Mutually Bound

Recently we have talked and read at length about inter-religious connections and ecumenism. This has long been an interest of mine and I wish to explore it much more during my time at Drew.

What follows is an excerpt from something I wrote earlier this year. I share it now as a background as to where I'm coming from - part of why I am here and some of the questions I have brought with me. Perhaps it will be something to refer back to as I learn more over the next few years.

---

How do religions interconnect, and how do we rectify their intellectual aspects? Is it possible for people of different backgrounds to maintain their spiritual strength without breaking down that of their counterparts? This is the theological dilemma which I find most pertinent both spiritually and academically, particularly in the past four years while I studied at Sarah Lawrence, a religiously diverse college. In the final year, I conducted an oral history project on students’ beliefs, faith, and experience. I hoped to encourage both academic and personal dialogue between students and provide a relaxed and respectful atmosphere in which they can explore and express their beliefs. Diverse in every possible way, no two interviewees professed precisely the same faith, yet all shared much in common.

Such is true, I find, of Christian denominations. Can Christians be both spiritually catholic and protestant, if not nominally, socially, or politically? Catholic: broad or wide-ranging; having sympathies with all; universal. Protestant: protesting injustice and corruption; striving for improvement, reform, and objectivity; from the word meaning "to bear public witness." Did Christ not represent all of these qualities?

A Roman Catholic priest once told me that "God does not check your denomination like an I.D. card." In the past decade, the Vatican, the Lutheran World Federation, and the World Methodist Council came together in the Joint Declaration on the Doctrine of Justification, stating that "by grace alone, in faith in Christ's saving work and not because of any merit on our part, we are accepted by God and receive the Holy Spirit, who renews our hearts while equipping and calling us to good works." In our doctrine and our divides, how do we differentiate the human from the divine? How does Christ bring unity and peace to a world in which Christianity creates further divisions and categories? Most significantly, must we erase these categories – must we be a reconciled Catholic church, or a Unitarian Universalist church, or a nondenominational church – or is it possible to respect human individuality while honoring the universality of the Divine?

As my project progressed I found inspiration and assurance that, though the journey for peace may be a long one, it is possible. It requires a willingness to speak and to be silent, a willingness to listen. With each interview, I learned not only to listen better but to listen to what cannot be heard.

Lilla Watson said, "If you have come here to help me, you are wasting your time. But if you have come because your liberation is bound up with mine, then let us work together." Her words transformed my entire perspective of outreach; although I had not reduced it to charity or good deeds, I had not fully comprehended the interconnectedness of humanity, our sufferings and our hopes. And not only has it affected my approach to serving the poor, the hungry, and the outcast, but it has convinced me that peace in every sense is a matter in which our liberation is mutually bound.

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.

-----

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.

Eight Days a Week

Or, "A Lyrical Expression of How I Feel After the First Week of Classes"

Best read after this video:



Ooh I need some tea, babe,
And some cookies too.
Stock them in my room, babe,
'Cause I've got lots to do...

"Read me, write me, read me, write me!"
I ain't got nothin' but work, babe,
Eight days a week.

I'll read you someday, Miles,
For Church Hist'ry 1.
You're not a very big book
And yet you weigh a ton...

"Read me, write me, read me, write me!"
I ain't got nothin' but work, babe,
Eight days a week.

Eight days a week
I stu-u-u-u-u-dy.
Eight days a week
Is not enough to read it all.

Ooh I need coffee, babe,
And some chocolate too.
Stock them in my room, babe,
'Cause I've got lots to do.

"Read me, write me, read me, write me!"
I ain't got nothin' but work, babe,
Eight days a week.

Eight days a week
I stu-u-u-u-u-dy.
Eight days a week
Is not enough to learn it all.

Read Adams ev'ry day now,
Just finished Section 1.
(I've survived just one-twelfth
Of Social Justice fun.)

"Read me, write me, read me, write me!"
I ain't got nothin' but work, babe,
Eight days a week,
Eight days a week,
Eight days a week.