Last summer while studying French, I learned that the word “essay” is an adaptation of the French verb, “essayer.”  Plainly, “essayer” means “to try.”  An essay–a try.  These linguistic connections are some of the simple pleasures of language study: with the acquisition of a single foreign word, even the most native term can take on a whole new depth of meaning.  An essay–a try.  It made so much sense to me.

And I think it resonated with me because of the creative process that Gilbert described.  When I sit down to write, I am trying–trying to write well, yes–but really, truly, I am trying to be open to that something else…that something “given” that Gilbert describes as inspiration.  In that sense, I am trying not to write at all.  The best stuff on the page doesn’t originate from within me. It hits me, smack in the head, while I’m mid-way through a sentence at my keyboard. I can feel that it arrives from a different place.  From where?

Theologian Gordon Kaufman describes God as Creativity.  I’m not sure it’s God, but I do think, whatever it is, it helps me to believe in God.  There is something deeply sacramental about this experience within the writing process: in the relationship between a writer and her words, something good and beyond interrupts.  Mystery interrupts what is otherwise mundane and laborious. Isn’t that precisely the experience of the world the compels me toward the Divine?

It is the end of finals here at Harvard–and the completion of my Master’s degree, at that. And this is the time of every semester when we find ourselves asking, “Why do we do this to ourselves?” All the pressure, all the essays, ALL the essays.  Still, I keep trying and trying and trying–because, when I ask myself “Why do I do this? WHY do I do this?” I realize I am still waiting, crazy like Elizabeth Gilbert, for the mystery to interrupt. I want to keep waiting, to keep writing. An essay–a try.

“Yes I have heard!” said the other woman. “You’re entering the battle ground!” she exclaimed. “I’ve heard what the bishops have done to Elizabeth Johnson at Fordham.” She was referring to the recent negative statement from the US Conference of Catholic Bishops concerning the work of Prof. Johnson, one of the leading Catholic feminist theologians of our time.  Although much of the theological world has dismissed the legitimacy of any and all of these claims made by the USCCB, the statement has stirred a great deal of controversy nevertheless.

“There is still hope, though!” the first woman replied. Still hope for the future of feminist theology in this church.

“Really?”said the other.

“Yes, yes, there must be! We must hope.” Hope.

Dr. Kiran Martin

Once we found our seats the event moderator introduced Dr. Kiran Martin, the founder of Asha India, an organization in Delhi committed to transforming the lives of the 1/3 of Dehli’s population living in the urban slums. Dr. Martin recounted her story: As a young medical student, she decided to visit Delhi’s urban slums; despite living in the city her whole life, she had never visited these areas in her city.  There, she found herself amid a cholera outbreak and felt compelled to offer her medical services to the sick children there. Once she established regular medical services in these communities, she realized they needed housing renovations. Once those began,  she realized they needed property rights.  Then, she realized they needed opportunities for higher education, and so on.

What began with a single woman, offering what she could for the betterment of a community in need, has resulted in a large, holistic, and exceptionally influential NGO that works with some of the poorest of the global poor.

“Asha,” she told us, “is Hindi for ‘hope.’”  She had called her life’s work, “Hope.”

If this woman, with this monumental mission, can call this work, “Hope,” then perhaps I can claim it for my small work, too. Perhaps I, too, can be one woman, merely offering what I can for the betterment of one community. Perhaps that is how hope can survive, maybe even thrive, in the day to day.

Now, I am reading Pascal’s Mémorial in French, a language that only months ago was foreign sounds and odd vowel clusters. Ton DIEU sera mon Dieu. Is it different now, in another language, in a different time?

I walk closer, and I wonder to myself, “How is it that the leaves of this tree burn in such a familiar way? And yet, I have never seen this one before.”  Do all trees whisper, “Fire”?  Am I drawn again, and again, to their flames? Or, is the fire, this captivating wonder, within me, yet I only recognize it when when the leaves turn?

