Forward, Always

Progress isn’t inevitable.

In fact, if thermodynamics is any indication, progress isn’t even likely. Think about kids playing with blocks. There are million ways those blocks can be scattered about the space, red and green and blue squares and triangles and rectangles and cylinders piled up in happy chaotic heaps or blanketing the carpet, but there are only a few ways that the blocks can be made into a house or a tower or a castle. It’s much more likely, just because there are so many ways that the blocks can be scattered, that you’re going to find them in a mess underfoot. That’s entropy at work—because there are so many more ways to make disorder than order, everything tends toward disorder.

But we as humans tend to buck universal tendencies, don’t we? We like bringing order out of chaos so much that many of our creation myths are based around a powerful being who does just that. And we’ve had some minor success organizing ourselves over the long arc of history. In fits and starts, maybe, with ideas spread across the continents and civilizations, we’ve found our way to ever more complex societies, or, at least, financial systems. We’ve expanded our horizons and with that expansion has come something like control over the world around us. In this one corner of the universe, on this temporary manifestation of particles in the shape of a globe, we’ve found a way to shape and mold the disorder into something new.

Again here, though, we shouldn’t take a historic tendency as a rule that will be followed regardless of our action, nor should we think too highly of our ability and action. It is difficult to find the balance in our thought between “things will work out” and “the universe is ours to control” because neither is exactly true. Forward motion doesn’t happen without a force, so we must always be in the state of perfecting our union or shaping our souls or doing good works for the benefit of those around us, tasks which are best done in humility and with the understanding that they will never be completely accomplished. We are not powerless in the wide sweep of history. For good or bad, the future is shaped at least in part by us. Our actions matter, especially in times of transition and reshaping. Complacency needs to be guarded against in times like these.

Nor do we have control over all the forces that shape our world. We did not teach the Earth how to spin or the tides to rise and fall. When storms roll in, we are at their mercy. When the ground shakes, we are faced with the precariousness of the things we have built. Even our systems, the ways we think and interact and govern, can have unintended or unexpected consequences outside of an individual or a community’s ability to correct or redirect. There is a deep question about the efficacy of human endeavors and the source of human power that I have found life-changing, but its main consequence in my daily life and thought is that I can no longer affirm with Enlightenment zeal that we can do anything. That new understanding is a good thing, I think. It makes me appreciate what we can do, the astounding things we’ve been able to achieve, and to think more critically about the undertakings we place before ourselves.

Calls to thoughtful action don’t ring as loud as they should. They’re not as loud as chants or bullhorns or the mics on press conference podiums. Thoughtfulness comes across as hesitancy, as weakness. And I know it doesn’t help that I haven’t changed my tone or my choice in words for this post, or that I talked about entropy, which sounds like some random science thing that a teacher maybe mentioned to you one time back in high school. I talked about systems and overarching historical forces and all of those terms are shorthand for bigger ideas that changed the way I think and that I want others to know about and think about. I worry that I’ve fallen into the trap of using elite and out-of-reach language without thinking carefully enough about how the reader will take it.

But I also believe in my readers, in all readers, and in all listeners, too. I believe in humans and our abilities. I have faith in the American people as a whole and having that faith means that I can’t sit still. It means that I have to do something. I have to ask questions and encourage people to take a step back and consider all the options. We can all elevate our kindness game and that is a simple enough call. In every situation, we can begin by asking how we can do that. There’s so much more to be done, but that’s a place to start.

And then let’s dig in. Let’s get complex. Let’s think about ideas so big we eventually need to come up with code words for them just so that we can see a clearer picture of the world around us. It’s a journey we can all take together, that we can all agree to take together.

It’ll be some kind of progress.

Thoughts From the Women's March

The sentry of democracy in action is a young black woman with a pink hat and glasses, calling out hope from the top of a tree. In knee high pink socks, athletic shorts, and tennis shoes, she stands at the ready, directing the people to motion. She is a profound symbol of what brought us all here and we cheer her, but all the while she is perfectly normal, waving off our chants with an abashed laugh and announcing the next update with candor and wit. Tree Girl, this young woman supported by the strong empty branches of winter on the National Mall side of the Air and Space Museum, gives me hope.

On Friday, I made this video:

Yes, it's a little bit preachy and yes, it's a little more Bible-heavy than you want in what is ostensibly an ecumenical if not secular setting, but it expresses my hopes and fears and fights using the primary vocabulary I have available and I won't apologize for that. I am more satisfied with the words I chose to speak in this video than I ever have been before. Near the end, I talk about why I marched in the Women's March on Washington today: to make sure that the voices that haven't been heard are heard. That's a cut from a former version of the script. Originally, I said that I was marching to begin the process of making the unheard heard.

