Prophesying in Love and Loving Prophetically

I woke up to the news on Sunday morning: 20 people killed in an LGBTQ nightclub in Orlando, FL. I was in shock, like most people. So little was known by that time, as it had only occurred a few hours before. We only knew the number of people reported dead and injured, so far, and that the shooter  was dead. In the hours that passed, the number climbed to 49 (50, if you include the shooter). Forty-nine. Forty-nine people were dead because of one person. It was unfathomable and gut wrenching. I'm still in shock over it. Add to that the fact that for each person there could be at least a hundred people, if not more, that are affected by their death. That's close to five thousand people that could potentially be affected by this directly, and that's an extremely conservative estimate.

I couldn't stop looking through my newsfeed all day Sunday. As more and more information came out, more and more posts were being made about how the Muslim community stands with the LGBTQ+ community, how we need to do something about the current gun regulation in this country, vigils to attend in different cities, etc. etc. While some of this was, in a sense, wonderful to see, I still felt helpless. I wanted to DO something! I still do. For now, though, this is my outlet. Writing is my way of doing something, and so I'll use this medium for now until I can find other meaningful ways to respond to such a catastrophic and tragic situation...

My church community is one that I hold closely to my heart. It is my lifeline. I love coming in through the doors every Sunday, and I sincerely love many of the people I worship with. We're also fortunate to have some truly wonderful preaching voices among our clergy. Today, one of our priests preached about the prophetic messages in two of the day's scripture readings. (For those who are unfamiliar, we Episcopalians read from the Revised Common Lectionary, which assigns our readings for the days of the year, Sundays in particular.) He spoke of how we, too, are called to speak prophetically in love, with Jesus as our model.

I reflected on this as I went about my day, having a difficult time shifting my attention away from the day's news. How are we called to speak prophetically in love in this situation, and is that enough? What does it mean to prophesy in love? Are we merely talking about love as a sentiment? If so, are we going far enough in trying to bring about the vision that is the Kingdom of God? Would it be more appropriate instead to say that we are called to love prophetically? And if so, what does this look like?

The answers to these questions, especially the latter, are not easy to come by, and I am by no means an authority for any of them. I am not a member of ordained clergy, I do not run a ministry program in my congregation, and I fail over and over again to live the life that I have been called to in Christ. But I still want to explore this more, and hopefully offer some possible answers to this difficult question.

To begin, I'll give a summary of today's Gospel lesson. Jesus is at the home of a Pharisee for a meal. (For those who don't know, a pharisee is a member of an ancient Jewish sect, noted for his strict observance of Jewish law.) A woman who is known to be a notorious sinner comes in, weeps on, kisses, and rubs ointment on Jesus' feet. The Pharisee is scandalized, and mutters something about how Jesus must not be a prophet, since he would never allow such a woman to even come near him. Jesus, who must have had Vulcan hearing, speaks up and gives an analogy of two debts being forgiven, one much greater than the other, as a way to show the virtue in forgiving those who are seen as less righteous than others. In addition, he points to the actions of the woman and juxtaposes it with the treatment offered, or lack thereof, by his host. "Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which were many, have been forgiven; hence she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little." (Luke 7:44-47, NRSV)

This entire story is scandalous. Not only does Jesus allow a woman to touch him, but a woman of "great sin" (we're never explicitly told what sins she has committed, by the way, though it's insinuated that it's of a sexual nature), and he directly challenges his host! Moreover, from my own limited knowledge of ancient Middle Eastern culture, Jesus not being treated hospitably by his host would have been scandalous as well, as hospitality was the rule and not the exception. Even still, later in the reading, he speaks to the woman directly, and forgives her sins. All of this is going against the social norms of the time, and would have sent a strong and clear message to early Christians, for whom it was written: Love scandalously. Love prophetically.

