Space | Place | Haste

First: Haste
Do you ever want to tell people to freakin' slow down?

Warning: this post is really random and covers about six topics.

I think this idea alone significantly spurs on my love for the elderly. Perhaps I've written on here before of my devotion to old-man-professors. (My husband will be one soon enough after all.) I completed my entire undergrad degree under the tutelage of an 80-year-old spiritual genius who swam in the school pool every morning at 5am. My favorite professors in seminary were the soft-spoken grandpas. My favorite congregants in the church are the cranky and authoritative, but supremely loving senior women. I preached a sermon once at PMC and the opening line was "Old people rock my world."--it was a very young congregation. With life comes experience comes wisdom comes a level of self-security that the rest of us only dream of. Maybe this is one reason, aside from the brittle bones, that you rarely need to tell a senior citizen to slow down. If we are not going to take the time to listen, then the loss is ours. I want NYC to get this holy concept.

Enter The Riverside Church.

I won't take time speaking of its architectural splendor, Rockefeller's endowment, her majestic organ and carillon, nor do I plan to take up your time with stories of limestone carvings that can bring tears to your eyes, a golden Jesus suspended from the ceiling, and the pulpiteers who positioned it on the ecclesial map of churches to follow. It's all on the website anyway. The parts of this community that I most love and adore are the elderly members doing their best to keep it alive.

As I just begin to process the sixteen months of my employment in this community (I wrote that cover letter after all so many months ago), and as I view the stained glass of the Nave first thing from my bedroom windows every morning, I am struck time and again at the amount of space the building itself covers on Manhattan Island.

Second: Space
Remember there is no room on Manhattan, at least not unless you have a small (or gigantic) fortune to actually afford housing here. Most of Manhattan-ites live in nooks so small, in buildings so high it leaves the rest of the country stunned dizzy. Side note: We managed to find one small cranny of Central Park where if you situate your eyes at a specific perspective during the proper time of blossoming Spring with your body half-reclined into a contortion underneath a willow tree, there are not any skyscrapers in view. It's actually quite astounding for the fraction of a second that you can hold the twisted pose. Compare this to the view from the top of 30 Rock. (I refuse to pay the fee to elevate up to the peak of the Empire State Building.) The buildings that stand so majestic, threatening to pierce the sky, even a tree cannot block from view, from below they quickly shrink from the peak of one still taller. Yet, from the top of 30 Rock one can view in the northwesterly direction the spires of the Riverside tower as it borders the Hudson River. Something so triumphant and erect looks small and fragile. We lose this perspective in the haste of our daily living here in NYC. Everything around us becomes bigger than life--I wonder if because our time and space is so minimal.

One more bus to catch, subway doors to hold ajar, taxis to hail, groceries to manhandle for three more blocks, kids to bark across the avenue, complete strangers offering advice on how to parent, wind whipping your scarf in ways that blind you...the exhilaration and energy bustling in the streets literally never stops. I love it. But the rushing gets tiresome. The crowds overwhelming. The difficulty of running errands difficult to negotiate. So much so, that one easily loses perspective on the ways the rest of the world meanders about. It often makes me want to recreate the Ferris Bueller Sears Tower scene with forehead pressed against a glass panel a mile up in the sky to silence the busyness below into ant-like maneuvers of survival. That's what the top of 30 Rock does. You can only escape life-of-crazy by going up.

Until you meet the senior citizen residents of Manhattan.

Moving up the crowded sidewalks of Broadway with a walker immediately slows your world down to normalcy. Crossing a mega-avenue with a shuffling friend in icy weather creates more time to see all that I miss when chasing the kids on their scooters. Understanding the time that elapses between destination points when entering a crowded bus with a wheelchair only occurs to me when I'm inconvenienced by it as a fellow rider. Noticing the mundane of life sometimes feels next to impossible here. And yet, I claim that the simplicity of life is where I see God. No wonder I have missed this while living here, yes God and simplicity. My friends at Riverside have unknowingly done well to keep this alive for me on our lunch outings and through conversations about the trials of urban dwelling for those who are differently abled, but unable to leave the island.

