The next big adventure

If I were to sum up my life for the past six years in one word, that word would be "wanderlust." These days, when I proudly announce my intention to travel to a new (and in my mind exciting) locale, my friends and family just shrug their shoulders and send me off with a cursory "take care of yourself." Last year my wanderlust was satisfied by two semesters abroad-first in Ecuador and then in Morocco.

Ecuador was indescribable, a whirlwind tour of jungles, beaches, volcanoes, mountains, and cloud forests. I loved my classes, my professors, my friends, and most of all, my wonderful, loving host family. At the end of the semester I was ready for more travel, more incredible adventures. So, I applied to study abroad in Rabat, Morocco. Morocco was a somewhat different experience. I had more adventures, but they were of the harrowing variety, the kind that teach you just how quickly things can go wrong. I longed to go home; I became angry and inconsolably lonely. At the end of the semester I thought I was done with traveling forever.

Two months later I felt the first pangs of wanderlust. Unfortunately, my urge to travel could not be satisfied until after I graduated. I settled down to rebuilding connections in Boston, applying for scholarships and graduate schools, and studying, studying, studying.

Although frustrated with the prospect of remaining within the borders of the US, there was one bright spot in the future. I applied to be a missions intern in an exciting and dynamic program. Only one application out of eight, nevertheless, this was the opportunity I was most excited for. I did everything in my power to maximize my chances of receiving the internship, from calling, to personally visiting the office just to show my enthusiasm. I cared enough about the internship to turn down all of the other summer prospects I had applied for. I was certain this internship was what God was telling me to do.

My phone buzzed incessantly during the last final of the semester. As soon as I finished the exam, I rushed outside to return what I thought must have been an emergency phone call. It was the internship, telling me that if I took the internship I would have to give up an equally important ministry fellowship I had already committed to. I was devastated. I couldn't give up the fellowship; I desperately wanted the internship. I was not only out of a summer plan, I was confused about how my summer played into God's plan.

God is not Santa Claus; I don't believe in predestination. However, I do believe that God is an active force in my life, and that each of us have a God-given purpose on this earth. God works well with poor decisions; my semester in Morocco proved this to me. Through the awful and misguided decision to go to Morocco; I grew into a more mature and capable person.

It therefore seemed strange to me that a missions internship wouldn't fit in to God's plan for my life. Wasn't I being called to missions work? What better way to spend my summer? So, I returned home, disconsolate and perplexed. I didn't wait long for the answer to my questions. On the train ride home I received an email offering me funding to study Hausa in Niger.

Hausa has been my passion for two years; going to Niger is a twin dream. With the United Methodist's committed involvement in Nigeria, I believe fluency in Hausa is a valuable tool in missions work. The dates are perfect. The program is amazing. With the grace of God, I'm ready to set our on the next big adventure.

Defining Ignorance

Brother Larry has assigned the three Marsh Associates summer reading. I have decided to tackle, "The Religious Case Against Belief," by James P. Carse, first. As of now, I am about forty pages in. Before the book even starts, though, it creates a schism, that as a future minister (Good Lord willing and the creek don't rise), I feel an involuntary reaction to rectify the problem. The schism rests on the divide between religion and belief. Carse posits that religious groups have diverged from their original purpose, which was to facilitate spiritual growth in the form of ignorance.

Now, as a student, ignorance is not a word I feel comfortable having thrown around so cavalierly. Carse, however, defines ignorance in three ways: ordinary ignorance, willful ignorance, and higher ignorance. Ordinary ignorance being unconscious of something because of ordinary circumstances, willful ignorance being the refusal to seek out information that could correct or reform a current idea, and higher ignorance being the continual search for a higher understanding with the foreknowledge that one will never know everything.

Carse explains that religion once promoted higher ignorance, but now fosters mostly willful ignorance. It makes sense- what with last weekend's supposed end of the world, that Carse makes this claim. So, how, as a minister, a Methodist minister even, will I ever be able to fulfill both my obligation to the doctrine of the church as well as facilitate this higher ignorance. Are the two intrinsically opposed, or can the two be reunited under the current system? This is what I hope Carse will address in the coming chapters: how a large system can facilitate higher ignorance on a meaningful level for individuals.