Prophets, as our priest pointed out today, are called to speak up against the powers that be with the voice of God. If that isn't a heavy burden to carry, I don't know what is. Fallible, flawed, and finite human beings are called to speak with the voice of a Being who is infinite, unfathomable, ultimately unknowable, and supremely enigmatic...whose idea was this?! But prophets have existed, nonetheless, and, those that are true prophets, continually call us to a new way of living by speaking truth to power. They have pointed us continually in the direction of justice, equality, mercy, and love. The essence of their message is spoken over and over again: another way is possible.

So with this in mind, I return to my previous question: what does it look like to love prophetically? If we're to take the definition of prophet as someone who essentially speaks truth to power, and acts in ways that grabs the attention of those in power in an effort to change the status quo, then there are several ways that this could go, both on a micro and macro scale. Below are some ideas of what it could look like:

- Asking a homeless person for their name and their story, instead of just walking by as we are more apt to do.
- Making sure that the spaces we more privileged folk occupy are safe(r) for those on the margins.
- Making room for spaces that are specifically for marginalized folx, especially LGBTQ folx of color. 
- Making sure to listen more than speak, especially if you are in a space for and with those who are less privileged. 
- Taking real action to fight with and for oppressed people, not just putting up a hashtag, or a bumper sticker, or sending "thoughts and prayers." 
- Asking really hard questions like, "Why are people hungry?" instead of being satisfied with only feeding the hungry. Or asking, "How do we actually stop this from happening?" instead of "Why does this keep happening?"
- Acknowledging and promoting leadership of marginalized folx instead of being "a voice for the voiceless."
- Calling others out when they mess up, and encouraging them to do better.
- Calling out the culture of charity and promoting a culture of justice.  

This is an extremely limited list, and there are infinite possibilities. And that, too, is a characteristic of prophetic love: endless possibility. Love as sentiment only takes us so far, but love as prophetic action? There is no end to how far we can go. 

Daniel Gutierrez, the bishop-elect for the diocese in which I geographically reside, said the following in his recent post on Facebook, and I feel that it encapsulates the essence of what prophetic love is:

"Through our tears, pain, bewilderment and sadness we must envision something new. It has to begin today, and it must start with us. I believe in the goodness of humanity. We have seen it time and time again. Hopeful people whose lives express a deep and abiding love for all creation. A world where forgiveness is stronger than revenge, where empathy abounds over hate, acceptance mightier than exclusion and that the light of love and life is shining brighter than the darkness of hate and death. 

"We must find our voice. It must begin in our churches and we must take it to the powerful. We can make a difference. It is the only path we have in a world that has a tendency to slip into the darkness. May we all believe in the transformative power of hope, peace, goodness and love."

I pray that we will not only "believe in the transformative power of hope, peace, goodness and love" but that we act in it. Because that is loving prophetically.

May it be so.

Time: In Memoriam

It isn't as though no time has passed
Since the last moment that I heard
Your voice.
Time has come the way it usually does,
With rushing waves of seasons
And endless crawls through spaces
Dark and heavy with uncertainty.
I have made it
Have survived without you for all this
Time,
Just as I knew I would.
Time has taken my naive child self
And molded her into something
That I am not always quite certain of,
Yet am certain that she
Is
Real.
But time always returns me
To this place,
This space where I can do nothing but
Remember
Where I was,
What I was
Thinking,
Why I knew
How I knew
That you
Were the who I had to let go of
Too soon.
Time has healed me
But has also sealed me in this
Locked cage of wanting
What could have never been.
Each year
Each month
Each day
Each moment that passes
Amasses to more distance from that moment;
Forever cystalized amber.
The pain of your absence not forever etched
Into my skin
But cemented into my existence
Because now there is always a before
And an after.
Thought continues to dwell on you
Even when I know
It could be better spent
And makes more sense
When it can find something else
To occupy its
Time.
I have exhausted time
Beyond its means
To try to find some meaning to this,
Some word
Some phrase
To shine some rays of light
To give me hope. . .
And therein lies my sin
Because even after all the
Time that has past
I still have this seed
From some stubborn weed
That breeds within me.
Hope for things that will not come,
Hope to revive what has already gone.
I hoped for you.
I did not love,
But hoped only to love
One day
Some Time
Always.
But never came instead,
So time has left me
Grieving for the dead
Which has not fully died,
And has somehow kept me living.
I live with this,
Will always
Live
Because time does not die with our wounds,
Though it at times stands still.
I have not stood still,
But still have felt,
What was left since that
Time
When we left with our goodbyes.

