Author Archives: Pamela Erwin

About Pamela Erwin

Pamela Erwin (DMin, Fuller Seminary) has a long-time interest in how culture and theology intersect. She studies the global church and issues of reconciliation and diversity. She is also interested in how young people form an understanding of identity and purpose.

“It” is killing us

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It could be shootings are getting greater publicity since Sandy Hook.

It might be that I more readily see the headlines of people getting shot since Sandy Hook.

But, sadly, it is the reality that way too many people die everyday from gunshots. Slate has begun tracking shooting deaths (www.slate.com) and estimates that more people in the U.S. have been shot to death since Sandy Hook than died on September 11. Before everyone starts lining up on their side of the gun control debate, let’s stop for a moment and reflect on the fact that more than 2,793 people have been shot and killed. . . . Almost 3,000 lives. . . . . in three months.

A few snapshots:

A 14 year-old shoots another 14 year-old in an alley in south Minneapolis. http://www.startribune.com/local/minneapolis/198633621.html   One moment, two lives, tragically destroyed. The Children’s Defense Fund reported in 2012 that more than 5,000 children and teens died in 2008 and 2009 from guns. 5,000 young lives, gone.

The first homicide in Columbus, Georgia this year was a young man, Charles Foster, just 24 years old. http://www.npr.org/2013/03/18/173812393/among-thousands-of-gun-deaths-only-one-charles-foster-jr  Columbus, a south Georgia town of 190,000, has had eleven more homicides since Mr. Foster’s. The local coroner expects the total for 2013 to far exceed the 36 homicides in 2012.

Blogger, Bill Schiller, posted this blog yesterday with The Toronto Star – a Canadian’s perspective on gun violence in the U.S. (http://thestar.blogs.com/worlddaily/2013/03/another-day-another-tragic-killing-in-america-but-this-one-is-different.html)

Every death by gunfire is tragic – no matter what the circumstances.

But some pull even more tightly at the heartstrings because of their absolute senselessness.

Of course there are many, many of these every day in America.

Even still, the death of 16-year-old Caleb Gordley,  a well-loved high school student from Virginia, stands out.

Tragically.

Although grounded by his parents Saturday night for failing to clean his room, Caleb decided to sneak out to a party anyway.

To return on early Sunday, he had to sneak back in.

But he had been drinking – and got the wrong house.

He was shot to death by a neighbour at 2:30 a.m.

The houses in the subdivision in suburban Loudon County are strikingly similar and difficult to distinguish from behind. Caleb’s friends had driven him home and helped him over a back fence. Then, he climbed through an unlocked window and proceeded up the carpeted staircase that led – he thought – to his bedroom.

But his entry had triggered a burglar alarm and, as he mounted the darkened staircase, he met his neighbour, who had grabbed a gun and was making his way down.

“Caleb and his friend hopped the fence into the wrong backyard,” his father Shawn explained later on Twitter. His son, he said, had “staggered up the staircase which is identical to mine.”

Caleb was declared dead at the scene.

No charges have yet been laid, and reports suggest that none will. The metro pages of the Washington Post report that the law in Virginia appears to give “wide latitude” to people who fear for their safety.

Caleb was known as a ‘life of the party’ kid who loved to rap – he called himself “Prince George” – and play varsity basketball, football and baseball.

“Everyone loved being around Caleb and felt better when around him,” his coaches Jermaine Walker and Mike Koscinski said in tribute.

But Caleb wasn’t the only one to be shot in gun-rich America over the weekend.

In Calumet, Ill. 15-year-old Ashaya Miller died while visiting at a friend’s when gunfire burst through the kitchen window.

In Chicago, a 3-year-old boy is struggling for his life after he was shot in the stomach at a relative’s home in circumstances police have yet to explain.

And in Oklahoma, a gun enthusiast shot himself to death at the H & H Gun Range in Oklahoma.City.

According to Slate’s gun-death tracker, more people have died in America since the Dec. 14, 2012 Sandy Hook Elementary School shootings, than died in the 9/11 attacks.