Busy Resting

I remember a semester in high school in which two of my classes, scheduled back to back, were at opposite ends of the school. With only a few minutes between bells- I learned to move quickly. I've always moved pretty quickly, stayed busy, and talked at lightning speed. I lived by the mantra, "Head down, chin up." For me this meant keep my head in my work, and my chin up smiling at the world. These days, however, I'm finding myself moving more slowly- in a very good way. When I was younger, I was never able to enjoy walks, hikes, or trips, as I focused only on the destination. I was perplexed by the idea of 'getting there is half the fun.' In my mind, being in transit was a means to an end, and that saying was hackneyed and without meaning.

It wasn't until this year that I really started to appreciate that sentiment at all. I have not adopted a Zen lifestyle replete with happy breathing and constant smiling, rather I have come to a realization that the transit itself in fact shapes the destination. Consciously I knew this- as an anthropologist who trusts that identity is created by a person's socio-cultural environment, I knew this well. As far as my life was concerned, I could in fact point out that my identity involves religion because I was raised with it. I could pick apart all sorts of environmental factors that shaped my being. However, on a smaller day to day basis, I was wondering how I could be so miserable taking classes all the time in order to achieve a degree- if that was half the fun, then I wasn't sure that I wanted the other half at all. So I did something, that in my world, was quite revolutionary: I slowed down. I halved my course load, let go of some organizational commitments, and decided to focus my energies on rest. I let myself sleep, I started reading books for fun, I spent time in the city visiting pleasing places, I devoted time to my friends who had supported me through so much, I started trying to find (or obsessively search) for a feeling of faith that had been long gone. Slowly, I noticed that a change in my mood. It was no longer "Head down, chin up." It was "Chin down, head up." By enjoying the creation and blessings bestowed upon me in the form of rest, companionship, and Boston, I was bowing my head in thanks to that which provided it. At the same time, I was keeping my head up, taking in my surroundings, enjoying time and life as it swarmed around me, rather than having tunnel vision on endless schoolwork. To re-quote Dean Hill quoting someone else, "It is a sin not to take what is given." In my case, I hadn't even realized there was a gift right there in front of me. What a wonderful gift to speed through blindly. So I'm learning my lesson, to quit looking forward only- forward is always a step away, and if that is all we focus on, the now is never enough, and that's what we have the most of: now's.

The Great I Am

When Brother Larry preached this morning's sermon and spoke the famous quote, "For some people, you may be the only Jesus they ever see," I was reminded of two people: Dr. Neville as always, and my roommate Nikki. Now Dr. Neville and Nikki have very little in common, except that both of them have 'n's in their name and they both declare outlandish things sometimes.

One of the concepts that Dr. Neville has preached on in the past that really spoke to me was recognizing Jesus in other people. He was talking about how if we don't take Jesus' resurrection as a literal event, we can resonate with the accounts of many of Jesus' followers who met him after his death. Instead of discounting these stories, we can allow ourselves to think of them in terms of recognizing characteristics of Jesus in other people. Hence, a person may be the only Jesus they ever see.

Now my roommate Nikki, in a much less formal way, says something quite similar. For example, upon doing something praiseworthy, she will announce, "Because I am God." Did she intend to make a profound theological statement? Likely not. Did she know she was saying something akin to the Sufi Saint Al-Hallaj hundreds of years ago? Also, highly unlikely. What she did say, however, was no less true than it was comedic.

The call to goodness that is issued in the statement "For some people, you may be the only Jesus people ever see," is not what I am referring to here. What I am referring to, is a theological idea that in each of us, we carry a little of the Divine. We each possess qualities that can remind each other of Jesus' teachings, calling and inspiring others to goodness.

Examining the Easter Come-down

Logistically, Easter happens every year in the church calendar. When I was much younger, I figured out the Easter after I turned 33 would be the counterpart to the Christmas of 1989, the December after I was born. Obviously, now I know its not that simple. Religious holidays are a little different than national holidays, in that when we commemorate the birthday of a president or the signing of the Declaration of Independence, we celebrate a specific day that we can usually trace historically to some actual event that occurred on or around the designated holiday. However, with the religious calendar, as far as I know, the holidays are spread out sort of at random, and really based more on pagan ritual in practice at the time than any true evidence Christ was crucified on some day in late spring. So, based on the theme of the Holy week sermons at Marsh Chapel, I want to think about the believability of Easter, and also the significance.

