Relocating.

I'm moving over to Wordpress! Check out http://sarahshowell.wordpress.com for future posting. I'll maintain this site as an archive of old blog posts.

What I'm Reading #34: Unbroken (Laura Hillenbrand)

Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption, by Laura Hillenbrand

I have to start with a confession: I do not know how to blog about Unbroken. It's an intense book, and I've had an emotionally intense month. What's more, I'm on the planning team for an upcoming Veterans' Day event, so questions of combat, trauma, etc. are already in my brain.

But here I go. If you choose to read on, please give me grace.

Unbroken tells the story of Louis Zamperini, an Olympic runner who became a bombadier in WWII and ended up as a POW in Japan. What he went through in captivity could not be more accurately described than "hell." A better title for this book would have been Broken. It is absolutely an inspiring survival story, but the depth of physical and emotional scars that Zamperini brings back from the war cannot be glossed over. Of course, the story of the war hero turned struggling veteran turned Christian finding redemption is an incredible narrative of pain, restoration and forgiveness. Zamperini's story is one that needs to be told. But there were some things about the book that concerned me.

Parts of this book felt like war pornography. (That's something I would not recommend Googling.) I blogged about disaster pornography in the wake of the earthquake in Haiti and tsunami in Japan this past spring after a devastating but vital lecture in my ethics class on poverty pornography left me cautious and sensitive to such things. The details of Zamperini's torture in POW camps is exhaustive and grisly. At some point, I realized that listening to this book was taking an emotional toll on me. I'm not saying that such stories shouldn't be told—far from it. But I wondered what the purpose of some of Hillenbrand's writing in those sections was, because there were parts that felt sadistic, not just in the content but in the telling.

This New York Times review of the book pointed out something I couldn't articulate until I read the article, something that helped me understand why I was feeling that way: we don't get very far into Zamperini's head. Our hero remains largely a stranger to the reader emotionally. And so, the jarring descriptions of abuse in POW camps begin to feel like the reader is being dragged through a horrific but depersonalized gauntlet of dehumanizing abuse. Moreover, Zamperini himself is the depersonalized hero who can do no wrong, and even when he comes home and begins to suffer from PTSD and flashbacks, it's like watching a stranger. Hillenbrand, and therefore the reader, remains a spectator, and that vantage point begins to feel problematic at a certain point. Some of the story becomes like a horrible train wreck from which you cannot look away and of which no sense or meaning is ever made.

Secondly—and I am deeply hesitant to go here and would urge any WWII vets to either stop reading or please forgive me—I was troubled by how one particular Japanese captor, Watanabi, nicknamed "the bird," was portrayed. This man committed atrocities beyond imagining that damaged his prisoners both physically and emotionally, many of them permanently. I would not have asked Zamperini to tell his story any differently, but even when toward the end of the book he writes a letter to the bird expressing forgiveness, Hillenbrand (again, as with Zamperini) does little to personalize Watanabi. The part that grated on my nerves the most was when the narrator described how decades after the war, Watanabi spoke of the horrors of war and how he himself was a victim of it. This was an experience I got from the audiobook, but the tone of voice that the narrator used in the sections where Watanabi was explaining himself was one of profound patronization. It was clear that the narrator thought Watanabi was full of it.

And maybe he was; Watanabi was undeniably cruel and certainly insane. Maybe he deserved to be mocked in his admittedly feeble and self-defensive attempts at confession. But the thing is that although it sounds to me like Watanabi was dangerous, he was right about war being an engine of horror in which people of any background can get caught up far more easily than we'd like to admit. I am thinking about all of this with Lawrence Brewer in the back of my mind. I don't blame anyone for being more willing to identify with Zamperini than with Watanabi, but does that act of distancing ourselves from human evil amount to us denying our own capacity for darkness?

I realize that part of my struggle is that in preparing for After the Yellow Ribbon (the conference going on this weekend), we're talking a lot about moral injury, particularly with combatants. Just tonight, I was with some of the other organizers, including a student veteran, watching an interview with this veteran that aired on the local news tonight. In his interview, he said that too often veterans are portrayed as either heroes or monsters, but neither is fair or right; heroes can do no wrong and therefore are misunderstood when they try to grapple with the moral implications of war, and monsters are incapable of redemption. What Unbroken did was to make Zamperini a hero and Watanabi a monster, thereby preventing either from being fully human for the readers.

And with that, I'll awkwardly back away from this book and hope that I haven't offended anyone too badly. (Not that I'm opposed to offending people. Because I'm not. But I'm more sensitive to veterans' issues now than I have been in the past, and I hope people will read this as a criticism of the book and of how we narrate war in this country, not as a slam on POWs or veterans or anyone, really.)

Who Are These, Robed in White?

This was revised from a sermon I preached in class on October 31, 2011 (All Hallows' Eve). My text was Revelation 7:9-17.
__________

"You take the blue pill—the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill—you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes."

This quote comes at a decisive moment in the movie The Matrix. The main character, Neo, has just been told that his whole life is a lie. Machines have taken over the world and enslaved humanity, farming their bodies for energy and projecting false images and experiences into their brains. Neo has been ripped out of the Matrix and given a choice: he can take the blue pill and go back into the comfortable but false world of the Matrix; or he can take the red pill, permanently exit the delusion and suffer the consequences of knowing the truth.
Spoiler alert: he takes the red pill.

"Who are these, robed in white, and where have they come from?" "These are they who have come out of the great ordeal." These are the martyrs. They have suffered for the faith. They have taken the red pill. They have gone down the rabbit-hole—and they have come out of it.

"Who are these, robed in white?" "These are they who have come out of the great ordeal; they have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb."

I wonder what their robes looked like before they washed them in the blood that cleanses and does not stain. What kind of stories would their robes have told? Imagine a child explaining the origin of stains on her favorite pair of jeans: this grass stain is from when I caught a fly ball to win the game; that grease spot is from the pizza we had at my last birthday party; that patch covers up the hole I tore climbing a tree. Now imagine the martyrs examining their dirty robes: this blood stain is from when I turned the other cheek; these two spots where dirt is ground into the fabric—those are from kneeling in prayer; the front of my robe is damp from tears shed for my brothers and sisters who suffered with me.

