disastrous, messy, dirty, busy life of a little girl. But I never once remember thinking that I was "Mommy," or that I would one day be carting real babies in a real stroller, brushing real teeth, and chasing children through real life day in and day out.

Years have passed; I have been married for over five years; friends are having children, starting families, complaining about not getting sleep, and spending hours delighting in a little one as she drools and fusses and wiggles. These real life dolls are forever, and their parents love every minute it seems, when they aren't sharing their experiences of screaming fits and hours of sleep deprivation, of food fights, potty training, temper tantrums, and messes here, there, and everywhere. I am not scared to give, to become more selfless, to have sleepless nights and spend time cleaning more baby food off of clothes than went into baby's mouth, but I am aware that caring for children requires love: hands-on, hands-dirty, arms-around, tangible love.

And I have never been good at loving this way. I love in presence, words, and believing for, hoping in, honoring, and thinking of. I don't love through touch or time. Nor do I receive love in this way, easily. Loving a child without touch or time is impossible and potentially wounding to their impressionable spirit.

And I like alone. I need alone. I need breath and space and peace. Is it shameful to say "I need," because it indicates selfishness where one should place another, especially a child before oneself? I've asked myself this question, and in my case, sensitive and fragile as I am, I do need space and time and peace -a lot of it, more than most, inordinately quiet periods of reflection, prayer, solitude, and thoughtfulness to be me. Would I be given children who like to play alone in solitude, who find cozy corners in which to curl up and read, whose favorite game is the quiet game, and who obsess about order, cleanliness, and rules? Only children whose child-like spirit is oppressed would seek such silent occupation. Who will give a part of herself? Me, or the child? And what will become of a mother who gives the very needs of her soul day after day?

When the days wear on three hours, five, eight, and then ten away from him, I feel my heart beating faster in anticipation. I love my husband. I love every minute that we have together to be and talk and dream and cook and garden and walk and read and share and listen and, and, and... we wake up talking and fall asleep contemplating the meaning of life every single day!

I'm unusual in that I went through life without him with a hole. I never had a confidant, a spiritual mentor, a best friend, a companion, a lover, a dreamer, one who knew me in and out, upside down, in good and in bad times, and I never knew another person in this way. So much more than a "husband," by the world's standards, we just refuse to use cliche words and think of each other as simply the other. Patrick is Patrick, and I am me. We make up what our relationship means, and let "marriage" disappear with all of its expectations and classifications, with its ability to fail and be blamed. Marriage is institutionally defined as the "formal union of a man and a woman, by which they become husband and wife." And what does this promise, what does it mean, what hope springs forth to promise that it will endure forever when it is merely a marriage by definition? Suffice it to say that in our unconventional, delighted, holy unity, God has brought life in me because of Patrick, and life in him because of me. Taking these precious moments, the inspiration of our conversations, the laughter and imaginings of life side-by-side, and insert children who impose as if they are more important always and no matter what, than one's husband or wife, that their immediate needs, dislikes, or desires come first to the point that they assert their voices and actions to this purpose is like taking a serene and peacefully flowing river and dashing its flow every which way by trampling through its waters and screaming harshly or elatedly. What becomes of us when one or two or more entangle, weave into this fabric, and vie for the substance that has given two life, and now feeds more?

These are my questions, condensed, spurred by what I have seen and observed. They aren't insurmountable, solid, or even well-informed as I cannot know, but only speculate what it would be like. But it seems that for this sacrifice one should want, desire, have a vision and faith for what a family might be.

Why do people have children? For their smiles, their silliness, the fulfillment of their unity, to build up another generation, to leave one's own legacy, because it is instinctual or just time? So many reasons, and not one that resonates. I trust that when and if the time is right I may have my very own answer.

Until then, this is one more strain of thought that crosses my mind on occasion, when yet another friend announces "Baby number 2!"

A Boy on a String*

I was thinking about the fact that writing stems from inspiration. Not that folding laundry and walking the same 3 mile route each morning or routinely conversing about this or that with Patrick or my mom isn't potentially inspiring. Laundry could be a metaphor, and socks, with any ounce of imagination, very well could take over the world. But I don't suppose I like to work that hard or it would spoil the fun and magic of inspired moments.

