failed christian

“Consider the work of God; who can make straight what he has made crooked?” I read. The words were not in their familiar black print, atop the white thin paper found in my Bible, but in white print, on a black screen, in the opening scene of the 1997 film, Gattaca.

For those of you unfamiliar with the story, it is set in the not-too-distant future, at a time when American society has moved beyond the simple “natural” birthing process, where a man and a woman fall in love, leaving the genetic makeup of their child to God or chance, and instead, have turned to the controlled and complicated process of genetic engineering. The egg and sperm still belong to the birth parents, but these basic single-celled units are manipulated at the genetic level so that “the best of the best” of the mother and father are what go into making their child.

The plot of the story centers around a young man named Vincent. Vincent is unique among all of his peers because Vincent was born without genetic engineering, or as they call him in the story, a child “born of love.” Throughout the course of the narrative, we come to realize that this individual, the one who has been characterized as “having something wrong with him,” is the individual who does something right. Vincent assumes an alternate identity (he becomes “one of them”), so that he can move to the top of an organization that only accepts the cream of the genetic crop – he becomes a pilot and an astronaut.

Vincent’s accomplishments teach us that even though he may not have a strong genetically-engineered body with the perfect heart, chiseled arms, and dreamy eyes and hair, he’s strong in other ways – in courage, in hope, in discipline… the misfit of the group proves to have unique and redeeming qualities that no one had expected. This person who was unlike everyone else, who wasn’t just “different,” but believed to be “sub-par,” proves to the normative culture that those on the margins have something to offer the rest of society, if society would only afford them the same chance as everyone else.

What a lovely story. What “good” American doesn’t enjoy a story about the underdog, against all odds, winning in the end? Though I thoroughly appreciate the message of this story, and found myself moved to tears on occasion, when it came to the end, I was distracted by one thought: why had the filmmakers used Ecclesiastes 7:13 to open the movie? “Consider the work of God; who can make straight what he has made crooked?” This quote didn’t come from the screenwriter of Gattaca, it came from the Hebrew Bible – the very book that we, Christians, consider to be the Word of God. So what was it about the Word of God that these people found fitting for their movie – why was the story of “the crooked man” winning against “the straight men,” so moving? Before we can answer this question as Christians informed by Scripture, let’s take a look at this verse in its context.

Ecclesiastes 7 is filled with juxtaposition: “the day of death” is better “than the day of birth” (7:1). The “house of mourning” is better than “the house of feasting” (7:2), “Sorrow is better than laughter” (7:3),  “Better is the end of a thing than its beginning” (7:8), but by the time we get to 7:13, something has changed; something seems different: “Consider the work of God; who can make straight what he has made[1] crooked?” I don’t know about you, but out of the verses mentioned, this is the first one that took me by surprise. I can see the good in sorrow and the bittersweet joy of goodbyes, but what’s good about something being crooked? Why would God intentionally make something crooked?

Webster’s dictionary defines “crooked,” as “not straight.” As far as the English language is concerned, straight is the norm, thus the absence of straightness is “crookedness.” As Christians, we get this. It’s similar to Gregory of Nyssa’s notion of “darkness” as “the absence of light,” and the Augustinian idea that “sin” is actually “the absence of goodness.” What is considered good is always the norm, and what is not good is the absence of that norm – it is the non-substance – it is that which just doesn’t exist, or if anything, just barely exists – but it only exists because of human sin, right?! Crooked things don’t exist because God made them! Right?!

Webster confirms this line of thinking in that the only other definition supplied for “crooked” is “dishonest.” Wow. Being crooked does NOT sound like a very good thing. And yet, here, in Ecclesiastes, we read, “Consider the work of God; who can make straight what he has made crooked?” Wow, again. If “crookedness” is “bad,” how could God make something “crooked” when God is good and can only make good things? Exasperating! And yet, if I’m not taking this verse more seriously than I ought, I find that I have to ask the following question: instead of wondering how God could make something bad, and asking, “why?,” should I be wondering why I seem to think being “crooked” is bad, since Ecclesiastes is clear in defining it as one of God’s good creations?

A man we Americans know as “Edward Monkton” is a brilliant artist who creates funny greeting cards. You can find his work in places like Borders and Barnes and Noble. Whenever I go card shopping, I look for the latest “Monkton.” My favorite greeting card to date is one titled, “The Law of Straightness.” With corresponding pictures of pencils, socks, pillows and french fries all lined up in a row, the author writes, “my pencils are straight, my socks are straight, my pillow is straight, my chips are straight… everything must be straight or else the world will explode. Those who do not believe in the law of straightness will not be saved.”

What was Monkton getting at?

It’s common knowledge that in today’s culture the word “straight” often stands for the word “heterosexual.” Why is that, I wondered? Just a few weeks ago, I was walking through the halls, going over my Hebrew flashcards. I was finding it difficult to remember one word – yashar. I kept repeating it over and over again, but couldn’t get it right. The word is an adjective that means “upright, just, level, straight,” and so, in a moment of epiphany, I thought to myself, “I know how I can remember this!” And I proceeded to walk through the hallways smiling at people, and as I looked at each one I thought to myself, “you’re yashar” and “you’re yashar,” and “you’re yashar.” I equated “straight” to mean “heterosexual!” When I first read this Monkton card, I thought that might be what Monkton was getting at. “Maybe he’s trying to make a statement about gay people?” I thought. But now, I’m not so sure.