"Who are these, robed in white?" These are they who have washed their robes, but not before telling their story through the stains.

Today, suffering and death is shut away in hospitals and hidden from view. So it's no wonder the church doesn't always know how to deal with it. Too often we actually see religion as an escape from suffering. My father went to see the film The Passion of the Christ when it first came out, and as he left the theater, he saw a woman sobbing. She had just seen the movie as well. Curious, he asked her what had moved her so deeply. Through tears, she said, "Jesus suffered so I don't have to."

Jesus suffered so I don't have to. Friends, this is not the gospel. Jesus did not come to give us the blue pill. Yes, Jesus has released us from slavery to sin and death, and yes, there is comfort in the presence of the Holy Spirit. But that comfort comes in the midst of suffering, not instead of it; in Revelation, the elder declares that "God will wipe away every tear from their eyes," but not that God will prevent those tears from coming.

"Who are these, robed in white?" These are they who weep even as they stand around the throne. Revelation says, "God will wipe away every tear from their eyes," in the future tense. They weep because this image of the people around the throne is not yet reality. And in many places, comfort does not come. Sometimes, suffering goes on senselessly.

Let me be clear: suffering itself is not redemptive. The only human suffering that was ever redemptive was that of Christ on the cross. Although in the crucifixion and resurrection Christ defeated sin and death, we are still waiting for the final consummation of that victory. "Who are these, robed in white?" These are the martyrs who weep.

Throughout the Bible, it is clear that proclamation and persecution are intertwined. We see this in the Old Testament prophets, in John the Baptist, in Jesus himself and in the disciples' and the early church's participation in his ministry. In fact, Christians' willingness to suffer for the gospel has often been a catalyst for evangelism. Martin Mittelstadt says, "The greatest defense of the gospel...is that it is worth dying for."

"Who are these, robed in white?" These are they who have shown in their lives that the gospel is worth dying for. Of course, how many of us are ever going to be in a situation where we are asked to die for our beliefs? Certainly Christians around the world die every day for the faith, but few of us will ever have to make such a choice. But even if none of us in this room are bound for martyrdom or physical suffering, we can still choose to take the red pill. The blue pill offers us false comfort by allowing us to deny the reality of suffering. The red pill calls us down the rabbit-hole.

And what will we find there? Perhaps we will be forced to face our sin. Perhaps we will encounter the depths of injustice and oppression. Perhaps we will see in that darkness our deepest fears and wounds.

"Who are these, robed in white?" "These are they who have come out of the great ordeal." They have taken the red pill. They have gone down the rabbit-hole, and Jesus has met them there. He has been their light in the darkness.

Tonight, Duke Chapel will host perhaps the coolest worship service they have all year. At 10:30 p.m., people will gather on the steps of the chapel and light candles around a fire. They'll join in a greeting and an opening prayer, then process into the chapel. As they come down the aisle, they will be enveloped by the sounds of chanting. The choir will be up in the triforium, the narrow passage below the tall stained-glass windows. More candles will eerily light their robed figures as they chant, Requiem aeternam—"rest in peace." The service will include prayer, hymns, Scripture readings, stories of the saints and martyrs, and the celebration of the Eucharist. The church will feel fuller than it looks as the readers invoke the memories of the saints. The candles will send light and shadow dancing across faces and hymnals, only just holding back the darkness.

Hope doesn't always look like the blazing sunlight of a cloudless day. Often, it looks more like a candle flickering defiantly in the darkness. South African pastor Peter Storey says this: "A candle is a protest at midnight. It says to the darkness, 'I beg to differ.'" "Who are these, robed in white?" These are they whom Jesus has met in the rabbit-hole, to whose darkness Jesus has said, "I beg to differ." They have gone into the great ordeal, and they have come out of it because Christ has lit their way.

A little over a month ago, my sister's boyfriend had a bad reaction to some pain medication. This caused him to black out and lose oxygen for a period of time. As a result, he suffered extensive heart, kidney and brain damage. At first, it looked like he wouldn't survive the weekend. Then it appeared he might live for a long time in a coma.

Today, Shane is walking, talking, making jokes and remembering people. He is in rehab and his brain is still healing, but his progress is beyond what any of the doctors thought possible. Shane is a walking, talking miracle.

As I've gone through the emotional rollercoaster of Shane's hospitalization at a distance, I've been asking myself what hope means in the midst of suffering. Interestingly enough, it was Shane himself who gave me an answer.

Shane still gets a little confused about where he is sometimes. One evening recently—and I did get permission to tell this story—my sister Grace was visiting, and Shane got up and announced that they were going golfing. Grace patiently reminded him that it was dark outside. He retorted, "I know, I'm waiting for it to clear up." Puzzled, Grace said, "Shane, it's not like clouds; darkness doesn't just clear up." Shane looked at her and said, matter-of-factly:

"Don't you know about morning?"

One Is a Whole Number

My friends and I have been picking on Mark Driscoll a lot lately; he's been a favorite straw man for group attacks on muscular Christianity. It probably isn't fair. But I can't not pick up some of the things he drops on the internet.

I'll leave the "Baptism shirts for those who want to get dunked today" tweet that was being discussed among my classmates today and skip to this gem:

"@PastorMark: Single people need to stop making a list of what they want in a spouse & start making a list of what they want to be for a spouse."

Part of why I picked this one to blog about is that it's not inherently evil. You should be asking, not what your spouse can do for you, but what you can do for your spouse (end Kennedy accent). Of course, a part of me is already worried at this stage because of what I've seen of Driscoll's gender theology, which would most likely require that my list include things like "bring the boys snacks while they watch the World Series."

But the subtler issue is one that I'm seeing more and more of in the church. Note that Driscoll's comment is not aimed at people who already have spouses and could stand to think of their partner more; this is geared toward single people, the assumption being that everyone who does not yet have a spouse ought to be working toward finding one.

