I'm not having much luck processing the past week or so, so instead, let me offer you a Spotify playlist:
Use it in good health. Do some dancing, do some listening, have a good time.
Wednesday, October 25, 2017
Monday, October 16, 2017
Vulnerability
I have been told, recently and frequently, that I need to work on my vulnerability because, as a pastor, people are going to want to see that vulnerability from me. People keep saying to me, "They want to know you're human!"
Really.
They want to know I'm human.
What, this shipwreck of a body isn't enough to convince another person that I'm human? You need to see something more than this frayed hair and these frumpy clothes, these wrinkles and these rolls, the dozens of tiny scars and scrapes and cuts on my skin, in order to know that I'm human? I walk around daily in my vulnerability just like you do, but I don't demand proof of emotion before I see you as human.
And while we're at it, why should I have to join the scores of people I know who have outed themselves as survivors of sexual harassment or assault? For many of us, that just comes with the territory of having a female body. But maybe you want some more disaster tourism of the emotions on your timeline so sure, let me tell you about the time that I got catcalled when I was in a vulnerable state. It got to me so much that I had to write about it so that I could get it out of my head. Is that enough for you to accept that there's a problem? Or do you need something "more real", something that would "actually count"? Because I can go digging back into the pain and panic of another story I don't tell for a reason, if the #metoo isn't enough for you to believe me, but don't expect me to like you on the other side of that. I'm not Jesus. You don't get to dig your finger into my side to see if it still hurts and expect graciousness from me.
I just don't understand what you think I am, if I have to start naming my troubles in order for you to see that I'm human. I'm here, aren't I? Is there any person on this planet that hasn't had a share of sorrow? How do you walk through this life, live in a limited body like this, without trouble visiting your doorstep? Who do you think I am, to have avoided being ravaged by the same deep pain that has seeped into the soil of this world and ruined you in some way too? Do you need to see how my mind hurts? My body? My heart? Do I need to unravel every one of my monsters for you before you can say, Me too? Do I have to show you how a comment can send me into the depths of my fears about myself before I earn the right to have you to sit down across the table from me and call me sister?
Listen, I hear all y'all when you say that I need to open up more, but I'm still kinda puzzled. How do you not see the bandages I've wrapped around my wounds? Sadness seeps into my every smile like a beacon-- how did you not notice that? There are days when I've used every ounce of energy I have left to drag myself to the places that I need to be, where commitment is the only thing propping my shoulders up and Someone Else's kindness is the only thing that can find its way out of my mouth, because goodness knows I have nothing left to give. You're telling me that on those days you don't see how I'm taut like a cello string a turn away from snapping? I'm that good at hiding it?
Well. Coulda fooled me.
Guess that makes me kinda human, huh?
Really.
They want to know I'm human.
What, this shipwreck of a body isn't enough to convince another person that I'm human? You need to see something more than this frayed hair and these frumpy clothes, these wrinkles and these rolls, the dozens of tiny scars and scrapes and cuts on my skin, in order to know that I'm human? I walk around daily in my vulnerability just like you do, but I don't demand proof of emotion before I see you as human.
And while we're at it, why should I have to join the scores of people I know who have outed themselves as survivors of sexual harassment or assault? For many of us, that just comes with the territory of having a female body. But maybe you want some more disaster tourism of the emotions on your timeline so sure, let me tell you about the time that I got catcalled when I was in a vulnerable state. It got to me so much that I had to write about it so that I could get it out of my head. Is that enough for you to accept that there's a problem? Or do you need something "more real", something that would "actually count"? Because I can go digging back into the pain and panic of another story I don't tell for a reason, if the #metoo isn't enough for you to believe me, but don't expect me to like you on the other side of that. I'm not Jesus. You don't get to dig your finger into my side to see if it still hurts and expect graciousness from me.