Professional writers say that you must write every day. And I agree with them, if I want to finish a novel or make a name for myself as a published author (adjust glasses), but as for now I like the whimsy of not working to write. I simply wait for a situation to blind-side me or tap me quietly on the shoulder, and then I write about it. I find that this usually happens when transformation occurs.

Lots of thoughts parade in and out of my head throughout the day -most are silly. Like this morning, for example, I was thinking about the fact that people of a sickly constitution usually die early, and so do people whose mental fortitude and ability tax their body so much that they essentially expire from mental overload. And as I talked with my mom I wondered how the value system which prioritizes aesthetics has survived along with the utilitarian, ethical, and rationalist world-views that I would have thought would choke it out long ago. But, it has survived, and therefore must serve a purpose. But those thoughts are don't linger. In and out.

Instead, I keep returning to a theme of predetermined destiny vs. free choice, that keeps coming up and has been a topic of debate as long as there has been life on earth. And I think in his own way, that every human must confront this topic.

Do we wait for the stars to align, for God to "make His will known," thereby telling us what to do, look for karma or "open doors" to make paths clear, or expect our fancy to reveal a hint of our destiny? Or are we agents of our own lives with each choice determining, of our own will, an outcome that shapes a life?

As my reference is a Western, Christian world-view, I believe by default, that God has a "will," a plan for my life, and that it is my duty to align myself with that plan by 1) asking, "what is your will in [this] situation?" 2) listening for his voice, the bible, or someone's opinion that I choose to attribute to God's reply for an answer 3) Then I do this, no matter what. And if these steps seem muddled, or I ask and don't receive an answer or can't identify an answer, then we call this "waiting on God," an equally important step because we believe that in this space we learn, grow, and experience the refinement of our own human desires, our selfishness, our etc. that may inhibit us from hearing God willfully or subconsciously.

It's easy to understand how this came to be a philosophy -I'm not sure if I can call it a theology or doctrine because it isn't defined, just implied by most Christians. First, the allusions to Jesus as a shepherd leading a flock. Secondly, the Old Testament is full of stories where God sent an angel or spoke directly to prophets and leaders of Israel telling Jonah to go to Nianevah, or Jeremiah tell my people, or to Moses place your staff on the ground...tell Pharaoh that I have said to let my people go! Samuel anointed Saul as King, Hannah gave Samuel as a priest, Abraham bound Isaac, writing appeared on the wall, and I could go on and on.

And in the new testament Jesus instructed his disciples, "follow me." He said that he was on earth "to do the will of [his] father." He instructed them to pray "not my will, but yours be done."

Clearly these statements seem to confirm and justify at least a form of predetermined movement for the human who believes in God.

But there remains the philosophical controversy that humans are not puppets of a God who controls the entire movement of the universe. Nor is it plausible, as Christians will affirm, to believe in a God who has created the world and left it. Truth exists somewhere between deistic ambivalence and determinism.

For example, I was reading a scene in Jeremiah that I commonly go to: God tells Jeremiah to go into Color Me Mine or more likely, a high school ceramics classroom. So he does, and there is a kid making a mug for his mom's birthday, but it ends up looking like a lopsided cornucopia, so he smashes it into a lump of clay and starts again. God says, "like clay in the hand of the potter, so you are in my hand."

That used to give me the warm fuzzies to think of a big hand, the one that sculpted oceans crafting little me into something beautiful. I had only to trust that I would become a perfect Mother's Day gift with no effort but to submit to all of the shaping and molding in my life. Determinism.

Last night I was laying on the floor, propped up on pillows, feeling kind of meh, so I re-read that familiar story and decided to finish it because, for the first time I realized that the mug was flawed and smashed into a lump of clay. gulp.

God said, Jeremiah, tell Israel that I can change my mind. Where I was planning to bless them and fashion them into a great nation, if they choose to turn from me, I will destroy them. If, however, they repent and remain faithful, I will build them up. So he went out reluctantly to tell the people, and they schemed to kill him.

So, the real story is that God involves himself in human life, shaping it, forming, and building it, and humans are concurrently making decisions. The human decisions impact God's involvement, and God's involvement influences human decisions. The answer is both/and.

