Lately I've been frustrated by all the things on my growing to-do list.
It seems we have a variety of responses to having too much on our plates, but for right now I'm frustrated. I don't mind so much having ten thousand things to do in the winter....but summer...it just seems like a crappy time to be preoccupied with a to-do list that's too long to get done.
I was trying to put my finger on why it irritates me so much to be overly busy in the summer...part of it is the short period of time of great weather, part of it is the fact that I've had a few overly busy summers in a row, but part of it seems related to this idyllic notion of summer that I have.
Summer to me is supposed to be carefree.
It's supposed to be that time where responsibilities and work and all the demands just get set aside for playing. I think this is a pattern most of us develop when we're young - work hard during the school year, but cut loose during the summer. Wake up and find a new adventure each day. No plans, no places you have to be...
I miss that. I miss the memory I have of it anyway...I realize that part of the glory may just be nostalgia, and its perfection may be a function of remembering.
But it makes me wonder about the heaviness I feel in my not-so-carefree life these days. I feel careworn instead.
Maybe some of it is self-imposed. Maybe I feel the weight of responsibility when I buy into illusions of life that make things heavier than they need to be. Illusions of permanence. Illusions about myself and my false sense of omnipotence and importance.
Maybe having my butt kicked to the curb by life lately is actually a gift. Maybe losing some battles in life can remind us that what we've been working so hard for, is actually not so important.
When things started to come apart in my professional life a few months ago, I had the wisdom (occasionally) of stopping and listening. Trying to sense the Spirit's voice in the midst of my sadness and anger. All I could hear was "don't get lost in the details". I wasn't exactly sure of what that meant. It seemed to be a reminder that the details weren't so important...but I neglected the first part..."don't get lost".
It's easy for us to "get lost"; to be emotionally and mentally far away from our true identity, the true sources of our value, the truly important and meaningful things in life.
In my desire to have a care-free summer, I've been hoping for a removal of difficult and pressing things. It's the typical North American mindset - that happiness is the absence of suffering or strain. But the truth is that to be carefree is not to have the demands of my life disappear, but rather, it requires me to re-orient my relationship to those demands, seeing them for what they really are, and not taking them at face value or getting sucked into their traps.
To be carefree (not careless) is perhaps ultimately about "not getting lost in the details", about re-aligning our perspective to the bigger realities of life. That we are valued because God has infused us with value as his creation, his children, his friends. That most of life is fleeting and temporary and that all that really matters is to love God and love the things God loves. That the world is ultimately a safe place, not a place where everything works out how we want it, or place that's free from suffering, but a place but a place where God will not be thwarted in his work of redeeming all of creation.
My carefree, or at least not careworn summer is available if I choose it. If I choose to believe and act as if I believe certain things about the world. If I refuse to get lost in the details.
Postscript: ....and my anger about the people who did this to me? Well, I think I can avoid becoming bitter if I recognize that the things they've taken are not of ultimate importance, and that they can never take away the things that really matter in life.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Monday, July 8, 2013
Norman Wirzba Extended Interview
As part of my ongoing thinking about our relationships to food, I've been including the great thinking about this topic from Norman Wirzba.
I found a great clip here of him summarizing the body of work he's done in the theology of food.
Norman Wirzba Extended Interview
Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
I found a great clip here of him summarizing the body of work he's done in the theology of food.
Norman Wirzba Extended Interview
Hope you enjoy it as much as I did.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Members? or Consumers?
A few weeks ago I blogged about the journey I'm beginning in being
attentive to food. I've started paying more deliberate attention to my
relationship to food, where it comes from, how my food choices impact
others, and where food fits in my life.
It's been enlightening to read Norman Wirzba's book:
Food and Faith; A Theology of Eating
It's been enlightening to read Norman Wirzba's book:
Food and Faith; A Theology of Eating
Wirzba
suggests that we require a fundamental reorientation of our
relationships with the rest of the world. Rather than being consumers,
we need to become aware of ourselves as members of a created order.
