Oi Logoi

Words don't work for me these days.
Let's be honest, they haven't really at all since my third year of seminary.
So, I'm not ditching this blog,
I'm giving myself permission to not feel bad and apologize when I don't write on it.
I am, however, going to start a new blog, mostly with photos of things I find true or pure or fascinating or beautifully mundane...
I might also add some of my haikus
But they don't count as words.

Employment

Yes, that's right, folks. As of last Thursday I became UNC's newest chaplain resident. It's a 1-year (PAID) internship.
I can't believe it... a year of CPE.

Keep posted... or don't.
:)

Revelation in the brokenness...

I went on retreat in May to one of my most favorite places on the planet. It is a tiny retreat center located in the back fields of Georgia—hidden from city hubbub and cell phone signals. One of the reason I like this place is because of the discoveries I have made there. That is the place where I met my love for monasticism, regular prayer, and silence. It's not just the conceptual discoveries that I have enjoyed. Every time I go back I make physical discoveries as well: bees, fields, small books of prayer, origami peace cranes… This time around I was spending time in the chapel when I came upon a small framed statement— Frango ut patefaciam—I break in order to reveal. I loved this quip. I wrote it in my journal, and took that thought home with me to paint. This, to me, was such a great statement about the eucharist.

I think when one of my colleagues asked me about my views of God this past Tuesday (which was the mid-unit evaluation in which I described God as both "love" and "m-f'er") I forgot to talk about the Christ I meet at the table. My call was formed out of a drive to give little hunks of bread to kids at a summer camp, and from there eucharist has taken so many meanings for me. The biggest of which is where I find healing in its truest form—the broken Christ + my brokenness + everybody else's brokenness = some kind of hope for a resurrected wholeness. To add patefaciam into the mix brings on a whole new part of this equation. It isn't just hope for a resurrected wholeness, it's revelation of a wholeness. It's this broken, resurrected Christ living within all of us, and therefore able to be revealed in all of us (whether we are communion takers or not).

This statement went in a different direction for me this week. In the course of an hour on the Tuesday of mid-unit evaluations the group found some of my breakable surfaces, and together we broke. I never felt violated—I let the breaking happen—but I sure did feel vulnerable. Actually it felt a little bit like everyone had x-ray vision, and nobody would let-up with the staring. But I found out that the breaking was not a breaking of the whole me, rather it was a breaking of some layers that I had used to keep myself guarded. It was frightening to be that out there with no cover. Frightening, but it was a safe place for brokenness.

Frango ut patefaciam: I break in order to reveal. I'm being revealed because parts of me are being broken. This was something that I did not think myself nor others were ready for, but through the rest of the week, I have found inner moments of empowerment and strength. This week I called myself a chaplain for the first time—not intern, just chaplain—and really felt okay with it. I also had an incredible job interview, and not because I went in there knowing the interviewers. It was incredible because I got to mention some of the things that I'm learning in CPE, and I realized I'm learning a lot—not just in pastoral care, but a lot about myself.

This has been a hard week. Hard to be broken. Hard to be with the broken. It's tiring to be in the act of breaking, and then to look around at the pieces. But I'm noticing small differences—the way I listen with friends, the way friends listen with me, a small growth of faith among us. I think I'm finding hope a more optimistic word.

द्रौपदी

The past two weeks have been FULL.
There have been a couple of times when I thought that maybe I can't do this chaplain thing after all. But there have been such life-giving moments intertwined with those.

So I sit here today deciding not to give you a whole reflection paper. Just a story.

There was a woman named Draupadi who was the daughter of king Draupada. She was known for suffering well and being of good virtue. It is said that she was born of fire because of her determination and thunder because of her strength. In jealousy of her virtues, many people despised her. At one point she was brought in before the Kurava court, where they decided to humiliate her by slowly tearing off her sari. She called out to the emperor, to priests, to the prime minister, and to her five husbands. None came to her aid. So she cried out to Krsna. Many people say that she clung to her sari, crying out in fear, “Krsna, help me!” Nothing happened. Then extending her hand, she cried out in need, “Come to my aid, Lord!” Still, nothing happened. Finally Draupadi let go of the now loosely hanging sari to which she was clinging, threw up both of her arms, and cried out unconditionally, “help!” Because she let go—of her fear, of her needs, of control in general—Krsna came quickly to her rescue. As the sari was dropped, Krsna wrapped an unending sari around her. The master of the court tore and tore and tore at Draupadi’s sari, but her body was never uncovered, and she was never humiliated.


Draupadi has been with me this week as I have listened to patients, staff, and interns including myself cry out. We’ve all had different reasons, but they have all felt much like a sari being ripped from our bodies. But as I have gone through these weeks--weeks of ripping, tearing, pulling, forcing--I find many of us becoming Krsna for each other, and safety taking on a whole new meaning.

ps

Oh yeah...
I believe a picture was promised.



