The Way of Peace

 We must be clearheaded in the aftermath of the Trump presidency. Those of us who wanted him out cannot afford the luxuries of gloating and victory laps. It's upon us to think of the millions of people who supported him--indeed, the millions who followed him in a way that should alarm all of us. His lies and promises, his emotional tone and tenacity for self-promotion--all of these merged with the pain of a massive, disenfranchised population in this country. That frantic merge created a cult, and that cult delivered, in the end, violence and insurrection. A mob broke into our Capitol, many of them chanting, "Hang Mike Pence!" I'm glad we will never know what would have happened if they'd found him, or if they had laid their hands on other members of Congress Trump had denounced as enemies.

I want to speak specifically of the Trump followers who self-identify as Christians. I am a Christian and believe we all belong to the one Body of Christ. Because of this, I am responsible for my sisters and brothers, whether they are out in the world doing great works of healing and compassion or they have been deceived and drawn into heresy, hatred, and violence. It is not my prerogative to remain silent. Neither is it my prerogative to stop caring.

Trump's Christians fall into at least two categories. Those who have sold out completely to his rhetoric and goals are the Christian Nationalists, which is a contradiction in terms. Jesus said plainly that his kingdom was not of this world. He did not fulfill the expectations of those who waited for him to overthrow the Roman government back in first-century Palestine, and he will not satisfy those people--of any country--who seek to bring about his kingdom through political or military force. In God's eyes, no nation or country is "first," and "America first" is a political concept, not a religious one. Christian Nationalism, from a religious standpoint, is a heresy, and anyone who leads people of faith into such a movement is at great fault as a leader. Franklin Graham, Kenneth Copeland, and others have proven themselves to be such leaders, and they will answer to God for the damage they have done by urging people to support Trump's regime. This topic deserves entire books of its own, but I am not as concerned about this group of Christians as I am about the second one. Christian Nationalists may, in many cases, be Christian in name only. That is, they may have adopted an American, regional form of "Christian" culture without ever having been truly converted; they may have followed a cultural ideal rather the person, Jesus of Nazareth. I am not responsible to those Christian Nationalists who are not actual converts in the same way I am responsible for the followers of Jesus who have been misled.

This second group--the Jesus followers who have been deceived and led wrongly--are people who thought Trump was God's man because he identified as pro-life, which, in a quite limited worldview, applies to abortion and not much else. Trump claimed to be against socialism, which these Christians were convinced is incompatible with Christianity--they failed to make a distinction between types of socialism, not understanding that a democratic socialist system is not the same as a dictatorial one. Anyway, they believed that by supporting Trump they were protecting America and the Church. They are followers of Jesus. And, as true followers, they are now in a state of grief and confusion.

I suspect that many true followers of Jesus who had been led to be supporters of Trump were shocked and dismayed at the insurrection that occurred on January 6. As Christians, they were not in favor of violence or treason; they certainly did not intend to hang anyone. At first they thought that this violent uprising was down to a few bad people who had infiltrated the march. And yet, Trump never really denounced these actions. Furthermore, God did not place Trump in the presidency for a second term. All that was predicted--by Trump, by Qanon, even by certain congresspersons--did not come to pass.

So, where are these Christian Trump supporters now? They are between a heresy and a hard truth. Either the evil conspiracy is much more powerful than they thought, and God's purposes were thwarted, or they have been lied to and an entire framework of thinking and believing must be reevaluated.

My responsibility now is to act toward these Christians with a firm gentleness. I must continue to say what is true: that there was no widespread election fraud and that President Biden and Vice-President Kamala Harris are legitimate. That Trump's divisive, hateful words and behavior are the facts, not mere passing jokes or somehow misunderstood or taken out of context. That he personally encouraged hatred in general and white supremacy activity in particular. That he failed consistently to express the wisdom or compassion of someone who is a friend of God. I am making fairly simple observations here; I am not judging his soul, which is loved by God as much as my soul is. I can believe that God loves Donald Trump and also believe that the man was a great danger to us all.

I must create an atmosphere in which a well-meaning Trump follower feels safe enough to admit that she or he was fooled, deceived, misled. I must offer acceptance, a listening ear, an open door, and an open heart. If I consider the Christian Trump follower to be an enemy, then I have defeated the cause for healing and unity. And I have shut the door to faith-filled conversation.

Most of all, it's my responsibility to demonstrate that the Trump supporter's needs and wounds are legitimate and worthy of our attention. Why was half the nation ripe for this man's lies? Half the nation is financially insecure, is worried about healthcare, is afraid that outsiders will take all the jobs. Half the nation has been brainwashed into seeing the threat in people of color rather than in people of power. I must communicate to my wounded sisters and brothers in Christ that they are not forgotten and will be cared for. They will be heard, and loved.

Statement of Faith: A Poem

STATEMENT OF FAITH


The prayers are finished

and I am furious

at the joy I have missed

at the hiddenness of good things.

They send slight signals

through the weary weather

and layers of the day,

and my arms feel for glorious sky.

Blessings erupt in my mouth

and songs sing in my inner chambers.

I will celebrate somehow.

I will put myself on the line.

I will offer my shoulder to the burden.

I will walk in one direction

and when at rest lie cradled in its vision.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I will wail my longings loudly.

I will recite triumphant stories.

I will hope until something happens.

I will sing into the sorrowful void.

I will take the dark and quivering chance of love.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I will keep my palms open.

I will believe in the last, good word.

I will plow through earth and blood

and, finally, expose the glistening veins of truth.

I will be afraid for all the right reasons

and allow good anger to change me.

I will remember every place in which

the light has kissed me.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ © 1996 Vinita Hampton Wright. All rights reserved


And every shard of grace or pleasure

will be a weapon in my pocket.

And the brightness of my believing

will pierce the eye of the evil one.

I will learn the names of God

and pronounce them aloud in every place.

Their tones will crumble heavy mountains

and clear the tangled paths

and open worlds to twinkle in the blackness.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

And the saints shall wave at me an exuberant affirmation

that flutters ghostlike across the chasm.

And my accusers will run out of words

because my hope and my hunger outlived them.

And I will plant my hands upon the coat hem of God

and be battered by the dragging

but the end will find me there.

I will not stop.

I will not stop looking

for the fulfillment of promises.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

And the power will come down

and it will not destroy me

because I saw it coming.

And the love will emerge

and I will recognize it.

