tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-46043303116926940672024-02-08T10:36:26.013-05:00Waffle Houses and Above Ground LibrariesPreface: "The libraries may not be underground, but I bet you can drink sweet tea on your way to and from them."
Scene: Having become an expert in city living, Sara Moser sets out to completely change the way she lives her life and filters her thinking.
Goals: Meaning in life, optimism, type-B personality.
Likelihood for success: 2%.
Intro: "Welcome to Duke Divinity School, that which you have worked toward for 3 years. You picked this life, now enjoy it."Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.comBlogger42125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-23698073455759918112011-06-25T13:24:00.002-04:002011-06-25T13:58:14.862-04:00<i><b>A conversation between Sara and the rational thinking fairy:</b></i><div><i><b><br /></b></i></div><div><b>Rational thinking fairy:</b> "Hi, Sara! Boy, we sure haven't talked in awhile. How are things going lately?"</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sara:</b> "Rational thinking fairy, you are a bitch! Life is terrible! Everything is meaningless and no one cares about anyone and my hair looks bad today! Also, I saw a boy mowing the lawn, and it frankly just ruined my whole month because clearly that boy has no meaning in life and probably eats little debbie snack cakes and thinks racist thoughts about Dora the Explorer."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rational thinking fairy:</b> "Wow, Sara. Those are some extreme words you're using. 'Terrible.' 'Meaningless.' You speak about meaning a lot. Why do you think that is?"<br /><br /></div><div><b>Sara:</b> "Hmm, what a fine question. Let me take a minute to gather my thoughts. oh. IT'S PROBABLY BECAUSE I HAVE NONE."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rational thinking fairy:</b> "Sara, what are you preaching on tomorrow?"</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sara: </b>"I'm preaching about how everything is terrible and everyone hates everyone."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rational thinking fairy:</b> "That sounds like a very inspirational message."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sara:</b> I say it again! Rational thinking fairy, you are a bitch!"</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rational thinking fairy:</b> "What are you really preaching about?"</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sara:</b> "I'm preaching on Psalm 13 -- 'how long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?" I've been walking through the cemetery and trying to think as many depressing thoughts as possible. I've been trying to gather up all the world's pain and store it in my heart."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rational thinking fairy:</b> "How is that helpful?"</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sara:</b> "It's not. It's a terrible way to live life. But I think my spiritual gift is to be morose. I think that God calls me to see through the lens of brokenness. I think that pastors should be happy no more than 40% of the time. If they're happy any more than that, they're probably not doing their job well."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rational thinking fairy:</b> "So, you think God wants us to be unhappy?"</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sara:</b> "No."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rational thinking fairy: </b>"I believe you just said as much."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sara:</b> "Of course I did. I do believe that as an internal reality. But our conversation is in the realm of external reality. ALSO YOU'RE THE RATIONAL THINKING FAIRY. You're helping me see more clearly."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rational thinking fairy:</b> "Maybe you should say something about Jesus during your sermon."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sara:</b> "I do. I say that sometimes it feels like Jesus body slams us into a wall and walks away laughing."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rational thinking fairy:</b> "Sara. Sara! Don't say that. Do you understand me? Don't tell people that Jesus hates them."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sara: </b>"Why not? </div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rational thinking fairy:</b> "Because that's not what you believe. Listen to me. I'm the rational thinking fairy, and I'm here to speak truth into your life. Make an outline. Make some goals. Get your work done. And then move on. Stop thinking that your sermon is going to make everyone lose their faith. That is a false reality. Also, your hair looks fine today. It really does. People really do care for one another, and if you would open your eyes, you'd see that the human condition is outrageously beautiful."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sara:</b> "Rational thinking fairy, it's like you are rubbing cold cream on my soul. I mean, it feels really good. Your words. Your help."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rational thinking fairy:</b> "It's not me. It's God working through me."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sara:</b> "You say that, but I know you secretly want the affirmation. Just accept it. You are a good fairy. You are good at what you do."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Rational thinking fairy:</b> "Fine. Thank you. I appreciate that. A final word of advice, though? Don't begin your sermon with the sentence: "I'm not particularly fond of human beings." Remember, people are not THAT comfortable with your neuroses when they don't know you."</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Sara:</b> "Good advice. I will instead start with a hilarious story about Hitler." </div><div><br /></div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-43365017705326746362011-05-27T13:14:00.004-04:002011-05-27T13:45:07.655-04:00"Intrusion"<i><b>Scene:</b> 3 young hipster wannabes sit upstairs in a coffee shop. A jock is in the corner. His presence creates an uncomfortable tension. Mesh shorts and Powerade? Really? Nobody knows why he is there. Summer school, probably. It is clear he has read no Foucault in the recent months. </i><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>An elderly man walks up the stairs. He surveys the room and sees that he does not belong. He trudges over to the corner, sits down, and unwraps his turkey sandwich on wheat. The hipster wannabes decide this is okay. After all, ageism is not trendy.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>A woman walks up the stairs with clacky heels. The hipsters are appalled. "Did she not see the sign?!? -- "handmade moccasins ONLY?!?" The woman is oblivious to any of the rules. She enters into the dead silence and shouts across the room to the elderly man.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><b>Clacky heel woman</b>: "FOR THE RECORD, I'M NOT LATE! Geoffrey, you know, my little dachshund, Geoffrey?? Well, we were just at the vet. Can you believe he's 12 pounds overweight? He never eats ANYTHING!"</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Elderly man:</b> (boisterous, insincere laughter)</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Clacky heel woman:</b> "Oh my, it's completely silent in here! Oh good! That means I can talk as loudly as I want and no one will care! Would you like to hear the funniest story about the bath I took last night?! Hahahaha, Geoffrey climbed right up into the tub!"</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Hipster girl wearing brightly patterned dress:</b> (begins directing passive-aggressive glances at the oblivious couple)</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Hipster boy with floppy hair and a poetry anthology</b>: (begins directing passive-aggressive glances at the oblivious couple)</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Jock:</b> (Oblivious; continues work on laptop)</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Clacky heel woman</b>: "WELL LET'S GET STARTED. I have such a great plan for selling cupcakes to dogs! Healthy cupcakes, mind you! OBESE DOGS ARE VERY SUSCEPTIBLE TO DEPRESSION. Geoffrey has been on Prozac for 10 months now, and I can tell that he is still morose!"</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Hipster Girl:</b> (increased passive-aggressive glances, coupled with drawn-out sighs)</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Hipster Boy</b>: (increased passive-aggressive glances, coupled with a showy exit to express his exasperation)</div><div><br /></div><div>Cl<b>acky Heel woman:</b> "HAHA! HAHA! RUINING EVERYONE'S DAY IS MY FAVORITE!"</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Elderly man:</b> "HAHA! HAHA! We're the only ones talking! Our ideas are so good! I bet everyone loves listening to them! I am so wise! These young hipsters must think I am so wise!"</div><div><br /></div><div><i>The hipsters are disgusted. Unable to control the obtrusive man and woman, they insert their earbuds into their Macbooks and begin loudly listening to Sigur Ros. They will later write witty stories about this in their moleskine notebooks and then transfer them to their tumblr. Life is pain.</i></div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-45283358713402588562011-05-05T02:04:00.002-04:002011-05-05T02:07:25.986-04:00Dear perfectionism,<div><br /></div><div>I thoroughly loathe you. I want to cut off your appendages and eat them while you watch me and weep. I want to destroy you. I hate you I hate you I hate you. </div><div><br /></div><div>You are an evil lover. You seduce me with your sweet success, and then you beat me late into the night. I want to murder you. My hate for you is so strong.</div><div><br /></div><div>You know, though, that I will come back to you. You know that even as I write this, I won't leave you. I will return to you. I will always return.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I hate you. I so throughly hate you.</div><div>Sara</div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-48406401109015119782011-05-02T22:34:00.002-04:002011-05-02T22:41:50.065-04:00"A Letter from my Professor"Hi Sara,<div><br /></div><div>This is Professor ______. I was just writing to tell you that you don't have to write your final paper for me!</div><div><br /></div><div> For the last two months, you've had that "I-don't-give-a-shit" look on your face, and I totally understand because, let's face it, I don't give a shit either. </div><div><br /></div><div>Although you almost never spoke in class, I could just really tell that you are brilliant, and so I am giving you an A. I'd also like to break down the walls of our student-teacher relationship--would you like to hang out sometime? Maybe go dress shopping and grab some drinks? </div><div><br /></div><div>Hell, since you don't have to write your final paper, are you free tonight? I just find you to be a fascinating person, and I would be so honored to keep company with you.