IndyAnne

Focus on Making Poverty History

2008-07-16T13:20:00.002-04:00

After writing some unfocused and rambling thoughts about the series going on at my church, I was asked to condense a piece to be included in a summary/evaluation in this Sunday's bulletin. I submitted these three options. As I got them into smaller and smaller word counts, lost a lot of blather, maybe the focus became a bit more clear:

The first attempt:

Broadway UMC is presenting a series of sermons and activities emphasizing the theme, Make Poverty History. There is even a theme song, written by a lay member, Dave Frauman, and the choir master, Chris Schroeder. We dressed in white, made a big circle out on Triangle Park in the rain, and wore white arm bands.

I have a lot of cognitive dissonance about this series. I hope it provokes a lot of conversation -- like this blog that I am writing. I hope others are finding it provocative in the best way, as motivation to act.

The main idea is that we have been conditioned to think of poverty in a certain way, as another social justice issue against which we are at war, or a disease that is chronic and almost impossible to cure. Our pastors have presented us with the notion that poverty is already history (based upon the words of and about Jesus in the Bible), and that those previously understood as poor are full of abundance.

I am groaning inside – my dissonance is unbearable! How can I say now that poverty is history, when so many people are suffering within a stone’s throw of my own door and from our own sanctuary? I turn on the TV to an update on Darfur, and immediately I am frozen in helplessness and futility. How could I possibly extend my hand to the mother of the starving child and reassure her, “God has ended poverty!” And yet – I must extend my hand, somehow. I cannot bring myself to make the proclamation along with Mike and Rachel. Something in me, the way I think, the way I see it, will have to change before I can make the affirmation.

A proverb from Africa in circulation helps me think about what I can do differently: People living in a village beside a river went to the shore to collect water for their laundry and bathing. A man shouted and pointed upstream to a nearly drowned child coming down toward them, fighting the current, struggling to keep her head above water. Someone threw a rope and pulled her in. Soon, many more people – babies, elders, women, men – followed. The villagers ran and brought more ropes to rescue them. One of the elders, attracted by the commotion, came down to the shore to see what was going on. She asked, “How did these people get here? Is someone throwing them in the river? Are they jumping in? What is happening upstream from us? Send a delegation up the river and find out why these people are drowning.”

This proverb richly illustrates the complex responses to poverty. We can wait downstream, throwing ropes and reviving individuals who are drowning in many different ways. Some, as Mari Evans noted, are drowning in insufficiency: of money, of home, of love, of concern, of heat, of cool, of food, and on and on. In terms of addressing insufficiency, how many ropes, how much CPR, how much money, food, water, electricity, caring, concern, etc., etc., will we need to pile up beside the river to meet the needs?

We can join the delegation heading upstream. We might find many sources forcing people into the river: disappearing jobs, a miserable economy, education systems suffering from a lack of funds, broken down pieces of social and civic infrastructure, violence, apathy, dearth of imagination.

Walter Wink wrote a series of books about “the powers,” prompted by Paul’s letter to the Ephesians (6:12). The powers are the spiritual energy or forces (some would say personified in actual people or demonic beings) within systems and institutions of oppression. The trilogy consists of Naming the Powers, Unmasking the Powers, and Engaging the Powers. As I take my liberty with Wink’s work, making a very complex series very simple, I will note only that these books make very clear that we are embedded within and pressed from without by systems, some of which are evil. Sometimes we unknowingly participate in these forces, and sometimes we benefit from them. Some institutions and systems are broken beyond repair, some are fixable.

To work upstream is, in my opinion, to confront the powers. Although it is hard work and sometimes dangerous, it is eventually the only way to bring about change. As Wink says, “History belongs to the intercessors.”

I think my response to the dissonance provoked by our Make Poverty History series is to join the upstream delegation. Somehow, my gifts and abundance can work through confrontation of the powers. I’ll need to catch up with these upstream travelers. Anyone want to join me?

Second attempt:

I have a lot of cognitive dissonance about the Make Poverty History series. When we had a dinner conversation about it at Troy and John’s house, my one-word response was, “perplexing.” My one word joined several others, “concerning,” “revealing,” “energizing,” “hopeful,” and others.

I am groaning inside – my dissonance is unbearable! How can I say now that poverty is history, when so many people are suffering and dying in poverty within a stone’s throw of my own door and from our own sanctuary? I turn on the TV to an update on Darfur, and immediately I am frozen in helplessness and futility. How could I possibly extend my hand to the mother of the starving child and reassure her, “God has ended poverty!” And yet – I must extend my hand, somehow.

An African proverb helps me think about what I can do differently: People living in a village beside a river went to the shore to collect water for their laundry and bathing. A man shouted and pointed upstream to a nearly drowned child coming down toward them, fighting the current, struggling to keep her head above water. Someone threw a rope and pulled her in. Soon, many more people – babies, elders, women, men – followed. The villagers ran and brought more ropes to rescue them. One of the elders, attracted by the commotion, came down to the shore to see what was going on. She asked, “How did these people get here? Send a delegation up the river and find out why these people are drowning.”

This proverb richly illustrates the complex responses to poverty. We can wait downstream, throwing ropes and reviving individuals who are drowning in poverty. many different ways. Some, as Mari Evans noted, are drowning in insufficiency. How much money, food, water, electricity, caring, concern, etc., etc., will we need to pile up beside the river to meet the needs?

We can join the delegation heading upstream. We might find many sources forcing people into the river: disappearing jobs, a miserable economy, education systems suffering from a lack of funds, corruption in government, broken down pieces of social and civic infrastructure, violence, apathy, dearth of imagination.

I think my response to the dissonance provoked by our Make Poverty History series is to join the upstream delegation. Somehow, my gifts and abundance can work through confrontation of the systems and institutions that make poverty possible, even necessary in some frankly evil ways. I’ll need to catch up with these upstream travelers. Anyone want to join me?

Third attempt:

I am groaning inside – my dissonance is unbearable! How can I say now that poverty is history, when so many people are suffering within a stone’s throw of my own door and from our own sanctuary? I turn on the TV to an update on Darfur, and immediately I am frozen in helplessness and futility. How could I possibly extend my hand to the mother of the starving child and reassure her, “God has ended poverty!” And yet – I must extend my hand, somehow.

An African proverb in circulation helps me think about what I can do differently: People living in a village beside a river went to the shore to collect water for their laundry and bathing. A man shouted and pointed upstream to a nearly drowned child coming down toward them, fighting the current, struggling to keep her head above water. Someone threw a rope and pulled her in. Soon, many more people – babies, elders, women, men – followed. The villagers ran and brought more ropes to rescue them. One of the elders, attracted by the commotion, came down to the shore to see what was going on. She asked, “How did these people get here? Is someone throwing them in the river? Are they jumping in? What is happening upstream from us? Send a delegation up the river and find out why these people are drowning.”

This proverb richly illustrates the complex responses to poverty. We can wait downstream, throwing ropes and reviving individuals who are drowning in poverty. I think some will join the delegation heading upstream, to confront the institutions and systems that make poverty possible. Both are necessary, both are worth doing.

Walter Wink wrote a series of books about “the powers,” prompted by Paul’s letter to the Ephesians (6:12). The powers are the spiritual energy or forces (some would say personified in actual people or demonic beings) within systems and institutions of oppression. To work upstream is to confront the powers. Although it is hard work and sometimes dangerous, it is eventually the only way to bring about enduring change. As Wink says, “History belongs to the intercessors.”

"Oh, the suffering of a writer," she lamented, in her upstairs burrow, fussing over the loss of words
-- and the loss of time she should be spending out on the Airstream, which needs to be ready on Friday!

