As my father (who has started blogging recently over at A Place to Stand) pointed out to me recently, I haven't posted anything since the end of July. The reason for this is simple. My mental health has declined and blogging isn't as high a priority as feeding myself, changing the litterbox or getting to my doctor's appointments. Blogging requires thought and thinking too much can be dangerous for me when I'm in this dark a place.
I will share this story with you all, however. This past weekend, I found myself crouched over the hospital bed of a dear friend while we waited for the psych consult to arrive. At one point, she was frantic and deeply concerned that God didn't love her because she had done bad things. In order to comfort her, I told her that I also often feel that I am a horrible person who has done unforgivable things. But I also know that God has forgiven me and that God loves me, because He has told me so. I believe that if He can forgive and love me, then that love and forgiveness must be accessible to everyone, because I am so not special.
I don't know how much she retained of that conversation, as her memories of our night in the ER are incomplete and scattered. I do know that in the moment, I was able to comfort her because she physically relaxed a little. It's moments like that, when I can draw on my long and ugly history of living with mental illness, that I can make some sense of why He would let me suffer the way that I do.
I ask for your prayers for myself and for my friend, but especially for all of the people who are helping to care for us.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
P.S. I am starting to feel better and hope to be back to blogging soon.
8/29/2006
7/31/2006
Ubi caritas et amor, Deus ibi est.
I attended Rob's experiment in semi-programmed worship yesterday evening. As we waited for everyone to gather, some of us discussed how we had spent our morning. Few of us had attended meeting for worship. When I mentioned I had gone to brunch with my heathen friends, everyone laughed.
During the service, Rob read the 4th query from Britain Yearly Meeting:
I cannot calculate the cost of my obedience to God. I cannot fathom what I might have gained or lost by following my own desires above His. I know that the greatest treasure I possess is the intimate knowledge of His Redemptive Grace, which I discovered through utter submission to His will.
One of the ways in which He guides me occasionally is through the selection of my friends. Amongst my dearest friends are the prostitutes and the tax-collectors (Matthew 21:32). Those of us who live in the dirt are most in need of Love. When I console and council my dearest and their friends as one who has struggled and does struggle with the depravity of the human spirit, I am doing His work.
While I value the friendships I have with Quakers and relative ease with which I can discuss spirituality, the majority of my friends and acquaintances are religious and many appear on the surface to have very minimal spiritual lives. It's not my intention to bring anyone to Christ. It is my intention to be obedient to Christ and to feed His lambs and care for His sheep (John 21:15-16), for we are all children of God, whether we are aware of it or not. If we insulate ourselves with like-minded folks who look like we do, we are not living in the world. There is much work to be done inside the Society of Friends, but far more to be done outside of it. We are called to be a part of the Kingdom of Heaven and all are welcome.
I will continue to minister from the ugliness of my own life to the sick, the troubled and the weary regardless of their genetic make-up, belief structure, and station in life because despair is a universal condition. Knowing that one is not alone in the dark can be more comforting than being told of a light.
This is how I am called to express Love in action. This is the cross Christ has asked me to bear.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
During the service, Rob read the 4th query from Britain Yearly Meeting:
The Religious Society of Friends is rooted in Christianity and has always found inspiration in the life and teachings of Jesus. How do you interpret your faith in the light of this heritage? How does Jesus speak to you today? Are you following Jesus' example of love in action? Are you learning from his life the reality and cost of obedience to God? How does this relationship with God challenge and inspire you?
I cannot calculate the cost of my obedience to God. I cannot fathom what I might have gained or lost by following my own desires above His. I know that the greatest treasure I possess is the intimate knowledge of His Redemptive Grace, which I discovered through utter submission to His will.
One of the ways in which He guides me occasionally is through the selection of my friends. Amongst my dearest friends are the prostitutes and the tax-collectors (Matthew 21:32). Those of us who live in the dirt are most in need of Love. When I console and council my dearest and their friends as one who has struggled and does struggle with the depravity of the human spirit, I am doing His work.
While I value the friendships I have with Quakers and relative ease with which I can discuss spirituality, the majority of my friends and acquaintances are religious and many appear on the surface to have very minimal spiritual lives. It's not my intention to bring anyone to Christ. It is my intention to be obedient to Christ and to feed His lambs and care for His sheep (John 21:15-16), for we are all children of God, whether we are aware of it or not. If we insulate ourselves with like-minded folks who look like we do, we are not living in the world. There is much work to be done inside the Society of Friends, but far more to be done outside of it. We are called to be a part of the Kingdom of Heaven and all are welcome.
I will continue to minister from the ugliness of my own life to the sick, the troubled and the weary regardless of their genetic make-up, belief structure, and station in life because despair is a universal condition. Knowing that one is not alone in the dark can be more comforting than being told of a light.
This is how I am called to express Love in action. This is the cross Christ has asked me to bear.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
7/26/2006
Give and take
Giving ministry is hard work. Sometimes as I center into worship, I hear that still small voice I know so well. I tend to get anywhere from a word to a couple of sentences that repeat over and over. Sometimes it starts well before meeting as I prepare for worship. When I get the rumblings of ministry, I contemplate what the phrase means. I explore it in as many directions as I have time before something happens.
If I'm meant to share my message, I feel a quiver of fear and the power of the Lord. If the message is for me, I never get that quivering certainty that I have to stand. I'm often overly grateful for the handshake that means I don't have to speak. I hate giving ministry.
When I speak the Holy Spirit moves through me. I retreat to a quieter, smaller space and give my body over to the Lord. I'm only aware of speaking the phrase I was given, and anything I say to preface it. I rarely remember much what I say after the fact.
I hate speaking in front of people in general, but speaking deep spiritual and emotional truths is far worse. I don't want these strangers to have access to the deepest parts of me. I'd rather keep it secret, keep it safe. It is a distinctly dissociative event, which can be traumatic.
If I stand up and give the message the moment I feel shaky, the experience is just draining. If I postpone it until He lifts me off the bench, it's awful. It can take me several hours to fully reinhabit my body. When I resist giving a message, I get physically ill.
Several times over the past few weeks, I've had people bring up the idea that being a part of a meeting of any size is a give-and-take relationship. You can't just go to meeting to get what you need, you have to give back. Even when the meeting isn't meeting your needs and it feels like you have nothing left to give.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
If I'm meant to share my message, I feel a quiver of fear and the power of the Lord. If the message is for me, I never get that quivering certainty that I have to stand. I'm often overly grateful for the handshake that means I don't have to speak. I hate giving ministry.
When I speak the Holy Spirit moves through me. I retreat to a quieter, smaller space and give my body over to the Lord. I'm only aware of speaking the phrase I was given, and anything I say to preface it. I rarely remember much what I say after the fact.
I hate speaking in front of people in general, but speaking deep spiritual and emotional truths is far worse. I don't want these strangers to have access to the deepest parts of me. I'd rather keep it secret, keep it safe. It is a distinctly dissociative event, which can be traumatic.
If I stand up and give the message the moment I feel shaky, the experience is just draining. If I postpone it until He lifts me off the bench, it's awful. It can take me several hours to fully reinhabit my body. When I resist giving a message, I get physically ill.
Several times over the past few weeks, I've had people bring up the idea that being a part of a meeting of any size is a give-and-take relationship. You can't just go to meeting to get what you need, you have to give back. Even when the meeting isn't meeting your needs and it feels like you have nothing left to give.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
7/21/2006
The reality of race
I read in the paper this morning that crime is rising in DC with the heat-wave with 14 homicides in 2 weeks. I wondered how Baltimore's crime wave was doing, as 8 homicides in a week is not too unusual. Things have seemed quiet despite the heat.
I was coming back from working on a report at an all-night dinner. Sometimes I just need a new venue to get work done. I was sober, but tired. I always worry about hitting someone. Despite being one of those annoying pedestrians myself, who always walks out into streets with oncoming traffic, I still as a motorist get nervous. I was driving along a road that is a major thorough-fare in town and there were several groups of young men along the road. I was more worried that I might hit them...untill I saw one making to through something at my car. I though maybe it will be an egg, I can wash that off. But it was a rock or a brick. It hit my car. Thankfully, it didn't hit the window. But there is a nice dent and some serious scratches...I thought do I call the cops? Well, I don't think little punk-asses should be doing shit like that, though its better than other deviant activities...so I called the cops. Its only the second time I have had to do that (for a non-work related incidence). I guess I should feel good that I have had so little crime in my life...but you call, you give the location, the cop automatically thinks it s a place about five blocks from where it was cause that would be normal. Then he asks me to describe the persons..."where they black or white kids" Part of me hates to contribute to the amount of black men getting harrassed by the law, but damn it don't be throwing shit. But my white guilt rears up and says what might happen now? What if the cops do go and harrass them and they stop for tonight and eventually move on to more dangerous things. But the rest of me says, "Well, if that had gone through one of my windows, it could have caused an accident or injured a passenger if I had had one."