</div><div><br /></div><div>Eagerly anticipating our friendship,</div><div>Professor ______</div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-86853628973092833972011-04-29T11:18:00.002-04:002011-04-29T11:26:28.828-04:00<span class="Apple-style-span" >Dear friends,</span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >For my morning devotional, I read Katy Perry lyrics. She raises some good questions:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><b><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Do you ever feel like a plastic bag, drifting through the wind, wanting to start again?"</span></b></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 27px; "><i style="font-family: georgia; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Every day, Katy, every day. I need your help.</span></i></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 27px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 27px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b style="font-family: georgia; ">"You just gotta ignite the light and let it shine. Just own the night like the Fourth of July. Make 'em go "Oh, oh, oh!" You're gunna leave 'em fallin' down-own-own."</b><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); line-height: 27px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" >Morning devotional brought to you by Katy Perry. Praise the Lord!</span></span></span></div><div><br /></div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-15935540499945304222011-04-27T14:41:00.001-04:002011-04-27T14:43:58.075-04:00<div>[In regard to the King James Version]</div><div><br /></div>"To all the women who read the Sacred Scriptures: We have left the male gender where the original text called for it. <b>Please give yourself a special spiritual treat</b>, substitute the word woman for man when you read these pages. Together we will feel that the Book was written just for ourselves."<div>-- Robert Schuller, <i>Possibility Thinkers Bible</i></div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-76886917506035117112011-04-27T11:03:00.006-04:002011-04-27T11:26:40.992-04:00"How to ask for an extension in seminary"<div>Dear Dr. Portier-Young,</div><div><br /></div><div>He is risen! He is risen, indeed! I hope your journey to the cross was meaningful. This cross, this death, this resurrection--what wondrous love is this? Oh, my soul.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I was writing to see if you would consider granting me an extension. I got so caught up in the death our Savior (He is risen! He is risen, indeed!) that I did not have enough time to work on my final paper (It seemed wrong to research while grieving the death of my Lord).</div><div><br /></div><div>Let me know your thoughts,</div><div>Sara</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Dear Dr. Bowler,</div><div><br /></div><div>When I was reading your dissertation, which was so, so good, you referenced <i>The Art of Counseling </i>by Rollo May (1967). As your writing about this book was so lively and altogether wonderful, I excitedly picked up a copy and found this treasure:</div><div><br /></div><div>"The teacher without empathy is like a motor car with the gears unmeshed--the motor races, making a noise as ineffectual as 'sounding brass and a clanging cymbal.'"</div><div><br /></div><div>I have decided not to write my final paper.</div><div><br /></div><div>Best!</div><div>Sara </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Dear Dr. Wacker,</div><div><br /></div><div>I sat down for my morning devotionals the other day and before I knew it, it was 10 pm! I guess I got caught up in an ecstatic vision of my Lord. </div><div><br /></div><div>Anyway, I'm running behind on my work now. Would you consider granting me an extension?</div><div><br /></div><div>Best!</div><div>Sara</div><div><br /></div><div><i>1 Thessalonians 5:17 -- "Pray Continually"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Dear Dr. Wirzba,</div><div><br /></div><div>How good is our Lord. Oh, that we might fall before our God and praise Him!</div><div><br /></div><div>I am writing to thank you for teaching me to see the world. You have enlivened my vision, teaching me to see Christ in apple blossoms, robins, and soil. Your advice to take a break from school and walk through Duke Gardens has changed my life. Thank you for teaching me to pause and taste the world.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have decided to continue pausing. I will not be writing my final paper.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks for teaching me to see Christ!</div><div>Sara</div><div><br /></div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-66024915235879783522011-04-26T01:51:00.002-04:002011-04-26T01:51:52.476-04:00Mini Homily: Eucharist<p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"">God invites us to the table to eat Jesus, invites us to bite down on grace, invites us to swallow grace and feel it sliding down our esophagus.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">God invites every single one of his people to gather at the table and be fed, no matter whether his people smell that day or are tired and distracted or are confused as to why they’re sitting at the table at all.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>God invites us because he knows that his smelly, tired, confused children need nourishment, and so God invites us to feed on him—to slurp down eternal life that he’s flavored with the juice of grapes.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">God teaches us what it’s like to sit together at the table so that we might invite smelly, tired, and confused people to our own kitchen tables. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>God feeds us so that we might feed others.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">God invites us to have supper in the morning, and in so doing, scrambles all of our expectations for eating. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>God teaches us that unity is nonsensical and beautiful. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>God teaches us that inclusion is nonsensical and beautiful. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>God’s guest list includes the lady who wears cat vests, the man who chews like a drunken bear, and the child who cusses in the line at the grocery store. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>God says: <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“They are beautiful. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They are mine. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They are invited to the table.”</span></p>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-85818725359403476502011-04-25T16:10:00.000-04:002011-04-25T16:12:15.802-04:00Mini Homily #2: Confession<p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"">It may be new for us to think about how our eating implicates us in patterns of injustice.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We must eat to live—how can it be wrong?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">Eating is never wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Food is a grand, delicious gift to be celebrated.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The trouble is, we fail to celebrate it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We have forgotten where our food comes from.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We have abstracted our bacon from pigs.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We have abstracted our corn from fields.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We have abstracted our strawberries from the Chilean workers who picked the plump, red fruit with their fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We care not about the Chilean worker or his fingers but rather we care about whether or not we’ll have strawberries all year long.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">When we become disconnected from our food, we become disconnected from the lives that make our eating possible.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We want cheap chicken.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We want cheap tomatoes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We get upset when tasting is costly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We come to confess today because tasting is costly, and we have squandered the earth’s resources with our reckless tasting.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">In our tasting, we must learn to ask: “whose blood is in this food?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>How were the animals treated?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>How were the workers treated?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What is the yearly income of the lady who raises chickens?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>How is the land being treated?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Are we leaving gashes in the earth?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Can they be sewn together or are we sowing permanent destruction?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">Our insatiable desire for food that is cheap and convenient is tearing holes in God’s Creation.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>English poet, John Drinkwater, wrote that “when you defile the pleasant streams and the wild bird’s abiding place, you massacre a million dreams and cast your spittle in God’s face.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">Do we stand before God and spit in his face?</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">We do.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For this reason, we must confess.</span></p>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-84265188229168121812011-04-25T16:02:00.000-04:002011-04-25T16:03:39.078-04:00Mini Homily<p class="MsoNormalCxSpFirst"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">Think of the last time you read the Creation story in Genesis.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Did it blow your mind and leave you panting for a glimpse of this world?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Did you yearn to put your hands in the dirt and feel what God put there?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Did you find yourself wanting to lie down in a garden so you could smell God?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">The last time I read the Creation story, I found myself unimpressed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s all that redundancy, really, that causes my eyes to glaze over: “And God saw that it was good.