One of My Dreams

2008-07-09T11:53:00.005-04:00

Here's a dream of mine: I would like to make a living rehabbing vintage Airstream travel trailers. I could buy one to start, besides the one I have now, rent space to do the restorations, hire some people to help me. Eventually, I could fix and sell a couple, and keep a couple to rent out for some income, for people who want to take a weekend or a week here and there, but don't have the money to buy them, or don't have room to store them.

I have always known that I have competence in working with mechanical things. I think it is in my genes, which is kind of a pun, because my Mom's name is Gene, Imogene really, but she always was called Gene. All my life, I watched her fix things around our house, and watched her uncles fix cars and farm equipment, using all kinds of neat tools and welding equipment. Now that I am learning welding, I remember a lot about those visits to those great-uncles. My Dad would not let her have power tools. I gave her a sabre saw once for Christmas, and he gave it away. Guess what? I have all kinds of dangerous tools! My mom also told me that great-great-how many greats ancestors, husband and wife immigrants from Ireland were behind a lot of my interest in working with my hands. He was a blacksmith, she carved gravestones. In this current age of slower living, I think it feels very good to recover something of quality, bring it back into a beautiful state, and use it for slower pleasures of getting out into nature. OK, enough of the romance of hard work and restoring trailers.

I wonder if there is a warehouse near Mapleton-Fall Creek, where I can rent the space I need? I wonder if there are any skilled laborers in the neighborhood who can help me with the things I don't know yet, like electrical systems, advanced mechanics of brakes, trailer frames, axles, and wheels?

I'll need people to help me restore the warehouse, first. Roofers, HVAC to make the place humane for summer and winter extremes. I'll need security workers because the tools and trailers will have to stay in the warehouse.

I'll need a lawyer to help me with the business legalities, and an accountant to help with the business plan. I'll need a loan to buy the warehouse and fix it up, hire and pay the people, buy some health insurance for everyone.

Eventually, I would like to work my way out of the job, sell it to someone in the neighborhood who can keep it going. It could also become something else, someone else's dream.

While I own this business, the standards would conform to and exceed those of the original Airstream dream. I will bring in experts and DIY enthusiasts as consultants for updating our practices. We could generalize some training to various skills like welding, electrical systems, HVAC, small space design, engineering for trailer frames, brake systems, and the monocoque shells unique to Indy cars, Airstreams, and Avion trailers. People who take our training don't have to work for me. They can work anywhere. That's the beauty of the idea. People can train, and I can connect them with employers.

So, when can I begin? I wonder if I can get a grant for this dream?

Make Poverty History Manifesto

2008-07-09T10:28:00.004-04:00

I read the Make Poverty History manifesto this morning. I should be thinking about how to get the Airstream ready for the family camping trip coming up in a couple of weeks, but I'm puzzling over this statement.

I don't know what our pastors are proposing, if it is not more confrontation of the powers with regard to poverty, while also finding the "appropriate" path out of poverty for our particular community.

What are my gifts and dreams? What power and influence can I leverage in my social location as a relatively wealthy and intelligent agent of change? What do those formerly known as poor have to leverage in their social location?

What do I make of Jesus' identification of the poor as blessed; of the poor as the least? What do I make of the Jesus of the Gospels, when he confronts the rich and warns them that their wealth is dangerous? Is Jesus using the poor as a prop for his political message of overturning powers? Isn't this where a lot of the guilt I have comes from, anyway? Woe to the rich, blessing to the poor? Don't we need the poor around to remind "us" of our spiritual poverty? This is cynical, I know, and I don't believe it, but something about this logic is troubling to me.

While we are changing our thinking about who the poor really are, what do we do about the rich? Where does this conversation about gifts and dreams go for the ones who are more economically comfortable? Complacency is a dangerous thing, isn't it?

Liberation theology teaches that God has a preferential option for the poor. It's easy to recognize this preference. Liberation theology teaches that the rich need to beware, that poor far outnumber the rich, and once they figure out how to organize and gain a voice, they will overpower the rich and set the accounts right and balance the economy -- by force if necessary. Liberation theology says a lot more than this, but for my thinking this morning, that's as far as I am going.

I suppose the balance of another kind is coming into focus for me today. The thinking change about what's upstream and what's downstream is percolating in my little brain today. This has to be about more than semantics and psychological reframing. Language games and mind games will get us/me nowhere.

By the way, upstream thinking comes from my time spent with the UCC. Their entire social justice process begins with thinking upstream. I found an article (p. 3-4 Scott Anderson, Exec. Dir., Wisconsin Council of Churches) that explains pretty well the approach.

Make Poverty History

2008-07-08T18:45:00.012-04:00

The church I attend is presenting a series of sermons and activities emphasizing the theme, Make Poverty History. There is even a theme song, written by a member, Dave Frauman, and the choir master, Chris Schroeder. We dressed in white, made a big circle out on Triangle Park in the rain, and wore white arm bands.

A lot of conversation is going around about this theme, not just here, but world-wide. The theme seems to have begun in the UK, with that great celebrity social justice champion, Bono, in the lead, joined by Nelson Mandela, and since 2005, the addition of a coalition of thousands of global organizations.

The main idea is that we have been conditioned to think of poverty in a certain way, as another social justice issue against which we are at war. Actually, we've been at war against poverty for most of my life, politically speaking. Rather than stay bogged down in the history of war against poverty, we must see the poor as individuals with gifts and dreams, who live in a world of abundance.

Here, where I live and worship, the theme is acutely in focus, given that the church sits in the middle of a poverty-stricken area of the city. I hear the pathology in that previous sentence. The World Health Organization has identified poverty as a public health crisis. To be poverty-stricken is like having a case of the measles, maybe, or like having a chronic but incurable condition, like diabetes. You learn to live with it, within its boundaries. How do you see disease as a gift?

What our ministers want us to think about is the notion that poverty is already history, because we will be looking upon those previously understood as poor as being full of abundance. This is part of an asset-based community development philosophy. Rather than focusing on the needs, that are endless, chronic, and incurable, we focus on the strengths, abilities, gifts, and dreams coexisting with the needs. I have a lot of cognitive dissonance about this series. I hope it provokes a lot of conversation -- like this blog that I am writing. I hope others are finding it provocative in the best way, as motivation to act.

Having worked in the church for a long time, I wonder what the staff would rather have -- people complaining about who has a key and who doesn't, about using drums in the sanctuary, about playing certain kinds of music by certain kinds of trained or untrained musicians; OR, would they rather have people disturbed by a sermon series on poverty, thinking and puzzling over the meaning of a concept, wondering, indeed, what is the Gospel in this series? Where is the good news? What am I going to have to change about my thinking in order to embrace this concept of poverty?

I've heard that when someone comes to the church to ask for financial help with a power bill, or for food from the pantry, staff and volunteers first ask them to sit down and talk. They ask them about who they are, their story, their dreams, and their gifts. I have heard that some amazing connections have been made in these conversations. Someone found a job by having one of these conversations. Sometimes people go away empty-handed, and staff and volunteers go to their homes to visit them and bring them things they need. Sometimes, they bring a phone number or contact about a job.

I have used the paradoxical thinking about despair and the ultimate overcoming good news. I have written to friends and coalition partners about the proleptic apocalyptic hope that the world is changing toward full rights and recognition of the right to marry for same-sex couples. I have actually written that love has already won. We're just waiting for the world to catch up so we can move on to significant struggles -- like poverty! And universal single-provider health care. I can write about this hope with a certain degree of confidence concerning the freedom to marry because the coalitions working on solving this problem are powerful, wealthy, and persistent. It could also be true that the numbers of people who are wanting to marry are far fewer than the numbers who are caught in poverty. I can write with a certain degree of confidence that the world will change. Even if we have to wait for the Jesse Helmses of the world to die, and a new generation comes along with freedom from this particular bigotry. The same kinds of upstream dynamics are involved -- get the attention and win the concern of those in power and influence, and you can solve a lot of problems. Not many believe poverty can be solved the old-fashioned way.