Reception or Nothing Closed Can Open

This poem was inspired by several things over the last few days.  The first, a yoga class within which the theme was receiving (using the Twitter war between Kanye and Amber Rose as the inspiration and example, no less).  The second, one of the teachers of said yoga class reached out to the wider social sphere, humbly asked for funds for a much needed surgery, and did it from such a place of wholeness, rootedness, and gratitude that was nothing shy of inspiring.  (Btw, they reached their fundraising goal in record time, which was beyond amazing.)  And the third, recognizing my own hesitancy to open to things new and as yet unknown.  Receiving, as I point out in this poem, is a complicated and messy business.  But it can be beautiful and life giving when it comes from the right place.  

Nothing closed can open, and opening is not

invitation to wounds, or abuse, or pain.

Instead, opening to receiving is the act of active asking,

not as a hungry mouth 

gaped wide as vacuumous void,

waiting to consume any and all,

But as hands cupped to rain to drink the sky.

I am thinking of the nature of trees, 

those receivers of above and below,

with vast arms open, 

for their roots have dug deep enough 

to drink in the earth.

Temptation lies not in the wanting, but in the waiting to give.

Muscles contract in spasms waiting to birth

what is not yet time to be born. 

How complicated this all is, 

this holding of tension with intention--

holding and being held.

A hand opens, one to another, without fear of being

asked to give--for asking is its own giving.

Reception comes only by owning one's own deserving

as a natural consequence 

of being human fully.

So open as the fertile soil comes to be planted 

with good things,

and bear the fruit of gratitude.

Every Day

Every day I remember
How easy it is to just type
Those letters that form your name
And find pages of you in an instant's fraction

Every day I remember
That when my fingers itch
To trace the familiar pattern on
Those keys
It is not you who will be present

Every day I am reminded
That absence was always there
And that the faux replacement
Never really took me from the shadows
Of longing

Every day I wonder
If I will finally give in
And dissolve my resolve
To not try to find you again

Every day your two syllables
Fall from my lips in whispers
Light as snow floating from the sky
Though my tongue bears the weight of
An avalanche of words unsaid

Every day
Another heart fills an empty space
That proves I have lasted
One more day without you
And

Every day
I wish that I didn't have to

Selective Solidarity: The Problem with Praying (Just) for Paris

Some may think that this entry is "too soon" as it has been less than 24 hours since most of us here in the United States have heard about the attacks in Paris.  However, I feel that it is precisely in these moments when, those of us who may not be so closely related to recent horrific events, need to have these conversations.

Scrolling through my social media feed, there are an overwhelming number of posts and notifications, not only of the attacks themselves, but of statements of solidarity people are showing for Paris.  And it's beautiful.  People are changing their profile pictures to show the colors of the French flag.  Others are sharing photos of monuments and buildings around the world lit up in blue, white, and red.  On and on, the message is: "We are with you.  You are not alone in this."  It's a wonderful sentiment, and it should not be entirely discarded.

And yet, where were the colors of the Beirut flag only a few days ago?  Why weren't people en mass changing their profile pictures to those saying "Black Lives Matter" or posting numerous statuses about the actions of the students on the university campus in Missouri?  Why is saying "Free Palestine" when Israeli attacks continue to occur, and Palestinian land is STILL being stolen, so controversial, but no one blinks an eye at "Pray for Paris"?

With the era we live in, where we are saturated with information, 24 hour "news" cycles, etc. it is easy to become overwhelmed.  We cannot hold the pain of the world in a day.  We need breaks.  This is understandable.  The human psyche can take only so much without completely unraveling.