Singleness is a valid relationship status, and not just temporarily. What so many people in the church forget is that Jesus was single. You could probably argue that singleness has a better case for being instituted by Christ than marriage. And, as one of my middle school youth leaders used to tell me, "One is a whole number!"

The church needs to work on its theology of singleness. Really, we need to work on our theology of sexuality in general, because I think a big part of what makes the church uncomfortable with singleness is that we aren't sure how to talk about sexuality around that. The church is threatened by young single people's sexuality and tries to rush them into the box of marriage where anything goes (I have a lot more to say about that, particularly the "anything goes" bit).

Here's the thing: I shouldn't be asking about what I want in a spouse or what I want to be for a spouse. I should be asking how I can love God better.

Trump card.

Remember Life Is Still Beautiful Outside This Soul Crushing Place

Yesterday, a new photography exhibit sponsored by New Creation Arts went up in the halls of Duke Divinity School. It features beautiful photography by my friend and classmate Tyler Mahoney, and the show bears an odd and somewhat controversial title: "Remember Life Is Still Beautiful Outside This Soul Crushing Place." It is trumpeted from a deep green banner that hangs alongside the photos.

Why the joyful images alongside a potentially aggressive title? Here's Tyler's explanation, which I lifted from his Facebook profile:

The exhibit is "trying to bring awareness to the continuing problem of low student morale, lack of community, and graduate student isolation. It centers around the themes of creation, friendship, and romance as a continued reminder that until we the students, stand up, and make this seminary look like the Kingdom of Heaven—life is still beautiful outside the halls of Duke."

Yes—even an institution dedicated to learning and growth in the beliefs and practices of the church can be an oppressive, "soul crushing" environment.

How can this be? Well, if you line up the syllabi of any student's courses in a given semester, that ought to give you a clue. Duke has a reputation for strong academics for a reason; the work here is challenging, as it should be. We are preparing students for a variety of forms of ministry in a world that is less and less centered on the church.

However, 3rd year C. J. Stachurski preached a sermon yesterday that captured the struggle many students face: in the midst of studying God and talking about God, we sometimes forget how much we love God. We allow stress and busy-ness to swallow us up and blind us to the beauty of the world around us. Tyler's show is an attempt to remind us that joy, beauty and life are real and don't have to wait until after graduation.

So, as you're rushing to class in the next few weeks, take a moment to enjoy the photos on the walls and allow the colors, the landscapes, the faces and the brightness to strengthen you to go to a lecture, not anxious about grades but seeking to love God and your neighbor better.

Hoodies and Cargo Shorts, or, Performing Gender Incorrectly

I was watching TV online earlier and just happened to look up during this Tide commercial, which immediately set me fuming. It's only about half a minute long, give it a viewing:

Since I haven't actually done much in the way of gender studies, this is all going to be personal/anecdotal in nature. Please observe tiny Sarah playing with a dinosaur (never a Barbie)...










...and then, 10-year-old Sarah, who closely resembled Simon from 7th Heaven. (And yes, this preacher's kid totally watched that show.)











There was about a decade of my life where I refused to wear dresses. I kept my hair as short as my parents allowed, wore boys' clothes, played sports and spent a lot of time in the woods. I didn't know that I wasn't performing my gender "correctly"; I just knew I was having more fun than the girls who were worried about getting their dresses dirty.

Although my parents (thankfully) drew the line when I begged to get a buzz cut, I don't have memories of them trying to correct my gender performance at all. Dad played basketball and softball with me, and Mom allowed me to stick with sports bras at first when that awkward life phase came around. They bought me dress pants instead of skirts to wear to church and let me go to all-boys' birthday parties. Come to think of it, I've never asked if my tomboyishness ever concerned them, but it was just a part of who I was until about middle school (AKA the worst three years of just about everyone's life). Thanks, Mom and Dad, for loving tomboy Sarah!

Now, I realize that the folks who made this commercial probably weren't trying to make some major statement about gender, and one friend pointed out that they were probably making fun of the mom. Besides, I realize that at least some of that kind of anxiety on the part of parents has to do with concern for their kid's well being. Was I teased for dressing and acting like a boy (whatever that means)? Absolutely. I've never thought about it much, but I still have residual insecurities from high school and even before that might have been lessened had I socialized myself more femininely from an earlier age—but then again, maybe not. Maybe it simply would have introduced those insecurities sooner.

I've never been a parent, and anyway this isn't a parenting advice column. But I find traditional gender roles problematic in many ways, and we as a society and as a church need to recognize how deeply entrenched these assumptions are and how they can be destructive. If the church only had women like the mom in that commercial, I would scream. (I want women like that mom in the church. I just also want women like the little girl in the church.) I've seen churches and youth groups especially that sometimes reinforce these expectations in such a way as to become exclusive; some of my more difficult memories from high school have to do with feeling like I wasn't pretty enough by the standards of the girls with whom I went to school and church. Having been a youth pastor briefly, I've talked with other youth leaders about how even compliments on one teenager's hair or clothes can create an unsafe space for others if we aren't careful.

If your daughter prefers Legos over Barbies, buy her Legos! We need more women in math/science/engineering anyway. (Not me.) And if your son insists on wearing a tutu everywhere he goes, let him. Heck, Jesus wore a dress.

For the record, although I perform my gender more "correctly" now, I am currently wearing a pair of men's sweatpants that I bought myself, and they are SO comfortable.

Red Pill Christians

"You take the blue pill - the story ends, you wake up in your bed and believe whatever you want to believe. You take the red pill - you stay in Wonderland and I show you how deep the rabbit-hole goes."

This quote from Morpheus (Laurence Fishburne) comes at a decisive moment in the movie The Matrix. Neo (Keanu Reeves) has just been told that he has been living in a fantasy, a digital world created by machines who have taken over and enslaved humanity, farming their bodies for energy while filling their brains with made-up images and experiences. Now, Neo has a choice: go back into the comfortable but false world of the Matrix or permanently exit the delusion and suffer the consequences of knowing the truth.

Spoiler alert: he takes the red pill.