And the peace will arrive

and it will find its home in me.
—Vinita Hampton Wright, 1996

A Meditation on a the Prophets

I wrote this a few years ago as a meditation shared in the liturgy, during Advent, I believe. Just found it in some papers:

The world I live in is old and very weary.
Its canyons and highways and cities barely ripple
when good news hurries through like a shy breeze.
Can I say anything that has not been said before?
Can any new idea save us from our grief or greed or anxious thoughts?
Can nature itself be born again, with crystal-bright air
and every creature loved and thriving?
Can our worst memories be made into anything but what they are?
Can our governments and banks and workplaces and neighborhoods
truly experience a fresh, new day?
Do we dare believe in hope?
The prophets were--let's be honest--wild and incomprehensible.
The dreams they had! The audacity they encouraged!
What troubling, confusing prophesies are these:
that a new thing will happen,
that joy will burst every boundary,
that families will live long and be blessed,
that the universe will pulse with a tranquil heart.
What foolishness is this: to hope and build our courage.
How dangerous to entertain visions of holiness, justice, a good, lovely earth.
If we listen and believe, what might we do?
What songs might we compose,
and what stunning kindnesses might we accomplish?
What sort of uncontrollable, odd people might we become
if we take to heart the words God breathed into Isaiah?
Certainly the prophet knew that what he described was absurd.
Maybe he thought he was going out of his mind,
even to possess such thoughts:
No more weeping? Wolves at peace with lambs?
No wonder he had so few friends.
And yet, he spoke those wild words. He waited for the faith to believe them.
And he waited for us, so that we could believe them, too,
to create a history of people who believe.

VH Wright, December 2013

Why Are Christians So Afraid, or, Why Do Christians Keep Striving after Power?

Please note: I speak in generalities on purpose, to make broad points. Of course I know that many Christians in this country do not fit this profile.

 

So, where did the American church slip off the rails, anyway? Of course I don’t refer to every Christian in the United States, but there’s a trend manifesting in a substantial segment of that population. Scared Christians. I mean, really scared. Afraid of threats on multiple fronts. You can feel the fear in their online posts; you can certainly hear it in their voices on TV and social media. There’s a tone of panic that is unmistakable.

They are afraid that the institution of marriage might fall apart. They are afraid that the government will meddle too much. Take away their rights. Take away their guns (guns? Really? Christians stockpiling weapons?). Take away their ability to pray.

They are afraid of terrorists. They are afraid of other religions. They are afraid of people outside the country coming into it. They are afraid of actual Americans who are different from them, who don’t agree with them on doctrinal points or moral codes.

They are afraid that people will stop believing that the Bible is God’s Word.

They are afraid that people will refuse to live according to God’s Word.

I don’t understand this. To be a Christian is to follow the life and teachings of Jesus of Nazareth, known to us as the Christ, the savior. And you can’t get through much text about Jesus—particularly text in which he is speaking directly—without confronting some important facts. One, he said many times that we should not be afraid. “Be not afraid” is sprinkled throughout the Gospels. Two, he told people to expect to live outside the norm, to be hated by the world, and to understand that God’s kingdom was within them, lived out in their community and not manifested through governments or military forces. The faith community was an entity unto itself: the Body of Christ. And this body would go through a lot of trouble and pain because Jesus took on trouble and pain. His way of living runs counter to popular modes of getting by. We should not expect to be popular, to get our way in the world outside the faith community.

Furthermore, we should welcome people to God’s grace and the message of the Gospel, not try to coerce them into acting the way we, as believers, are instructed to act. We live a certain way because Christ within us gives us the ability to do this. The Holy Spirit powers our faith, our love, our ability to forgive and to endure suffering. We have no reason to expect people outside the faith to swear allegiance to the standards we believers try to live out.

Christianity is a faith, a way of being in the world. It is not a system of government. It’s not really a philosophy of life, either. It’s the Way. It’s weird. It can get us into trouble if we truly seek to forgive, to help those who need help the most, to welcome the outcast and stranger.

In light of all this, I do not understand why so many Christ followers are afraid of things Jesus already warned us would be normal life for those who follow him. Have we backtracked on our commitment? Have we now decided that anyone can live as we strive to live—even those who claim no connection to the empowering Holy Spirit? Have we lost faith in the Holy Spirit to transform lives, and so now we rely on governments and SWAT teams to protect us and to get other people in line? Have we rejected the life of welcome, charity, and generosity Jesus demands and decided that it’s better just to keep out anyone who might threaten us?

I cannot, for the life of me, connect my Christian faith to the kind of fear that crackles throughout this country like a brush fire.

·         If I am unafraid, I don’t have to live on the defensive all the time.
·         If I am unafraid, I am free to help others and to give to them generously.
·         If I am unafraid, then terrorists become, to me, just another aspect of a world struggling to be free and to find what it needs.
·         If I am unafraid, I will not need to strike out at others to make myself more secure.

As a Christian, I choose not to be afraid. It’s not easy sometimes, and I do fail at this. But I am determined not to live in fear. It’s not what Jesus did, and it’s not what he wants from me.

A more pointed question might be, not Why are Christians so afraid? But What are they so afraid of losing? Most fear has to do with security, with the dread of loss. So let’s look at some popular Christian fears and trace them to the specific powers that are threatened.

The biblical institution of marriage is under threat. No, it’s not. Christian marriage is a covenant between two people in the presence of God and the faith community. Unless the faith community starts attacking married people and trying to cause trouble for their marriages, biblical marriage is not under threat. What people outside the faith community do has no impact on God-ordained marriage. A government license to marry is not the same thing as the faith community’s blessing of a union. Unfortunately, our government has given preachers and other religious figures government authority to make a union legal in the eyes of the state. This simply confuses the issue. A legal marriage does not equal Christian marriage.

Rather than worry about how certain government licenses (for example, to gay couples) might ruin the biblical institution of marriage, Christians should give their energy to supporting marriage and helping people in the faith community discern wisely—which they aren’t doing presently, as indicated by our divorce rate, nearly identical to that in the culture at large. I’ve known some so-called Christian marriages that were not two people brought together by God. They came together out of lust or guilt or pressure from parents or their own immaturity and dysfunction. The Christian church needs to attend to marriage within the community and stop obsessing about people who seek mere legal status as married citizens.

 People will stop believing God’s Word and will refuse to live according to it. Belief comes through faith, and faith is a gift from God—we can’t just muster it up. And we can’t pressure other people to have that faith. Jesus never coerced people—never. He accepted that some people would believe him and others wouldn’t. So why do we insist that people outside our faith use our Bible and our faith norms as their bible and faith norms? When has that ever worked?

