Advent Advent

November 18, 2013 at 10:43 am

Advent is coming. The season of anticipation of Christ’s arrival is almost here, making this week an Advent of Advent (sort of, not officially liturgically speaking of course). Many of my friends use Thanksgiving as the official cue to start playing Christmas/holiday themed music, but I am a pretty staunch advocate of waiting until the first Sunday of Advent (even though technically actual “Christmas” music should wait until the 25th).

I will be preaching at the Vespers service next Sunday in the basement of Marsh Chapel, in Robinson Chapel. It will be the last Sunday in the Season after Pentecost, and the Gospel reading is Luke 23: 33-43. The passage starts with the crucifixion of Jesus and ends with Jesus telling one of the other criminals on his side that he shall enter Paradise with him. When I was in middle school, my class watched Jesus Christ Superstar to help us understand what the Lenten season, especially Holy Week was about. Pedagogical debates about the efficacy of Andrew Lloyd Webber as a teaching tool aside, the Crucifixion scene was, in a word, dramatic. I’ll never forget how the raising of Jesus on the Cross was repeated from multiple different camera angles, so we could view the dirty, sweaty, emaciated Ted Neely playing Jesus as detailed as possible. The moment that the Cross sort of “clicked” into place was also replayed what seemed like a million times, an image that will be emblazoned in my memory. It was all very drawn out, taking about a minute of screen time, accompanied by ethereal ambient music and stylized laughter.

I say this only because it stands in such stark contrast to the passage from Luke that we will be reading this Sunday. That entire, physical putting-Jesus-on-the-Cross is summed up by Luke like this: “When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left” (Luke 23:33). Certainly, a more dramatic and image filled telling of the Crucifixion works for the stage and screen (although I have not seen the Passion of the Christ, I’m sure the scene is quite similar), but there is something incredibly dramatically (from a dramatic stand point, not implying camp or over-the-top-ness) interesting about the simplicity and implied silence of Luke’s verse. Say I am a theatre director (which I am), staging a crucifixion (which I currently am not). Filling the aural and visual space of the theatre with images, pictures, and sounds of pain and suffering would certainly put the audience at unease. However, if I staged this scene in a very minimalist way, the audience would have to deal with their own images and emotions that they associate with Christ’s execution. In the silence, our body-minds fill the space with our own emotions, judgments, presuppositions, and prejudices. In a narrative like Jesus Christ Superstar, our emotional landscape is sort of dictated. Obviously, we each would watch a scene like that and take away different parts of it, but there is a specific choice to control the emotional tone of the scene. Just meditate on the one verse, Luke 23:33 for a second: “When they came to the place that is called The Skull, they crucified Jesus there with the criminals, one on his right and one on his left.” That’s it. Our minds fill in the imagery for us, whether it is biased by the art we’ve seen, the movies we have watched, the Easter services we attended as a child, or the academic study of theology that many of my colleagues have engaged in. So to sum all this up, in my grand, theatrical retelling of the Passion, we all now know how I will stage the Crucifixion. Sorry for the spoilers.

So what does this have to do with Advent? Well, I’m not really sure. I was quite puzzled myself when I saw this as the passage I would be preaching on to prepare us for Advent. However, it makes sense if we look at the liturgical year as a cycle. Easter is not the end of the Liturgical year; next Sunday is. But we are revisiting a what would be grouped with other Holy Week texts. This passage opens with the execution of Christ, and next week we start the mystery of Christ’s birth. The juxtaposition of Christ’s death and birth is so reminiscent for me of Shiva, the Hindu God of destruction. Without getting to deep into Hindu theology, Shiva brings about the destruction that always precedes new creation. The juxtaposition of Luke and Advent in this liturgical year certainly harks back to this primal impulse that creation can only come about with destruction. That is one of the things that makes both the narrative of Jesus’ resurrection so potent and the structure of the liturgical year so smart; it taps into a shared desire to understand the mystery of not just creation but creating. Shiva is a patron of Art, which is no surprise.

Many of these themes I am exploring in my journey as an artist-theologian, and it is encouraging that I get the opportunity to explore these themes more fully in the context of preaching. These were just my initial thoughts in my process towards a sermon, and I actually didn’t expect them to formulate like this, which is the outcome of just free writing. This will be expanded for my sermon next Sunday.