My ethics professor and sister in Christ, Amy Laura Hall, has used this image to talk about a kind of Christianity that refuses to use religion as an opiate. My friend and classmate Lindsey refers to herself as a "red pill Christian." Red pill Christians know just how bad things can get both in the world and in the church. They've taken off the rose-colored glasses.

Here's the thing: although the first instinct after taking the red pill, so to speak, may be to reject the institutional church, my calling seems to be to a difficult tension. I consider myself a red pill Christian, but I still feel called to serve within and through the church. If you're anti-institutional, I sympathize and probably agree with you on a lot of your concerns about organized religion, but I am still committed to the institution because, frankly, it's all we've got.

The church has done a lot of awful things over the centuries and continues to fail to represent Christ to the world, and admitting this is part of being a red pill Christian; but there are still times and places in the life of the church in which God's love shines through in a way that it simply cannot elsewhere. I do not believe that the church is the hope of the world, because only Christ is that; but as broken as the church is, she is still the body of Christ.

What might it look like to be a red pill church? It does not mean to abandon hope; if you think about it, the kinds of people and groups who most faithfully embody Christian hope are those who truly understand just how bad things can get. It means to see how deep the rabbit-hole goes and emerge on the other side determined to be faithful even in the face of what we've seen, because God is there even in the darkness of the rabbit-hole.

What I'm Reading #33: Bird by Bird (Anne Lamott)

Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life, by Anne Lamott

We read Bird by Bird (Anchor Books 1994) for my introductory preaching class this fall, and I loved it. Not only was it enormously helpful for preaching and writing in general (which I'm wanting to pursue more of), it holds a lot of important lessons for life. Plus Anne Lamott is brilliant and slightly unstable, which I love.

Lamott handily dispels the myth that writing is easy for writers. Throughout my life, I've periodically felt the urge to write more (like right now), but when I sit down and am unable to produce beautiful prose immediately, I assume I'm just not cut out to be a writer. Turns out, writing is hard even and especially for writers. This I find encouraging.

Another thing Lamott said that I appreciated is that perfectionism is a tyrant. We need to be willing to write (in her words) "shitty first drafts," work on them, and then let them go even when we aren't totally satisfied with them. This sounds an awful lot like life to me. Are any of us ever really going to get it together? If not, can that be OK?

Finally, she has a lot in there about what my counselor called (while diagnosing me with it) a "reassurance addition." I posted a poem by Philip Lopate that Lamott reprinted in Bird by Bird that illustrates this insane need for love and attention that she often feels (and with which I strongly identify). Whether in writing, any other line of work or life in general, we need to be able to trust from within that we are enough. Yes, others can encourage and support us, but ultimately, if we do not see ourselves as lovable or good or sufficient, nothing anyone else can say will help at all. A major part of being a good writer (and, I would argue, a good preacher) is being comfortable in one's own skin and non-anxiously assured of one's own gifting and calling.

I'm not doing this book justice, but I would definitely recommend it. I liked it even more than Lamott's more popular Traveling Mercies.


Favorite Quotations

"Good writing is about telling the truth."

"We all know we're going to die; what's important is the kind of men and women we are in the face of this."

"Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor."

"If you don't believe in what you are saying, there is no point in your saying it."

"Don't look at your feet to see if you are doing it right. Just dance."

"If you want to know how God feels about money, look at whom she gives it to."

"Being enough was going to have to be an inside job."

"Truth is always subversive."

Today Is a Day for "No"

Today is a day for "no."

I met with the District Committee on Ordained Ministry this morning, assuming that it would end with me being recommended to the Western North Carolina Conference for commissioning in 2012. That did not happen. The meeting wasn't what I was expecting, and it quickly became clear that I was not prepared and am not ready to be commissioned this year. This wasn't a huge surprise, but it was certainly humbling, because I am rarely told "no." In the end, though, I agree that I am not ready, and now I don't have to meet a January deadline for commissioning papers. It was freeing.

I followed up that humbling experience by giving a "no" of my own. I had been invited to lead worship for a church work camp over Christmas break; it sounded like a great opportunity, but after this semester, I am going to need a break, and I don't spend enough time at home (and even less time actually being present at home). I often feel like I have to take any cool opportunity, either out of pride or a desire to prove myself or simply because I say "yes" to everything, but today I emailed the camp organizer and told her it would be better for me if I did not commit to doing it. It was freeing.

In general, I think a posture of "yes" is a good one to have. However, in order to own and commit to every "yes" I give, I must be able to say "no" when necessary; and if I am ever to appreciate a "yes" given to me, I need to be told "no" from time to time.

(In case anyone is concerned about my future, not to worry. I'm continuing as a certified candidate and have been affirmed in my call to ministry and encouraged to do commissioning next year, so this isn't a forever "no.")

A Poem by Phillip Lopate

We who are
your closest friends
feel the time
has come to tell you
that every Thursday
we have been meeting,
as a group,
to devise ways
to keep you
in perpetual uncertainty
frustration
discontent and
torture
by neither loving you
as much as you want
nor cutting you adrift.
Your analyst is
in on it,
plus your boyfriend
and your ex-husband;
and we have pledged
to disappoint you
as long as you need us.
In announcing our
association
we realized we have
placed in your hands
a possible antidote
against uncertainty
indeed against ourselves.
But since our Thursday nights
have brought us
to a community
of purpose
rare in itself
with you as
the natural center,
we feel hopeful you
will continue to make unreasonable
demands for affection
if not as a consequence
of your disastrous personality
then for the good of the collective.

— Phillip Lopate, via Anne Lamott in Bird by Bird

What I'm Reading #32: The Help (Kathryn Stockett)

The Help, by Kathryn Stockett

Thanks again to Audible.com for allowing me to "read" a book I probably wouldn't have taken the time to sit down and read on my own. Heck, thanks to them for getting me to consume a novel during the semester! I've heard a lot about The Help—who hasn't?—and after letting a friend's copy sit on my shelf all summer only to be returned unread, I decided that audio was the best way to go.

This book tells the story of African-American maids and the white women for which they work in a community in Jackson, Mississippi in the 1960s. The book has three alternating narrators: two maids, Abilene and Minny, and a young white woman named Skeeter.