I am not the typical white mid-west kid. I have seen rascism from all sides. In college I sat with my "other minority" friends while African-American kids said we don't want them piggy-backing on us, there needs to be special attention given to the African-American students on this racist campus. I was deemed a "good enough" white person to get the blessing of my friends to educate others on race. A blessing I don't take lightly. My cousin has spent six years in jail, there are conflicting family stories about whether he was really involved in drugs or whether it was planted on him, because it isn't easy to be a young black man in our society. Either way he is another young black man who now has to go through society with a felony, which is always concentrated on more than how hard he is working to support his children and enrich all of their lives.
Or there are the forms of racism I have seen from the "white guilt liberals" to the "righteiously bigotted." My first year in college I was finally able to put my finger on what distinguises Northern racism from Southern rascism. In the north we hid behind smiles and fake nicetities and in the south they are real proud of it and don't hide it. So you know where you stand in the south, not in the north.
I wrote this to a friend several months ago, but somehow it seems important to include tonight:
What is funny though, is I was able to come home early today and take a walk. It is beautiful and spring flowers are everywhere. I was listening to an italian tape...and there was this group of middle school boys walking home from school, they assumed I couldn' hear them, so they were saying things like (and they were all black) "hey whitey" "whitey" "hey, white girl you ain't got no ass" I thought for a second about flipping them off, or asking them if their mama's would approve or that it didn't matter that I have no ass cause there is a beautiful Kenyan man who has the hots for me. But I just kept walking with my head held high. Now some white people would have been scared of a group of black boys, I wasn't. I was just sad. That they felt the need to see if they could get away with saying things like that to me. That they had to uphold racism...that they have internalized because of white people like me (college educated, middle class whites).
The same racism, the more insidious forms that are so lodged in our collective memories and deepest self-concious are the worst. The young men tonight were acting out for the same reasons. It may have just been fun and to see if they could get away with it. Or it could be like the kids I used to work with, what else did they have to do. The are smart and ignored and kids like that should not be left at loose ends, because they get themselves into trouble.
I was coming back from working on a report at an all-night dinner. Sometimes I just need a new venue to get work done. I was sober, but tired. I always worry about hitting someone. Despite being one of those annoying pedestrians myself, who always walks out into streets with oncoming traffic, I still as a motorist get nervous. I was driving along a road that is a major thorough-fare in town and there were several groups of young men along the road. I was more worried that I might hit them...untill I saw one making to through something at my car. I though maybe it will be an egg, I can wash that off. But it was a rock or a brick. It hit my car. Thankfully, it didn't hit the window. But there is a nice dent and some serious scratches...I thought do I call the cops? Well, I don't think little punk-asses should be doing shit like that, though its better than other deviant activities...so I called the cops. Its only the second time I have had to do that (for a non-work related incidence). I guess I should feel good that I have had so little crime in my life...but you call, you give the location, the cop automatically thinks it s a place about five blocks from where it was cause that would be normal. Then he asks me to describe the persons..."where they black or white kids" Part of me hates to contribute to the amount of black men getting harrassed by the law, but damn it don't be throwing shit. But my white guilt rears up and says what might happen now? What if the cops do go and harrass them and they stop for tonight and eventually move on to more dangerous things. But the rest of me says, "Well, if that had gone through one of my windows, it could have caused an accident or injured a passenger if I had had one."
I am not the typical white mid-west kid. I have seen rascism from all sides. In college I sat with my "other minority" friends while African-American kids said we don't want them piggy-backing on us, there needs to be special attention given to the African-American students on this racist campus. I was deemed a "good enough" white person to get the blessing of my friends to educate others on race. A blessing I don't take lightly. My cousin has spent six years in jail, there are conflicting family stories about whether he was really involved in drugs or whether it was planted on him, because it isn't easy to be a young black man in our society. Either way he is another young black man who now has to go through society with a felony, which is always concentrated on more than how hard he is working to support his children and enrich all of their lives.
Or there are the forms of racism I have seen from the "white guilt liberals" to the "righteiously bigotted." My first year in college I was finally able to put my finger on what distinguises Northern racism from Southern rascism. In the north we hid behind smiles and fake nicetities and in the south they are real proud of it and don't hide it. So you know where you stand in the south, not in the north.
I wrote this to a friend several months ago, but somehow it seems important to include tonight:
What is funny though, is I was able to come home early today and take a walk. It is beautiful and spring flowers are everywhere. I was listening to an italian tape...and there was this group of middle school boys walking home from school, they assumed I couldn' hear them, so they were saying things like (and they were all black) "hey whitey" "whitey" "hey, white girl you ain't got no ass" I thought for a second about flipping them off, or asking them if their mama's would approve or that it didn't matter that I have no ass cause there is a beautiful Kenyan man who has the hots for me. But I just kept walking with my head held high. Now some white people would have been scared of a group of black boys, I wasn't. I was just sad. That they felt the need to see if they could get away with saying things like that to me. That they had to uphold racism...that they have internalized because of white people like me (college educated, middle class whites).
The same racism, the more insidious forms that are so lodged in our collective memories and deepest self-concious are the worst. The young men tonight were acting out for the same reasons. It may have just been fun and to see if they could get away with it. Or it could be like the kids I used to work with, what else did they have to do. The are smart and ignored and kids like that should not be left at loose ends, because they get themselves into trouble.
7/06/2006
Psalm 34
I carry a handwritten copy of the 34th psalm in my purse. It is so comforting to me.
I preparing to write this entry, I was looking at different translations of the Psalm, and I finally read the little snippet at the beginning that I often skip over. You know, the part where it tells you what that David wrote this one to the tune of Gilligan's Island? Anyway, the litte snippet for this Psalm is:
No wonder I like it so much. It's supposed to sound like a crazy person is speaking.
It's also an acrostic poem of the Hebrew alphabet. This amuses me in and of itself, but especially so since I found this psalm through a poem by Denise Levertov. "O Taste and See" is perhaps the only "carpe diem" poem I've ever liked. The poem is her response to the Wordsworth line "the world is too much with us," a sentiment I often agree with. If only the world would retreat a little, give me a little room to breathe, I could spend more time on God. I could spend more time creating peace and perhaps even figure out how to indulge in joy. Levertov's "O Taste and See" makes the point that when we engage with the world we are engaging with God. He's in the food that sustains us, in ads on the subway and everywhere in between. Every day we are
Love,
ELizabeth Bathurst
The Lord is close to the broken-heartedI have spent much of my life battling clinical depression. I am often broken-hearted and crushed in spirit. I have wondered why He gave me this cross to bear. It is so lonely. It is so devastating to know that even if I get to the top of the mountain, the stone will just roll down again. I'm borrowing too many metaphors, but bear with me. I'm not especially sane at the moment.
and saves those who are crushed in spirit.
A righteous man may have many troubles,
but the Lord delivers him from them all;
He protects all his bones,
not one of them will be broken.
-Psalm 34:18-20
I preparing to write this entry, I was looking at different translations of the Psalm, and I finally read the little snippet at the beginning that I often skip over. You know, the part where it tells you what that David wrote this one to the tune of Gilligan's Island? Anyway, the litte snippet for this Psalm is:
"A Psalm of David when he pretended madness before Abimelech, who drove him away, and he departed."
No wonder I like it so much. It's supposed to sound like a crazy person is speaking.
It's also an acrostic poem of the Hebrew alphabet. This amuses me in and of itself, but especially so since I found this psalm through a poem by Denise Levertov. "O Taste and See" is perhaps the only "carpe diem" poem I've ever liked. The poem is her response to the Wordsworth line "the world is too much with us," a sentiment I often agree with. If only the world would retreat a little, give me a little room to breathe, I could spend more time on God. I could spend more time creating peace and perhaps even figure out how to indulge in joy. Levertov's "O Taste and See" makes the point that when we engage with the world we are engaging with God. He's in the food that sustains us, in ads on the subway and everywhere in between. Every day we are
"living in the orchard and beingRight now, I am struggling to remember that I am living in the orchard, that He will keep my bones unbroken, and that so long as I look to Him, my face will never be covered with shame. It helps to carry these words with me on a tattered sheet of notebook paper, especially when I can't seem to carry them in my heart.
hungry, and plucking
the fruit."
