Hope's friend ----- memory

 

Walter Brueggemann says hope is often grounded in memory. I remember the strange joy I felt amidst my cancer journey. I hoped for a return to what I knew of life – a hope grounded in memory. I wanted my old life back. Research on disaster victims has documented the tremendous sense of hope as they formulate plans and actively work to return to something they know. Rebecca Solnit[1] is a writer prying into the 'hidden, transformative histories inside and after events we chronicle as disasters.' We are forced to find hope in times of uncertainty. Just as the practice of yoga hones in on our breath lest we forget, so do times of stress remind us to hope lest we perish. We can forget to hope, and crisis can re-activate hope.

In an almost playful way, in times of uncertainty and crisis, we breed a particular sort of hope – this 'do or die' sport of the mind happens when we can't imagine any sucky, romantic future . So we must replace it with a hope rooted in memory or past experience.

Advent calls us to hold our breath in anticipation - as we have in the FIFA World Cup penalty shootouts, the recent Nasa landing, waiting upon results of a scan or simply awaiting forecasted snow. Being a grown-up doesn't mean that you don't feel breathless but that your story informs you, i.e. you will breathe again.

I wonder at the harm done by the Hallmark storybooking of Advent. Fifteen sleeps until Christmas. The carols. The Santas. The elves on the shelves. Many can't identify with a 'home for the holiday' hologram. Brueggemann's comments make me curious. How much of our Advent vibe is founded in memory?

I am struggling to find a rhythm this Advent. I had tea with a friend who was so enjoying the season and her special devotions and spiritual practices. I felt rather lame. My church traditions have not pushed the Advent calendar. Nothing has caught my eye or my passion. In fact, because I spent many years in a non-Advent practicing spiritual community, I suffer with a blocked Advent artery. The implementation of a  prosperity-style gospel offered a manufactured hope when all else failed. I didn't have to pull on my memory parachute but merely recite a bible verse like 'all things work together for good….' and you know the trick. As I rewrite my hope thesis, Mr.Brueggemann has given me something upon which to dwell. Being a theological simpleton, this might be enough to kick-start my Advent engine.

The amazing thing about our communities of faith, evident in our common life, is that memory produces hope in the same way that amnesia produces despair. Ponder that: memory produces hope. We Jews and Christians are people who recall the defining memories and miracles of their lives. We hope in and trust the God who has done these past miracles, and we dare to affirm that the God who has done past acts of transformation and generosity will do future acts of transformation and generosity. By a profound, elemental, and unshakable trust, Jews affirm that the deep loss of Jerusalem did not disrupt God's power and resolve in the world. By a profound, elemental and unshakable faith, Christians affirm that the deep loss in the death of Jesus did not disrupt God's power and resolve in the world. And that is the key issue in hope. If our embrace of God's past is thin, we may imagine that God is now defeated. If our embrace of God's past is thick and palpable, we will continue to trust in that same God.

                             Suffering Produces Hope Walter Brueggemann[2]

And so, I scour my memory bank for the gems of hope. Maybe the times that I felt the incarnational rousings and yet thought were just 'throwaways' – a conversation on the bus, a night babysitting somewhere or an ordinary meal with friends.. Even a particular movie scene can create a hope memory. All have a role in forming memory to register hope. We have a colossal catalogue of stories and events that comprise our library of hope. Get on with your remembering this Advent!

 



[1] https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/jul/15/rebecca-solnit-hope-in-the-dark-new-essay-embrace-unknown

[2] Walter Brueggemann Edited text of a paper presented in Baltimore, MD on April 2, 1998, on the occasion of the Dr. A. Vanlier Hunter, Jr. Memorial Lecture, sponsored by the Institute for Christian and Jewish Studies.

 

The Spin of Success

The cult of success leeches into everything .... our souls, spiritual practices, family, relationships, bank balance, hopes, dreams, and desires .... it's a bastard to avoid. It kicks the tires of humility and kindness, causing us to second-guess ourselves. When you think you are done striving, it appears around the corner dressed up like Jim Carey in The Mask and teases you again.
Biblically and logically, the church should be the place of immunity. A shalom. A respite from trying to get it all right and move forwards. A space dedicated to helping put water on the fire of our greedy gut and image-motivated tendencies  —— encouraging us to leave our LinkedIn profile and achievements at the door. We are all one here.

