Author / Michael
Fully Recognizing What is Here
The truth, as I see it, is that if black men and women, black boys and girls, mattered, if we were seen as living, we would not be dying simply because whites don’t like us. Our deaths inside a system of racism existed before we were born. The legacy of black bodies as property and subsequently three-fifths human continues to pollute the white imagination. To inhabit our citizenry fully, we have to not only understand this, but also grasp it. In the words of the playwright Lorraine Hansberry, “The problem is we have to find some way with these dialogues to show and to encourage the white liberal to stop being a liberal and become an American radical.” And, as my friend the critic and poet Fred Moten has written: “I believe in the world and want to be in it. I want to be in it all the way to the end of it because I believe in another world and I want to be in that.” This other world, that world, would presumably be one where black living matters. But we can’t get there without fully recognizing what is here.
From Claudia Rankine’s “The Condition of Black Life is One of Mourning” in The Fire This Time
When Making Claims
I’ve been aware of something over the last year or so and particularly sensitive as the sitting president has amped up his psychologically curious rhetoric in relation to North Korea. It’s around truth and lies. Somewhere along the way I became sensitive to truth. There is a part of me that is an investigator. I’m nosey. I’m curious. I’m interested. I’m also discerning.
The math adds up to me, often, knowing when people are telling truth and knowing when they aren’t. This isn’t a sense I get as much as a knowing that I’m cultivating. I don’t actively nourish it but I don’t avoid being as open to truth as possible. I’ve been especially aware of this over the last couple years, naming it as a part of myself, embracing it as one of those qualities that are mine.
One of the noticings I’ve had is about exaggeration. I see it on a small line or small path toward lying. At times, I’m pretty fun with this noticing. I don’t take myself as seriously as I used to. Because I’m a jokester with friends and because I can be essentially sarcastic (Pray for me about that), I’m can use exaggeration! Still, I do have a thing about truth, so I’m suspicious when a person can’t simply state a truth. Why equivocate? Why hedge? Why stretch? And I don’t intend these questions when we’re talking about jokes.
The way I see it, exaggerating is a precursor to lying. So is the regular withholding of truth. In other words, there are two times when you are well on the path is becoming a liar. First, you stretch beyond what is real. Second, you keep to yourself what is real rather than share it. I’m open to being wrong about this basic path.
Of course, there is an alternate path that we walk. Truth is the destination. Reality is the neighborhood. Knowledge of self in relation to others is the result. That path is about being truthful (being a person who says and does true things) and not being a liar (being a person who exaggerates…deceives…lies).
When making claims about the world, it’s easier to spot a lie. In yourself, in someone else. What’s hard and what requires maturing discipline is the grace-filled ability to withhold calling someone a name. “You’re a liar” is very different from “You told me the opposite of what was happening.” One is a characterization and is judgmental. The other is an observation that implies a kind of interest.
I don’t think all judgment is bad and that is another post. But I think observations carry much more room for two parties listening to each other.
Just Relations
I was pleased to hear about this! A friend and a couple people I listen to occasionally are included here, and I look forward to regularly learning from this collective of spiritual leaders. I hope you can read the column too.
Glimpses
I was traveling when I heard of Erica Garner’s death. I wasn’t home and her death reminded me of how hard it is to find a home in our country. It’s hard to find a home in the world when a freedom fighter leaves after birthing a child and raising two that she, now, can’t care for up close. It’s difficult to see glimpses of joy in the midst of such homegoings.
It’s hard to face the truth of who I am in the world when a young Erica Garner dies of heart trouble or cardiac arrest or any of the related and potential exact causes of her death. When I read the news of her death, all I could think of in the moment was about the power of pain, the ripping potency of anguish. Brokenness carries weight.
I have thought of her children and her family. I have thought of people who I don’t know, whose names and faces I wouldn’t recognize. And yet there is something I do recognize, something I can’t fully make out in words or deliver to another person.