If you know me at all, you know that racial angst is coming in this post, but for now I'll set that aside and say that when I bracketed that and simply inhabited the world this book creates for the reader (or listener), this is a good read. The characters are fascinating and likable; the context is ripe with dramatic irony, teetering on the edge of a cultural shift as hints of a changing outside world occasionally creep into the pristine southern gentility; there is humor; and there is suspense, but not so much that you feel like you're being jerked around.

One thing that I liked about this book is that it shows that sometimes people are brave by accident...or, should I say, by habit. The main plot thread involves Skeeter, an aspiring journalist, interviewing maids for an anonymous book aimed at revealing what it is really like to work for a southern white woman. Skeeter dives into the project in hopes of impressing publishers at Harper and Row, not realizing until very late in the game (if at all) just how dangerous it is for her and for the maids. At least at first, there is nothing particularly heroic or justice-oriented about Skeeter, and I like the image of bravery not as something grandiose, something decided and sought after, but something for which a person is somehow formed whether they realize it or not.

On to the racial angst (or whatever).

The first thing I did after finishing the book was to do a Google image search for the author, Kathryn Stockett. She is, like me, petite and blonde. She clearly has a love-hate relationship with the south (as I do), and it seems pretty clear to me that Skeeter in many ways represents her—a young white woman giving African-Americans a voice in the south. In the story, Skeeter is celebrated and even called "family" by the blacks in the community after the book is published. Did Stockett create Skeeter's character to try and reverse engineer something redeeming into the culture from which she came?

In retrospect, I found it interesting that Stockett chose to tell the story from the viewpoint of two maids and Skeeter. This makes sense because she was telling a specific story, but I wonder if she thought about what it would be like to tell another side of the story; for example, that of Miss Hilly, a friend of Skeeter's whose racism is at times appalling, at others humorous for its ignorance. The closest Stockett comes to identifying positively with any of the white women's racist tendencies is when Skeeter discovers an uncomfortable truth about something her mother did to their former maid and meets only her mother's defense of her actions where she had hoped to find redemption.

This tendency to distance ourselves from the darkness of the human soul (or simply the gross biases of cultural malformation) is one I've thought about a lot lately, beginning most sharply in the wake of Troy Davis' execution, when I found myself wondering why no one had taken up the cause of Lawrence Brewer, another man executed on the same night (more on that here). Obviously, this is because Davis' case presented huge amounts of doubt while Brewer was an unrepentant white supremacist who committed an unfathomable hate crime. Despite how charming The Help was as a novel, I had to wonder if Stockett was distancing herself from the most virulent racism she observed, choosing instead to adopt the voices of two black maids and an only mildly racist but gradually reforming white woman. It is understandable that she would not have wanted to give credence to the thought processes of a character like Miss Hilly, but to simply make her into a villain meant that both Stockett and the reader were able to remain a safe distance from the worst of it all.

If I've ruined your favorite summer read, I'm sorry! I just can't leave anything alone that tries to make white people feel better about the 60s...or even race relations today...

Let's Get Naked!

This was originally posted on the blog of New Creation Arts, the student arts group at Duke Divinity School.

During the last week of September, these odd fliers peppered the walls of Duke Divinity School. By the end of the week, people were talking about naked Quakers and asking if there would be streaking. As the event coordinator, I made no promises.

We welcomed musician Jon Watts to campus with a call he makes in one of his own songs: "Let's Get Naked!" But this wasn't just for shock value. Jon's latest musical release, Clothe Yourself in Righteousness, is a unique project that was born out of a collaboration with Maggie Harrison. Maggie had written an academic paper on the 17th-century Quaker practice of going naked as a sign.

For the September 30 performance, co-sponsored by New Creation Arts Group and the Duke Divinity Women's Center, we were excited to have Maggie with us in addition to Jon. Maggie shared the highlights of her paper with us, hitting on the several layers of significance of going naked: recalling that Adam and Eve were created good—and naked—only putting on clothes after the fall; pointing out that Isaiah preached naked in Isaiah 20; and insisting that the call to put on the new self, to put on Christ, to clothe yourself in righteousness, requires that we first take off the false clothing we have put on to hide our shame and our vulnerability. At the end of the concert, the group had a discussion with Jon and Maggie around all this and more, rounding out the event as unique not only in content but in the way it encouraged conversation and vulnerability among those present.

I haven't even mentioned Jon's music yet. As a spoken word artist (performing here with a guitar and violin), the sound is an experience all its own. Jon is a gifted songwriter, his lyrics simple but profound at the same time, unafraid of hard truths while still inviting the listener into his questions and challenges. Lyrical gems include, "Forgiveness is the difference between heaven and hell. That's not some afterlife shit; I'm talking now"; and this one that resonated with many of us present: "You don't need a degree from seminary to know God loves you." Jon's music encourages the listeners to be honest with themselves and with each other, even in their brokenness. That vulnerability is what getting naked is all about for Jon.

Pick up Jon's album, but prepared to be surprised and challenged by it. The ideas that Jon and Maggie are pushing have the potential to call the church (and not just Quakers!) back to its identity as a loving, genuine, transformative community that can effect real change in relationships and in the world.

"On Marriage" by Khalil Gibran

I attended a wedding yesterday at which this was read, and I liked it, so I'm posting it.

You were born together, and together you shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.
Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf
Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.

I Am Lawrence Brewer

Last night, the state of Georgia executed Troy Davis, a man widely believed to be innocent. A last-minute delay went to the Supreme Court, where a stay of execution was denied.

Meanwhile in Texas, another man was executed. There was no widespread outcry for the life of Lawrence Brewer. His horrific crime was one of which he boasted, one in which there was no doubt of his guilt. He "deserved" to die.

I blogged last night that I was troubled by the preoccupation with the "too much doubt" that characterized the Troy Davis case. Not because I disagree with the emphasis; the fact that our government would sentence an innocent man to death—and, by the way, "since 1973, 138 people in 26 states have been released from death row with evidence of their innocence" (DPIC)—and then follow through on that sentence amid mounting doubt is appalling. I'm not even addressing the racial inequity inherent in the system, which is a huge part of this case. A crime was committed in Georgia last night. One friend commented that the only physical evidence or weapon connected to the Troy Davis case was that used in the execution. That should make you shudder.