-Levertov
Love,
ELizabeth Bathurst
7/05/2006
Longing
Tonight the heat has subsided. The humidity has given way to cool air and rain. Soothing rain. On hot nights I leave the door to my balcony open. Tonight lying in bed with the soothing sounds of the rain, I look up from my bed to see the rain falling in such a way as to create a curtain between me and the tree outside. It is lovely, I think about my bed, large and so lonely. This is one of those nights I wish I was lying in it with someone to share the excitement a night like this holds for me. Or how the book I am currently reading broke my heart by page 13. I was surrounded by soccer fans in Heathrow airport and they were all excited from the match and I was crying. And the peace of canoeing at where the water gives way to the heavens. There are so many things I want to share with another. My joy, that can light up a room, and the heart-wrentching agony of life that I hide with my uncouth sense of humor. But tonight I have the rain, to lull me to sleep instead of a lovers arms.
At that hour, the boy happened to be lying on his backin the woods thinking about the girl. You could say it was his love for her that saved him. In the years that followed, the boy became invisible. In this way, he escaped death. Nicole Krauss, The History of Love, p. 12
And if the man who once upon a time had been a boy who promised he'd never fall in love with another girl as long as he lived kept his promise, it wasn't because he was stubborn or even loyal. He couldn't help it. And having hidden for three years and a half years, hiding his love for a son who didn't know he existed didn't seem unthinkable. Not if it was what the only woman he would ever love needed him to do. After all, what does it mean for a man to hide one more thing when he has vanished completely? Nicole Krauss, The History of Love, p. 13
At that hour, the boy happened to be lying on his backin the woods thinking about the girl. You could say it was his love for her that saved him. In the years that followed, the boy became invisible. In this way, he escaped death. Nicole Krauss, The History of Love, p. 12
And if the man who once upon a time had been a boy who promised he'd never fall in love with another girl as long as he lived kept his promise, it wasn't because he was stubborn or even loyal. He couldn't help it. And having hidden for three years and a half years, hiding his love for a son who didn't know he existed didn't seem unthinkable. Not if it was what the only woman he would ever love needed him to do. After all, what does it mean for a man to hide one more thing when he has vanished completely? Nicole Krauss, The History of Love, p. 13
7/04/2006
Zoar Revisited;Salt of the Earth
I have always wondered about Lot's wife. Being a woman, we don't know her name or why she looked back. Was it fear? Was it curiousity?
I think that we are all broken people. Sometimes I think that the relationships in our lives are only there to create a vicious circle of hurt. We are hurt and broken and find it hard to love, so we injure those around us to make them more like us. It takes time and strength to heal from life's wounds. There is a balacing act of learning from the experience, agknowledging it for what it was and working your way forward to embrace a whole, loving life. At a certain point these things need to be allowed to rest, to no longer be burdens we carry. They must be firmly in the past to allow for us to move to the present and walk with love in our hearts towards the future. It doesn't mean that the wounds have healed or that they are any less raw, but you must let them go to a certain degree or they will fester and spread to every part of your life and soul. You will become toxic.
Like everyone I have my share of burdens and wounds. I have spent six years wrestling with some of them. It was a hard struggle to find my life again, to find my joy, and to open myself to love. However, it is a tight-rope walk. I am not strong enough to stop from talking or reflecting on the past when it is brought up. Recently, the rawness of these experiences flooded back into my life--most unexpectedly. I had no idea I would crack so easily. I think I am beginning to understand the lesson in the story of Lot's wife:
When they [the angels] had brought them outside, they said, "Flee for your life; do not look back or stop anywhere in the Plain; flee to the hills, or else you will be consumed." Genesis 19:17 New Revised Standard Version
Lot fears he cannot make it to the hills, so he asks of the angels that he be allowed to seek shelter in a small town--Zoar. His family reaches the town, but women being as we are rarely follow advice and the wife looks back:
But Lot's wife, behind him, looked back, and she became a pillar of salt. Genesis 24:26 New Revised Standard Version
Salt is interesting. It was once highly covetted as a spice, Romans paid their army in salt. Is salt really bad? But tears are described as salty, so are other parts of the body. Salt comes with sweat, whether from work or sex. But as we are warned in Luke, being too worldly has a cost. That life is not meant for us to strive for the material:
On that day no one who is on the roof of his house, with his goods inside, should go down to get them. Likewise, no one in the field should go back for anything. Remember Lot's wife!Whoever tries to keep his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life will preserve it. Luke 17:31-33 New International Version
My question is, is it really that bad to be turned into salt? We all look back from time to time, and all recieve our due punishment for it. But salt is a natural mineral of the earth, made to be reborn.
You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled by men. Matthew 5:13 New International Version
And so despite reaching the safety of Zoar, I looked back. I have become a pillar of salt. However, I must have lost my saltiness long ago, because I was looking back on the ways in which I have been trampled. Can I become salty again?
I think that we are all broken people. Sometimes I think that the relationships in our lives are only there to create a vicious circle of hurt. We are hurt and broken and find it hard to love, so we injure those around us to make them more like us. It takes time and strength to heal from life's wounds. There is a balacing act of learning from the experience, agknowledging it for what it was and working your way forward to embrace a whole, loving life. At a certain point these things need to be allowed to rest, to no longer be burdens we carry. They must be firmly in the past to allow for us to move to the present and walk with love in our hearts towards the future. It doesn't mean that the wounds have healed or that they are any less raw, but you must let them go to a certain degree or they will fester and spread to every part of your life and soul. You will become toxic.
Like everyone I have my share of burdens and wounds. I have spent six years wrestling with some of them. It was a hard struggle to find my life again, to find my joy, and to open myself to love. However, it is a tight-rope walk. I am not strong enough to stop from talking or reflecting on the past when it is brought up. Recently, the rawness of these experiences flooded back into my life--most unexpectedly. I had no idea I would crack so easily. I think I am beginning to understand the lesson in the story of Lot's wife:
When they [the angels] had brought them outside, they said, "Flee for your life; do not look back or stop anywhere in the Plain; flee to the hills, or else you will be consumed." Genesis 19:17 New Revised Standard Version
Lot fears he cannot make it to the hills, so he asks of the angels that he be allowed to seek shelter in a small town--Zoar. His family reaches the town, but women being as we are rarely follow advice and the wife looks back:
But Lot's wife, behind him, looked back, and she became a pillar of salt. Genesis 24:26 New Revised Standard Version
Salt is interesting. It was once highly covetted as a spice, Romans paid their army in salt. Is salt really bad? But tears are described as salty, so are other parts of the body. Salt comes with sweat, whether from work or sex. But as we are warned in Luke, being too worldly has a cost. That life is not meant for us to strive for the material:
On that day no one who is on the roof of his house, with his goods inside, should go down to get them. Likewise, no one in the field should go back for anything. Remember Lot's wife!Whoever tries to keep his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life will preserve it. Luke 17:31-33 New International Version
My question is, is it really that bad to be turned into salt? We all look back from time to time, and all recieve our due punishment for it. But salt is a natural mineral of the earth, made to be reborn.
You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness, how can it be made salty again? It is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled by men. Matthew 5:13 New International Version
And so despite reaching the safety of Zoar, I looked back. I have become a pillar of salt. However, I must have lost my saltiness long ago, because I was looking back on the ways in which I have been trampled. Can I become salty again?
7/01/2006
The family you make
Being an only child I am a strong believer in making friendships that extend your family. I have a couple of friends that I consider siblings. I have other friends that are so close to me I don't know what I would do without them. For the most part, these friendships weather the storm of distance. I have very few close friends close by where I am currently living, however, when you make good friendships and truly connect with people time and distance do not seem impede the value or comfort of the friendships.
