So I'm still thinking about Full of Grace -- maybe I do recommend it? If I"m still thinking about it? -- but the idea of St. Peter struggling to be the rock on which Jesus built His church is...compelling. Because I feel a similar call on an infinitely less grand scale.
I'm the foundation of the theatre program at the school where I teach. I'm the only faculty member involved with any consistency at all, I make the bulk of the decisions and particularly the day-to-day ones (grand vision being something approved by my bosses in the school proper), and I try to be the steadying presence in a room full of teenagers.
It's a hell of a thing to try to be. The steady rock that others can build from. The foundation beneath the feet of dreamers.
And I think a lot of the time it's being Ezekiel or John the Baptist -- the steady voice crying out for repentance to a world that doesn't want to hear it.
Oh don't get me wrong, it's also wonderful. I'm thanked WAY more often than we think about the foundation of our buildings. And I see the joy of others building on the steady rock I try to be.
But when there are 10,000 things to do and decisions to be made and standards to be set and YOU are the one who ultimately needs to ensure they all happen...that's a lot. And you're not always facing the happy, appreciative folk of closing night.
Hard of face and obstinate of heart. Or, put in a spirit that better first my almost always lovely but ambitious and rambunctious and challenging students, a "rebellious house." That's what a theatre program is. A rebellious house, hopefully built a strong foundation. I suppose that's what Israel is in the story of Ezekiel. Rebellious spirits, wonderful, challenging, stubborn, annoying, bad listeners with a rock solid relationship with God beneath it all.
I'm not sure there's a lesson here today. I just pray that God gives me the strength to do my part well.
Wednesday, 28 March 2018
Tuesday, 27 March 2018
Messenger or Message
There's a movie called Full of Grace and I probably don't recommend it, because it's all shot in VERY dark shadows and moves very slowly...but more importantly, I do NOT know what's going on with it. I watched the first half today while subbing for the Camp Minister so she could go on the Senior Retreat.
But there is a moment, when Saint Peter goes to the Blessed Mary for help, unsure how to lead the early church (10 years in) and frustrated that the sects are quibbling about doctrine and that conspiracy theories and charlatans are sweeping through the ranks and sometimes helping recruitment. Because sometimes I worry human nature doesn't change.
Peter says that Jesus wanted His church built on a rock but wonders how he could possibly be a rock for this movement. The fictional version of Mary tells him, not actually addressing anything he's talking about (and not in the perpetual way TV and movie characters do where they speak needlessly in parables and metaphors), that she believes God turned our biggest weakness as humans into our biggest strength. We are never satisfied...He filled us with a longing that only He can satisfy.
It sounds so much better when she says it.
It's funny how I think this movie is kind of dumb -- or really dumb -- and SO depressingly and SLOWLY shot. But there's wisdom buried in it.
I wonder if that's true of everything. It's a fun game, actually, thinking of the least likely place to find the wisdom of God. You can get a lot further off the grid than a lousy movie made to appeal to the religious crowd, of course. But every time we are skeptical at the source of a piece of wisdom, at a sliver of God's light, we are just the people of Nazareth -- shocked the Messiah could be the kid who scraped his knees on their streets.
They call it the ad hominem attack in rhetorical nerd circles. The argument, the piece of wisdom, the message of God, rejected because of who says it. And every single time, it feels justified to the person doing it. They're just trying not to be a fool.
I think we worry about foolishness too much. We should worry about going deaf to the people who we think should be dumb -- because we don't get to decide where the light of God shines out or in whom. We ignore a lot of light trying to do so.
In closing, I'd just like to point out for the upteenth time on this blog (I'm pretty sure) that the second verse of Battle Hymn of the Republic is about seeing your enemy on the battlefield worshipping the same God as you and seeing God in those same worried watchfires.
It doesn't mean you don't go to battle if you believe it's right. But the Light of God is not yours, and you miss a lot not to see the light on their side.