Can one still find enough space and
can one slow down their haste enough to
create a sacred place in such a frenetic race

Third: Place
Wendell Berry is my brother's guru. (This and this are two blogs he started and maintains. That's him playing cricket with his King's College team in London on the second link.) Berry along with other great writers like Richard Rohr and Tich Nhat Hanh speak to the imperative of having a place--a home. In a reflection on the genius of Berry, after having spent an intimate Sunday afternoon with Wendell and his wife, Tonya, in the kitchen of their Kentucky farm home talking coal and other lofty agrarian topics, my brother writes the following,

We had been standing on the porch for several moments noticing the sheep on the southwest side of the house. We also noticed the vertical climb from the riverbank one must make to arrive on the porch...The aesthetics of the place reminded me of him, harangued, but in a good way. Everything here had a purpose and had been used and lived in. I aspire to live in my place as well as the Berry family appeared to live in theirs...When I put questions on the table I was consistently baffled by how smoothly he picked them up and dealt with them. We were sitting with a master of conversation. The work necessary for being as such had been done in the quiet of his own home and fields. It would be silly to try and name-drop and click through power point slides in his presence. Your only option is to be honest and thoughtful and, well, honest. As we sat in his kitchen for those several hours there was probably more silence than talking. It was ok to be quiet here. So often, there is nothing to say and yet we blandish each other with worthless chatter about how impressive we are. 

                                                        (Mr. Berry on his farm, Lanes Landing)


Might we all be so able and ready to create a place for people that welcomes silence, entertains new friends, and creatively speaks to the mystery of God at work. To think so deeply, live so consciously, and welcome so graciously proves daunting when we cannot slow down or find enough space to be ourselves, much less know ourselves. Unhurried living that celebrates community when it seems as if the space for such does not exist. As Berry taught this to Kyle, this is what the strident and savvy NY women at Riverside have helped me to learn and embrace. I'm convinced this is where God lives in Manhattan. Even if there is not enough space, God's place resides anyway. I'm glad to have met her here in this way of still, lingering lunch dates, intentional conversation, and ardent spirituality. What a surprise.
 

Transition

This could end up a dangerous posting since I've just sat down to my two hours of free time while the kids sleep, and I don't have any real agenda with my thoughts right now. And I don't feel like doing laundry or writing a cover letter. (Any shout-outs on those options?) Tyler and I engaged in a fairly heated dialogue this morning about transition, expectations, and family. Yeah, I know--he was about two hours late getting to his office, the kids were desperate for some attention, and I am still not dressed for the day. So what! I'm such a fan of putting the relationship first. And Livia had a fabulous time clomping around the house in my sequin heels during the parental distraction. Our neighbors below already resent us, I'm sure.

Anyway, here's what I finally and triumphantly laid down for him while simultaneously throwing my hands from the football touchdown cheer to the exasperated side dangle, "I suck at transition!" In more words or less. It's so hard and exhausting for us introverts. Does it have to be?

Tyler grooves on it almost (therein destructing my introversion theory), which perhaps only makes my inability to warmly embrace it fester. In a nutshell: I miss In-n-Out, and PMC. I miss my friends from California, Connecticut, Alabama, and Kentucky (even though they, too have all moved elsewhere). I miss the neighbors that I know, the routines that were in place, and more generally, the ease of familiarity. Not necessarily in that order. (wink.)

I hate to admit it, but I'm a relatively unmotivated person when pursuing my dreams because I find the initiation process daunting and myself too insignificant. (Go ahead, I'll pause for you to get some tissues.) Let's be honest, it's so much simpler to bash and rest in cynicism than it is to continually balance out on that damn limb, risking rejection (for various reasons), or worse yet, failure, or even worse, the reality that we aren't really perfect (Insert stunned gasp here). So that when the assertions of trying new things for just one more day feel totally insurmountable, I resign myself to actually rest in the ambiguity of new places, relax about the fact that our latte factor is zilch so the sheer ubiquity of Starbucks has still gone untouched, and well, fuck taking the stroller down the subway stairwells by myself--kids you're learning to walk! Hear me roar! And yet, and still, once more, I simply and pathetically arise to one more inevitable new day and once again find it time to analyze and reassess what it is I'm actually trying to accomplish.

Right now, I have no clue. Which then finding myself in a circular, yet completely circuitous route, not unlike the book, "If you give a mouse a cookie," I can only conclude with the harsh reality, I suck at transition. (And unfortunately, this isn't anything a cold glass of milk and a crisp straw is going to cure.)

Oh when will I be discovered and my natural talent demanded by others?

Here ends the pity party.


Come Holy Spirit, Come.
Come winds of peace, Come.
Aright this course within me.

Creator of goodness and ultimate guru of complete health,
dharma,
karma,
and sanctuary, I am your Bodhisattva.
Teach me your stillness.