Could it be that the fire of God did not descend upon Pascal that night, but rather it was the moment he first realized it was always, already – there - within him? Je m’en suis séparé…Je m’en suis séparé; je l’ai fui, renoncé, crucifié…Que je n’en sois pas séparé éternellement…Oubli du monde et de tout, hormis DIEU.

Fire.

You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to hold hands with the Beautiful One.
You have waltzed with great style,
My sweet, crushed angel,
To have ever neared God’s Heart at all.
Our Partner is notoriously difficult to follow,
And even His best musicians are not always easy to hear.
So what if the music has stopped for a while.
So what
If the price of admission to the Divine
Is out of reach tonight…

…Have patience,
For He will not be able to resist your longing
For long.
You have not danced so badly, my dear,
Trying to kiss the Beautiful One.
You have actually waltzed with tremendous style,
O my sweet,
O my sweet, crushed angel.

-Hafiz

My friend Chuck and I meet once a week to study for the GRE.  We know we wouldn’t glance at a single analogy this summer without the accountability.  Even then, our plans to plow through a few more drills during our time together are inevitably amended for the sake of rousing discussion about theology and our vocations as educator-artist-theologians.

Last week we were musing about good theology–about the nature of it, the courage and creativity of it. I confessed to him how badly I crave to write something honest and beautiful like our favorite scholars and theologians.  Like Foucault, or Simone Weil.

“There are these rare moments of ecstasy when I’m playing with my band–” Chuck told me. He is a musician, and you would know it by hearing him mention a few words on the subject; you can hear it in the reverent tone of his voice. “These moments of beauty and ecstasy–I think they’re like the beauty of theology you’re talking about.” I nodded, encouraging him. “When I’m with my band I can’t force that, you know? It’s a combination of too many things–it’s the way the musicians are playing together that night, it’s the space, it’s the crowd and their chemistry with us.”

Remembering the rush of a great concert, I affirmed, “Yes, that’s what I want, and I know it is about more than just me. When I write I am working so hard, but God doesn’t always show up, ya know?  That energy and beauty doesn’t always come.”  I paused, and then confided to him, “We’ve been working on these applications to doctoral programs, Chuck, and I feel like there is so much riding on this performance. It’s like a show with an audience full of the most brilliant musicians, all of them scrutinizing you, expecting to witness greatness…”

“I’ve been at shows when the ecstasy didn’t come.  When the performance never reached that perfection,”  he told me. “But you know, I could tell how much the band wanted it. And sometimes that’s enough for a great show. It’s not the ultimate; it not ecstasy, but sometimes it’s enough for audience to just witness that hunger within you.”

Hafiz says that even when we do not dance so badly, and even when we waltz with tremendous style, God does not always appear there on the dance floor. This does not mean that God is not watching the beautiful dance, I am sure. “So what?” Hafiz says, writing so affectionately of this angel as she dances. So what? So what?  Perhaps the performance can be beautiful, even as her partner still pauses at the edge of the dance floor.

Perhaps I can create something beautiful, whether or not perfection takes me for a waltz today…

Photo by Justin Knight

Amid these long days curled over my laptop and yellow-paged library books, I have been stepping out into the fresh air for a walk on the Labyrinth.  The white-stoned, circular meditation walk rests on the edge of a grassy lawn across from the entrance of Andover, Harvard’s theology library.  The Labyrinth is warm from many hours under the sun, so I often take off my shoes to feel the heat radiating from the stone.  Sometimes my shoes feel as confining as the walls of the wooden study carol where I have been writing my final papers all week. The labyrinth winds back and forth from beginning to end, and no matter how many times I walk it, I find myself feeling directionless there; that’s part of what makes it effective, I think.  All I can do is look down at the path carved out in the stone, place one foot in front of the other, and follow the path in front of me.