But there is a moment, when Saint Peter goes to the Blessed Mary for help, unsure how to lead the early church (10 years in) and frustrated that the sects are quibbling about doctrine and that conspiracy theories and charlatans are sweeping through the ranks and sometimes helping recruitment. Because sometimes I worry human nature doesn't change.
Peter says that Jesus wanted His church built on a rock but wonders how he could possibly be a rock for this movement. The fictional version of Mary tells him, not actually addressing anything he's talking about (and not in the perpetual way TV and movie characters do where they speak needlessly in parables and metaphors), that she believes God turned our biggest weakness as humans into our biggest strength. We are never satisfied...He filled us with a longing that only He can satisfy.
It sounds so much better when she says it.
It's funny how I think this movie is kind of dumb -- or really dumb -- and SO depressingly and SLOWLY shot. But there's wisdom buried in it.
I wonder if that's true of everything. It's a fun game, actually, thinking of the least likely place to find the wisdom of God. You can get a lot further off the grid than a lousy movie made to appeal to the religious crowd, of course. But every time we are skeptical at the source of a piece of wisdom, at a sliver of God's light, we are just the people of Nazareth -- shocked the Messiah could be the kid who scraped his knees on their streets.
They call it the ad hominem attack in rhetorical nerd circles. The argument, the piece of wisdom, the message of God, rejected because of who says it. And every single time, it feels justified to the person doing it. They're just trying not to be a fool.
I think we worry about foolishness too much. We should worry about going deaf to the people who we think should be dumb -- because we don't get to decide where the light of God shines out or in whom. We ignore a lot of light trying to do so.
In closing, I'd just like to point out for the upteenth time on this blog (I'm pretty sure) that the second verse of Battle Hymn of the Republic is about seeing your enemy on the battlefield worshipping the same God as you and seeing God in those same worried watchfires.
It doesn't mean you don't go to battle if you believe it's right. But the Light of God is not yours, and you miss a lot not to see the light on their side.
I have seen Him in the watchfires of a hundred circling camps
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps
I can read His righteous sentence in the dim and flaring lamps
Our God is marching on.
Monday, 26 March 2018
Hard of Face, Not Obstinate of Heart
EZ 2
Perhaps it's inevitable, working in a high school, to think a lot about the fronts people put up. The people I spend most of my time with are so new to the idea. Their fronts are so clumsy and some of them still remember it's dishonest and should be unnecessary. Some of them object to doing so and are upset that the rest of the world finds this silly.
But I wonder how much of this warning to Ezekiel or the disgruntled chatter around Jesus in Nazareth was a matter of "hard of face" more than "obstinate of heart." Because we've made it so embarrassing to be sincere.
I even teach about that transition in Hollywood. From the super-sincere, emotional style of American Melodrama to the detached, cerebral, this-is-reality-not-sentiment Method Acting. Which pretends to be more authentic while being afraid of almost any positive emotion. Until we cloak love in irony, dramatic or comedic, and severely misunderstand just about every relationship in our pop culture.
Wouldn't it be humiliating to follow that kid from high school? In a political revolution? To a new spiritual experience?
How many cool points, how much status at work, would you lose instantly for standing there and being moved by what the prophet on the street corner was saying?
Are our hearts obstinate? Or are we just embarrassed to find them pliable? Are they growing more obstinate the more we harden our faces to keep people from being able to tell?
Perhaps it's inevitable, working in a high school, to think a lot about the fronts people put up. The people I spend most of my time with are so new to the idea. Their fronts are so clumsy and some of them still remember it's dishonest and should be unnecessary. Some of them object to doing so and are upset that the rest of the world finds this silly.
But I wonder how much of this warning to Ezekiel or the disgruntled chatter around Jesus in Nazareth was a matter of "hard of face" more than "obstinate of heart." Because we've made it so embarrassing to be sincere.
I even teach about that transition in Hollywood. From the super-sincere, emotional style of American Melodrama to the detached, cerebral, this-is-reality-not-sentiment Method Acting. Which pretends to be more authentic while being afraid of almost any positive emotion. Until we cloak love in irony, dramatic or comedic, and severely misunderstand just about every relationship in our pop culture.