This inspires me because it incites transformation. I am familiar with being told what to do and find that I am extremely comfortable operating within a clearly defined system of right, wrong, rules, and expectations because 1) this allows for control 2) I know where I stand and how to succeed. In a system without rules, where I plot my movement and assess my decisions and actions, the unknown, potential consequences, and controversy threaten my stability and control. Additionally, it requires responsibility and accountability on my part. If I am to work with God, then I need to be communicating with him, disciplining myself, training my heart and my mind to be discerning. I need to show up, I need to be actively participating, I need to see that we work together, and "there is no [laziness, passivity, self-focus, ease] in effective teamwork."

I go to church, I read my bible, I pray when I feel like it and when I don't. But working with God is as learning to breathe in unison with Him. It is both work and rest, responsibility and provision, pursuit and sitting patiently, sweat and peace, tears of pain and of praise. I cannot wait when I must work or submit when he is calling me to action.

The Lord is my shepherd, but he is also the one that inspires life in my mind and spirit to empower me toward decisions and action that are useful to shape the/my world.

*Title from Jars of Clay song Boy on a String

"Mr. Watson -- come here -- I want to see you."‏

Mr. Bell. Image from Wired Magazine

7/5/05 I received this message

"Mr. Watson -- come here -- I want to see you."‏

Thank you Alaxander Graham Bell and Thomas Watson for sending the first telephone message on March 10, 1876.
In good fashion, perhaps we can follow suit in such discourses.
I have a lot to tell you about my thoughts of my smallness, and I would love to hear how your small group went.  I understand that the telephone is a different medium that does not allow for some of the conveniences of IM, but I would rather have a conversation.
I will be up until 11:30 CDT, maybe a bit longer, and would love to converse. (817 xxxxxxx)
If you are up to it, I will look forward to hearing from you.
Patrick

I can't tell you how nervous I was to make this phone call -and sounded so silly when the first sentence I uttered was, "Is this Patrick?"
He was buying groceries, and promised to call back in a few minutes.
We had spoken before, as we had met in person two years earlier, but this was serious. Communicating had become an every day occurrence through email or on IM. But a phone conversation was completely new. I waited several long minutes, nervously, and when my phone did ring I jumped -in the same moment wanting to answer it, but also to fling it away from me. I watched his name and the number for several split seconds before swallowing and answering, "hello?"

There is so much speculated about technology changing modes of communication. I recently noted a quote from former Microsoft executive Linda Stone in Time magazine positing the stereotype that youth communicate in abbreviated texts, if at all over the phone: "When they're with friends, they won't answer their cell phone. And if they get an SMS, they will just answer, 'BZ, L8R.' " I'm not certain that this will be a problem, although I have received many papers from students that include abbreviations like LOL, b/c, and other strange concoctions. Other than making me laugh, initially, a simple confrontation is enough to stretch the words out of them.
I continued my little cyber search and found this wikipedia entry for "phone phobia" to be funny and interesting

Based on the anecdotes collected here, the causes of phone-phobia appear to vary somewhat although there do seem to be some recurring patterns, including:

• fear of confrontation (why are you calling me?)
• fear of ridicule (why do I want to talk to you?)
• fear of miscommunication:
  • fear of being misunderstood
  • fear of misunderstanding
  • fear of forgetting what you wanted to convey
  • fear of forgetting what you were told while on the phone
• fear of irreversibly prejudging someone based on their voice alone:
• fear of hearing the voice of someone you have not yet met but plan to meet in the future for fear of disliking the quality of their voice and inappropriately prejudging the person out of context
• is this kind of like where you have that pre-judged opinion stuck in your head and can't get rid of it even after you meet the person? 

I can understand how people would suffer from phone phobia, especially when our world is structured to enable control, eliminating fears of confrontation, miscommunication, misunderstanding, and judgment. Although I wouldn't jump straight to a diagnosis of telephobia, I struggle to communicate well on the phone. Last week Patrick said, "You have 22 voice mails that you haven't listened to." (Sheepish grin) Perhaps I should sharpen my commitment to communicating more effectively.

And for one more glimpse of a conversation exactly 7 years ago, because I like reminiscing about how it all began, here you go.

My moleskine is jealous‏

Noël,
In previous times in my life, I have journaled quite a bit.  Recently, however, my Moleskine travel journal has been pushed aside by something better- friendship.  I do agree that writing thoughts on a page is important, but the friendship that I have developed with you has allowed the thoughts that used to only be confined to static pages, to now be shared with a living, breathing, entity.  I look forward to the opportunities to share ideas with you while on my trip to California, that is exactly in one week.  (I was wrong about two weeks, sorry.)