I just don't understand what you think I am, if I have to start naming my troubles in order for you to see that I'm human. I'm here, aren't I? Is there any person on this planet that hasn't had a share of sorrow? How do you walk through this life, live in a limited body like this, without trouble visiting your doorstep? Who do you think I am, to have avoided being ravaged by the same deep pain that has seeped into the soil of this world and ruined you in some way too? Do you need to see how my mind hurts? My body? My heart? Do I need to unravel every one of my monsters for you before you can say, Me too? Do I have to show you how a comment can send me into the depths of my fears about myself before I earn the right to have you to sit down across the table from me and call me sister?
Listen, I hear all y'all when you say that I need to open up more, but I'm still kinda puzzled. How do you not see the bandages I've wrapped around my wounds? Sadness seeps into my every smile like a beacon-- how did you not notice that? There are days when I've used every ounce of energy I have left to drag myself to the places that I need to be, where commitment is the only thing propping my shoulders up and Someone Else's kindness is the only thing that can find its way out of my mouth, because goodness knows I have nothing left to give. You're telling me that on those days you don't see how I'm taut like a cello string a turn away from snapping? I'm that good at hiding it?
Well. Coulda fooled me.
Guess that makes me kinda human, huh?
Wednesday, October 4, 2017
Attention
Our attention is a gift.
Our attention is a gift that we give freely to the things
that make us happy, the things that make us feel something: sometimes our
friends, sometimes our family, sometimes our relationships, sometimes our jobs,
usually our pastimes, varied as they are. Sometimes it is a gift that we give
without thinking, usually to the internet. Or dogs. Sometimes it is a gift that
we give begrudgingly, usually to a lecture. Or a sermon. Sometimes it is a gift
that is given conditionally. Actually, I think that often, it is a gift that is
given conditionally.
Because we are finite. We are so small and we live such
brief lives. We know this, somewhere in our cores, and so we give the gift of
our attention when we have a chance of getting something back. We make our attention
transactional. I gave you my attention so now you need to give me something.
Give me happiness. Give me validation. Entertain me. Stay with me. Praise me.
Love me. Keep me. See me. See me. See me. See me because I saw you.
I think transactional attention is dangerous. I know why we
do it, why I do it, but knowing why doesn’t make it any safer. Transactional
attention, giving our attention to what can give us attention back, means that
we will not willingly give our attention to what most needs our attention. We
will not give our attention to the things that make us uncomfortable, or hurt
us, or require something precious from us with no hope of repayment. We will
not give our attention to the things that need us, especially if those things
need us to change. Somewhere along the way, our attention became commodified.
Our attention became money. And money cares only for money.
Friends, loves, let’s be different.
Let’s give our attention away.
Let’s give our attention away and let’s be generous with it.
Let’s lavish it on those who need it. Let’s search those
people out. Let’s renew it over and over and over again so that when a
hurricane hits (and another and another) or an earthquake strikes or a famine
devastates or outbreak threatens or a gunman murders, we will be there with our
attention and our compassion and all the aid that we can give. We are so
limited, but we still have so much to give.
And I know it’s difficult. I know that our stores of charity
and kindness have been depleted because the energy that we would use to renew
those stores is going to just simply keeping our heads above the water of the
confusion and disorganization and dysfunction of American society and politics,
the realm of those who are supposed to be our public servants, but we can not
let this steal our hope. I know that getting out of bed in the morning carrying
the weight of all the tragedy that we should not have to bear is a mighty
struggle in and of itself. We were not meant to live like this. It is hard.
But I also know that we must. We are called to. Whatever we
need to do, whatever steps we need to take to renew ourselves so that we can
pour out our attention on others, we need to do this. I understand that our
attention will not suture a gunshot wound or feed a starving child or rebuilt
the power grid in Puerto Rico, but our attention will reach those who can do
those things, or at least those who can provide the money required for those
things to happen. I think that we need to lavish our attention because I do
actually believe that people really are good at heart and that if we just pay
attention, if we just see, we will be compelled to act out of love for our
neighbor and we have so many neighbors.
Your attention is a gift.
Give it.
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