A return visit to Capital Church

This morning I went to worship at Capital Church in Salt Lake City. I attended the Saturday night services at Capital when I was in college, and worked on Sunday mornings. It is a new age church as I think of them - Christian rock band, jumbo screen for song lyrics and very well-designed graphics that accompany and enhance pastor Troy's messages, which tend toward 35-40 minutes and are funny, challenging, and firmly based in scripture. 

From the Capital Website

I had many thoughts this morning. 

First, all the hymns emphasized eternal life and triumph over death. "The grave has no power over me," we sang, Suzanne leading us powerfully on stage, in this windowless room that felt like a Christian club on Sunday morning, so different from the traditional (New England) white, windowed sanctuary of First Unitarian Church where I went last week. So what about this eternal life? I just think it's such a strange phenomenon that all of these privileged, mostly white folks, are so determined to overcome death. It seems to bespeak less a triumph over metaphorical death and evil, but a resistance to perfection and mortality.


In the sermon, Troy admonished us to "watch it" with regards to the devil in our lives. This sounds like a traditional, Bible thumping admonition, and in many ways it was, though he tried to couch it in palatable terms. He talked about how hard it is to look at our problems (drinking, lust, and anger are three he spoke about) - how we would rather do anything else. 

This is a trouble I discuss sometimes with spiritual folks interested in the future of religious community. If spiritual life is really going to demand that we look fearlessly within and work on what we find there, it's going to be very unpleasant. What is our commitment mechanism? What will keep us going back to a church where we feel we are asked to look at our deepest fears, at our unwillingness to forgive, at our unwillingness to give up control? 

Troy did not answer this difficult question, and continued only to tell us that we need to "watch it" on our own. He didn't speak at all of the role that community plays in helping us be vigilant against negative patterns, or in dealing with them once they're here. Actually, that's not true. One of his homework assignments (the homework assigned after the closing hymn is one of Troy's trademarks, and I think it's excellent) was to seek input about the issue on your mind (drinking, lust, anger) from someone who loves you and loves God. 

This, I think, should have gotten some explication during the sermon. How do you find people like that? How do you create spiritual relationships? That's the trick, and too often church's aren't the place where people are willing to become vulnerable. And this was my problem with Troy's sermon. He spoke of things like anger, depression, lust... as things that you need to be 100% free of. 

Unrealistic. 

An admonition to do whatever you have to do to keep the devil away from you, to make sure the devil never comes near you, can only promote a blustery refusal to admit one's constant dance with darkness. Life is dealing with the dark thoughts that come up - anger, lust, greed, fear. But "dealing with" is different from "resisting" or, worse, "denying place". I feel many probably left Capital Church today determined once and for all to resist their human impulses toward anger and lust, on their own. Given how hard that is, I anticipate they might then feel significant shame that they could not do what Troy told them was necessary: they couldn't "watch it" enough to be safe from the thoughts that are built into the human psyche. 

During the music part of the worship service, ushers guided late-comers to the empty seats (by the end of the 15-minute music session, there were probably 500 people in the room). These men, young, fit, tall, attractive, white, glad-handed each other, shaking hands with the people at the ends of rows, grasping each others' shoulders, slapping each other congenially, and then requesting that worshippers move up to make room for more worshippers. It was a show of Christian male congeniality and general Christ-like perfection. These men were successfully "watching it," far from sin and safe from the devil. They smelled too good for the devil to be close to them. This ritual made me question whether Capital, and most church communities, are the kind of setting in which people might become an intimate community ready to sit with problems and seek God's guidance. 

Troy spoke a great deal about Richard Beck's idea of "spiritual warfare." The term rankles, as does any metaphor used in the legacy of Christ (the pacifist) which compares spiritual practice to violence. The idea of being at war with one's demons is finally one I have started to amend in my own thinking. I used to think of my character defects, such as fear, selfishness and anger, as things against which I needed to maintain constant vigilance, and which I needed to strike down decisively as soon as they reared their heads. Recent study has changed my opinion on this point. 