It seems that our primary way of relating to many things in life is now as consumers. In her thoughtful work Monoculture, F.S. Michaels suggests that the dominance of the economic worldview, has shaped us into people who relate and interact primarily in terms of consumption. For more on this see my most recent post "One Story".
But what could be problematic about interacting with food this way? Shouldn't we view food as a consumable? Isn't food just a fuel source to allow us, the pinnacle of evolved beings, the opportunity to live our lives according to our own consciences?
The problem according to Wirzba, is that relating to food solely as consumers, removes us from the complex web of interdependence we have with the rest of nature. Putting it bluntly, Wirzba reminds us that our eating requires the death of other organisms. We count on the death and birth cycles of life for our survival. We may have removed ourselves from our food so far that we only experience it coming from boxes. But this only perpetuates an illusion, an illusion that our eating has no impact. The illusion that we humans are independent and self-sufficient.
The reality is that we are members of a complex system of elements, of an ecology. Our ignorance or denial of this membership leads us to make many reckless and destructive choices. Our wealth insulates us from some of the consequences, for now.
But as Wirzba, and Wendell Berry, and many other important voices are reminding us, we live these detached lives, these lives which deny our interconnectedness with the rest of creation, not only at the peril of others who are more vulnerable in the world, but also at our own peril. Whenever we pretend to be self-sufficient and independent, we live an incomplete, false existence, one which stumbles into the realm of idolatry and ultimately self-destruction.
The word "whole" shares it's common Latin root with the word "holy". So when we relate to food as consumers only, and not as members of the created order, our lives become fragmented, detached, or "unholy". Whether you identify with the religious language of "holiness", or you prefer the popular culture's term of "holistic health", either way we must recognize the need to see ourselves as interconnected parts, rather than self-reliant individuals....members, not just consumers.
It seems that our primary way of relating to many things in life is now as consumers. In her thoughtful work Monoculture, F.S. Michaels suggests that the dominance of the economic worldview, has shaped us into people who relate and interact primarily in terms of consumption. For more on this see my most recent post "One Story".
But what could be problematic about interacting with food this way? Shouldn't we view food as a consumable? Isn't food just a fuel source to allow us, the pinnacle of evolved beings, the opportunity to live our lives according to our own consciences?
The problem according to Wirzba, is that relating to food solely as consumers, removes us from the complex web of interdependence we have with the rest of nature. Putting it bluntly, Wirzba reminds us that our eating requires the death of other organisms. We count on the death and birth cycles of life for our survival. We may have removed ourselves from our food so far that we only experience it coming from boxes. But this only perpetuates an illusion, an illusion that our eating has no impact. The illusion that we humans are independent and self-sufficient.
The reality is that we are members of a complex system of elements, of an ecology. Our ignorance or denial of this membership leads us to make many reckless and destructive choices. Our wealth insulates us from some of the consequences, for now.
But as Wirzba, and Wendell Berry, and many other important voices are reminding us, we live these detached lives, these lives which deny our interconnectedness with the rest of creation, not only at the peril of others who are more vulnerable in the world, but also at our own peril. Whenever we pretend to be self-sufficient and independent, we live an incomplete, false existence, one which stumbles into the realm of idolatry and ultimately self-destruction.
The word "whole" shares it's common Latin root with the word "holy". So when we relate to food as consumers only, and not as members of the created order, our lives become fragmented, detached, or "unholy". Whether you identify with the religious language of "holiness", or you prefer the popular culture's term of "holistic health", either way we must recognize the need to see ourselves as interconnected parts, rather than self-reliant individuals....members, not just consumers.
Friday, June 14, 2013
The value of a little liturgy
I didn't set out to be liturgical.
I had some exposure to liturgical worship growing up, but it never really resonated with me outside of brief stint I had with some lovely Lutherans in Ohio.