Some 2,793 Americans have died as a result of gun violence since Sandy Hook, while 2,752 perished in the 9/11 attacks.

One key difference though, as the New York Times and others have pointed out: the deaths at 9/11 were executed by forces hostile to America. The gun deaths that occur every single day are almost all Americans killing Americans.

Bill Schiller has held bureau postings for the Toronto Star in Johannesburg, Berlin, London and Beijing. He is a NNA and Amnesty International Award winner, and a Harvard Nieman Fellow from the class of ’06. Follow him on Twitter @wschiller

 

The New Francis

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My initial surprise at the resignation of Pope Benedict XVI in mid-February quickly faded into indifference and disdain. At the same time the world watched as the ritual practices of electing a new pope were put into place, the archbishop of St. Andrews and Edinburgh, Cardinal Keith O’Brien, resigned for ‘inappropriate sexual conduct’ with other priests, five prominent Catholic American bishops opposed the Violence Against Women Act, signed by President Obama on March 7th, and the Los Angeles archdiocese settled 4 Catholic priest sex abuse cases for $10 million. What difference would a new pope make in a system that seemed incapable of addressing the sins and failings of its leaders? 

But then the announcement came that a new pope was elected and that he had chosen to be called Pope Francis I. I was intrigued. As the cardinals settled in behind closed doors to begin the process of voting, oddsmakers began setting the odds for papal names. Would the new pope choose Leo, the odds-on-favorite or Gregory? Perhaps Pius or Peter? Francis didn’t even make the list. Jorge Mario Bergoglio, former Archbishop of Buenos Aires, now Pope Francis I, the first ever Jesuit to be elected as pope, chose a name whose symbolism cannot be overlooked. Sara Dover, writing for CBS News, notes that “(i)n Catholic tradition, St. Francis of Assisi had a mystical vision of Jesus Christ, who told him to rebuild his church. In light of the scandals that have tarnished the Church, from its financial troubles to widespread allegations and cover-up of sex abuse, the name may carry special significance.”  St. Francis of Assisi renounced all forms of wealth and lived a frugal and simple life. From all indications, the new Pope Francis I, has eschewed the trappings of materialism, as well. He chose to live in a simple apartment rather than the archbishop’s palatial palace in Buenos Aires, took the bus to work and cooked his own meals. A sliver of hope took hold. Could things – would things be different with this pope?

Obviously, it’s too early to tell how the Catholic church will shift under this new pope. Or if it will in any significant measure at all. Early reports indicate that Pope Francis is progressive – not hesitant to wash the feet of people with HIV/AIDS, but also conservative – opposing abortion, same-sex marriage, and the ordination of women.  In President Obama’s congratulations, he said, “As a champion of the poor and the most vulnerable among us, he (Pope Francis) carries forth the message of love and compassion that has inspired the world for more than 2,000 years — that in each other we see the face of God.” I hold on to only a sliver of hope, but pray that with this new Francis, Obama’s words will ring true.

 

 

 

Asking questions

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When the nurse called my name, I hobbled painfully behind him to the examination room. My left knee was pathetically useless and my right knee did as best it could to keep me upright, except in those moments when she just simply gave out. It seemed in just a matter of days I had gone from moving at a fast pace, being active, going to the gym regularly to an abrupt stand still. My knees no longer cooperated. The pain in my joints was becoming increasingly intolerable. As the doctor looked at x-rays, and examined my knees, he looked at me ruefully and said there was nothing more he could do for me.

I am an academic. That means when my doctor tells me that my knees are shot and he can no longer keep them going, I start asking questions and researching my options. If I needed both knees replaced, I wanted to know what the risks were, what would recovery look like, and I wanted the best surgeon possible.

As with most academics, I did my research with a list of pre-suppositions that included: 1) the surgeon needs to be young, because that will mean that she/he is current on the most recent trends; 2) needs to have lots of experience in my particular surgery, and 3) has confidence in her/his abilities to do the surgery well. I did my research and selected a surgeon. That decision started me on a now four-month journey to have both my knees replaced.

