I Quiet Down.

This Lent I am fasting from Facebook. The very first day of not browsing the news feed noticeably quieted my spirit, ironically widened my world.

I miss everyday photos and adorable moments from the lives of my brother’s children. I miss interesting thoughts and news from my friends and family who live all over the world.

But here are some things I don’t miss (things I didn’t even realize were part of my Facebook experience until I shut it off for a while): the urgency to form and express an opinion about each day’s big controversy. The concern to appropriately “like” or respond to comments people make on my posts, so no one feels ignored or left out. The compulsion to snap a photo or record the daily minutiae of my life.

In short, I feel less like a performer on a virtual stage and more like a living breathing person, free to think my own thoughts, spend my own time, in the peace and quiet of my own physical world. My mind feels more expansive, less bogged down with processing all the bits and bytes streaming through it as I scroll the news feed.

My Facebook fast coincides with my reading of Susan Cain’s book Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking. I had heard a lot about this book, watched her TED Talk, figured I got the gist of it. But when the e-book went on sale for $2.99 while I was at a conference and burned out on interacting with people, I snatched it up.

I’ve known for years that I am an introvert, but this book pushes beyond basic identification, to affirmation, even normalization – of people like me. Not only is there an explanation for my love of solitude, my consistent mode of taking a long time to build friendships and not feeling a need for lots of social interaction – even my tendency to jump at loud noises, my lower threshold for disturbing smells and the way a poem or song or painting can emotionally knock me out – but Cain shows that this is completely normal for a good percentage of the population. It’s not something I need to fix in order to become a legitimate person.

Dear Facebook friends, I’ll be back, but with a more deliberate perspective after this fast. And I am not judging anyone else’s social media use. Simply noticing that for me, a confirmed introvert and highly sensitive person, too much social interaction (even virtual!) and everyday buzz interferes with me being my best self, and doing my best work.

*Note: You may be reading this post through a link you found on Facebook. That’s because my blog automatically displays new posts on my Facebook wall. So, if you comment about this post on Facebook, you’ll understand if I don’t respond, right? 🙂

Creatio Continua, a.k.a Evolution

How can evolution be both scientific theory and enricher of theology? John Haught explains:

The notion that God creates the world is, of course, central to the faith of millions. Traditionally, Christian theology spoke of three dimensions of God’s creative activity: original creation (creatio originalis), ongoing or continuous creation (creatio continua), and new creation or the fulfillment of creation (creatio nova). Prior to the scientific discoveries of cosmic and biological evolution, however, the latter two notions were usually eclipsed by the first. “Creation” meant primarily something that God did in the beginning. But even in the late nineteenth century a few theologians had already recognized that evolution implicitly liberates the notion of creation from confinement to cosmic origins. And although today discussions between scientists and theologians about God and the big bang often assume that “creation” is only about cosmic beginnings, the idea of evolution forbids such narrowing of so powerful a notion.

Indeed, the fact of evolution now allows theology to apprehend more palpably than ever that creation is not just an “original” but also an ongoing and constantly new reality. In an evolving cosmos, creation is still happening, no less in the present than “in the beginning.” The big bang universe continues to unfold, and so every day is still the “dawn of creation.” As Teilhard de Chardin put it, in an evolving universe “incessantly even if imperceptibly, the world is constantly emerging a little farther above nothingness.”

Moreover, evolution has allowed theology to acknowledge at last that the notion of an originally and instantaneously completed creation is theologically unthinkable in any case. If we could imagine it at all, we would have to conclude that an initial creation, one already finished and perfected from the beginning, could not be a creation truly distinct from its creator. Such a “world” would simply be an appendage of God, and not a world unto itself; nor could God conceivably transcend such a world. It would be a world without internal self-coherence, a world without a future, and, above all, a world devoid of life. By definition, living beings must continually transcend, or go beyond, themselves. As Henri Bergson said long ago, life is really a tendency rather than something rounded off and complete. An unfinished, or evolving, universe is essential to this tendency’s actualization.

