Breaking Ground

I had a realization of my own after the goodbye-themed inter-generational Bible study I led at church the other night.

In a time of lifting up loved ones who have passed on or moved away, I named my grandfather (my eulogy for him is posted here), and I explained that I called him Grandsprout because he called me Sprout.

What I've realized since Sunday night is that no one else in the world calls me Sprout and what that means. When my grandfather's dementia deepened to the point of no longer recognizing his loved ones, we ourselves struggled to hold on to who we were to him. When he died, the me who was Sprout died, too.

It was not only the loss of a beloved person but also the end of a relationship, of all the relationships he had with his family and friends.

And at the heart of our relationship, his and mine, was growth. A love of greenery and soil and earthy things. A wisdom of seasons and perseverance and devoted care. My grandfather watched me grow up, and I watched my grandfather grow his garden. These were the joys we basked in together.

So it's only fitting that, when I finally found the language to heal myself almost two years later, it came to me in the form of plant life. Specifically, it came to me in an image that my professor, Angella Son, included in her new book, Spirituality of Joy. Although it took on a different meaning for me than it did for her, the image of the moso bamboo tree inspired me to compose a song.

The lyrics are a conversation between a soul and God, throughout the sort of experience that is often known in spiritual circles as the dark night of the soul. But in this case, the process is likened to the growth pattern of the moso bamboo tree, which grows roots for five years before it even breaks ground (and then it hits some kind of plant puberty and grows about 90 feet in six months, but who's counting?). To the unsuspecting gardener, those first five years look to be a failure, like nothing good is happening and any hope of vegetation is gone.

But the God I've come to know through my grief is a God with dirty fingernails and all the time in the world. A God who knows the strength of roots and the goodness of brokenness when a seed is breaking open, breaking ground.

It's through writing this song that I began to live again, and it's only now that I realize that the person I came to be, in some way, is still and always will be my Grandsprout's Sprout.

Growing Underground
Music and lyrics by Kimberley Fais, 2013

You plant. You feed. You water. I sleep.
Then I stretch, and I breathe, and take root in the deep.
Even though I can't see, You promise me
I'm not going under. I'm just growing underground.
I'm not going under. I'm just growing underground.
And I will grow out before I grow up.
It's a long way out.

You've got time in Your hands and dirt in Your nails.
You see what succeeds when everything fails.
It's hard to believe what You promised me.
I'm not going under. I'm just growing underground.
I'm not going under. I'm just growing underground.
And I will grow out before I grow up.
It's a long way up.

Deep and dark down here, where I weep with joy,
I'm not drowning out Your still small voice.
Little do I know I'm right where I should be.
I'm where You're tending me.

You planted. You fed. You watered. I woke.
Then I stretched, and I breathed, and through the ground I broke.
And I rose, and I grew. You said: "I promised you--
You were never going under. You were just growing underground.
You were never going under. You were just growing underground.
And I watched you grow the roots that would let you grow up.
Look at you now. . . ."

The Psalm of Margaret Wise Brown

Is there anyplace I can go to avoid your Spirit?

    to be out of your sight?

Illustrator: Clement Hurd, The Runaway Bunny

If I climb to the sky, you’re there!
    If I go underground, you’re there!

Illustrator: Clement Hurd, The Runaway Bunny

If I flew on morning’s wings
    to the far western horizon,

Illustrator: Clement Hurd, The Runaway Bunny

You’d find me in a minute—
    you’re already there waiting!

(Text from Psalm 139:7-10, The Message)

Give Up Everything You Have

This comic by David "Naked Pastor" Hayward, "graffiti artist on the walls of religion," explores the idea that we may need to be willing to relinquish more than our physical means in order to be at peace with God.


"Trash Your Theology"

Of course, Hayward and some of his readers discovered a rather meta loop, unable to avoid theologizing about the possibility of relinquishing one's theology. But the significant point remains: that if we go so far as to ascertain that our own understandings each somehow fall short of Ultimate Truth, it seems inevitable that there will need to be some sort of adjustment involved before either we embrace Truth or Truth embraces us... whatever the case may be.

The most common interpretations of Jesus' command for someone to give up everything and follow him are to leave behind one's former work or personal life (the first disciples, for instance) or to sell one's possessions (the wealthy man who received exactly that word of guidance).