The obvious spiritual antidote is creating cultures inviting us to 'Come as you are.' Communities that major in 'God loves you just as you are' messaging fitting perfectly with the gospel. Jesus came to ring out loud and clear like an exuberant Salvation Army kettle swinger outside Walmart. 'I've come to tell you to quit the treadmill of trying. Come to me just as you are. You are great, just as you are.

God loves you like a woman who wants to be a mother more than anything else. He loves you like the moment she sets eyes on her child for the first time. He loves you like that ... and over and over again.

We give so much airtime to applying makeup to look more attractive to God. If you do this, believe that, or pray into this, then life in the spiritual cosmos will be sweet. The pastors tend to look successful. The worship leaders look successful and often choose songs urging us to be better in some way.
I know we need guidance. We need teaching. But how often do we forget to say the main thing? God loves you right now.

My church heyday was a Vineyard time, complete with a John Wimber vibe. We belted out that Michael W Smith song over and over, More Power More Love. I loved that song. More Power, More Love. More of You in my life.
Today I want to whisper the 'P' word and just cry more love, more love, more love, more love .....show us how to love.

ATM

Walking by

ATM of grace

Offering beauty for imperfections

And advice

Acknowledging that knowledge only leads to mental obesity

Maybe we think of ourselves as fatter than we actually are - or more pea-brained

Dumber and dumber in a world of too much to know

So

All this is tightening

I feel my face as if I'm blind

Experience freshly

My lines, my stupid moves

I see light looking at me thru the glass

Smiling at my present beauty

Beauty now

Thanks

Knitter Critter

I can’t stop thinking about a comment my brother-in-law made to his wife. I heard it indirectly from said wife.  

“He doesn’t want me to knit. He says it would make me look old. Like a granny.” She laughed.

Blah! Right? Classic gaslight.  

Meanwhile, I have taken up the sport of knitting. Me, a proud badge-wearing grandmother! Does my bum look big with this ball of wool? Do these knitting needles match my lipstick?  

Who cares.

 I’m majoring in sock disciplines, preferring a magic circle needle and following a toe-down pattern. Can you see what I did right there? I’m using the yarn lingo like a pro.  

Knitting is a notch in my limited art belt and a welcome therapeutic tool. The rhythmic purl knit knit knit purl calms me and has both fringe and cringe benefits. I have lived relatively short on hobbies, so I hope knitting is a keeper.

 Speaking of carry-on, who knew you could breeze through airport security with the little trackers snuggly tucked in your backpack? A symbol of reason in these chaotic times. 

 As much as I might crap on the previously mentioned misogynistic knitting observation, I do carry my own activity prejudices. I wouldn’t be caught dead golfing because that’s for boring privileged people. I won’t scrapbook because that is for losers. You won’t see me joining the Gouache 101 lessons at my local community centre – too dull. And, heads up, no one surprise me with a birthday Groupon for a pottery workshop,….. about as stimulating as watching the crockpot lid fog up.  

 Oh, and more men are seeing the benefits of taking up the yarn. Hmmm….what to buy my brother-in-law for Christmas….?

An Invitation to Kindness

Forgive the mess, for "love will cover a multitude of sins."





I found shelter under the awning of a small Ramen place on Robson. On my way to work and almost at the pier when the podcast overwhelmed me. Rather like a sudden thunderstorm, it demanded shelter from the rising emotions and a few moments for it to pass. A most beautiful mess was being unravelled through my ear pods. I needed a few minutes to wait for the emotions and tears to dissolve.

Ironically it was Sunday morning – a wintery pandemic holy day in Vancouver. The interviewer was looking deep into the eyes of Tammy Faye – the overly adorned eyes of this evangelical madame. I heard someone talk about her with kindness for the first time ever. I was enthralled. This character, this larger-than-life Christian personality, was full of heart? Go on. Tell me more.

The podcast featured an interview that aired in 1985 during the early days of AIDS. In November of that year, Tammy interviewed a pastor who had just been given six months to live. A homosexual pastor. While the haters were raging and finger-pointing around her, she proved brave and kind. I stopped and wept as I heard snippets of the interview. I had mocked her for years and criticized her TV evangelism show where she shared the stage with husband, Jim Bakker.

 It was both confusing and wonderful to find a moment to love Tammy. My tears were for her and were laced with my own shame for being one of the haters. Her kindness in that interview is palpable.

Kindness prints the invitations, enabling more people to sit at the table with Jesus.