By nature I am a caretaker. I like to care for the one's I love and see them well. When I thought I would give myself to an intentional community and dedicate myself to social justice issues. I idolized Dorothy Day and the Catholic Worker Movement. I lived and worked in a Catholic Worker for awhile, I considered leaving school and giving myself to that life and serving god. I can't really say what happened that changed that. But events unfolded such that I realized that was not the path for me. While I craved community and understanding, it was not in that form. I work to live my life in the spirit and make all my interactions with other's meaningful and honest. I fail of course, but like Thomas Kelly says, "begin again where you are."
My current life is the most stable and fulfilling that it has been in years. I have a happy, loving relationship with my family. I am grateful for that, because it did not always seem like that was a possibility. I know in my heart that my life would not be the way it is now if it wasn't the love and support of my "chosen" family. The friendships that sustain me through sorrows and joys have allowed me to come to the place I am now.
I am planning on going the route of working professional these days. I want a salaried job that will fulfill my need to serve others but allow me to live in the "style to which I have become accoustomed." But not out of some middle-class need for stability, but to pay back those that have helped me when I most needed it. I want to be able to step in and make sure my friends have a safe harbor, whether that is a bed for a night or a month, or food in their bellies, or a monatary loan.
I have been thinking about all this recently. Two very dear people to me are suffering and I feel as though there is nothing more I can do to help that to be "present" with them. And know that means a lot, but at the same time it is hard to see someone you love suffer. I thought to turn to Dorothy Day and Thomas Kelly's writings today, hoping for something that could comfort me. But neither offered the comfort I desired, the words of wisdom I hoped for and found so many other times from them, did not speak to my condition. So I am left with prayer and while that is still a powerful tool and comfort, it leaves me still feeling that I am watching them being swept away in a torrent and can offer nothing, nothing to bouy them or support them.
We are all broken people to one degree or another. We are all struggling under our demons and inner conflicts. But how can one spread light and love? Its it patience and prayer? Or a solid prescence in the lives of others saying I am not going anywhere and you had better not leave me, damn you.
By nature I am a caretaker. I like to care for the one's I love and see them well. When I thought I would give myself to an intentional community and dedicate myself to social justice issues. I idolized Dorothy Day and the Catholic Worker Movement. I lived and worked in a Catholic Worker for awhile, I considered leaving school and giving myself to that life and serving god. I can't really say what happened that changed that. But events unfolded such that I realized that was not the path for me. While I craved community and understanding, it was not in that form. I work to live my life in the spirit and make all my interactions with other's meaningful and honest. I fail of course, but like Thomas Kelly says, "begin again where you are."
My current life is the most stable and fulfilling that it has been in years. I have a happy, loving relationship with my family. I am grateful for that, because it did not always seem like that was a possibility. I know in my heart that my life would not be the way it is now if it wasn't the love and support of my "chosen" family. The friendships that sustain me through sorrows and joys have allowed me to come to the place I am now.
I am planning on going the route of working professional these days. I want a salaried job that will fulfill my need to serve others but allow me to live in the "style to which I have become accoustomed." But not out of some middle-class need for stability, but to pay back those that have helped me when I most needed it. I want to be able to step in and make sure my friends have a safe harbor, whether that is a bed for a night or a month, or food in their bellies, or a monatary loan.
I have been thinking about all this recently. Two very dear people to me are suffering and I feel as though there is nothing more I can do to help that to be "present" with them. And know that means a lot, but at the same time it is hard to see someone you love suffer. I thought to turn to Dorothy Day and Thomas Kelly's writings today, hoping for something that could comfort me. But neither offered the comfort I desired, the words of wisdom I hoped for and found so many other times from them, did not speak to my condition. So I am left with prayer and while that is still a powerful tool and comfort, it leaves me still feeling that I am watching them being swept away in a torrent and can offer nothing, nothing to bouy them or support them.
We are all broken people to one degree or another. We are all struggling under our demons and inner conflicts. But how can one spread light and love? Its it patience and prayer? Or a solid prescence in the lives of others saying I am not going anywhere and you had better not leave me, damn you.
6/24/2006
Nomad in Pants; alone, lost, and feeling awkward
Recently, I was talking with a friend who was asking how I pronounced something. She has been hanging out with some folks from Michigan. I told that while she may think my mid-western accent is still strong, it has had time to adapt. I have been back and forth between home and the east coast for nine years. It was one of those revelations that makes you reflect on your life, where it is and where it has been.
I am in a graduate program where I am at least four years older than the majority of my cohort. It makes me feel old sometimes. It makes me feel like I have seen many more snapshots of the world than they have. It makes me think about how nomadic I have been in the 9 years since I first left the shores of Lake Superior.
My friend and I also discussed fast-food employees that day. She was surprised to learn that my first job had been at Hardee's. She has been working retail all through college and graduate school, in addition to a research assistantship. But I am amused when people who meet me through professional settings are shocked to learn some of the jobs I had over the years. A person has to earn a living, you have to humble yourself to the mighty dollar. So inevitably you take jobs that sacrifice some dignity, that is, people will treat as though you are less than they are. There is a contempt and rudeness people show for fast-food employees and other minimum wage jobs that you don't get if you are percieved as being educated or on your way to middle class status. Even in my last retail job I was able to retain the feeling of being a person with dignity that I often did not get while I worked fast-food. Of course, my boss at the last job treated most of the customers with a bit of contempt to it was easier to realize I didn't need to take shit from people.
That was a bit of a side-bar to what I really started out to say. I recently was in a store where a song was playing it sounded sorta country, but I really don't pay much attention to popular music, so god knows what it was. But the jist of it was that you could always go home; there is always a place for you at home. How I wish that were true. After college I tried. I wanted to go home. I have family obligations that would be so much easier to keep an eye on if I were close by. Life didn't work out that way. I can't live in my hometown. It's leathal for me. I tried to move to a larger city in my home state, but that didn't work either. And now I am on the east coast too far away from my family. I am happy here; I think I could have a good life here.
I was listening to music while at work today (I have a professional type job these days, but sometimes you have to work on the weekend anyway) and I heard "Girl, from the North Country" by my main man Bob Dylan. And it was hard to realize that that won't be me. I always identified with it in a way, but I am not her. In this version of an odessy, I am a nomad in pants taking a road that I don't know where it will lead me. I am alone, lost, and feeling awkward.
I am in a graduate program where I am at least four years older than the majority of my cohort. It makes me feel old sometimes. It makes me feel like I have seen many more snapshots of the world than they have. It makes me think about how nomadic I have been in the 9 years since I first left the shores of Lake Superior.
My friend and I also discussed fast-food employees that day. She was surprised to learn that my first job had been at Hardee's. She has been working retail all through college and graduate school, in addition to a research assistantship. But I am amused when people who meet me through professional settings are shocked to learn some of the jobs I had over the years. A person has to earn a living, you have to humble yourself to the mighty dollar. So inevitably you take jobs that sacrifice some dignity, that is, people will treat as though you are less than they are. There is a contempt and rudeness people show for fast-food employees and other minimum wage jobs that you don't get if you are percieved as being educated or on your way to middle class status. Even in my last retail job I was able to retain the feeling of being a person with dignity that I often did not get while I worked fast-food. Of course, my boss at the last job treated most of the customers with a bit of contempt to it was easier to realize I didn't need to take shit from people.
That was a bit of a side-bar to what I really started out to say. I recently was in a store where a song was playing it sounded sorta country, but I really don't pay much attention to popular music, so god knows what it was. But the jist of it was that you could always go home; there is always a place for you at home. How I wish that were true. After college I tried. I wanted to go home. I have family obligations that would be so much easier to keep an eye on if I were close by. Life didn't work out that way. I can't live in my hometown. It's leathal for me. I tried to move to a larger city in my home state, but that didn't work either. And now I am on the east coast too far away from my family. I am happy here; I think I could have a good life here.
I was listening to music while at work today (I have a professional type job these days, but sometimes you have to work on the weekend anyway) and I heard "Girl, from the North Country" by my main man Bob Dylan. And it was hard to realize that that won't be me. I always identified with it in a way, but I am not her. In this version of an odessy, I am a nomad in pants taking a road that I don't know where it will lead me. I am alone, lost, and feeling awkward.
6/23/2006
Why Elizabeth Bathurst?
1) She wrote so well that there was speculation she was actually a man writing under a pseudonym. I aspire to write well enough to inspire gender confusion.
2) She was weak and sickly and didn't let that interfere with her ministry. I am sickly myself.