 

By lucchesi | Posted in Robby | Comments (1)

Thanksgiving Wonder

November 18, 2013 at 10:34 am

I've been thinking a lot about wonder. Maybe it's because it's drawing near to Thanksgiving--or because the leaves are vibrant colors or because I'm young and healthy and in love (cliché as that sounds). But I've found myself being often struck with awe at how wonderful--wonder full--life is. Walking down the sidewalk under a blue sky. Greeting a friend. Snuggling under warm blankets after a productive day. Toasting a wine glass over laughter and good times.

This isn't to say that I don't lose sight of these beautiful things sometimes. But I always find myself, in the season of Thanksgiving, thinking more about thankfulness.

And about God, and God's role in all this.

I've been twisting my Claddagh ring around my finger, running my fingertips over the Trinity knots on both sides.

I've explained before how I conceive of the Trinity--as a symbolic representation of the presence of God: in the universe, in our fellow beings, and inside ourselves.

So, when I'm standing on the T or sitting in class, I trace the design of those trinity knots and think about the beautiful and beloved souls of strangers surrounding me, each carrying a divine spark within them. When I stare into the eyes of a person I'm having a conversation with--be it a professor or one of the homeless men I volunteer with--I recognize that piece of God within them.

Joseph Campbell, one of my favorite scholars of religion, once wrote about the gesture that Indians do when they say "Namaste": the hands pressed together in front, like a prayer, and the slight bow. He said, "In India there is a beautiful greeting in which the palms are placed together, and you bow to the other person. That is a greeting which says that the god that is in you recognizes the god that is in the other."

I am not saying we should all start saying "Namaste" and bowing, but I think it would be beautiful if we marked each encounter with another being with an acknowledgement of their inherent worth, dignity, and divinity. When we see these things in another person, the world becomes a more loving place.

By aclauhs | Posted in Abigail | Comments (4)

Waiting

November 17, 2013 at 1:43 pm

Today was an especially joyful day for me, because it was the first day of the Children’s Ministry program I’ve been planning at Marsh Chapel all semester. The morning started a little hectic; I woke up early, registered for classes for next semester, and made sure to get to Marsh extra early to set up my classroom space. I was definitely nervous. Questions rushed through my mind: would any kids actually show up? Did I remember to order all the right supplies? Are the kids going to like my crafts? Then of course to my delight, I started to see children show up. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 they kept coming in. Then I started to panic that I wouldn’t have enough supplies for all the children. I sat through the service, splitting my focus between the impassioned sermon and my worries about my new program.

I really shouldn’t have worried. At the end of the offering, I collected the children and we went down to our classroom. I had five kids, plus two older helpers, and just enough craft supplies for everyone. We prayed together, we learned a story from the bible, and heard a little bit about the origin of the advent wreath. Then we constructed advent wreaths of our own. The theme of class this week was waiting. I told the children about Zechariah and Elizabeth waiting for their son John to be born. I feel like I have been waiting all semester for this week. Waiting to see if my curriculum would work well. Waiting to see if the children would have a good time. Waiting to see if I could handle running a religious education class. As I told the kids this week, during advent we wait, because something wonderful is going to happen soon. For me that wonderful something is happening now. It is such a blessing to be able to work with the youngest members of our community. Now I can’t wait for next week!

 

By jdingus | Posted in Jaimie | Comments (0)

Leaders In Discernment

November 3, 2013 at 8:29 pm

Last weekend I had the pleasure of attending the Fund for Theological Education’s Leaders in Discernment conference in Stony Point New York. The Fund for Theological Education (FTE) is an organization that promotes the education and development of young Christian religious leaders. This two and a half day event brought together young people from various denominations to talk about religious leadership and ministry. I can really only describe this experience as a blessing.

Everything about the conference was fantastic. The facility was beautiful; I made use of the outdoor labyrinth as well as getting to jump into piles of leaves around the grounds. Even better, though, was the gathered community. We were a very diverse group of Methodists, Pentecostals, Quakers, Baptists, Catholics, United Church of Christ, Unitarian Universalists, and others, but we bonded quickly and were able to share and interact deeply with one another. Throughout our time together we heard from different religious professionals about their paths to ministry, we experienced new and innovative forms of spiritual practice, and we created deep connections with our religious peers.

I have to admit, that at the beginning of the conference I was nervous about being the only Unitarian Universalist. I learned very quickly that my brand of abstract heavily love based pantheism was very different than the strong Trinitarian beliefs of the rest of the group. The inhibitions that these differences caused me were quickly shed on the second day, when I went to Courtney Goto’s intoning workshop. In this workshop, the six of us sat together with our eyes closed. Then we concentrated on a specific prayer. Finally someone started vocalizing. The vocalizations were generally long sustained vowel sounds that mixed together to form a heartbreakingly raw symphony of voices. I felt so safe and connected to the world and to the people I was with. This exercise showed me how we could all be so different as individuals, but we could come together to create something incredibly powerful.