So what do I think Monkton was getting at? I think he was trying to get at us: at you and at me. Trying to get at humans and our inclination toward having everything neat and tidy – trying to help us to see ourselves as we are – people who want things straight.

Obviously, the writer of Ecclesiastes was not talking about sexual orientation, either. The notion of heterosexuality, or “being straight,” didn’t come into existence until the late 1800s, and wasn’t officially found in an English dictionary until the 1900s. The same goes for the term “homosexuality.” So if this verse isn’t about the “right way to be” sexually, then what is it about? Simply put, it’s about a God who makes some things crooked, and a people who tend to want everything to be straight.

Well, if you like your home nice and orderly, and you like to keep your beliefs all lined up in a row, then just know that you’re not the only one, that’s for sure! In fact, Peter and Paul were trying to do the very same thing thousands of years ago when Gentiles started becoming Christians. Peter seems to have said something like, “Whoa, Gentiles? This is not my thing. I’m called to the Jews – to the straight people.” He was not ready to mess up his worldview. And so Jesus went to a man named Saul, turned his world of light into darkness; quite literally, blinding him as he was riding down the road toward Damascus, and helped him to realize that the “crooked” people needed God, too.

So Paul begins to preach to the Gentiles – to the “not-straight,” non-normative people eating non-kosher food, wearing non-kosher clothes, and being altogether different from anyone the God of the Jews has ever been close to before. All of a sudden, this was Paul’s “thing.” He moved from caring only for the straight Jews to also caring for the crooked Gentiles. But God didn’t stop there. He ended up going back to Peter and giving him a dream about snakes and pigs and all the foods that Jews were not allowed to eat, and showing him that even though his “calling” is to the Jews, he has to at least begin to eat with these “others,” even though, for him, it felt really unnatural. God was doing a new thing, and it wasn’t what everyone thought it was going to be, or even what they thought it should be. This God whom everyone thought was always doing “natural” things began to do some unnatural things, and wanted all of the disciples of Jesus on board!

Paul hits on this whole “unnatural” subject in Romans 11. First he talks to us about the norm – about the Jews – he says that he’s one of the Jews – in fact, he’s one of the really great Jews (at one point, he lists item after item off the checklist that makes him a “good” Jew), and from this position of “normative” power – this position of being the “straight” one, he tells us that God, yet again, did something “crooked,” something unexpected, something unnatural:

For if you have been cut from what is by nature a wild olive tree and grafted, contrary to nature, into a cultivated olive tree, how much more will these natural branches be grafted back into their own olive tree. (Romans 11:24, NRSV)

What does it mean to do something “contrary to nature?”  Does it mean that God did something God doesn’t normally do? I don’t think so. This verse reminds me a lot of Ecclesiastes 7:13. It seems to me that just like God sometimes makes things “crooked,” God, likewise, sometimes does things “crooked.” But here, crooked doesn’t mean “dishonest,” it means, “unconventional,” “not-normative,” “not-straight.” Thomas Aquinas wrote something similar in his commentary on Romans 11:24. He writes,

[this material is currently unavailable, as it is pending publication] [2]

Unbelievable! God makes things crooked and does things crooked, and this is “natural” for God, and “natural” in the thing or person in which God does it!

With this in mind, it seems to me that Webster needs to come up with a new definition of “crooked,” for it was by this “crooked” act of God that we, Gentiles, are saved! God seems to be purposefully messing up our “straightness” – and throwing a little diversity into the mix, don’t you think? Just think about the diversity of humanity for a second. Think about the differences in eye color, hair color, skin color… now think about the different categories we assign people: nationalities, genders, sexual orientations… wow. Is it possible that this variation comes from a God who doesn’t like all of the pencils lined up in a straight row? If so, maybe we need to give God more room to be God – not just in the world around us, but in our own day-to-day lives…

Hmm… that sounds a little scary. Being messy and letting everyone else see that we’re messy is not something most people like to do. We only want A papers on the refrigerator, we only want people over when the house is clean. So before we can just hop on this “messy train,” maybe we need to start to change our thinking. As we dive deeper into the realization that God doesn’t make everything straight, we have to ask ourselves why we have always thought of God as just the opposite. I’m quite certain that there are multiple reasons why we want things straight – a few good reasons might be popping into your mind right now. When I think about this notion, myself, I think it has something to do with the fact that we most commonly like to think of God as orderly, logical, sterile and otherly, because it makes us feel safe and secure. We like to imagine that someone isn’t affected by all this mess that we are in, and that there is someone who is cool-headed and level – someone who is “straight.” But I don’t know that that is the picture of God that our Bible gives us, is it? If so, then there are certainly a lot of things we’d have to cut out. Apart from Ecclesiastes 7:13 and Romans 11:24, we’d have to cut out the Incarnation and the Crucifixion! There’s nothing messier than a God who becomes human, is there?!

For whatever reason, we sometimes choose to forget just how wild and messy the real story about God and humankind is! It’s a story about God being born with a belly button. About Jesus being attached to his mother, entering the world covered in his mother’s blood, having a ministry that involved him touching lepers and prostitutes until people became so mad at him for being different that they beat him up to the point that he ended up leaving the world covered in his own blood. That’s about as messy as you can get! So what if instead of feeling unsafe in messy circumstances, we begin to change our perspective? Because of that life lived so messily, we can feel a very different kind of “safety.” Instead, we can feel like this might mean that when my life is messy Jesus is right there with me – that I don’t have to keep my socks and my pencils all in a row for God to love me, for God to want me. God was willing to get things REALLY messy. Maybe it’s not so shameful to do messy things, after all?