Dave and Chris wrote, 850,000,000 live in poverty. Unknown millions are uninsured -- and I am now among those now that I am unemployed.

Is poverty already history? The poor are beloved children of God whose gifts and dreams are waiting to be known and expressed. Is this a romantic notion, to say that all we need to do is reframe our thinking about what it means to be rich, so that no one is actually poor? What about people who can't buy groceries, who cannot buy medicine, who cannot pay rent, who cannot air condition their babies and elders in the summer or provide them with heat in the winter? Sure, the poor, or those formerly known as "the poor" can grow gardens and sell the produce. Is that what we mean?

I am always thinking "upstream," especially about poverty and health. I blame our free market economy for most of these problems. If we can fix the system, we can feed everyone, employ everyone, and take care of the health care needs of everyone. Throwing money at the downstream symptoms of a broken system, upstream, will be a never-ending process.

This kind of upstream thinking reaches back to bite me all the time, puts distance between me and the poor. I struggle all the time with liberal white guilt. What do I have to offer the neighbors? Who am I but just another upper class white woman, with my privileged education and background? I want to do good, but I am not OF the people, never have been, never will be. This kind of distance is not helping anyone.

Does this mean I have to move into the neighborhood into a house left derelict by absentee landlords, to legitimize my concern for the people who live there? If I want to bridge the chasm between Broadway UMC and Mapleton-Fall Creek, do I need to sell everything I own and give it to the neighbors? What is the answer to this distance that I not only feel, but that exists in every manifestation of my own life -- where I live, where I sleep, where I shop, what I wear, what I think about most of the time, whom I entertain in my home, how I spend my free time ... There is no end to need and giving in respond to need. In some ways, giving is easy. Out of my abundance, I can give generously, even when I am unemployed.

In my present state of sabbatical, I am miles ahead of someone else who has never had an education, never had the comfort and care of health insurance; I suffer no debilitating conditions. I don't have children to care for (not biologically, not solely mine to raise). The times I injured my back (who knows how?) I have been able to have surgery, no questions asked. I managed to recover from the bills in my deductible period and the 20% co-pay. I can take medicine when I need it. I have a healthy savings account. I own property. Is all of that true for those who live close to the church? How much more difficult would it be for a fifty-year-old woman who is my opposite in disadvantages to recover from life's insults and surprises?

I hope this proposal to make poverty history is not just about reframing our thinking. Rather, I hope this is about creating a different kind of economy, with a different kind of currency. I hope we are talking about the abolition of poverty by the creation of communities that value different ways of being in the world. I'd love to see maybe a six-block radius around our church begin to live into a new way of thinking about economy, community, and value. We certainly can't wait for the city to respond. The neighbors can't wait for the church to provide the answer to what is lacking, although they do have a food pantry and a growing sense of neighbors helping neighbors.

Poverty is already over? Abundance is all around? This will take new eyes to see, new ears to hear. What will become the new currency, the new economy? Is this happening anywhere else besides Mapleton-Fall Creek in Indianapolis?

Right now, I am still struggling with my white privileged guilt, still thinking upstream, unable to put these pieces together yet. Right now, this all still feels like a liberal thought experiment. I cannot imagine telling someone who cannot put food on the table that her poverty is an illusion, that it is over, that life is abundant, that her dreams are more important than anything I could give right now, in the present moment.

Love Pink?

2008-07-03T09:23:00.004-04:00

Do you love pink? Do you love guns, especially semi-automatic handguns? In the hunting section of a popular store, featured on sale this month in Outdoor Recreation is this lovely weapon.

Definition of semi-automatic: (Wikipedia) A semi-automatic pistol is a type of handgun that can be fired in semi-automatic mode, firing one cartridge for each pull of the trigger. This type of firearm uses a single chamber and a single barrel, which remain in a fixed linear orientation relative to each other while being fired and reloaded semi-automatically. Some terms that have been, or still are, used as synonyms for semi-automatic pistol are automatic pistol, autopistol, self-loading pistol, and selfloader. ... Standard modern semi-automatic pistols are usually double action (DA), also sometimes known as double-action/single-action (DA/SA.) In this design, the hammer or striker may be either thumb-cocked or activated by pulling the trigger when firing the first shot. The hammer or striker is re-cocked automatically during each firing cycle.

Cheryl Wheeler has a song that would make a good sound track for this ad and all the images it conjures up for me.

By the way, was browsing the sale ads to find some stuff for our family camping trip coming up, looking for a shade canopy and one of those complicated but oh-so-handy cooking centers for the outdoor kitchen. And, I was hoping to take the kids fishing at the lake, so I began to browse for fishing licenses. At the State of Indiana site, I ran across this article from Purdue U. about water quality. It seems our streams and rivers, and, thus, our lakes, are full of septic system overflow.

(Heavy sigh) Time to test our immune systems in the great outdoors. I hope we don't need any pink sidearms along with our giardia filters.

simple pleasures

2008-06-14T01:28:00.004-04:00

A very sunburned nephew (6) was having trouble getting to sleep. He refused children's Motrin, so I suggested a late night snack. As he ate his toast, he leaned over his cup and said, "Maybe some milk will lift my spirits."

He's the same boy who reported how great the pool felt after a hot ballgame. "It's so freshing -- try it, I think you'll agree."

Why do these little phrases catch me off-guard? Such embodiment and absolutely present awareness, deep sensing, and ability to articulate it; desire to share it and to know the reciprocity will be true and accurate; these catch my breath.

Riveting Preoccupation

2008-06-14T01:08:00.005-04:00

Hey, everybody,

I've been working like an obsessed person on replacing the bathroom floor in the Airstream trailer. Nothing is simple and straight-forward in this project. The trailer is 40 years old, 1968, has held up very well, but some things have not held up so well. I'm documenting the progress on Airforums.com, where I am also IndyAnne, and on my .mac iWeb pages, where it's easy to post photos and use captions for them. Please visit there sometime.

I'm also taking welding, MIG welding, at the J. Everett Light Career Center at North Central High School. A friend took the classes and recommended it. I'm having great fun with that. I have some projects to do on the trailer frame and other things around the house.

Even the children like to help out. We're building up credit toward a Wii for the basement playroom that I'll be working on on my sabbatical.

My job at CTS ends on June 30. I'll have July and August off, then start CPE residency in the fall.

Life is very good personally. We're going camping in a week or so with friends from church, and a longer trip with more family in July. The kids loved the Outer Banks reunion so much, they insisted we put something together this summer. Could become a tradition.

Sorry about the reportage, sans critique. I'm a bit overwhelmed with issues I can't control but that cause me to lose sleep. I heard that two things keep you awake at night: conscience or curiosity. I guess the conscience part is, "Could I be doing more to help?" and the curiosity part is that I just can't help worrying sometimes about what's next. I try to live in the moment, to meditate and be present. It works most of the time, but not 100%.

Also, I 'm trying to detach from those things I cannot change. Brother, dad, institutions with FUBAR processes and idiotic leadership.

All of the manual labor is truly a source of energy and self-confidence, sense of competence, and just plain gratifying. I go to bed most nights exhausted from the labor.

The life of the mind is also good work, gratifying, and competence-affirming. Maybe it's a sine wave of energy flow.

More soon,
Keep in touch.