Wouldn't it be humiliating to follow that kid from high school? In a political revolution? To a new spiritual experience?
How many cool points, how much status at work, would you lose instantly for standing there and being moved by what the prophet on the street corner was saying?
Are our hearts obstinate? Or are we just embarrassed to find them pliable? Are they growing more obstinate the more we harden our faces to keep people from being able to tell?
Sunday, 25 March 2018
"Nothing Good Comes From Nazareth"
Mk 6: 1-6
Jn 1: 23-26
I can't stop thinking about that little line, in the apostles recruting exchange in John 1 (and yes, I had to search up where it occurs). "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?" as a reason not to bother going to see the new hotshot potential Messiah your brother is enthralled by.
This reflection also owes a great deal to the new Queer Eye update put on by Netflix. I'm usually decidedly blase about make-over shows and I confess to being worried about stereotyping when I started watching on a friend's recommendation. But what I wasn't expecting was a string of thoroughly loving affirmations being thrown from a crew of lifestyle specialists who seem to genuinely and sincerely want to figure out why the men featured in each episode don't love themselves and how to make little changes to their lives to make them feel like they deserve good things. While not shying away from conversations that arise out of devout religious clients or cops who wear "Make America Great Again" caps and think a funny opening to the relationship is pulling over the black driver of the car on trumped up offense before the reveal.
But aside from gimmicks and outward transformations and a few really healing, if mostly surface-level, conversations across cultural lines, what struck me again and again was that the consultants were each determined to say over and over again to people, "No, you do deserve good things. You are love-able. In fact, we love you and want these good things for you."
And how ingrained it was in some of the clients that they didn't and weren't. That what they did wasn't all that important even when they were doing objectively awesome things with their lives.
How easy it is to get stuck into this little story of "You can't fix ugly" or "I'll lose everything if I act too gay" or "My life will never get better and that's fine."
And when I remembered that Nazareth has the reputation that even an apostle could barely get over, I wondered how much that played into their befuddled confusion that a hometown boy could possibly be the Son of God or even a more run of the mill prophet.
How many people in Nazareth consciously and deep in their subconscious where they couldn't touch it had accepted the idea that their town and therefore they and all their fellows were trash from which no good would ever come. And how impossible it can feel to break out of that. Especially when it's presented as someone remarkable coming out of their "shit town" after all. Because that's a challenge, not just to your way of seeing yourself, but now suddenly it's your fault again that everything is terrible.
How much easier it is to accept that you are not terrible after all -- and even then, it doesn't come easy. To see that someone else came out of the same situation wonderful?
But Jesus came, amongst so many other things, to tell us that our stories are never done. Mary Magdalene's seven demons weren't the end or even the defining moment of her life's story, however easy it would be to get trapped in something like that. Peter himself tells Jesus to leave him, a sinner and ordinary fisherman, to tend his boat and his family and his unremarkable life. James and John and their father can't believe they're asked to step away from the family business.
It's the kindest and the hardest thing you can say to someone. "No, something good can come out of Nazareth. And it can be you, if you want." They won't always thank you for it either. That's the reality show deception.
But it's good anyway. It's needed anyway. Even if they drive you out of town, like Ezekiel and Jesus himself. Because not everyone is ready to listen, but even those who don't have ears to hear might well remember someday. Sometimes we plant the seeds others will harvest.
Jn 1: 23-26
I can't stop thinking about that little line, in the apostles recruting exchange in John 1 (and yes, I had to search up where it occurs). "Can anything good come out of Nazareth?" as a reason not to bother going to see the new hotshot potential Messiah your brother is enthralled by.