May your comfort call us to action
Your tenderness to wholeness
Your discipline to an end of suffering
Your compassion to a cessation of selfishness.

Then we can freely set-forth through dangerous waters
Seeking that which demands us to relinquish hesitation,
yet embrace frustration,
so that fresh elixirs brewed in your laboratory of love,
might be consumed by willing and thirsty souls who,
in their new strength,
will bring change.

Transition us from a place of woundedness and isolation
to safety and completion,
from a place of misunderstanding and vehemence
to grace and acceptance
from a place of sarcastically jovial, dysfunctional jokes
to inspired flames of justice and service.

We are your servants. May we never grow full of your mercy while you bless us to bless.

Shoot

Once everyone wakes up from their naps we are heading to Pasadena for the day to run errands on Fuller's campus. I am withdrawing from my one lone class for the quarter because life got in the way a little more forcefully than I had originally planned on when I first signed up for the course. Tyler is studying for his exams, preparing to teach his first class, finishing his last major paper, taking a class on Ugaritic, and working at the ABMC. That leaves little time for him to stay with the kids while I am away all day every Wednesday.

Livia is nothing short of a crazy toddler who's first impulse is to take over the entire house every waking moment with her toys, emotions, and demands. Jude's food allergies leave me running on low steam by the end of the day to the point that opening at dense text book on Organizational Theory doesn't sound like much fun. Plus, if I were to stay in class and take Sundays to study (our original plan) that means we put our marriage on hold until May after his exams, or really until June, when our classes are over. I can't square that. What was I thinking when I signed up for this in the first place?

Oh yeah, Rick Beaton is one of the best at Fuller, and this class is possibly a one time deal. It's titled "Biblical Organizational Leadership." During the first meeting Beaton had us share our reason for enrolling. Several suck-ups said because they liked him so much. So in an effort to be a little less obnoxious, even though that was my main reason as well, I said that I was sick of pastors not knowing how to lead a group of people. I'm tired of there being no vision in the church and therefore no progress forward in how to best implement the Gospel into our daily lives as we seek to be more like Jesus simply because weak leaders are the pastors. I don't want to be a pastor that shies away from speaking the difficult messages, or doing the challenging administrative work of hiring and firing the right people simply because I am afraid people may get upset. Give me a break. I think being a "Christian" extends beyond not wanting to hurt someone's feelings. So I wanted to take the class. Alas, maybe now that I don't have to read the text books with a highlighter in my hand and a computer on my lap I can scroll through them while feeding Jude and Livia every now and then. Because I still don't want to be a pastor that is a wimp.

Plus, this class was a great example of practical theology. How does the fact that Scripture is our final authority on life influence the ways in which we practice living? It was a complete intersection of theology and lifestyle. It was going to help us, as leaders, better use our theological suppositions to creatively structure ways of thought about leading that are both biblical and theologically savvy. Seminaries need more of this: teaching us how to integrate heady academic stuff with the nitty-gritty of dealing with parish people.

Anyway, I feel sort of like a loser for not pulling this off, but realistically, what am I trying to prove? Instead I think I'll take the route labeled, "I'm human, not superwoman." I already feel more emotional well-being and more satisfied having made this decision. So on we go. Maybe in the Spring the kids will be older, the family a bit more stable, and Tyler less swamped. We shall see...(also my favorite line in Charlie Wilson's War.)

Thanks

I haven't posted anything lately because my life is one long routine that rarely gets interrupted. Playing with Livia, who is extremely high maintenance these days, doesn't leave much time for transformative reading or earth-shaking conversation with friends. Usually it's trying to skim a magazine while she hugs my leg as I'm standing at the counter washing dishes. Most of the time I don't mind this. But it does leave me feeling lonely at times, especially when Tyler is working as much as he is right now.

But as I prepare spiritually for Thanksgiving next week I am struck once again by God's faithfulness. One of the reasons Andy Warhol is one of my favorite artists is because of his innate ability to celebrate and showcase the normalcy in all of our lives. Whether it's through silkscreen images of celebrities or Campbell's soup cans (to name some of his most obvious stuff) to filming weird flicks that no one has ever really seen, Warhol creates a reflection of my life with God right now.

And not to be all Rick Warren and say that there is great purpose in standing at the sink washing dishes; I'm not going that far. But I will say that in the simple act of keeping my home clean, or changing a diaper, or reading Livia her favorite books, I believe God is magically and powerfully present. It's a comfort and a challenge that I depend on and always welcome. Mostly, it is a truth that even when I can't grasp the full reality of it, I am supremely thankful for it.