So if our goal is to be like Christ – if our goal is to be transformed into the image of God’s Son who lived a very messy life on this earth, how can we begin to focus our attention on being “less straight,” and a bit more “crooked,” in the same way that God makes and does crooked things? Well for starters, we can ask ourselves who the crooked people are in our lives. Who are the crooked people in crooked circumstances that I come in contact with when I’m at work, when I’m at church, when I’m at home? Who are the non-normative people doing non-normative things around me? Can you meet God where God is? Can you meet God in those who are different from the norm – those who might even be different from you?

Even though these verses aren’t about heterosexual orientation, for you, maybe being willing to get a little messy has something to do with inviting that homosexual couple who lives down the road over to your place for dinner, or maybe, for you, it has something to do with inviting that person of another skin color into your team at work, or it might mean being willing to listen to that preacher of another gender, or a brother or sister who has a different theological perspective than your own. Like Vincent, our non-genetically engineered friend from the movie, Gattaca, these people, too, are “born of love” – the love of God – the same God who made you and me, the same God who made crooked and straight. And they just might have something to teach us – something to teach us about ourselves, and about God.

[1] The Hebrew word used here is עשה  which literally means “to do, to make, to create.”

[2] Eugene Rogers, “Paul on Exceeding Nature: Queer Gentiles and the Giddy Gardner,” 2009, unpublished Chapter 1 of a forthcoming book on Romans, (p. 21).

Behind the Veil: The Gender Performance and Perpetuation of American Wedding Rituals

*this article has been removed and is pending publication

Meditations on Marshall Mann

I met Marshall my first day at Volunteers of America. He was unassumingly washing the floor of the Veterans Resource Center. One would have thought the movement of the mop was mesmerizing him, for his position was one of focus and readiness; head bowed, hands tightly gripping the handle, his body movements revealing the tufts of white hair on the back of his polished head. It was clear that he was concentrating his energy on the small black scuff mark beneath the mop-head. There was the slightest smile on his face and in his eyes when he looked up at me as I entered the room. My supervisor introduced us, we exchanged pleasantries, and Marshall resumed his morning chore.

My first few weeks were full of introductions to new residents, office work, and conversations. My contact with Marshall was limited to discussions surrounding the inspirational quotes he would write on the dry-erase board each morning. Eventually, Marshall and I set aside some time to get to know each other. We found a couple of hours a day days to just talk – about the past, about the present, about spirituality, about life…

It doesn’t take long to find out what it is that Marshall is truly passionate about. Unlike a number of residents at Maple Court, he’s not focused on making money or watching his favorite television program; in fact, Marshall doesn’t watch TV or movies. Marshall is Buddhist, and his spiritual pursuits take precedence over his physical ones – but from the looks of it, Marshall manages to take care of his physical needs as well.

Like all of us, Marshall is striving for the balance – what does it mean to be spiritual people in physical bodies in our material world? But this wasn’t always the focus of Marshall’s daily routine. His journey began in much simpler times than these.  For Marshall, it all started, in his own words, “too long ago,” in 1951 along a little river-bend in Morehead City, NC. 

Marshall is one of two sets of twin boys, and three sisters. His mother’s first husband was killed in WWII across the sea, in France. Marshall’s father, his mother’s second husband, was also in the military. He was injured in the first kamikaze attack, and placed in a body cast for six months upon his arrival home from the South Pacific. “Back in the 40’s,” Marshall admitted, “being broken-up all over was a life-threatening ordeal.” His mother and father were married a few months after the cast was removed. “It was a marriage of convenience,” Marshall stated matter-of-factly.  He’s certain that his mother was not in love with his father. It’s clear that Marshall shared this lack of affection for his father, as well. According to Marshall, they always seemed to exist on opposite sides of the proverbial coin, divided on issues such as the Vietnam War and racial reconciliation.

Marshall had heard about a big war when he was younger. His father had joined the navy in 1942 a few months after Pearl Harbor, and his uncle Elbert had also seen some combat in Italy during WWII. Elbert and Marshall’s father married two sisters, Marshall’s mother and his aunt – just like in an old black and white romantic film. To this day, Marshall has connected much more with his uncle than with his father. His eyes glazed a bit as he recalled the night his uncle told him about the event that encouraged him to hold so tightly to the glass of alcohol in-hand.  It’s now clear that his uncle suffered from PTSD, but no one knew what that was back then. Alcohol was the only way he had the courage to share the details of the experience. As it was told to Marshall, in order to avoid German fire, Elbert and his fellow soldiers had jumped down the side of a hill. Unbeknownst to them, the entire hillside was filled with live mines. After multiple explosions, terrifying cries and flying debris, Elbert realized that he was the only survivor. He lay still for an entire two days, afraid to move lest he set-off another mine. Finally, some soldiers found him and pulled him up to safety.

Like his father and uncle before him, Marshall, too, is a veteran, but his military experience isn’t at the center of his story. His early years were highly formational. Attending high school in the late 60s during such a time of social unrest and expectancy, Marshall’s nascent life was filled with events and persons such as the space race, the Vietnam War, feminism, LBJ, Martin Luther King, the assassinations of Kennedy, race riots, and student unrest. In fact, King was assassinated just three days before Marshall’s 17^th birthday.