Tara Brach has a podcast episode called From Dragons to Schmoos: Meeting life with Compassionate Presence in which she talks about disarming your negative thought patterns by simply accepting them. Well, accepting them for the time being. The idea is to say, "Hello, anger, I see you. I see you and I know you are there for a reason. Let's have tea together. Let's talk about why you are so fired up. You don't have to go anywhere, just know that I am aware of you. Let's talk." 

This compassionate opening of space is what takes the ferocity out of the attack. How can something remain terrifying in the face of an invitation to tea? If I look at the parts of me that cause trouble, and label them bad, and try to distance myself from them, do I not give them a great deal of power? What if I accepted them entirely, without qualification, and invited them to tea? 

Tara Brach's talk also doesn't talk about the role of spiritual community in facing these dragons. Talking through things with someone who loves me and loves God seems to me an essential step toward reducing their power over me. I just wish our community were better at fostering that kind of community. 

What happens between the invasions

When we tell our own stories, and especially when we tell the stories of countries or empires, it is easy to use the big, sometimes catastrophic events as the only reference points. "I moved here, lost this job, moved here, divorced, got sick, this person died, then I moved here. And here I am!" Or, with a history lesson about a country, "Iran was part of the Persian empire, then was invaded by the Ottomans, and then the Mongols..." (I don't actually know if that order is correct). 

I went to a talk last night on Iran, and the presenter made some reference to the culture of Iran between the invasions that dominate its timeline. I much appreciated this. It made me think of how fiction illuminates the small dramas that give substance and animism to our lives. And not only that, but they highlight the dynamism of our inner lives - how we think, obsess, decide, ponder, worry, etc. 

So this video gives a sense of contemporary Iranian history, using the timeline approach (I love John Green)

       
And this movie gives a sense of one family's drama. 

I also read about this musical, which, while telling no story, reveals such an important part of the human experience by revealing some of our common neuroses. I am especially interested that the characters on stage in addition to the protagonist are the voices in his brain. From the review: 

the only other characters in the show are Usher’s “Thoughts,” six hilarious, hyper-verbal, endlessly cruel archetypical shape-shifters. One moment, they’re abstract entities—self-loathing, sexual ambivalence, financial mishandling.

Thank goodness for art for showing us what goes on between the invasions and wars.

Jane Goodall, Reason for Hope

Jane Goodall's memoir, Reason for Hope, took a surprising and distressing turn yesterday. She describes how, after ten years of observing the chimpanzees at the Gombe Stream Research Center, she and the other researchers began observing brutally aggressive behavior in the chimps. 

Some of the adult males began beating up adult females with infants. They would often kill the infant. They would beat up the female. She often died of her injuries. Women also attacked other females, and even ate their babies. When one community broke into two groups at opposite ends of the reserve, one group continually attacked individual members of the other group while they were alone, until the breakaway troupe was all but annihilated. 

Goodall found these events difficult not only because she knew these animals well and it was hard to see them turn on each other in such violence, but also because of the implications of these observations on their understanding of chimp nature. She was encouraged not to publish her findings, since publication would certainly provide fodder for scientists eager to justify human violence by claiming it was inherent in our genetic nature, inherited from our ape-like ancestors. 

She published anyway, and this did in fact come to pass. Chimpanzees had a dark side to their nature, which illuminated some aspects of our own dark nature. 

It is interesting to consider for oneself, quite free of scientific research, whether one thinks humans are naturally peaceful or naturally aggressive and hateful. I would say no, first off, but really there is overwhelming evidence on both sides of the argument. Children offer gifts and love freely and naturally. They also divide into factions and work for others' destruction. Adults do love each other, and especially their own children. They also create many artificial ways of separating themselves from others and justifying violence toward the "other" groups. 

The chimps Goodall observed behaved not just to protect themselves, but to inflict major pain and suffering on each other. Does that mean this is what we will naturally do, after a time? 

Marianne Williamson says "When people behave unlovingly, they have forgotten who they are." Is this what happened to the chimps? Our amnesia can be quite powerful, as induced by fear and socialization. I think it pretty conceivable that we can be "asleep at the wheel" and act in ways not in tune with our true nature. I hope that is where our violence comes from, not from our innate hatred of the other.

