Day 4: The Emergency Room

But first, a few more thoughts on fasting...

What's the point?  I mean, I believe there's some point, but I have mixed feelings about what that point might be.  Is it an attempt to empathize?  An act of solidarity?  With whom?  Where do we draw the line between self-imposed discomfort for the sake of "growth" and self-indulgent delusions that we might understand another's suffering?

What about the line between choosing challenges and tending to our needs?  Like a flight attendant, my pastoral care professor often reminds us that we must apply our own oxygen masks before attending to others.  But how much oxygen is enough?  At what point do we stop sucking down our filtered air and reach across the aisle?  Is it senseless to choose challenges that lack concrete outcomes when we will face plenty without our consent?

And finally, Lent (and the Christian tradition, really) offers so much space for reflection on Jesus' pain and suffering, but what about Jesus' joy?  Jesus delights when the lost are found and the blind can see, both of which are beautiful images of God's kingdom come.  The bible is ripe with examples of Jesus' love of justice and mercy, but what about Jesus' delight in being incarnate?  Sure, our bodies are fragile and our relationships imperfect, but what did Jesus love about his physical being?  Did he enjoy his favorite foods?  Dance all night?  Make love?  Maybe I just need to take a New Testament class, but I wonder...

Ok, so maybe more unanswered questions than thoughts, but I'll keep chewing on them.
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This morning, I drove 20 minutes towards downtown to Grady Memorial Hospital.   Grady has one of the nation's top stroke and trauma treatment centers, and it's also the go-to place for those without medical insurance. I didn't go for treatment, but for a preaching class assignment.  Each week, I've been instructed to visit a different site in search of hopeful glimpses of God at work.  Based on each visit, I've written a parable: a brief, unexpected, ambiguous descriptor of the ways in which heaven is manifest on earth.  Without any disclaimers, here's what I saw today:

The kingdom of God is like the emergency room nurse who nudges a sleeping man in a heavy, faded coat.  "Sir, the doctor will see you now," she says, and his eyes tug reluctantly open.  He's awake.  She helps him up, sends him down the hallway, and turns towards the curious seminary students, who are seated in the corner, trying to blend in.  Her face wears an expression of protective frustration.  "Did you get permission to be here?" she asks, "What gives you the right to observe my patients?"  Suddenly, I was awake too.


Plus a few parables from earlier in the semester:

The kingdom of God is like a woman sampling freshly baked breads.  Raising a toothpick over the abundant platters of challah, focaccia, and Jamaican hard dough, her mouth waters.  She is ready to eat, but before she does, she looks first to the other customers, then to the employee offering samples, and asks, “Which one of these is good?”  At first, it doesn’t seem as though the employee has understood, but then she smiles and responds in an accent that lilts like her native Amharic, “Taste them all.”

The kingdom of God is like the choral exhibit on the top floor of the art museum.  Its sound echoes vaguely across three floors, where visitors discuss cold marble statues and antebellum bureaus in hushed tones.  Then, those visitors ascend once more, and the elevator doors open onto a clean, white space saturated with 40 resonant voices.  Each visitor’s face sings for joy and astonishment.  At last, they discern the lyrics.

The kingdom of God is like a room filled with towers of boxes, each one marked with the big green letters T-E-A.  Just when you think you know what to expect, your gaze shifts to the wall, where someone has written a single word in careful script on an otherwise unremarkable sign: coffee.

The kingdom of God is like a man who comes to the shallow water’s edge with a bucket that he hopes to fill with fish.  Three times, he casts his line, waits patiently, senses a tug, reels it in, and finds his hook empty.  On the fourth attempt, he draws his line with unabated eagerness, squints in momentary confusion, and then chuckles to himself as he frees an awe-struck guppy from the metallic grip.

The kingdom of God is like trying to put a 3-year-old down for his afternoon nap.  As you carry him up the stairs, he tearfully insists that he isn’t tired.  Not quite believing him, you lay him on his bed, choose a book, and begin reading.  Slowly, the tears dissolve, leaving only a faint trail of salt on his cheeks, and his eyes curiously scan the illustrated words before you.  He curls closer.  His breathing deepens.  And as you turn the last page, he left foot twitches in slumbering gratitude for an hour of deep rest.

Days 2-3: Fasting

Two days, two fasts.  On Wednesday night, I turned my cell phone and laptop off and put them in my desk drawer, where they stayed for 24 hours.  Already, I'm finding that the tasks I most adamantly avoid are the ones I most ought to complete.  The past weeks have been filled with phone calls and e-mails, as I've submitted applications and negotiated job opportunities for the coming year.  Aware that I might receive a time-sensitive response, I was anxious about abandoning my technology.  It felt irresponsible, even counter-cultural, given the immediacy with which people expect replies, but my professional prospects weren't going to collapse in a day.  I took a deep breath.  The influx of communication could and did wait.