I left the conference feeling refreshed and inspired. The people that I met are the people who will be my future colleagues in ministry, and I am so grateful already for the fantastic gifts they possess. It was eye opening for me to see such a diverse collection of people of faith come together to learn and share. Going forward I am excited to implement the knowledge I gained from this event, but I’m even more thrilled for the possibility of working with these wonderful people again.

 

By jdingus | Posted in Jaimie | Comments (0)

Out of the Mouths of Children

October 27, 2013 at 9:54 pm

One of the reasons I love Unitarian Universalist Children's Religious Education is the openness--they're not afraid to share the stories and tenets of other religions with their children. They give them their own free path to explore, with teachers to support them along the way.

I don't necessarily want children, but if I did--that would be the kind of religious education I would want them to have.

Mine was far different. The majority of my formative religious education happened in the first ten years of my life, when we attended the Presbyterian church that my Protestant father and Catholic mother had compromised on (don't ask me why...). Sunday school consisted mostly of Bible drills and coloring books, but I still struggled to understand the why.

Why did Jesus have to die for us? Who was Jesus, anyhow? If he was God's son, who was his mother? (I fancied it was Mother Nature.) And if he was God's son, how did he already exist in heaven--didn't he have to be born sometime, somewhere?

Of course, none of my Sunday school teachers struggling to answer these questions told me that these were questions that the Church had struggled with since the beginning.

But, in a childlike way, I still believed. The heaven I imagined was more like Narnia, and I thought that Jesus would look like my favorite uncle, who also sported a beard. Our church had high windows that reached to the arched ceiling and I would spend whole services with my neck craned up, seeking a glimpse of the angels I was convinced were peeking in on us.

When our teachers would ask us, "Do you believe that Jesus is your savior?" I would eagerly affirm it along with the chorus of the other children saying, "Yes!" I didn't really understand what that meant, but I knew I was supposed to say it.

Looking back now, the thought of it disturbs me a little--the way I parroted things and learned to keep my questions to myself.

In one of my religion classes, my professor explained the theory that there are two kinds of believing--childhood faith, where the world seems a magical  place and it is easier to believe fantastical things, and adult faith, which is a tougher thing because one has learned the logic of the world.

In a way, I think it is wrong to play the imaginative minds of children into believing only one story when their daydreams are still so vivid. I think we should share the stories of all religions with them, while their minds can still pull them into the passion and wonder of such stories. I think the child-like mind is an incredible and beautiful place to experience religion--but we should allow it to have broad horizons and endless questions.

By aclauhs | Posted in Abigail | Comments (0)

Sermon on Luke 18:9-14

October 27, 2013 at 9:20 pm

I was asked to preach this Sunday, and so I went for it. Here it is!

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In William Shakespeare’s Hamlet, the ill-fated prince assembles a group of players to act out a play that implicates the King in the murder of the previous King, Hamlet’s father. He says to them, “For

anything so o'erdone is from the purpose of playing, whose end both

at the first and now, was and is, to hold as 'twere, the mirror up

to nature; to show virtue her own feature, scorn her own image.”

 

In my experience, however, it is much easier to “hold the mirror up to nature” when you are not actually holding it up to yourself. Although I study theatre primarily, I don’t call myself an actor. I do act, but most of my work is in directing, so sometimes I am called, in service of the story, to make people aware of some of their acting habits. I have watched the actors in my program grow from freshman year to senior year; I have also seen them in class where their acting habits are brought into the light and smothered out of them. One actor has trouble in the upper register of his voice, another has trouble finding clear actions, and another has no sense a build in a monologue and scene. As a director, I am trained to pay attention to that and bring it to the actor’s attention if he or she is falling back into harmful habits.

 

This is always a weird role for me to play, because I am so aware of my bad habits as an actor. I actually have many of them. Its one of the reasons I don’t act as much. I can be immovable in my acting choices, stiff in the lower body, and unspecific with my arms. Often times, I have to tell an actor that she is doing the exact same things that I do. I always end up feeling guilty about that, because I hate getting direction. I’m really good at giving it, and awful at receiving it. I inevitably take it personally. “What do you mean, my character is unclear? What are you saying about me?”

