Tag Archives: Joan Chittister

Justifying My Existence

It is unsettling, even scary, to relinquish who we think we are, and scary to stop clinging to what we have and what we do. Henri Nouwen

As I picked up my bag to walk to the gym, then to the office for a few hours of work, I said “I’m off to justify my existence for the day!” The idea of such daily justification comes from my father who, when he was at home rather than on the road travelling, used to ask my brother and me as we stepped into the house after school justify“What did you do today to justify your existence on this planet?” He always had a smile on his face when he said it, but there were serious undertones to the question. The challenge to not just be a piece of furniture in the room, not just to occupy space, but to prove my worth on a daily basis has stuck with me ever since. Jeanne’s response to my announcement was to laugh and say “You don’t have to do anything to justify your existence!” I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m not so sure.

I can talk a good talk about why, despite the Protestant work ethic and stereotypical American focus on action and productivity that pervades our culture, who one is does not amount to the same thing as what one does. chittisterAs Joan Chittister writes, humility is “the strength to separate our sense of the meaning of life from what we do.” One should work to live, after all, not live to work. I am not, however, nearly as good at walking the walk. This has become more and more obvious as I move into sabbatical mode. Within a month I will no longer be a program director, something that has consumed me as a second full-time job for the past four years. I will not be a full-time teacher for the next sixteen months, uncharted territory for someone who believes he was born to be a professor. I’ve been telling everyone who would listen for several years that the biggest thing that being an administrator, first four years as department chair, then four more as a program director, has taken away from me is writing. But this is not entirely true. I actually have been writing a lot over the past almost-three-years on this blog—close to 300,000 words worth of writing (enough for three 250-or-so page books). What I have not done for close to a decade is academic writing of the sort that an academic must do in order to get promoted and tenured. Why? Because I don’t have to. Nor do I want to. button_tenurepromotionTenure and the last promotion came a long time ago, well before the last decade of administration piled on top of teaching. I no longer need to write and publish the sort of thing that one needs to write and publish in order to earn tenure and promotion, and this is a good thing since I don’t want to write that sort of thing and haven’t wanted to for some time.

What this means, going into sabbatical, is that for the first time in my professional life—actually for the first time in my adult life—the pressure is off. I’m being paid to be on sabbatical—undoubtedly a rare gift pretty much exclusive to the world of academia. And I’m not sure how to handle that. Over the past few years I have taken baby steps in the direction of trusting the world around me to show me what’s next rather than imposing my own expectations and structures on what’s next. sabbaticalBut they are only baby steps, insufficient to guide my plans for sabbatical. Beginning around this time last year I started planning for sabbatical by doing the usual things—setting up a series of appointments with our very helpful director of sponsored research, sending out proposals both for residential and non-residential sabbatical projects, and so on. For several months in late 2014 I waited to see what I would be doing and where I would be going on sabbatical. The response to all of my proposals? “Thanks, but no thanks.” Other than the lovely form rejection letters in various forms, I received no feedback other than “we don’t want to fund you doing that.” By the time the rejections arrived the spring semester had started, so other than a few “what the fuck??” moments, I didn’t have the time to think much about the implications until the past couple of weeks. I have plenty to work on and write about—three book projects, no less—but the usual routes to where that will happen and when have been dead ends. Now what?

Isaiah 6I was lector yesterday morning at church for the first time in months, and in one of those unexpected moments of synchronicity that I’ve noticed more and more frequently over the past several years my assigned Old Testament reading was one of my favorites from the Jewish scriptures, the call of Isaiah. As I read it from the lectern the story had immediate resonance. Isaiah has a vision of the divine throne room, where six-winged seraphim fly about and cry “Holy, holy, holy!” 24/7. After Isaiah expresses his utter unworthiness at being present for such a glorious spectacle, an angel takes a live coal with tongs from the altar and, laying it on Isaiah’s lips, says “Now that this has touched your lips, your guilt has departed and your sin is blotted out.” Now you are ready, in other words. God itself asks “Whom shall I send, and who will go for us?” Isaiah answers, “Here am I; send me.” A risky thing to do, opening oneself up to whatever might come. Isaiah’s mission starts by saying “I’m ready for whatever.” Scary business, but I’ll give it a shot.

In Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl, a survivor of Auschwitz, tells the brief story of a woman’s last hours before death. franklLying on her filthy cot in the barracks, the woman spoke briefly with Frankl.

“I am grateful that fate has hit me so hard. In my former life I was spoiled and did not take spiritual accomplishments seriously.” Pointing through the window of the hut, she said, “This tree here is the only friend I have in my loneliness.” Through that window she could see just one branch of a chestnut tree, and on the branch were two blossoms. “I often talk to this tree,” she said to me. I was startled and didn’t quite know how to take her words. Was she delirious? Did she have occasional hallucinations? Anxiously I asked her if the tree replied. “Yes.” What did it say to her? She answered, “It said to me, ‘I am here—I am here—I am life, eternal life.’”

I am here—I am life. Maybe that’s enough. At least it’s a start.

In the Presence of a Prophet

This morning’s gospel reading reminds me of a man with whom I had a tenuous relationship, but whom I miss a great deal.

Igrand tetons national park 2[1]n a beautiful, crystal clear June afternoon I sat in an alpine meadow at the foot of the spectacularly majestic Grand Tetons in northwestern Wyoming. A handful of family was gathered to pay final respects to and spread the ashes of my father,17251_297220732720_3663220_n[1] who had died a few months earlier. On the porch of my brother’s house that morning, I had considered what scripture text might be appropriate to read as we honored a man who had memorized massive amounts of scripture in his lifetime, a man whose life and teaching had been a catalyst of liberation in the lives of many for whom the traditional church no longer gave life, and with whom I had maintained a tenuously “okay” relationship for most of my life. My brother was always closest to my Dad, but it fell to me, the academic one, to find the suitable text. Sitting on a rock in that meadow next to my son Justin, who could barely keep his emotions in check, I read the following verses from Isaiah that were yesterday’s Old Testament reading, verses that had jumped off the page through my tears that morning:

0070-Isaiah-61[1]The Spirit of the Lord God is upon Me,

Because the Lord has anointed Me

To preach good tidings to the poor;

He has sent Me to heal the brokenhearted,

To proclaim liberty to the captives,

And the opening of the prison to those who are bound . . .

To comfort all who mourn, To console those who mourn in Zion,

To give them beauty for ashes,Beauty for Ashes[1]

The oil of joy for mourning,

The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness;

That they may be called trees of righteousness,

The planting of the Lord, that He may be glorified.

Scholars will tell us that these verses are prophetic of the Messiah to come, but my father would have embraced this text as descriptive of his own calling, particularly to “proclaim liberty to the captives” whose lives had been stagnated or ruined by organized religiomad.eagle_.image_[1]n. As I choked my way through the reading on that summer afternoon—tears filled my eyes today, ten years later, as I typed the words into my computer–I knew that “Mad Eagle,” as we sometimes called  him when he wasn’t around, would have approved.

One of my favorite Biblical texts is from the Gospel of Luke and involves the passage from Isaiah that I read at my father’s memorial service. Jesus is fresh off his forty days and nights of temptation in the desert and returns to Nazareth, his home town. What better place to kick off his ministry? The scene is powerfully portrayed in the 1977 Franco Zeffirelli television mini-series “Jesus of Nazareth.” It is the Sabbath, and Jesus is in the synagogue with wall-to-wall men and boys, while the women of the town observe from behind a screen. Although it is apparently not his turn to read, Jesus steps to the front and takes the scroll. After a pregnant pause, he begins to read. “The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, Because the Lord has anointed me to preach good tidings to the poor . . .” Exactly the same verses from Isaiah that I read in that alpine meadow a decade ago. When he is finished,66461_570623672965898_345802370_n[1] Jesus rolls up the scroll, makes eye contact with the congregation, and says “Today, in your hearing, this Scripture is fulfilled.”