3) Despite all our self-congradulating talk about women's equality, there weren't/aren't that many female Quaker theologians. I'm a girl who thinks theology is important. Also, female role models.
4) Because I'm so not posting my real name on the internets.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
2) She was weak and sickly and didn't let that interfere with her ministry. I am sickly myself.
3) Despite all our self-congradulating talk about women's equality, there weren't/aren't that many female Quaker theologians. I'm a girl who thinks theology is important. Also, female role models.
4) Because I'm so not posting my real name on the internets.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
6/22/2006
I left my heart in Pistoia; the nunnery Part I
I have joked for years about how one of my callings on this earth is to found the first order of Quaker nuns. When I was younger and more bitter about my celibacy, I used to refer to it as the "nonery" and call us "nones." Because I am clever.
There are many reason's why I would consider starting a Quaker order of nuns, rather than just biting the bullet (for some militaristic imagery) and becoming a Catholic. First, converting is a pain. Second, I like being Quaker and while there are aspects of the Catholic church that I respect a great deal...there are other aspects that don't jive with my world-view. Thirdly, there is the whole debate (internal mostly) about marrying god and giving up worldly things, like sex.
See I have always prefered to qualify my celibacy by saying it is forced and not self-imposed. There is a little part of me that wonders if there are people placed on this earth who are not ment for carnal love affairs but are here to give themselves (w)hol(el)y to the divine to serve as vesels and instruments of god's love. But then there is a part of me who truly does not believe that god would ask us to give up sex. It is something that can be a religious exerience that is shared with another; it isn't meant to be frivolious or cheep or impersonal, it is meant to be mystical.
So what would my Quaker order of nuns be like? Is is realistic or just my bitterness at a life of celibacy? I know I am cappable of living an intentional and devoted life. But am I capable of living that life and knowing passion with another?
There are many reason's why I would consider starting a Quaker order of nuns, rather than just biting the bullet (for some militaristic imagery) and becoming a Catholic. First, converting is a pain. Second, I like being Quaker and while there are aspects of the Catholic church that I respect a great deal...there are other aspects that don't jive with my world-view. Thirdly, there is the whole debate (internal mostly) about marrying god and giving up worldly things, like sex.
See I have always prefered to qualify my celibacy by saying it is forced and not self-imposed. There is a little part of me that wonders if there are people placed on this earth who are not ment for carnal love affairs but are here to give themselves (w)hol(el)y to the divine to serve as vesels and instruments of god's love. But then there is a part of me who truly does not believe that god would ask us to give up sex. It is something that can be a religious exerience that is shared with another; it isn't meant to be frivolious or cheep or impersonal, it is meant to be mystical.
So what would my Quaker order of nuns be like? Is is realistic or just my bitterness at a life of celibacy? I know I am cappable of living an intentional and devoted life. But am I capable of living that life and knowing passion with another?
6/14/2006
True God from true God
Due to family obligations, I recently found myself in a Catholic church for mass on a Saturday afternoon. Amid the mental gymnastics of trying to remember what to do and say when and deciding how to balance being respectful without being hypocritical, I found myself touched by the celebration of the Pentecost.
The Pentecost story is from chapter 2 of Acts, where the Holy Spirit descends on the Apostles and a bunch of other people in a gust of wind. Then there are flames that look like tongues on people's foreheads and whenever someone talks, everyone else hears it in their own language. Kind of like a backwards Tower of Babel.
I grew up aware of Pentecostal churches. I knew that the speaking in tongues, which is mocked in some circles as being among the more ridiculous of christian practices, was based on a bible story and that it was supposed to be a manifestation of the Holy Spirit. It's a denomination that always struck me as theoretically experiential.
In theory, the catholic church is the same way. The bread and wine aren't symbolic of blood and flesh, they are actually transubstantiated into the body and blood of Christ. I know very few Catholics who actually believe this, but that's beside the point.
I'm not convinced that everyone who speaks in tongues is actually being moved by the Spirit to do so every time any more than I believe that transubstantiation happens during every mass. I'm not about to say it never happens. I'm definitely not going to say it can't. I believe that the Holy Spirit is capable of creating events which appear irrational or impossible.
The priest had some lovely things to say during his homily about experiencing the Holy Spirit. He then clarified that we all knew what he was talking about because we'd all been baptised, confirmed and taken communion in the Church. Well, not quite.
Maybe the only reason I have experienced the Holy Spirit is that I was baptised with water as a baby and fed some leftover Host as a toddler. But I happen to believe that the movings of the Holy Spirit in me and my life have more to do with His plans than anything that my mother and/or a couple of priests did before I was old enough to remember or understand. Whatever the reason, whatever the means, I am grateful for the presence of the Spirit in my life and for reflections of my experience in the experiences of others.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
The Pentecost story is from chapter 2 of Acts, where the Holy Spirit descends on the Apostles and a bunch of other people in a gust of wind. Then there are flames that look like tongues on people's foreheads and whenever someone talks, everyone else hears it in their own language. Kind of like a backwards Tower of Babel.
I grew up aware of Pentecostal churches. I knew that the speaking in tongues, which is mocked in some circles as being among the more ridiculous of christian practices, was based on a bible story and that it was supposed to be a manifestation of the Holy Spirit. It's a denomination that always struck me as theoretically experiential.
In theory, the catholic church is the same way. The bread and wine aren't symbolic of blood and flesh, they are actually transubstantiated into the body and blood of Christ. I know very few Catholics who actually believe this, but that's beside the point.
I'm not convinced that everyone who speaks in tongues is actually being moved by the Spirit to do so every time any more than I believe that transubstantiation happens during every mass. I'm not about to say it never happens. I'm definitely not going to say it can't. I believe that the Holy Spirit is capable of creating events which appear irrational or impossible.
The priest had some lovely things to say during his homily about experiencing the Holy Spirit. He then clarified that we all knew what he was talking about because we'd all been baptised, confirmed and taken communion in the Church. Well, not quite.
Maybe the only reason I have experienced the Holy Spirit is that I was baptised with water as a baby and fed some leftover Host as a toddler. But I happen to believe that the movings of the Holy Spirit in me and my life have more to do with His plans than anything that my mother and/or a couple of priests did before I was old enough to remember or understand. Whatever the reason, whatever the means, I am grateful for the presence of the Spirit in my life and for reflections of my experience in the experiences of others.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
6/09/2006
Where I have been...ruminations on the tower of Babel
I could start this by being all self-pitying and self-centered and say that my recent travels have been a metaphor for my life--lost and alone. But then someone would say "yea, whatever, she is in Tuscany. I do not feel bad for her."
Italian is a language many people say they want to learn but it seems that few follow up on this. I wonder why? It is a beautiful language made to express strong emotions. I think that there are important lessons to be learned from the Italian way of life. They are not one of the economic powerhouses of Europe and part of that is because they still cling to the way life has been for centuries. This is evident in the beauty and sofistication of the crumbling villas; the way the sun refects off the young buds that will become olives; the roosters crowing all day long; the dogs that run free; the the italians arguing politics over a shot of expresso. In some ways I truly appreciate the way life has been preserved here, the way the olive trees and grape vines are the backbone of life. I am even more appreciative of this after my trips to Florence and Siena where I see Americans being ugly, rufusing to attempt to learn even the simplest Italian phrases or refusing to accept cultural differences. It pains me to make my colleagues and co-workers talk in English; I can understand a lot of Italian if it is slow but my ability to talk is almost non-existent. I feel the pain of coming from a country so proud it trandscends arrogance to something above and beyond expression.
The kindness that has been shown to me is amazing. I wish that somehow Italians could export that mind-set and way of living life to American we would be better for it. I feel a bit like Scarlett O"hara, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." Or however that quote is supposed to go.
Ciao!
Italian is a language many people say they want to learn but it seems that few follow up on this. I wonder why? It is a beautiful language made to express strong emotions. I think that there are important lessons to be learned from the Italian way of life. They are not one of the economic powerhouses of Europe and part of that is because they still cling to the way life has been for centuries. This is evident in the beauty and sofistication of the crumbling villas; the way the sun refects off the young buds that will become olives; the roosters crowing all day long; the dogs that run free; the the italians arguing politics over a shot of expresso. In some ways I truly appreciate the way life has been preserved here, the way the olive trees and grape vines are the backbone of life. I am even more appreciative of this after my trips to Florence and Siena where I see Americans being ugly, rufusing to attempt to learn even the simplest Italian phrases or refusing to accept cultural differences. It pains me to make my colleagues and co-workers talk in English; I can understand a lot of Italian if it is slow but my ability to talk is almost non-existent. I feel the pain of coming from a country so proud it trandscends arrogance to something above and beyond expression.