Kindness has a primary role in softening our prejudices. If love covers a multitude of sins, then kindness is the paintbrush in love's hand. Kindness often saves a seat for compromise and, in doing so, ushers in the power of love leading us gently towards a more profound understanding, despite all things not being perfect.




 Podcast: Things Fell Apart by Jon Ronson BBC 4 https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/m0011sf7

Q and A

 I have found great solace in the past few years, knowing that others are asking the same questions. I spent many years in a space where the currency of community was trading in answers. The community was built with bricks, all resembling each other and coming out of the same kiln. Now I very much enjoy being part of a team of rugged stonemasons- rather than bricklayers. We collect interesting rocks and spend our time trying to make them fit.

Time to Groan

I've got a high pain tolerance. Probably because I don't expect much, or at least I pretend I don't - so I beat pain in a sort of bullshitty sort of way.

I first experienced childbirth in a very pristine, clinical Swiss hospital in Zurich. Lots of white linen and stainless steel products.

In the adjacent birthing suite was a yeller. Who knows her life experience or her dilation measurements, but she was making some serious noise. The wailing became increasingly alarming.

For a first-timer, it was utterly terrifying. Is that what awaited me?  During the 5-part birthing prep sessions with midwife Vreni, I don't remember being warned of the possibility of overhearing screams through thin walls. The raging decibels of the delivery was in stark contrast to the soft, nurturing tones offered by my team. A chunky Brazilian nurse assured me, "Don't you worry. She's Italian. They do that.” All of a sudden, the room next door was quiet. I didn't get to hear the predictable 'oohs' and 'aahs' post-birth.

 During my 3-day hospital stay, I walked the corridors at all hours comforting my new boy, and I wondered where she was – which one of these women had the guts to voice her pain so freely. I never did get to meet the screamer or her baby, sharing a birthdate with my firstborn.

I gave birth quietly. Stoically. That's my way. That's how I've been taught. I'm not free enough to howl. Not free enough to be wild. To kick and to fight and never back down.

Now seems like a good time to never back down. To make lines in the sand and stand firm.

So many are voiceless not by choice but by nature of their life narrative and birth. Children, babies, immigrants, the poor and uneducated – and, in my case, the privileged who never needed to yell.

'We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time.' says the writer of Romans.

Now is my time to groan. Or at least to encourage this growing wail. This universal lament. Let the whole world cry. Let something fresh be birthed.

Never Back Down. There, I said it. I'm joining creation.


Another Shot of Courage

I worked at a pop-up Vaccination Clinic a few weeks ago. You know the drill by now. Line up, register, jab, wait and leave with a sticker. Anyway, the clientele changes like the tides. King tides were experienced during late summer last year when appointments for first and second jabbers seemed to coincide. Now we are entertaining the very young and the over 65s. An interesting dynamic. Conditions are choppy.

Most notably, we have millennial Mamas and Papas bringing in the younger set – those between five and 11 years of age. Anecdotally, about 50 percent of the children coming in for their shot demonstrate some form of anxiety. They line up in front of my registration desk, holding tight onto a parental glove with one hand while hugging their favourite stuffed toy in the other. This clinic has found its temporary home in a relatively wealthy area in the downtown core. We are utilizing one of the large classrooms in a community centre.  The acoustics are horrid, and no partitions separate the immunization stations – so the chants of wailing children ring out loud and clear. This results in a very nervous time for those waiting in line. As well as the sound of the "No, Daddy, no DADDY, don't make me have it" ringing out in high decibels, we also have the phenomena of the runaway child. They run around the room avoiding the vaccination tables. The poor parent is just overwhelmed and everyone finds it so difficult to know what to do. When you have wailers and runners ‘performing’ simultaneously, the whole space goes into high alert.  We have a cot behind a screen at the back in Aftercare, but it is anything but private.

So we have the screamers, and we have the runners. We have the poor vaccinators who sit back and take little action except doing their best to reason with the child. They are careful not to intervene in any way contrary to the new codes of practice.  

And then we have the parent. And this is where the "in my day" line comes into play.

Yes, I have succumbed to using the "in my day" idiom. I have arrived at that time in my life. In this instance, my speech goes like this.

In my day, I would have taken my child and swung them onto my lap. I would have placed enough pressure on both arms, probably resulting in light bruising.  The health worker would have been complicit with me in this action and, as my accomplice, quickly and forcibly got that needle into the arm. Sticking to the script, we would have used words like, look now it's done, what a silly girl you are, it's nothing, now sit down, I won't tell you again. …. Need I go on. It was the 'no nonsense' approach.