Certainly, material and monetary accumulation and major shifts in one's path are all worthwhile topics for discussion and self-reflection. These matters are more profound than self-denial or suffering. Loss of this nature opens up the possibility for an incredible gain. Consumer culture tends to teach us that the only good "loss" is weight loss. What little else are we readily willing to give up?

But simply put, as Lois A. Lindbloom writes, when we say "no" to one thing, we simultaneously say "yes" to something else, and vice versa (Cultivating Discernment As a Way of Life). I would extend that: when we say "no more" to one option - in habit or lifestyle, relationship or career, location or mindset - we simultaneously embrace something new, even if we aren't quite sure yet what it is.

So I find the idea of dying to self as an ideological liberation to be inspiring and perhaps less thoroughly explored terrain. The first time I noticed the concept articulated well was in the book Three Simple Rules: A Wesleyan Way of Living.

Author Rueben P. Job writes: "Are we ready to give up our most cherished possession - the certainty that we are right and others wrong?"


Questions for Discussion and Reflection:

What do you think you may need to shed before you can move on? Consider the physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual facets of your life.

Today, what might God be calling you to let go? ...to embrace?

Meditate or journal on your views about loss.

What do you think it would look like to attain a balance of trusting in what you believe to be true and giving up the certainty that you are right?

This is How You Deal with Prejudice

Reginald Rose's 12 Angry Men, to which I last alluded in a post called 12 Angry Seminarians: On Diversity, is among my favorite works tackling prejudice. Brilliant play and film.

Just check out this short scene, which packs a lot of punch on its own merit:



Ed Begley, portraying the incredible (and yes, quite angry) Juror #10 in the above clip (1957) acts commendably here. His character's actions, on the other hand, are nothing short of detestable.

But I think it's worth discussing how easy it is to pin blame on certain people, to label some as bigots and assume that everyone else loves and supports diversity and says and does nothing to perpetuate stereotypes, intolerance, and double-standards. And this is by no means meant to condemn everyone or those who condemn bigotry, but rather to illuminate the complexity of the issue.

When we villify someone on the basis of that person's prejudice, is our judgment ever justified? If so, when, and if not, why not?

If you had been among the jurors in this scene, would you have responded to #10 in the same way? What would you have done or said differently?

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If you haven't seen/read 12 Angry Men, click here to see the full film online or here to find the book on Amazon.

Ten Rules of Peace

Peace activist Father John Dear has been arrested 75 times in acts of civil disobedience, and Archbishop Desmond Tutu has nominated him for the Nobel Peace Prize.




Ten Rules of Peace
according to Fr. John Dear, based upon the work of Henri Nouwen

1. Peace-making starts with prayer. Let Jesus disarm your heart.

2. Peace-making requires resistance to war and violence.

3. Peace-making creates community.

4. Peace-making requires serving the poor and marginalized.

5. Peace-making means accepting weakness.

6. Peace-making requires nonviolence.

7. Peace-making demands social justice.

8. Peace-making makes connections.

9. Peace-making leads to gratitude.

10. Peace-makers follow a nonviolent peace-making Jesus. Jesus was not passive.


Fr. John Dear is an excellent speaker and author who spoke at Drew last semester. Check out his website at FatherJohnDear.org and his autobiography entitled A Persistent Peace, among his other works.

One Man's Trash

As I've mentioned, I've worked as a porter in New York City. Although it wasn't inherent to the job itself, I had frequent direct and indirect contact with the homeless in the area.



One day, the task of "cleaning up around the garden" included throwing out some personal effects - clothing, a couple of books, a binder. We were to treat everything as though it had been discarded, even if it may have still meant something to someone. The age-old issue of "trash" versus "treasure" comes to mind.

A couple of days later, I was removing cigarette butts from a planter when a businessman struck up a conversation with me.



Finally, he said, waving his own cigarette as he indicated the planter, "You're screwing over the homeless, you know. If you throw those out, they can't relight them and smoke them. Don't you feel guilty?"

I was somewhere between heartbroken and livid. I told him how I felt about having thrown out the personal items.

He said, "Why don't we just throw the homeless out, too?"

Since then I saw too many more faces and sleeping bodies and desperate placards and paper cups. Whenever I swept the sidewalks I had the urge to sit down beside the people leaning against the walls. It was only in my final weeks with the cleaning company that I brought food and water to a woman I'd had to pass with my dustpan and broom about every ten minutes during my shift that afternoon. I wish it hadn't taken me so long.