The kindness that has been shown to me is amazing. I wish that somehow Italians could export that mind-set and way of living life to American we would be better for it. I feel a bit like Scarlett O"hara, "I have always depended on the kindness of strangers." Or however that quote is supposed to go.
Ciao!
5/21/2006
The everyday is sacred
I was listening to "Holy Now" by Peter Mayer recently when I ought to have been in meeting. I was indulging in a little house-to-myself time instead.
I wasn't at meeting last week either. Last week I had worship at the home of a friend after a lovely breakfast. Part of the reason that early Friends adopted the phrase "meeting house" for the buildings they built for communal worship was that they regarded the people as the church.
The monthly meetings I have access to rarely meet my spiritual needs and I am grateful that He hasn't asked me to commit to any of them. I still go to meeting frequently, but certainly not every week. I do try to be aware of my place in the Church on a daily basis. Am I being attentive to the needs of the people around me? Am I encouraging their growth in grace as well as my own?
Sometimes, even when I'm feeling the need to take care of myself and I know that attending meeting isn't absolutely nessecary, I can still feel guilty about skipping meeting. It's good to be reminded of all of Creation is holy and that the First Communion was Jesus sharing a meal with His friends.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
"Wine into water is not so small,
but an even better magic trick
is that anything is here at all.
So, the challenging thing becomes
not to look for miracles,
but finding where there isn't one.
When holy water was rare at best
I barely wet my finger tips.
Now I have to hold my breath
like I'm swimming in a sea of it.
It used to be a world half-there
heaven's second rate hand-me-downs
but I'm walking with a reverent air
cause everything's holy now. "
I wasn't at meeting last week either. Last week I had worship at the home of a friend after a lovely breakfast. Part of the reason that early Friends adopted the phrase "meeting house" for the buildings they built for communal worship was that they regarded the people as the church.
The monthly meetings I have access to rarely meet my spiritual needs and I am grateful that He hasn't asked me to commit to any of them. I still go to meeting frequently, but certainly not every week. I do try to be aware of my place in the Church on a daily basis. Am I being attentive to the needs of the people around me? Am I encouraging their growth in grace as well as my own?
Sometimes, even when I'm feeling the need to take care of myself and I know that attending meeting isn't absolutely nessecary, I can still feel guilty about skipping meeting. It's good to be reminded of all of Creation is holy and that the First Communion was Jesus sharing a meal with His friends.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
5/08/2006
The next movie I watch about a plane will be S.O.A.P.
I saw United 93 over the weekend. Most of the discussion I've heard about the movie was whether or not it was too soon to revisit 9/11. Without question, it is still too soon to be entertained by the 9/11 story. But this movie isn't entertaining. It felt like a horrible and realistic reenactment and it helped me grieve. It helped me take back the memory of United 93 from the warmongering that embraced the phrase "Let's Roll." I was able to reclaim the memory of the awfulness of that day and the sympathy I felt for the people who were faced with making unthinkable moral decisions based on very limited information under a very tight deadline.
After the movie, I was discussing the it with friends, some of whom had just watched the movie with me, and some who had not. Someone asked a non-American in the group about his responses to 9/11. He likened his response with his response the Kashmir earthquake in 2005. It's true that the Kashmir earthquake killed a great many more people, but for me the difference is vast. A natural disaster has yet to make me contemplate pacifism, universalism or the nature of justice. I'm able to simply grieve for the victims of natural disasters. I cry, I pray, and I send money when I can. Suffering that is related to "Acts of God," however influenced by human incompetence or wit, is easier for me to comprehend than acts of extreme violence.
The magnitude of 9/11 for me wasn't the destruction of buildings, or an alteration in my feeling safe as an American. It wasn't even the horrific deaths although some images from the towers still haunt me. It was knowing that these acts of desperation and hatred would be met with large scale revenge. By some estimates, the wars waged in response to that Tuesday morning's hijacked planes have killed almost 250,000 people to date. 9/11 was a horrible tragedy in and of itself, but it was only the beginning of a very dark time.
Today, we are living in a world where too many decisions are being made in fear, in hate, in confusion and in revenge. I feel as though all I have to fight against the wars being carried out in my name is my voice and that my voice is drowned out by so many other voices. I don't think anyone is actually listening, anyway. I feel so helpless and so scared.
Towards the end of the film, there's a period of time where everyone is praying. The prayers of the hijackers, the passengers and the flight attendants are all overlapping in the chaos. Surely God is able to hear each of us, distinctly, as we cry out to Him in our time of need, no matter what language we speak or how many of His children are crying to Him at once.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
After the movie, I was discussing the it with friends, some of whom had just watched the movie with me, and some who had not. Someone asked a non-American in the group about his responses to 9/11. He likened his response with his response the Kashmir earthquake in 2005. It's true that the Kashmir earthquake killed a great many more people, but for me the difference is vast. A natural disaster has yet to make me contemplate pacifism, universalism or the nature of justice. I'm able to simply grieve for the victims of natural disasters. I cry, I pray, and I send money when I can. Suffering that is related to "Acts of God," however influenced by human incompetence or wit, is easier for me to comprehend than acts of extreme violence.
The magnitude of 9/11 for me wasn't the destruction of buildings, or an alteration in my feeling safe as an American. It wasn't even the horrific deaths although some images from the towers still haunt me. It was knowing that these acts of desperation and hatred would be met with large scale revenge. By some estimates, the wars waged in response to that Tuesday morning's hijacked planes have killed almost 250,000 people to date. 9/11 was a horrible tragedy in and of itself, but it was only the beginning of a very dark time.
Today, we are living in a world where too many decisions are being made in fear, in hate, in confusion and in revenge. I feel as though all I have to fight against the wars being carried out in my name is my voice and that my voice is drowned out by so many other voices. I don't think anyone is actually listening, anyway. I feel so helpless and so scared.
Towards the end of the film, there's a period of time where everyone is praying. The prayers of the hijackers, the passengers and the flight attendants are all overlapping in the chaos. Surely God is able to hear each of us, distinctly, as we cry out to Him in our time of need, no matter what language we speak or how many of His children are crying to Him at once.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
5/07/2006
You get so Alone it all just makes Sense
Sometimes that which provides you with the most solace is not the Spirit nor a friend, but something dear and comforting...like a new book of poems by Charles Bukowski.
In my current life, I am loosely affiliated with academics. Thus, I am a bit stressed out as "it is that time of year." To procrastinate last night, (my hott Saturday night consisted of writing a paper on Cerebrovascular events aka stroke) I went to a book store to see if I could find any books in italian...I am leaving in less that two weeks for Italia and am trying to learn Itanian in-between all of my other committments. There were no books in Italian and somehow I found myself in the Poetry section.
Hank and I have been acquainted for at least 8 years now. He and his crusty take on life have seen me through many difficulities. People are always surprised that such an aredent feminist could love Hank. But I do. Years ago for an English class a friend and I had to give a presentation on Hank. I think the whole class was expecting the typical feminist tirade about him being such a misogynist, but then we got up and praise him. Mouths hit the floor. There is a quote I really want to track down someday that has to do with being a "critical lover" and that is what I am. And I think that is what Hank is.
Yea, he's a bastard. He's crusty and angry and misanthropic, but then you get to lines, which usually occur at the end of a poem, and blow away by the beauty. There is no way he can be all bad. I tend to think that all the crusty misanthropic talk is just to cover up a bare and wounded soul, the type of soul that those of us who care to much have...it is battered and angry and since we feel powerless against the shit that fate has thrown us and those around us, we engage in self destructive behaviors, drinking, smoking, meaningless sex. And that is why sometimes the only comfort a soul can find is in a glass of whiskey and Charles Bukowski.
...I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom.
....I would have probably been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
Charles Bukowski, an almost made up poem
In my current life, I am loosely affiliated with academics. Thus, I am a bit stressed out as "it is that time of year." To procrastinate last night, (my hott Saturday night consisted of writing a paper on Cerebrovascular events aka stroke) I went to a book store to see if I could find any books in italian...I am leaving in less that two weeks for Italia and am trying to learn Itanian in-between all of my other committments. There were no books in Italian and somehow I found myself in the Poetry section.