That chapter was good (for lack of suitable words)!  I enjoyed the part about taking out the tactics in life to live a sheltered life- because that is what a life avoiding fear is.  It brings me joy to to love Yhwh, and know that through that complete devotion and sacrifice He has set me free from fear and any incumberance that will hinder me from fighting a vicious battle for His Kingdom.  (In my study Bible and my pursuit to study the language of the name of God, it has many notes about the different names of God: Yhwh as it appears in all Hebrew text, because the name of the Most Holy and all powerful God, was too sacred to be writtenin full.  So we are just guessing that it might be Yahweh.)  I like the first and second full paragraphs on p. 99 (The world is full...).

I worry sometimes that my discernment will lead to criticism.  I want to know the truth and want to devote my all to pursuing the Perfect I AM.  The only problem is that everything here on Earth is imperfect.  I worry that my assessment of the church might lean too much towards to criticism than discernment.  I am quick to judge simple Christians.  I pick apart every praise song I sing because I want to make sure that it fits in with what I know of the Bible.  The list could continue, however there is hope.  The hope and solution lie in Love, God's Love.  As I fill myself with God's love and love for God, He will fill me with wisdom- or the intuition to choose love above everything- which will aid me in my every day life.  It will be as if I have instant access to an infinate source of right-decision-making-tips, in the form of the Holy Spirit as I walk through my day.

As I was taking in the beauty of the written word, and adjusting my eyes to the stillness of the stars in the heavens, I let my mind wander.  It was the first time that I got to engange in disengaging my mind from the business of my life today.  The day was good, but ordinary- class, work, lunch, work,  nap, dinner, movie, history, xbox, then the good stuff.  I enjoy Tozer's writings, but I do not want to lean too much upon him.  He warned that "How tragic that we in this dark day have had our seeking done for us by our teachers."  Therefore, I have new desire to seek Him in His Word, His Bible, His creation, His stars, His sunsets- everywhere.  Tomorrow I have decided to wake up early, make a fully caffeinated drink, and watch the bright ball of gas rise above the horizon.

I wish you happy seekings today as well today.
Your Friend
Patrick


An ongoing discussion for Patrick and I has been the boundary of criticism, discernment, and judgment. It always seems so grey.


Recently I was curious, after hearing that there are two words for judgment in Greek, and went to the roots of Latin to find that there are also multiple words for judgment: pendo, judico, and reputo. Two of the three are benign, similar to discernment. Both pendo (to weigh, value, consider, judge, esteem) and reputo (to consider, judge) suggest merely thinking, weighing, pondering, and considering. Our minds do this -it's a good thing, meant to evaluate our surroundings, conditions, thoughts, circumstances, and the things that we observe. Only judico (to condemn, judge, try) seems to have the weighty pronouncement of finality that becomes criticism: he/she/this/that is (gavel!). English has fused contradictory meanings together into one word (head shaking).

Many topics on this blog are thoughts, questions, ideas that I consider, ponder, and weigh. Although at times it may seem critical or proud, I am simply exploring the world. As one who wonders, observes, and thinks a lot, I am naturally analytical, and enjoy the mental exercise of articulating my judgments, not criticisms of humanity. I do not profess to be right on any account. You will find me one of the least argumentative people, as I understand there is a limit to what I can know and understand about everything.

On that note, "I wish you happy seekings today as well."

Your friend,
Noël

Dear Friends,

I should first say that I am an introvert, quite extremely, and could do well as a hermit. I have to work on friendship, to be honest. It doesn't come easily, requires a lot, and yet, it is so necessary. Before writing this, what I was jokingly calling my exploit against humanity, I decided to give it one last go -maybe represent the most pathetic part of myself, add in a little research, and hopefully receive some comments that will cohere the fuzzy, dangerous, powerful concept of friendship that I was/am well-prepared to ditch for good!

The good, the bad, the ugly

I decided last week that I have 0 friends.

How I discovered this, I will recount in accurate detail, though it will sound like a pathetic lamentation.

It was my birthday (oh yes, the classic beginning)... and on my birthday I received a call from my brother, a text from my sister-in-law, and a text from my dad. Three happy birthdays! Well, Patrick and my mom remembered, but they don't count. I make the rules.