On one of my clinic days, a doctor came over to our desk in a moment of relative calm. She is a pediatrician. So she has seen it all before. She told us that she had just witnessed a wonderfully calm mother at her station. The seven-year-old daughter was distraught, she said. The mother had quietly agreed with the child that this was a difficult decision to make and said she felt anxious too. Her tone was loving and understanding. Just what you would need. She oozed confidence and serenity, said the doctor. Slowly and surely but with dogged conviction, she convinced the child to give it a go. 'I don't know quite how she did it, but she was fabulous,' said the doctor.  No bruised arm, No bribery. No trickery.

So there is a middle ground. A place between heavy coercion and the new precious parenting. It begins with confidence and in teaching our children to make difficult decisions. Growing resilience. My brute force methodology suddenly seemed a less than exemplary method.

We have so many teaching moments in life, for our children and ourselves. We are gifted opportunities to stretch and to exercise resilience. These strange times during the pandemic have provided a perfect place for improv and new emotional pathways.

I previewed a book on order from my local library, The Coddling of the American Mind.' co-authored by Greg Lukianoff and Jonathan Haidt. The title alone had me wondering if they sold merch - a t-shirt or coffee mug perhaps?   

The authors examine the new parenting culture and conclude we have bought ourselves "into a myth that students and children are inherently fragile." They go on to surmise that "for the most part, this represents an understandable desire to protect children from emotional trauma. But overwhelming evidence suggests that this approach makes kids less psychologically stable. By over-sheltering kids, we end up exposing them to more serious harm."

They offer a third option, like the example provided by the mother, so admired by our pediatrician that day. That is to provide a pathway for the child to grow emotionally and to help them to expand their resilience threshold.

My brutal method punished my child for non-compliance.  The opposite route displayed during my clinic shift was to consider the child as overly precious and fragile — offering all the possible safety bells and whistles. Some kids took 45 minutes to have their jab with all the talking and the pandering to this need to feel safe.

The Coddling of the American Mind authors have coined the phrase, Safetyism —defined as "a culture or belief system in which safety has become a sacred value, which means that people are unwilling to make trade-offs demanded by other practical and moral concerns." I recognize that we all have different levels on our safety gauges, so we are talking in a generalized realm here.

If the authors are correct and this rise of safetyism is dangerous. We might also ask how it affects the ways we nurture children.

What is that old biblical verse from the Book of Proverbs? 'Teach a child in the way they should go, and then when they are old, they will not stray from it.' Not much actual guidance there. But it speaks of an emphasis on parental teaching – and these days are full of teaching opportunities – anything difficult is a chance to teach something that will stay with children when they are older.

My hope is that this year has built a level of resilience in us all.  That puts a slightly different slant on our desire to see the back of 2021. Perhaps we are moving into 2022 with greater strength than when we started the year.

 

Mulchy Tears

I thought of our joint lament this morning. I pictured the common consciousness as tears serving as mulch to activate a natural compost of all the good leaves together with the dead leaves that fall to the ground. Sort of a massive 'mishing' together of all that is good and evil and restoring or redeeming it to the good.

Throwing everything in the compost. Activating forgiveness and grace in order to turn it into something of value. Maybe that’s how I can better understand ‘ all things working together for good.’


The Laundromat

Our faith needs a laundry. A container where ideas are proven solid enough to survive the whoosh of a 10-minute spin or a heavy soiled cycle.  Ideas and practices that can live in the cramped, still place. The imagination is hidden behind the thick glass. Precept upon precept. I suppose Jesus died that I might sit and watch him take the stains out.

Love

To be commanded to love God at all, let alone in the wilderness, is like being commanded to be well when we are sick, to sing for joy when we are dying of thirst, to run when our legs are broken. But this is the first and great commandment nonetheless. Even in the wilderness - especially in the wilderness - you shall love him.

A Room called Remember - Frederick Buechner

The Bridge

bridge.jpg

I am fascinated with bridges.  I like to imagine cities before bridges were built.  Bridges in Sydney, Perth, San Francisco, New York and Vancouver join big chunks of their respective towns.  My grandfather was a bridge builder.  Every time we cross the Narrows Bridge in Perth, I think of my dad proudly saying, ‘your grandpa built this bridge.’ It joins the north to the south of the city. A highway in Perth is now named after my grandfather – Leach Highway.