Along this journey, I have had many discoveries and surprises; some pleasant, some painful and challenging, and some quite sobering. One of the most surprising to me has been my immersion into the health care system. Unsurprising to social workers and anthropologists, the world of surgical medicine is a well-developed system. Even in the fogged state of post-surgery and pain meds, it was quite startling to me to observe the hierarchy in this system and the affect the hierarchy had on my care.

At the top of this hierarchy, the surgeons, followed closely by anesthesiologists, and hospitalists (the doctors that manage a patient’s care in a hospital setting). At the bottom of this hierarchy are the CNA – certified nursing assistants, with the LPN – licensed practical nurses and RN – Registered Nurses somewhere in the middle. In my case, Occupational Therapists and Physical Therapist were heavily involved in my recovery. They seem to float in their own orbits, independent of the regular hierarchy.

One scene from my experience captures this hierarchical system rather well. About three days after my surgery, I developed serious complications and was quickly moved back from the rehabilitation center to the hospital. The nurses (RN) were compassionate and caring, ensuring that I was comfortable and that my vital signs were monitored. They hovered around as they waited for the internist – my hospitalist – to show up and assess the situation. This doctor was thorough, kind and thoughtful as he evaluated my options. His focus was evaluating the severity of the complications and developing a plan to address them. During these intense moments, the surgeon stopped by. Two things told me his arrival was imminent. First, all of the nurses around me, except for the supervisor, became anxious and began to step backwards toward the side door into my room. Secondly, I became aware of what the nurses had already heard. The sound of several pairs of footsteps emphatically marching down the hall toward my room. Within seconds, the surgeon and his entourage walked through the main door into my room. From their starched shirts to their polished dress shoes, they commanded attention when they walked in. Without any hesitation whatsoever, they took over. I don’t say that with irritation or harshness. I wanted someone in charge of my health that knew what he was doing, had the confidence and experience to make the difficult choices. And that’s what I had. Along with that package also comes a strong ego and arrogance. He’s good and he knows he’s good. He knows what it takes to accomplish the difficult tasks of surgery and recovery and makes no apology for demanding what he needs. Even as I reacted against his cocky, self-confidence, I also knew I could trust my health—my life to him.

It was the people at the bottom of this hierarchy, however, that were the true caregivers. Throughout these three days and as I returned to the rehabilitation center, there were the CNAs. They brought me my meals, they changed my sheets, my hospital gowns, they even bathed me and washed my hair. I can only speak from my own experience, but I have never felt so cared for; ever! Everyone of them in my almost three-week stay was gentle, kind and compassionate. Not one time did any one of them respond to me with harshness or lack of caring. My first shower came about a week after surgery. Maria came and picked me up from my room and helped me get my clothes together. Once she helped me to the shower, she gently helped me remove my hospital gown, putting me in the shower chair. With great tenderness she washed my body and shampooed my hair. As she carefully poured warm water over my hair to rinse it, my mind was drawn to the image of Jesus washing the feet of the disciples in John 13. She brought me to tears when she lovingly wrapped me in warm, fluffy towels. This woman didn’t know me from Eve, but she lovingly and tenderly cared for me.

As she helped me back to my room, I tried to communicate my gratefulness for the shower and for her care. We talked about the work that she does and she remarked that it was a gift to her to be able to take care of her patients. As I lay in my bed later that day, I pondered the contrasts between the different groups of people essential to my recovery. I am incredibly thankful for a surgeon that knew his job and did it really well and for people like Maria, who very caringly took care of my daily needs. One sobering part of this system, that raises a host of questions for me, is the contrast in compensation for each of these groups. The average salary for a Certified Nursing Assistant is $24,000; the average for an orthopedic surgeon; $424,000.[*] As someone that has spent decades getting an education and pursuing a profession, I get that my doctor has done the hard work of training and sacrifice to get where he is. I get that. But Maria has also made commitments and sacrifices and thousands like her. A patient’s ability to thrive and recover depends in no less part on people like Maria. Where is equity in this system?