 

Luke’s Gospel today is all about hypocrisy, and it has much more wide-ranging implications than my little anecdote about theatre training. However, that was my entry point into this lesson. When I am a director, I am in a position of power, and I feel like I abuse it when I give an actor a direction that also applies to myself, and it is that irony that makes it hypocritical. In the case of the Pharisee, he prays to God in the temple in a way that does not serve God, and the irony there lies in the fact that he is a religious leader.

 

It was the hypocrisy of the religious leaders in the Christian church nearly five centuries ago that led Martin Luther, a disgruntled Catholic priest, to post his famous 95 theses on a church door. We celebrate that today on Reformation Sunday, and I could not think of a better Gospel reading to stir us to action in a church that is sadly still broken. And although today is more about the Protestants, I sense I am called to talk about the Catholic tradition from which I come, a tradition that has been riddled with round after round of bullets of controversy, from extravagant spending to a particularly sensitive topic to Bostonian Catholics, the child abuse crisis.

 

Most recently, Pope Francis has dealt with one of the main public figures in the Catholic world in Germany, Bishop Franz-Peter Tebartz-van Elst, also known as “Bishop Bling Bling”. He was recently suspended by the Pope on account of a massive renovation of clergy residences, poised to cost $7.5 million, and subsequently sextupling in cost (that’s times six).

 

Now, I am not suggesting that Pope Francis is going to bring about another schism in the church, but I think its important to note that he is taking on the powerful institution (ironically enough, that he runs) and the hypocrisy that has plagued it for years. This might not be the Reformation, but it certainly is a reformation. In light of the social justice impulse behind the Jesuit order of priests, in which Pope Francis is a member, Bishop Tebartz-van Elst is being extremely hypocritical, and finally the Church is paying attention.

 

Of course, it was Jesus who talked all the time about hypocrisy! You have today’s Gospel reading about the Pharisee and the tax-collector. You have Matthew 6.5, which also takes place in a church: “And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by others. Truly I tell you, they have received their reward in full.” You have famous metaphor of Matthew 7.3-5: “Why do you look at the speck of sawdust in your brother’s eye and pay no attention to the plank in your own eye? How can you say to your brother, ‘Let me take the speck out of your eye,’ when all the time there is a plank in your own eye? You hypocrite, first take the plank out of your own eye, and then you will see clearly to remove the speck from your brother’s eye.” I think Jesus is serious about this one.

 

For me, today is about the “protest” part of “Protestantism”. We need to stay engaged in the fight against hypocrisy in our church, like Martin Luther so courageously did nearly 500 years ago. But let’s first go back to the theatre metaphor really quick. Constantin Stanislavski, known as the grandfather of modern acting, was known to say, in regard to bad acting habits, “Awareness is the seed of all change.” My awareness of the hypocrisy of me giving direction to actors helps me be sensitive to the needs of the actor so he or she can stay in service to the story, in which case it is no longer really hypocrisy. All of this systemic change is only possible if we start from ourselves, and the first step is to just be aware of where in our life we do not follow what Jesus teaches, and with that awareness, we will actually be more equipped to join others in following his footsteps.

 

Amen.

By lucchesi | Posted in Robby | Comments (1)

In the Belly of the Buddha

October 21, 2013 at 10:17 am

There was a time when I thought I was Buddhist.

I suppose that fits me neatly into the New-Agey spiritual-seeker college student category (or should I say cliché?). But yes.

I discovered Buddhism my freshman year of college, when I decided last-minute to take "Buddhism in America" instead of a computer programming class (yes, I was a computer science minor once upon a time). In the class, we read Shunryu Suzuki, Kerouac, Ginsberg, Thich Nhat Hanh. We had to visit local Buddhist centers. And I was drawn to it, to this sense of calm and peace and serenity that I had never found in Bible Belt Christianity.

When I came back to South Carolina for the summer at the ed of that semester, I was determined to find a Buddhist community. And lo and behold--there was one in my town with a bona fide Tibetan monk. I have no idea why a Tibetan monk would come to the United States for political asylum (around the same time that the Dalai Lama had to flee Tibet) and choose to teach in Charleston, SC of all places, but I was happy that he had.

The Tibetan Center was a small house on a side street, unassuming but for the Dharma Wheel symbol perched in the front yard. Inside, the first floor was the a large meditation room, hung with gold-trimmed tapestries and Buddha statues and always thick with the rich smell of incense. The floor was laid out in crisp rows of meditation cushions, and the platform at the front where our teacher sat always had a fresh lotus blossom floating in a bowl of water.