Why are we so concerned that the Ten Commandments might be removed from public buildings? What purpose do they serve there? By simply being public, do they force a change in people? By simply being public, do they make Christianity the norm? No on both counts. Words engraved and displayed have no magic power over people. And even if they did, we would be gravely mistaken to try to work magic on people so that they behaved as we believed they should. Free will and the power of choice did not originate in our constitution; God gave us free choice before we even knew what it was. God continues to allow people to make choices.

We are afraid that our children will no longer be able to pray in school. No laws prevent anyone from private prayer in a public place. But that’s not what the fearful Christians are thinking of; they believe that public, communal prayer should be happening in our schools. Which prayers? Christian? Jewish? Hindu? Islamic? Would we appreciate our Christian children having to mouth the words to Muslim prayers if we lived in a country that was predominantly Muslim? Why is it okay for us to force prayer upon groups of children?

Also, why would we want our children to be saying rote, public prayers anyway? Isn’t that what Jesus warned us against? And wouldn’t we rather our children’s prayers be meaningful and personal? The idea that not having prayer in school is a threat to our children’s well-being doesn’t even make sense.

I believe that much of the Christian fear in this country is really a fear of losing power. It’s a fear that we won’t be able to control how other people act. It’s a fear that our way will no longer be the ruling way.

We’re accustomed to having power in the United States because Christianity was the primary religion here for so long. Also, we were, to some extent, culturally Christian. But we’re not the grand majority we used to be. So we must shift the way we do religion in the public square. We must respect the rights of others, the beliefs of others.

And we must remind ourselves that Jesus never meant for Christians to rule over others. That’s right. He didn’t. He said that we would serve others. That we would love others. That we would care for the least of these.

He said we would be persecuted. We would be hated. We would have to be as wary as serpents—but as harmless as doves. And we would not win any battles with weapons but with the Holy Spirit.

But Christians have bought into the cultural norms of dominance, ego, bigotry, and violence. None of these qualities have anything to do with the Christian faith. Yet we act out of those qualities when we rage against laws that no longer favor us. Jesus never promised that we would have the protection of any laws. He assured us of the opposite.

A lot of church historians will agree that one of the worst things to happen to Christianity was its adoption by Constantine as the state religion, back in the 300s. Yes, it meant that we didn’t get fed to the lions anymore. And we could share the faith freely. But it also meant that we got cozy with power and with all the un-Jesus-like characteristics of power, such as coercion and intolerance and corruption. The monastic movement began because Christians could see that the state church was corrupting the Body of Christ. They had to get away and pray, and establish among smaller, more intentional communities the realities of prayer, service, and discernment.

 Now is the time for prayer, service and discernment. It is not the time to skew every law and powerful will toward our preferences. It is not a time to insist that our way be established as the public way. Real faith never worked that way. Christians who are trying to force everyone to live by their way are doing untold damage to God’s kingdom by repelling people—by hurting and angering them. And who wouldn’t be hurt and angered when their rights are usurped by even well-meaning power?

Finally, Christians are afraid of terrorists. Which is understandable. The whole world fears the horror being played out constantly by terrorists. Jesus did not speak directly about terrorists, but he’d spent his life under Roman occupation, and his people knew terror. But Jesus didn’t really talk about that. He talked about faith, hope, and love. He talked about helping those who suffered—whether under terrorism or something else. Jesus said bluntly that a person should not fear the one who could only harm the body. Even in horrible situations, the goal is that we walk forward in faith, in prayer, and in generosity toward others.

If a Christian is living in fear, then she or he needs to return to the Gospels and listen to Jesus for awhile.

If a Christian is afraid of losing power, then she or he needs to return to the Gospels and listen to Jesus for awhile.

Please. Before more damage is caused in the name of the One who bears no resemblance to our petty, hateful, grasping, cultural-christian American God.

We Could Stop Being Racist if We Truly Believed in Forgiveness

After watching the film Cracking the Codes: The System of Racial Inequity (http://crackingthecodes.org/), I have been mulling over a set of truths and the problems they cause.

·         We are all (in this instance, I speak of those living in the USA) conditioned and taught to be racists.

·         Racism goes deeper than personal choice and belief; it is structural and generational, practically in our DNA.

·         Even well-intentioned white people who work for racial equality hold biases, some of them subconscious.

·         Economic, social, and governmental structures propagate racism.

When I face these realities, I am tempted to feel defeated and hopeless. I was set up to be a racist long before I was born, long before my parents were born. As a white person in this country, I automatically have privilege, and this same privilege—and the system that birthed it—hurts other people, all the time.

White people are uncomfortable talking about racism. We like to think that we understand it and that we’re doing something about it. What might happen if we talk about it, openly and bravely, with people of color? The moment the discussion starts, some quite specific fears set into my white mind and body:

·         I will say something that reveals me to be biased, prejudiced, racist.

·         I will discover that I indeed carry biases, prejudices, and racist tendencies.

·         I will have to face this horrible fact: I have been wrong.

·         I will have to face this horrible fact: I have hurt others.

·         I will have to face this horrible fact: I am a sinner.

And if all of these things happen, where in the world can I go from here?

If I have tried hard, perhaps for decades, to be a compassionate, fair-minded, un-racist person, and still I have failed, what can I possibly do now?

If I have been wrong in my perceptions, for years, being as smart and aware and moral as I am, then what good is all that?

I believe that I resist these conversations because I don’t know what I will do with the shame, guilt, and disappointment that are bound to come.

Racism is complex, and I won’t pretend to simplify it or supply an answer that is easy to implement. However, I do believe that if we treated racism as the sin it is, perhaps we could allow Divine Love to deal with that sin.

I’ve been a practicing Christian for 47 years, and all that time I have claimed that God’s forgiveness can deal effectively with any and every wrong, sin, defilement, shame, guilt, and wound. Yet, when it comes to racism, I pull back, as if I’m the one in charge and it’s my responsibility to clean up my act and prove to everyone that I’m okay now.

So what if I have been a racist? I’ve also been a liar. I’ve also been jealous, envious, hateful, lustful. All these other sins I entrust to God. I can confess that I’m greedy and too worried about money and can ask for help in adjusting the way I think about money and possessions. My greed may have caused all kinds of grief for others. But I can acknowledge and own my misbehavior and my bad attitude and treat them as sins.

Why can’t I do this so easily with racism? Why am I so afraid of discovering the depth of my sin in this area? Why am I so afraid to say, “Yes, I’m a racist. I keep trying to root out these attitudes and perceptions, but some of them are deep in my history and culture, and I still have a long ways to go” ? Why is the possibility of discovering and naming this sin such a threat to me? Why is it such a threat to us, as white people in the USA? Why is this one thing that we fight and fight in regard to our personal confessions?