My thoughts about this system came back full force as the system that I am most closely linked with took a hit this month. The university where I work has been hit with serious financial hard times and we are looking at layoffs, program cutbacks and other difficult financial decisions. We are a system of hierarchy too of staff, faculty and administrators. In tight times, how do we ethically make decisions about how the pie gets distributed or re-distributed. Faculty have worked long and hard to get an education, to invest their time and energies in research and scholarship. They often view themselves as the central cog in the educational system; one can’t educate without educators. But a university also cannot function without the staff to keep things going from maintaining technology, cleaning classrooms and bathrooms, scheduling classes, ordering textbooks and the list goes on. What does it mean to take care of faculty, as well as staff? How does a university do that ethically and equitably? I don’t have many answers, just lots of questions. I am, after all, an academic.

[*] Another systemic question for another day: what are the systemic frameworks that set up my doctor for becoming a surgeon and Maria for becoming a CNA? It’s safe to assume (I think) that they didn’t have the same options and choices before them.

Reflections on Lent

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Sometimes, when it comes to ancient traditions and rituals of Christianity, I feel like I am playing a slow game of catch-up. Though I grew up in an extended family of faith, in the deeply religious Bible-belt of the American South, it was a community that eschewed any vestige of ritual practice. Words like advent, epiphany, Ash Wednesday, Shrove Tuesday, and Lent, among others were not part of my religious vocabulary, nor personal experience. My first experience with Lent was connected to Mardi Gras. As a young mom, living in New Orleans – my first experience outside the rural confines of the panhandle of Florida, was as breath-taking as it was terror-filled. Lively music and raucous celebrations, the excess of Mardi Gras’ celebrations, followed by penance and fasting on Ash Wednesday, beginning the forty days of Lent. These expressions, though rooted in Christian ritual was so far removed from my context, that I found it hard to understand or appreciate them in any way as true religious expression.

Almost two decades later, I found myself in Canada among churches for whom the Lenten time of the Christian calendar was one of deep introspective reflection on Jesus’ life, death and resurrection, intertwined with consideration of one’s response, as faith communities seeking to engage the world around them in ways that honored Jesus’ love and sacrifice. A deeper personal reverence for the rituals of my faith began to take hold.

Last week, I had one of my final physical therapy sessions. I have indeed been blessed with two incredible physical therapists during my recovery from double knee replacement. Both are named Dan; I have affectionately dubbed them “Dan the elder” and “Dan the younger,” though they are both much younger than me. Both Dans are incredibly gifted at challenging their patients to actively participate in their own healing. Beautifully integrating the softer side of physical therapy, namely, the ability to be tender, compassionate and nurturing, while at the same time combining that with pushing you to do your best, often leading you to experience pain in ways and at levels you didn’t know were possible. During those times when they are forcing my muscles to wake up and do the work they were intended for, we talk. The conversations are often as enriching for me as the physical therapy. At this session, Dan the younger and I talked about my plans for the weekend. I shared that my only plan for the weekend was to make King Cakes for my neighborhood family and for my office. That got us into a conversation about Mardi Gras and Lent, specifically the practice of giving something up for Lent. His oldest is just reaching the age of understanding and being able to actively engage in family rituals and practice. We talked about the ways we decide what to give up, the silly practices we, and others, engage in to legally meet the requirements of Lent, without making the fasting from something too stringent. He talked about what he wanted to teach his children, particularly his oldest son and mentioned the idea of doing rather than giving up. His comment sparked a recollection of one of my pastor’s sermons about Lent that highlighted the connection between service and sacrifice. Dave offered the idea that rather than limiting our Lenten ‘sacrifices’ to merely giving up something, a deeper meaning might be found in giving to others, which ultimately compels one to give up something. The apostle Paul, in Philippians offers us an image through Jesus’ giving up:

If you’ve gotten anything at all out of following Christ, if his love has made any difference in your life, if being in a community of the Spirit means anything to you, if you have a heart, if you care -then do me a favor: Agree with each other, love each other, be deep-spirited friends. Don’t push your way to the front; don’t sweet-talk your way to the top. Put yourself aside, and help others get ahead. Don’t be obsessed with getting your own advantage. Forget yourselves long enough to lend a helping hand. Think of yourselves the way Christ Jesus thought of himself. He had equal status with God but didn’t think so much of himself that he had to cling to the advantages of that status no matter what. (Philippians 2:1-6, emphasis added)

Forget yourselves long enough to lend a helping hand. Just maybe that’s the thing to focus on during Lent. It’s not about me – it’s not about what I give up; it’s about what I give and how I love.