Hank and I have been acquainted for at least 8 years now. He and his crusty take on life have seen me through many difficulities. People are always surprised that such an aredent feminist could love Hank. But I do. Years ago for an English class a friend and I had to give a presentation on Hank. I think the whole class was expecting the typical feminist tirade about him being such a misogynist, but then we got up and praise him. Mouths hit the floor. There is a quote I really want to track down someday that has to do with being a "critical lover" and that is what I am. And I think that is what Hank is.
Yea, he's a bastard. He's crusty and angry and misanthropic, but then you get to lines, which usually occur at the end of a poem, and blow away by the beauty. There is no way he can be all bad. I tend to think that all the crusty misanthropic talk is just to cover up a bare and wounded soul, the type of soul that those of us who care to much have...it is battered and angry and since we feel powerless against the shit that fate has thrown us and those around us, we engage in self destructive behaviors, drinking, smoking, meaningless sex. And that is why sometimes the only comfort a soul can find is in a glass of whiskey and Charles Bukowski.
...I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom.
....I would have probably been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.
Charles Bukowski, an almost made up poem
5/05/2006
Convincement
My yearly meeting reads our Advices aloud at close of sessions following meeting for worship on First Day. When I reread the Advices to myself, I often hear my father's inflection on certain words, like "worship" and "banal" as he has read them aloud in recent years. It's a very comforting piece of prose, even this part:
For years, I glossed over the importance of all that "Holy Redeemer" and "born again" stuff. It just wasn't relevant to my life or my experience. That language was used by hypocritical, judgemental people who were far more concerned with getting into Heaven than making God happy. The important part of that passage to me, for many years was the idea that one had to have a real relationship with God in order to be a member of the meeting. You couldn't just go through the motions or grow up in the meeting.
I joined the meeting I grew up in a long time ago. It wasn't some sort of life-changing experience, I was just ready to join in the spiritual life of the meeting. I served on committees and attended business meeting. I began to speak in meeting, albeit reluctantly.
I related to the conversion stories in the journals of early Friends. I heard the voice of the Lord audibly from an early age, so early that it didn't occur to me that this wasn't a perfectly normal experience until I was in my late teens. I saw things. I felt things. But I didn't have a deer-in-the-headlights moment of conversion myself. I understood continuing revelation as a slow life-long process.
Fast forward to another First Day worship at close of sessions almost two years ago. I was freaking out. I knew that way was opening for me to move to Boston and I knew that a large part of my motivation for leaving North Carolina was to get away from the evidence of my mistakes. I was deeply fearful that I'd failed in His plan for me so utterly, He'd just given up on me. And for the first time, I let go of the anger. I'd always blamed God when I failed. If He'd given me just a little more guidance or asked something a little more realistic I would've been able to pull it off. There I was, wallowing in my newfound awareness of my sins and as soon as I had listed everything I could think of that I wished I had done differently, every aspect of myself that falls short of perfection and apologized for it all, I felt His hand on my forehead as I heard His voice say: "You are forgiven".
I've been a different person since then. Sometimes it's more obvious to me than other times. I've been handling the difficult things in my life a lot better. I spend less time berating God and I'm far less reluctant to speak the messages I'm given in worship. I'm just generally calmer. I can't go so far as to say I've found anything that resembles Joy, but I have I been born again of the incorruptible seed. And it has made me a better person.
I'm writing all this not to try to convince anyone to say some magic words like "I accept Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior." Those stories are a dime a dozen and never spoke to me. I believe that we each have our own path to travel and so long as we are faithful to our Guide, we'll get where we need to be. I can't give any sort of advice on how to be obedient. All I'm saying is that this is what happened to me and I'm not being allowed to hide it anymore, apparently.
I still believe that continuing revelation is a slow life-long process. I don't have all the answers and I never will, but each day is an opportunity to learn just a little more and grow just a little closer to Christ.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
"For although we recognize the children of our members as objects of our care, and partakers of the outward privileges of Christian fellowship, we would earnestly remind all that such recognition cannot constitute them members of the Lord's Spiritual Israel. Nothing can effect this but the power of the Holy Spirit working repentance toward God and faith toward our Lord Jesus Christ. Therefore, let the words of our Holy Redeemer have due place with us all, "Ye must be born again." May all of our members become such on the ground of true conversion, and be prepared in their several places to bring forth fruit unto God."
For years, I glossed over the importance of all that "Holy Redeemer" and "born again" stuff. It just wasn't relevant to my life or my experience. That language was used by hypocritical, judgemental people who were far more concerned with getting into Heaven than making God happy. The important part of that passage to me, for many years was the idea that one had to have a real relationship with God in order to be a member of the meeting. You couldn't just go through the motions or grow up in the meeting.
I joined the meeting I grew up in a long time ago. It wasn't some sort of life-changing experience, I was just ready to join in the spiritual life of the meeting. I served on committees and attended business meeting. I began to speak in meeting, albeit reluctantly.
I related to the conversion stories in the journals of early Friends. I heard the voice of the Lord audibly from an early age, so early that it didn't occur to me that this wasn't a perfectly normal experience until I was in my late teens. I saw things. I felt things. But I didn't have a deer-in-the-headlights moment of conversion myself. I understood continuing revelation as a slow life-long process.
Fast forward to another First Day worship at close of sessions almost two years ago. I was freaking out. I knew that way was opening for me to move to Boston and I knew that a large part of my motivation for leaving North Carolina was to get away from the evidence of my mistakes. I was deeply fearful that I'd failed in His plan for me so utterly, He'd just given up on me. And for the first time, I let go of the anger. I'd always blamed God when I failed. If He'd given me just a little more guidance or asked something a little more realistic I would've been able to pull it off. There I was, wallowing in my newfound awareness of my sins and as soon as I had listed everything I could think of that I wished I had done differently, every aspect of myself that falls short of perfection and apologized for it all, I felt His hand on my forehead as I heard His voice say: "You are forgiven".
I've been a different person since then. Sometimes it's more obvious to me than other times. I've been handling the difficult things in my life a lot better. I spend less time berating God and I'm far less reluctant to speak the messages I'm given in worship. I'm just generally calmer. I can't go so far as to say I've found anything that resembles Joy, but I have I been born again of the incorruptible seed. And it has made me a better person.
I'm writing all this not to try to convince anyone to say some magic words like "I accept Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and Savior." Those stories are a dime a dozen and never spoke to me. I believe that we each have our own path to travel and so long as we are faithful to our Guide, we'll get where we need to be. I can't give any sort of advice on how to be obedient. All I'm saying is that this is what happened to me and I'm not being allowed to hide it anymore, apparently.
"Since you have purified your souls in obeying the truth through the Spirit in sincere love of the brethren, love one another fervently with a pure heart, having been born again, not of corruptible seed but incorruptible, through the word of God which lives and abides forever." 1 Peter 1:22-23
I still believe that continuing revelation is a slow life-long process. I don't have all the answers and I never will, but each day is an opportunity to learn just a little more and grow just a little closer to Christ.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
5/03/2006
Where do all the young Quakers go?
So come and gather around me my contemporary peers
And I'll tell you all the story of
Jesus...The Missing Years
--John Prine, Jesus, the Missing Years
It seems that many young Friends drift away during their 20's. Some come back. Some do not. For a religion that is slowly dwindling away one might think that this would be more of a concern to Friends. It is true that Meetings will embrace the young people that stay faithful, and are more than happy to welcome back lost lambs who show up when they are ready to settle down into partnerships and raise children.
But for us, single, childless young Quakers, who occassionally turn up at meeting we get a hello and asked where we are from and if we are new to Friends, but often once it is found out that we are not new to Friends we are rather less interesting. However, if we come several times a month for a few months we become worth investigating. Especially, if we might be open to lending our youthful energy to committees and such.
Now it is true that I have not been to meeting regularly for over a year. However, in the last place I lived, I began going regularly for a time...When I moved home after college I also tried to attend meeting with some regularity...However, I just have not been able to stick with it. It is not a case of needing to seek out that which can speak to my soul, I know I have already found my spiritual home. However, my comfortability with my spiritual home does not extend beyound worship. Now community and the corporate experience of worship are important to me as they are to the larger body of Quakerism. Yet I have not felt comfortable and accepted amoung Friends after meeting has risen. This speaks perhaps of my own discomfort in groups and other issues I have with Friends...but what is interesting to me is that many of the birthright Young Adult Friends and Friends who have attended since before they can remember, do not attend regularly either.