From Bonhoeffer to Weatherhead

2008-04-30T11:05:00.009-04:00

My friend wrote to me about yet another potentially great institution doing something stupid. I found it helpful to respond in this way:

Subject: From Bonhoeffer to Weatherhead

I was talking yesterday afternoon to my process theologian friend about the evil that institutions do. I do think you must be talking about institutions and their mad, insane, irrational preoccupation with Bonhoeffer's subject, success.

Here are three theological seminaries with which I have personal experience. Three that have accrued such a surplus of stupid decisions that they cannot but do the harm they do. Add to the surplus of stupid the surplus of irrational idealism that we -- oops, I-language, Anne -- *I* invest in them. I want them to do the good that they can do. The good is why I wanted to join up with them. When I find that they are not communities after all, but collectives, with all of the magnification of human potential for bad, it hurts all the more. They continue to do this harm over and over. The salary and benefits eventually are not enough, and my capacity for detachment is not enough, to keep me there, entrapped by the system and my collusion in it.

What potential, then, is on the public face of these institutions, if not the evil one? Gospel potential, the rebel Jesus, the impulse of self-giving love, whatever it is that draws us into that light -- *that* potential. That's the false consciousness, I think, that sets up the miserable disillusionment and sense of the hidden parallel reality of meanness, bitter cruelty, and mindless plowing under of any nascent creativity and novelty.

Witness the damage these collectives have done. Not just the accretion of history (Inquisition, Constantine, the theologians and institutions under Hitler whom Bonhoeffer might have been addressing), but the immediately past memories of our own lives in churches, seminaries, and the institutions who employed us. We, the ones with whom I am now speaking in solidarity, threw our lives into them and were beaten down bluntly by the collective wickedness.

I asked M, is there not still a sum of good, potentially, that these broken institutions can do? We argued ourselves into a place that said, no, they have to eventually exhaust themselves (die?) of all of the negative energy they are accumulating more rapidly than they care to know. It takes a long, long time because the momentum they have accumulated is so strong. Creativity, novelty, options, the force of the better argument are not overwhelmed, however. These forces for good (may I say, forces of God -- in all of the beyonds, thanks, Laurel) emerge where they will, especially in the critical consciousness of those who survive the blunt force trauma and others who are able to escape the entrapment.

Will institutions always have this sine wave, of diminishing duration, this alternating current of good and evil? It seems such a waste because so much is possible when an accumulation of sufficient numbers of people form committed communities capable of clarity and unity of vision. Can't we go into these idealistic (real world) communal efforts with eyes wide open on the possibilities of distortion, to the net effect of a surplus of good? Isn't this happening somewhere? Or does it happen only for brief times and eventually succumb to the fatal flaw?

[I said to Grace (age 8) recently as we were approaching the bottoms of our ice cream cones after her softball practice on one of our just-the-two-of-us outings:
--Well, Grace, I guess all good things must come to an end.

Her reply, shaped by the disillusionments she has already suffered:
-You mean like you and Mommy?

Stunned, I responded:
--No, Honey, just ice cream cones. Your Mommy and I are just fine and we love you very much.

I think my point is, this relationship requires attention, careful presence, mindfully monitoring the potential for erosion of the energy that draws us together. The erotic idealistic energy that drew us together is not as sustaining as the energy of relationships anywhere eventually, in which the love and its potential must evolve constantly into novel forms and spaces. It's hard to explain all of that to an 8 year old. It requires lots of ice cream, and watching us grow, argue, test, bond, laugh, cry, etc.]

Culture of Narcissism

2008-04-29T22:05:00.005-04:00

I have heard and read that blogs can be dumping grounds of self-absorption. I guess so. They are good ways to get news out. They are places to vent to friends who care.

Is this a dumping ground of my self-absorption? I don't care. I'm sick -- and tired -- and sick and tired of being sick and tired.

I am grateful for being able to vent right now. I have been feeling that it is my turn to have some anger and hurt feelings, to express that, to do exactly the opposite of the anonymous way, to tell whoever is listening what is on my mind.

I'm tired of being the good girl, the big sister, the one who has it together. It's about time, too. I figure my 51st year is the way to launch a decade, or the remaining nine years of it, or however long I have, to start saying, please leave me alone. I am allowed to suffer, too. I am allowed to be weak and sad and exhausted.

How does it feel, to have survived a partner, a mother, a brother, and to still be surviving a father who gave away his entire savings to a junkie and an alcoholic, and who has been saying to me for years, "I'm not sending you anything for [name the holiday, birthday, etc.] because you have enough. Your brothers and the grandchildren have nothing. They need my help more than you." What if it is not about help, but about simply enjoying someone you love, and wanting to give them -- not even money! -- a visit, a card, a call to say hello?

Reverse mortgage -- the latest trap for senior citizens. Just hope you live only as long as your equity! Right, Dad, go ahead and give it all away now to your other son. I'll just be here in Indy, living my life. How I wish you had not told me about the reverse mortgage. Oh, well. You wanted my brother to have your house when you die. Now, you can give it to him in little bits of money that you convert from the entire adulthood in which you invested your life and our growing up.

How does it feel to now face the fear of the remaining brother's alcoholism and addictions? Saying no to his plea for help, keeping boundaries in a firm way, resisting guilt, trying to maintain some kind of poise while chaos pulls at every nerve ...

In the absolutely worst periods of my life, you both have called to tell me, "I can't come and be with you because my [addiction, alcoholism, domestic unrest, Alzheimer's Disease, you name it] has made my life chaos. But, you are strong, you don't need me as much as the others. I'll come if you insist, but I would really rather not. Will you please let me not come and be with you?" Three back surgeries. Her death. Moving. Falling in love again. A big fun wedding at the beach. Oh, yeah, the shame mixes with the physical pain like rancid oil and strong vinegar on an always fresh wound.

All through the worst times of my life, I have been alone, a family unto myself. I have managed to make a good life -- actually, now, a wonderful life.

When your lives are in chaos and misery, you call and you try to pull me in. It's like you are trying to pull yourself into my canoe. I have to lean 'way out the opposite side to keep the canoe from capsizing. You are too heavy for my boat. You chopped holes in yours, they sank, and now you want to drag yourself into mine. Here is my suggestion: there goes a piece of driftwood -- quick, if you let go now, you can just about catch it. Kick hard!

I cannot describe the guilt I feel for this, but here is what I want from you: please leave me alone. Let me continue with my life I have built here. I cannot help you, I have nothing that you need.

Other than my disconnection from you, for my own sanity, do you see any dignity in this for you? Think of it this way: when you pass through this current crisis, you can say to yourself, I did it. Me and [higher power language], we reached down deep into the core of creativity that resides in me, and we pulled it together this time. And we did it without Anne. Yea, me! No pesky resentment, no manipulation, no struggle to formulate the next best lie.

When the crisis has passed, send me a postcard. It will be nice to get some good news from you for a change.

And, please be sure to make your legal durable power of attorney for health care and business arrangements while you are at it. I don't want to have to guess what you want, just in case you don't make it all the way to the end, leaving one last crisis to which you might wish for me to react.

If the karmic wheel brings you around again, pray that you have awakening in that split instant when your soul escapes the corpse and you learn everything you needed to know from all of this. If we ever wind up together again, may it be as creatures who live in the bliss of non-self-transcendent consciousness. May we be trout in a stream, whose only compulsion is to find the homeward path to ancestral beds in waters always freshened by melting snow. May we feed on larvae, and be fed upon by bears. Will the circle be unbroken?

Crackhead Brother

2008-04-28T11:44:00.002-04:00

This is raw stuff. This could be a story that ends well. Or not. I have too many movies in my head: The Basketball Diaries, Requiem for a Dream, etc.

