A bit about "salvation"

This morning I was doing my morning meditation thing with a couple of lines from Psalm 13, which is titled Prayer for Deliverance from Enemies (we’ll talk later about all the breaking of teeth, cheek smiting and general beat-downs the poets in Psalms seem to revel in).

The lines were: “But I trusted in your steadfast love/my heart shall rejoice in your salvation.”

(How this works for me: generally, I just pick out a couple of lines at random that I like, then for 15 minutes, I inhale while repeating the first line in my head, and exhale the second.)

I was about ten minutes into the thing when I realized I’d been replacing the words “my heart” with “I” so, I shrugged, and reverted to the text, and then got completely clobbered with gratitude.

Three years ago, I was driving home from work on a rainy day. I was in this place in my life where everything felt terrible. I’ve always struggled with depression, but this was crushing. Every morning I’d get up with that impossible weight and dread. When people would be excited about something, I’d be cynical and point out all the ways it could suck. I was becoming negative, bitter and really, really unhappy.

So I was stopped at a stop light and I thought: if I believed in sin (in the sense that sins are thoughts or actions that keep me distant from god/spirit/celestial-wonder-dog) this is maybe the biggest one – to not be willing to feel and see all the beauty that is in this daily life, and to be so crippled by my own depression/fear/insecurity that I can’t reach outside of myself to do anything more that make fun of people who are doing what they love, partly because I was starting to feel like I never would.

And I knew, as I sat there in my car, that my heart was broken and I had no clue about how to fix it. I didn’t even know if it could be fixed. I thought heartbreak was supposed to be related to breaking up with a significant other, but my heartbreak was this huge loneliness and realization that I didn’t know quite how to allow love into my life. My habit was to try to figure out in my head what people wanted and try to be that. And as far as any internal softness or need I felt – my response was: Kill it!!

Now, perhaps in the traditional version of this story, I’d say: “Then I found Jesus, and got saved and now I’m going to Disneyland….erm, I mean heaven.”

That didn’t happen.

But what did happen was that I committed to myself to start paying attention to the things I loved and the things that brought me joy. When everyone says: do what you love and all else follows – THEY ARE NOT KIDDING.

But how do I recognize what I love?

(A lot of you know this story, but for the newbies: ) Ten years ago, I lived in the county. One morning, as I was driving past a familiar field, I saw an animal. I thought at first it was a horse, but then I realized no….it’s a donkey. Actually, four donkeys. And I smiled and thought, huh. When I drove by the next day, I looked for the donkeys and kind of laughed. Sometimes I’d actually pull over and just watch them. I didn’t know why, but I just felt happy when I saw them. They were sweet and ridiculous and I loved how their ears would point downward when they ate.

And one day I was sitting there, laughing at these donkeys and I realized: this is what it is like to just purely love something, without agenda. For most of my life to that point, I loved what I was supposed to love, or what it was cool to love, or what everyone else loved. But here was this thing that just made me happy by being exactly what it was and I was happy because I was loving it just because I loved it.

This is how I recognize love now – the things or people that make me want to laugh when I’m around them. (Not because they are cracking jokes, but just because they are who they are and I am who I am).

 I mean, not everyone loves donkeys, the color yellow and but I do.

And it’s one of the simple things I was put here to do.

 “I trusted in your steadfast love” today reminded me that I started looking for those things, people and actions that brought out the love in me. And while it wasn’t an immediate thing, eventually my heart started healing; and by choosing to do this thing (seminary) that I was terrified of doing (and yet wanted to do with my whole heart) I get to feel joy again.

When I say salvation, at least in this sense, I mean that I no longer have to walk through life numb and cynical. My heart is being freed of these things that keep me from loving myself and the people (and critters) around me. It’s a kind of gentling process.

And once again, it compels action. It is impossible to be able to see and feel and not challenge myself to do more, again, because it’s one of the simple things I was put here to do.

Mondays? Even suck at seminary.

You ever have one of those days?

You know the ones – you’ve got 9 hours of class (or work or childcare), you don’t have the right pants, the dog is bitter, the coffee is weak. A friend looks at you the wrong way and you’re sure it’s because you’ve done some unspeakable evil that you can’t remember, you say something that wasn’t quite as brilliant as you’d like, and follow it up with a binge of cigarettes/too much ice cream/booze/illegal substances or meaningless sex.

Yeah, you know those days. I just had one.