During my second week at Harvard, I sat down for dinner with one of my mentors and I confessed my excitement and anxiety about the year ahead.  I had no doubt that I did not want to be anywhere but HDS; I already loved my classes and professors, and my peers were brilliant and fascinating. Still, I worried that I could not live up to the opportunity.  What if I’m what this place expects?  What if they don’t like my ideas, or my approach?  “Just give yourself to this process!” he reassured me.  “This is amazing!  I’m so excited for you!  Just give yourself to this process…”  I’ve repeated these words a thousand times this year.

On the days when I am particularly anxious, I look up in the midst of my labyrinth walk, and I am startled, “Have I moved at all?” This is a ridiculous question, of course.  I’ve been walking for the last five minutes. Yet, really and truly, there are moments when I look up at all the turns of this winding circular path and I wonder this.  I don’t have the patience for it.  I ache for a reminder of progress!  But all that’s there is another corner to pivot—a corner that looks just like the one I passed five paces ago. I want a reminder of progress!  And then—I remind myself that that is not the point.

People often ask me if I picture myself doing something other than theology in the future. Typically, I reply with something like, “Well, I’m old enough to know that life cannot be planned.  So, I try to remain open.  But right now, I really see myself moving in the direction of theology.”  For some reason I do not tell them about the moment earlier this year when I was sitting at my kitchen table with my roommate, Sarah.  It was one of those anxious days, one when I was doubting myself again.  She asked me that question about the possibility of doing something else, and I started to cry when I told her the complete truth, saying, “I don’t know what else I could possibly do…” It is not that I could not find employment, and even satisfaction, in any number of other careers. No. The truth is that I feel so deeply that this is what I am called to do, for myself and for my community, that even on the hard days I cannot see myself working toward anything else.  And sometimes the calling frightens me. But it is always there, and it is so much mine that I can’t imagine leaving it.

The panicked, directionless moments are so often an occasion for reminding myself that I am moving, and that I’m exactly where I need to be. “Just give yourself to this process,” I tell myself. “One step at a time.  One step.  One step,” I tell myself again.  When I confront my doubt with the truth of my call, I remember all the moments of epiphany this year—all the moments when I have felt more free than I ever have before—more myself, and more with God, and more with and for my people than I could have ever imagined.

The stone is warm under the soles of my feet, and I lean forward to take another step—

A woman said this to Karen during her recent trip to Honduras. Along with a group of students from Harvard Divinity School, Karen was there to learn from the women of this rural Honduran community whose lives are plagued by rape and murder.  She had proposed a moment of silence to initiate the gathering of local women and foreign students that day, but she learned there was no more tolerance for silence in this community.  For too long violence and abuse has been hushed.

So they clapped.

Increasingly, I am aware of how silence shapes my formation as a young Catholic theologian.  Beginning with my early undergraduate years, I was schooled in the politics of Catholic speech: there are theological statements—even questions—that one simply cannot ask before certain audiences.   Over the years, however, I have learned that with meticulous care, one can find ways to articulate these inquiries in a language that veils its hints of potential “uncertainty” or “disagreement.”  If I break this decorum of speech, even in the nascent phases of my theological career, I fear it may cost me a professorship or a ministry job. I can already name numerous theologians and ministers for whom this is the case.

It is unsettling to recognize the many ways in which I must privately silence myself for the sake of avoiding potential silencing from others.  What kind of theology can happen in this environment? Can I produce relevant theology when I often feel that I cannot outwardly address the probing, courageous questions of my community?  Maybe once I’m tenured.  Can these questions wait twenty years?

For years, the unfolding public recognition of the Church’s orchestrated silencing of clerical sexual abuse victims has shaped my life as a Catholic.  These clergymen stood up and spoke before their congregations week and week—year after year—while their victims sat silently in the pews.  Yesterday in a report on Pope Benedict’s Palm Sunday Homily, the New York Times analyzed what sounded like an implicit response to critics who implicate his guilt in the European abuse scandals.  Granted, the Times reads between the lines of the Pope’s homily, but in the context of his public indictment, his words strike me as a clear attempt to hush his critics: “The pontiff said faith in God helps lead one ‘towards the courage of not allowing oneself to be intimidated by the petty gossip of dominant opinion.’” The silence continues–and I continue to wonder what kinds of faith development, worship, or social justice work can happen in a church of whispers and hushed voices.