This reflection also owes a great deal to the new Queer Eye update put on by Netflix. I'm usually decidedly blase about make-over shows and I confess to being worried about stereotyping when I started watching on a friend's recommendation. But what I wasn't expecting was a string of thoroughly loving affirmations being thrown from a crew of lifestyle specialists who seem to genuinely and sincerely want to figure out why the men featured in each episode don't love themselves and how to make little changes to their lives to make them feel like they deserve good things. While not shying away from conversations that arise out of devout religious clients or cops who wear "Make America Great Again" caps and think a funny opening to the relationship is pulling over the black driver of the car on trumped up offense before the reveal.
But aside from gimmicks and outward transformations and a few really healing, if mostly surface-level, conversations across cultural lines, what struck me again and again was that the consultants were each determined to say over and over again to people, "No, you do deserve good things. You are love-able. In fact, we love you and want these good things for you."
And how ingrained it was in some of the clients that they didn't and weren't. That what they did wasn't all that important even when they were doing objectively awesome things with their lives.
How easy it is to get stuck into this little story of "You can't fix ugly" or "I'll lose everything if I act too gay" or "My life will never get better and that's fine."
And when I remembered that Nazareth has the reputation that even an apostle could barely get over, I wondered how much that played into their befuddled confusion that a hometown boy could possibly be the Son of God or even a more run of the mill prophet.
How many people in Nazareth consciously and deep in their subconscious where they couldn't touch it had accepted the idea that their town and therefore they and all their fellows were trash from which no good would ever come. And how impossible it can feel to break out of that. Especially when it's presented as someone remarkable coming out of their "shit town" after all. Because that's a challenge, not just to your way of seeing yourself, but now suddenly it's your fault again that everything is terrible.
How much easier it is to accept that you are not terrible after all -- and even then, it doesn't come easy. To see that someone else came out of the same situation wonderful?
But Jesus came, amongst so many other things, to tell us that our stories are never done. Mary Magdalene's seven demons weren't the end or even the defining moment of her life's story, however easy it would be to get trapped in something like that. Peter himself tells Jesus to leave him, a sinner and ordinary fisherman, to tend his boat and his family and his unremarkable life. James and John and their father can't believe they're asked to step away from the family business.
It's the kindest and the hardest thing you can say to someone. "No, something good can come out of Nazareth. And it can be you, if you want." They won't always thank you for it either. That's the reality show deception.
But it's good anyway. It's needed anyway. Even if they drive you out of town, like Ezekiel and Jesus himself. Because not everyone is ready to listen, but even those who don't have ears to hear might well remember someday. Sometimes we plant the seeds others will harvest.
Saturday, 24 March 2018
Our Own Nazareth
Mark 6
Jesus's disappointment in Nazareth is surrounded by spectacular successes. In Mark 5 he heals the woman who stole a touch of his robe, and after Nazareth that becomes a runaway trend in every town he visits. Then he raises the young girl from the dead and asks no one to tell the story yet -- which doesn't prevent him from being mobbed by the crowd of 5,000 even in the desert place a chapter later. He even sends his disciples out on their own and they go. Mark 6 ends with the walking on water to his disciples scene -- two of his most famous miracles.
How much did He think of Nazareth, in those successful, stressful days afterward? How much should we?
This semester, all but one of my classes is going extraordinarily well. I'm torn between being puffed up with myself that I've finally figured this curriculum out...and realizing that I should really just enjoy the ride with these amazing students I've lucked into for the semester. Not that I'm not a good teacher all the time, but that it's so enjoyable when the whole class is interested in the subject and ready to participate and just...smart this semester.
Like I said, all but one. The one that, going in, I probably should have been best able to cater to. The one that I've had since last semester. The one that knows me best and what I have to offer and my shtick...has pretty much decided that it doesn't care and we'll endure each other until the end of the year.
I'm being dramatic, but my point is: how often do I think of my Nazareth?
The answer is obvious if I want to improve as a teacher. I have more to learn from trying to fix the class that's not working than from enjoying and personalizing the classes that are going swimmingly, right?
St. Paul would recognize the class as the thorn in my side keeping me from being too elated (2 Cor 12: 7-10), and tell me to be grateful too it. Lest I get cocky.