One of my earliest childhood memories is walking hand-in-hand with my mother in New York City and seeing someone asleep in a cardboard box on a door step. Only his blue denim jeans and brown boots were visible.



Like any loud, naive child, I asked, "Is that a person?"

The memory used to make me uncomfortable, because I wondered if I had embarrassed my family or if I'd disrespected the sleeping person. But sometimes I'd like to go back to my mindset of that day - the sheer shock of the sight, rather than this decreasingly naive adult response of sadness without surprise.

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During my image search, I came across a post at Free Range Talk called "The Criminalization of Homelessness." There is a well written narrative of the destruction of a tent camp and some information about the unlawful camping law, which is punishable by a $1000 fine and up to 90 days in jail. Please do check it out when you have a moment.

If you're interested in more solid research material, here are resources specifically on homelessness, recommended by a fantastic professor at Sarah Lawrence College:

First, R. J., Roth, D., & Arewa, B. D. (1988). Homelessness: Understanding the dimensions of the problem for minorities. Social Work, 33(2), 120-124.

Hagen, J. L. (1987). The heterogeneity of homelessness. Social Casework, 68(8), 451-457.

Hall, J. A. (1990). Homelessness in the united states., 159-174.

Helping mentally ill people break the cycle of jail and homelessness.(2001). Psychiatric Services, 52(10), 1380-1382.

Khanna, M., Singh, N., Nemil, M., & Best, A. (1992). Homeless women and their families: Characteristics, life circumstances, and needs. Journal of Child and Family Studies, 1(2), 155-165.

Kim, M. M., & Ford, J. D. (2006). Trauma and post-traumatic stress among homeless men: A review of current research. Journal of Aggression, Maltreatment & Trauma, 13(2), 1-22.

Liu, W. M., Stinson, R., Hernandez, J., Shepard, S., & Haag, S. (2009). A qualitative examination of masculinity, homelessness, and social class among men in a transitional shelter. Psychology of Men & Masculinity, 10(2), 131-148.

Mowbray, C. T. (1985). Homelessness in america: Myths and realities. American Journal of Orthopsychiatry, 55(1), 4-8.

Newman, S. J. (2001). Housing attributes and serious mental illness: Implications for research and practice. Psychiatric Services, 52(10), 1309-1317.

Pickett-Schenk, S. A., Cook, J. A., Grey, D., Banghart, M., Rosenheck, R. A., & Randolph, F. (2002). Employment histories of homeless persons with mental illness. Community Mental Health Journal, 38(3), 199-211.

'N Syncretism: The Boy Band of Religion

I'm increasingly interested in interfaith work, improving relations between groups of differing beliefs and traditions, and encouraging peace and collaborative efforts. (The environmental justice movement is a prime example of people seeking and discovering "common ground." Check out GreenFaith, Interfaith Partners for the Environment, based in New Jersey.)

But from discussion of interfaith collaboration often sprouts mention of syncretism.

Religious syncretism is the blending of different beliefs and practices into one new Assimilation Beast. The Melting Pot Model, if you will, rather than the Salad Bowl Model, which is my ideal edible analogy for religious peace - as well as for America, the context in which this imagery is more commonly used.



Syncretism has occurred countless times throughout history between all different traditions. It can be an element of exploration or inclusion of new ideas. It can be a result of cultural conquest - not necessarily even a reflection of strength in numbers and "majority rules," but of otherwise dominant, more "persuasive" culture.

Sometimes peace-seekers commend blending, perhaps the way that Boyzone wants the world to "turn out coffee-colored people by the score." Some appreciate the diversity and long for less nominal, homogeneous unity.

Sometimes people are "accused" of syncretism as an offense. In Shalom, Salaam, Peace, a great interfaith book for dialogue between the Abrahamic religions, Allison Stokes speaks of a minister who was thus accused and nearly lost his position in the church.

Judgment of that particular case is beyond the scope of my own ability and authority.

But here is what I think about syncretism:

It's the boy band of religion.

It seems like a good idea (at least to somebody), so they mastermind a group. Someone coaches them until they not only sound eerily harmonious but nearly indistinguishable from one another. Most of their music is in a major key and their lyrics never develop far beyond trite declarations of love. Cue cultic following and media attention.