Here's a little video summary of the section I listened to yesterday. 

I take comfort in the fact that I'm only half way through the book, and the title is Reason for Hope, so there must be a compelling uplift from this depressing revelation about chimps - that they can be just as vicious as we can. 

Perfectibility and perfectionism

How badly should I feel about falling short of the mark? And what is the mark?

The other day I read a prayer offered at the end of a piece published in Quaker Life magazine. Here it is:

God,
I'm sorry. I'm sorry for being so hard. For being graceless, merciless. Please, forgive me. Open my heart, my mind, and my sight. May I see people in their realness, sit with them and love them in their realness. Please help me as I try to be better tomorrow.
Amen.

The Kennebec river, visible through the woods

There are parts of the prayer I find excellent ("May I see people in their realness, sit with them and love them in their realness") but the opening distresses me. I don't like the idea that if I fall short of perfection, I need to apologize about being "so hard". I am human, and imperfect by that nature, and so allow me to strive for the ideals (loving people in their realness) without having to say sorry. Let me ask for divine help and guidance ("help me to...") without asking for forgiveness for falling short of the mark.

L. says that in Jewish tradition, humans are in the world to perfect it. The purpose of human life is to perfect the imperfect world that the almighty intentionally gave to us. It is understood that we will never fully achieve perfection, never fully succeed at the task. Each day, though, is spent in the attempt, and incremental steps toward perfection are acknowledged.

This sounds so much more useful to me than a mentality where I'm supposed to bring about perfectibility but actually expected to achieve it (which, to me, the apology in the prayer implies. Why would I apologize if I didn't expect to successfully achieve perfection?)

Let's say I wake up and pray for the ability to be the perfect, Christ-like teacher one school day. The day continues, and I respond with patience and tolerance in many situations, and also respond brashly and unkindly in a few others. I make some people feel badly, even if I don't realize it. When I do realize it, I apologize, but some damage has been done. I learn about my own tendencies, and at the end of the day I think I know myself and my way of relating to others better. I realize where I might behave differently tomorrow. In my prayer at the end of the day, let me say not "I'm sorry," but "Thank you for the lessons of today." Let the prayer be

God,
You taught me many things today. Thank you for the opportunity to be of service to others, and to be enriched by my interactions with them. Help me use the lessons from today to improve my interactions with others tomorrow. Help me see where you are leading me. 
Amen.

My problem with the apology for imperfection is that it makes self-compassion hard, and I think self-compassion is already hard enough. When I fall short of the mark, I am often tempted to reprimand myself. I speak in terms that no one else would use with me if they expected to be my friend. I am harsher on myself than I would be on others.

This area has a way of achieving perfection every moment.

What if, encountering our own imperfections we said, instead of "I'm sorry I'm so hard[-headed]" "Of course. Of course I'm so hard headed. I'm human and that's what humans are. I am dealing with my own demons and struggles which prevent me from being perfect. Thank you, self, for your attempts to make it through space and time safely and feeling OK. Let's try to rely more on God's power and less on our own control tomorrow."

How we talk to ourselves matters so much. The simple switch from "I'm sorry for being this way" to "Of course I'm this way - good for me for working daily to improve" could lead to quite the evolution in how we relate to ourselves and the world. 

Stand still, and act not

The query read at the start of Meeting yesterday morning was not officially a query, but a quote from James Naylor.

Art thou in darkness? Mind it not, for if thou dost it will feed thee more. But stand still, and act not, and wait in patience, till Light arises out of Darkness and leads thee.

I was also glad that we heard this in the Paulette Meier plain song chant.

During the silence I thought about what this darkness could consist of. I think it's anything in your life that feels like gunk; where one feels stuck. And it is uncomfortable, and feels counter-intuitive, to stand still in the gunk. But waiting there is what is counselled, instead of buzzing around. This implies that we are powerless over the gunk, that if we try to escape it on our own we will only spin our wheels in the mire.

A thought for today is to have the courage to stand still in the gunk and know that light will arise to lead us out of that darkness.