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And there was evening and there was morning, the third day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And God saw that it was good.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And there was evening and there was morning, the fourth day.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It all seems so effortless, like God is pointing at products in a Pier 1 catalogue to furnish his living room.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"></span>God, we find ourselves unimpressed with the way you describe the furnishings of your world: vegetation, birds, wild animals—God show us the platypus!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Show us the redwoods and the panther and the Pacific Ocean.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Show us the gladiolus; lift it to our noses.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The hawk, God, show us the hawk; we will study it and praise you.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The colors must have been vibrant, and the textures!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>How did the world feel leaving your fingertips?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What tasks did you delegate to Jesus?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Did the Spirit scatter seeds and feed the animals?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Tell us, God, impress us!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Show us the hawk.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">But there is nothing wrong with God’s imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; "><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">There is something wrong with our imagination.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif""><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">Have we lost our ability to wonder?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Can our eyes see that the world is soaked with God?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Loss of astonishment is not a new phenomenon—St. Basil the Great wrote in the 4<sup>th</sup> century: “I want creation to penetrate you with so much admiration that wherever you go, the least plant may bring you the clear remembrance of the Creator…One blade of grass or one speck of dust is enough to occupy your entire mind in beholding the art with which it has been made.”</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">There is something wrong with our imagination.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>God is not picking out the world from a catalogue—trees are not products; chickens are not products; nitrogen is not a product.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Rather, God imagined the earth, and it was so, and it was very good.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And there was evening and there was morning, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">every</i> day.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; ">God says: “Go outside, and within you I will cultivate astonishment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I only ask that you learn to see.”</span></p>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-79655332383278257122011-04-14T23:19:00.002-04:002011-04-14T23:29:59.662-04:00Seminary Fail<span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre-wrap; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"><br /></span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3.75pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#333333">Seminary student #1:</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"> “hey! what is a good bible verse about grace that i can memorize like a mantra? (not john 3:16)”</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3.75pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(59, 89, 152); font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; "><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=110800455"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image002.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/187728_110800455_7398925_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_1" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3.75pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#333333">Seminary student #2:</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"> mmmm, that's a question for <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">[seminarian who likes grace a lot]</b><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#3B5998;mso-no-proof:yes;text-decoration:none;text-underline:none"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=506539640"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image004.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/186815_506539640_2873656_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_2" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2.25pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#333333">Seminary student #1:</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"> haha. duly noted.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2.25pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(59, 89, 152); font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; "><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=110800455"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image002.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/187728_110800455_7398925_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_3" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3.75pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#333333">Seminary student #2:</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"> or pick up your copy of Brennan Manning</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(59, 89, 152); font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; "><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=506539640"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image004.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/186815_506539640_2873656_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_5" /></a></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"> </span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3.75pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#333333">Seminary student #1:</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"> good point.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(59, 89, 152); font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; "><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=110800455"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image002.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/187728_110800455_7398925_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_6" /></a></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"> </span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3.75pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#333333">Seminary student #2:</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"> I'm making such good suggestions.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(59, 89, 152); font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; "><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=506539640"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image004.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/186815_506539640_2873656_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_7" /></a></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"> </span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3.75pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#333333">Seminary student #1:</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"> you are.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(59, 89, 152); font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; "><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=110800455"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image002.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/187728_110800455_7398925_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_8" /></a></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"> </span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3.75pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#333333">Seminary student #2:</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"> but yet can't think of a verse...</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#3B5998;mso-no-proof:yes;text-decoration:none;text-underline:none"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=506539640"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image004.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/186815_506539640_2873656_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_9" /></a></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"> </span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3.75pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#333333">Seminary student #1:</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"> well, i mean other than the one about you are saved by grace, not by works, that is somehow the only one i can think of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(59, 89, 152); font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; "><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=110800455"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image002.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/187728_110800455_7398925_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_13" /></a></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"> </span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3.75pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#333333">Seminary student #2:</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"> yeah, other than that one, I don't think the Bible says much about it.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(59, 89, 152); font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; "><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=506539640"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image004.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/186815_506539640_2873656_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_14" /></a></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"> </span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2.25pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#333333">Seminary student #1:</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"> interesting. i should have noticed this before now. hahaha.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(59, 89, 152); font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; "><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=110800455"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image002.