But the other day I realized I have somewhat stumbled upon it again in my own life.
Each night when I put my girls to bed, we sing the old spiritual, "His eye is on the sparrow".
And in a sense, after 5 years, it's become a small liturgical element in my life. A rhythym that draws my attention back to this important reality. The words (by Civilla Martin) are as follows:
Why should I feel discouraged?
Why should the shadows come?
Why should my heart feel lonely, and long for heaven and home?
When Jesus is my portion, a constant friend is He
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.
I sing because I'm happy.
I sing because I'm free.
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
I've sung this song literally over a thousand times now - which probably means I've sung it more than any other song, even more than the Christmas carols or Happy Birthday.
I've sung it at some pretty hard times. I remember trying to sing it all the way through, just a couple of hours after my mother-in-law had died. I remember trying to sing it when my dad seemed on death's doorstep. I remember singing it on nights when my failures as a parent were very evident to me. I remember singing it to kids with high fevers that just wouldn't seem to go away.
And recently, in the midst of a bitter disappointment in my life, I sang it as per my nightly routine to my oldest daughter, who has now heard it over a thousand times. It's the kind of perspective I seem to need on a daily basis. I need the structure of an accidental liturgy to remind me that Jesus is present with us in the midst of our suffering, our failures, our losses, our disappointments, or our fears. He is not a distant God who is angry, or punitive, or far away from our circumstances. He is our "constant friend", and what I need are practices, or liturgies that remind of His constancy, constantly, or else I'm prone to lose track of this truth that changes everything.
I had some exposure to liturgical worship growing up, but it never really resonated with me outside of brief stint I had with some lovely Lutherans in Ohio.
But the other day I realized I have somewhat stumbled upon it again in my own life.
Each night when I put my girls to bed, we sing the old spiritual, "His eye is on the sparrow".
And in a sense, after 5 years, it's become a small liturgical element in my life. A rhythym that draws my attention back to this important reality. The words (by Civilla Martin) are as follows:
Why should I feel discouraged?
Why should the shadows come?
Why should my heart feel lonely, and long for heaven and home?
When Jesus is my portion, a constant friend is He
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know he watches me.
I sing because I'm happy.
I sing because I'm free.
His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.
I've sung this song literally over a thousand times now - which probably means I've sung it more than any other song, even more than the Christmas carols or Happy Birthday.
I've sung it at some pretty hard times. I remember trying to sing it all the way through, just a couple of hours after my mother-in-law had died. I remember trying to sing it when my dad seemed on death's doorstep. I remember singing it on nights when my failures as a parent were very evident to me. I remember singing it to kids with high fevers that just wouldn't seem to go away.
And recently, in the midst of a bitter disappointment in my life, I sang it as per my nightly routine to my oldest daughter, who has now heard it over a thousand times. It's the kind of perspective I seem to need on a daily basis. I need the structure of an accidental liturgy to remind me that Jesus is present with us in the midst of our suffering, our failures, our losses, our disappointments, or our fears. He is not a distant God who is angry, or punitive, or far away from our circumstances. He is our "constant friend", and what I need are practices, or liturgies that remind of His constancy, constantly, or else I'm prone to lose track of this truth that changes everything.
Monday, May 13, 2013
One Story
I talk a lot with people about their stories. Personal narratives are crucial to the work I do in helping people find healing and redemption in their lives.
But we also have bigger, societal stories that we connect to, that we use to think about our lives, our world, our choices, our actions.
F.S. Michaels, in her brilliant book "Monoculture", describes how societies often have a story that dominates, and that this story changes over broad historical periods. She makes an awfully good case for the idea that the dominant story of our time and place is the economic story. It's a story about the world that filters how we think and relate to everything, through the role of consumers.
We relate to everything and everyone, primarily through a relationship of consumption.