I’m not sure why racism, out of so many sins, is so difficult to treat as sin, and I mean that in the traditional, centuries-old Christian sense. It’s a defect, a wound, an interior crime, an orientation away from love and toward self-seeking and self-protection. Sin is not something we solve. It’s something we learn to recognize and confess and for which to seek healing and restoration.

Racism, like all other sins, hurts both the victim and the perpetrator. It cannot simply be solved. Of course, it can be dealt with in structures. We can pass legislation and revise organizational processes and communications to deal with structural racism. But we won’t have the will or the strength to do that until we face the personal racism that riddles us with cruelty and bad judgment. Personal racism makes us defensive and afraid. Personal racism shuts us down and triggers our self-justification.

I can’t speak to people outside the Christian community, but to other Christians I can say this: Treat racism as the sin it is. Ask the Holy Spirit to help you see it in yourself. Identify it, grieve over it, confess it, and ask for help to move on. Ask for wisdom to make apology and reparation when necessary. If you truly believe in the power of Divine forgiveness, racism will not remain this huge black hole of shame and avoidance. It will become yet another aspect of your spiritual growth and your growing, Christlike compassion for others.

Six Poems for Advent and Christmas

Shrine at Christmastime

A tree in my neighborhood

serves as memorial shrine;
two years ago, ribbons and stuffed toys
nestled at its base. Later, vodka bottles.
Out of respect, I pulled the dogs away,
sent bits of prayer for the woman or boy,
the man or toddler gunned down
or killed in the crash.

More recent months found it empty.

Time heals or, more likely, wears away.
But this week, a new totem:
One large dolphin, all silver plush,
store tags intact. It hangs, head down,
its tail fin nailed to the tree.
I don’t know if this victim is old or new.

Maybe a bare winter oak calls out

the long sadness; maybe Christmas shopping
was rent by a sudden memory.
As for me, who must bear witness,
Advent proclaims the Child but
cries of children who, unnaturally still,
leave their toys perpetually new.
© 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright

  Before Annunciation

Just before snow covers,
it reveals. In the gloom and gray
appear the bright veins of stone
and rippled bark, the sharp character
of shingles, street signs, forgotten toys
and paper bags. As if the interior
of everything has grown outward,
adorning itself in fine lace.

I like to think that, before the great angel

pronounced and the Holy Spirit overwhelmed,
the girl Mary had a moment—or perhaps years—
of revelatory and incidental wonders,
and even that morning, taking her breakfast,
she said something startling, and her dreams glistened
upon the outlines of face, shoulders, hips, and feet;
and something gusted through the room,
hinting of chill and snowflakes.
© 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright
 

Mary’s Mom

I’d like to know if you noticed anything different

about your daughter. On a particular day, did she seem pale
or out of breath? Was she weepy? Did you have to tell her things twice?
When the truth came out, did you agonize that she had not
confided in you? Did you tell her father, or did she?
And—be honest—when you, being the mother, being a woman—
understood the situation, didn’t you enjoy some moments
of sheer satisfaction? Didn’t you say to God, one eyebrow arched,
“You couldn’t have picked a better one”?
© 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright

 

Gabriel

How much did you have to shrink

before entering the house?
How much shine did you rub off
before she could see you?
Did you carry the plan like a secret fire in the heart,
knowing that such information could cause
a whole new rebellion up there?
And when the girl said yes, how much
did you ache to grow legs and lungs and
a head of hair, just to know the sensation
of your spirit breaking open?
© 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright

 

Liturgy

Later I will choose ornaments

and dig out the holiday tea towels.
But now the cross is carried aloft from the nave
to the font to the table to its place near the lectern,
and we sing words almost too old for connection.
The vestments are shot through with greens and purples;
the cup and candlesticks glimmer. Such tones ring
uncomfortably deep, into memories bright and dark,
into twists of theology and the crowded dreams
of a conflicted race—that’s us,
hoping for heaven while the cookies bake,
praying our rosaries of unraveled lights and bells.
© 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright

 

Star

People who often traveled this road noticed

how familiar shadows had sharpened, cast upon
the ground by some fresh brightness in the night.
Halting, they identified the frightful star.
Jabbing fingers upward, voices tight,
they murmured debates about the meaning of it.
But nothing had changed; the road remained the road.
Their lives passed by beneath their feet,
moving forever in the same direction—only now,
across their bent necks, a band of warmth,
a deep hum that would not leave.
© 2009 Vinita Hampton Wright

Holy Instincts, Autumn 2015

Go ahead and give in. It's that time of year. Actually, the urge strikes many of us twice a year, in spring and in autumn. Something about the weather changing, probably. We get these little urges. We find ourselves gravitating toward old behaviors, those practiced by mothers and fathers and great-grandparents before us.

We feel the need to clean things and to clean out things: cupboards, drawers, closets, garages, rooms, gardens, back yards. In the spring we clean to make room for summer's activity and growth. This time of year, in the autumn, we clean to eliminate the clutter of all that summer accomplished.

May we remember that we are creatures, tied to this earth through our chemistry and memory. As much as our minds and interior worlds churn away to create esoteric systems of thought and religion, our bodies sense the change of temperature and season and move us to do the work necessary for riding our little island home in its murmuring galaxy, through time and atmosphere.

And so I make many lists of tasks to complete before the winter holidays. There are home repairs and the clearing of flowerbeds and vegetable garden; there's putting away the summer items, also pulling out the winter clothing and the heavier bedding. Every bit of dust and grease seems to show more precisely in the clear air of October, the gusty winds revealing my laxity at home keeping. When did I last dust every item in Grandmother's china cupboard? How did the silverware drawer become so icky? Exactly how many second-hand paperbacks have accumulated on that over-laden shelf?

But the instincts dive deeper. What shall I do with the rest of my life? What goals have I allowed to languish through evenings of watching too much television? What qualities of character are important to me and need to be helped along by, perhaps, a new practice of prayer or charitable work? With whom should I spend more time, and whose needs might be calling upon my gifts, if I can unclutter myself enough to notice?

What creative work is waiting to be accomplished? Can I write more regularly, learn a new knitting pattern (maybe friends and family would love to have socks rather than another scarf?), work a little harder to create meals with more flavor and benefit?