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/187728_110800455_7398925_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_15" /></a></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"> </span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2.25pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#333333">Seminary student #2:</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"> wait, is that true?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I was being an ass</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(59, 89, 152); font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; "><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=506539640"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image004.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/186815_506539640_2873656_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_16" /></a></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"> </span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2.25pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";color:#333333">Seminary student #1:</span></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:#333333"> hahahaha.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2.25pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#333333">man, i am just in an accept-everything-state-of-mind.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2.25pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#333333">how can i not think of any verses with grace!</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2.25pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#333333">ok, i'm doing a computer search</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2.25pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#333333">ok, there are like a million hits</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3.75pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#333333">you are never to speak of this conversation with anyone</span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#3B5998;mso-no-proof:yes;text-decoration:none;text-underline:none"><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=110800455"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image002.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/187728_110800455_7398925_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_17" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2.25pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#333333;mso-no-proof:yes"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_18" spid="_x0000_i1026" type="#_x0000_t75" alt=":D" style="'width:.75pt;height:.75pt;"> <v:imagedata src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image005.gif" title="D"> </v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image005.gif" alt=":D" shapes="Picture_x0020_18" /><!--[endif]--></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt;font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#333333">OH NO, DISASTER</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(59, 89, 152); font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 16px; "><a href="http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=506539640"><img border="0" width="1" height="1" src="file:///C:\Users\Moser\AppData\Local\Temp\msohtmlclip1\01\clip_image004.jpg" alt="http://profile.ak.fbcdn.net/hprofile-ak-snc4/186815_506539640_2873656_q.jpg" shapes="Picture_x0020_19" /></a></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2.25pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#333333">hahaha<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 2.25pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#333333">my grace is sufficient for you!<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 3.75pt; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><span style="font-size:12.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman","serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; color:#333333">how could i have forgotten that one?<o:p></o:p></span></p></span>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-82495776005836365542011-03-29T00:57:00.001-04:002011-03-29T01:00:41.565-04:00Thank God for our vulnerability.<div><br /></div><div>There is a crack in everything, and that's how the light gets through.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-54567668985618566942011-03-23T01:06:00.003-04:002011-03-23T01:11:34.132-04:00"Time for Bed"How many pints of Ben & Jerry's will it take to become a good pastor?<div><br /></div><div>Is empathy really a good thing?</div><div><br /></div><div>Who will be our pastor when we need one?</div><div><br /></div><div>When will everyone live into their vulnerability?</div><div><br /></div><div>When will God make it all right?</div><div><br /></div><div>Maranatha.</div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-66127951863669287932010-12-04T13:47:00.004-05:002010-12-04T15:55:05.959-05:00"Shitty First Drafts"(Anne Lamott, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life)<br /><br /><em>"Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft. I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you, and have a lot more fun while they're doing it."</em><br /><br />Thanks for your contribution, Anne. I appreciate it. I agree heartily, and I felt moved enough to write these words into my fake-moleskine notebook (which, since I got it at Target, is probably made out of beavers); <a href="http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/2009/02/24/122-moleskine-notebooks/">http://stuffwhitepeoplelike.com/2009/02/24/122-moleskine-notebooks/</a><br /><br />However, although your words are nice, I don't quite know how to stop looking at my feet. Have you <em>seen</em> the stepping stones at Duke Divinity School? They are not stones. They are jutting, jagged rocks, like the ones on Tom Hanks's <em>Castaway</em> island. They would kill me if I fell.<br /><br />But alas, I know you are right, Anne. I know that writing a paragraph should not take me 4 hours. I know that I should not write one sentence and then yell at the dog, "This is too impossible. I am the worst sentence writer in the world!" The dog doesn't understand why I'm yelling anyway, and the people that I'm dog-sitting for probably have one of those teddy-bear-nanny-cams that is filming me as I sit at the kitchen table and yell neurotically at their canine therapist. I know that writing one sentence and then leaving the house to go buy chocolate is ultimately impeding me from creativity and insight and joy. The idea of stepping carefully on all of those stones is just too incredibly hard, and so instead I find a canoe and paddle erratically in no fruitful direction. All I want to do is walk leisurely on the stones, but I cannot. It is too hard.<br /><br />Writing is too hard for me. I am writing a spiritual memoir for one of my classes, and I cannot do it. It is personally taxing, and besides that fact, the words that I try to put on the page are vapid. I try to cure my writing affliction with chocolate and with warm soup, but the words still will not come. I have been in an informal, non-graded writing class this semester. The others write so easily. In the time it takes them to write 200 beautiful sentences, I have written 10 sentences that contain no good in them at all. They read their writing, and I feel as though we're on Writing Survivor: Outwit, Outcharm, Outlast. I persistently lose the competition and have to go back to the island, cold and unfed.<br /><br />However, it has actually never even been a competition. It's a spiritual formation class, for goodness' sake. I am there to grow in and by the presence of others. I am there to relish the presence of these women of God. I am not there to walk the stones carefully and to outperform. It is wrong for me to be a competitive monster. It is wrong for me to want to Gladiator-fight the other girls off the stones and to run triumphantly and alone to the other side.<br /><br />I know that you must struggle in the same way sometimes, Anne. Has it become easy for you to write shitty first drafts? I can't seem to do it without the aid of gin. And so I languish, yelling my feelings at dogs and eating too many chocolates, and then after many, many wasted hours of self-pity, I finally produce a shitty first draft that happens to be my only and final draft.<br /><br />Perfectionism <em>is </em>leaving me cramped and insane, but I frankly don't how to get off the train. I think that my professor, for whom I'm writing this paper, sensed that we might struggle with the pressure to write well for him. As such, he sent us an email with this quote from Flannery O'Connor: <em>"You do not write the best you can for the sake of art but for the sake of returning your talent increased to the invisible God to use or not use as he sees fit."</em><br /><em></em><br />In writing, my telos ought not be personal success. My telos ought not to be to Outwit, Outcharm, and Outlast. Frankly, my telos in <em>life</em> ought never be any of these things. I do not exist in God's world to outperform. As a friend of mine wisely says: "That's not the Gospel."<br /><br />It's not the Gospel.<br />I still don't know how to stop looking at my feet.<br />I still don't know how to rejoice in my walking.<br />I still don't know how to run freely across the stepping stones.<br />But I know that it's not the Gospel.Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-18222160852390343232010-11-28T12:17:00.008-05:002010-11-28T15:37:57.373-05:00Dear (Extroverted) Ministers and Future Ministers: (Or Why I Struggle with Going to Church)Dear (extroverted) ministers and future ministers of the Word of our God and Savior Jesus Christ,<div><br /></div><div>I have something that I need to tell you. </div><div><br /></div><div>I need to tell you what going to church is like for an introvert.</div><div><br /></div><div>Going to church is terrible.</div><div><br /></div><div>I need to tell you this, (extroverted) ministers and future ministers, because of this state of affairs, I find you disastrously unaware.</div><div><br /></div><div>I will now demonstrate this truth with an anecdote: </div><div><br /></div><div>Last year, one of "your kind," with what I found to be utmost insensitivity, said to me: "Sara, it's <i>not</i> that hard to go to church."</div><div><br /></div><div>I was appalled. APPALLED. "H<i>as he ever <b>been</b> in a church parking lot</i>?" I thought, indignantly. "H<i>as he ever <b>passed</b> the peace</i>?"</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Clearly this man (and of course he is a man) knows nothing of the extreme anguish that church attendance produces inside of me. And if he knows nothing of my acute distress, then he clearly knows nothing of the acute distress of the entire world. And if he knows not of the acute distress of the entire world, then he ought not be a minister of the Word of our God and Savior Jesus Christ. It is settled," </i>I thought<i>. "This man is not equipped for ministry."