The monk was everything you might expect--wizened, sweet, and with a mischievous sense of humor that had him making comparisons between the mind and a Super-Walmart. He led us in meditation and talked about how each day is a snowflake, something delicate and beautiful and which will melt away.

I soaked up his words like arid desert ground. I brought friends with me to the center and begged my parents for a meditation cushion for my birthday. I read books upon books about Buddhism. I even posted the five beginner Buddhist vows (To refrain from harming living creatures (killing). To refrain from taking that which is not given (stealing). To refrain from sexual misconduct. To refrain from false speech. To refrain from intoxicants which lead to loss of mindfulness.) in my room, committed to following them.

Looking back on that summer now, I see that I was swept up in more than a little romanticization--for the incense, for the wise old monk with the Tibetan accent, for the lovely tapestries hanging on the walls. I was so sick of Christianity and of the strict theologies of Catholics and Southern Baptists that I had grown up with, and I wanted a change.

Our monk always emphasized that meditation was not simply Buddhist, but something that could be used in any tradition--something essential for humanity as a whole. It took me a while to realize that fully for myself.

I began to crave church--the hymns, the community, the stained-glass windows. And I began to see that I didn't have to become Buddhist to employ some of the same spiritual practices.

I was lucky, because it was around this time that I went to a Unitarian Universalist church for the first time. The minister of this church, which I now call home, is deeply inspired by Buddhist practice, and incorporates it into her own faith life and that of the congregation. But there is also a recognition--and this is important--of the danger of cultural appropriation. I think that the first time I encountered Buddhism, I was slightly guilty of this, taken by the exotic nature of my teacher and the center.

But now, I engage with Buddhism out of my own tradition. I read a piece on cultural appropriation the other day, and it emphasized that the difference between cultural appropriation and cultural exchange is power dynamics. Fair exchange cannot happen between a more powerful being and an oppressed one. It must occur between equals.

And so when I engage in Buddhist practice--or learn about and share in the practices of any religious tradition--I try to always be conscious of these ideas of equality and exchange.

I feel blessed that the Buddhists I met shared their tradition and the gift of their spiritual practice with me. Even though we are not all of the same tradition, we can learn from each other in peace and love.

By aclauhs | Posted in Abigail | Comments (5)

Take me to the Water

October 21, 2013 at 9:10 am

The past several Sundays at Marsh Chapel, Dean Hill has been encouraging us to take time to stroll along the seashore, to discover ourselves both lost and found at the waters edge. On Thursday night, the urge to explore and to connect to the beauty and mystery of the earth struck my friends and I. After dinner, leaving homework and meetings behind, we set out for the esplanade. We walked in the starry darkness until we reached one of the floating docks. We stood together quietly soaking in the peacefulness of the evening skyline.

We laid down on the dock together and watched the sky and the lovely skyline of our new city. As we laid together, we began to talk about the way the city looked from our dockside vantage point. Boston seemed so busy and full of life. The streets never ceased to flow with cars and the buildings shown with the lights of people living and working. It seemed so important for us to sit apart from the hum of the city, watching as the world kept going without us.

It was incredibly humbling to be reminded that we are not the center of the universe, to see ourselves apart from the action of life. And even more than humbling, how regenerating? For me it is necessary to take a break from the madness of studying for midterms and trying to be involved in clubs, to just sit with my friends apart from the rush of the world and breathe. As this year continues, I intend to make time regularly to step away from my responsibilities and the stresses in my life to reconnect with the earth.

 

By jdingus | Posted in Jaimie | Comments (0)

On the need for a new church cont.

October 16, 2013 at 11:37 pm

Before I continue with this train of thought I must answer a critique I received on my last post. It was said that I conveyed a disdain for the rituals of the church. In my last post of this title I attempted to convey, not my own personal discomfort with the rituals of the church, I quite understand them and while I may not be well educated in the history and meanings behind all the rituals we see  in church I do have a profound respect for there importance and I seek to understand them, but it is those who are unmoved by church tradition whom I am seeking to give voice to and to simultaneously address.  I seek to find an answer to the question I see written on the faces of some of those attending services at Marsh Chapel and the question I hear from my peers whenever I invite them to Marsh, Why go to church?