Email correspondence with my brother.

First Letter: Friday, April 11, 2008 12:09:03 PM EDT

Sister:
I'm writing this from Huntsville Public Library. I got in town day before yesterday.I regret that I have not been in touch with you or Daddy but as you might guess, I relapsed and lost everything I had built up for myself including my apartment and job.I've tried to call Daddy this AM but I figure he is out doing his morning rituals of drinking coffee etc. I just want to let you and him know that I am alive and luckily healthy enough to get around on foot. I tried calling you yesterday to report my whereabouts but was unsure if I even called the correct#. My cell phone is out of minutes so I will just have to leave this message and hope you get it. I'm considering moving into this halfway to get it together but it is no more than an unstructured flop house; I've stayed there before. I dread having to call Daddy with yet another report of failure but I'm hungry and exhausted. If there was any way I could avoid having to ask for help, I would. My addiction issues are basic
as1+2=3 when I put the chemicals in my body but I feel something else is wrong with me that preceedes the actual intake. I feel as if I'm crazy. I can't fight this much longer; especially knowing the badness that results from it. Of course my frame of mind is bad right now but thats the way it is. Sorry for the heavy e-mail but I felt at least you must know of my general whereaboutsI love you very much. --P

April 11, 2008 2:24:01 PM EDT
Hey, P,
I talked to T. I am grateful that he took care of you for a few days. He and [wife] told me that you have a place to stay and some work. I believe you can make it.

Reading your story recalled my friend R to mind. He goes to our church. He was homeless and hopeless, but is now sober and functioning very well.

R has offered to correspond with you by email. I hope you will contact him. Here is his address:

Every day, all day, I hold you up in the light in my prayers and meditation.

Thursday, April 24, 2008, at 07:08PM EDT
Hello,
I wanted to update you on my current situation. I came back here to Nashville with the hopes of a start over with some financial help from Daddy. That was my intent but I could not go back into my previouse 1/2 way house because of some back pay that I owe the owner to the tune of $300.00. Icannot nor will I ask Daddy for anything else. He has helped me more than enough + I cannot bear to dissappoint him anymore I would also rather have a root-canal than have to listen to the brow beatings that come from not understanding the way I am. I dont understand me either. Icannot blame him. I'm sorry that it dissappoints and hurts you as well I just figure you can deal with this more rationally than Daddy. The job that I'd hoped for fell thru as well; hence I've been on the street for over a week now. I've been eating and staying at the variouse missions around town some. When I don't feel safe @ the mission I sleep outside and eat only in the daytime when there are not as many people in there. Most people who live on the street have an uncanny ability to spot a new and frightend person. You have to not look weak so as not to get taken advantage of so I always try to get a feel of who is around and the general atmosphere at the time. Ironically I've been sober most of this time because I've not had money for liquor. I do however need some help other than a small amount of cash to wash what few clothes I have (2 changes). I could use some phone card minutes and a phone charger becuase I have neither. Maybe a non refundable Walmart gift card for food and clothes. I would know of no other way of obtaining these thru mail other than find a way to a Fed Ex office. By no meansdo I expect you to do this without you fully thinking this thru and have the means to do so. Many would say to help me would hurt me more."Let him hit his bottom"; many say. I'm so self indulgent that I do not know what a "bottom" is. This is why I will hold no resentment if you decide not to do this. This situation I created and am experiencing the consequences of some insane stupid decisions. On a lighter note, My manager at Walmart said I could come back to work in july after I serve this probationary layoff. Thatwas areal blessing. Untill then I'm submitting apps. and need my phone to work in case I get some interview hits. I've been using a guys contact # but he is not that reliable. I can get out of this jam, I just need some basic yet at this time very important support. Please think this over. I'll be back in touch by e-mail in a day or so. Please DONT TELL DADDY!!Love P.

Friday, April 25, 2008 1:53:40 PM EDT
I guess the non response indicates a NO on any assistance. Like I wrote before, I hold no resentment what so ever!! I hope to see you soon, when times are better. I do love you as always! Pat.
P.S. I'm sending this from the Nashville Public Library. Downtown, somewhere on Church Street. I'll use this location to check in to see if there is anything of importance to know. Hopefully I will have gotten a job and other good news to report by then. As I wrote before, this is the only means of communication I have available right now. I did not know this place was here, so I plan to use it often as I can to see if there is anything within Ours or Your Family to report. I have no phone and will not dare to call Daddy collect because it distresses him so to get the collect call prompts to continue with the call for billing acceptance. He does not know how to execute that without much distress and confusion.
My situation stays the same, untill I get better news, but I'll be O.K.
Love, P.

Friday, April 25, 2008 3:35:18 PM EDT
P,
I actually wrote to you one long response and one short one. Both of the long one and this one are the same: blah blah blah no blah blah blah. I will send this one.

I have 2 impulses. Your sister wants to come and get you to feed you and wash your clothes and get you a place to sleep.

You did not ask for that.

If I thought I would be writing to the you that you want me to believe I would be writing to, I would send you some kind of debit card to get what you need. But, what stops me is knowing that you are not that person. I think right now you are someone who wants me to become someone you will end up resenting because you succeed in suckering me.

I am going to tell your sister to sit this one out and her counselor alter ego to step up. I don't believe your
story, not all of it.

Because my resources are not my own and my risks are shared with my family, I have to say no.

Today, Monday, April 28, 2008: So far, no response from P. I wonder where he is? On the street in Nashville still? Is he alive? He has no ID; the judge took that from him in Alabama a couple of years ago. If someone rolled him, killed him, if he ODed, who would know how to contact me and Dad? The inside of my head is a messy place. I need to go to Al-Anon.

I finally sent the longer email I started when I first heard from my brother on April 11.

Today, Monday, April 28, 2008, 11:42 a.m., EDT
Subject: Inside My Head
P,
I sent a computer to your apartment in Nashville, and right after I made the purchase on eBay, I heard from T, that you would not be there to receive it, and at the time, you were empty-handed, asleep in his house in Huntsville. I was able to catch the shipment and have it sent to my house in Indy. I will probably put the computer back on eBay. I was really surprised to learn of your circumstances. What is probably the most distressing is that you were off the wagon for a long time and I didn't know until you were in crisis.

And, not T's fault for ratting you out, not his fault, but owing to my well-honed therapy skills, I learned that not only are you drinking, but you are using crack, you and your girlfriend, or wife, or whatever. That really blew me away. It's all the same, I know, but crack is such a faster route to the destination of the chronic, progressive, ultimately fatal disease. There are so many more ways to find the end with crack -- you can kill yourself quicker, or someone else more desperate than you can kill you. I mean the generic "you" not the you you, but you know what I mean, and it's all blah, blah, blah, anyway.

By the way, I found a crack pipe on the sidewalk of my first house in Dayton. I felt that I had found a portal into some strange other world. I picked it up and stared at it for a long time, thinking, wow, what a mind. It was a piece of broken off car antenna, an empty prescription bottle, and a wad of making tape. Probably some sucker on my street was missing a car antenna, and someone else was missing a bottle of Xanax or something.

It's so pesky the way crackheads make so much trouble for everybody else. Like the guy who broke into my house and stole my cordless drill. He went around the neighborhood until the cordless battery ran out of juice, drilling out deadbolts and stealing -- get this: food. Yes, the cops finally caught up with him walking down the street at some wee hour carrying a black trash bag full of the contents of someone's freezer. He also stole my friends' cell phones. They were house sitting. To this day, Henry freaks out when strangers come into the house because he was in his crate upstairs and knew someone was in the house, but he could not get to his ankles and make him sorry he invaded our little nest. So, that adventure cost me a DVD/CD player, my cordless drill, my friends' cell phones, which I replaced with my own money because homeowners' insurance will cut you off if you make too many "small" claims.