Still, more often than not, there is the collective pattern here in the West to take a break from solidarity and compassion when brown people (or those perceived to be brown) are involved.  When those from predominantly white countries experience the frailty and horror that so many others have already faced, the rest of the world seems to stand still.  We give moments of silence.  We send our prayers.  We change our profile pictures and create hashtags.  We stand with them.  Because they're not "those other people."  This is not to say that the latter is a thought that necessarily happens on a conscious level.  Through decades and centuries of Western white supremacy, it has become ingrained into our dominant culture, and is now a subconsciously understood sentiment.  And those who have it are not inherently "bad people" either.  This is something I struggle with, too, as a white person from a Western country who has benefited from centuries of white supremacy.  I turn my eyes away from the brown people suffering because "what else is new?"  White country experiences terrorist attacks, and I'm glued to my newsfeed.  This is not to detract from my own argument; on the contrary, I hope what I have just said will serve to validate it.  We here in the West, especially us white folk, have a lot to work on when it comes to our solidarity with others. And this includes people in our own country that we have turned our backs on, time and again.

I currently work as an outpatient therapist in a community mental health organization.  Being new to the field, one thing that I am working on, among many, is to allow for silence in my sessions with clients.  Silence can be useful, and powerful, especially in the therapeutic relationship.  Silence sometimes can, and often does, say more than words ever could.  I am still learning this.  In a similar vein, the silence we offer in solidarity with Western countries who experience tragedy speaks volumes, especially when compared to our silence of indifference toward the Global South.  Our collective silence in either case is powerful.  Our silence in either case can be used to solidify the barriers of awareness, compassion, and solidarity.

I often tell my clients that changing certain unhelpful cognitions in our brains is very much like trying to make a new path in a forest.  Leveling the undergrowth enough to walk more easily takes time and effort, and must be constant.  The same is true for our consciousness, both individually and collectively.  We must work on ourselves to create new pathways of thinking, and in order to do this, we have to give pause and consider why we are choosing to pay attention to and validate the experience of one group more so than another.   We have to challenge the media who barrage us with stories that reinforce Western white supremacy, but are then silent (or very near silent) when it comes to stories that don't fit into that narrative.  We have to question why "All Lives Matter" can feel so comfortable and right to some of us, and why saying "Black Lives Matter" or "Trans Lives Matter" can feel as though we are participating in "discrimination."  And in this instance, we must ask: "Why pray just for Paris?"

What happened in Paris last night was horrific and deplorable.  No one should have to go through that.  And the same can be said for a multitude of instances throughout the world, including some more recent events in Syria, Iraq, Palestine, and Beirut.  No one should have to be a refugee and experience the constant terror of uncertainty.

By all means, pray for Paris.  Give a moment of silence in solidarity.  But let us remember, too, that there are many others who deserve our prayers, and who deserve more than our silent indifference.

I Shouldn't Be Here: Parallels of "Your House" and the Age of Stexing

*A brief note before reading: I recognize that the occurrence of actual online stalking or cyberstalking--that of unwanted attention and harassment online by a former lover, acquaintance, or stranger--is very real, and can be very traumatizing.  If this is happening to you or someone you know, please seek help and support.  You can find more information here and here*


I first heard "Your House" off of Alanis Morrisette's "Jagged Little Pill" well over 15 years ago as a teenager in my friend's bedroom.  After having listened to the major tracks of the album, the hidden track didn't hit me with any intensity at the time, possibly due to my own naivete about the tumultuous and dangerous compulsions of love and attraction.  However, yesterday morning, as I scrolled through my social media newsfeed, I happened upon an article mentioning the album's 20th anniversary.  I allowed myself to enter the raw and intense song once again, not realizing at the time that I might as well have expected to walk through fire unscathed.

I wasn't prepared, even with the explicit warning of the article itself, since I merely thought it was more internet hype to be ignored.  The song is already uncomfortable in the explicitness of the lyrics--or more accurately, the explicitness of the act being carried out--yet it is also uncomfortable because of the familiarity of strong, unrequited desire.  It is quite possible that this is all a scenario being played out in the singer's mind, and that she hasn't actually chosen to violate the physical boundaries of her desired lover.  