I expected to feel anxious about the severed contact, but some other outcomes surprised me.  I got a little lost without my GPS.  I couldn't check the temperature before going outside.  I didn't know how many minutes remained in class.  Mostly, though, it was quiet.  Really quiet.  And I was surprised by how uncomfortable the quiet made me!  After all, you don't spend your 22nd birthday in silence unless you really, really love it.  But this year, as I've adjusted to living alone, technology has often kept me company.  From my Beyoncé-blasting alarm clock to Judy Woodruff's news reporting to a running stream of 7+ podcasts to the music that fuels my workouts, it's rare that I'm immersed in total silence.  How often do I create space to listen to that still, small, sometimes disconcerting voice of God?  Maybe I ought to make room for more uncomfortable silence in the days to come.

Today's fast was technically physical--I consumed only water and tea--but my hunger rumbled from places far deeper than my stomach.  At 9 AM, I hungered for justice, as I passed those who had slept on empty stomachs and frigid concrete in downtown Atlanta, where I volunteer each week.  During midday chapel, I hungered for the bread and wine, which represent Christ's sacrifice and enduring presence, and for a table big enough to welcome all people.  By dinner, I was just plain hungry (or maybe I mean hangry?).  I was literally hungry and running on the fumes of low blood sugar, but I also hungered for the community that forms around shared meals.  I broke bread and my fast with dozens of prospective students who are discerning whether Columbia is a good fit for them.  As I listened to various community members share their stories from this place, I felt fortunate to feed on its depth of care and opportunity.

For many, Lent is a season of continuous fasting.  "What are you giving up for Lent?" has become a common refrain as people place their bad habits on the seasonal chopping block.  It seems like the perfect follow-up to last month's New Year's resolutions.  It's a 40-day plan to cut the sugar and up the exercise, and if we're disciplined enough, maybe we'll rock that swimsuit by Easter break.  To be fair, resisting our temptations is tough and often necessary, but what if it's not so much about clearing one thing as it is about making room for another?  What feast awaits us after the famine?  In freeing ourselves from our obsession with the finite and our indifference toward the hungry, might we find space for deeply filling love?  In losing something of ourselves, might we be made whole?

"Let all who are thirsty come.  Let all who wish receive the water of life freely.  Amen.  Come, Lord Jesus."  --Taizé Community, France

Day 1: Bringing Back the Blog

Nearly two years after my last post, I'm resurrecting a blog that I originally only intended for sharing my experiences in Jordan and Morocco.  Since then, a few things have happened.  I spent a life-changing summer in Charlotte, wrapped up one last year at Davidson College, gardened in France, and began classes at Columbia Theological Seminary in Decatur, Georgia.

Anyway, I'm not writing to detail the events of the last 22 months, but to share experiences and reflections on the upcoming season of Lent.  Last year, I made a resolution to give up fear.  Why fear?  Why not dessert or Facebook?  Well, for one, middle school Julia did that a few times.  I'm sure it's a fruitful spiritual discipline for some, but it mostly just made me hungry for cake.

Lent is a season of preparation, when we're invited to reflect on what keeps us from loving God and our neighbors with our whole selves.  What keeps us from loving?  Is it possible that the opposite of love is not hatred, but fear?  After all, I haven't met many genuinely hateful individuals--though, tragically, recent news seems to be filled with them--but we're all afraid.  We fear heights and snakes, those who are different from us and those who can break our hearts.  We are afraid, and our fear keeps us from being vulnerable.  But in order to love ourselves, others, and God, vulnerability is essential.  Scary and uncomfortable, probably, but capable of creating the deep connection God desires for and with us.

So I tried giving up fear.  How nice.  What a perfect resolution for an idealist.  My effort may have sparked some emotional awareness, but it was a challenge to sustain and measure, an outcome most anyone could have predicted.

This year, in an effort to anchor that lofty dream in concrete practice, I've resolved to do something every day that scares me or makes me uncomfortable.  I'll only intentionally attempt one practice per day, but I hope that doing so will make me aware of other opportunities to choose fear, discomfort, vulnerability, and love.  I'm making a list of practices that will stretch me spiritually, emotionally, physically, and mentally, and I welcome your suggestions!  I expect that the conversations I have with others about fear will be at least as valuable as anything I personally do.

So here goes my first practice: I'm sharing my blog.  Lent begins today, and publishing reflections on my fears makes me anxious, especially when they pertain to my faith.  I'm both understanding of the assumptions people make about Christians and sensitive to way they might apply such assumptions to me.  Since sharing my decision to attend seminary, I've received a range of reactions.  Thankfully, most have been supportive, but others have wondered whether I fear the church's judgment (not really), whether I still drink beer (absolutely yes), and whether I've memorized the bible yet (ha!).  For fear of these assumptions, I've tended to be selectively vocal about my faith.  As I grow, I hope I can more boldly share my vision of God's just and loving world...a world that belongs to all people...a world in which the prisoners are released, the blind recover their sight, and the oppressed are liberated.  Maybe this blog is practice to share that good news.  Maybe it's a forum for 40 days of storytelling.  Maybe I'll update it daily, or maybe less frequently.  At this point, I can't say for certain how it will unfold, but I invite you to follow and reflect with me.

Prayer candles at the Rouen Cathedral in France, June 2014