Maybe you think she died, leaving me sitting pretty. I get that a lot from you and Daddy. She left me with enough to get by, but I eke out my living like everybody else. I can't afford to lose my homeowners' insurance, especially after she died and left me enough money to buy my house half-way, and her family were kind enough to give me the other half. Oh, wait -- you missed the funeral. You had lost too much time away from work already from drinking and drugs, and could not come. Mom and Dad could not come because Mom had Alzheimer's and it would have practically killed Dad to get it together enough to make the trip with her. I'd call that a legitimate excuse. And, you missed my "wedding" in NC last summer. You lost your good job with vacation and benefits due to drinking and drugs and started your WalMart job and could not take the time off.

You know, you resent Dad so much, but you're so much alike. I've had to scrap with him over the years. It's not enough to live 700 miles away. I paid him every red cent for the Hollow, and then he tried to take it from me, anyway. And, wow, when I hired the forester and clear cut to plant pines, to be a landed gentry tree farmer on a piddling 80 acres of Trail of Tears guilt property -- let me catch my breath -- I thought I would finally be in the clear, that he would never speak to me again. But, no such luck. As soon as you fell off the wagon, there he was, asking me what to do. He never listens to me. He gave you money he is now getting from reverse mortgage because he has no retirement because he gave it all, plus the money I paid him for the Hollow, to Robert who held him hostage for the grandchildren's sake. Robert, the sociopath. You're not a sociopath. What's your excuse?

[Oh, come on, IndyAnne. Blah, blah, blah -- it's too late to reveal all this disappointment and disillusionment! P is no longer buying into the intervention/AA model, anyway. Save your breath.]

Here's another observation from inside my head. I have a scooter, a 125 cc Genuine Buddy, 90 mpg. I like riding it to work. I ride through town, around the circle on Meridian street (our little touch of European traffic circle), all the way from the Southside to my job on the north side. I like it a lot this time of year because I go through about ten different neighborhoods and all the flowers in bloom are not only beautiful, but the aroma! Wow. When you're in a car, you miss all of the little details like the way a bank of lilac bushes smells in profusion. And when I hop over to MLK, I go by the Barbecue Heaven -- real hickory wood smoke mixed with pork fat -- heaven, indeed. I think you know what I mean now. You are also close to these sensory experiences now, living on the street. You probably even know how many lines are in the sidewalk there on Church Street, where Elliston Place splits off there, near Vandy, my old stomping grounds. Oh, the irony.

I am sitting here looking at this computer, thinking, what a sucker. I have to acknowledge my own disease of codependency, that I was seeing the gift of the computer as a kind of a link between you and me, and some kind of consolation for you, to see that we can move forward in some normal way as a family. The very simple thing is, giving a gift like this would make ME feel better, because it would mean you would have the outlet to plug it into, and a modem that would carry your words to me. This gift was a gift to myself. What an illusion. Now I am free of it, so thank you.

I don't say this to browbeat you, just to let you know I had a totally different idea of how you were getting things together in Nashville, because of what you told me on our infrequent calls. My letter to you said what I want to say the most now: if you are using again, liquor, crack, whatever, and you are not doing what you and I both know would help you the most, then there really is nothing I can do to help you.

You are right, everything I know about addiction tells me that I can't do anything to help you if you don't want sobriety. All the guys in recovery at my church say that they were in your same situation at some time in their lives, but even looking at their clear eyes and knowing that they woke up in their own beds, I struggle with all my strength against the illusion that I might send the magic thing that will make you like them. The only thing that gave them their clear eyes and their own beds was themselves.

I hate hearing that you can't wash your clothes and buy food. Those are so basic. I don't know what living from mission to mission must be like. I imagine those are scary places and that anything -- worse than I could possibly imagine -- could happen to you on the street.

I don't talk to Daddy about your situation. I don't tell him that you are into much more dangerous chemicals than ever. I should have known when you described that guy with the money and the cars and the crack trade that you would be in trouble. You seemed to idolize that creep. But, I didn't know there was a woman involved. That explains a lot, but it's just more blah, blah, blah.

If I saw you/some stranger on the street, I would not give you money. It's hard to think about you in that kind of trouble. See, I gave Daddy all of my money for the same things he gave each of us, and he lost all of what I gave him and all of his own money. He probably won't get anything back from Robert's widow. Somehow, somebody has to stop the insanity. That person is me. I don't have anything more to risk that does not also place my own family at risk. Not even laundry money and food.

It is so basic, to give someone some water and something to eat. Some of my students are going to Arizona and Mexico in a few weeks to put water out in the desert for migrants coming across the border. People shoot holes in the barrels, and the students will go out and take more plastic barrels, and somebody will eventually come along and shoot holes in the barrels. It's kind of a loaves and fishes story, if you think about it. There is no end to the need for water in a desert. Even a dog deserves a drink of water in the desert, no matter what got them there, their own hopes and dreams or, as with the babies and kids with them, some scared parent.

The needs you describe are so basic, it would not hurt me in the short term to send you what you ask for, but it's the accumulation of things in the long run that I know will harm us both. This is unconditional. No bargaining with you or me. My door is always open for you, but you can't stay here. Yes, it's because we have a little girl in our house, but it's not even that. It's that you have to figure this out for yourself.

You used Daddy up, now you are turning to me. How long before you resent me because I let you make a sucker out of me? Robert took all the sucker out of me, Pat. All I have left now is belief in some inner core of who you are, to stop bouncing from one enabler to another. I don't want you to die, too, but I'm not going to participate in its inevitability by giving you something that would be absolutely the wrong thing to do.

I hope Walmart comes through for you.

Did you call Rick? Are you able to hitch up here and let some other alcoholic and junkie look you in the eye? The least you could do is give him a call. Go to a meeting. Surely someone there will let you make a call on a cell phone.

I do love you, you know. Yes, it breaks my heart, yes, I am disappointed, but that's all because I have hope and confidence that your higher power can give you strength, and our higher power can permit me to be sane in the midst of this, too. I hear in your words that this hope is not in you, that you are now on your own terms with your sobriety. If your higher power can't help you, what makes you think I can?

When Daddy goes, you and I will be the only family we have left. We have to figure out a way to be family to each other. I'm so clueless about you and I can't have a credible thought about you and what is possible for you.

From your lesbian social pariah sister, living it up in Indianapolis ...

Later today:
In church yesterday, a little boy read this passage from John that contains this phrase, "...I will not leave you orphaned...". He was so precious, people were crying all over the sanctuary. He is adopted from Guatemala. Thing is, he looks like you when you were about five. Black hair, black eyes, brown little "saucer-eyed kid" (remember that boy in the neighborhood who called you that?). Yes, I cried because he was just too wonderful up there reading with such confidence and poise, and he was an orphan, and now he has such a wonderful life with two dads and his sister (also adopted from Guatemala).

We pray for you by name at our church every Sunday. Yesterday, I thought someone else had sent in a prayer card for you because it asked for prayer for a brother who is jobless and homeless, alcoholic. But, no, another person in our church was crying and praying for his brother, too.

My New Airstream Web Site

2008-04-15T13:48:00.004-04:00

You can click the heading above to get to the iWeb site I set up on my lunch hour today, to chronicle my Airstream projects. The first concerns the same subject as the previous post, with more photos and description.

To make it easy, I am IndyAnne on all of these Airstream-related places, like the Airforums. That's a wonderful web site, a great big help. Lots of DIY Airstream renovation enthusiasts post information and share advice here.