Ms. Garner’s death means much and it’s impossible for me to distance her death from her father’s death. They were two different people and if I can find one common line between them, it is, for me, that neither of them should have died when they died. Her death, like her father’s to some extent, is another reminder of what it means to embody and to carry in the body the full experience of being Black in the United States.
There is immense pleasure in being Black and there is a corresponding shadow side that is inexplicable despite the best linguistic tools. Death comes for everyone, and it seems that death comes so soon for those whose skin is along that gorgeous spectrum from cream to vanilla bean. The hands of those who are sworn to serve and protect or the low-lying pervasive threats of asthma and “high blood and sugar” as they were known in my childhood–the line of angels of death is long.
Ms. Garner’s end makes me remember how hard it is to be Black and makes me imagine how hard it is to be a Black woman and how inestimably difficult it must be to be a Black woman whose father is dead and how unutterably painful it must be to be a Black woman whose father is dead because his voice wasn’t heard and how unbearable the weight must be to be a Black woman whose father is dead because his own voice was unheard by the law enforcement officers who killed him.
It feels right to consider the meaning of a sister’s death. And not only Ms. Garner’s. Indeed, the consideration of a person’s death means that life will keep a certain melancholia. Of course, that melancholic feeling borders the derivative feelings which come when we consider death, feelings of life, of interest, of resilience, of purpose. Can we ever really live well and joyfully and not consider the alternative to life? Is it possible to appreciate the images of justice-coming-close and not pause to bow the heart to a justice-seeker’s early demise?
I am not as sad as the people who cherish Ms. Garner. I’m clear about that. I know that she has a tribe of loved ones and significant others who speak her name with complete tenderness. I am not a part of that loving circle. I’m a distant member of the broader tribe. I have prayed for her, thought of her, and grieved with her from my perch as she’s gotten through hours and days and weeks without a father.
I’ll turn my prayers to Ms. Garner’s children. I’ll still think of the ones who have gone on, who have left this misshaped world. I’ll think of Erica Garner, and I’ll try to be a good spiritual caregiver. Like her, I’ll work for the generations to come. And I’ll pray and work, from all my edges, for as much good and grace and love as possible. May we see what Ms. Garner must have seen glimpses of in her depths: a completing picture of justice and love on display.
Consequences
Your decisions and non-decisions will follow you into the future for the next dozen years if not longer. That’s what occurred to me as I read a story about a leader who died.
His life of service was full before a particular set of choices that turned the view of his constituency, the views of his peers, and likely his view of himself. I don’t think everything you are sits or falls on one choice or one non-choice. A person is more than his action, especially in an instance. And yet, a person is a person, and people can change perspectives for a number of reasons.
One event, one comment, one fight, one attempt at repair, one email. One gesture can turn the world between you and another person in any direction. What’s the direction you want for yourself? Perhaps what you choose can promote that direction. There are consequences to your decisions.
Your choices carry power. Imagine them greeting you in your future, claiming you and calling for you to claim them. Make decisions out of grace, so that grace carries consequences into tomorrow.
For Belonging from O’Donohue
I read this earlier in the year to a group of people I have spent years loving:
May you listen to your longing to be free.
May the frames of your belonging be generous enough for your dreams.
May you arise each day with a voice of blessing whispering in your heart.
May you find a harmony between your soul and your life.
May the sanctuary of your soul never become haunted.
May you know the eternal longing that lives at the heart of time.
May there be kindness in your gaze when you look within.
May you never place walls between the light and yourself.
May you allow the wild beauty of the invisible world to gather you, mind you, and embrace you in belonging.
“For Belonging” from John O’Donohue’s To Bless the Space Between Us
Remembering as Much as Possible
I’m not sure it’s possible to remember the good without the bad. It seems more likely that a person remembers what’s possible, that I remember what I can at the moment.
One of my teachers, David Hogue, who’s into pastoral theology and neuroscience at the same time, says that when a person remembers, she re-members. Recalling an event means recreating it. Dr. Hogue says that we don’t ever revisit the same event but we, rather, piece together an entirely new event. We compose memories. We place pieces of pasts next to each other.