Dress for Success--in the Pulpit, too?

I found this blog today by a shem pastor in North Carolina--the location is important for understanding blog content. I just don't know what to think about it, especially as a repsonse to my last blog post.

Peacebang, the pastor, is writing to help fellow pastors, especially the feminine ones, dress well. Here is her theological mantra behind the blog, which she liberally publishes:

"God has made a good gift in you.
And you don’t bring an unwrapped gift to God’s party.

Wrap up that gift with as much beauty and care as you can muster.
‘Taint nothing wrong or vain about that.

And that, my friends, is the Gospel of PeaceBang. Amen"

I just don't agree. Perhaps five years ago, pre-CT, pre-CA, pre-PMC I would have been a little more open to the idea. ~And I'm a girl that loves her eye make-up as much as my next AL sorority sister. But really? Are you serious? I kept looking for the joke behind it all. It's not there. She is totally real. This is when I really do want to point out how people in this world are literally starving to death! --and in the South we are worried about whether or not our pastors are wearing appropriate suits and whether or not the pastor's lipstick matches her blush? This is still going on and being promoted?

When I first saw the site I thought I was going to like it. Finally, some freedom to be feminine without guilt and liberty to do it in the pulpit. Instead, I feel frustrated and confused. What the heck is going on with me and all this beauty vs. simplicity stuff right now? I am pursing authentic, God-given beauty amidst suffering. I certainly don't want manufactured crap and projecting a certain image (well-dressed-important-legitimate-clergy-girls) to be the point. Again: can anyone help spell this out for me?

**Her real blog is better, and she lives in New England. But still...

More Thoughts on Simplicity

Last night we watched "The Sketches of Frank Gehry," a documentary on the famous architect. He did buildings like


the Guggenheim Museum in Spain and the

Disney Concert Hall in downtown LA. He creates and designs from models, not computers or pen and paper. So as he's sitting and staring at the model and he doesn't feel good about it he'll absent mindedly grab a Styrofoam cup, crinkle it up, and stick it on top of the building. Then he'll grab some paper, corrugate it, stick it to the side and find peace with the final product. How the structural engineers make it happen--I wish the movie would have explored. Sydney Pollack decided to leave that part out, I guess.

But here is what the film helped me realize--it seems to me that people like Ronald Sider and Richard Foster who find their calls to the Christian life to be ones of extreme simplicity miss out on a real gift, mainly the gift of beauty, especially beauty that comes from art. Watching Gehry craft a structure that seems to defy space and that rejects the norms of building projection, then to move through the interior of one of the spaces, whether a home or giant museum in Italy, even through my tv screen it was overwhelming and moving! It was excessive, unnecessary, and triumphant. It was anything but simple. Yet, I can't help but wonder, is not his gift to create such magical spaces a spiritual thing? How can it not be? His creating mind is unbelievable, and he sees ideas that normal, unfamous people could never grasp. How can we not celebrate this? Why do we have to label it holey unnecessary and even condemn it in the name of world hunger. I don't think Sider is doing this, but I do wonder the last time he invested in an original piece of artwork for his home.

So, I am struggling how to reconcile these two things right now. I love my Elle magazine each month because I enjoy watching Prada's ability to craft a tote bag from different shades of patent leather. I love Versace's gigantic shades, and I even love to browse the photos to see how the models are posed, and which ones are really gorgeous versus who needs the professional make-up artist and photoshop corrections. It's cool. Fashionistas are bizarre--I like knowing about them.

Here's what bums me out. The fact that this enjoyment of beauty and art are reserved also only for an elite group. An orphaned child whose mother just died of AIDS in Africa is never going to have the opportunity to walk through the Tate Modern Museum in London or to sit in a NYC Broadway theater and hear Sarah Brightman sing "Unexpected Song." I do not think we need to then tear down our museums or cancel our magazine subscriptions or stop building concert halls that are works of art in and of themselves. We need beauty in order to cope with the places that lack it. Now, I am not saying we personally need to own the beauty or even invest in it. I do think there are other things that are a little more worthy of an investment rather than a $2500.00 purse (people, for one). There has to be a balance.

How does knowing of the lack of beauty in the developing world alter my enjoyment and participation in it here in the West. Can this balance, again, be something that is particular to each Christian as they go? Or is it a universal maxim to deprive in the name of Jesus on behalf of the poor? Help. Suggestions are welcome!!

P.S. Here is a video of Sarah just for your enjoyment. Antonio leaves a little to be desired.