I'm grateful for seasons and the subtle shifts that occur in an ordinary year. I'm glad they trigger within me the basic desire--God given, I think--to live with great love and purpose. In the same way, I'm glad that such fluctuations revive the desire for joy, a holy want that is easily pushed aside in the service of getting through the week. But joy deserves its own post: maybe next week.

A Quite Difficult Prayer

Yesterday's sermon was about aspects of the Bible that are offensive. It helps, from time to time, to say that out loud, or to write it for all to see. Parts of holy writ just don't sit well with me. I won't supply a list of examples here, but I'm sure that if you read holy writ--whether the Christian scriptures or something else--you suffer your own discomfort.

Here's the bit that's irritating me today:

"You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous."

Jesus of Nazareth said that. And it sounds wonderful and noble and generous, and usually I feel pretty good about these words.

But it occurred to me yesterday that the obvious enemy these days is more atrocious, more persistent, than anything I've heard about before in my life of nearly six decades. ISIS has become the enemy of just about every human on the planet. That's Enemy with a capital E or, perhaps ENEMY. This growing entity is fueled by the worst kind of fundamentalism; it claims to be the most pure form of Islam; its members commit atrocities and call them prayers (the systematic rape of "infidel" girls, for instance).

I am very nearly pacifist, am opposed to military solutions 99 percent of the time. But I have said to my husband recently that it seems the only solution to the ISIS problem is just to kill every last one of them. Yes, I said that. There seems to be no reasoning with such people. This is the type of organization that attracts people who are already imbalanced in some way--many of them are probably pathological to begin with--and there seems to be no rational way to reach them. The whole world is frustrated to the hilt with figuring out how to thwart the evil work of this organization.

Then I read Jesus' words, and I know what I must do, and it really pisses me off. I'm supposed to pray for the people who are involved with ISIS. I'm not obligated to pray for ISIS as an entity. But I must pray for the people within it.

I don't even know where to start with this. Am I a radical enough Christian to pray for the members of ISIS? To ask God to heal their souls and draw them away from their evil? I'd rather pray that God wipe them off the planet. Fortunately, I am not Jesus.

So, who is with me? Shall we actually pray for our enemies? Today? Now?

Why We Stop Talking about Our Depression

 After a point, with depression, you just stop talking about it.

After all, there’s no new information. You don’t want to remind family and coworkers that you are unhappy and you struggle to function. There’s little, if anything, they can do, so why burden them?

So when you return from possibly the most difficult vacation of your life, you say, when asked, that it was wonderful, and you show them the beautiful photos that represent the better 50-60 percent of what actually happened. You don’t tell them that you cried—rather, sobbed—nearly every day, or that the pristine forest around your cabin felt oppressive, or that most afternoons you hid in your room and alternated between sleep and panic.

You don’t want the people who shared the time with you to understand how difficult it was because then they would feel responsible somehow, or they would wonder why you took a vacation in the first place, if things were that bad. You don’t want to belabor the point that you scheduled events so that you would be on this new medication a few weeks prior to the trip, so that it would have time to take effect and thus allow a lighter, better you to step off the plane and into an enjoyable few days with loved ones.

How could you know that the medication would not work, that it would in fact backfire, making you jittery, robbing you of sleep, and turning mild habits into moderate compulsions? You did not plan to be so fidgety that you hoped no one at dinner would notice your legs bouncing rapidly, out of sight under the table. You did not plan to be exhausted by noon and then again by 8 p.m., even after spending most of the afternoon lying in bed and struggling for moments of calm. 

And you could not help that these days included events you could not control, such as the two military guys driving on the mountain illegally in an off-road vehicle and scraping the side of your rental car, even though you had pulled all the way over and come to a complete stop to let them pass—and then they had an attitude about it and made it difficult for you to get information, all the while claiming that it was a no-fault state and, well, they were the military so they had no insurance. Even in more normal circumstances, that would put a damper on the trip. But add to it your current state of mind, and then try to think of anything but that and try not to worry that you will end up stuck with a huge bill even though it was absolutely no fault of yours. Try not to spend the hour or two before you finally sleep obsessing over how you’d like to tell them off or track down their commanding officer (they refused to give you a name or the commander’s contact information) or even post photos of them and the accident on Facebook and Twitter and hope it will go viral and cause them decades of misery.

And the road itself—that narrow, winding mountain road with minimal grading and no guard rails—on this trip it becomes the focus of all your fear. The Road becomes a menacing archetype that might have been living inside your kinspeople for centuries but just now revealed its dark power to you, on this trip. Such a mountain road would likely make you nervous and extra cautious under “normal” circumstances, but people drive it all the time—mothers with carloads of small children drive it, delivery trucks traverse it numerous times a year—and if you were someone other than who you are right now, the Road would not possess you as it did for that entire week. Your imagination was on a loop the whole time, spinning images of every possible disaster, of every way the car could skid or slide or stall or get crashed off the mountain, killing all of you. Your breathing grew rapid hours before all of you made the trip down to the town to give the children an excursion into town. By the time you made the final descent, to a day somewhere else and then the airport to home, you huddled on the back seat, eyes squeezed shut, hands clutching as if you had already fallen over the cliff but found a tree limb to grab, and trying not to whimper with every bump or every sensation of turning. You cannot remember ever being as terrified as on that one twenty-minute drive. To be so overwhelmed by the situation has unhinged your sense of who you are.

In fact, you don’t even know who the real you is. Well, you do know, in that chemically disrupted part of your brain. You know that, really, you are weak and cannot manage your life, that you need to grow up and develop better coping skills. You need to pray more and trust God. However, you have tried to pray, and every sense you have tells you that God has gone away, ultimately and finally and with no regard for you or your suffering. You feel God slipping into absence and yourself slipping off the divine radar. You try various prayers and methods, hoping that something will break through that wretched barrier of desperation and despair. But nothing breaks through, and no relief comes. And you know the truth about yourself: you have failed at life and at faith.

You don’t tell friends or colleagues any of this, because you don’t want them to find out now, after all these years, that your spirituality and your life skills are variations of fraudulence. You would rather they not know the fragility of your belief or the depth of your emotional disability. You can still do your job; this is often true of someone who has reached a certain level of accomplishment and competence. You go to work and do your job well, and people may pick up on a strange vibe, but they see you functioning and leave it alone. You know that you function but at a great price. You do the same work you have done for years, only the energy around it is weakened and your passion for it muted.

Also, you do not reveal to others the horrible secret that your life is over, that you are sailing in a giddy fall to the floor of the world and just waiting to feel the impact of the crash. How would you communicate such a profound truth to people as they sit with you at lunch or share jokes during a meeting? You simply can’t. At least you finally understand that such things are impossible and should not be attempted.