So remembering is a creative work of doing what you can do in the moment. It may have good. It may bring bad. Which is how I eventually get to remembering what’s possible. It may be impossible to remember good things. Maybe what’s possible right now is seeing or knowing or being in touch with what’s not good.
On the other hand, when those moments come where you can’t think of one bad thing; when considering the negative feels like a distant task; and when finding something disagreeable in your heart feels like the actual burden; at that time, you’re doing what you can. You’re remembering what you can.
As the calendar year closes, as Advent ends and takes us toward seasons to see the Sent One uniquely, remember what you can. Try to be fair with yourself. You’re creating. You’re recreating what you can. You’re remembering as much as possible.
May your memories be blessed. May your creations be honest. May your experiences of yesterday bring you peace.
Appeal
I had two experiences recently where the word appeal came up. One was a committee experience where I had essentially prepared for two years in order to get to a particular point in my process as a pastoral educator. The other was a smaller process but part of my current continuing education as a pastoral theologian.
In the first experience, the committee passed me. The approval for this other part of my continuing education was denied. As a standard part of the rejection, I was given the chance to appeal. I’m in that strange waiting period where my appeal is heard based upon what I submitted. It may be granted. It may not.
At the end of my committee where I passed – and I think they do this for their own fun or to get another smile or because the process requires it – the chair said that I could appeal their decision. He said other things while I was already telling him and them that there was no way I was appealing their grant of my becoming certified. He said what he said. I said what I said.
The thing is, if you win, you need not appeal. It makes no sense to appeal a yes. But if you don’t win; if you lose; if what you want doesn’t come; if your preparation doesn’t pay off; if the decision isn’t in your favor; if you spend and don’t recover; if any of those kinds of things happen, appeal.
An appeal could involve filling out forms. It could include writing letters or gathering materials to re-present your case. An appeal could mean setting your face like flint. It could mean making the decision to try (again). It could mean, simply, not stopping. If you don’t get the thing this time, appeal.
I learned this in a personal way as these other experiences were and have been taking shape. I learned from something that others have done and said to me that appealing is available. It takes grit to do it. It costs emotionally. It is hard.
Suffer through it and appeal. Cry over the pain and appeal. Keep cultivating in you what at Thousand Waves we call a non-quitting spirit. You actually don’t have to quit. Even with whatever you were told. You can decide. You can actually keep going. You can appeal.
Words to Remember From Joyce Rupp
I have needed to be compassionate toward myself when I was hurting. I have also needed to offer compassion and kindness to others. One of my best sparks for love and for forgiveness of old relationship hurts came from an image of myself at the Last Supper table, seeing my “enemies” seated next to me, all of us being loved equally by God. Another image that gave me courage and also freed me from mistakes and wounding behavior of the past was that of a beehive in my heart with golden bees making “honey of my old failures.”
Images have also reminded me how valuable a sense of humor is for healing. Mary Lou Sleevi portrays the widow Anna, in the Gospel of Luke, as the image of a woman who could laugh through the tough things of life: “Anna comes to Her Moment laughing. Those eyes have twinkled as she wrinkled…Her face the free expression of all that’s inside.” Perhaps, most of all, images have helped me to name my need to surrender and to trust God with my life. In order to be healed, I need a desire to let go, to get on with my life, rather than cling to the pain and memory of my old wounds. Some see surrender as negative because, for them, it implies a patriarchal approach to God, a giving in to a “higher power.” I do not envision it this way. I see surrender as a natural part of the cycle of life and, thus, it includes the spiritual path as well. I have learned much about having to let go of control by observing seasonal surrendering such as the plowed fields of spring accepting heavy rainfalls, summer’s fruitful days giving way to autumn harvesting, and winter’s wind whirling snowflakes into banks of beauty. My surrender does not seem passive to me. Rather, it feels like a strong trust in a loving One whose wisdom stretches far beyond mine. God can empower me, work through me, and weave patterns that I do not dream possible. I experience this as a great gift of love.