Let's face it -- most DIY adventures start with, "I was just trying to fix ... [insert your latest disaster here]."

That's my story on the bathroom rip-out. So, I get to rebuild the Airstream bathroom. And yet, I also made reservations to go camping in June with some good buddies from church, so getting it all back together is really going to be interesting.

Every tub has to sit...

2008-04-11T15:54:00.008-04:00

So I'm workin' on the Airstream, the little love nest. I love the vintage postcard I got one time, dated circa 1950, atmosphere of post WWII optimism and individual freedom and all that, with a couple sitting in folding chairs on the roof of a travel trailer, watching the sunset. The caption read, "You know you're in love when you have to take your bedroom with you everywhere you go."

The grody 40-year-old bathroom in the Airstream is comin' out. I got a sabre saw and cut out the bathtub, the surround, and took up the white throne of judgment and put it in the garage. Then I hauled the love nest to CDS Trailers to get new tires and replace the angle iron holding the honey pot onto the frame underneath the throne.

Work has begun in earnest! Anybody need a fiberglass RV tub? I'm sure all the pieces can be glued back together, like a jigsaw puzzle.

They say the first thing to go into and Airstream was the rear bath, and you have to take everything out starting in the front in order to get the tub out. Oh yeah? Well, that's why the good Lord gave us sabre saws. That sucker is gondhi! Only this ghostly outline remains.

Now, on with the rehab. The floor gets ripped up, plumbing cut out -- more beer money from copper taken to reclamation! and everything updated with Nyloboard and PEX tubing. Woo-hoo!

Eggshells

2008-04-03T11:24:00.006-04:00

Here I go again, walking on eggshells, knowing I probably should keep my mouth shut, but just can't do it.

The Jeremiah Wright speedbump in the Obama campaign is drawing all sorts of strange bedfellows together. The President of CTS has jumped into the fray.

President Wheeler and Dr. Jeremiah Wright are friends. I know they were both mentors in the D. Min. program at United Theological Seminary in Dayton, OH, where I used to teach. In fact, Dr. Wright's DMIN is from UTS. They are both leaders of leaders in significant segments of African American Christians. I realize the recent political scene has done harm to Dr. Wright’s reputation, used for political gains and losses. Dr. Wright’s inflammatory sermons may well have been taken out of context. Charges of racism behind the muckraking journalism calling attention to his sermons may very well be accurate.

Dr. Wheeler is a good friend, to speak up for Dr. Wright in the Indianapolis Star.

I recall another public statement from the President about another controversial matter at CTS this year, defending the seminary’s hosting a homophobic Christian denomination for ordination of its bishop in Indianapolis. This denomination is the Convocation for Anglicans in North American (CANA) and the local parish, The Anglican Church of the Resurrection. Our permitting this ordination in our facility was presented by the President in the guise of hospitality, of freedom of expression, of advancement of dialogue.

I have the impression that President Wheeler has a selective righteous indignation, or else he has a narrow view of friendship that might actually be very consistent. In his office, he is entitled to speak up for himself and to advance dialogue in the public sphere. My comparison of events spanning just a few months, however, finds that he will defend one friend who is being slandered by racists and opportunistic politicians, but he will live and let live while another group in the vicinity (from which he seems to distance himself while extending hospitality) engages in hate speech and uncharitable behavior toward gay, lesbian, sexual minorities, many of whom are also baptized Christians.

The public statement of December 15, 2007, strikes me as double-talk, far from calling out CANA and its congregations, priests, and bishops, some of whom are alumni or students of CTS. They should be challenged from this high office for their participation in homophobia, and, in fact to confront the reality that their very existence is fed by the energy of hate.

President Wheeler states that we have a relationship with the denomination, its priests, bishop, and local congregation. Friendship and reputation have tangled the President’s tongue over the troublesome matter of homophobia. The gift of President Wheeler’s friendship seems to entail a call for him to hasten to speak up against injustice. Hence, I must assume that he has no homosexual friends who have suffered because of Christians who hate them.

It is very difficult to call attention to injustice when the community at which hate is aimed has no legal status as a protected class. However, everyone who understands bigotry knows that we can still do the right thing when we are faced with the opportunity to advance justice and the beloved community. It is especially difficult to draw parallels between civil rights and social justice for gay people and the history of African American civil rights. A broad and deep critique exists that would ban such inferences. However, one oppressed community ought to be able to help the cause of justice for injustice anywhere. This is not easy, it is not politically expedient, but I think it is the right thing to do.

President Wheeler’s public statements could be considered by many to be statements of the position of CTS on matters of public consequence. In fact, responses to the opinion piece referenced above indicate that CTS is totally implicated in the defense of Jeremiah Wright, for positive or negative effect. This bears remembering and it will be remembered by at least one.

Beauty of Absurdity

2008-03-20T15:32:00.003-04:00

On the other side of the absurdity matter -- previous post -- is the tendency to diminish one's own suffering. At one end of the continuum (assuming there is a continuum) is victimhood, an identity shaped by truly abhorrent treatment at the hand of someone or an entire culture. Victimhood can endure as a permanent feature of identity, inseparable from the self and the visible, symbolic participation in the meaning of the suffering, surviving in spite of the injuries and insults, but with little surplus of joy.

At the other end of the continuum is something like arrogance. This is a kind of impermeable way of being in the world, preoccupied with survival in a different way, avoiding harm and pain, perhaps describable as hedonic or hedonistic, or capable only of rising to occasions of fun at any expense.

I have described these extremes in the abstract. I don't think I have ever really felt either of those identities to be descriptive of me. I have too much advantage and shielded privilege, good enough parenting, safety in the adequacy of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs, to have fallen into victimhood as a permanent state.

I have never given in to utter hedonism, either. My WASP work ethic is firmly in place, although I will admit that I would rather find a way to be paid well and with good health insurance as a dilettante fly fisher, a female Isaak Walton, if you will.

I have managed to steer -- no, wait, that implies control -- I have managed to move through life with enough buffetting of suffering, tasting despair, courting oblivion; cushioned by a general condition of comfort; and distracted by the entertainments of pure uncensored fun so that I would have to say that, like Rachel's favorite clothing says, life, indeed, is good.

And yet ... and yet ... life continues to serve up these absurdities. What can one person do? Act. Pray. Care. Pay attention.

Self-understanding is important to cultivation of a self worth sharing with someone else. So, it is important to confront the oppressors, offenders, and creeps that hinder the flourishing built into a heart. Say no, enough, stop, quit, move, change, leave -- whatever it takes. It does not help to deny what you know to be true. Have courage. Do what you have to do.

Curiosity is also a good thing. Why do you laugh at what you laugh at? What language do you speak? Who taught it to you? How were you put together that makes you you? What makes you different makes you interesting, as long as you are just as willing to ask me the same questions and remain open to my answers.

But, evil is real. That's why we have to watch out for the vulnerable (including ourselves). There really are some very bad people who want to harm you. There really are people who want to take away all of your stuff and your life with it. There are people who do not want you to flourish. That's when it helps to be selfish, if that's what you want to call it. Self-preservation is a worthy impulse. But, love comes first. So, even when love does not win at first, or seems never to win, or doomed to fail, you have to keep loving, as long as you know not to let anything come between you and the door. You don't have to be a hero. You can run, live, lick your wounds, and rest up for the next struggle against evil. Unless you're just plain exhausted, in which case, it's also ok to run and keep running until you find a safe place to stop.

They write books about these things. The futility of hope; the ridiculous tenacity of love; the necessity of surviving; and that this is not the whole story. The end we see is not really the end at all, but a kind of new beginning.

