timing

This morning I took a look at the All Souls website, just to see what was new with the church. I haven't made it to church in a while -- a month or more -- and I wanted to check out past sermons, read the newsletter, see any new pictures.

The feeling I got when I loaded up the All Souls website caught me off-guard. A sick rolling in the bottom of my stomach, the same feeling I used to get when I hadn't done my homework in middle school. Guilt, shame, anxiety.

But why did I feel that way? One of the great things about All Souls is that the community doesn't judge if you've vanished for a while. It wasn't that I thought anyone would be upset with me for not showing up; it was that I was upset with myself. My conscience was gnawing at me in a way I hadn't felt it in a while.

I know why I haven't been going to church lately: I've been blowing it off for "more fun" things to do, whether it's sleeping in or going to brunch or nursing a hangover. I've been neglecting a very important piece of my life and development for immediate gratification, a warm bed or a mimosa in the morning. And now, after a month or more, I'm starting to feel the effects.

I went to The Golden Compass this weekend. In that fantasy world, people's souls manifest as animals who travel beside them for their whole lives. Inconvenient at times, sure, but in a way that seems lucky. It's impossible to shoo away your soul when it's hovering around your face or curled up at your feet at night. But with such an intangible soul as ours, neglecting it is as easy as forgetting to do your laundry.

Maybe I'll go to Quaker meeting or yoga this week. I need to get centered; my soul, though it's certainly no beast beside me, is mewling for my attention.

twist

More later, but today's tongue twister of the day (courtesy of MJ and today's news clips). Say it out loud three times fast!



"Liberal shibboleth."


Context is from an article in the latest issue of The Economist:

"American Christians have helped expose the Sudanese government's atrocities in Darfur and sex-trafficking in Europe. They have also fought hard to get more aid money for Africa and to fight AIDS—even if cash has come with strings attached (notably preventing any dollars going to abortion). But just as in America, much of their fury is aimed at liberal shibboleths."

LOVE IT.

nerdery!!!

Ok, so we were in an online communications training section, and there was some Latin text on the screen (the placeholder text, like lorem ipsum is on a lot of other pages).

The text looked awfully familiar...

"Dixitque Deus: Ecce dede vobis omnem herbam afferentem semen super terram..."

Yes, in the middle of a CMS training, I had noticed that the placeholder text was from the Vulgate, the original 5th century translation of the Bible into Latin. Thank you, St. Jerome.

"Stop it, you freak!" -- Lauren, after finding out.

liars

I just finished the most incredible book -- Jesus Land, by Julia Scheere. It's her memoir of growing up in a strict Christian family, and then traveling to reform school in the Dominican Republic, with a mixed race family. Her parents had adopted two African-American boys when they couldn't get a white baby, looking at the offer of black children as a "test of faith."

I couldn't put the book down. I read it all today, and it is not a slim book. It affected me in a very personal way, and the reactions I had to it kept changing as the book continued.

Read this book if you need to learn why the Religious Right is wrong. The kids were physically and emotionally abused, first by their parents and then by their "teachers" at the reform school. I've never read such a brutal first-hand account of someone using faith to marginalize and dehumanize someone. And not that such behavior is ever acceptable, but they were children...

Last Sunday, Rob preached on the dangers of fideism: "any belief system holding that reason is irrelevant to religion or faith." And this plays true in Jesus Land, too. The truth is constructed by those in charge and rained down on upon those with no power; the word of God is used to torture, to maim. At one point, a burly adult finds it not only acceptable but necessary, according to God's will, to punch a teenager in the face until the boy falls to the ground, bloody and unconscious. People believe these things.

The stories in Jesus Land horrified me. But at the same time, they made me feel guilty about myself, about my own faith. Next to these Bible-bangin', Scripture-memorizing, soul-scouring believers, I look like a dilettante. Before the book got really terrifying, I started to feel really bad about myself as a spiritual person. Had I dedicated myself enough to my faith? Wasn't I really just taking part in that "cafeteria Christianity," the pick-n-choose of today's religious liberal? (Not that I'm even a Christian anymore -- I'm that far gone from The Lamb or whatever.)

This is what I find scariest about fideism, about conservative Christianity, about Jesus Land. The old phrase "speaking truth to power" is a beautiful thing, but it's just as easy -- in fact, even more so -- to speak lies to power. And when the lies go on for so long that even the liars begin to believe? Well, then you've got elected officials who believe, wholeheartedly, that God wants to firebomb an entire nation.

I'm really unsettled after reading the book, but I'm so glad I did.

coexist

I'm just so in love with this picture. Amazing. And yay for the Unitarian chalice.

So lately I've been doing this really weird, self-indulgent thing. At least once a day I go on Craigslist missed connections to see if anyone's looking for me. If anyone saw me on the bus, on the street, in the Whole Foods, and thought -- she's beautiful. I wish I knew her.

It started, I think, when I got my hair dyed red. I am ridiculous enough to think that, well, golly, people are bound to notice me now! So I scoured the missed connections, searching for "red," searching for "ginger" (in case they were British, I guess).

People in my house have had great success with missed connections. Every once in a while, one of my roommates has her missed connection over to the house and they have irritatingly loud sex. That's a success story, right?

But thus far, no missed connection. I just don't catch people's eyes, I suppose.

There is a word I can't remember -- I don't think it's jolie laide, but I could be wrong -- but it describes a woman who is not beautiful because of any physical characteristics, but by sheer force of personality. Someone who strongarms others into believing she's beautiful. That's what I feel like, sometimes. Not a pretty girl, but a force.

panic

A panic attack has a particular taste.

I always forget that part. Thinking back on them, I remember the fluttering of a pulse, the shallow and labored breathing, the brightness of colors, the pushing pushing pushing ahead. How hard it is to keep walking. But I always forget about the taste of a panic attack.

Like wine, the flavor of a panic attack is hard to define concretely. It tastes like your dry tongue after you've slept with your mouth open. It tastes like the very beginning of a hot pepper, the first spiciness you know will only grow. It's acrid. It stings.

What am I going to do about this panic disorder? Obviously, the meds are not enough. I wouldn't be too worried, but winter's coming, and the lack of sunlight makes everything worse.

One of the weird synchronicities in my life is that every time I start to feel really bad for myself, like woe-is-me bad, I always see someone who's much worse off than I am. God as I know God has a sick sense of humor, and thus always sends some sort of hemiplegic or quadruple amputee to cross my path.

Walking back to the office after lunch, I actually wondered where my cripple was. God was slacking off. But of course, there in the lobby -- the back of a wheelchair, a slumped-sideways figure.

We rode the elevator together. I don't know where he was going, or what disease he had. He was old to have survived something that would have afflicted him since birth, but he seemed too distant from the norm to be a stroke victim. I held the elevator door for him and he thanked me.

The whole way up to the office -- gasp, release. Gasp, release. Labored, rhythmic breathing.

Sometimes God says, even if your pulse is approaching 150, be thankful that it beats strongly through all your pretty little limbs.