Planning to attend college out of high school, Marshall refused to take vocational courses like his father desired. Unfortunately, Marshall’s philosophical mind wasn’t enough to keep him in the classroom during those early years. He finished two quarters of college and dropped out due to a broken heart. He had been dating a woman for two years, and the emotional stress from the breakup made it difficult for him to go back to school. According to Marshall, “early 1970 wasn’t a good time to be doing nothing.” It wasn’t long before Marshall was drafted. Because of the Vietnam War, Marshall was certain he’d spend time overseas and wanted to be prepared for combat, so he decided to join instead of accepting the draft. This meant a four year commitment instead of two, but to Marshall it meant a better chance at survival. Within two years he was a sergeant. He believes he could have become an officer, but it was impossible without a college degree.

It wasn’t long before Nixon’s Christmas bombings of 1972 gave Marshall serious pause. He recalls common references to the US as “the killing country,” due to the use of Agent Orange. “The bombings broke the backs of the North Vietnamese,” Marshall told me, “and by 1973 the anti-war movement was going strong – especially after the return of American POWs.”

1973 was a watershed year for Marshall. He went from being excited about his role in the Marines to having serious doubts about the United States military machine. He only had one year to go before his term was up, but after an officer told him “one must destroy a village to save it,” he simply wanted to get out. “It was a different kind of war.” Marshall stated. “Guerrilla warfare meant that we were on their land, and they knew it better than we did.” Marshall was truly unsettled. He had a great respect for Ho Chi Minh, calling him “the George Washington of Vietnam.” Marshall read up on Ho Chi Minh after the war, sympathizing with his story. November of 1974 was the end of Martial’s term, but he stayed 2 more months – he wouldn’t start school at UNCG until then and needed the money. Marshall was discharged on January 8, and went from full-time Marine to full-time college student in 3 days.

After scratching his balding head in nostalgic fashion, Marshall confessed that his English 101 professor had just gotten out of the State Department, and both of them had short hair when he first began the class. By the end, Dr. Pulaski had a full beard and long hair, but Marshall’s seemed to stay the same. For the first time, Marshall felt older than he was. By 1975, Marshall was married. According to him, it wasn’t the best idea. “We were married for 4 years and then were separated. Not surprisingly, our marriage directly paralleled the killing fields in Cambodia,” he said, smiling wryly.

Marshall never went back to college.  He said his major field of study was “girls,” and that he never “let studying interfere with his education,” but as it turns out, he was a business major, minoring in psychology.  Marshall’s spirituality blossomed after his twenties. He was a Christian until his mid-twenties, when he moved more into agnosticism. He remained agnostic for close to five years, but after a second trip to Antarctica to meet with a friend, Marshall became more interested in Buddhism. At 33, after spending his time reading Allan Watts and Christmas Humphries, he went through lay-ordination in Buddhism.  Instead of going back to school, Marshall went into restaurant management for close to 18 years, until a family crisis in the mid 1990s took him back to Morehead City.

Being the only unmarried sibling other than his sister with PKU, he was expected to move home to help out his parents who were getting on in years. It was a very open-ended understanding that ended up lasting over 13 years.  His mother died in January 2007. Marshall’s father had died a few years before his mother, in March 2003 – the month that the US invaded Iraq. Marshall said that his father had had a stroke and was sent to the general hospital. The joke around town was, “if you want to die, go to the general hospital” – his father died a week later.

Marshall didn’t mourn his father’s death, and would have lived peacefully with his mother for the next 3.5 years if not for family disagreements. After his mom died, Marshal freed himself from his family; truly believing that it was the best decision. “There’s too much out in the world to stay focused on one’s family troubles,” he told me with confidence.

Marshall checked himself into a local shelter on July 23, 2007, six months after his mother passed away.  His share of the family’s assets was only $9,000, which he used for living expenses until it ran out. But money wasn’t his only concern during that time. He paused for a moment during our conversation, looked at me reflectively and shared more about his emotional state during that time:

I was depressed, and didn’t know where to go. In October of 2007, I was talking with people from the shelter and I decided to tell them that I was suicidal. I went to a psychiatric unit and was there nine days until they prescribed me an anti-depressant. For a while I tried leaving the shelter and sleeping in my car, but it wasn’t worth it. Eventually, I made the shelter my home.

Marshall broke into fits of giggles when he spoke of his friendships at the shelter.  There was a glimmer of delight in his eyes as he described his relationships with two other individuals in particular: the three of them were commonly referred to as, “the Christian, the Buddhist and the Atheist.”  Marshall shared a bit about what it was like being a Buddhist surrounded by Christians. Church was required for residents of this particular shelter, and Marshall calculated that he attended a Christian church as much as 75 times during his stay. Marshall is very gracious toward individuals of other religions, but he is often turned off by Christianity; especially due to the proselytizing and judgmental attitudes he perceives among its adherents. He told me that it’s been said that “the Lord works in mysterious ways.” Marshall believes this. He wonders if God put him in a Christian setting so that he would dive further into Buddhism, because that’s what happened.