(John F. Haught, God After Darwin: A Theology of Evolution (Westview Press, 2000), p. 37 from chapter 3, “Theology Since Darwin”)

The weight of evidence pointing towards evolution is often a crushing weight for someone, like me, brought up with a literalistic reading of the Bible. Usually one of two choices is made, both involving denial – deny the mountain of evidence for evolution, or deny the soul’s insistent dream of God.

My readings this morning seem to have converged around this point. Before I read the quoted passage above, Nathan and I read this at breakfast together:

In the depths of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond;
And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring.
Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity.

(from The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran)

And later, I came across a blog post discussing this type of contrast as seen in a medieval painting:

Pisanello’s animals, tucked in their self-containing spaces, recall to me my scrappy outsider knowledge of the Australian Aboriginal Dreamtime, when all the manifest forms of creation lie sleeping inside the earth, waiting for songs to awaken them, to call them continuously into being. But here the Dream is fading, the song on the cusp of being mocked and forgotten, replaced by the angular, linear, technocratic visions that lie in wait beyond the cross and the promise of Renaissance that the future saint locks his eyes upon.

(from Cat’s blog The Place Between Stories)

I sense a growing polarity between thinking and dreaming in our culture these days. So I am grateful for the insistent thinker-dreamers among us. Open eyes, open minds, and open hearts keep us growing, unfinished, evolving, deeply alive in the continuing dawn of creation.

Farewell to Theism

Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of the Sandy Hook Elementary School shooting which left 26 people, mostly children, dead. During that week, I wrote this post but didn’t publish it:

Any last vestiges of my personal belief in a theistic concept of God died with those children on Friday. No, an all-powerful, all-good God would never allow this.

I’ve been praying more. Not to Theos [Brian McLaren’s name for this concept of God], but to Jesus – the living breathing suffering broken life-force I call God. This isn’t about power and control, or even life and death. I don’t know what it’s about, except for being. Love, courage, hope and peace in the face of stinking rotten evil.

The God to whom I pray knows intricately the spider-web of actions, emotions, abuses, weather patterns, disasters, hungers, desires, kisses and curses that drove a man to gun down his mother and a roomful of children in mad cold blood. This God is all, not all-anything.

I have no idea about a point or a lesson to be learned from such a nightmare. I only have a softened broken heart and a longing for peace.

I still do. Every year. Like Bono sings,

Heaven on Earth
We need it now
I’m sick of all of this
Hanging around
Sick of sorrow
Sick of the pain
Sick of hearing again and again
That there’s gonna be
Peace on Earth . . .

Jesus in a song you wrote
The words are sticking in my throat
Peace on Earth
We hear it every Christmas time
But hope and history won’t rhyme
So what’s it worth?
This peace on Earth

Peace on earth, in the tradition of the Christmas story, is a baby-child. A mother’s arms. A starry night, a song, a meeting of strangers in a barn.

It’s a start.

God in a (Blue) Box and the Rise of the Wise Old Woman

© zir.com

© zir.com

Fifty years ago an unnamed time traveler appeared in the gap left when modernism and fundamentalism agreed that faith and science must be at war.

Known simply as the Doctor, he is the raggedy man, the intellectual genius who weeps and laughs, the miracle-worker with a profound comprehension of the physical laws of the universe, whose imagination, fierce hope and deep love enter into those laws, bending and transforming them. He is a scientific mastermind who can be taught, who can change his mind, who continues to explore and discover, to wonder – and wander.

A living breathing creature who lives and loves and loses and fights, who dies and resurrects (himself and others), who changes and is changed by his companions, his friends, creatures he meets only once, his enemies – anyone with whom he is in relationship.

A god in a box. Which is bigger – immeasurably – on the inside.

The Doctor travels through all of space and time in his box, the TARDIS. He comes to help, to save, and often he comes especially to those who have lost hope, lost belief, lost imagination.

That’s why I’m hopelessly geeked-out on Doctor Who. If you’ve been with this blog – or me – for a while, you’ve seen me lose each of the above at times. I fought in the faith-science war, first on the faith side, then on the science side, and then I ventured into the unstable no-(wo)man’s land in between. Before I put my foot down on a land mine, though, the TARDIS whooshed in, and the Doctor, with his goofy smile and ancient eyes, invited me to fly with him.

I know. It’s only a TV show.

But there’s a story there. There’s a living idea that moves me.