How can a young theologian, situated within her own matrix of silence, speak out against the perpetual silencing that enabled—and continues to enable—the grave injustice of the global clerical abuse crisis and its mismanagement at seemingly every level of church leadership?  My silencing—as a woman, as a lay person, as a theologian and minister—will never amount to the painful silence imposed upon so many abuse victims in our church.  Breaking my silence will not cost me nearly as much either.

I do not know how to speak to our Church right now. In fact, these days I find myself so hurt and angry words feel useless for articulating the magnitude of our situation.  But I know there must be noise. “We don’t need a moment of silence.  There has been too much silence already.”  There must be noise.

Perhaps on Good Friday when I approach the cross of Christ’s suffering with our suffering, there will be no moment of silence.  Perhaps I will do as Jesus did—I will shout. “God, why?”

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/42304632@N00/351678683/

After describing the details of a rigorous seminar course on prayer she had completed early that month, she said, “You know, I came out with a lot of doubts about whether God works in the world the way we often think God does.  But I do think that God moves in people.”

A poet friend of mine once described the different types of poems she writes.  She identified one kind by describing a visit to a museum when she found herself standing before this particular painting, staring and staring, simply captivated by it at the deepest parts of herself.  She couldn’t walk away.  She had to write a poem about this surprising moment of wonder that simply grabbed her.  She writes these poems about simple, startling moments.  I think God moves in people.

The more theology and philosophy I study, the more confused I am about the Infinite working in the finite. I’m reading Karl Barth and at the moment he is trying to convince me that in my human limitation I do not know God from within.  He says something like, human beings cannot know this wholly-Other God but through the revelation of scripture and the Church.  What to say?  I do not have convincing words for responding to this brilliant theologian at the moment.

But I have wonder:  I have these moments when God moves in me.  And in these moments the finite world may be simply what it is, but something in me is different.  The wonder persists beyond the limits of what I can explain with my rigorous reasoning right now.  I’ll keep trying to put words to it.

Image from http://www.flickr.com/photos/l-dogg/2558482751/

Scruples literally means “an uneasy feeling arising from conscience or principle that tends to hinder action,” or “a doubt or hesitation as to what is morally right in a certain situation.”  In the context of religion, where I have most commonly encountered the the term, scruples describes the plaguing skepticism surrounding one’s eternal salvation, particularly as it relates to moral works.  Martin Luther, for instance, is said to have suffered from from a bad case of the scruples.  His struggle with scruples has been cited as a major impetus for some of the views that eventually led to the Protestant Reformation: because he was plagued by his perpetual inability to perfectly execute Christian moral teachings, he constantly worried that his moral imperfection would prevent him from attaining eternal salvation. Tortured by these scruples–this belief that one can never be assured of their salvation through moral works–Luther (along with a chorus of other Protestant Reformers) asserted that we are “justified” or “saved” by faith alone. (I must qualify that this is a very simple explanation for a really complicated moment in Christian history, but I hope you get my drift for the sake of my present aim).

You see, I have scruples. A different kind of scruples than Luther suffered from, however. I am currently suffering from a mean case of the academic scruples.  No matter how many hours I spend in the library, regardless of how rigorously I labor over an assignment, despite any grade I receive, I find myself anxiously wondering whether my works are good enough.  ”Good enough for what?” you  may ask.  Good enough for the type of impact I hope to make in my religious community. Good enough for the doctoral programs I dream of pursuing.  And sometimes, simply good enough to succeed in this degree program!