Dean Neville approached this topic in his Saturday vigil sermon. He said, “The literal meaning of resurrection is not religiously interesting. So those of you who worry about whether you should believe in a literal resurrection that you find hard to believe can stop worrying.” I’ve never had a minister tell me not to worry whether Jesus actually rose from the dead. It seems incredulous to say whether the man Jesus actually came back alive or not doesn’t really matter. To me, saying that seems to, in transit, assert that perhaps Jesus did not rise from the dead at all, making Christianity itself a sham of some sort. As much as I love to question Christianity, the Bible, and anything philosophical or theological, questioning the resurrection of Jesus feels off-limits. Now that a well-esteemed and undeniably brilliant dean has opened the door and allowed me to explore these thoughts, though, I think wondering on the purpose of Easter opens an opportunity to be closer to God. For me, Dean Neville’s sermon allowed me to let go of my notion that there are certain avenues in Christianity that are simple, and unchangeably, one–way streets.

I need to reflect more before I can finish this post. What makes Easter important? Is it the celebration of the foundation of our faith? Or Easter’s ability to change hearts and minds? And is that change based off the literal resurrection, or the spiritual convincing that comes from the triumph over suffering? And, in the end, does it matter? And do these questions put me in the unfavorable position of the infamous Doubting Thomas?

Things Unseen

Last Wednesday was the farewell dinner for the participants in the Student Support Network training program. Participants from across Boston University came together on the lovely top floor of Student Village to share some food and fellowship, recognize the people who had taught and funded us, and to prepare to go forth as agents of empathy on Boston University's campus.

As part of the ending ceremonies, the BU Secret Project's video was shown to the Student Support Network trainees. For those of you reading that don't know, Boston University's Active Minds group launched the BU Secret project on March 17. Active Minds encouraged students to anonymously submit secrets on a provided postcard, which were then posted on bulletin boards and compiled into a video.

What was written on the postcards ranged from hilarious to heart-wrenching. Some students confessed to showering with their Brita, while others shared stories of neglect, fear, loneliness, anger, and pain. As I watched the short video, I realized that the people who had written these postcards are the people I eat in the dining hall with, the people sitting in my class, the people I pass by on the street without a second glance.

A huge stigma against mental illness exists in the United States, a stigma that makes treatable problems like depression, bipolar disorder, and eating disorders seem like insurmountable and uncontrollable character flaws. If people felt comfortable enough to share their difficulties with other, BU Secret wouldn't be a secret anymore, and more people would receive the help and support that they need in order to thrive and be happy.

Part of the Student Support Network's training is to show other students how to recognize the signs of depression. These signs are easy to notice in friends and people we live with. Withdrawal, change in habits, mood swings, changes in eating patterns, abusing drugs or alcohol, sleeping all the time or not sleeping at all, are the key ways to tell if someone is going through mental distress.

These unseen warning signs can lead to deadly consequences. Suicide is a very real and pressing problem on college campuses across the United States. Suicide is preventable. Being a friend, listening, and moving people towards ways to get help are key steps in suicide prevention.

I encourage everyone to watch the BU Secret video. If you see anyone that you feel may be in distress, talk to them. Recommend that they seek help. So many options exist. Marsh Chapel, Behavioral Medicine, Residence Life, support groups, and suicide hot lines are just some of these.

What I Learned From Thomas and a Dog

Oh Thomas, my familiar, doubting historical figure. Today in Marsh's worship service, we read his story. I always feel behind the faith curve when I read his story, and Jesus praises those who can believe without seeing. I have always been one of those, "Trust but verify" types of people (to quote my father). So how can I relate to even Dean Hill's concept of a long lost friend living on in memory and love? I never knew Jesus personally, I never got to joke around with him, hear him teach, or poke his gut like Thomas.

As usual, I have a story:

My mother and father once had a basset hound named Bowser. I grew up hearing stories about how Bowser ate a whole cake leaving nothing but the knife on the plate, how Bowser would eat potato chips until he couldn't move, how Bowser had ear problems, and how he was such a good dog. I even heard stories about how Bowser died. One day, riding in a car with my parents, I burst into uncontrollable tears. I fell to pieces in the back seat of the car. I was weeping with all the love and devotion a little girl could have for a long time family pet that had passed away. The strange part about all of this, is that I had never even met Bowser, he had died before I was born. That did not stop me one bit from being completely overcome with emotion and grief for him. I knew what he meant to my parents, I knew what he meant to their friends, I knew that he was a good little dog.

So Jesus, the friend I never met, the teacher for whom I was never a student, that person I had never greeted on the street, is much like the little old dog, Bowser. Not in the sense that he was a family pet, but in the sense that even though I never spent time with him, he still has relevance to my life in stories and in meaning to those with whom I am close. I am indirectly his student.