A few things I try to remind myself on these days:

1. The world does not revolve around me.
2. Nine hours of class plus little time for self-care would make Spock cranky.
3. What other people think of me (or what I might think they think, which is even more fun) is none of my business, (though it is my favorite hobby.)
4. Right when I think I have control in my life, god/spirit/celestial wonder dog is having a good laugh.
5. Buffy the Vampire Slayer is the cure for all ills.

As I am in seminary I’d like to take this opportunity to share with you further deep spiritual insights I’ve had about all of this, but, I’m too darn tired.

So, that leads us to the fun Bible fact I learned today:  testimony is related to the word testicles; apparently, since ancient folk couldn’t swear on the Bible (as it wasn’t quite written yet), men would swear on their testicles. This custom is mentioned in the Old Testament. In the King James translation, the passage reads, "And Abraham said: 'unto his eldest servant of his house... Put, I pray thee, thy hand under my thigh: And I will make thee swear...’”

Which of course led to one of my super-cool female seminarian friends to say: “Maybe we should just say ‘breastify.’”

It’s the little things like this that bring me closer to the divine…

Overheard at Seminary #1

"Yeah, (at Bible camp) we sometimes used Oreos and milk instead of the bread and wine..."

Psalm 104

This is not, you might have noticed, a daily blog. As it happens, there is a ridiculous amount of reading in seminary. No, really. And despite my bazillion years of therapy, as it happens, I’m having a ridiculous number of feelings. As Carrie Fisher might say, it’s a veritable feeling festival, lead by a parade of less friendly feelings. You know the ones: that wincing self-loathing with a dash of rage, a touch of alienation and just a soupçon of paralyzing fear.

Of course, there is also a big chuck of startled wonder and quite a lot of peace and joy.

Today, I had more of the first set than the second, but I’d really rather write about Psalm 104. One, because I get so bored by my self-obsession and two, because it’s really a good psalm.

This isn’t going to be the big gay psalm blog (and later, when I can fill at least two twinkies with my biblical knowledge, I’m sure I’ll write about more academic things), but for me, the psalms are kind of an entry point into scripture. The first time, I went through and read them over the course of a week or so (there are only 150 and they are fairly short).

I was about midway through and the thing that struck me the most was how connected I felt to a sprawling humanity that stretched back three thousand years. I’ve heard other people say this since then, but it seemed so beautiful that people a zillion years ago struggled with similar feelings and experiences and expressed those feelings in poetry that praised their god and sang to the wonder in the universe.

Psalm 104 would be the best psalm to make into a children’s book. I’m sure someone’s already done it. It lays out how the poet imagines god created the world and its critters.

A few of my favorite lines: “You stretch out the heavens like a tent/you set the beams of your chambers on the waters/…you make the winds your messengers/fire and flame your ministers.”

Or my favorite: “Yonder is the sea, great and wide,/creeping things innumerable are here,/living things both small and great./There go the ships, and Leviathan that you formed to sport in it.”

I love that the poet imagines that god created leviathans just to play in the ocean.

The other thing that I love is that when I look at this poem – describing this fragile, beautiful place – I experience no t just a sense of peace and connection, but I also experience it as a call to action to take better care of the world. Not in that nagging, oh-I-better-recycle-and-buy-a-prius way (though that’s good too), but in this kind of attention to the outside world way.

This path for me is a gentle and firm push towards becoming more responsible and aware of things outside of my brain.

I am not motivated to action because “I should do X” but “I want to do X” out of love for this world and its sporting leviathans.  

Mornings on Holy Hill

My little seminary is nestled on the north side of the Cal campus, along with several other seminaries. This area is known as holy hill. Sometimes I see monks at the dining hall, which I kind of love.

Rose and I took a new route this morning, finally heading up the hill.  The roads became narrower and narrower, until the neighborhood began to look a bit like Lothlorien – all stairways and wooden bridges. Someone had constructed a fence of brass bedposts twined with trumpet vine. Along the sidewalks: a shock of fennel, wilting nasturtium, monkey puzzle trees. Agapantha exploding like frozen fireworks.

For the past year or so I’ve been doing this meditation practice called lectio divina. I first heard of it when I was reading Kathleen Norris’ brilliant Acedia and Me. Later, when I was deciding to explore the progressive Christianity thing, I found “instructions” on the United Church of Christ website. 

So, I tried it.

(You have to understand that even saying the word “scripture” still makes me wince a bit. So many religious terms are almost fatally attached in my mind to people whose politics and behavior I abhor it can be a struggle to even say the same words. I suppose it is like reclaiming the word queer, turning it from a negative smear to an empowered positive. In some ways the whole past couple of years have been about this for me – trying to turn the clichés of right wing rhetoric back into the words of beauty and peace. I’ll say more on this later).