Whereas education used to be about broadening minds, developing knowledge, creating beauty and ideas, it has now been reduced to an economic good or product to be consumed. We actively promote it as an investment for people to use on their path of career building (which of course, is also now purposed as accumulating things of value to be consumed, whether it be wealth or personal fulfillment)
Michaels compellingly points out how this is also true in areas of our life such as religious life - we treat church as an experience to be consumed, and even God as a product to be used and manipulated to our own ends.
Clothing, time, food, families, friendships, leisure, sport, volunteering, art... all of it... is being subtly transformed into products and services that we relate to as consumers, as part of this dominant economic story. Listen to the pundits who advise about "building your personal brand", and you'll see the most obvious expression of this. Look at Facebook and see how people are defining themselves in terms of a set of consumptive practices - assets, experiences, brand preferences, etc. and establishing status by associating with certain consumptive lifestyles.
Of great concern to me is that way we (I) have begun to treat each other from a consumption point of view. None of us would want to admit that we are shaped by this mindset in our friendships and relationships, but I'm afraid that few of us are likely exempt. It takes unusual honesty to admit that at times we view our spouses in terms of what they can do for us: make us happy, take care of us, compensate for other relationship disappointments in life, build our egos, meet our physical needs, meet our wants, upgrade our status, take away certain negative feelings, etc. All of these, subtly become characteristics of a product we want to consume rather than a living, breathing, broken person who is with us in life.
And while it is probably fine for us to wish and hope that our partners will do some of these things at times, it is deeply flawed when we construe our partners primarily in terms of their success or failure to perform as products, and perform in the way we expect.
So even our personal stories become shaped by this economic story. It's as if the larger dominant societal story of consumerism, becomes the template in which all other stories are told. When it comes to each other as people, we're rarely so crass as to admit our commodification of other humans. We dress it up with words like "love"...which seems like a sacred term, but often what we mean by "love" is a personal experience of gratification, rather than persistent dedication to caring for the other. (Watch an episode of The Voice and notice how people use the word "love" - it almost always refers to the individuals own sense of enjoyment or how they are made to feel by the other)
But as Michaels points out, the issue is not about relinquishing consumption entirely, but becoming aware of how our minds are immersed in this story, and engaging in practices that reflect other stories, non-economic ones. She doesn't say it, but I think the logical extension is that the story of love, of sacrifice for another, is a story we must practice on a daily basis to escape the economic story becoming dominant in our lives.
But we also have bigger, societal stories that we connect to, that we use to think about our lives, our world, our choices, our actions.
F.S. Michaels, in her brilliant book "Monoculture", describes how societies often have a story that dominates, and that this story changes over broad historical periods. She makes an awfully good case for the idea that the dominant story of our time and place is the economic story. It's a story about the world that filters how we think and relate to everything, through the role of consumers.
We relate to everything and everyone, primarily through a relationship of consumption.
Whereas education used to be about broadening minds, developing knowledge, creating beauty and ideas, it has now been reduced to an economic good or product to be consumed. We actively promote it as an investment for people to use on their path of career building (which of course, is also now purposed as accumulating things of value to be consumed, whether it be wealth or personal fulfillment)
Michaels compellingly points out how this is also true in areas of our life such as religious life - we treat church as an experience to be consumed, and even God as a product to be used and manipulated to our own ends.
Clothing, time, food, families, friendships, leisure, sport, volunteering, art... all of it... is being subtly transformed into products and services that we relate to as consumers, as part of this dominant economic story. Listen to the pundits who advise about "building your personal brand", and you'll see the most obvious expression of this. Look at Facebook and see how people are defining themselves in terms of a set of consumptive practices - assets, experiences, brand preferences, etc. and establishing status by associating with certain consumptive lifestyles.
Of great concern to me is that way we (I) have begun to treat each other from a consumption point of view. None of us would want to admit that we are shaped by this mindset in our friendships and relationships, but I'm afraid that few of us are likely exempt. It takes unusual honesty to admit that at times we view our spouses in terms of what they can do for us: make us happy, take care of us, compensate for other relationship disappointments in life, build our egos, meet our physical needs, meet our wants, upgrade our status, take away certain negative feelings, etc. All of these, subtly become characteristics of a product we want to consume rather than a living, breathing, broken person who is with us in life.