 

Remember when . . . .?

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The word wiregrass immediately conjures up two recollections for me. The first is relatively non-descript – no particular memory – just a recollection of walking through swampy woods of scrabbly pines scrapping my legs against the prickly, needle-like leaves of the wiregrass plant. The presence of wiregrass on the ground and Spanish moss hanging from the trees is a sure sign that you are in the Deep South.

The second recollection is much deeper and broader than the first. Wiregrass evokes a sharp emotional and physical experience of home. I am instantaneously drawn back to the smells, sights, sounds and even touch of my childhood. Memories flood back to me: the all-encompassing hug of Ida Mae as she clasped me to her breasts; the sizzling heat of the kitchen as Mama fried chicken and baked her mouth-watering cats-head biscuits, the laughter and chatter of family gathered around the kitchen table, the long and boring drive down two-lane roads that stretched out like gray ribbons amidst the interminable pines and wiregrass. Though I have travelled far from the Wiregrass region of the Deep South, its tentacles are deeply intertwined in my very soul. The mellifluous and honeyed drawl may be softened somewhat, but the experiences and values of my southern childhood are deeply embedded in the woman I am today.

For much of his life, my great grandfather ran a little country store in the Wiregrass area of southeastern Alabama. My recollection of exactly which strip of highway his store set beside is long gone, but I do recall that the store set right on the edge of the highway. The only thing that separated the store from the highway was a small spit of sandy earth and a chinaberry tree. (I remember the chinaberry tree from visits my family and I would take to see my grandmother – my great-grandfather had long since died. To entertain ourselves, my brother Dennis and I would play war, throwing the hard small chinaberries at each other hoping to inflict mortal wounds).

The store also served as the living quarters for my great-grandfather and later, my grandmother. There were two tiny bedrooms, a small kitchen and a back room that served as a living room. The front room housed the store.

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There was no indoor toilet. An outhouse sat out beyond the back of the house. As a young child, I remember visiting my grandmother during the summers. One of my chores was to take the chamber pot to the outhouse each morning and empty it. Perhaps this helps explain why I love the outdoors, but hate camping or any other form of roughing it!

There were always people stopping by my grandmother’s, either to buy something, to catch up on neighborhood gossip or to swap stories. It was during these moments that I learned that art of story-telling – an art that is deeply ingrained in me. My father and others told the same story over and over again. These repetitive stories would often begin with “Remember, when . . . .” The repetition of the stories served to maintain the family and community bonds, connecting the generations and instilling values. Families and societies teach their children what’s important through the stories they tell. In many ways, scripture, particularly the Old Testament, is a collection of stories passed down from one generation to the next; to help the younger understand their heritage and their God. These days I think we have abrogated our responsibility of storytelling to the entertainment and sports industries. Sometimes that’s a good thing (e.g. movies like Lincoln and Beasts of the Southern Wild); sometimes not.

During my recent convalescence from knee surgery, I watched lots of talk shows. I didn’t realize how many options were available! In an episode of Katie, Katie Couric encouraged parents to write annual letters to their children, something she wished she had done for her two daughters. As Couric talked about the need for telling our stories to our children, I was reminded of something that Robert Bellah wrote in Habits of the Heart:

We find ourselves not independently of other people and institutions, but through them. We never get to the bottom of ourselves on our own. We discover who we are face to face and side by side with others in work, love, and learning.

Bequeathing our stories helps our children and teens discover who they are. Telling our stories to the next generations lays a foundation as they engage the question “Who am I?” Getting to the bottom of ourselves demands that we learn the cultural/familial milieu that is our own – good and bad.