Because, as a former Obama staffer said better than I ever could, today's march should be a warmup for the real work ahead. This march, these marches on every continent around the world, should be a springboard into activism and advocacy, into concrete things you can do to continue making your representative government represent you. This march should inspire people to run for office so that the government of the people, by the people, for the people reflects the people. Now that we have made sure that women, who were so disrespected by this past election, have had their value affirmed, it's time to look to every other underrepresented and under-respected groups of people in this country, to those who had to make their voices heard at Standing Rock and to those embroiled in our ridiculous prison system, to immigrants and single mothers, to underpaid workers, to undereducated students, to people of every color and creed. It's time to focus on the others victimized by the presidential race, to stand with our Muslim brothers and sisters in particular, to again be willing to put our bodies on the line when those who do not love as well as they should begin to take rights away from the most vulnerable among us. These marches must be a first lap around the track in preparation for the marathon ahead.

There were wonderful moments of hope today. There was such kindness among the people who gathered on Independence, and the National Mall, and for streets around. There were generations of women who assembled together to raise their voices, waves of cheers sweeping forward through the collected crowd. There were smart and cutting signs. There was unrepentant sass and acknowledgement of shared difficulties. From the daughter who finally caught up to the rest of her family with a yell of "Mom!" that made half the crowd's heads turn to the five-year-old best friends dancing along to the protest music while their mothers smiled, there were beautiful human moments among the masses. I felt such a jolt of excitement, a feeling that reached deep into my soul, walking down Independence at the beginning of the day, seeing signs that pleaded for inclusion and love. I don't want to minimize any of that. I will honestly probably carry the memory of Tree Girl with me for the rest of my life and I desperately hope she does run for office one day like several people shouted that she should. It'd be quite the story.

But still, I worry. I worry that for many, this was tourist activism, safe social justice. At times, it felt like the physical manifestation of a viral video and it is impossible to know the content of the hearts that clicked "like" on this event. I worry that this was not primarily a march of those who have felt injustice but rather those who fret about its presence on their horizon. I worry that we did not and will not address the issues that weigh more heavily on women of color. I worry that the abundance of uteruses, in art and in slang slogans (and listen, I'm not shy about talking about my uterus), distracted from the real pain that's been integrated into our systems of governance and our social relations. I worry that we shouted and did not listen. I worry that some signs were not kind. I worry about the hatred that bubbles at the bottom of every human heart and I worry that we may give in to that, no matter what our intentions.

Today, millions of people around the globe stood in solidarity with those that have been disrespected and disregarded and that is a powerful and beautiful thing. We should celebrate that. A friend of mine responded to my affirmation that I was going to march with a "Good." and that simple, strong support from him spoke a fire into my gut that I want all of you to feel, an acknowledgement that things aren't as they should be and cannot be allowed to remain as they are. But let's not let ourselves be satisfied with our marches today. Beautiful things can be imperfect things too.

Let's be better. Let's be stronger. Let's get to work.

Pursuing Love

I get the feeling that I'm approaching a season in my life when I should talk less. Actually, most seasons in my life have probably been seasons when I could have spoken less, but I've got a conviction about this one in particular. It comes from an awareness that in many cases and for far too long, I've been a just clanging cymbal. The realization that I really would learn better if I would just listen has been a long time coming, but I think it had to wait until a real desire to learn swept away years of false modesty about my knowledge and ushered in a quieter, more patient heart. It is odd and humbling to watch yourself being built back up, all the sharp edges and disregarded shards of self being made fit for a new creation. This is not to say that it's easy. I hang onto my words, both the ones I write and the ones I choose to speak, like Icarus clutching at feathers and wax. They have been breathtakingly precious to me, but they are not the proper way to fly. I should know this. More often than not, my words have left me helpless as I grasp at the pieces of me, slicing my hands and cutting into others as I attempt again and again a construction project I should know I could never complete on my own.

That's a confession, if you like. There's pride and self-sufficiency wrapped up in a lack of trust that has left me over the course of a lifetime in a perpetual state of affection falling just short of love in even the best of my interactions with others. More often than not, my care for my neighbor has been a vague societal politeness, and even that is more a reflection of the kind people who have surrounded and upheld me throughout my life than any kind of real conviction. Despite all the wonderful things that have come into my life and everything I can be said to have accomplished, through hardness of heart or isolation of mind, I missed out on the most important and life-giving lesson a person can learn. I do not know how to love others as I ought.