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Allow me to clarify for you, ministers and future ministers, what this extreme anguish is like. For ease of imagery, I will play the role of the distressed parishioner in the following scenarios:</div><div><br /></div><div>S<b>cenario #1: "The parking lot"</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Perhaps unbeknownst to you, ministers and future ministers, navigating the church parking lot is one of the most harrowing experiences an introverted church visitor can have.</div><div><br /></div><div> </div><div><i>"What if I turn wrongly into the church parking lot, indicating to everyone that I am a visitor who knows nothing of the story of redemption?"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"How am I to greet the nice-looking couples I walk by in the parking lot? Am I to greet them with a holy kiss, as Paul instructed? Must I say something trite and bouncy, like: "Grace and peace, brothers and sisters!"? Do I shake hands? Hug? Elbow-bump? </i><i>For the love of everything that is good and holy, can't I just pretend to text?!?"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"What door do I go in? Oh dear God, what door do I go in? God, show me the damn door that I'm supposed to go in!"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>To be sure, a visiting introvert's experience in the church parking lot before the service has begun is 100x less distressing than her experience <i>after</i> the service.</div><div><br /></div><div>After the service, otherwise reserved churchgoers spill into the parking lot, all jacked up on grace and Eucharistic elements, eager to pounce on any newcomer they see and force them to feel welcome.</div><div><br /></div><div>"I'M SO GLAD THAT YOU CAME. WE WELCOME YOU. I HOPE THAT YOU FEEL SUFFICIENTLY WELCOMED. PLEASE COME BACK TO OUR WELCOMING CHURCH."</div><div><br /></div><div>Ministers and future ministers, I want you to know that introverts leave encounters such as these, panting and groaning anxiously, for a full 3-5 minutes. The experience alone is enough to prompt someone to order one of these: <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hidden-Bible-4-oz-Flask/dp/B001T3YC2E">http://www.amazon.com/Hidden-Bible-4-oz-Flask/dp/B001T3YC2E</a></div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.amazon.com/Hidden-Bible-4-oz-Flask/dp/B001T3YC2E"></a>Suffice it to say, the church parking lot is an introvert's hell. It is one of the foremost obstacles that introverts face in trying to get themselves to church. This is something that I want you to be aware of, ministers and future ministers, for your present or future ministry.</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Scenario #2: "Pew selection"</b></div><div><br /></div><div>Once the visiting introvert has braved the horrors of the parking lot, she then faces the equally horrifying horrors of the "greeters' spirit tunnel" and then, the horror of all horrors, the moment of pew selection. </div><div><br /></div><div>Ministers and future ministers, I will have you know that walking through the tunnel of forced Christian hospitality upon entering the church doors is, emphatically, <i>not</i> a good time. This is especially true for young-looking female introverts who attend church without male companions. Truly, for the single introvert, church is inordinately harrowing because churchgoers, suffice it to say, have absolutely no idea how to talk to young, single females who are joining them for worship. Typically, their response it to think silently, "<i>Hmmm, I wonder how this nice, 15-year old lesbian found our church?"</i> The introvert finds this to be stressful. Ministers and future ministers, perhaps you could train your parishioners to accept and embrace singlehood in the church and to not assume that all single females are lesbians.</div><div><br /></div><div>Having received her bulletin, the introvert is once more overcome with extreme anguish, because she now faces the horror of all horrors: pew selection.</div><div><br /></div><div>I will demonstrate this extreme anguish with another anecdote:</div><div><br /></div><div>Earlier this year, when attending a new church, I decided to make my pew selection choice with confidence. This, as it turned out, was a <i>terrible</i> decision. I had just sat down, confidently, and had just confidently given a faint-smiling-head-bob to the young, blonde woman next to me when she turned to her spouse and began frantically whispering. They deliberated--I could feel them deliberating--and then they pew-shuffled 6 feet away from me. <i>"Oh God</i>," I thought frantically, <i>"am I supposed to pew-shuffle with them? Maybe they could tell that I couldn't really see over the head of that tall man ahead of me." </i>It was the worst 5 seconds of my life. Upon confidently giving the woman the faint-smiling-head-bob, I had envisioned myself, 4 weeks later, sitting jubilantly on this beautiful couple's sofa, nursing a hot toddy and playing a rousing game of Cranium. Now, however, it couldn't be more clear that I was being rejected<i>.</i> Another adorable couple appeared at the side of the pew. They wanted to sit by the first adorable couple. I was in their spot. I had broken the rules of church visitor pew selection.</div><div><br /></div><div>Ministers and future ministers, pew selection is right up there with the parking lot in terms of fostering anguish. The introvert must decide not only where she is <i>allowed</i> to sit, but she must also apply great strategy to her decision so that she will have easy<i> </i>access to the sanctuary doors, come the moment of the benediction (more on this next week). The anguish of pew selection is one more obstacle introverts face in trying to get themselves to church. I think it necessary for you to know this for your ministry, ministers and future ministers.</div><div><br /></div><div>Going to church is ridiculously hard for introverts, and I haven't even begun to describe what happens when the service actually begins and when it ends. Next week, ministers and future ministers, I will take up Scenario #3: Passing the Peace and Scenario #4: The Fellowship Hall. <i> Sweet Jesus, the horrors of the fellowship hall...</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I am glad we have begun to communicate about this, extroverted ministers and future ministers, and I hope to find you next week to be more sensitive to this state of affairs. </div><div><br /></div><div>Best,</div><div>An Introverted Churchgoer</div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-82162945220559101602010-11-25T23:58:00.003-05:002010-11-26T01:01:17.903-05:00"Thanksgiving"Dear friends,<br /><br />Happy Thanksgiving. I hope you ate lots of mayonnaise and cream cheese-based foods.<br /><br />I had a good day. I ate Thanksgiving foods and smiled Thanksgiving smiles and wore a Thanksgiving blazer. All in all, what a success.<br /><br />Last year at this time, though, was quite different. Last year at this time included no Thanksgiving foods, smiles, or blazers. Last year at this time was, in fact, an abysmal sort of day.<br /><br />I guess I'd say that drinking blueberry lager on the floor of my closet, alone, was the low point of Thanksgiving last year. Or maybe it was when I studied Church History notes in the mall parking garage in between the two movies that I went to see by myself. Or maybe it was when I went home and saw all the gladware containers stuffed with delicious turkey and potatoes and gravy that I could not eat. Suffice it to say, I would be unable to point to one of these events as the worst part of the day.<br /><br />You see, my roommate had wanted me to be in attendance for a Thanksgiving meal in our house attended by her, her military boyfriend whom I once caught cleaning a gun in the room just opposite mine, and our older, hippie neighbor who had promised to bring a free-range turkey and to abstain from the bad energy contained within carbs.<br /><br />"Hellz no," I said.<br /><br />She cried, or at least got excessively weepy, and I retreated stubbornly to my bedroom. "I do not do things out of a sense of obligation," I thought. "Her excessive weepiness makes me feel obligated to change my mind, and thus I will not." <br /><br />"I refuse to attend your Thanksgiving," I told her. <br /><br />She looked at me like I had just taken an electric carving knife to one of the neighborhood cats.<br /><br />"For the love of God, come to my Thanksgiving!" she exclaimed.<br /><br />"I will not come to your Thanksgiving," I proclaimed.<br /><br />It was not until later that I realized that not only did I now have nowhere to go for Thanksgiving, but I would also be unable to stay in my own house.<br /><br />WHY WAS I NOT GOING TO HER THANKSGIVING?<br /><br />I wanted to take it back. I so badly wanted to take it back. I could not take it back.<br /><br />So I decided to go to movies about oppressed, black teenagers.<br /><br />I got the large popcorn with extra butter. I trust you will understand. <br /><br />The man taking my ticket judged me, of course, when I presented my ticket for <em>The Blind Side</em>, but I have to imagine he judged me even more when I presented my ticket three hours later for <em>Precious</em>. (I told this story to a friend the other day, and she exclaimed, "You saw <em>Precious</em> alone on Thanksgiving?!? That's like watching <em>Schindler's List</em>!") This is what the ticket-taking man thought as well. I knew this to be true when he coughed "Loser" into his hand and then pushed me into a wall.<br /><br />All in all, though, it wasn't a terrible experience. I mean, besides the fact that I was horribly depressed. I actually found going to the movies alone to be kind of empowering. Plus, I was able to spend quality time in the parking garage, coming to terms with the intricacies of a Trinitarian God.<br /><br />And yet, it was also not the greatest day I have ever had. When I felt as though I had waited an appropriate amount of time, I returned home. My roommate cheerfully asked me where I had been, to which I replied, "Out." <br /><br />"Did you have a great Thanksgiving?"<br /><br />"I reckon so."<br /><br />Well, I reckon that I had a greater one this year. Probably because I had the Trinity all figured out this go-around. Oh, and like I said, I was wearing a Thanksgiving blazer.Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-16326906437283119322010-11-19T17:06:00.004-05:002010-11-19T17:53:48.851-05:00"There are no words"Dear friends,<div><br /></div><div>I have had some loud roommates before, but their level of obtrusion is never so apparent to me as when I am involuntarily waking from a nap:</div><div><br /></div><div>The sound of her heels crashing upon the hardwood floor is as loud as a mother antelope rushing home to get the KFC on the table for the kids.</div><div><br /></div><div>The sound of her voice is as if an aproned housewife is standing at the threshold, screen door half open, yelling "HERE KITTY, KITTY, KITTY, KITTY."