So, two questions I am asking myself these days: What are the stories I am telling? What do I want my children (biological and not) to discover about themselves through the stories I leave?

I’m not a big fan

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I have never been a fan of Lance Armstrong, neither before he was diagnosed with cancer or afterwards. He always seemed a bit arrogant and egotistical to me. I lumped him in the same boat with all of the other athletes we laud and worship because they have incredible physical abilities. Hero-worship of athletes is integral to American culture. Every time one fails miserably, we swear we aren’t going to put them on a pedestal anymore – until the next time.

So I wasn’t surprised when Armstrong confessed to Oprah and, in all honesty, I had an “I told you so” moment or two. Even though I wasn’t a fan, I was incredibly disheartened. What is jaw-dropping to me, are the extremes to which he went to protect the world he had created; especially the bullying tactics he employed to destroy other people who knew the truth about his drug use and doping. There seemed to be no limit to what he would he was capable of engaging in to besmirch and smear their character. One has to wonder if he would have ever come clean (pun intended) if the evidence against him had not been irrefutable.

There are many things to consider and ponder in such a visible fall from grace. For example, what do you now do with someone who did horrible things, but has acknowledged those actions and indicated that he is hoping to turn things around? (One may question the sincerity or the depth of his confession, as I admittedly do with LA, but still the acknowledgement is there at some level). Do we excoriate him and leave him no opportunity for redemption? Do we accept his apology and forget about the things he has done – let bygones be bygones? Does the good one has done, outweigh the bad (e.g. cancer research in LA’s case)? Do we hold public figures to a higher standard because they do have the public’s trust? I don’t think there is an easy or simple answer. Every human being is a full of inconsistency and paradox. No person is strictly bad and incapable of doing good things; nor is a person wholly good and incapable of doing bad. One of my favorite sayings is, “even a broken clock is right twice a day.” Bad people can/will do good things and good people can/will do bad things. It’s up to society and public discourse to laud the good and hold our heroes and heroines accountable for the bad.

In the two nights of interviews (I watched every minute), there were two particularly heart-wrenching moments. The first was, when he talked about the impact of his deceit on his five children, especially his thirteen year-old son; who was forced to defend his father to his peers. The second was when he implied that getting cancer had turned him into a bully. I’ve known way too many people diagnosed with cancer and I don’t recall one of them becoming a bully because of it. Colleen Shaddox has written a thoughtful opinion piece in the Hartford Courant about Armstrong’s comment. It’s worth a read. http://www.courant.com/news/opinion/hc-op-shaddox-lance-armstrong-rode-cancer-myth-to–20130118,0,7721305.story

 

It’s not just about guns

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Two months have passed since I last blogged. Seven weeks ago today I had surgery to replace both my knees. And, what a journey it has been. I am still processing many lessons I am learning from this journey and I will blog about some of them another time. Today I would like to talk not about physical health, but mental health.

Like most people, I have been deeply saddened by the violence and tragic mass shootings in 2012. In the beginnings of this new year, it seems that there are almost daily reports of someone entering a school, a restaurant parking lot or an office building armed to kill.

This culture of violence has sparked a vigorous debate on the place of guns in our society. Gun advocates and those desiring for greater gun control have been vociferous in defending their positions. There have even been pockets of real dialogue and open discussion. In the midst of these horrible tragedies, there may be hope that something good will come from the debate, leading to a safer environment for all of us.

In all of the clamor about guns, however, there have been quieter voices raising another concern, one that I think is truly the more serious issue, that is, the issue of mental health–the treatment and care of people who are mentally ill. One cannot read even cursorily about the killer at Sandy Hook or the Aurora theatre without realizing that they each had serious mental health issues. (For one mom’s perspective, see Calenthia’s earlier post here http://www.theologicalcurves.com/2012/12/i-am-adam-lanzas-mother-by-liza-long/) An in-depth look raises many questions about the support individuals and families can access when faced with mental health issues, either from insurance companies, federal, state and local governments, and even churches, families and friends. Often, families and individuals are left to fend for themselves, running into more hurdles and roadblocks than actual help.