I have a suspicion that that might be true for most of us. We may stumble into love in our relationships and friendships and may even succeed in offering love to strangers as we move about the world in our daily lives, but real, intentional, continual love offered to our neighbors (and let me be clear: every human is your neighbor) is something with which we all struggle, I think. And in this season of transition and uncertainty and concern, we could all love better. So this year, in addition to talking less (and I do realize the irony of that statement when I'm three paragraphs into a weekly blog post), I'm going to reflect each day on how I loved those around me. I'm going to use that chapter from 1 Corinthians that everyone uses at weddings because it's surprisingly cutting when you turn each verse into a question.

So, if you want to join me, plan a few minutes at the end of each day to ask yourself:

• Were you patient with everyone you met today? Were you kind?
• Or were you envious, boastful, arrogant, or rude? Did you insist on your own way? Were you irritable or resentful today? 
• Did you rejoice in any instance of wrongdoing today, or did you rejoice in the truth?
• What did you bear today? What did you believe today? What did you hope for today? What did you endure today?
• Did you pursue love today?

It might take a lifetime, but I look forward to the day when I am given grace enough to answer each one of those questions rightly before I go to sleep. It's a goal to work towards, a level of accountability in action to strive toward. It is a clear mirror we can hold up to ourselves and our leaders, both the ones that have been elected and the ones we've inherited, as we seek to build up our people and this nation we've made. Paul wrote those words a couple thousand years ago to a church struggling with disunity and questions of principle. It might be that those cheesy Bible verses hold real power for our lives today.

But wherever you are in your walk or in your lives, whatever you've come to believe, let me implore you to love better, friends.

It might be the only way we make it out of this.

Science and Religion Blog: conversation starters

I promise I'll get back to regular posting next week. Between the holidays, a particularly persnickety stomach bug, and prepping for the new semester, I've been a little drained and more contemplative than expository. But for your reading pleasure this week, I want to introduce you to a new project that my friend, Melanie Dzugan, and I have started for this spring semester: conversation starters. Our first post went live this morning and we plan to post every other week, discussing the best questions to ask when engaging in the science and religion conversation. Finally, the science and religion content for which you have all been clamoring!

One final note: since the conversation starters posts will go up on Wednesdays, I'll be switching my posts here to Tuesdays. The tag for my main blog posts has been Blog Wednesday but this semester, they'll be Blog Wednesday on a Tuesday. I'll continue to share the posts on facebook, so that should catch most of you, but for anyone who follows me and blessedly isn't on that particular social media platform, Blog Wednesday on a Tuesday is the tag you want to look for if you just want to keep up with me.

Cheers, y'all! As a parting gift, allow me to direct your attention to this gorgeous picture of the Sunflower Galaxy, captured by Hubble and featured on APOD:

I could stare at this all day long. Click on the link for even more gloriousness. 

A Hero and A Princess

I thought the days were supposed to be getting longer, not darker.

I remember in 1997 when the original trilogy was re-released for the 20^th anniversary and Star Wars started to show up in my life. The first Star Wars movie I saw was The Empire Strikes Back and even though I was quite the precocious child, I wouldn’t have said it changed my life then, even though I remember more about that day than I do about my high school and college graduations combined. I don’t think I really appreciated the role Star Wars played in my life until I started listening to others’ stories about representation.

See, it never crossed my mind that young women couldn’t rule the world. I’d seen Princess Leia do it a million times.

Carrie Fisher redefined what it meant to be a princess for me. A princess is a diplomat. A princess is a rebel. A princess sits in on war councils and gives commands and is the last one to leave the base when it is under attack. Even if a princess had to be rescued from time to time, it wasn’t because she was powerless or useless—it was because she had been taken captive by the Empire and it’s hard to beat Darth Vader. That rescue is not an escort mission—a princess grabs a blaster and gets them out of the poorly-planned mess they’re in, or takes the chain she’s been bound in and strangles a space slug/gangster overlord. And she does it all by being genuine and unapologetically in charge. Indomitable.

Every time I saw her in a movie after that, I was always delighted. Here was my hero, from before I even really understood that I had heroes, off doing something else. I love her in When Harry Met Sally. When I started getting into screenwriting and found out that she was a script doctor for Hook and Sister Act and so many other movies, my heart jumped again and I pulled those screenplays out first. I haven’t read any of her books yet because I was worried they would just be over-dramatic tell-alls, something that I regret intensely now. I had no idea how funny and honest she was and I have been depriving myself of a joy.