A couple of months ago I found myself engaged in a process of writing a sermon for Ash Wednesday. Luckily, having not preached before, I was not engaged in this process alone. I had excellent guidance and a team of two other students I delivered the sermon alongside. The uniqueness of our endeavor did not occur to me until I saw a Facebook post from one of my co-horts, "What do you get when you put a Unitarian Universalist, a Southern Baptist, and a quasi-Quaker Anglican together? The Ash Wednesday Interdenominational Service at 6 pm this Wednesday." We were three very different individuals from different places around the world with different theological backgrounds that at times clashed during the creation process and ultimately created a better product.  And after we were done with this process we shared it with our BU community, this service by the way had the most number of student's I'd seen in the chapel to this date.

Some time after this experience I found myself sitting down in my living room ruminating on a paper (attempting to read Howard Thurman into Plato's Allegory of the Cave) and an idea suddenly came so clear to me that for a moment it was as if it was the only thing that ever existed. The idea was for a different kind of church. A church not based on hierarchy or strict ritual, a church that emphasizes each person's connection to the divine spirit and the multitude of ways that spirit can manifest itself. It has been months since I was graced with that idea; its parameters and distinctions its moving parts and its beauty which at the time seemed so clear to me have now faded into the recess of my memories. However I can recall some of the ideas and I hope that they may spark a conversation that can bring God's people back to his church.

The basic idea is that a group of people with different theological backgrounds and talents would convene on a periodic basis and wrestle with a moral question for a predetermined period of time. At the end of that time the group is expected to formulate some statement of consensus regarding that moral question. After reaching that consensus that group would through their various talents construct a program  to present that consensus to their larger community. So one member of the group may write a song, another poetry, another compose a sermon, another create a movie, another paint, another cook a meal, another build a structure. I think this exercise would be valuable for a number of reasons 1) This would allow people to more directly engage with moral questions. 2) it would habituate people into the practice of forging a consensus 3) It would force individuals to think about how morality plays itself out in their own personal passions. Anyway I realize in attempting to convey this message I am failing on all accounts, though I shall keep trying.

Perhaps  I am not equipped to speak of the process at this current stage of my development, maybe I can at least draw the broad outlines of the product I seek. I seek a space where the individual can come into contact with his or her authentic self  and authentic others. I seek a space where a process of collective introspection is initiated towards the ends of Truth. I seek a space where authentic expression is the expectation not merely pageantry. And I seek a way to replicate such a program en mass within diverse cultural contexts.  This is a space where the God of my belief would reside. For me it makes sense that that which is most authentic, God, would be revealed in a place of authentic expression. Of course the question now is what is authenticity?  (To be continued)

 

By djwalker | Posted in Demarius, Uncategorized | Comments (0)

Good Enough

October 15, 2013 at 7:54 pm

I just got my personality results on the Myers-Briggs test again. The result: INFJ, a personality shared with Martin Luther King, Jr. The description: an idealist, committed to raising up the downtrodden, but also a realist--working hard to make things actually happen.

Scrolling through the description, everything fit me accurately. You are an introvert that many mistake for an extrovert because of your enthusiasm and your willingness to engage with people to champion your causes. Someone who tends to take on tons of responsibilities because you are passionate about so many things. And on and on and on.

But despite such a glowing personality description, somewhere within me, there's this fear that I'm not good. I told Demarius that fear the other night, after he joked about wanting to be me when he grew up because I seem to have it all together. See, I say I want a life of service, that I'm committed to helping people, that I believe we are all interconnected...

But what if, at the bottom, once you push it all away, I am nothing but a self-centered person who wants everyone to be impressed with how altruistic I am?

Because I don't have the Mother Theresa personality. I don't have that warm presence that makes people feel closer to God. I'm sarcastic and snarky and sometimes self-absorbed.

In other words, I'm not perfect.

And sometimes I fear that I'm lying to myself by wanting to make my vocation be something that is, essentially, being a good person.

Am I good enough?

Not talented enough, or driven enough, but deeply, compassionately good enough.

I've always been told how smart I am, how impressive I am, how talented I am. I've been praised for grades and speeches and event planning. But somehow I crave for an affirmation that, work and plan and strive hard as I do, my heart is felt in it. That people see that I care and love them.

Because I do. I really do. I love my fellow beings and the divine light inside of them. I am moved by their troubles and their joys. I want to touch their stories and change their lives, and I want to be changed by them.

When I was talking with Soren about spiritual authority and where it comes from the other week, I told him decisively that wisdom can come from flawed people. MLK or Ghandi might have had their flaws, but I believe they walked closer with God and had things to offer to the rest of humanity.

In the same way, I hope that I--flawed as we all are--can still serve the world and make it a more loving place. I hope that I have something to offer, even if it is an imperfect gift.

By aclauhs | Posted in Abigail | Comments (0)