About seven years ago there were community discussions in Vancouver as the new Port Mann Bridge was opened. The new bridge has 10 lanes and spans across the Fraser River.  The talk centred around what to do with the obsolete bridge?  One idea for the redevelopment was to turn it into a long strip of public parkland, like the ‘High Line’ on Manhattan’s West Side.  The New York version is a project completed in 2009 whereby an old freight line was turned into an elevated public park.  It has become a new tourist attraction. Have a look at it at http://www.thehighline.org.   Unfortunately, the developers and NYC have taken a high line when it comes to prohibited activities on the High Line.  Visitors to the High Line are NOT able to walk on rail tracks, gravel, or plants; pick flowers or plants; sit on railings or climb on any part of the High Line; cycle, skateboard, skate, drink alcohol, feed any of the wildlife or produce any amplified sound.

It was decided to demolish the old bridge, built in 1964, using what is termed reverse construction. Shame.

Bridge restrictions, like custom crossings, can make our cityscapes difficult to cross.  We put tolls on bridges.  The on and off ramps of big city bridges tend to be places of traffic congestion and frustration. Bridges are pricey for cities to maintain and come under great scrutiny for safety. Recently the new and elegant Port Mann Bridge in Vancouver, built to solve traffic problems, has been under fire due to so-called ‘ice bombs.’ Ice falling onto cars and creating traffic hazards and insurance claims in the winter months. Did the architect predict this might happen?  Once built, bridges are difficult to modify — challenging to widen, and modifications for bike lanes are a high priority these days.

Jesus is our bridge – he just stretched out his body as a way to bridge the chasm between God and us.  He took away the tolls, the maintenance fees, the design headaches, the safety issues. He said - walk – or ride a bike or drive -  across my body that has been laid out flat for this purpose. He encourages us to stop and pick the flowers and sit on the railings. To slow down. He is always just and kind, and forgiving.

Bridges are infrastructures that join people and enterprises together. They enable movement and opportunities for communities to spread out and grow.  I consider that is a big part of the call for Soulkitchen here in Vancouver - to facilitate movement.  To create bridges between communities, businesses and lonely people. Making kingdom connections of promise and hope.

 

 

Dreamtime - a migration inward, an inward migration

The Dreamtime is a commonly used phrase to describe the spiritual beliefs and experiences of the Australian aboriginal people. It speaks of their connection with the beginning and with creation. It imagines and takes the people back to a time past. In the beginning, in the Dreamtime, they are given their identity in the universe and their place. The poetry and stories of the Dreamtime have become increasingly mournful and wistful as these people have been displaced and their identity as a group distorted.

In Kath Walker's poem of 1970, read first on the steps of Parliament House in Canberra, she says:

Oh spirits from the unhappy past,
Hear us now.
We come, not to disturb your rest.
We come to mourn your passing.
You, who paid the price,
When the invaders spilt our blood.
Your present generation comes,
Seeking strength and wisdom in your memory.
The legends tell us,
When our race dies,
So too, dies the land.
May your spirits go with us
From this place.

This is the voice of longing and loss and much like the rhythm of the contemporary mystic.  We cry out in earnest for refreshment and a return to the naivete of our salvation.  The Spirit within is the greatest gift allowing us to 'travel' in another dimension and find our identity in Christ and our assignment on earth. Our Dreamtime.

This inward place is where we work with our own thoughts—our own sovereignty of mind, our own sovereignty of imagination—and where we keep our own knowledge safe. This is where we fashion, and refashion, and imagine the stories we want told, where we catch the essence of a story before it drifts away, or before it is overrun by the power of those other stories, created by the score in this country, to distract our thinking. In the inward place, we can speak the truth more easily, and often with humour, because of the ease we feel being in the family home of traditional country. This is also where we flourish by making new stories: bringing new sagas of the "all times" into our world and also dealing with the stories of consolation, redemption, and reckoning. Alexis Wright[1]

Imagine placing you and the Holy Spirit in the text above. Like a holy conversation and a holy cookout mixing the past and the present and the future. Conjuring up a new knowing of God and shutting off misconceptions and dreaming of God entering 'country' as Jesus and now as Emmanuel – God with us.

Our place of contemplation is not so much answering our big life questions but instead pondering them, as the word itself suggests. Considering God and me across time. Not needing answers.

[1]

https://emergencemagazine.org/story/the-inward-migration-in-apocalyptic-times/