And then she comes on screen in The Force Awakens and of course she’s a general. Of course she’s leading the resistance. Of course she went back to the thing she was good at: leading. That’s what she taught all of us to do. While Luke was off finding himself and losing his hand and Han was off growing a soul, Leia was always fighting, always leading, always standing up for what is right. There’s never going to be another Princess Leia and there’s never going to be another General Organa. She blazed a trail and they broke the mold after they made her, all those clichés.

Those clichés apply to the lady we lost today as well. There will never be another Carrie Fisher. She fought her battles and taught us how to live our lives without undue concern for what other people think of us and left us with a legacy to enjoy and be inspired by. She’s gone too soon and I’m going to watch Star Wars on repeat to help deal with that fact, but at least we’re left with that.

Rest soundly, Carrie. You’ve earned it. 

Afraid

I think it's time to admit that I am frightened. I am frightened.

I am frightened by all manner of things. I am frightened by the presence that hovers near the front door in the dark when I get up to go to the bathroom in the mornings. I am frightened by the space underneath my bed and what could hide there between my luggage and shoes. I am frightened by faceless things in nightmares that find me night after night and hold me down in unbearable darkness or light until I remember that this is all a dream, and then become frightened because I cannot escape it.

I'm actually genuinely frightened that I'm going to fail some of my finals this week. I'm afraid that I'll fall asleep and the work won't get done and I'll have to repeat a class or a semester and I'll lose my scholarship or I'll have to leave and I do not know where I'd go. I'm afraid I won't get another job and I haven't fully planned for that financial possibility. I'm afraid that I'll have to go home and start everything over from scratch, only with more loans this time and fewer prospects. I am frightened by my unworthiness and how very publicly it could be displayed in the near future.

I am frightened by the news from Aleppo. I am frightened by the news of hate crimes. I am frightened by our incoming government. I am frightened by rising sea water and catastrophic storms. I am frightened by nuclear weapons and biological weapons. I am frightened by guns. I am frightened of people who are stronger than me and what they can do to me. For maybe the first time in my life, I am afraid for my body and my possessions and my security.

More than anything else, I am frightened because I am not more frightened for others. I am frightened because I am more scared losing something that was never mine than I am scared by the pain in the world around me. I am scared of how easy it is for me to be frightened by loneliness and mistakes, how quickly I choose to focus on fears of situations resolved months ago, the reopening of freshly-healed wounds. I am frightened by my inability to place my emotions completely to the side. I am scared that one day I will not be able to get out of bed, that I will not care about the humans on the other side of the door enough to engage with them, and that I will never again engage with them. I am afraid that no one else will either.

I am not frightened by death or the void or silence. I am afraid of what I leave behind in life, in the world, in noisy community.

I don't like talking about fears because I know that we are not given a spirit of fear but of power and love and of a sound mind and because I know that there is a spectrum of rationality to my fear. I know that I am not called to be afraid, just as I know that some of my fears are born ghost stories and an overly analytical mind. I know what imposter syndrome is, guys, and I'm aware of how fear sells in the media. I know how my basic need for control, whatever its root is, is reflected across all of these fears.

But I don't want to explain away the importance of naming our fears. I don't want to shy away from analyzing what makes us withdraw from the world. The tensions and contradictions of human fear are fascinating and complex, but the reality of my fears and my fear of my fears is something I need to acknowledge and wrestle with without academic detachment. Because I shouldn't be driven by fear. Fear should not be what motivates my action. If I can see it, I can address it, re-shape it, speak life where it is lacking. All the same, I have to repeat again and again that fear does not define me. The foundation of my life isn't built on anything that can be taken away. I'll see my fear and work with it and know that my hope rests somewhere else.

Stolen

The stories we tell ourselves matter. The words we say to ourselves matter. And the words that we say to other people matter, because all too frequently, they become the words that people say to themselves.

I got on the red line train last Tuesday and the car was so crowded, I couldn't even reach into my pocket to get my headphones so I could block out all the humans and make the ride tolerable. With one hand trying to find a railing and the other clutching the book I was meant to be reading, I decided that instead of fumbling around for something to do, I would pray for everyone on the train. Now, I know I'm in seminary and so this should seem like it's in character, but I want to say right here and now that the only time I pray for large groups of people is when I'm asking for them to get out of my way. I am not present in a crowd. I enjoy the escape more than anything else.

But pray I did. I prayed for our journey to our homes and for what waited for each person when they arrived: their families, their meals, their loves, fears, frustrations, work, relaxation. I prayed for the people who jostled and bumped me on their stumble toward the door. There were a couple of people in eyesight that seemed particularly weighed down and so I prayed for a blessing in their lives, that whatever held them low would be removed or mitigated. I prayed grace on everyone.