And while it is probably fine for us to wish and hope that our partners will do some of these things at times, it is deeply flawed when we construe our partners primarily in terms of their success or failure to perform as products, and perform in the way we expect.
So even our personal stories become shaped by this economic story. It's as if the larger dominant societal story of consumerism, becomes the template in which all other stories are told. When it comes to each other as people, we're rarely so crass as to admit our commodification of other humans. We dress it up with words like "love"...which seems like a sacred term, but often what we mean by "love" is a personal experience of gratification, rather than persistent dedication to caring for the other. (Watch an episode of The Voice and notice how people use the word "love" - it almost always refers to the individuals own sense of enjoyment or how they are made to feel by the other)
But as Michaels points out, the issue is not about relinquishing consumption entirely, but becoming aware of how our minds are immersed in this story, and engaging in practices that reflect other stories, non-economic ones. She doesn't say it, but I think the logical extension is that the story of love, of sacrifice for another, is a story we must practice on a daily basis to escape the economic story becoming dominant in our lives.
Saturday, May 11, 2013
Mom.
At the risk of paying myself a backhanded compliment....
It occurs to me that a significant amount of what is good in me comes from my mother.
We both will cry at a stranger's funeral because we feel the pain of others in deep and personal way.
We both make food into art for our children because...well...it's an odd sort of way we express love by making food into faces and other amusing shapes.
We both can take a bit to warm up to people, but if you're looking for a loyal friend, we're pretty good at it.
We both are pretty good at taking care of people, of listening, and making them feel valued.
We both find ourselves leaning heavily on the lyrics of old hymns and songs when times are tough...even if we can only remember half of the words, and are making up the rest.
We both are an endless source of made-up songs for our kids, recognizing that music communicates and relates to people on a different level. (Yesterday I heard my daughters singing a song about a broken puzzle box that I made up and thought they were mostly ignoring)
As I look at my own children growing up I see them taking on my own good and bad qualities. I notice my flaws and brokenness turning up in them, and I experience the terrifying reality of being responsible for the physical, emotional, and spiritual formation of two humans, not to mention two humans I love.
And I realize that my mom must have had her own moments of wishing I wouldn't be so much like her...but on mother's day we celebrate the good, the beautiful ways in which we have become like our moms. So for all the blessings - the things I learned from you mom about faith, love, compassion, persistence, sacrifice, empathy, and trusting God - thanks.
Thanks is not enough, but it's a start. But beyond gratitude I can tell you mom that the good things you have taught and lived in your life, they live on - in me - and hopefully my girls.
It occurs to me that a significant amount of what is good in me comes from my mother.
We both will cry at a stranger's funeral because we feel the pain of others in deep and personal way.
We both make food into art for our children because...well...it's an odd sort of way we express love by making food into faces and other amusing shapes.
We both can take a bit to warm up to people, but if you're looking for a loyal friend, we're pretty good at it.
We both are pretty good at taking care of people, of listening, and making them feel valued.
We both find ourselves leaning heavily on the lyrics of old hymns and songs when times are tough...even if we can only remember half of the words, and are making up the rest.
We both are an endless source of made-up songs for our kids, recognizing that music communicates and relates to people on a different level. (Yesterday I heard my daughters singing a song about a broken puzzle box that I made up and thought they were mostly ignoring)
As I look at my own children growing up I see them taking on my own good and bad qualities. I notice my flaws and brokenness turning up in them, and I experience the terrifying reality of being responsible for the physical, emotional, and spiritual formation of two humans, not to mention two humans I love.
And I realize that my mom must have had her own moments of wishing I wouldn't be so much like her...but on mother's day we celebrate the good, the beautiful ways in which we have become like our moms. So for all the blessings - the things I learned from you mom about faith, love, compassion, persistence, sacrifice, empathy, and trusting God - thanks.