These are the wonderful women from my first year spiritual formation group
L -> R: Me, Miriam, Kara
:-)

a long and boring reflection

Well, I figured since I haven’t shared much lately, I’d let you in on one of the reflections I recently wrote for CPE. I’m doing a summer unit at a state mental facility in Butner.
Pax,
LMK

Week number one: Clinical Pastoral Education
May 25, 2007. I figured it would happen, but I didn’t think it would be this soon. I have officially attempted to open the door to my house with the master ward key.

CPE is very quickly becoming a regular part of my daily life. The obvious response to that is, of course, it would have to because I’ve committed to spending an estimated 42% of the hours I’m awake with CPE (either at JUH or working on writing). This reflection comes a day after admitting to myself and the group that there are going to be parts of this that hit really close to home—that from what my ears have heard from the doctors and the staff having to do with history, occasional behaviors, and general mentality, I stand a higher eligibility for “patient” status over “chaplain” status.

I felt encouraged after the group stories. I thought that perhaps many of them would think I was over reacting or incapable of doing this work. Instead I felt very supported. Of course, I still do not feel “changed” or “different,” but I feel a little empowered for this ministry and a little more confident in myself (although I’m sure that even forty years into ministry I’ll still feel like I have not got a clue about how to “do this” well).

When we attended report on Wednesday, one of the nurses on Rehab reported that there was a gentleman who said he was Jesus. Earlier Marion mentioned that we get a few who sometimes say that they are Jesus. It occurred to me as those of us present laughed about it that a patient saying he is Jesus speaks a huge element of truth to me. I learned a while ago that if I can treat people like I want to be treated, or better yet, treat them like they are Christ here in front of me, then I could get along okay in Christian vocation. (Or at least I saw it in many email forwards about Jesus showing up as a beggar or a bum.)

On my way home from seeing a variety of patients on Friday, I again thought about that man who said he was Jesus. I have no idea who this person is, but I have a huge respect for anyone who makes that claim. “Other” sense of reality or not, I sometimes have a really hard time showing the “Christ” part of Christian, and I give kudos to those—mental illness or not—who mention him that boldly. I also thought about the faces of Christ that I saw all day—some wounded, some joyful, some broken, all beautiful, all Christ—they are children of God. Then I also realized that when I stepped out and offered my fear of not being any different from our patients, I also (in a way) made that claim of being Jesus. I deserve to treat myself like a child of God because I am one. In that car ride home, I began to feel presence again. Not mine, but God’s. And it felt good.

Back to the key. I got home, fumbled through my wad of keys, and tried twice before I discovered why the key I selected did not fit. I laughed out loud, surprised by how quickly the routine of unlocking doors at JUH were conflated with my own routines at home (I’ve also turned a key the wrong way to lock my door). But then I paused. On the way home, I had such comfort and assurance of God’s presence, and the feeling of self-love like I love God’s children. I gave myself permission to treat myself like I would want Jesus to be treated. And in that moment when I paused I lived in the gap of my own life—in the past and now in the present. There was a time when my own mother never trusted me with keys, and now her keys are not only clipped to the same carabiner that mine are, they are next to keys that house some of God’s most cherished fragile friends. What an honor and a privilege. In that moment when only a few minutes earlier I had become re-aware of God’s presence, I felt like my feet touched ground again.

I am not a patient. I am not a chaplain. I am part of the present active universe in which God is also present and active.

pomp...

So... to all three of my loyal and devoted fans, I apologize for my lack of blogging.

Turns out taking four really hard courses in your last semester of seminary is a very stupid and time-consuming thing to do.

But here's the hard-to-believe news:

I'm
graduating
tomorrow!!!!

(Big jaw-drop)

Pictures to be posted later.

iConsumerism

So much is going on, including a new addition to my life: MacBook. Behold, it is beautiful, splendid, and completely, 100% addictive. The only thing absolutely depressing (besides Mac's total and complete disregard for mother earth) is iCal. Why? Glad you asked. Because with all iCal's beautiful colors, incredible capabilities to remind you of when your next meeting with Carolyn is or even to set up your next BSU gathering, it shows just how little space is left to
sit.

This year I told myself I'd take Sabbath. This year I told myself I'd treat myself to a day without homework. January wasn't so good for that.
Maybe the new year should start in February. At least, I'm telling myself that it will get better in February.

Lent--that will be a good time for beginning a new year...

In other news, I just found out that one of my photographs has been put in the running for the cover of Logia, the Divinity School's Annual Creative Arts/Writing magazine. That's pretty neat. One of my poems has also been selected for another Duke publication. Strange--artist, poet--names I rarely go by except in my head. Now, where can I go to publish some haiku?

I will close this chapter with this: I'm spending the summer doing CPE at John Umstead, which is a mental hospital. When I went for my interview, the supervisor asked me if I could explain the difference between myself and the patients.
Good question.
I told her, "not much." It was honest.

She hired me that day.