It sounds like the year-and-a-half Marshall spent at the shelter was a time of personal reflection. His friendly demeanor and trustworthy nature soon secured him the position of head resident. He now had his own key and could come and go as he pleased. He thought that life was going well; he knew the drill of the shelter and had become comfortable with his situation. It wasn’t until Marshall made his way to his present home at Maple Court’s Veterans Transitional Housing Program that he realized that he had actually been stuck in a rut. A year or so ago, while he was at the shelter, Marshall overheard a conversation in which one individual said to another, “hanging around old people makes you old.” That really hit Marshall. He realized that he’d sequestered himself for so long that he’d lost touch with the rest of the world.

 “Every situation has its humor in it,” he said, “and there were a couple of funny instances while I was waiting for Maple Court to open.” Marshall recounted a story between himself and the newly appointed shelter manager. The former manager was promoted and the executive director’s church secretary filled the shelter manager position. Now, whenever someone called the shelter, the messages were directed to the church. The two of them didn’t get along, so Marshall saw the phone situation as a blessing – he was laughing uncontrollably as he shared the story that whenever she wanted to get into contact with him, she would end up calling herself.

Marshall is now a beautiful thread in the tapestry of Maple Court. “I’m 58 years old and still running in circles!” He said in jest. “But I didn’t realize how stressed out I was until I got here. It took me a good month to get comfortable, but slowly my stress level is going down.” Today, Marshall is working hard in his computer class at Durham Tech where he’s been learning how to maneuver Microsoft 2007 and email his resume to employers. He spends a lot of time meditating and reading for pleasure, and to satisfy his curiosity, he has set aside Friday afternoons to explore Durham. By my own estimation, Marshall’s favorite word is magnanimous, and he uses it often to describe the graciousness of the staff as we walk alongside him in this season of his life. The staff finds Marshall to be magnanimous as well. “Let every man be respected as an individual and no man idolized,” is one of his favorite quotes by Albert Einstein. It’s clear that Marshall tries to live up to this standard each day he wakes up at Maple Court.

This man is simply one of many unique veterans living in transitional housing. Some of his life experiences are shared by others here, some are not. Each resident has their own story, their own family history, their own hope deferred and dreams kept alive throughout the years. Some struggle with the loss of a spouse, some wrestle with a family member’s debilitating condition; others grapple with the skeletons in their own closets, and are searching for deeper meaning in their lives, and there are those simply trying to get back on their financial feet. The fruits of these men’s labor are often bitter sweet, but they wake up each morning, put their hands to life’s branches and collect what they can. Behind me, on the Veterans Resource Center quote board reads a few words by Thomas Merton: “Every moment and every event of every man’s life on earth plants something in his soul.” At Maple Court, people like Marshall remind us of this each and every day.

Duke Divinity School Internship

Summer 2009

I was suspended - suspended between sky and water, between land and air, between death and life. I had jumped. I can’t even remember the act, itself, but i do remember the edge - a keen awareness of its definition, its contours, its cracks, the softness of earth beneath my bare feet. I couldn’t see the bottom. I couldn’t let myself see the bottom - at the bottom is where my fears lay. But i could see the edge, and I focused on the edge until that too faded away and I was above the edge, above the bottom, above everything but myself. In fact, I was fully in myself. My neck was rigid with the pressure of the invisible sky on my chest; my inability to breathe. I was holding in all life - life was suspended - I was full, I was waiting. My life was suspended, but time was not. I came down - with a splash, with weight I had forgotten I owned. I came down in water and spit and blood and sting and the strange pleasure of having hovered over my fears - of having been suspended in a time and place where they could not reach me - where no one could reach me - no one but myself.

I swam back to the cliff, climbed up the rocks, and jumped again…

Transformation

It was a chunk of gnarled tree stump, but Ralph’s face was beaming as he held it up in front of me like a kindergartener revealing his first artistic masterpiece. Only Ralph is no kindergartener. He’s quite the opposite, in fact, almost 70 years old, and this wasn’t his first artistic endeavor. His apartment is filled with gnarled tree stumps, wood shavings, color-by-numbers, and painted rocks. This particular piece of stump had been transformed into a wooded wonderland with orange rocks, bright green shrubbery and a baby blue babbling brook. “It’s beautiful!” I told him. He beamed some more. Through is toothless mouth (again, much like a child’s), he muttered some incoherent platitude of gratitude and moved on to my supervisor so she too could take pleasure in his creation.

Creation - this is the first word that popped into my mind as Ralph walked away. Somehow, an act of personal creation removed Ralph from his present pain: achy knees, a bad back, joblessness, homelessness…. and transported him into a realm that likens him to the divine. What is it about creating artwork that removes us from our present company of sorrow and suffering and transplants us into the Garden of Eden? Ralph isn’t the first resident at the Veterans Transitional Housing Program to take solace in artwork. Michael dyes fabric – designing beautiful tapestries – both landscapes and portraits, Frank likes to paint still-life on canvas. Even Micky finds time to tend his garden after work – removing what is dead and nourishing what is alive. But then there’s Leonard who sits aimlessly in front of the plasma TV all day, and Roland who sleeps whenever he has the chance. There’s Vince who’s on his 2^nd strike for marijuana use, and Jim who plays solitaire on his laptop until the early morning hours. So what is it that makes the first bunch different from the latter? The word “creation” still comes to mind.