Thanks is not enough, but it's a start. But beyond gratitude I can tell you mom that the good things you have taught and lived in your life, they live on - in me - and hopefully my girls.
Friday, May 10, 2013
Despair is a Choice
Despair is a choice.
It doesn't feel like it in the moment. When you feel like you've be stepped on, crushed, beaten down, or that "last straw" has been snapped, it's the most easy and natural thing to give in to despair.
It presents itself so logically, "why bother trying if all life ends up bringing you is pain and disappointment".
It feels so real and absolute. The emotion is often accompanied by a profound heaviness, sometimes in the form of body sensations that mimic the real experience of being crushed.
But like all of our feelings we have have a choice. We may not choose our initial reactions, but we can learn to choose how we react to our reactions - that is, how we continue to think, and feel, and behave in response to those initial reactions.
To despair is to take on a myopic view of the world. It's as if an electromagnet has been switched on and attracted all the past and present disappointments and failures and darkness in the world. And with all the reminders of those disappointments and failures comes a clear message "don't fight anymore...don't try anymore....it's not worth it... things never turn out right".
To be hopeful in the midst of despair seems unnatural. It is an act of faith. Faith in the sense of believing an unseen reality - of believing that our despair is not how things really are in the world. In a sense it requires us to think and behave as if there were still reason to be hopeful....and letting the feeling change later on.
It's come to me today that hope is something we must practice, more than it is a passing sense of optimism, or something that transpires after a moment of insight. To be hopeful requires a regular work-out of emotional and spiritual muscles that refuse to get stuck in the limited perspective that despair traps us in. It requires us to keep our minds dwelling in the broadest, truest realities of the universe. The realities that affirm that all things are being recreated, redeemed, made new, and restored. That God will not be thwarted in his love and reconciliation. We can see evidence of these realities if we are persistent in choosing to focus our attention on them, and not choose to allow despair to take up residence in our minds.
For me, today is a hard day to practice this. I must make regular, conscious decisions to fight despair and choose hope instead.
It doesn't feel like it in the moment. When you feel like you've be stepped on, crushed, beaten down, or that "last straw" has been snapped, it's the most easy and natural thing to give in to despair.
It presents itself so logically, "why bother trying if all life ends up bringing you is pain and disappointment".
It feels so real and absolute. The emotion is often accompanied by a profound heaviness, sometimes in the form of body sensations that mimic the real experience of being crushed.
But like all of our feelings we have have a choice. We may not choose our initial reactions, but we can learn to choose how we react to our reactions - that is, how we continue to think, and feel, and behave in response to those initial reactions.
To despair is to take on a myopic view of the world. It's as if an electromagnet has been switched on and attracted all the past and present disappointments and failures and darkness in the world. And with all the reminders of those disappointments and failures comes a clear message "don't fight anymore...don't try anymore....it's not worth it... things never turn out right".
To be hopeful in the midst of despair seems unnatural. It is an act of faith. Faith in the sense of believing an unseen reality - of believing that our despair is not how things really are in the world. In a sense it requires us to think and behave as if there were still reason to be hopeful....and letting the feeling change later on.
It's come to me today that hope is something we must practice, more than it is a passing sense of optimism, or something that transpires after a moment of insight. To be hopeful requires a regular work-out of emotional and spiritual muscles that refuse to get stuck in the limited perspective that despair traps us in. It requires us to keep our minds dwelling in the broadest, truest realities of the universe. The realities that affirm that all things are being recreated, redeemed, made new, and restored. That God will not be thwarted in his love and reconciliation. We can see evidence of these realities if we are persistent in choosing to focus our attention on them, and not choose to allow despair to take up residence in our minds.
For me, today is a hard day to practice this. I must make regular, conscious decisions to fight despair and choose hope instead.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)