However, I found myself forced to wonder why we were comfortable executing Lawrence Brewer on the same night. The answer is obvious: Brewer committed and reveled in an unimaginably cruel hate crime, the dragging death of James Byrd, Jr. I didn't want to know about his crime, but last night when the phrase "I am Troy Davis" was splashed across various social media outlets, I felt like I had to add "I am Lawrence Brewer," and I needed to know what I was really saying. Reading more about Brewer, I found a part of myself glad that he is no longer on this earth. According to a Huffington Post article comparing the two death penalty cases, in court proceedings, Brewer wrote a letter with these chilling words: "Well, I did it... And no longer am I a virgin. It was a rush, and I'm still licking my lips for more."

No one in their right mind wants this man on the streets. But it seems to me that part of the desire to shut away and then kill someone like Brewer is not only that we want to maintain public safety—it's that we are afraid to acknowledge what we have in common with him. We do not want someone like Brewer to be human because we do not want to see ourselves in him. I do not want to identify myself with a white supremacist whose racism led him to torture and murder a black man. It is easy for me to say that I would never commit such a crime, but what really separates me from Brewer?

Mother Teresa once said, "If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other." This quote gets used a lot of the time to highlight the nice things about human community and relationships, the ways in which we can and should build one another up and take care of one another. That is absolutely right, but it seems to me that in this broken world, if there is ever going to be healing and reconciliation, we must admit that we belong to each other not only in our goodness but also in our darkness. The reason that history continues to go through cycles of violence, even genocide, is that we continuously (and with good reason!) distance ourselves from the perpetrators of horror, so much so that we fail to recognize those same impulses in our own hearts. We condemn German citizens who did nothing while Jews were rounded up and murdered in their midst, and yet we allow men to be killed by the state, systemic injustice to deny basic healthcare to the poor, suspected terrorists to be held and tortured with no evidence but their ethnicity or nationality in the name of homeland security, and unjust wars to be waged abroad by soldiers with no resources to deal with the repercussions of taking a human life.

Sister Helen Prejean, a Catholic nun and anti-death penalty activist (and the character portrayed by Susan Sarandon in the movie Dead Man Walking) said, "The profound moral question is not, 'Do they deserve to die?' but 'Do we deserve to kill them?'" I am reminded of John 8:7, where Jesus challenges the men accusing a woman of adultery: "Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her." I am not advocating lawlessness and disorder. Like I said, no one in their right mind wants Lawrence Brewer on the streets. But my point is that, innocent or guilty, no human being should have their life taken by the state. We need to acknowledge the inhumanity of the death penalty as being the very thing we are trying not to see in ourselves when we wash our hands of the humanity of someone like Lawrence Brewer.

I have to point out the reactions of each victim's family to these two executions. The family of James Byrd, Jr., whose body was mercilessly mutilated by Lawrence Brewer, who was unrepentant to the last, begged the courts not to kill him. But the family of Mark MacPhail, whom Troy Davis is accused of killing, welcomed his death, feeling that justice had been served. I am sensitive to and troubled by the racial dynamics not only of the crimes and trials, but of the family's reactions.

I was 14 years old on 9/11. I watched our country's sense of security crumble with those towers. I still cry almost anytime someone talks about 9/11. And yet, I have never feared terrorists. I do not worry about my safety when I travel. I have caught myself looking at middle eastern people with curiosity that borders on suspicion, but I have never really been concerned that he or she is a terrorist or would harm me in any way. What I do fear is that darkness that lies in the human soul, in my own soul, that darkness that leads people like the MacPhails to see death as a victory, that causes crowd members at a GOP rally to cheer when Rick Perry is asked about the record number of executions that have taken place in Texas during his term as governor. (By the way, read this: "An Open Letter of Pastoral Admonition to Governor Rick Perry," by Amy Laura Hall.) I do not fear people like Brewer. I fear the part of me that wants to cheer at Brewer's death.

There is only one death in all of history that constituted a victory. If we celebrate any other human death—even the death of Osama bin Laden—we have, indeed, forgotten that we belong to each other, and until our memory is restored, we will have no peace.

I am Troy Davis. I am Lawrence Brewer. May God have mercy on my soul.

Too Much Doubt

I am writing this blog post as reports of a delay (or perhaps a stay?) in Troy Davis' execution are circulating. Either way, he's been sedated for over an hour and has no idea what is going on. That image breaks my heart.

Leading up to the scheduled execution, I saw a lot of activity on Twitter and Facebook around the controversy, including this Twitter hashtag: #toomuchdoubt. In a case with no physical evidence and eyewitnesses recanting left and right, there absolutely is too much doubt. Troy Davis never should have been on death row.

However, my opposition to the death penalty extends beyond cases in which there is too much doubt. I don't think it is possible for there to be little enough doubt to justify capital punishment. I wrote an article in 2007 for the inaugural issue of the magazine Religio outlining my stance on the death penalty, and it still basically says all I want to say on the subject.

I could probably produce a more theologically complicated and flowery account today, but I don't much feel like it. I serve a God who was a victim of the death penalty and whose death and resurrection freed us from slavery to sin and death. Wherever we perpetuate a culture of death, we enslave each other and ourselves all over again.

So I wait to hear more about the Troy Davis case with tears in my eyes, knowing that I would oppose his execution even if he had been convicted beyond the shadow of a doubt.

Offensive or Prophetic?

"Not all offensive actions are prophetic, but some prophetic actions are offensive." — Sam Wells, in a sermon preached in Duke Chapel on 9/4/11 (via Faith & Leadership)

What I'm Reading #31: The Year of Living Biblically (A. J. Jacobs)

The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible, by A. J. Jacobs

I saw The Year of Living Biblically (Simon & Schuster 2008) in a bookstore a few weeks ago and nearly bought it. Last week, I subscribed to audible.com, because I'm commuting 1.5 hours twice a week to teach this semester, and I need listening material. I didn't realize the version of Jacobs' book that I bought was abridged until I finished it, so I feel like I'm cheating a little by saying I read it, but I'm gonna choose to let that go.