I’m reminded of the artisans in Exodus, appointed by God to craft the tabernacle – common people called to a divine task – to an act of creation. I’m reminded of the Potter’s hands taking clay from the earth and rubbing them on closed eyes so they can see again. I’m reminded that our Lord, too, was a carpenter’s son. From Genesis’ “it was good,” to Revelation’s, “I’m making all things new,” acts of creation seem to drive not only the lives of veterans, but the life of God. In acts of creation a bridge is built and we find ourselves walking alongside our Creator – we are “co-creators” with Christ, Paul reminds us in Corinthians. God supplies us with the tools, and we transform what is ugly and dead into something that is living and beautiful. This is not only an act of creation, but an act of extreme bravery. In a place where depression is often the residents’ closest companions – to stare futility in the face and refuse its company takes a strong and courageous spirit. Truly, the veterans who can accomplish this, still have some fight left in them – they give us hope that the work we do at Volunteers of America is, in its own way, an act of co-creation with God.

(All names mentioned are pseudonymous.)

During my first week at Volunteers of America I met Michael (pseudonym). There were already eight veterans in transitional housing when I arrived; Michael was the ninth to be accepted into the program, and the first resident I sat with during the processing session with his case-worker. I learned a lot about Michael that day. I found out that he is married, that he loves watching CNN, that he’s HIV+, that he has a great sense of humor and is really easy to talk to, and that he’s determined to find a job and get back on his proverbial two feet. As that first week (for both of us) came to a close, Michael asked if he could speak with me and my supervisor about a personal matter. We scheduled a meeting later that day, and when my supervisor inquired as to what he wanted to talk about, he said it was about his marriage.

Michael came into the office, and through the course of the conversation, I learned 3 new things about him. 1 – He struggled for years with a cocaine addiction, 2. His wife was diagnosed over a year ago with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, but refuses to accept the diagnosis and find treatment. 3. Michael desperately loves wife. My supervisor was the first to ask Michael if he felt responsible for his wife’s condition. He told us that it all started when his wife began to smell the scent of drugs on his clothing and in his van. She started wrapping herself in plastic bags from head to toe so as not to become contaminated by what she called “fumes.” Whenever Michael would wear a shirt that his wife had once smelled “fumes” on, she wouldn’t touch him or even come near him. She started buying him new clothes every week, and demanded that they buy a new vehicle. Michael submitted to her desires… but after one drive in the new car, his wife said the fumes had followed them, and weren’t going away.

After her diagnosis, Michael’s wife refused to believe she was suffering from anything – she was confident the fumes were real. It wasn’t until her imaginings affected her work routine that Michael knew he could no longer live with his wife. They were both in a vicious cycle – He was doing drugs because of her OCD and she was diving further into her OCD because he was doing drugs. So, Michael checked himself into a shelter and was soon transferred to VOA Veterans Transitional Housing. He was just settling into life here, but couldn’t really settle knowing that his wife was still struggling at home. He asked for our help. But what can you do when someone doesn’t want help?

Through some probing questions, my supervisor found out that the only person Michael’s wife seems to listen to his her local church pastor. Michael said that one year ago he shared the story with his pastor, and the man reassured him that he would speak with Michael’s wife, but he never called. Michael was so hurt by this that he refused to talk to the pastor again. My supervisor told him that it seems like the pastor is still the best chance Michael has at helping his wife. There’s nothing Michael can do for his wife because she has lost respect for him, but maybe the pastor will be able to help her see her condition for what it really is. She encouraged Michael to swallow his pride and call the pastor again.

Unfortunately, I was called away by another responsibility, and my supervisor and Michael finished the conversation without me. There was so much I had wanted to say to Michael, but I wasn’t sure of my place in that office space – in a not-for-profit setting that receives government funding sometimes the lines are blurred as to when it’s appropriate to talk about God and when it’s not. I’m still learning the when’s and where’s, but I do know that with people like Michael, every word must be spoken delicately.  

Just before the day ended, I found Michael alone, walked over to him and said,

“I don’t know what was said after I left the meeting from earlier, but I just wanted to encourage you with a thought:  It’s clear that you care for your wife and want her to be healthy again; perhaps one way to reach her is for you to give yourself wholeheartedly to this program. Sometimes the only way someone will admit their struggle, is when they see someone else who is struggling actually getting help. If she sees you sticking to this program – if she sees you becoming who you say you want to be, maybe she will consider getting help, herself. In the end, she has to decide for herself whether or not she wants help. All the love in the world can’t change that. But maybe the more you take care of yourself, the better the chances are of your wife choosing to do the same for herself. Know that I’m praying for you both.”

Michael smiled, nodded his head and thanked me for my thoughts and prayers. A week later he told me that he’d called the pastor three times, but without ever hearing a response. He couldn’t believe that a pastor would give up on two members of his congregation like that. Neither could I. Michael felt like he’d done all that he could do for his wife, and realized that now he had to take care of himself. I was happy I’d had a chance to talk privately with Michael. He said that even though he can’t do anything directly to help his wife, somehow he feels like taking care of himself is taking care of her. I think he might be right. I hope he’s right.