A Return to Love, and Maine

Quaker House

It was a magical thing to wake up in Maine today. I am staying at Quaker House, an intentional community in Bath, on the Kennebec River, whose waters, alternately shimmering and dull in the partly cloudy morning, I can see from my bedroom window.

Is it sentimentality alone which makes it such a pleasure to see the mossy trees and fences, and feel the absurd amount of water in the air? (Luckily my hair is so short right now it can't really curl.)



On Friday, the night before I arrived here, my hosts watched The Late Show with Stephen Colbert, which I have never seen. I have seen on clip of Colbert back on the Colbert Report, which I thought was funny - I don't remember the topic.

Love Thy Neighbor - very easy on this tiny, quiet road.

Because I don't read the news (or listen to it or watch it) I didn't know that the democratic debate had happened on Thursday. I also didn't know that Marianne Williamson was a candidate. I only learned her name a few weeks ago when a friend recommended her book A Return to Love.


I tried to hold Colbert's belittling comments about Williamson and her faith in the power of love at bay since I wanted to read her book without the taint of political satire (exactly none of which satire I found funny that night).


I started A Return to Love last night, and immediately was engaged by Williamson's description of how we see ourselves.

One idea I find fascinating in spirituality is that we are intent on experiencing the positive changes that a spiritual life promises, without giving up any of the patterns of thinking and acting upon which we presently rely. This, spiritual tradition tells us, is futile. We must give up all old ideas, relinquish ourselves entirely to the control of an outside being, forfeit all our previous ways of being, and embrace something foreign.

I first encountered this idea in Mere Christianity by C.S. Lewis. Lewis says that people become unduly anxious about having to relinquish their vices as they adopt a Christian lifestyle. They need not worry, because Christianity does not require that they cram their current selves into a straighter straight jacket - their entire current self will be subsumed in the new entity that God will create with them. From the text of Mere Christianity:

“Christ says, 'Give me All. I don't want so much of your time and so much of your money and so much of your work: I want You. I have not come to torment your natural self, but to kill it. No half-measures are any good...Hand over the whole natural self, all the desires which you think innocent as well as the ones you think wicked--the whole outfit. I will give you a new self instead. In fact, I will give you Myself: my own will shall become yours.'"

No half-measures are any good? That seems dramatic. I have never been able to commit wholly to a spiritual way of life. All my measures are half. I have never surrendered every aspect of my life to God's care. That sounds terrifying to me. My natural self is alive and kicking - perhaps kicking away Christ's suggestions of a fuller commitment to God's care. Actually, even that is inaccurate based on Lewis's ideas: Christ doesn't want a "fuller" commitment; any level of commitment short of the fully monty is futile. 

But indeed I have not found this to be so. I think commitment on a grand scale is the ideal - an ideal I will work towards my whole life, but I do not expect my natural self to die unto God before it dies unto the world. Perhaps not either afterward, who says my spirit is any less headstrong and wilful than my human body? 

Marianne Williamson also touches on the topic of surrender in her first chapter. She describes the "grandiose" moment when she invited God into her life. 

"I had thought that things would improve. It's as though my life was a house, and I thought God would give it a wonderful paint job -- new shutters perhaps, a pretty portico, new roof. Instead, it felt as though, as soon as I have the house to God, He hit it with a giant wrecking ball. 'Sorry, honey," He seemed to say, "There were cracks in the foundation, not to mention all the rats in the bedroom. I thought we better just start all over.'"

Starting all over with a new foundation - what does that look like? The first cornerstone I would like to jettison is the social expectations society places on women. Actually, since this is about rebuilding my house, not society's, I suppose the stone to remove is the one that contains my desire to adhere to society's expectations. 

Still, though, reading this passage I hear myself ask (in a whiney tone) "Can't I put some supports in place and renovate without tearing the whole thing down?" Can't I let spirituality into my life without dying? The paradox is that we seek spirituality because we acknowledge, at some level, that we are not happy - that our lives are not what we want them to be. But really I just want to add some pleasant bells and whistles without removing any of the parts of myself that I am comfortable with, even if they are detrimental and cause pain.

One more return: I will attend unprogrammed worship at Durham Friends today. 