I felt lighter when I got off the train. I didn't put my headphones in, didn't open my book. I just kept the headspace I was in and thought about what I would do when I got back to my empty flat. Something needled at the back of my mind, but I assumed it was just something I had forgotten about work or school or something. There's always something. But the bus ride and the subsequent walk home were pleasant, I think. We've been having a lot of the kind of crisp fall days and nights that require a jacket and a scarf, but gloves are optional. The air's easy to breathe. It was nice.

When I got home and put my bag down, I realized that one of those humans that I had prayed for had stolen my laptop.

Well, I suspected. I put off the panic because maybe I had just left it at the office and anyway, there wasn't anything I could about it right now. The next morning was the day before Thanksgiving so the usual people who opened up the office weren't there and I ended up putting off the search for my laptop for another hour or so. And even when I did get to my desk and saw that my laptop wasn't there, I didn't feel anything except a sinking feeling in my stomach. Okay. My laptop's really gone. So we're dealing with this.

Over the next few days as I assessed the damage and looked up replacement options, I would say, "My laptop got stolen." My laptop got stolen. I was clear it wasn't missing, that a theft had occurred, but I couldn't figure out why the sentence sounded so odd. My laptop was stolen, maybe? Correct that grammatical "mistake"? And anyway, isn't the end result the same, no matter what words I use? I don't have my laptop. It is no longer in my possession. It was taken from me. Who cares how I express that thought? The facts on the ground are the same: I don't have it.

Except it does matter. Someone stole my laptop. I don't know who did it, but it's not some passive event that occurred. A person made the decision to reach into my bag and take out my life and it's debatable just how over-dramatic that statement is: my work from this semester, any projects that I've been working on for the past few years, and all my notes and research from last year are gone, not to mention some of the music and pictures that mean something to me. My half-marathon sticker was on the case, as was my save the whales sticker from Iceland. And all those things that made it matter, the data and the memories, those are the first things the thief is going to wipe from the computer so that he or she can resell it. Keep the computer, then. Give me back what I care about.

To fail to hold people accountable for their actions is to participate in the problem. I won't find the person who stole my laptop, probably, and this is not a loss that I need to go Batman over; by the grace of God (and that is not an insignificant thing), this is a hit I can take on the chin and carry on. I've been surrounded by coworkers, family, friends, who have comforted me, cheered me, and helped me figure out what to do next, how to report, how to look, and how to replace. But just because I can absorb the hit does not mean that the problem needs to be ignored. This was not some indifferent force of nature or some act of chance; a person acted here, a person who is part of a system, with a level of malicious intent in their heart that could range from indifference to hatefulness, and people and systems are things that we can question, we can push, we can try to change, we can hold accountable. If not in this particular situation, definitely in others.

So everyone, back up your data. Carry your belongings in a bag that can be secured, especially when you go into crowded spaces. If you see something, say something. Learn from my life. That's what lives are for, after all. But see the bigger threads, too. Think about how you speak about events. Think about what you tell yourself about events. Have that second-check on the reality that you perceive. Think about inevitability and think about action. Think about what you can do. Be aware.

For days, I told myself that my laptop got stolen, that this was my fault and my stupidity and that I deserved to pay for it. But to tell myself that story is to continue in my personal history of unkindness towards myself and indifference towards injustice. Of course there are things that I could have done differently, but that doesn't mean I was asking for it. Someone stole my laptop. The better sentences to speak, once the comfort and grace have done their healing work, are questions, and questions in search of answers. Why did someone take my laptop? Did they feel entitled to it? Certainly not. Were they thinking just about themselves? Maybe not. What situations in their life led to this moment? Is there a way to balance accountability for the wrong committed with grace and understanding for the wrongs committed against them? What can we do here?

I'm known for drawing a whole heap of thoughts out of an event and I think I probably stopped thinking about laptops long ago. I don't want to have a conversation about hardware-- I want to talk about systematic inequality and our inability as a nation to hold people accountable for their words and their actions. I want to talk about honesty and where it's lacking. I want to talk about blame and how I'm finding it to be an unhelpful concept, or maybe a concept with an unhelpful gloss. I have questions and thoughts enough for a lifetime and maybe I fill my days too much with them. So let's end with something that just slipped on by as the story unfolded: my thankfulness for those around me and for those memories that were saved. Now I feel less bad about all those Scotland photos I practically spammed my facebook with.

Find joy where you've got it, friends, and take seriously your thoughts and your questions when they come.