I think my mother would tell me not to dwell on the one failure in a string of successes unduly. Probably a good number of my friends too.
But how much are we meant to think of Nazareth? Amid the 5,000 throng? Walking across the water? Healing the sick?
Sending beloved disciples off on their own? Surely then we must think of Nazareth. Surely then we must worry over our failures.
When is it poisoning the well and when is it the needed deflation? When is it healthy to think of our own Nazareth? And when should we focus on the path ahead?
Jesus's disappointment in Nazareth is surrounded by spectacular successes. In Mark 5 he heals the woman who stole a touch of his robe, and after Nazareth that becomes a runaway trend in every town he visits. Then he raises the young girl from the dead and asks no one to tell the story yet -- which doesn't prevent him from being mobbed by the crowd of 5,000 even in the desert place a chapter later. He even sends his disciples out on their own and they go. Mark 6 ends with the walking on water to his disciples scene -- two of his most famous miracles.
How much did He think of Nazareth, in those successful, stressful days afterward? How much should we?
This semester, all but one of my classes is going extraordinarily well. I'm torn between being puffed up with myself that I've finally figured this curriculum out...and realizing that I should really just enjoy the ride with these amazing students I've lucked into for the semester. Not that I'm not a good teacher all the time, but that it's so enjoyable when the whole class is interested in the subject and ready to participate and just...smart this semester.
Like I said, all but one. The one that, going in, I probably should have been best able to cater to. The one that I've had since last semester. The one that knows me best and what I have to offer and my shtick...has pretty much decided that it doesn't care and we'll endure each other until the end of the year.
I'm being dramatic, but my point is: how often do I think of my Nazareth?
The answer is obvious if I want to improve as a teacher. I have more to learn from trying to fix the class that's not working than from enjoying and personalizing the classes that are going swimmingly, right?
St. Paul would recognize the class as the thorn in my side keeping me from being too elated (2 Cor 12: 7-10), and tell me to be grateful too it. Lest I get cocky.
I think my mother would tell me not to dwell on the one failure in a string of successes unduly. Probably a good number of my friends too.
But how much are we meant to think of Nazareth? Amid the 5,000 throng? Walking across the water? Healing the sick?
Sending beloved disciples off on their own? Surely then we must think of Nazareth. Surely then we must worry over our failures.
When is it poisoning the well and when is it the needed deflation? When is it healthy to think of our own Nazareth? And when should we focus on the path ahead?
Friday, 23 March 2018
Everybody But Nazareth
Mark 6
I wonder what they thought of their hometown boy in Nazareth later on.
I realize there wasn't Twitter or even a pony express, but Jesus sent his disciples in every direction without a second cloak on their back right after his disappointing reception in his hometown, and after that, everywhere he went they swarmed out to touch the hem of his cloak (like the lady in chapter 5).
Even when he wonders to as deserted a place as he can find, the most famous crowd flocks to him -- 5,000 waiting to be fed.
My point is that it's not a secret that Jesus is a big deal. Not for very long. Would that have made it easier in Nazareth? We don't hear about him visiting again, but perhaps for that long list of relatives Jesus has there?
And I wonder, if not, if it still hurts that Nazareth can't catch on. That they have a stumbling block in their way. Because that's what a hometown should mean, right? Similar to what a family means. The rest of the world can love you to pieces, everyone else can see what's right about you, but deep down what matters most is that the people who raised you understand.
Half of the stories we tell these days are the protagonists who can't find proper success because they didn't have that foundation of love and belief -- of trust. Perhaps it's part of our culture (there seem to have been a LOT of absentee or terrible fathers in the previous couple of generations, just based on the prevalence of those stories) or perhaps it's part of human nature.
And Jesus can understand. When it DOES matter that this one person isn't a fan, that this one place won't welcome you...because that was the person and place that were supposed to be home. Feeding the 5,000 sometimes matters less than one a couple hundred think.
Not to the world, but to you.