My interest in the book was originally kindled because it looked like a pretty hilarious satire. There also seemed to be great potential for getting offended, which doesn't happen often to me and which I generally find more amusing than anything else. I was a little surprised by how non-aggressive Jacobs' approach to this strange project was. You would expect that anyone who commits to following the Bible literally for a year is being facetious and has an agenda that is at least cynical if not malicious, but Jacobs came at this with a healthy dose of humility (though not without preconceived notions).

Jacobs started out a secular Jew with little to no experience with religion. He described his family's Judaism using an image I thought was particularly salient: they put a star of David on top of their Christmas tree. So, Jacobs took 5 hours a day for 4 weeks to read through the entire Bible and write down every single command he found. Needless to say, the list was exhaustive, and he quickly found that obeying all the commands at the same time was impossible, not only because of the sheer number but also because some of them contradict. One of Jacobs' main conclusions after completing the project was that everyone, conservatives, liberals and moderates alike, picks and chooses what they want to adhere to from the Bible.

There were definitely scenes that aligned with my expectation for satire, especially those involving Jacobs' skeptical wife and his 2-year-old son. One was when Jacobs tried to obey a prescription for corporal punishment for children (which he hadn't done before), seeking out a "rod" that would not actually harm his son: a Nerf bat. When Jasper misbehaved, Jacobs whacked him gently with the bat. The toddler's response was to laugh hysterically, grab a whiffle bat, and return the favor. Discipline fail.

But there were also moments of surprising solemnity. Jacobs got into a daily routine of prayers, though he rarely felt like he was actually talking to anyone. He did, however, experience a few moments of connection, or joy, or something, and I felt like he did a marvelous job of receiving and reflecting on those moments without overly dramatizing them. In the final part of the book, Jacobs admits he still doesn't believe in God in the way that a practicing Jew or Christian does; though he did experience a change, he describes his transition as one from being an agnostic to being a reverent agnostic, someone with an appreciation for the sacred and for ritual.

Besides simply following the commands on his own, Jacobs also did a lot of research, assembling a group of spiritual leaders to act as guides, reading up on Biblical interpretation and Jewish and Christian practices, traveling to Israel, etc. One research trip I found interesting was two-part: to visit Liberty University, founded by the infamous Jerry Falwell, and to check out the Red Letter Christians, of which Tony Campolo is a part. I was confused at first as he described these groups, because he used the term "Christian literalist" for both. I've always associated literalism with conservative fundamentalism, and the RLCs are more on the moderate to liberal side. However, the RLCs are committed to interpreting the words of Jesus literally (hence the "red letter" reference), calling Christians to hear Jesus' admonitions around social and economic justice. I don't think the term "literalist" actually applies in truth to much of anyone who reads or follows the Bible, but it was interesting to see it applied in two radically different exegetical camps.

I would definitely recommend this book for an easy and interesting read, complete with plenty of laughs and some healthy doses of humility for any reader.

Church Hopping #4: World Overcomers Christian Church

This post is a little different because it does not represent a first impression of a church I visited, but that's OK. In the summer of 2008, one of my housemates worked at World Overcomers Christian Church, and I attended a few of their worship services, including one at which he was baptized. That housemate is now a housemate again (just around the corner!) and still attends WOCC. We had our house retreat this past weekend, and we went to WOCC's Saturday evening service last night, so I re-experienced World Overcomers for the first time in a few years.

If I could use one word (or phrase?) to describe WOCC's worship, it would be "high-energy." I remember the second time I went there back in undergrad, a very kind woman welcomed me and said with sweet caution, "Now just so you know, the music here is pretty loud!"

I need to back up. WOCC is a predominantly African-American, contemporary evangelical church that might qualify as a megachurch, though I'm not sure of the membership. I had my own (amusing) thoughts about why that woman felt the need to warn me about the volume, and race was definitely a component. WOCC is not an exclusively black church, and I have always found the people there more than hospitable, but its atmosphere does seem to cater to the younger black population.

Back to the high energy. The service started with several back-to-back praise songs led by a sizeable group of vocalists (including my housemate) and a stacked band that was rocking out. I didn't know any of the songs they sang, which was a little distressing in that I once was up on contemporary gospel music...but that's OK. Every song had the theme of (and often the exact words) "God is mighty." Having spent the past few weeks talking to my biblical lit class about how the Bible holds God's majesty and God's intimacy in tension, I naturally got to thinking about why certain songwriters or worship leaders or whomever might choose to emphasize God's might (as, say, the Genesis 1 creation account does, whereas the Genesis 2 creation story describes a much closer, more anthropomorphic God). Just a runaway train of thought.

Pastor Nate, whom I remember as having been my housemate's supervisor the summer he worked there, offered a greeting and announcements after the worship set, then the musicians came back on to lead another song before giving the stage to Pastor Andy, the tall, charismatic senior pastor of WOCC. As part of their current "Ready Set Grow" series, Pastor Andy preached from Romans 15 and Philippians 1, encouraging the congregation not to be self-satisfied in any blessing or strength they may experience but to use those gifts for others. "We who are strong ought to put up with the failings of the weak, and not to please ourselves. Each of us must please our neighbor for the good purpose of building up the neighbor. For Christ did not please himself; but, as it is written, 'The insults of those who insult you have fallen on me'" (Rom. 15:1-3). My housemate had mentioned that a major emphasis at WOCC lately has been encouraging people to mature in faith, as increasingly its membership includes many new believers, and this message seemed to fit that agenda.

If you want to get pumped up for Jesus and feel effusively welcome in a space that does not look like a church, go check out World Overcomers.

I'm headed back to Durham Resurrection Community tonight (we're meeting in a house again), but I figure by the third visit it's no longer "church hopping." :)

Soldiers of Conscience: To Kill or Not to Kill?