Dear Heart, Come Home (p. 127-128)
Soul Stuff: Entrusting Yourself
I shared this quote as part of a presentation I led last week with physician-fellows in palliative care. They are finishing up a year with their fellowship; they’ve come to palliative care from a variety of disciplines. For three years I’ve been shadowed by different fellows, working side to side to care, to listen, and to participate in the sacred sendings of patients.
Palliative care doctors are a good group of people, and our work as chaplains borders a neighboring region if I can put it that way. Unfortunately palliative docs are often thought of as last resorts and though that view is changing, their import is only beginning to emerge for addressing pain, discomfort, and the large matter of the unanswered. The affinity between their work and ours in spiritual care makes me think of the word integration.
My talk was on cultivating patience in the medical intensive care unit. The MICU is my primary pastoral context these days outside of my supervision of ministry students, and I pulled materials together for a similar group last year. Toward the end of our discussion, I was reflecting upon the wonderful work of Rachel Naomi Remen, whom I’ve quoted before on the blog.
Dr. Remen is among a small circle of life sustainers for me, especially from this last calendar year. She works with caregivers, teaches physicians of the body and physicians of the soul. And she helps me see better some of the portions of what’s ahead in my own future. That said, this quote was toward the end of my presentation with the staff from My Grandfather’s Blessings:
An oyster is soft, tender, and vulnerable. Without the sanctuary of its shell it could not survive. But oysters must open their shells in order to “breathe” water. Sometimes while an oyster is breathing, a grain of sand will enter its shell and become a part of its life from then on. Such grains of sand cause pain, but an oyster does not alter its soft nature because of this. It does not become hard and leathery in order not to feel. It continues to entrust itself to the ocean, to open and breathe in order to live. But it does respond. Slowly and patiently, the oyster wraps the grain of sand in thin translucent layers until, over time, it has created something of great value in the place where it was most vulnerable to its pain. A pearl might be thought of as an oyster’s response to its suffering…Sand is a way of life for an oyster. If you are soft and tender and must live on the sandy floor of the ocean, making pearls becomes a necessity if you are to live well.
I hope these words and anybody’s words which sit in your ears give you an anchor in the oceans of your life. Being an oyster, being a giver of hope, being a caregiver can irritate you until you release your own soft nature. Remen doesn’t likely mean by soft nature anything but a positive description of the best part of you and me.
When my training supervisor wrote my evaluation from February to September, he remarked upon my growth that he’d seen from two years, though he’s only supervised six months of that time. He gave a high compliment when he said that he’d seen me soften over these months, over these years. I had read these words but forgot about them until the other week. In working on this presentation, I reread that the oyster softened, too.
May your nature only soften. May it never harden. May you be as soft as you need to be to produce the pearls that await the context of your own soul. May every sand grain get used to your softness rather than your softness falling into hard, gritty sharpness. Don’t clamp your shell. Don’t give up. Don’t harden.
Preparation
I saw an article in the sidebar when I was reading another article about big stores fighting over lease agreements. The piece I saw was about Tim Cook’s comment and his preparing as many people as possible to be CEO.
The comment sent my mind into a small whirl. Because of who I am and what I do, I couldn’t help but query myself and my list of friends and my mentors–all in my head–and ask, “What if people of faith take as their mission something similar?”
I wonder what would happen if we saw ourselves as responsible to prepare others, to equip others, for what we do. In other words, if a part of life is generativity, creating conditions for continuing some thing or some legacy, how well are we at it?
The article as a prompt makes me wonder how I see the future if I’m not about the process of caringly preparing my children, my family, my church, or my sphere for what’s ahead.
Perhaps there is nothing in your future to prepare for. Of course, I think there is something there, something ahead. The prompt, at least, makes you begin to see what may be there.
It makes you consider the question of whether what’s ahead is worth passing on to others.
Michael Washington 