            This conversation with Michael made me realize how paralyzing it is when we can’t help those that we love. Something that the residents in transitional housing are constantly dealing with is a growing sense of futility – they apply for jobs but don’t get hired, they need physical help, but can’t get the funds for their medications. Through my conversation with Michael, I was able to share a bit in the futility – I recognized that all I had to offer Michael was a dash of consolation and a pinch of hope. The words of Qoheleth come to mind, “everything is meaningless… all things are wearisome, more than one can say…” How do we battle futility when even hope for a future is meaningless… when the poor continue to remain poor, and the lonely, alone? And yet as pastors, chaplains, spiritual directors, sometimes offering hope is the only ammunition we have to combat the depressive forces that plague those we choose to do life with. So perhaps it is not the hope that we offer that induces change, but the very fact of offering hope in the first place- perhaps it’s the companionship on the journey that makes the course bearable, for to me, that seems like love, and love covers a multitude of sins, love casts out fear – love conquers all.

it’s dark. the hallway creeks as my feet step, tentatively, on the floorboards. it’s dark. i’m alone in the house tonight. If not for the cat, and the beetles and the ants, i might be lonely. but how could i be lonely with myself. together, me, and i - we have so much to dream about. i dream about what it would be like to go dancing in the rain tonight. i dream about what it would be like to climb the backyard tree and sing until i fall asleep in one of her branches. i dream about what it would be like to live in a world where everyone loved their neighbor… regardless of the way the sun danced upon the color of their skin, or the glare of the neon publight revealed what bar they stepped into… what gender they slept next to, what religion they adhered to… tonight i am alone, and i’m left only to my dreams. tomorrow i will wake to a dreamless world until night falls once again, until the floor creaks once again, and my feet find their way in the darkness.

So i’ve been thinking and dreaming a lot about Ireland, lately. What is it about that place? I feel the urge to go back every year now… last night i dreamt that my backyard was just a few meters away from Inch Beach in Co. Kerry. I desperately want to see it again…

The first time i stepped off the plane in Southern Ireland, I gasped. No joke. I walked out of the smallest plane i’d ever flown in, resting in a tiny valley on the outskirts of Dingle, and i gasped when they opened the plane door. The first thought that came to mind was: “I want to live and die here.” Since that day, whenever the “what would you do with $1 million” question comes up, one of my responses is undoubtedly, “buy a cottage in Southern Ireland.”

This world around us is so beautiful and worth exploring. Remember when you were young and you weren’t allowed to cross the street? Our world existed of our backyard swing and the few houses on a corner block - remember how devilish it felt to cross the street without asking mom?

…And now we live in a global society. My backyard in Ohio was actually Canada, and now I live near the Atlantic Ocean that connects me to the Eastern Hemisphere. I can hop on GoogleWorld right now and find my friend Kate sitting in her apartment in Dublin, and trace a path from her to Inch Beach where my heart is and my mind goes when it wonders…

This means that our economy is global as well. Lately I’ve learned the joy of shopping at the farmer’s market downtown and buying from local shops. I’ll be 27 years old this month, and as I get older, I realize that i’ve learned a lot about what it means to be a neighbor - a neighbor to the gentlemen from Zambia who live next door and a neighbor to the people of Africa who live next door. For years i worked with an organization that offers its heart and hands to the people of Africa - i’m at school in North Carolina, now, but they are still travelling back and forth from their home to their neighbors on 20 hour flights…

This week I started field education through Duke Divinity School, and i’ve been able to meet some new neighbors: homeless veterans. I’ve worked with the homeless before, on the streets of Canton, Ohio, one of the poorest cities in the United States last year, if you can believe it! I realize now that that experience has helped prepare me for the work i’m doing today. My fear of the homeless, that natural aversion to those who are different from us - from those we don’t initially understand - is gone, and so i find myself working, not with homeless veterans, but with men and women who see life as something beautiful - as something worth living and worth living well, and together we try to make things a little bit better for those around us - all of us, formerly homeless or not, need each other, and take joy in the gift of one another - in the gift of neighbor - in the gift of friend.

The dribblets of what’s left of my morning tea have chilled - faint remnants of Ireland all but consumed - and that’s my cue to begin getting ready for work. At the risk of sounding like Mr. Rogers, let me just say, “enjoy your day, neighbor”… i know i will…

sabbath. i’ve needed this rest for months now. this peace - this sense of tranquility. shadows of leaves dance in the sun as i sit on the back deck, warmed by my grandmother’s blanket and a large mug of hot tea. my bible and book lay beside me - like a garden toad i hop from book to bible to journal - back-and-forth, not in hectic searching, but in playful enjoyment- riding on the whim of my fancy. why? because it’s sabbath. without this sacred space i become a dark shadow of my truest self. the ground of my soul remains dry and cracked where no fruit can grow. grumpiness becomes my staple. i digest it with my morning tea and it flows out of me throughout the day… but not today. and because of today, most likely, not tomorrow. Sabbath revitalizes, refreshes, renews my spirit, relaxes my body, and speaks assurance to my mind…

and here it comes… … … you.

…after a while, my spiritual person awakens to your presence all around me - you are greeting me in the sun (you do this every morning?) you sing to me through the mouths of birds (you’ve sung this song throughout eternity!) you arouse my senses with the scent of flowers and the gentle chill of the morning breeze (have you always been so tender?) how could i forget you? how could i not long for you every moment? if the sky in all its depth and breath cannot contain your beauty, how could any human-made object even compare? you are so far beyond the glory of creation, let-alone any shiny and glimmering thing i coudl create. truly you are irriplaceable… the trees agree with me, waving their branches, attesting to your lovliness, much like the palms did as you rode into Jerusalem so long ago. may you ride, unassumingly, into my heart today. though i remain a failed christian, i will welcome you once more.