As the camera slowly pans the faces of those at the synagogue, their expressions pass from piety, to confusion, to outrage and anger. For every man and woman present knows that this scripture can only be fulfilled by the Messiah. And they know who this man is. He is Mary and Joseph’s son. He is a carpenter—a bit odd at times, but just like they are. Nazareth is an insignificant town in an insignificant backwater of the eastern Roman Empire. “I remember when I chased you out of my bakery for stealing a cookie,” one thinks. “I remember when I had to break up a squabble between you and my son when you were teenagers,” thinks another. And he has just declared himself to be the son of God. No wonder they tried to kill him.

Christians believe that, despite the appropriate incredulity of his fellow worshippers on that Sabbath, Jesus was indeed the Messiah, God in flesh. Remarkable and astounding. But even more remarkable is that these twenty-five hundred year old words from Isaiah were not only fulfilled by Jesusandretti-01G[1]—they continue to be fulfilled by God in human form. Isaiah’s prophecy foretells a time when healing, justice and liberation will be brought to the sick, oppressed and prisoners. That time is now, and we are the vehicles of that healing, justice and liberation. Our world is full of the poor, the bound, those who mourn, those who are in captivity both physically and mentally. We live in a world crying out for liberation, peace, and consolation at every level. So often we wonder where God is, where the divine solution to the never-ending problems and tragedies of our world is to be found.

But we miss the clear answer to our questions. Joan Chittisterdf66925abac20a7d9362c6.L._V192220566_SX200_[1] writes that “having made the world, having given it everything it needs to continue, having brought it to the point of abundance and possibility and dynamism, God left it for us to finish. God left it to us to be the mercy and the justice, the charity and the care, the righteousness and the commitment, all that it will take for people to bring the goodness of God to outweigh the rest.” We are to be the oil of joy for those who mourn, to be the beauty in the midst of ashes, and to wrap the heavy of heart in the garment of praise. As the closing prayer in each Eucharistic celebration in the Episcopal liturgy asks, “send us now into the world in peace, and grant us strength and courage to love and serve you with gladness and singleness of heart.” Amen.freedom[1]

If You Meet God Along The Road . . .

One of my greatest joys as a philosophy professor is that I get to be bad on a regular basis. There were a number of people about whom I was told little growing up, other than that they are dangerous and to be avoided like the plague. I work out my rebellion against these restrictions now by ensuring that these thinkers make as many appearances on my syllabi as professional integrity will allow. So I teach images[1]Darwin with gusto in the interdisciplinary program I participate in, and took great delight in hearing an older Benedictine monk—a biologist by training—once say that “Darwin has taught us more about God than all the theologians put together.” I take a perverse pleasure in making sure that my mostly parochial school educated students know that Marx is more than a four letter word and, more importantly, is not an irrelevancy simply because the Berlin Wall fell 25 years ago. I’m hoping that it is more than a perverse contrariness that caused me to place books by Sigmund Freud, Richard Dawkins, and Daniel Dennett on the syllabus a few years ago for the semester spent studying contemporary philosophy of religion with 20 senior philosophy majors. I must admit, though, that I enjoyed seeing the shocked faces of the six Catholic seminarians in the class when they saw the syllabus.

The ultimate dangerous thinker is Friedrich NietzscheNietzsche[1]. The extent of my knowledge of Nietzsche growing up was at roughly the depth of the following graffiti that I occasionally find on the wall in a men’s bathroom stall:

God is Dead: Nietzsche
Nietzsche is Dead: God

Although no one ever actually said so, I assumed that not only was Nietzsche dead but he was struck dead by God as soon as he wrote the blasphemous phrase. If God struck uzzah-01[1]Uzzah dead for putting his hand on the Ark because it was going to tip over, then imagine what happened to Friedrich. How was I to know that once I met him in college, Friedrich and I would become friends? And especially who would have thought that not only is “God is dead” not blasphemous, but also that in many important ways it is a true statement?