The thing I love about lectio divina is that it gives me time, breath and space to not just think about what the person is writing about, but also to feel it in a new way. I’m generally moved by language anyways, but in some way, the words become a part of my body and shift around in meaning.

So this morning, I had returned to what has become my favorite psalm -- #73. I like it because the poet basically says: yeah, it’s great to be all righteous and holy, but I was looking around at all the wealth that I don’t have and feeling jealous of everyone who seems to get everything they want. He talks about feeling bitter and cynical and still, how the spirit is always with him. This is the point that I love – that when he is feeling so hard and bitter, he realizes that he is still loved, and his return of that love is so sweet:

“Whom have I in heaven but you?/And there is nothing on earth I desire other than you/ My flesh and my heart may fail; /but God is the strength of my heart/and my portion forever.”

(Some of the rest of the psalm is a little problematic to me, but let’s put that on hold for now.)

The only thing about this verse, when I was meditating on it, that didn’t feel quite right to me, was the part: “And there is nothing on earth I desire other than you.”  I feel like I could say: there is nothing I desire more than my relationship with the spirit/god/universe, but there is nothing on earth I desire other than you? Not so much.

I have a lot of desires: I’d like a nice girlfriend, a house with a garden, maybe another Harley, definitely some better clothes. A pile of cash would be great too. Maybe a trip to Greece. Erm…and world peace.

As Rose and I hiked up the sidewalks, I was thinking about my poor neglected blog and what I might write today. Everything seemed like a poem – the winding streets, an orange tree, canna unfurling. Columbine blooming – like clown hats or candy. The sliver moons cut in garage doors, the stairways painted purple.

Suddenly it came to me: there is nothing on earth I desire other than you. What I usually really desire was this – being able to see the beauty of god or spirit in everything I passed; like we are moving through god.

Interlude: Lessons to Live By

This moment of paralyzing fear and insecurity is brought to you by....attending seminary....

Just wrote this to a friend and thought I'd share it with my wider circle: I have a complete knack at saying exactly the wrong thing at the wrong time when I'm nervous.

Note to self: do not use snark to cover insecurity.

This is what I mean, when I say God (the poetic version)

God is your waking breath, butter on black bread, the seldom thunder. Hubcaps hung on rafters and your mother’s love of fresh black licorice. Pigeons lifting off from the median when the bus passes by, the willow tree on the corner and the swinging street sign. God is Christmas lights on the water and the scattering of wet leaves, the song you loved ten years ago and haven’t heard in a while. The crumbling foundation stones of a building torn down. The dizzy delirium of everything falling apart and coming back together. God is the unimaginable beauty in this breath and the next and the next.

Come away, now, come away from your chrome and glass, come away from the sidewalks, we’ll work out our salvation with trembling hands, we'll gather bittersweet and baby’s breath, we’ll teach the clematis the lines of the trellis.

We’ll listen to the lovers dancing upstairs to the sound of Barry White; I’m learning the steps myself, alone in my living room, shot with sweet longing. God is the steps down the terrace, the “for sale” sign in heavy wind. Sheet lightning I always sleep through now, like water. A rocking chair you gave me three years ago. Porch swings and confessions. Dogs sleeping in front of heaters. Summer concerts at the zoo and you haven’t heard her in years. God is scarecrows and dancing streetlights, the cacophony of stone and roses. Black cactus flowers and broken cigarettes. God is the texture of light – tensile and whispering. 

God is like driving too long in heartbreak.

I was thinking there was something more than violence and power, there was something more than this sense of pain and loss. And I thought, I should imagine god loving me and I should imagine being touched by that kind of love. Being wanted and held and lifted until I forgot my name and skin and touch and yes. And when God came to me that way my heart broke. My body felt flung open, stunned into a kind of ecstasy: every breath a shatter, cracked like glass, like ice, like brickle. Breathless.

This is my prayer: Open me, unfurl my heart, unclench my hands, remember me.

Orientation continues...

As soon as this constant orientation is over, I promise to tackle a few more serious subjects about seminary; such as: WTF??! Why Christianity?  and "You don't really believe that shit, do you?"

But for now, let me mention that seminary orientation includes karaoke (picture me and one of the guys singing the opposite gender parts to Summer Lovin'). Madonna's "Like a Prayer" was covered, as well as a bit of Jesus Christ Superstar and 99 Red Balloons.

In the mornings, Rose and I slowly expand our walking territory. There are black cactus flowers here.