I don't know if this is really how Jesus felt, but I like the idea that He could understand that about us. I see it in others more than I feel it in myself, but it's everywhere, and I'm glad that Jesus knows the pain so he can help them.
I wonder what they thought of their hometown boy in Nazareth later on.
I realize there wasn't Twitter or even a pony express, but Jesus sent his disciples in every direction without a second cloak on their back right after his disappointing reception in his hometown, and after that, everywhere he went they swarmed out to touch the hem of his cloak (like the lady in chapter 5).
Even when he wonders to as deserted a place as he can find, the most famous crowd flocks to him -- 5,000 waiting to be fed.
My point is that it's not a secret that Jesus is a big deal. Not for very long. Would that have made it easier in Nazareth? We don't hear about him visiting again, but perhaps for that long list of relatives Jesus has there?
And I wonder, if not, if it still hurts that Nazareth can't catch on. That they have a stumbling block in their way. Because that's what a hometown should mean, right? Similar to what a family means. The rest of the world can love you to pieces, everyone else can see what's right about you, but deep down what matters most is that the people who raised you understand.
Half of the stories we tell these days are the protagonists who can't find proper success because they didn't have that foundation of love and belief -- of trust. Perhaps it's part of our culture (there seem to have been a LOT of absentee or terrible fathers in the previous couple of generations, just based on the prevalence of those stories) or perhaps it's part of human nature.
And Jesus can understand. When it DOES matter that this one person isn't a fan, that this one place won't welcome you...because that was the person and place that were supposed to be home. Feeding the 5,000 sometimes matters less than one a couple hundred think.
Not to the world, but to you.
I don't know if this is really how Jesus felt, but I like the idea that He could understand that about us. I see it in others more than I feel it in myself, but it's everywhere, and I'm glad that Jesus knows the pain so he can help them.
Thursday, 22 March 2018
Today the chapters of Ezekiel that follow the reading (EZ 2: 2-5) remind me more of the kind of fear I had back when my students hated me. When I was working beyond my capacity for classroom management.
My students' rebellion was ever present in my mind. My fear of the next day, my failure at the last round of classes, my sense of being out of control of the situation was in everything. Every meal, every grudging decision to wake up. Every moment. Sitting and standing I was a teacher who couldn't handle her class.
Is that what it really feels like, to be called? This thing in the world is in everything. This things that's wrong -- whether it was me or the school or the students and everything else around them -- it ate at everything, all the time.
I think I always assumed the call was empowering. I can fix this. I have been chosen This is where you must go and do great things in every bite of food, every grudging decision to get out of bed, every moment of every day.
What if it's not? What if the call is "The world is wrong, and these people won't appreciate being told that"? What if the call is just the problem?
I certainly felt and feared for a good long while that I was walking away from the class when I left the school where my students hated me for the school where my students have come to really love me. My life is easier. My days are filled with other things as well, at least when I'm not directing.
Did I walk away from the call of Ezekiel? Or did I just choose to focus on the less rebellious part of the house?
My students' rebellion was ever present in my mind. My fear of the next day, my failure at the last round of classes, my sense of being out of control of the situation was in everything. Every meal, every grudging decision to wake up. Every moment. Sitting and standing I was a teacher who couldn't handle her class.
Is that what it really feels like, to be called? This thing in the world is in everything. This things that's wrong -- whether it was me or the school or the students and everything else around them -- it ate at everything, all the time.
I think I always assumed the call was empowering. I can fix this. I have been chosen This is where you must go and do great things in every bite of food, every grudging decision to get out of bed, every moment of every day.
What if it's not? What if the call is "The world is wrong, and these people won't appreciate being told that"? What if the call is just the problem?
I certainly felt and feared for a good long while that I was walking away from the class when I left the school where my students hated me for the school where my students have come to really love me. My life is easier. My days are filled with other things as well, at least when I'm not directing.
Did I walk away from the call of Ezekiel? Or did I just choose to focus on the less rebellious part of the house?
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