John Calvin, another big mover and shaker in the Protestant Reformation, wrote that since we can never know whether we are saved, one must live like she is predestined for eternal salvation (again, this is Coblentz’ current take on Calvin–I speak as a student not an expert). Only in believing that one is predestined for heaven can one gain the sense of liberty necessary for an anxiety-free, good-deed doing, God-serving life.  In other words, good works do not lead one to salvation; rather a belief in one’s salvation enables one the freedom of conscience to do good works.

I never thought I’d say this, but I think Calvin was on to something with this whole predestination thing–as it pertains to my present case of academic scruples, at least.  I keep telling myself that I need to study, write, and learn like I’m saved–like I am good enough already–like my works are not a means to an end, but an outpouring of where I am already.  Like my works are not a means to becoming a theologian, but an expression of the fact that I am a little theologian already. This wouldn’t mean, of course, that I don’t have much to learn and much improvement to gain.  In the meantime, though, it might liberate me for an anxiety-free, good-work doing, God-serving academic life.

Believing I’m saved might just save me.

And if there is one thing—one thing—I have learned in my two months at Harvard Divinity School, it is this: this whole inter-faith dialogue is easy talk and hard living.

Mind you, I came to Harvard Divinity School for inter-faith dialogue. Instead of attending a Catholic university—the natural choice for someone studying Catholic theology—I felt an unshakable tug toward this rare environment where I would have to give an account for my scholarship and faith tradition among those who would not share my assumptions and belief systems. I presumed this would be more like religion in the real world—as in our multi-religious, multi-denominational real world.   I also heard that being in diverse environments can lead one to recognize biases that would often go unnoticed if left unchallenged in settings full of like-minded people.

And my reasoning has proven itself true thus far: more than ever before, I am given daily opportunities to give account for my tradition, beliefs, and personal practices in a way that makes sense for people with varying degrees of familiarity with Catholicism. Concomitantly, I must face the assumptions that I take for granted about my faith when my peers and professors respond with, “Why?” or “How?” or sometimes, simply, “Huh?”

Amid all this, I’ve learned that it is a lot easier to talk about the logistics and importance of inter-faith dialogue (in its many forms—across denominational or religious divides), than it is to actually engage live in a situation where one must face it in every day life.  Constantly explaining one’s self to others while trying to earnestly consider their own unique religious identities and traditions—the inter-personal realities of living amid multi-faceted religious diversity are mentally and spiritually exhausting.

Although I came here to be in an environment “like the real world,” I’ve come to realize how religiously segregated my life “in the real world” has been, for the most part.  Most of us don’t discuss religion with people who have very different religious backgrounds on a day-to-day basis, right?  Most of my theological education has taken place among people who are Catholic or extremely familiar with (and generally sympathetic to) the tradition—I now know that played a huge factor in our discussions! What’s more, HDS also reminds me that it is difficult enough to learn to talk about religion among the people with whom one shares his/her tradition!  Really, a Catholic university presents a student with plenty of challenges concerning internal church dialogue.

So how will we learn to thrive in this situation? I keep asking myself this question. I keep asking my HDS friends this question.  There are days when I long for people who understand my unvoiced religious assumptions, who relate to my deep ineffable connection to my religion, or the strange ways that I negotiate my theological convictions within my tradition.  Having said that, I continue to engage the challenge presented by this inter-religious environment because, among some good things and a whole lot of struggles, there are small moments of dialogue when I recognize my friends’ love for their respective traditions, and it’s not threatening—it is familiar.  I may not recognize his/her tradition itself, but I recognize the mysterious devotion one possesses for it.  And there are moments when I feel really heard by someone as I describe my tradition, or deeply accompanied when someone attends my strange liturgy for the sake of gaining insight into who I am.

I think there’s something to this—to this whole loving people of different faiths and the subsequent presence of more productive dialogue.  We, world religions, need to become friends.  For when conversation takes place among friends, there is a different orientation to the subject at hand; it is one of companionship in difference. It is hard living, but with love.  How can we learn to do this better?