Out of the 15 or so young adult Friends (that come easily to mind, who are between the ages of 25 and 33) who fit into this catagory, only two attend meeting regularly. These are not people who have dabbled in Quakerism. They are all members of meetings somewhere, were raised Quaker, and many of whom were in a Quaker scholarship program in college. I believe all of the individuals I am thinking of still consider themselves Quaker, and are not seeking other spiritual homes. Yet we do not attend meeting. One would think these are the type of young people we would want to encourage to remain connected to Quakerism. However, many I have talked with have had experiences with meetings similar to mine, when they have attempted to return--because they have longings to return--have felt isolated, underwelcome, and alone. Some come to meeting and cry because we are so lost. Some of us come and feel we have nothing in common but worhsip, some of us want to go but will never make the effort.
Now we could look at these as the "lost years" similar to the time in the Bible where Jesus disappears around 12 and re-appears at 30-ish. Or it could just be that all young people go through a period of being in the desert...being tempted by Satan, but that is only supposed to be 40 days, right?...or perhaps we are to wander like god's chosen people for 40 years...but I don't think have seen any manna, much less had the joy of eating it. But why are there "lost years?" Do we just need time to be of the world for a time, to be better grounded in our faith later? Is it some type of spiritual test? Or is there something lacking in Quakerism that we keep stepping over like a dead dog in the center of the Meeting room floor?
And I'll tell you all the story of
Jesus...The Missing Years
--John Prine, Jesus, the Missing Years
It seems that many young Friends drift away during their 20's. Some come back. Some do not. For a religion that is slowly dwindling away one might think that this would be more of a concern to Friends. It is true that Meetings will embrace the young people that stay faithful, and are more than happy to welcome back lost lambs who show up when they are ready to settle down into partnerships and raise children.
But for us, single, childless young Quakers, who occassionally turn up at meeting we get a hello and asked where we are from and if we are new to Friends, but often once it is found out that we are not new to Friends we are rather less interesting. However, if we come several times a month for a few months we become worth investigating. Especially, if we might be open to lending our youthful energy to committees and such.
Now it is true that I have not been to meeting regularly for over a year. However, in the last place I lived, I began going regularly for a time...When I moved home after college I also tried to attend meeting with some regularity...However, I just have not been able to stick with it. It is not a case of needing to seek out that which can speak to my soul, I know I have already found my spiritual home. However, my comfortability with my spiritual home does not extend beyound worship. Now community and the corporate experience of worship are important to me as they are to the larger body of Quakerism. Yet I have not felt comfortable and accepted amoung Friends after meeting has risen. This speaks perhaps of my own discomfort in groups and other issues I have with Friends...but what is interesting to me is that many of the birthright Young Adult Friends and Friends who have attended since before they can remember, do not attend regularly either.
Out of the 15 or so young adult Friends (that come easily to mind, who are between the ages of 25 and 33) who fit into this catagory, only two attend meeting regularly. These are not people who have dabbled in Quakerism. They are all members of meetings somewhere, were raised Quaker, and many of whom were in a Quaker scholarship program in college. I believe all of the individuals I am thinking of still consider themselves Quaker, and are not seeking other spiritual homes. Yet we do not attend meeting. One would think these are the type of young people we would want to encourage to remain connected to Quakerism. However, many I have talked with have had experiences with meetings similar to mine, when they have attempted to return--because they have longings to return--have felt isolated, underwelcome, and alone. Some come to meeting and cry because we are so lost. Some of us come and feel we have nothing in common but worhsip, some of us want to go but will never make the effort.
Now we could look at these as the "lost years" similar to the time in the Bible where Jesus disappears around 12 and re-appears at 30-ish. Or it could just be that all young people go through a period of being in the desert...being tempted by Satan, but that is only supposed to be 40 days, right?...or perhaps we are to wander like god's chosen people for 40 years...but I don't think have seen any manna, much less had the joy of eating it. But why are there "lost years?" Do we just need time to be of the world for a time, to be better grounded in our faith later? Is it some type of spiritual test? Or is there something lacking in Quakerism that we keep stepping over like a dead dog in the center of the Meeting room floor?
5/02/2006
Things you save for rainy days...
First, I would like to start by saying...that despite all attempts to hide it...I am a sentimentalist. Secondly, because of this I spend most of my time being bitter and angry. Now I will do something I regret because all of you will somehow want to remind me of this when I become angry again. Just remember I repress, repress, repress--ACT OUT!
Today I was thinking about the lovely weather we are having right now. I know its dry, but it is so sunny and warm...it hasn't gotten terribly humid yet, its quite lovely. And I was thinking about how glad I am to be alive. And what a wonderful world we live in that there are not one but two young men who make me smile to myself these days. And I feel silly about it, but its nice. Now I can understand why people become serial monogamists, its nice to feel the excitement of it. The flirtation, the unanticipated and endearing personality quirks. But then I wonder where are these things going...one lives so far away, but he is nerd-licious and geek-tastic all rolled into one mild mannered exterior, with a raging sense of humor underneath. He is so damn sexy. The other I see almost everyday...he looks at me like I am gorgeous. He makes me feel desirable...and he makes me laugh...but how do I know which is the path? Or perhaps its just safer to end the possibilities before they begin...Or do I just enjoy the secret smiles to myself as I walk into a beautiful day thinking of the vast possibility of things.
Today I was thinking about the lovely weather we are having right now. I know its dry, but it is so sunny and warm...it hasn't gotten terribly humid yet, its quite lovely. And I was thinking about how glad I am to be alive. And what a wonderful world we live in that there are not one but two young men who make me smile to myself these days. And I feel silly about it, but its nice. Now I can understand why people become serial monogamists, its nice to feel the excitement of it. The flirtation, the unanticipated and endearing personality quirks. But then I wonder where are these things going...one lives so far away, but he is nerd-licious and geek-tastic all rolled into one mild mannered exterior, with a raging sense of humor underneath. He is so damn sexy. The other I see almost everyday...he looks at me like I am gorgeous. He makes me feel desirable...and he makes me laugh...but how do I know which is the path? Or perhaps its just safer to end the possibilities before they begin...Or do I just enjoy the secret smiles to myself as I walk into a beautiful day thinking of the vast possibility of things.
Blessed Community
I haven't had the energy to write much of anything lately. I was blindsided by the suicide of a friend and mentor about a week ago. In my grief, I've been thinking about community. While I've been surrounded by love since I got the news, I'm reminded that she didn't have that kind of supportive local community.
From holding me while I sobbed, to making sure my cats and I have been fed regularly, to helping me do my laundry, to "thinking of you" text messages and letting me bail on scheduled activities, my friends have really come through for me in my time of need. I have been overwhelmed with community and I am so, so grateful.
I had been singing "Here I am, Lord" a lot lately. The chorus goes something like this:
I used to long for a community of faith. For a local, thriving meeting to accept me and my faith without reservation. The kind of Blessed Community that Thomas Kelly talks about in his Testament of Devotion. I may not have found my community of faith yet, but I do have a community of love. And today, that feels like more than enough.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
From holding me while I sobbed, to making sure my cats and I have been fed regularly, to helping me do my laundry, to "thinking of you" text messages and letting me bail on scheduled activities, my friends have really come through for me in my time of need. I have been overwhelmed with community and I am so, so grateful.
I had been singing "Here I am, Lord" a lot lately. The chorus goes something like this:
Here I am, Lord. Is it I, Lord?When I realize how obedient I've been, how open I've been to my leadings, I'm able to absolve myself of most the guilt. I know that there was nothing else I could have done to help my friend. While I've been grieving the loss of such an important person in my life, both professional and personal, I've been comforted by the last line of the chorus. His people have been holding me in their hearts this week. His people: the athiest Jews, lapsed Catholics, Quakers both "good" and "bad," and beef-eating Hindus.
I have heard you calling in the night.
I will go, Lord, if you lead me.
I will hold your people in my heart.
I used to long for a community of faith. For a local, thriving meeting to accept me and my faith without reservation. The kind of Blessed Community that Thomas Kelly talks about in his Testament of Devotion. I may not have found my community of faith yet, but I do have a community of love. And today, that feels like more than enough.
Love,
Elizabeth Bathurst
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