It is still true -- here and now, on this first day of Spring, and the eve of Easter -- that somehow, between the ditches of hedonism and despair, hope and love will win.

A World of Absurdity

2008-03-20T11:49:00.019-04:00

A phenomenon -- psychological, spiritual, sociological, ... (?) -- accounts for a feeling I have sometimes. I don't know the name for this phenomenon. It's partly a kind of survivor's guilt; it's partly a smarmy privileged liberal self-loathing; it's partly an imposter's syndrome; maybe it's all of these things. It says:

No matter what I might have suffered in my life, nothing -- gods, singular and lesser, willing -- will ever compare to atrocities such as the Shoah, the Trail of Tears, 400 years of slavery, and Darfur; therefore, I should remain silent, count my blessings, and keep on the sunny side.

Such a vision of tragedy is as hard to keep in focus as staring at the sun.

Silence, as ACT+UP told us back in the early days of HIV/AIDS, equals death. Yet, I feel so overwhelmed by tragedy that I am struck dumb.

This happened to me at the Society for Pastoral Theology annual study conference in Atlanta a few years ago. Touring the MLK center, sitting in a circle of conversation and consciousness-raising among a mostly-white gathering of scholars and clinicians, so many images and so many words were overwhelming to me. All of my history, social location, my active and passive participation in systematic endemic racism, all crashed over me like a wave, filling my lungs with sand so that I could not breathe or expend the words that were piling up in my brain and spilling out of my heart, crashing on the beach with the waste and precious awareness, like these words now trying to fall upon these keys as I think and write today. My guilt, my implication, my shame render me silent.

How can I remain silent? This is not the answer. In my social location, history, awareness, I can help to construct a new world.

Thank you, Barak Obama, for your speech after the Jeremiah Wright debacle in your campaign. I feel hopeful that the world can change. You are a politician, a gifted and smart man, and you can lead with inspiration. The world can change.

The world can change. That's the next step for me after this languishing in shame and silence.

What can be more important to talk about this week than racism? Nothing.

Nothing - except for this murder, eclipsed, I fear, by campaign drama.

Lawrence King, image above, 15, shot in the head in his Oxnard, CA, school classroom. He told his classmates he was gay; he was proud of his sense of fashion. He was creative. He was a beautiful boy. Another beautiful boy, destroyed by the bigotry of our absurd world, pulled the trigger. Larry asked Brandon to be his Valentine. Then, Larry's family faced the miserable decision to withdraw life support because of brain death -- after harvesting strong young organs.

Thank goodness, Ellen is not struck dumb as I am. She spoke out when this happened back in February on her show.

Is Larry's death a Shoah, a Trail of Tears, a Darfur, an evil history of enslaving human beings, a genocide? On some absurd level: yes.

OK, now -- will Ohio put sexual orientation in its school bullying code and help raise awareness of the dangers of bigotry for vulnerable gay teens? Or will politicians and religious leaders continue to avoid this poll-killing "issue"?

Will churches and pastors continue to placate themselves with the cool liberal vision of equality for all people, while allowing the absurd tragedy of these isolated cases (Larry), these outliers of social dysfunction (Larry's killer), to keep them in denial? Our church chooses to not become a Reconciling Congregation. We can count on the strength of our love and relationships, our generous hospitality, our wide net of tolerance -- no, not just tolerance: celebration! -- to bridge the singular tragic gaps. How nice.

When will the Democratic Party stand up for rights of gay people and our families? Why cannot a school be empowered to protect Larry and millions of other vulnerable teenagers? It's a political killer, alright.

Why does this absurdity endure? Why continue to hope that the world will change?

According to Michael Berenbaum, in Elie Wiesel: God, the Holocaust, and the Children of Israel (p. 148, 1994), also published under the title The Vision of the Void: Theological Reflections on the Works of Elie Wiesel (1979)], Elie Wiesel said in a symposium:

In a world of absurdity, we must invent reason, we must create beauty out of nothingness. And because there is murder in the world -- and we are the first ones to know it -- and we know how hopeless our battle may appear, we have to fight murder and absurdity and give meaning to the battle, if not to our hope. (Berenbaum, p. 148, source cited above).

Wiesel also wrote in Souls on Fire (Berenbaum, p. 148, source cited above):

... whoever creates affirms that the creative act has meaning, a meaning which transcends the act itself.

When my friends in Seattle lost the case for declaring unconstitutional the Washington State gay marriage ban amendment to the constitution, I wrote an essay with the most hopeful -- hoping against hope -- message for continuing to hope. It's a ridiculous essay. It's the kind of exercise in self-soothing that borders on the insane. Insane: keep repeating the same behavior, expecting a different result. I actually said, "Love will win." So what?

Keep hoping. Keep creating hope. Just like that. Just like Heather and Leslie. Just like Elie Wiesel. Just like Larry.

Hope is absurd. It's ridiculous. It's insane. It's beautiful.

Share the Love

2008-02-27T11:06:00.004-05:00

I think you will recognize the names in the conversation here . It's a beautiful and true story. All stories are true, this one actually happened.

This story relates to my previous two posts about Mark.

It's the February 26, 2008 post, just to be sure: "Thirteen Ways of Losing an Uncle"

Memorial Service

2008-02-19T01:15:00.006-05:00

Mark E. Ferguson
July 12, 1964 - February 12, 2008

The memorial service was held at the Chapel of Broadway UMC in Indianapolis. I'll post the order of service and my comments for the witness. Margie's uncle Charles and I sang a duet of Townes Van Zandt's If I Needed You. Charles also sang a solo, The Lord's Prayer. Uncle Bobby Brewer, pastor of Dixie UMC (near Hattiesburg) preached the homily. Broadway's wonderful organist and choir master played gathering music and congregational hymns. The service was well attended, the chapel was full of friends and family.

Too Soon, Gone From Our Midst

2008-02-14T22:51:00.010-05:00

Mark E. Ferguson, of Indianapolis, IN, died at home on February 12, 2008, following an extended illness. A memorial service in celebration of Mr. Ferguson’s life will be held at 10:00 a.m., Saturday, February 16, in the Chapel of Broadway United Methodist Church, 609 E. 29th Street, Indianapolis IN 46205. Family members and friends will preside. Mr. Chris Schroeder, organist and choir master of the church will provide music. Family members and friends are invited to attend.

Mr. Ferguson is survived by his wife, IUPUI associate professor of Political Science and Director of Graduate Studies, Dr. Margie Robertson Ferguson and son, Duncan, 7; mother, Evelyn Savell Ferguson of Perkinston, MS; father-and mother-in-law, Dr. James A. (Jr.) and Linda McSwain Robertson, of Hattiesburg, MS; brother- and sister-in-law Mr. James A. (III) and Shannon Robertson, of New Orleans, LA; and many beloved relatives and friends. He was preceded in death by his father, Dr. Travis Ferguson.

Mr. Ferguson was born July 12, 1964 in Pascagoula, MS. He was employed as an information technology consultant by Price Waterhouse Coopers in Indianapolis. He was a volunteer reader for Indiana Reading Information Services.

Those who wish to share their condolences to the family are invited to send contributions to the National Brain Tumor Foundation, 22 Battery Street, Suite 612, San Francisco, CA, 94111-5520, (800) 934-2873, http://www.braintumor.org, or to the charity of your choice.

Margie and Mark, thanks for coming to share in our celebration of holy union. May our devotion and love endure life's insults as well as yours.

A good man, a good friend, quiet and deep, with lots of patience with little-boy energy for incessant video games. Right, G?

That's right, Margie -- we lift our glasses, a wee dram in his memory and feel his pleasure in good company.