We stop talking about our depression because talking uses up the power it takes to get out of bed and get dressed and walk, step by step and moment by moment, through a frighteningly ordinary day. We stop talking about our depression because we have nothing revolutionary or insightful to say about it. And we know that healthy people have low tolerance for this kind of truth telling. They stay close for a while but then feel the pull of negativity as they would discern an undertow and then hurriedly swim away.

I enjoyed spending time with family. I was able to enjoy good food. I hiked a mountain trail and got an infant to stop crying and smile at me. I read books and played electronic solitaire (another never-ending loop of compulsion). And I slid through an immense, deep gorge by train, focusing my gaze upon rocks and fissures and wildflowers and foamy river water. You see, much of what we call depression is not total. It is merely debilitating.

I publish this blog post knowing it is a risk. Who will find out this unattractive truth about me? Who will pass it on to others? Who, learning of it, will have it in their power to deprive me of respect or job security? Who will judge me as weak or hysterical and dismiss as self-indulgent these words upon words that I have drawn out of myself as though they were sharp threads twined and tangled up in my intestines and blood vessels?

But I draw out the words because, although I might stop talking about my depression because it seems to me completely useless, I will perhaps create, with this post, a place in which other depressed people can pause. Perhaps they will recognize this experience and understand that they are not alone and that the experience—even at its most delusional—is painfully and empirically real. Many of us stop talking about it, but the phrases are always there, however silent or invisible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Living with Two Black Dogs

I have lived with one black dog most of my life. He’s not noisy or rude, just ever present. He dogs my steps—yes, I intentionally use “dogs” as a verb. If you’ve ever had a dog who has taken possession of you, you understand precisely how your every step is accompanied. You are dogged, every hour of every day.

This non-noisy, ever-present black dog has become such a familiar presence that I feel at home around him/her. I can assign no gender to this black dog, which has no physical manifestation other than my aching bones and labored steps. The invisible black dog—yes, he/she is black although invisible and non-material—manifests through my own body. I sense the breath of this black dog nearly everyplace I go and in most breaths I take and in my trudging steps and in that dizziness of heart and mind that can lap over my day. Black Dog pants right next to my face, as though to take the air that is meant for me. Black Dog constantly paces and frets, as though to use up every cell of my energy.

No matter what other people think of me or how many of them gather round, Black Dog is right next to me, closer than them all. No matter what I accomplish or how many blessings fill up my days, Black Dog stands over the entire collection, ominous and quiet, legs and chest set firmly to establish ownership of my everything.

Black Dog tries to assure me that this is companionship. But I have my doubts.

The other black dog who lives with me has only been in the house a few months. He is quite physical and vocal—with his love and with his complaints. And he follows me everywhere. He is also demanding—walk me, feed me, pet me, feed me, pet me, pet me, pet me, walk me. Now that he is in the house, my husband and I realize that we share ownership of ourselves with this beautiful beast (his name is, after all, Beau).

Yet, Beau the black dog does not dog me. His presence lifts rather than presses upon me. When Beau Black Dog is in the room, my heart feels lighter, and I breathe more easily, and I laugh often. Whereas the ever-with-me Black Dog takes away my words, even my thoughts, Beau Black Dog inspires all sort of words and thoughts. Black Dog takes away my life, and Beau Black Dog infuses it with more liveliness.

I am in love with Beau Black Dog, and I cannot imagine life without him.

However, I struggle to exist with Black Dog without resorting to hatred or despair or violence.

Really, it is a shame that Black Dog is a term applied to depression. In a way, it fits—the ever-presence, the dogging of steps, the dark and silence and lurking. But the actual dogs I have known stayed close without suffocating me. They gave and gave and gave. Black Dog takes and gives nothing in return.

Very soon I will visit a doctor and hope for a humane way to eliminate Black Dog from my life. I feel apprehensive about this. Will I still be myself, with that lifelong presence gone? Will I know how to walk through a day lightly, without that constant pull at my steps? Will I miss the company of the dark and quiet and sense of everything lurking? We’ll see.

Conversation with Jesus on the Cross

I get off the bus at the wrong stop

and walk two blocks of tough neighborhood,
see you tied to a post in a vacant lot,
I can’t help it—come up close
to see if you’re dead.
You are not dead, but only God knows
what they’ve done to you;
blood still seeps, some of it sticky in your hair.
Your eyes are open and see me.
 
“Did you ask to be here," I ask,
"on this spot, or here in general? I mean,
is this precise torture part of the plan?
Was this a mistake?
Is it what you wanted?”
I ask questions because I cannot
figure out how to free or comfort you.
 
You answer, “Why not here, and now?
I entered the fray, this glittering life
that moans and mourns.
Why are you here?
You could have kept walking.”

I say, “All of it feels wrong.
Atonement, propitiation—what do they mean
and how could they be necessary?
This is no formula of sin and hope, but nonsense;
it is—pardon the expression—overkill.”

Your gaze burns though I know you are dying,

slipping while I watch, leaving without anxiety
as though turning loose of a handrail to get a better view.
I throb with rage you seem to have missed;
are you not violently disappointed
that this death has not stopped all others?
Are you not disturbed
that the world’s architecture is destroyed,
its virtues twisted like melted beams
and its straight, tall doors torn agape
at the vulnerable space of death?

“You have undone everything,” I say,

but my tears betray bone-deep relief.
My hollow places ring dark praise.
You smile through blood and broken teeth.
My knees buckle and I kneel, resisting,
on the stained grass.

“It needed undoing,” you say,

then cry with me quietly, so lovely.
I grasp your swollen purple hand and say,
“Thank you.”

—VHWright, 11/11/11, revised 4/7/14

Lost Weekends and Rage in the World

I've gone a long stretch--since before Christmas, really--of missing weekend time off. When I say "time off," I, the classic introvert, mean "time when I don't have to be with people or go to any appointments or events." I enjoy the holidays in spite of their lack of solitude because my family is easy to be with and I can almost completely relax on those visits. Just almost.

The holidays fill all spare time with preparation for the cooking and the eating and the shopping and gifting, and I have learned to do so much but no more. I expect those lost weekends and evenings.

But someone close to us was in the hospital over the holiday, and I will write more about this at another time. But after the New Year, matters worsened. During the last weekend of January, she died, and the first weekend of February we buried her. Of course I would not have been any place else in the world than at the hospital and the church and the cemetery.