Born a Crime

I've just started listening to Trevor Noah's Born a Crime on audio, which is read by him. It's a book that's been on my radar for a long time -- well, since the middle of last year when a very bright and capable Somali young man came into my classroom carrying it, ready to read it for independent reading.


Sidenote about moments like this. It is difficult to watch high school boys (and girls, but generally it's easier to connect girls with literature they like) try out books that are the right kind of story, the right tone, the right content, the right kind of author, for them, but they don't speak English well enough for the story to float. This is what happened with R. and Ta-Nahisi Coates' Between the World and Me and with A. and Born a Crime. They are 100% ready to read this content, but don't have the reading skills in English. Maybe they don't have the reading skills in their own language either - they simply haven't been reading long enough to be prepared for text at their emotional maturity level. Listening to Noah's anecdotes, there are not that many turns of phrase and difficult vocabulary words, but there are definitely enough to throw off a new reader.

I just finished the chapter where Noah describes how he grew up in a world of women. Women ran the household the town, his life, his school... and he came to respect their leadership and authority. He also says this was no accident - that young, black South Africans were systematically separated from their fathers, who left to work in factories or mines, and in service jobs for white South Africans.

By the end of the first chapter Noah had proven himself a talented storyteller. He combines the poignant with the humorous to great effect - we are drawn in by his story, and educated by his details about Apartheid South Africa.

He describes his mother in remarkable terms - a woman who persisted in pursuing the things she wanted, despite many arrests and the constant threat of violence and death. One of his earliest anecdotes (the word "anecdote" hardly seems to have the capacity to hold this story's significance) describes how she shoved him out of a moving renegade taxi whose driver had implied that he meant to kill her and her children. Noah was 9 years old, and he and his mother barrelled out of the moving minibus, along with a baby brother, protected by the mother's body, and ran like the dickens away from the drivers in hot pursuit.

This story reminded me of the stories of several of my students, which rarely featured fathers, but quite often featured mothers doing feats of remarkable bravery and resistance. I don't know what to make of it. How can I explain the seemingly superhuman courage and perseverance of mothers in desperate times? There must be research on this.

OK, I just found some. This Smithsonian Magazine article includes an interview with a researcher whose research has shown that mother rats are smarter in many ways than non-mother rats. Here's an excerpt which makes me think of Noah's story, and of the stories of my students, describing how their mothers faced daunting situations coolly and fearlessly.

Mothers are less stressed out when you put them in a stress-inducing situation. They don’t show as much fear. They are more efficient at foraging. They will find food, collect it quickly and get back. They are more aggressive at defending their offspring; if there is an intruder or any sort of threatening presence, moms will fight it more than non-mothers. A recent study showed that moms are better at recognizing emotions than others. Mothers are able to recognize hostility, disgust, fear or the types of emotions that would trigger some sort of danger to their offspring.

This paragraph also helps to explain the attitude of Sharon Rivers, mother of Tish rivers and advocate for Fonny Hunt, in If Beale Street Could Talk. This week we have looked at the scene in which Sharon goes to Puerto Rico to trace the woman who has accused Fonny of rape. Sharon needs to find her, befriend her, and convince her to return to New York and change her testimony in court. A monumental task.

Sharon, arriving in Puerto Rico.

But Sharon takes it on with grace and self-possession. How do women do this? Would a man take on that task? I feel most would not. I think part of a woman's genius is that she is not afraid of what failure will do to her image, or self-image. A certain familiarity with humiliation emboldens her to act despite the possibility of failure.

One of my main goals as a teacher is to reduce the perceived risk of failure in the classroom. Today a student tried to express a complicated idea in class, and had to backtrack several times to correct what she was saying. Two other students gave sighs and sounds of exasperation as she paused and restarted for the third time. I spoke to them about how having to pause and consider what you're saying is not a sign of failure, it's a sign that what you're piecing together is worth expressing, because it's complicated. I always wonder at the efficacy of such statements. Can kids process that? Could I have, at 17? Probably. But I could understand every word a teacher was saying.

This particular student, by the way, has a very impressive mother, and is herself on her way to fearless, inspiring womanhood. I am so lucky to get to spend my days with these students.