</div><div><br /></div><div>The doors slam. All of them in the house at once. How does this even happen? It's as if our house has become the set of that last scene in Grease, where Danny and Sandy prance around the "Shake Shack" singing to one another, "You're the one that I want." The only difference is that if my roommate had on black leather and was singing seductively, I would not dance lustily after her but would rather fashion a bayonet out of my possessions and yield it against her. Several times.</div><div><br /></div><div>Stomping. Slamming. Smashing. Crashing. How could one human being be so impossibly loud? It's as if SNL is filming a comedy sketch, EXCEPT IT IS REAL LIFE, AND I AM THE ONE LIVING IT.</div><div><br /></div><div>The only way one can defend oneself against the galloping antelopes and screaming housewives is to grumble. Cuss unabashedly. Listen to Sigur Ros on pandora as loudly as possible. Tell God you'll stop sinning if he'll just make the antelope-footed roommate wear slippers.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>God doesn't usually answer curse filled prayers with a pair of slippers, though, which is probably an indication that it's time to get up from my nap.</div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-60945534182111885452010-11-14T13:48:00.006-05:002010-11-14T16:51:17.205-05:00"Because Saying No to Neuroticism Was a Lie"Dear friends,<div><br /></div><div>Two years ago, when I was the TA for the biblical Greek class at Northwestern, the professor began class on the first day by reciting a passage in Greek, flawlessly and ominously. Although he did not translate the Greek for the class, he set the stage for fear (and later revealed to me that the passage was about death and the coming day of doom). Then, he asked the students what they had heard from others about the reputation of the class.</div><div><br /></div><div>Without hesitation, a student spoke up: "I heard that at the beginning of the year, you put our soul in a jar, and if we fail the class, you smash the jar."</div><div><br /></div><div>Hilarity ensued. Are you kidding me, student? Please say that at the beginning of every class for the rest of your life.</div><div><br /></div><div>All laughter aside, though, this student's comment was exactly the way I had approached the Greek class. I had spent every day of my sophomore year, whilst taking Greek, studying desperately so that my soul-in-the-jar-that-is-Greek-class would not be smashed because of my failure. I printed off my quiz and test grades and hung them next to my pillow so that I could measure my success and/or failure every day before sleeping and upon waking. I stopped looking at the sky while walking, as my flashcards were ever before me. I woke up thinking about Greek. I went to bed thinking about Greek. I was obsessed. I was obsessed because the language was something that I could control and master, and I <i>would</i> control it and I <i>would</i> master it. I told my friends that if I did not get an A on the final, I would be so humiliated that I would just start walking to Mexico, scattering my flashcards in the wind as I went.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was neurotic. I mean, a really, seriously crazy person. I had to be the best in the class. If I missed the extra credit points on the quizzes, then I had failed. My friend made me a sign to hang in my room that read: "I must beat Ben! Ben is weak! I will be first!" I thought Ben to be my competition in the class. I eyed him warily during class. I had to beat him.</div><div><br /></div><div>I did not want to disappoint my professor with my failure. I did not want him to smash my soul. Missed points on quizzes would be a personal affront to him. He would lose all respect for me as a human being.</div><div><br /></div><div>I get the hint, though, that not everyone approaches their academic endeavors in this way. </div><div><br /></div><div>I still do, though. </div><div><br /></div><div>Looking an instructor or professor of mine in the eye is ultimately a bad idea. This means that I am bound to him or her. With eye contact comes the need to impress. After eye contact, carelessness is egregious. Perfection is encouraged. After eye contact, poorly constructed sentences and leaps in logic and missed vocabulary words are a personal affront to my instructors. They no longer care for me as a person. I am nothing in their eyes.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anxiety, not hilarity, ensues. </div><div><br /></div><div>My tutor in Oxford, Albus Andrew, wrote in his comments on my transcript: "Sara makes very high demands of herself, but has achieved much more than she gives herself credit for." (Ha, Albus Andrew ended a sentence with a preposition). </div><div><br /></div><div>How, though, does one give herself credit for the work she does? How does one evaluate the presentation that he gave without wanting to jump through the 3rd floor classroom windows? When is a paper something that she can be proud of writing? </div><div><br /></div><div>As a student, I put my soul in a jar and wait for it to be smashed. Expect it to be smashed. Envision it being smashed.</div><div><br /></div><div>The truth of the matter, though, is that I am the one smashing it. </div><div><br /></div><div>If I had my way, I'd stop smashing my soul-jar and instead live my life being the person in this quote by Mary Oliver: "Every day I see or hear something that more or less kills me with delight."</div><div><br /></div><div>This is my hope. To be sure, I think that I will never be the person in this quote, but that is because of my still persistent smashing. </div><div><br /></div><div>The prophets, Isaiah and Micah point to a vision of justice in which the world's people "will beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks. Nation will not take up sword against nation, nor will they train for war anymore" (2:4 and 4:3, respectively).</div><div><br /></div><div>May this vision extend also to those who take up their swords and their spears and yield them daily against themselves. May this vision extend to those for whom daily anxiety ensues. May this vision extend to those who put their souls in a jar and wait expectantly for them to be smashed.</div><div><br /></div><div>Take your soul out of the jar. Love your soul. Love yourself.</div><div><br /></div><div>God, grant us the courage.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sara</div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-55245217778181244862010-11-10T14:39:00.003-05:002010-11-10T15:22:54.561-05:00"Gender Battles on the Sidewalk"Scenario:<div><br /><div><i>Sara is walking carefully on the right side of the sidewalk, keeping to herself and showing (outward) respect for humanity. All of a sudden, she spots a Duke undergraduate walking in the opposite direction as her, walking very carefully on the left side of the sidewalk. [This means that Sara and the man were heading directly toward one another and would soon dramatically collide.] The undergraduate is wearing hip shades and a t-shirt that bears the word "Capital" with an arrow pointing to his penis. Sara walks dramatically on. Capital-penis undergraduate walks dramatically on. Tension grew. WHO WAS GOING TO MOVE? It was becoming a serious issue. Sara and the undergraduate were just very much about to dramatically collide. 5 steps away from collision. 4 steps away from collision. 3 steps. Sara thinks to herself calmly, but with increasing concern: "Why is he not moving? It strikes me that if I am walking on the right side of the sidewalk, then I should not have to move." 2 steps. The undergraduate with the offensive t-shirt will not budge. He will win this battle. He will not lose. Sara will lose. Dramatic collision only seconds away, Sara makes a tricky little turn with the direction of her body and heads toward the left side of the sidewalk. She has lost the battle. He has won the battle. As the undergraduate's t-shirt had made known, it was he who had the biggest penis. Sara thinks: "I hate you penis-man. I hate you. I hate every man. I hate every person. God, please forgive me for hating that man and for hating every person." End scene.</i></div></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Later, Sara had a chance to interview the undergraduate about this experience that they had shared; their conversation is recorded here:</div><div><br /></div><div>Sara: <i>"I'm glad we are able to come together for a time of reconciliation. I'm sorry, though, I don't know your name. What is your name?"</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Undergraduate: <i>"You have not earned the right to know my name. You are wearing a hoodie and jeans, and as such, I neither want to sleep with you nor tell you my name. What I will tell you is that I am entitled to a lot, and I don't respect you."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Sara: <i>"Very well, then. Can you talk for awhile about the significance of your t-shirt? Why is it that your shirt has the word 'capital' and an arrow pointing to your penis?"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Undergraduate<i>: "I don't know why I'm talking to you. I am very powerful, you see. Largely, my t-shirt is an indicator that you have no right to speak with me. If I choose to walk on a particular side of the sidewalk, then you should no longer find yourself welcome on that side. I am powerful and rich. Why are you commenting on my t-shirt and not my sunglasses? My sunglasses were very expensive, and you should know many things about me just by looking at them."</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Sara: <i>"That is my mistake. I am incorrigible, am I not? Is there anything else you would like to say?"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Undergraduate:<i> "Yes, I am a Son of Entitlement, and I do not understand why you feel like you deserve a place on the sidewalk. You think that you deserve to at least be walking on the right side because it is proper to do so, but let me tell you that if I decide that women do not belong on the sidewalk, then they don't belong."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Sara:<i> "Truly, your logic is impeccable. Anything else?"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Undergraduate<i>: "Yes, you are the inferior gender, and my penis is still very large."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Sara:<i> "Thank you. May the road rise to meet you and the sun be always at your back."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><br /></div><div>Acknowledgements: To the young man who would not allow me to keep my place on the sidewalk<i>, </i>many thanks.