That wouldn't have bothered me, and never has in the past, except that it compounded with previous slights.

Over a month ago, Patrick lost his job. In less than 24 hours we had moving boxes and were determined to leave Southern California once and for all. We were excited, had been looking to leave, were desperate for greener pastures and blue skies (literally), and the two weeks that we had to prepare were joyful, exciting, fun, and painless. We invited our friends over, sent one invite for a giant potluck, for one last gathering of 14+ in our 400sqft garage apartment for games, laughter, food, and a large circle of prayer. People came and went; my previous students remained the longest, the most reluctant to say goodbye. They shed tears, left us notes and gifts to remember them by, then left long after dark.

During this evening I distributed 15 hand-written notes and15 unique bracelets to 15 women who had been a significant part of my life for the past four years. I wanted them to known what they had meant to me, and that each bracelet should serve as a reminder to pray for one another. I know that it's reminiscent of 4th graders with BFF necklaces, but I wanted a tangible way to glue women together, as we are often disjointed in our own coveted, protected lives.

We left, but returned to Long Beach briefly to pick up our car just two weeks after leaving. I couldn't tell what I felt while we stood at the airport bus stop, waiting to board our first public bus in America... riding the bus isn't an issue for us, as we look forward to a city where we can depend on public transit, but my emotions stirred at the realization that there was no one to pick us up. How many times had we opened our home, our lives, made dinners, dessert, shared books, conversation, movies, and time --I'm not counting, I'm not, but evaluating, sifting, observing --at least 4 nights per week, at least, for nearly 4 years. And when we returned, standing at the bus stop, I felt betrayed.

In the midst of moving, boxes, craziness, having only a small suitcase of clothes and eating sandwiches for a quick meal -every meal, I was removed mentally from Long Beach. Patrick and I had the thrill of adventure in road trips and new places -we hiked in rain forests, stopped along the road in water-front cabins, and sipped Austrian wine in the setting sun of Port Townsend, and still, as our travels took us here and there, I wondered about this person and that person, prayed for a marriage, a health issue, a career, a relationship...my friends were still with me as a discipline. So I sent a note far and wide, personal, intricate, and to them, to tell them of my silly adventures, and ask them to share theirs. Two people replied. Of 20.

And because I found myself enumerating, against my will on July 17 around 5pm, I realized that not one text or phone call or email or letter had been offered that I had not first initiated.

So, stunned, I added my three happy birthdays, zero replies to the notes or prayer bracelets, no one to pick us up at the airport, 2 replies to my email, and zero contact in any other medium to equal a sad little lump in my throat.

And to add to the misery, a very close friend from high school was getting married at the end of the week, and although I had made repeated attempts to contact her in the past few years, I couldn't even wish her well or hear about the princess dress that this lovely ballerina wore for her big day.

Some would get angry. Some depressed. Others...well, I don't know how others would react, but I first thought, of course. That's how it's always been. No one cares about me. I'm just a freak. I don't need people anyway. I hate friends. People are so fake... and that's about as far downhill as I got until I forced hardness into my heart and bitterness took over.

I'm very tempted to insert a light-hearted joke, poking fun at myself to erase the big target on my back. The bitterness has melted over the past several days, so it would be easy to shrug this off, but I just can't. I was and am very confused by this reality. I almost called it an account, a story, like it happened to someone else, or in the past, but it is my present reality.

And the reason that I really can't let this go and laugh is that it isn't just my present reality, but it is real for far too many people.

The good, the bad, the ugly

I shared in the disclaimer that I have to work at friendship because it doesn't come easily. Part of what I do to generate depth or interest (on my part, since people tend to scare me), is to ask questions and listen -very well. People have stories to tell. Some may come right out with them, and others come as you spend months and even years gathering and pasting little fragments together. Eventually you will see a flurry of bold and light colors, thin and thickly etched, some points with clarity and others that have been blurred and start to come into focus. One's colors don't look like mine; I haven't yet met a person whose colors even compliment mine well. Often they clash or represent opposing ends of the spectrum. I tend to think my colors are pretty. Their colors on the other hand, well,...