My young son said to his father recently, “I can think of four wise old men – Gandalf, Obi-Wan, Dumbledore, and Sensei Wu.” I would add the Doctor to his list.

But the wise (someday old) man I love challenged our son to imagine more. He asked if he could think of any wise old women. The two of them thought hard, and together they came up with Galadriel and Professor McGonagall. I have yet to come up with any more from popular media. (Help me – can you think of more?)

With this dearth of wise old women, why would I latch onto yet another wise old (and so far very white) man?

Because if the Doctor has taught me anything, it is that everything that lives – even he – has a future. And that future, always true to the essence of the life from which it grows, often looks very different from the past. 

The wisest of old men and the most profound ancient stories are forever leaning forward, letting go of ego and convention, imagining the impossible.

I like to believe that the Doctor himself is a transitional and transformative figure in the evolution of human imagination – that in fifty more years, the Doctor will have helped to move us into a literary universe shining bright with wise old women.

Not only beautiful intelligent young women (a transitional and transformative figure of our current popular media), but also wise, wrinkled, heavy, gray, faded, quirky – even bearded! –  old women. Women who are respected, and heard, and believed in like I believe in the Doctor.

And Who knows what else?

The Snape in Me

My literary hero and our family mission statement, inspiring me from the side of my refrigerator.

My literary hero and our family mission statement, inspiring me from the side of my refrigerator.

Note: This post contains a major Harry Potter spoiler. Leave now if you don’t know the story and want to discover it yourself! You have been warned!

My preteen daughter and I had a little fight the other day. I don’t even remember what it was about now. But afterwards, she made up to me by giving me a photo of Alan Rickman as Severus Snape that she had cut out from her Harry Potter poster book – which I promptly posted on the refrigerator, of course.

She did this because she knows I have a celebrity crush on Alan Rickman. But deeper than that, I am moved by the character of Severus Snape like few other fictional characters have moved me over the years. Probably because I can so relate to him.

Not in his abusive childhood, being bullied at school, or joining the Death Eaters. But in his tendency to be blistered by the light, his arrogance, distrust of shining heroes, cynicism, even his bitterness.

And, in his allegiance to that same light, his choice to ultimately serve Dumbledore the loving, generous, patient, wise and broken one rather than Voldemort the brilliant, unmoved, inapproachable, awe-inspiring mocker of goodness, the one who traded his own vulnerable soul for (he thought) impervious immortality.

Over the long haul, through the slow burn of my life, God has shown me a face more like Dumbledore than like the dark lord demanding a bloody sacrifice that the theology I learned in childhood implied.

And in spite of everything, I’m willing to do what this Dumbledore-God asks of me. I’m willing to be faithful to his way even when my cynicism and bitterness scream out in protest, mock the good and the true, scoff at the seeming naivete and utter unfairness of the way of love and grace with which I have thrown in my lot. I’ll hold on in faith to the bitter end, but I will never completely fit in or look the part (though I can come much closer than Snape since I haven’t been asked to work as a double agent!).

Harry Potter scholars (sure, why not?!) might point out that Snape was ultimately inspired by love for Lily more than faith in Dumbledore. And this is the part of the post where I proceed to quite likely over-season my metaphor with Christian theology:  I would suggest that Lily is the Christ-figure in Snape’s story, the embodiment of self-sacrificing love whose kindness and care for Snape in his youth continued to move him for the rest of his life.

Some of us are prone to self-importance, arrogance and cynicism. We may be the first to scoff at simplified statements of faith. We probably won’t trust you if you breezily assert that good always triumphs over evil, and we are pretty sure that we understand every situation more clearly, since we can see all the way down to the depths of despair, which we believe blind certainty in “happily ever after” won’t allow.

But don’t believe that we aren’t touched by love, and that we are incapable of choosing life and goodness (and even of growing kinder and more gracious in our behavior).

And please, don’t be intimidated by us. We are prone to negativity and brooding and can be generally anti-social, but we still like to sit at the head table with all the other professors, and sometimes our curmudgeonliness is the best way we have to interact with our fellow human beings, to let people know we are here and want to be in contact.

In conclusion, I would just like to say, “Everyone is different. No two people are not on fire.”