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><i><br /></i></div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-58387551325718026062010-11-04T15:06:00.004-04:002010-11-07T18:37:53.587-05:00"Saying No to Neuroticism"Saying no to neuroticism is not something that I do frequently. <div><br /></div><div>For instance, back in the day when I was either more crazy or less crazy (it's hard to tell), I so badly wanted to be a TA for the Greek class at Northwestern that I composed a list of all the people the professor might pick for the job instead of me, and I gave reasons for why he should not pick any of those persons and should instead pick me.<br /><div><div><br /></div><div>His emailed response read as follows:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Yes, your unbridled neuroticism and raving paranoia make it very clear that you are truly the SENSIBLE choice."</i></div></div></div><div><br /></div><div>I will have you know that he did, in fact, pick me.</div><div><br /></div><div>However, his description of my neuroticism as "unbridled" often tends to be more true than not.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is for this reason that I do not belong in the academy.</div><div><br /></div><div>It is for this reason that I want to instead do the following:</div><div><br /></div><div>I want to live in a house that is accessed by means of a gravel road.</div><div>I want to hang my clothes on a clothesline and attend to the water level in the bird bath.</div><div>I want to become really, really good at folding sheets.</div><div>I want to cook things in a slow cooker.</div><div>I want to buy suet from a butcher and hang it from a tree branch.</div><div>I want to spend full weeks vigorously canning pickles and dilly beans.</div><div>I want to play gin rummy while drinking gin and rum.</div><div>I want to eat oatmeal for breakfast; I want to eat breakfast, period.</div><div>I want to keep the Sabbath.</div><div>I want to read a novel.</div><div>I want to make cookies and watch Love Actually and Titanic.</div><div>I want someone to care for me.</div><div>I want a backyard,</div><div>and I want to belong.</div><div>I want life to be the best thing ever.</div><div><br /></div><div>The heart wants what it wants. At least, that's what I told myself when I just went and bought a diet mountain dew.</div><div><br /></div><div>Best,</div><div>Sara</div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-63243920077504340292010-10-31T20:38:00.002-04:002010-10-31T21:00:21.767-04:00This blog has gotten far too optimistic lately.<div><br /></div><div>Allow me to reiterate that I still find people to be the worst thing in the world. </div><div><br /></div><div>Best,</div><div>Sara</div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-44499103599299281532010-10-19T18:09:00.005-04:002010-10-19T21:02:12.455-04:00"My Friend has an Uncle who is a Monk, and We Call Him Her 'Monkle'"Dear friends,<div><br /></div><div>Fall break was last week, and it was more or less the greatest week of my life. A previous post on this blog recalls that last year at this time, I spent fall break reading Augustine's <i>Confessions</i> and nurturing the festering pneumonia that would soon ravage my body and general well-being as a human. That, as I now think about it, was not the greatest week of my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>Instead, that prize goes to this year's fall break, in which I divided my time between a beach house and a Trappist monastery. First of all, who knew that "going to the beach" actually means going to the ocean? No one knows that. I'm sure glad I know that now. One of my roommates had to go to Myrtle Beach, SC, and a random person let us stay in her beach house. Did any of you know that beach houses are amazing? No one knows that. I'm sure glad I know that now. I spent my days reading about Dorothy Day's life of voluntary poverty and my nights feasting at the banquet of vacation luxury. Mmmm....conviction. </div><div><br /></div><div>Highlights of this trip include: the ocean.</div><div><br /></div><div>I then drove to Mepkin Abbey in Monck's Corner, SC. <a href="http://www.mepkinabbey.org/">http://www.mepkinabbey.org/</a></div><div><br /></div><div>I was able to stay for several days, observing monastic life and trying my own hand at monastic life. It was a transformative experience in many ways, some of which I recognize, and some of which I'll come to recognize in time. </div><div><br /></div><div>If you feel as though you know me well, then I probably don't want to talk to you about the experience. If you don't know me well, then I'd love to tell you everything.</div><div><br /></div><div>The following is a piece that I wrote in class today about my time at the monastery; I hope it gives you the slightest glimpse of my experience:</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>I did not know that monks eat candy bars. They do, though. They eat candy bars and they wear zip-up fleece jackets when it is cold and they spread Smart Balance butter on bagels toasted in their Cuisinart toaster. </div><div><br /></div><div>Monks eat squash, too--observing a vegetarian diet and fixing their eyes upon a stick figure Jesus while spooning down stringy, brown-sugared squash. Several hours after the squash-Jesus-combo for lunch that day, I happened upon Father Joe in the gift shop. "I need something more than that squash," he mumbled as he passed by me and selected a Crunch bar. I was delighted. A monk eating a candy bar is like Jesus watching a reality show on Hulu. "Monks like chocolate, too," I marveled. "Maybe a monk is like a real human being."</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, a monk is a holy man. A monk's vocation is contemplation--contemplating the things of God and communing with the being who is God. It is such abstract language that we lapse into, though, when speaking of communion with God. It is language at which you must persistently prod if you hope to break through and see God on the couch with his people.</div><div><br /></div><div>Monks, I think, do not commune abstractly and perfectly with God. They are, in fact, real human beings who eat butter and get cold. They are real human beings who sing several times each day: "Lord, make haste to help me." They are real human beings, who before receiving the body and blood of their Lord, recite together: "Lord, I am not worthy to receive but only say the word, and I will be healed." </div><div><br /></div><div>The monks do not spend their days standing before the throne of God, picking at stains on their robes and reminding one another to behave. Rather, the monks spend their days sitting on the basement couch with God. Spike TV is on in the background, and they are telling God that just two minutes ago they had wished not to be a people of God. They had faltered--wandered aloud if all this genuflecting and chanting and reading beautiful words to a fake God was really just a cover for the fact that they didn't want a desk job.</div><div><br /></div><div>The monks are on the couch with God, as though they are friends<i> </i>watching a ball game. One still owns a timeshare on the beach. Another read the whole Harry Potter series while he could have been reading Bonhoeffer's <i>Letters and Papers From Prison</i>. And one is recently divorced and misses the weekends that were free for hunting. One is a father. One is a gardener. One is a man who gets tired. </div><div><br /></div><div>They continually show up before God, though. Even when they are tired or angry or arrogant or existential, they are God's people. They are God's people, and so they will come before God in praise and obedience, and so they will come before God with great joy. Sometimes, of course, they will trudge in their coming. Sometimes, they will come with the day's work on their minds. Sometimes they will not come in joy at all. This will not matter, though. They are God's people, and so before God they will come. Whether it be 3 AM or whether it be sleeting or whether it be while their mother is in town, they will come. They will come because they know God not to be an abstract being who may be placated with formulas, but rather because they know God as the one who took his God-hands and fashioned each one of them into existence. </div><div><br /></div><div>They are God's people who are not worthy to receive, and for that reason, they will come.</div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-28256644000816550882010-09-21T14:55:00.003-04:002010-09-21T16:15:44.868-04:00"An Open Letter"Dear Cynicism, <div><br /></div><div>I am writing to tell you that I am leaving you. I am moving on. I am moving out of our one-bedroom apartment that has neither a sunny windowsill on which a mint plant can grow nor a sunny room in which imagination can be cultivated. The reasons are as follows: you smother innocence and beauty and emotion, and I find this to be oppressive. As such, I am moving on--severing ties--casting you aide. All the best to you. Godspeed.</div><div><br /></div><div>You scoff, of course. You're always so quick to scoff. Truly, these castigations are not news to you, both because you revel in your smothering and because I have told you these things before. I may have substituted fennel in the place of mint and emotion in the place of imagination, but my sentiments were the same. I was moving on. Setting sail. Hopping ship to Tarshish. Leaving you. I began to tell my friends that I was trying to "transcend Cynicism." "Who says that?" you jeered, appropriately. No one should say that. No one ought to tell another that she is transcending anything. It is both too enlightened and too pretentious for another--for even me--to swallow. </div><div><br /></div><div>Frankly, Cynicism, I scoffed as well. I will admit freely to you that I was skeptical of my capacity to shed my crunchy coating and become, at will, a person who has hopes and dreams and beliefs and passions. I was skeptical of my capacity to evaluate the religiously observant in a positive manner. I was especially skeptical of my capacity to experience emotion during worship. </div><div><br /></div><div>More than all this, though, and I only tell you this because I will soon have left you forever, I think I was scared. I was scared that upon abandoning you, I would find myself doing the two-handed surrender while sweetly singing "I'm forgiven, because you were forsaken; I am accepted, you were condemned." If I left you, I might turn into one of "them." If I allowed myself to experience emotion during worship, I may just as soon be wearing a "Got Jesus?" t-shirt and believing that the dinosaurs fit on the ark because they were teenaged dinosaurs. How I feared believing in teenaged dinosaurs. And so I continued to cling to you for your protection. </div><div><br /></div><div>I should make it clear, Cynicism, that you did play a role in my life for which I am glad. After meeting your eyes during a discussion of epistemology my freshman year, I knew you were the one for me. I knew I wanted you always at my side. I wanted to put you in my pocket and keep you there, and so I did. That day in freshman philosophy, Cynicism, I tucked you into the left pocket of my purple t-shirt and carried on with my day. Carried on with my life.