I'm staring at a garden, that's why colors come to mind. I dislike the colors purple and orange, especially together! But I'm shocked at the thought that I feel free to dislike people as easily as colors. She's purple -yuck. And she's orange. The last time I wore/painted/decorated with orange was a disaster. They're too hard to match, don't go with my outfit or fit my color scheme, and it reminds me of this terrible experience I had with a great-aunt who always wore that color purple, so I'm not even going to try. I like my pallet, my style, my, my, my, my.

I like myself and people like me because they remind me of myself! Not to mention, they're easy to know, easy to be with, easy to communicate with, and or course I admire them because, after all, they remind me very much of someone I know. Oh yes, me.

This is human nature. Although I use myself as the dummy (first-person pronoun), I have been very diligent to be aware of this tendency and work against it.

People are annoying, I say this all of the time. People talk too loud, they pry, some aren't stylish, thin, or popular (for the shallow crowd). Oh my goodness, some people talk and talk and talk! Others like to pray, drink wheat grass for every meal, reminisce about the same story, tell you all of the dirt about their coworkers, get fired up about anything and everything, promote themselves and their accomplishments. We are all an imposition, needy at the wrong times, overly sensitive, bossy, and at times rude. So each of us, for one reason or another is a purple or an orange -offensive simply by being.

Sadly, I hear this over and over and over again as I listen. She is/they are this, that or the next thing, so I left the church, or I stopped calling, or I was hurt so I'm not going back, or I'm too busy to bother with her neediness. I rarely, if ever, hear someone talk about a really great, amazing, or supportive friend who is loved, dearly. Complaints, criticism, jealousy, rejection, annoyances, and grievances permeate the air, poisoning and tainting reputations, bruising, attacking identities, suffocating love, hope, and joy with bitterness and rejection.

And what I hear is blah, blah, blah, I don't like her/them because I am too self-absorbed or lazy to get beyond a point of comfort or complacency, to forgive, or to empathize with love or compassion. Therefore, I reject her. She is not worth my effort, my time, or my attention. Let someone else deal with that, that problem.

I'm busy. La lala, I'm distracting myself, or justifying my behavior, then surrounding myself with like-minds whose forked tongues echo and soothe my justifications, feasting on that problem with our latte's as we meet for coffee.


the good, the bad, the ugly

8 of 10 women who I meet with have struggled with anxiety or depression. I am not saying that this is a direct correlation. It could be something in the water or in the vaccinations that we all had as children. But weird or not, popular, or normal, we have two options, to find like-kinds, comfort, and herd (that isn't a very active verb). Or, to actively seek those who are lonely, hurting, on the fringe, without, broken, rejected, new, seeking... And I don't mean a false "Hi, how are you?" and forget the person's name in two seconds. Or a committed exchange of niceties week after week. I mean to take on the responsibility of caring for and nurturing a person's soul, not for what it brings you, but for the investment of christian love in them!

I'm an introvert, remember? There is nothing natural in me that is drawn toward strangers. In fact, I naturally repel strangers. Yet I choose to love. Friendship is a discipline, practiced in faith, believing that God will do in you what you do not have naturally within yourself to do!

A counselor told me that I need a friend who would let a cake burn in the oven to come and be with me if I called. Yeah, that only made matters worse because I couldn't think of a single person who was willing to fit the job description. And I bent to put my head in my hands when I thought about how I had done that (okay, no actual cakes were burnt in the process of friendship, only metaphorical ones) on several occasions. I've worn costumes, walked through dingy Hollywood streets at 11:30pm (on a school night), participated when I just wanted to go to bed, been the guinea pig for an impromptu make-over, had people over for dinner, dessert, and coffee probably 1,000 times because I wanted to invest Christian love in them. I really, from the bottom of my tiny heart (that is two sizes too small), wanted to be a friend because I knew that they were more important than me. 

Being a friend isn't always fun, easy, or rewarding. In my case, we saw the effort without the return on investment. And it hurts at times. But do we live for ourselves, or are we to embody the life that Jesus modeled for us, and seriously go to, what we tend to think of as extreme, lengths to be a friend. In actuality it's a click "reply," and a painstaking, time consuming, two-sentence message. Then another click, "send." But the effort to move our hearts from being self consumed (mine included -this email is evidence), to others-centered, is Herculean, yet not optional, in my opinion.

Here's where I would like feedback: Is it optional, to think of and love others? If your answer is no, then what does your life say?