Nietzsche has been dismissed as one of the most virulent and rabid atheists in the history of the West, both by people (like the graffiti artist) who have never read a word Nietzsche wrote and by agenda-driven scholars and believers who, having read the man’s work, should know better. And indeed he was an atheist. But it is only through many years of reading Nietzsche, trying to separate the abundant chaff from the even more abundant wheat, teaching his thought to undergraduates, and especially by taking his infamous “God is dead” seriously, deadgod[1]that I’ve come to understand what Simone Weil meant when she wrote that “atheism is a purification.” Nietzsche was one of the most God-obsessed thinkers who ever lived—he was not making the absurd claim that there once lived in heaven an old guy who died toward the end of the nineteenth century. Rather, “God is dead” is a devastating three word commentary on what happens when, without our noticing, an idea, a concept, a picture loses its ability to move and inspire.

I want to be serious about the sacred, about what transcends us. This requires consciously challenging my assumptions, representations, and practices concerning the sacred in a consistent and courageous way. Despite wanting to believe that I am a cutting-edge, liberal, creatively out-of-the-box thinker, I am far too timid by nature to be serious about the sacred in this way without help. Nietzsche provides that help more than anyone I’ve encountered, the insistent voice of a half crazy relative saying “Are you sure? Is that life-affirming? Does that matter? How’s lugging that corpse around 24/7 working for you?”

Although I’m not a Nietzsche scholar in the narrow and deep academic sense, I enjoy teaching Nietzsche more than any philosopher other than the possible exception of Aristotle.stjohnair1[1] I’ve told colleagues that if you can’t get students worked up about Nietzsche in class, you should go into a different profession. Yet it took several months of sabbatical at an ecumenical institute on the campus of a Benedictine college and abbey for me to begin coming to personal grips with “God is dead” in my own life. Not long ago I made a partial list of the divine corpses in my history.

A now silent God who stopped communicating directly with human beings several centuries ago, once the dictation of the divine word in print was finished.  

A God who invites into the inner sanctum only those who have a special “prayer language.” 

A God who “is not willing that any should perish, but that all should come to repentance,” but who at the same time is so judgmental and exclusive that the vast majority of the billions of human beings who have ever lived will end up in hell. 

An exclusively masculine God.

A God who is more concerned with the length of male hair and female skirts than with the breadth and depth of one’s spiritual hunger and desire.

A God whose paramount concerns are one’s positions on sexual orientation, same-sex marriage, abortion, or universal health care.

A God who micromanages every detail of reality at every moment, including tsunamis, birth defects, and oil spills.

A God who is more honored by self-reliance than by compassion for those in need.

And many more. 220px-Marcus_Borg_speaking_in_Mansfield_College_chapel[1]Marcus Borg writes that when he is talking with someone who claims not to believe in God, he asks that person to describe the god she or he does not believe in. He invariably responds to their description with “I don’t believe in that God either.” Makes sense.

df66925abac20a7d9362c6.L._V192220566_SX200_[1]Joan Chittister says that “our idea of God is the measure of our spiritual maturity,” and for longer than I can remember I was locked into perpetual spiritual childhood by various ideas of God that correspond to nothing living. By finally saying that “these Gods are dead” and meaning it, I did not commit myself to a denial of the sacred—just attendance at the funeral of particular conceptions of God. And this is an intensely and exclusively personal death. I have relatives who grew up breathing the same religious atmosphere I did, who in their adult lives continue to be nourished and supported by belief in and worship of the very same God whose funeral I am marking.Memorial Service For Hudson Family I honor, and perhaps even am slightly envious of them. But I will no longer sit in the back of a funeral parlor waiting for something to happen.

“Atheism is a purification” marks a period of transition from a funeral to signs of life. The God who is not dead has many traits that I’m just beginning to encounter, now that the funeral has ended. The best place for me to start was the appealing possibility that God, rather than angry and judgmental, meets my deep need for acceptance and love. I’ll also try to remember to keep my eye out for dead Gods. Many years ago, a book called If You Meet the Buddha on the Road, Kill Him! was all the rage. That’s too aggressive for me, but I get the point. If I meet God along the road, I’ll at least check to see if she has a pulse.