Unraveling

Should it be? Would it be? Could it be?
Love. Love. Love?

Lying in the dark holding your hand
My fingers twisted at the wrist in your hair-band
From my shirt you pull a strand
And I feel it all unraveling

I wake to a steaming cup of tea
And the light emanating off the screen of your TV
When the door was closed I couldn’t see
But I could feel it all unraveling

Today we’re walking in the sand
The ocean spans for miles without a sign of land
Such beauty makes it hard to stand
When it feels like I’m unraveling

Cuz it feels like I’m unraveling
I’m unraveling in your hands
I’m unraveling where I stand
I’m unraveling I confide
I’m unraveling by your side
I’m unraveling to your voice
I’m unraveling it’s my choice
I’m unraveling as a dove
I’m unraveling in your love

More and more I’m simply me
Cuz in your presence I’m allowed to simply be
Deep inside I know I’m free
Cuz I can see it all unraveling

Breathlessness

There are moments in life when tension grips your lungs, eyes widen, limbs quiver… your bodily self reacts to a stimulus. Your senses are heightened. Your heartbeat quickens. You are breathless. The sight of a rainbow dodging a soft Irish rainfall. The herculean pressure of a towering cathedral. The sleep-induced shadows and ghostly glimpses of the midnight hours. The touch of your beloved’s hand. The kiss of her lips. The hold of her gaze… breathlessness. This movement of the body touches the heart. It’s a place where carnality and spirituality exchange currencies; a gentlemen’s agreement. The veil is lifted. The thin place revealed. Your heart skips a beat - if only for a moment. The feelings pass as the clouds roll past, the lights flicker on, her hand moves quietly to her own lap, her gaze returns to the pages of her book…

But don’t we long for breathlessness - for the feeling of dying slowly? A pleasurable pain; the flames of a fire that purify us and remind us that we are human; an invitation to experience our naked selves. Our desires are made manifest; our needs are revealed. We are exposed. Breathlessness reminds us that we are mortal. Without breath our bodies would die, but without moments of breathlessness our spirits dry up like the morning dew. And so breathlessness reminds us that we are alive - equally alive with the object of our desire. It is a pause that joins all things. As the oil painting forever captures a moment in time; these moments captivate us and capture us too. Arrested, our passions betray us to the jail rooms of Mother Nature, of the Boogey Man, of God, of the lover… of our very selves.

“When you breathe I recall the power of trains” she wrote. I feel it too. There is power in the breath that raises her chest as she falls asleep beside me. There is fear in my heart, mixed with awe. I breathe that same air… I breathe her in and out until I too am asleep.

Fire

I’m attracted to fire. The spark intrigues me. The heat swelters. I draw my skin close, hoping to warm the coldness inside - the electricity caused by friction tantalizes, titillates, exacerbates, as my need for the flames engulf me. The nearness singes. I am burned. I move in. She excites my mind and arouses my senses. I am heightened. I am wakened from a long slumber. She is the metaphorical muse of my soul - a mirror through which i see myself. I am taller, stronger and more beautiful than I was before. Her eyes are aflame. the colors dance from blue to white and blaze a path into my heart - under my flesh - I sweat her out of my being. I feel the fire. It rushes through my veins. I shudder. I breathe. I am stilled, but my heart still races. My mind wanders… she continues to dance in the fire. I am utterly consumed.

Boxes

We live and die in boxes. Boxes define, describe, delineate, divide. If it’s big it’s better. If it’s small it’s expensive. ”Is it sealed in glass? Then it must be admirable, desirable, untouchable.” she says. ”Is it sealed in metal? Then it is impregnable, important, mine.” he says. Sealed is safe, or do we fool ourselves into security? If it’s in a box it’s named, tagged, owned, understood, controlled. I am in a box. In hair and nail and bone and skin and blood. My mind is in a box - an environment of the brain, of the culture, of the religion, of the science, of the world. Boxes bar and bind and breed. But boxes also bring freedom. The box of my body allows me to write and move and breathe and laugh and touch and feel. I experience life in this box. I will experience death in this box, soon enough. The box of words allows me to think and speak and sing and compose. The box of religion introduces me to the notion of god. The box of family introduces me to love - for better and for worse. The box of society allows me to survive - even if barely. There is no innate morality within or without a box. A box is amoral. A box is only a box. I decide what to put into it. I give the box power - i take its power away. I have it taken from me - i have it given to me. Boxes are here to be emptied and filled. To be opened and closed. To be bent and taped and built. To be smashed and folded and thrown away. We are all boxes. We all live in boxes. We all long to live in a world with no boxes, but isn’t the world itself a box? A box of air and water and earth? A box of gravity and molecule and energy? Of H20 and C02 and acid rain and burning trees. Of thinning sky and cracking earth, of waterfalls and whirlpools. Encircling. Encapsulating. Enfolding. Engulfing. Enclosing me, you, and all of our boxes. And isn’t the universe an infinite box - with open lid and unfastened bottom? And isn’t God the eternal box - the mystery, the hope, the unknowable known collector of it all? It’s all in God’s box- named, tagged, owned, understood, controlled. Like a children’s toy of endless boxes… Designed to give life and take it away in boxes, in a box, in the box that holds it all. We live and die in boxes. Boxes hold, hide, have this and that and me and you… We are all in boxes. We are all boxes. We all think in boxes. We all live in boxes. We all die in boxes.

Salvador dali