Then the member bios come out, and you wonder who drew the short stick to get stuck with a favorite color that none of them actually like. Unable to morph into one cohesive entity, they have no choice but to exploit the individuality of the members. They follow unwritten laws like the Power Ranger Principle - that if they're a team whose members just happen to be differently empowered, brightly colored beasts, they will drum up a lot of interest. The Army Wives series and the Barbie company are similarly adept at this strategy.


(I had this realization thanks to an image on Tickets For Two.)


(Meanwhile - Mattel, can we talk?)

Anyway, after they've used their combined powers to defeat Lord Zedd, they suffer a schism. They annul their collaborative union and go their separate ways, and somebody works through rehab and somebody comes out of the closet and somebody goes on to make a solo album and somebody marries a fan-girl and even though no one remembers the last one's name they seem to recall that his favorite color was yellow and he liked liturgical dance.

In light of all that, or in spite of it, I have a theory.

I believe that every human alive or having lived has something to teach someone else - something significant, and often intensely personal for either teacher or taught. Or both.

I believe that interfaith and intercultural peace rest not in syncretism, but rather in learning itself. Learning just one thing from every other person one encounters. Learning one fact, one practice, one habit, one truth, one hope, one idea, one question that either transforms or informs one's perspective, if even just to fortify a view already held. Not necessarily taking up what is learned. Just learning it; respecting the person who taught it.

We need not all practice alike, believe alike, live alike. Some amount of influence and assimilation may happen, but it need not be forced.

In the film Chocolat, Père Henri preaches: "I think we can't go around measuring our goodness by what we don't do - by what we deny ourselves, what we resist and who we exclude. I think we've got to measure goodness by what we embrace, what we create and who we include."

But I don't think that entails syncretism: I think that would mean denying authenticity, denying ourselves the ability to believe in a way that Père Henri's message does not encourage. I think it is not about creating a single world religion that denies, resists, and excludes different expressions of spirituality. Rather, it is embracing, creating, and including others however we can, knowing that we may not understand them or agree with them perfectly well, and still accepting that as a foundation on which to build peace.

This is my personal interfaith creed: I believe I will learn something transformative or informative from every person with whom I share a conversation, and from many more with whom I may never speak.

Perhaps someone someday will prove it wrong.

But if that becomes the case, then I imagine that I will have much more to mull over than the basic idea that I had been wrong about this philosophy.

12 Angry Seminarians: On Diversity

"Diversity is a gift to be celebrated!!!

...but it also sucks."

-Dr. Chris Boesel

One part of our orientation to Drew was a discussion on diversity. Looking around at the theological school's student body, it is clear that the only group of people who could rival our diversity is a jury.

So I'm seeking a co-producer for a new play called 12 Angry Seminarians. Anyone interested?



Our ages range about 40 years. Maybe more.

We are of different races, ethnicities, nationalities, and heritages. We have many students from all over the world, from South Korea to Côte d'Ivoire.

We have different native tongues and in fact speak many more languages between us. A friend from South Korea taught me to say hello - 안녕, "ahn nyeong" (or formally 안녕하세요, "ahn nyeong ha say yo"). I've taught another Korean friend the phrase "study party," words I've taken for granted on a daily basis throughout college. For a friend from the Congo, English is his fifth language. Fifth.

We have students who have lived months or years in a country foreign to their own, and many who are now doing so for the first time. Students bring with them their "temporary resident" experiences of other countries from England to Honduras. We also have representation from all across the United States.

We are of different socioeconomic backgrounds and, despite at least one common expense, find ourselves in varying financial situations.

We are of different sexes, orientations, and gender identities. The school not only encourages gender neutral discussion of humans ("humankind" vs. "mankind") but also of God. But more on the Inclusive Language Policy another time.

We are single, married, separated, divorced, remarried, widowed, and in a range of relationships. Some have spouses in other states or other countries. Some are raising their families in campus apartments.

We are of different abilities, with unique strengths and weaknesses that have only just begun to shape us into a community with complementary parts.

We are of different political persuasions with a range of priorities and ideas in government, voting, and public policy.

We are of different faiths, denominations, and perspectives, sharing in belief and disbelief, curiosity and doubt. Even within our populous Christian contingent, differences can be striking.

This incredible diversity can create for us amazing growth, enlightenment, and interdependence - opportunities just waiting to be seized!

But easier said than seized.

Because diversity asks a lot of us. It asks us to see ourselves differently. It constantly presents us with the realization that there is yet another perspective that we have not considered or another life's worth of experiences that we may never come to understand fully, even if we genuinely try.

