“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…

When Jesus had entered Capernaum, a centurion came to him, asking for help. “Lord,” he said, “my servant lies at home paralyzed and in terrible suffering.”  Jesus said to him, “I will go and heal him.”  The centurion replied, “Lord, I do not deserve to have you come under my roof. But just say the word, and my servant will be healed. For I myself am a man under authority, with soldiers under me. I tell this one, ‘Go,’ and he goes; and that one, ‘Come,’ and he comes… (Matthew 8:5-8)

There are many things about this section of scripture that make me squeamish.  In principle, I dislike charges of absolute authority, even as they are ascribed to the human incarnation of an omnipotent God.  I am especially uncomfortable with authority analogies related to the military, or any other institutions that employ violence as a means of enforcement, for that matter.  There is something about the centurion’s claim of unworthiness that gets me, too.  Perhaps I’ve seen too many well-intentioned Christians transform “humility” into unproductive guilt.

Despite all this, I cling to that declaration: But just say the word, and my servant will be healed.

This man knew the power of a word.

Jesus responded to the centurion, saying, “Go! It will be done just as you believed it would!” I’d like to believe that “Go” was the word with all that power.  I want to believe that because it is often the smallest words that heal me.  Last semester I took a seminar that required students to circulate written reflections on the assigned readings before class. While reading the first reflection paper of the semester, written by male student, I was touched by the care with which he employed one little word. “When one does this, she experiences that…” Every non-specific pronoun he utilized in the essay was gendered female—a stark contrast to the ubiquitous male-gendered pronouns that filled the theological texts we studied all semester. With that little word—“she”—this colleague extended a powerful message: language so often excludes people of your gender, and I am invested in changing that.  This gesture brought a little bit of healing.

Big words and long phrases have power, too.  I keep a stack of blank note cards next to my bed; you will find me frantically reaching for them while reading Nouwen, Teresa of Avila, and Foucault when I have come across a line or a paragraph too precious to forget.  I scribble them down and pin them to the bulletin board hanging on my bedroom wall where they remind me that so many others out there share the truths that I have unearthed in this short life. These are healing words because they remind me that I am not alone in my search for sense and meaning in my strange encounter with this world.

When I think of being “Christlike,” I dream of bringing words that heal.  This is how I make sense of a life of so many books and computer screens. I am searching for the Word.  The Word that heals.

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—

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.

Mémorial is Pascal’s cryptic account of the two-hour mystical vision he experienced one night at age 31. “Fire” begins the montage of parsed phrases, utterings of fear, wonder, reverence, and conviction. Pascal had the text sown into the lining of his clothes, which is where the account was discovered upon his death.  Perhaps he brought it with him because he could not escape it.  I have often found that if you listen closely, you can hear his heart racing between the words on the page.

Sometimes when I am sitting in the library here at school, I look out the large windows at the burning trees, and I think of Annie Dillard.  In one of her essays she describes a moth flirting with the flame of a candle, irresistibly circling its blazing wick.  The moth moves closer and closer, until it is too close; the fire consumes it.  The moth is burning, but it has become the wick of the flame it so desires.  Then my gaze returns to the book over which I hover. Fire.

It isn’t strange to me that God spoke to Moses through a burning bush. Aren’t we all met with moments of fire? “I will go over and see this strange sight—why the bush does not burn up,” concluded Moses when he saw it (Exodus 3:3).  There are moments of fire that capture us so much that we cannot cease returning to them.  They are people, and experiences, and visions we must circle around; we must return to them. We must sow them into our clothes.  We must give ourselves to them even if they consume us. Fire.

Fire.

Oh, God help me, daughters, how many souls must have been made to suffer great loss in this way by the devil!  These souls think that all such fears stem from humility…The fears come from ourselves, for this lack of freedom from ourselves, and even more, is what can be feared.” –Teresa of Avila, from The Interior Castle

There is a class at Harvard in which all MDiv students (those earning degrees in preparation for ministry) must recount their “spiritual autobiography” for those in the class. I’m told this process of vulnerable sharing, listening, and exchanging feedback can take many class sessions. Yesterday a friend told me about his recent experience of presenting his autobiography, wherein he admitted to his classmates that he is unsure about whether ordained ministry is actually what he pursue upon the completion of his degree.

“Well, would that ministry utilize your gifts?” they responded, “What are your gifts?”

My friend said he hesitated in his response. He felt uncomfortable claiming the (many, really extraordinary) gifts that he possesses. He said this felt out of character, and counter-cultural to both his faith community and the decorum of where he was raised.

Although the two of us come from different hometowns and denominational traditions, I imagine myself responding similarly was I placed in his position.  I, too, experience the tension between a sense of real, genuine humility, on one hand, and the importance of recognizing one’s skills for discernment and effective ministry, on the other.

Recently, I have not only been confronted with this tension in my friend’s story, but also in the writing of Teresa of Avila.  The professor who assigned her book, The Interior Castle, for this week’s reading warned the class:  “Teresa has an extreme tendency toward self-deprecation—it can be quite disturbing, but just push through!”  Sure enough, within the first few pages of the book she had already made it quite clear to the reader that she, herself, is useless, and only writes out of obedience to God and her monastic order.

As I have read on, however, it has become clear that Teresa was blessed with extraordinary gifts, as a mystic and as a communicator of those experiences for the betterment of others.  Even as she communicated an extreme, self-deprecating humility, she must have written out of an undeniable knowledge of her giftedness. This is evident in one of her rather ironic warnings against the danger of a false sense of self-knowledge:

If we are always fixed on our earthly misery, the stream will never flow free from the mud of fears, faintheartedness, and cowardice. I would be looking to see if I’m being watched or not; if by taking this path things will turn out badly for me; whether it might be pride to dare to begin a certain work; whether it would be good for a person so miserable to engage in something so lofty as prayer; whether I might be judged better than others if I don’t follow the path they all do.  I’d be thinking that extremes are not good, even in the practice of virtue; that, since I am such a sinner, I might be a greater fall; that perhaps I would not advance and would do harm to good people; that someone like myself has no need of special things…Oh, God help me, daughters, how many souls must have been made to suffer great loss in this way by the devil!  These souls think that all such fears stem from humility…The fears come from ourselves, for this lack of freedom from ourselves, and even more, is what can be feared. So I say, daughters, that we should set our eyes on Christ, our Good, and on His Saints.  There we shall learn true humility, the intellect will be enhanced, as I have said, and self-knowledge will not make once based and cowardly.

Like Teresa, I realize that every person is blessed with unique gifts, and that I should celebrate this by sharing my gifts with others rather than letting fear and false humilities get in the way.  The kind of humility that Teresa implores (perhaps in a self-directed message!) is a humility that does not deny giftedness.  It acknowledges God, and it acknowledges the giftedness of others, but it does not prevent one from the sense of peace and joy that comes with doing what one is really good at!

How can I foster this sort of life-giving humility? How can I let go of the false, fear-inducing humility that so easily distracts me from my gifts? And how can I help others do the same?

Image from http://dailyoffice.files.wordpress.com/2009/10/stteresa-ecstasyof-gianlorenzobernini-500.jpg