Then freelance projects ran late; if you are a freelance writer or freelance anything, perhaps you understand that it is impossible to relax completely when deadlines are looming and especially when they are past due.

Then speaking engagements, it seems they came every other weekend. I enjoy those events and hope to keep helping others do their writing workshops or their prayer retreats. But to fly to another state and be on task and surrounded by people for one or two days, and then have to deal with flights and connecting flights to arrive home Sunday afternoon or evening . . .

Suddenly it is spring, and this past weekend was the first that felt like a weekend in a long time. I allowed myself to sleep a bit longer. The pets and I went outdoors for awhile because the sun was out and the temperature not warm but getting warmer.

Still I face lists of undone tasks and at least half of them should have been accomplished but aren't. The weekend zipped by and left me feeling pitiful and a bit resentful.

Then I remembered that so many people never have weekends. They work two or three jobs or they live in a country or situation that never lets up on its demands. They don't get weekends, and their weekdays are a lot longer than mine. They go months without feeling rested; some of them probably go years without feeling rested and relaxed.

When I consider how cranky I become when I miss a weekend, when I think of how, lacking that rest, I go into the workday without my best energy and go into my problems and trials with depleted resources, when I consider how the absence of rest and true relaxation compromise me on so many levels, it helps me understand a little bit better why there is so much rage in the world.

When people are weary and see no end in sight, they find it easy to despair, to resent those who have what they do not, to drag through their days half-heartedly and anxiously. When people are weary, the whole world changes for them, and not in a good way.

God, please help us give to one another the means to sit down, be quiet, take some deep breaths, feel relief, sleep an hour longer, do less, and hope more.

Faith's Shadow Side

I read a long article in the Atlantic recently, about what ISIS really is about. If you're interested, here's the link: http://www.theatlantic.com/features/archive/2015/02/what-isis-really-wants/384980/

It took awhile to read, and probably I will read it again because, as a Christian, it's important for me to struggle at understanding this. The writer makes a good case for saying that ISIS is in fact rooted in Islam, and its motives are not just political but quite religious. This organization does not represent most practicing Muslims, but its philosophy--and yes, there is a philosophy here--relies on a certain interpretation of certain passages of the Quran.

Does this sound familiar, Christians? Members of ISIS believe that the time has come for the world to return to a state in which the caliph rules, and this rule includes vanquishing the enemies of the Prophet. This rule would take the world back to an earlier time and a system of law as it was in the days of Muhammad.

Again, I ask, does this sound familiar? How often do I hear certain Christians who speak as if what they really want is for the whole world to revert to Old Testament law? In their loyalty to, say, the demands found in the book of Leviticus, they support capital punishment and oppress homosexuals. They try to keep women in their proper place. For some reason, they don't try to go out and buy slaves. And, unlike ISIS followers who are trying to fulfill a very similar kind of system, they don't seem to condone cutting off the hands of thieves. Selective reading, I guess.

It gets even scarier. Christians who are rooting for a "back to the O. T. basics" sort of faith are generally the same people who pledge their support to Israel regardless of how its government behaves. They are waiting for a literal fulfillment of history as found in the book of Revelation. In fact, they long for the Apocalypse because it will bring Jesus back in triumphant glory. It's quite interesting when we try to shape the world--and foreign policy--to fulfill to the letter not only ancient law but also a highly symbolic mystical vision.

ISIS longs for the Apocalypse because it will bring back the rule of the Prophet once for all. In fact, Jesus will help the prophet in this final, horrible cleansing and reaping of the world.

This is a shadow side of religion, and it's dangerous no matter whose religion we're talking about. When believers focus on a few sacred texts and ignore the rest, when they refuse to listen to the counsel of those who disagree with their interpretation, when they decide that God is on their side and only their side, and when they believe that the real answer is to kill off all their opponents--well, what should we expect?

We Christians should read our Bibles thoroughly on a regular basis. We should know what passages we are choosing to follow--and acknowledge the ones we conveniently ignore. We need to wrestle with the difficult words until we understand how they express the heart of our faith. Ignorance and denial will not help us. And digging in our heels will only make things worse.

As a follower of Jesus, I understand that he said some very weird things, and he made some statements I may never understand. But the heart of his message is that we are to love God and our neighbor. Everything else must be measured against that standard. Otherwise, I might swerve off into some shadowy place in which my faith warps into something else and I end up hurting others. When belief is not tempered by love, anything can happen.

Functioning While Fragile

Recently I led a women's retreat that began Friday evening and ended Sunday mid-morning. The theme, chosen by the women of this particular parish: "Reflect, Refresh, and Rejoice." I arrived at the retreat center prepared, on time, and ready to be the person at the center of attention. A retreat leader really does not want to be the center of attention, but you are, at least at key moments when you're trying to read the room, establish the direction of things, and set a tone that will make or break the experience.

But prior to my arrival, early Friday morning when my husband was driving me to the airport, I wept in the pre-dawn darkness. I was prepared to do the work commissioned me, but I was not well. I had not been sleeping. A freelance project was running late, which is a huge failure in my book, never mind that there were reasonable causes. Another project was exploding in my face, thanks to a seeming disconnect between the agreed-upon concept of a book I had written and the new editor's reaction to it, including a tone of e-mail messages that came across as abrupt and simply mean.

A mere three weeks before this, we had buried an eighteen-year-old, a young woman not my daughter but with whom I had been involved in several capacities for more than a decade. I had not had the time or space to grieve--in fact, I still haven't.

And so I arrived to function as a leader of sorts, knowing that I was quite empty and unable to recharge any part of myself. I did not feel that I was overflowing with good gifts for these women. I hoped that the gifts would come from elsewhere and maybe travel through my body and voice.

It's best to come clean in these situations, if you can do so without blurting out all your personal angst. In the initial meeting Friday evening, I gave the group very basic information about my state but added that this was probably to their advantage. When you are hurting and tired, your ego is less likely to drive the agenda. You rely on grace--I mean, really rely on grace--because you know you can't pull magic out of the air or fabricate wisdom and poise you do not have.

Maybe we should feel our fragility more often and more acutely. I do my best to come to these events well-rested and well-nourished, so that I'm in a good place physically and emotionally, capable of listening and being present. Sometimes my best efforts fail and yet I face a room full of people who hope I can encourage them, inspire their wisdom, and help their prayers. What's wonderful is that I do those things. The work happens, and because I feel how fragile I am, my faith in the wonder and the work is probably more authentic than at any other time.