When asked to describe themselves, people in a majority infrequently list that dominant trait as part of what identifies them. At the same time, somehow many of our rarities do not earn the value of rarities, and instead they are often pointed out unfavorably by others or are used as the basis of self-deprecating humor.

Our default setting seems to be somewhere between the urge to set ourselves apart and blend in with a safely homogenous group. Sometimes we're willing to follow the social script even when it does not properly - even kindly - define us. It may be easier or safer or less intimidating than (inter-)acting off-book.

But we cannot allow our discussions on promoting diversity and respect to assume their own sort of social script: to become stale, inauthentic, incomprehensive, or roundaboutly offensive. We must be vigilant of this in even our noblest efforts -

That is, don't let something like this happen to you or someone you love:





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Interested in reading about diverse forms of diversity? Check out Readings for Diversity and Social Justice, Second Edition (2010), edited by Maurianne Adams, et. al., particularly Section 1 on Conceptual Frameworks. Other sections are by topic, such as ableism, sexism, and classism, and include excellent primary and secondary sources in various formats and writing styles.

The War of Art

Before one of the last races of the Christ Church regatta (fall 2008), our team warmed up, rowing south along the Isis toward the starting line.

My legs became stiff, locked, almost physically unable to move. Part of me, a very athletically- and physiologically-ignorant part, worried that I had overdone it and that if I continued I could do some sort of irreparable damage. It seems silly to say it, but the fear was real enough. I finally confessed to the captain, who cycled along the shore to cheer us on and, when necessary, communicate with the marshalls on our behalf.

She told me to work through it, to use it, and I did. I put more force into my legs than ever, driving hard through the water if just to spite them. Each time I have trouble writing or working or doing anything, I remember that moment, that triumph - not just the victory, but the fight for it.

During that same year my writing prof realized that my creative energy was beginning to dwindle. I think if one day we ever meet again and decide to play Pictionary or Charades, I want her to be on my team:

"This" - she said; I don't even remember what nondescript noun she called it - "is it light or heavy?"

Stuck. Honestly had no idea. Whatever it was, it felt like nothingness to me. Is nothingness light or heavy?

"To me it feels like the heaviest thing," she said so earnestly, almost forlornly, gazing out the window of her study to the vast meadows across the street. And so the questions continued. "What does it smell like? Does it have a taste?" I didn't know. I must have conjured up something unappetizing to satiate her curiosity. "Give it a name," she said finally.

I felt my skin flush. I eyed the door. I remembered the feeling of being cornered and remembered I didn't really like it.

"A name!" she said. "Give it a name, like..." [Here insert a nonsensical name for a fictional character in the 2088 Novel of the Year, or the name of your favorite circus troupe's star clown. Either one.]

I sputtered uncertainly, "Stan?"

"Stan! Good. What does he look like?"

Perhaps it was only colored by my own discomfiture, but this interaction was nearing bizarre, and I was not responding all that creatively. I summed up what I called the Archetypal Emo Guy, upon her confusion as to what that actually meant. And then for specificity's sake I doodled him, pretty black tresses hiding his little eyes and all.

Apparently the purpose of all this was to give me something to work against. I wonder if fiction requires an extent of friction, both inside (the story itself) and out. Conflict, driving force, motivation. So my perpetual task from the prof throughout the year was this: to fight Stan. It was like playing a video game with my own badly conceived villain, made slightly better with my own shuffled music collection for a soundtrack.

But she had quite a point. Naming it - even naming it Stan (or Juggernaut... but more on that tomorrow) - that's the first step.

I fought Stan. I fought him hard, but never entirely defeated him. Stan fancied himself a stowaway and traveled home with me. He has since popped his hairy little head in now and then, and I'm devoting the first year of grad school to squishing him between my frenetically-typing fingers.

When I was about six, I drew a picture of Superman flexing his graphite biceps and captioned it with a phrase that had caught my eye: "What doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." My mother kept it on her bulletin board, and I think seeing it there made an impression on me. It wasn't just a display of her kid's art. It was a statement of conviction. It was a battle cry. It earned a notable place in her own work area, her own Stress Central.

So cue the music. Something to play while Superman kicks Stan's butt.



Or something like that.

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Battling your own creative blocks? Fighting resistance? Be it in writing, art, business, sport, or anything at all, I wholeheartedly recommend the book The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. Check it out at StevenPressfield.com or find it on Amazon.