</div><div><br /></div><div>But now, Cynicism, I am taking you out of my pocket and I am moving out of our apartment and I am shutting the garden gate on you and I am moving on. It is true--both you and I know that it is true--that I will walk haltingly away and will sometimes fiddle with the latch on the gate. Sometimes, I will even invite you back up to the apartment for a nightcap and a spot of dialogue. Most times, I will continue to cross my arms obstinately during worship or prayer (God forbid we be singing "Blessed be the Name" or "How Great is Our God.") and direct close-lipped stares at my fellow worshipers so that they might truly see that I am not one of "them." Most times, although I have given you a side-hug and have told you "Goodbye Forever," I will forget that I have ever done this at all.</div><div><br /></div><div> However, I hope for the good days. Now that you are gone, it is okay to hope for the good days and know that they are coming. Even though my leaving you has by no means been successful or sudden, I need to tell you that I am already finding that I do not delight in you so readily these days. Your presence does not make my eyes gleam or my mind burst with delirious self-righteousness as easily as it used to. I am sorry to tell you all of this so candidly, but it is true. And because it is true, I am happy. </div><div><br /></div><div>This is goodbye, then. I don't want you to try to contact me. I have changed my phone number and I am wearing a hat and I am speaking in an accent and I do not want you to look for me. I do not want you to call. I do not want you to write. I do not want you to think of "us" as living in the subjunctive mood. There will never be an "us" again. And if you see me someday, Cynicism, and I am doing the two-handed surrender or singing "Blessed be the Name" (or God forbid, doing both at once), then I will have you know that perhaps transcending cynicism is possible. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is, at least, my intention to try.</div><div><br /></div><div>Goodbye forever,</div><div>Sara</div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-44996875634760787162010-09-09T21:52:00.003-04:002010-09-10T00:59:35.999-04:00"The Enduring Truths of Christian Radio"Dear friends,<div><br /></div><div>Today, I learned how to cook meth and how to render a genitive absolute with a concessive function. Today, I learned that tuna does not come from dolphins, and I learned that slavery in North America was born not in racism, but in greed. Today I pet a rat on my kitchen table and learned that the process of importing Africans into North America brought about the death of the African gods.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today, I spent my day at divinity school. </div><div><br /></div><div>Roughly 5 years ago, I sat in a green-backed chair and drank a cup of coffee brewed from concentrated-coffee-water and told my AP that it sure would be nice to be a biblical scholar. Then I ate the rest of my english muffin and made small talk about Rob Bell.</div><div><br /></div><div>If you are unfamiliar with contemporary Christian parlance, an AP is an Accountability Partner. APs go out for coffee and talk about lust. Or just sin and failure in general. Contemporary Christians LOVE this because they are given an opportunity to sit around and say things like: "Last night, the Accuser threw a real thorn in my path."</div><div><br /></div><div>As a freshman at a Christian college, I loved this, too. I had no frame of reference for what it meant to talk about the Israelites (until someone recommended that I watch the Prince of Egypt), and I'd never heard of Ananias and Sapphira, and I didn't know that the Gospels were written after Paul's epistles, but I had a vague sense that it was important for me to read my Good News Bible and to heed the verses that I had double-underlined. I also had a vague idea that my biblical knowledge was lacking, so I remarked flippantly: "<i>It'd sure be nice to be a biblical scholar. It sure would be nice to know the answers to all these questions."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>And later that day, I slept through chapel.</div><div><br /></div><div>Today, however, I did not sleep through chapel. I sat in chapel and analyzed the planning of the worship service and the efficacy of the sermon delivered. Today, I spent the second Thursday of my second year mastering divinity. I sat amongst Christians and made small talk not about Rob Bell or lust or my personal devotions, but rather used words like 'pejorative' and phrases like 'adjectival use of the participle,' and at times I even pretended I was doing the work of a biblical scholar. That is, until I went home and watched a television show about drugs and thugs.</div><div><br /></div><div>Why am I pondering this progression of events?</div><div><br /></div><div>Probably because I am an arrogant son-of-a-bitch. And pretentious to boot. Only a graduate student would spend their time narcissistically reflecting on the second Thursday of her second year of mastering divinity. [For a derogatory but humorous representation of grad students, click here--><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XViCOAu6UC0">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XViCOAu6UC0</a>.]</div><div><br /></div><div>But beyond these endearing qualities of mine, I am reflecting on this progression of events because I have been trying to take the providence of God seriously these days. I have been trying to really believe that God has and does take a divine hand in my life. </div><div><br /></div><div>I was listening to Christian radio in my car today, as is my habit (I am repeatedly drawn toward bad movies, bad books, and bad radio), and the announcer told one of those cute, silly stories about kids that is supposed to convince you that God is real and good and true for everyone. Apparently her son was playing on the playground equipment in Chick-Fil-A and while in a green, plastic tunnel, he started yelling, "WHERE ARE YOU, GOD? WHERE ARE YOU, GOD? WHERE ARE YOU?" The mother-turned-radio-announcer stepped out of the backdrop of the other moms, who probably just wanted to tell the kid that God was dead and he'd better just shut up and eat his nuggets, and she yelled, "GOD'S IN THE TUNNEL WITH YOU, BUDDY! HE'S IN THERE! GOD IS EVERYWHERE!"</div><div><br /></div><div>If I had been in that Chick-Fil-A, this exchange probably would have been the highlight of my month. It would have been like <i>Chicken Soup for the Christian Soul </i>had just occurred while I had sat there eating my waffle fries.</div><div><br /></div><div>But I was not there. And besides being a little repulsed by the evangelical-ness of it all, I think that the happy-Christian-mother-and-son-duo embody some of the most basic realities of a Christian's existence.</div><div><br /></div><div>We cry out to God.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Please, God, I do not want to work at the Chinese or the Dutch restaurant again. Please give me a future. Where are you, God?"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"Please, God, give me a spirit of prayer and a heart for you. Where are you, God?"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>"Please, God, I enjoy none of this, where are you, God?"</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Maybe we just feel a little too alone inside the green, plastic tunnel. And we forget that we need not blindly grope about for a God who has toes and plans and veins and love because this God who has toes and love is all the while groping about for us. We get a little panicky, wanting to touch this God and know this God to be there. We forget that <i>"God's in the tunnel with you, buddy."</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I imagine that although this all sounds a little magical and dumb and over-the-top--although it smacks a little of all these things--this simple idea is also profoundly true for those who are and who are to be ushered into the fold of salvation.</div><div><br /></div><div>God is everywhere. God is in our kicking off of the sheets and God is in our flipping off of terrible drivers and God is in our baking of banana muffins and God is in our everything. We crawl around and we yell and we murmur and we pray, and God swirls us around in providence. </div><div><br /></div><div>I am in divinity school because God is everywhere and because God has toes and love and is in my everything.</div><div><br /></div><div>Best,</div><div>Sara</div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4604330311692694067.post-16418810324772208632010-08-31T17:55:00.004-04:002010-08-31T20:12:59.634-04:00"Inspirations from Charles"Dear friends, <div><br /></div><div>I often forget that I have an eyebrow ring until someone reminds me. Like Charles, the liver-spotted, elderly man in my church this summer who, while grasping me in a prolonged side hug, said: "You're an ugly, ugly girl. You're so ugly. You'd be a beautiful girl if you took that out," he said, pointing to my piercing, "but until then you're an ugly girl."<div><br /></div><div>Or others, after knowing me for 3 or 4 weeks, point their finger toward my forehead and ask: "does that hurt?" </div><div><br /></div><div>"Yes, I have been in constant pain for 5 years," I tell them. "No, you dumbass, it doesn't hurt." They always ask this question, and I always fail to understand why they are asking it. </div><div><br /></div><div>In my church this summer, however, I tended to avoid calling the parishioners dumbasses. I would say something sweet or expected and then go home on Sunday evenings with a headache and angst I could sometimes taste in my throat about how I was not being myself. This angst mushroomed into private, melodramatic writhings as I tossed and turned in bed, just so incredibly perturbed that not everyone in the world thinks the exact same things as I do. </div><div><br /></div><div>I err on the side of melodrama. I do not think this has to do with my eyebrow ring, though. Really, I just got the eyebrow ring because that girl in Model UN my freshman and sophomore years had one, and I thought it neat. An eyebrow ring and a plaid skirt, debating the policies of the world, now that sounds like an identity. I would like to have a defined identity. I'm sure that when someone tries to describe me to someone else, there are familiar words that usually arise. But I do not know what they are or if I would like them. Sometimes I do learn from a stranger-turned-friend that he or she formerly knew me as the girl with the eyebrow ring. Behind the counter of the coffee shop or in the front row of the pre-calculus classroom, that is who I am. But I hope that I am more, and I hope that that "more" is not an ugly, ugly girl.</div></div>Mosehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10876125511645455066noreply@blogger.com8