The weekend went very well. I returned to Chicago and the missed deadline and the other stresses and the brutal absence of a person I wish had lived until old age. I returned to more winter and to endless tasks running late and hurried. Still fragile. But still intact.

Making My Lunch for Ash Wednesday

I'm feeling rather stoic this morning because I took the time to make a salad from scratch and take it in a jar to work. Other than that, my food will be liquid today, and although that hardly makes it a true Ash Wednesday fast, it is significant enough for me. I hope to use the weeks of Lent to work toward spiritual freedom when it comes to food.

Growing food, preserving food, cooking food, and eating food were major components of my early life. Our family had little money, and I don't recall a single vacation taken away from home. But we feasted all the time. Food was our habit and solace, our celebration and creative work. I can't remember a time when eating was not an experience for me--whether I was living at home or abroad, alone in an apartment or sharing a house with others.

I believe that many women make shifts during middle age to compensate for lost sensuality. For many of us, there are no longer babies to cuddle and caress or small children to hold on laps, little-girl hair to brush and braid, afternoon projects involving cookie dough or clay or crayons. Our sex life has probably diminished, too, thanks to hormonal changes, health issues, relationships ending through death or divorce. For all the hottie middle-aged and senior models that smile across our TV and computer screens advertising sexual aids and dating sites for the mature, I see a lot more women in my age group who are in fact ill or tired or without sexual companionship.

But there's always food. At least, for those of us fortunate to have resources, there is lots of food. My nation is food-obsessed, with fast-food chains thinking up new ways every week to add one more layer of cheese or meat or sweet-salty sauce or fried bread-stuff. My husband and I made our first visit to the new Marianno's that opened on 95th St., and it was grand and clean and stocked to the rafters with everything imaginable. I stood there in awe but also horror. It is obscene how much food gets sold and bought and loaded by bagsful and then half-eaten or thrown away. It is somehow anti-justice how abundantly the food tumbles and flows in a country where so many starve for nutrition.

When you're in the middle of your life, or further in, and you have racked up many disappointments, and the worries are multiplying with the years, and you long for something to stimulate your whole self, a gourmet cupcake can provide a fantastic few moments, can it not? Bliss on a Wednesday afternoon that might help you be a little more hopeful through Thursday and Friday.

I am that woman too much of the time. I plan my week around where to find a scone and tea, or coffee and pecan roll, or a Turkish lunch or extravagant Whole Foods salad. There's the sweet on Friday after work, a reward for the week. There's the other sweet late one afternoon because it's been such a stressful, nonstop day. And could I sit through this week's episode of Downton Abbey without a pot of the best tea and something perfectly sweet to go with it? No, really, I couldn't.

I dare to wonder what aspects of abundant life I miss because I follow cravings for mere food. It's time to try to wrest myself from this spiritual yet physical kind of bondage. I don't expect to exit the Lenten season twenty pounds lighter (although that would be nice) or converted to veganism or liberated from my love of sweets. But I have to see where this goes. I will eat less of certain things, eat smaller portions of most things, and donate some of the money I save to Chicago Food Depository. It's a start.

A Countermove to Diving Down

I just finished reading Walter J. Ciszek's story of being a priest in Soviet prisons and Siberian labor camps for twenty-three years. The book is With God in Russia, and I highly recommend it. A real page turner and an inspiration to those of us tempted to falter in our faith or our humanity.

At one point Ciszek mentions that when he was moved to a place with better conditions--meaning that they weren't starving, were able to stay somewhat warm, and could sleep sometimes--other problems emerged. People who were not constantly obsessed with finding food and avoiding frostbite now had the luxury of reflecting on their situation. Thus there was a higher incidence of emotional disturbance, depression, and misbehavior. I guess when you are just trying to survive, you have no resources for experiencing life at any other level.

I often say that I have First-World problems. My "bad" day involves a messed-up train schedule or a blossoming sinus infection or a dangerously low bank balance. I have good problems such as writer's block or a boring workday. Sometimes I think that I get depressed because I have the luxury of sitting around and thinking about myself too much. Clinical depression is a condition of physiological as well as psychological imbalance, and I respect the seriousness of it. I'm just not at all sure that my frequent (some days I would say constant) state of depression is really that. It can be a dangerous thing to go deep into one's life. Perhaps some days it's better to live in an intentionally shallow and appetite-driven way.

My work life for just about all of my adult life has revolved around people's spiritual welfare. If I was not teaching ESL in a mission school overseas I was trying to help teenagers appreciate the art and joy of music. Since those early days, my only job has been editing books for the religion market. Is it healthy to be in that diving-down-into-the-soul place all the time? Honestly, it can become a weariness to think about divine life day in and day out. No wonder I've taken up knitting and watching too much television. I would probably drink more except that alcoholic intake exceeding two drinks makes me sick, puts me to sleep, and depresses me further still. I have used food to break up the monotony of trying to live with meaning and purpose, but that adds pounds to my hips and thighs, and let's not even go to the body-image region of depressive episodes.

While complaining about the constant badgering of a purposeful life, I know that I wouldn't last five minutes in a life that did not dive regularly into that deep-down inner place of eternal something-or-other. I'm just not built for a trivial sort of existence, even when I act, speak, and think in trivial ways. Temperament-wise, I have always needed to reflect and communicate.

Life circumstances have also pushed me toward the more contemplative life. There were no babies and small children to distract me for days at a time and prevent prayer or spiritual reading and other interior activities. I married an introvert, which makes for a comfortable life when you, yourself, are an introvert, but it also enables some of the introvert's less healthy habits, such as sitting at home rather than being engaged with life "out there" at least sometimes. We are polite introverts, so we do ask each other, "How are you?" and mean it, but of course we never press for an answer, and there are times when you need an extravert in the room to yank you into a standing position and interrogate you until you finally say out loud what's really going on in that damned deep-down region of meaning.

The mystics tell us that everything we're looking for is already here, and much of the time "here" means that personal interior place where God speaks and you listen, where you look and God hides. But it's a frustrating, devastating day when you dwell in that interior place of wonder and divine wisdom and discover that there's a lot of emptiness in there, too, And it can be an echo chamber that blasts your own stupid thoughts back to you. The deep-down place isn't enough. In fact, sometimes it's too much.

So here's the mystery. Without the diving-down practices of reflection, contemplation, prayer, and conversation, life is reduced to finding the food and staying warm. But it seems that the diving down needs a countermove, and that countermove should probably be a practice, something we do regularly. How do we break the surface? What does a good eruption look like--you know, the kind of bursting forth that releases the pent-up energies of prayer and love?