All the same, I felt ripped open by the song's conclusion, and cried tears of recognition.  On some level, I identified with the lyrics, but not because I had ever done those things--not in any physical way.  However, upon further reflection, I could not help but think about the parallel that could be drawn between the act of entering someone's physical house with that of entering someone's virtual house (i.e. their online existence).  

Much has been written about--somewhat seriously, somewhat satirically--the online "stalking" of one's ex, or as I like to call it, "stexing."  It has become a norm that no one really likes to admit to doing, and yet most people seem to engage in, especially in the first stages of a breakup.  We know it's not good for us, and there's even proof that it can inhibit our ability to move on with our lives (see linked articles above).  And yet, we still do it, albeit in varying degrees of intensity.

I went to your house
Walked up the stairs
I opened your door without ringing the bell
I walked down the hall
Into your room
Where I could smell you
And I shouldn't be here, without permissionI shouldn't be here

Google, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Pinterest, etc. have become both the unlocked door and the house(s) in which we live.  (Also, I did wonder why the door in the song was unlocked in the first place.  Then I realized that it could be because Morrisette is from Canada.)  We go into our exes' "rooms", smelling out their presence, smelling out the clues of their lives.  And we know we shouldn't.  Not because we don't have permission--we DO have tacit permission due to the permissiveness of the web (save private or even blocked profiles).  We know we shouldn't engage in stexing because it drives us further into our own personal hell, and it takes more than it gives.  Still, we live for those bits (or bytes?) of cyber crumbs because we get that jolt, that bit of fuel we need to keep the flame of hope burning, no matter how false that hope may be.   

I took off my clothes
Put on your robe
I went through your drawers
And found your cologne
Went down to the den
Found your CD's
And I played your Joni
And I shouldn't stay long, you might be home soon
I shouldn't stay long

We already spend countless hours on our computers--at work, on our way to work and home, and at home.  The internet is our world, the facets of our profiles--status updates, tweets, pins--are our drawers and cd's (or vinyl, if you so choose).  Stexing is yet another time suck--and we shouldn't stay long.  But maybe it's because of the anonymity, or the appearance of anonymity, that allows us to relax into the rut of emotional stagnation for countless, indeterminate periods of time.  There's no one to watch for to come in through the door and discover us in the midst of our online rummaging.

But then the flame of hope turns to an inferno, and we get burned.

I burned your incense
I ran a bath
I noticed a letter that sat on your desk
It said "Hello love, I love you so love, meet me at midnight"
And no, it wasn't my writing
I'd better go soon
It wasn't my writing

So forgive me love
If I cry in your shower
So forgive me love
For the salt in your bed
So forgive me love
If I cry all afternoon

That moment when you see your ex's relationship status change.  When your mouth goes dry, the lump forms in your throat, the heart drops to stomach and stomach falls to your feet, as you see their profile picture change from just them to them with someone else...who isn't you.  Or when you see a status update that tags your replacement, paired with words of love and affection.  Or you see them pin a quote about love that is exactly how you felt (or maybe even still feel) about them, and realize it's about their love for their partner.

Time to go.  You haven't been found out, but you have just found out more than you bargained for, and it's hard not to feel exposed.  All of your flights of fancy wither in the light of reality, and you are left feeling empty, dried up, used.  Nothing a good cry in the shower won't alleviate.  Until the next time.

Acronyms of Old

Every once in a while I look back at some of the stuff I wrote years ago.  It's funny how I might have written something at one time and thought, "Meh, it's ok." only to go back later and think, "Wow!  This was actually really good!"  Hence tonight's entry.  I wrote these acronyms about five years ago.  The context doesn't really matter, but let's just say...I was upset.  So, without further ado...


Hella
Upset
Regarding
Treatment


Courage
Of
Which
Abundance
Reportedly
Diminished


Frustration
Ultimately
Concerning
Kicking

Your
Obstructive
Underlings


Label
Indicating
Embellishment


Made
Altogether
Distraught


Particularly
Irritated
Sentiment
Sustained
Especially
Demonstrably


Acrimonious
Nature
Gaining
Ebullient
Rage