One of the (too many) things I'm doing this semester is helping to plan an event called After the Yellow Ribbon. (Registration is open. Join us November 11-12 at Duke.) The event, like the hosting student group (Milites Christi), is focused on cultivation conversation around pastoral responses to war and peace and to the church's care of veterans. Of particular interest is the concept of moral injury and the internal wounds of war sustained by those who wage it.

I went into this knowing little to nothing about the backdrop to the conversation, so this has been a learning experience for me. Last night, we held a screening of the documentary film Soldiers of Conscience, which was difficult but, I think, important for me to see. Check out the trailer at the bottom of this post. The film features the stories of several conscientious objectors who became such after entering the service, as well as representatives of the U.S. military, including Lt. Col. Pete Kilner, an ethicist at Westpoint who will be presenting at After the Yellow Ribbon. There are questions raised about just war, but the main concern is the conscience of the individual soldier, the infantryman who is trained to kill but has little recourse for processing the moral implications.

The part of the film that struck me as most chilling was the discussion of reflexive fire. Research shows that in World War II, only about 25% of servicemen actually fired their weapons with intent to kill the enemy. At the moment of decision, whether consciously or not, they became conscientious objectors. The military took notice and changed the way they approached training, working to cultivate a reflex to kill so that soldiers skip the moral decision making process in order to be quicker and more deadly. Lethality in battle has been steadily on the rise since then. The thing is, no healthy person wants to kill another human being. Killing does not come naturally; soldiers have to be trained, methodically and sometimes with what I see as pretty frightening and dehumanizing techniques, not to think about it.

The truth is that the church fails veterans regularly, and I am personally grateful for this opportunity to be challenged in how I approach questions of war and peace before I go into parish ministry. I grew up with a strongly anti-military mindset that, unfortunately, was often aimed as much at servicemen as at the military industrial complex. I have family members who are veterans but have never engaged them in conversation about their service; maybe this is an opportunity to do that. Talking about war and peace in abstract terms is tricky because it can so quickly become polarizing, but what I think we're trying to do here with Milites Christi and After the Yellow Ribbon is to engage in real conversation about the concrete implications of war for human beings with will and conscience. With veteran suicide rates at an all-time high, this is an issue on which the church cannot remain silent.

Church Hopping #3: And Now for Something Completely Different, Part 1: Buddhist Meditation

OK, so this blog isn't about a church visit at all. Inspired by Abdullah Antepli's part in our Goodson Chapel service last Thursday and by watching the video of a recent interfaith panel on 9-11 at Duke Divinity, I decided that my exploration of various worship settings needed to expand beyond Christianity. So I looked up the website of the Buddhist Community at Duke and decided to attend one of their weekly meetings, which includes meditation and a talk from a Dharma teacher. I've decided to keep this and any other non-Christian explorations in my "Church Hopping" series, but with the dubious subtitle "And Now for Something Completely Different." Hope that's OK.

Just so we're clear, I know next to nothing about Buddhism. I raised my hand as someone who had never meditated before, because although I have done short mindfulness meditations in a Christian context, I had never done it like this before.

My first-time status was obvious, but I wasn't the only one. The Buddhist group at Duke shares a meditation room on campus with the Hindus, and the floor was populated with cushions and a few chairs along the walls. We left our shoes outside. I was greeted warmly by Rev. Sumi Loundon Kim, the Buddhist chaplain, who was part of the interfaith panel I mentioned, and by a statue of the Buddha (not the laughing Buddha). As we gathered, I met a graduate student in the Environmental Management program who was surprised that, as a divinity student, I had never been there before. I was reminded that although Duke Divinity is an all-Christian institution, places like Harvard and Yale are not. I chose Duke in part for the sense of community and formation that comes with sharing a common faith and call, but there are definitely educational and formational aspects I've missed out on by limiting my theological education to within Christianity (and, in very limited ways in undergrad, Judaism and Islam).

We started with a 12-minute sitting. I have back issues, so I'll admit that a fair chunk of this time was consumed by a preoccupation with an intense pain and tightness in the center of my back. I am also very easily distracted, which is why I pray most often in the car, so my mind kept wandering away from my breath (we were led in a form of mindfulness meditation). However, as the leader gave gentle instruction for the newcomers, he anticipated such wanderings and encouraged us to acknowledge distractions without chastising ourselves, to take note of sounds and thoughts and images without letting them take control. It reminded me of similar teachings on prayer and self-compassion I heard from the monks at Christ in the Desert Monastery in New Mexico, where I spent my spring breaks in undergrad.

The guest teacher tonight was John Orr, who teaches here at Duke and is an ordained Buddhist monk. (Side note: as he talked about his experiences in India and Thailand, I was struck by how much crossover there is in language from Buddhist and Catholic monastic systems, though I suspect the terms don't always mean the same thing; but I heard "monastery," "monk," "nun" and even "prior.") He spoke about developing and/or deepening a practice of meditation. He used language of "doing" versus "being," in that meditation is not something you can necessarily control or accomplish; it requires a degree of passivity and release. Orr spoke of his own struggles with letting go and learning a meditation practice that worked for him, of having to realize that anytime he was seeking after a specific experience or feeling in meditation, he was grasping for control. He identified this with the solar plexus chakra (one of seven) and said that the way to free oneself from that grasping was to move to the heart chakra, the place of wisdom and compassion. Since I can't help but put what I was hearing in terms of my own experience, I was reminded of what Henri Nouwen called "the inner voice of love," a deep place of self-compassion and knowledge of God's love. Only by knowing one's own belovedness can one rightly love others.

I feel like this post is fantastically choppy and ill-educated, but this is just my raw take on my first experience of Buddhist meditation. I'm hoping to learn a little more about Buddhism; years ago, I bought the installments of Oxford University Press' Very Short Introduction series on Buddhism and Hinduism when I realized that my undergraduate religion degree had introduced me almost solely to the Abrahamic faiths (though I have read the Bhagavad Gita). As minimal of an exposure as tonight was, I can say that I needed to hear a lot of what Orr had to say about love, wisdom and compassion, and I'm glad that I went.