In the past few weeks, as the issue of gun safety has rightly been front-page news, there have been just as many headlines about mental health issues; only they haven’t gotten quite as much attention. The failure of our society to adequately address mental health issues was highlighted again in the Twin Cities this week with the memorial service of Peter Linnerooth, himself a psychologist with a history of working with veterans suffering from mental health issues, particularly post-traumatic stress disorder. In his work advocating for soldiers, he served a tour in Iraq during the height of the conflict there, returning to the US severely traumatized by his experiences. As he struggled to cope and get help, while at the same time continuing to work with other veterans, he was overwhelmed with his own mental health issues, committing suicide on January 2nd. A mental health activist, he knew first-hand the obstacles to getting effective treatment and support. In 2010, Time Magazine published an article on the difficulties in obtaining effective mental health treatment for military personnel. Linnerooth was interviewed for that article. http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,2008886,00.html

In a subsequent article reflecting on Linnerooth’s life and death, Time noted that the incidence of suicide of active duty troops reached its highest level in 2012 at 349. While the NRA was lobbying for armed guards in every school, the American School Counselor Association failed to get enough signatures to support school counselors in every public school.

I hope that the debate about gun control continues. I also hope that mental health issues get as much attention in our public discourse.

 

WHAT’S IN A LABEL?

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For many years, the three of us on this blog have explored together issues of identity development, particularly the notion of how one integrates the different aspects of ‘self’ (e.g. gender, race, ethnicity, sexuality) into an overall self-concept. How does one make sense of the whole of one’s differing identities?

Today I want to point you to a beautiful, thoughtful, and poignant blog that gets at the intense questioning that one must engage in to stay on the journey of understanding one’s identity. http://www.danoah.com/2012/11/anything-other-than-straight.html

Dan Pearce’s blog also highlights the significance of culture, social context and community in supporting and undermining a person’s journey towards wholeness. A dear friend regularly sends me postings from Ten Minutes of Torah Study. Yesterdays post explored Jacob’s struggle with God by the Jabbok river (Genesis 32). I have been pondering two points from this study that connect, at least for me, to a person’s struggle in understanding self. First, is that our struggles – our wrestlings – about self and God are intertwined and it’s difficult sometimes to know whether we are struggling with God or struggling with ourselves. Secondly, “through struggle comes growth and reconciliation, and that only through direct confrontation are we able to change from who we are to who we were meant to be.” (http://view.mail.rj.org/?j=fec511767366017f&m=fe9315707361057572&ls=fe281776716c0479761d72&l=fefd167574660c&s=fe58127173610c747510&jb=ffcf14&ju=fe6215717d670579771d&r=0)

Sometimes (maybe more often than not) that struggle is not with God, or others, but with ourselves.

In the next few days, I am looking forward to pondering and writing about some of the questions that Pearce has raised.

 

Sexism by any other name . . . .

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Christianity Today posted a web-article this week, entitled The Benevolent Sexism at Christian Colleges. http://www.christianitytoday.com/ct/2012/november-web-only/benevolent-sexism-at-christian-colleges.html?start=3 Biola University professors and researchers, Brad Christerson, M. Elizabeth Lewis Hall and Shelly Cunningham offer a glimpse into the experiences for many female faculty at Christian liberal arts universities. As I read through the article, I felt like they were describing my life. I’ll offer a few key comments based on my own personal experiences and then invite as many as would like, into the discussion, particularly my two colleagues on this blog.

Christerson, Hall and Cunningham call the particular dynamic of male-female collegiality on Christian college campuses, benevolent sexism. “Benevolent sexism refers to sexism that is not overtly hostile. In fact, it is often in the context of warm, friendly personal relationships between men and women.” I have taught in environments where the sexism was overtly hostile, but where I am now there is an ethos of collegiality and my relationships with my male colleagues are marked, for the most part, by relationships in which I am treated with kindness and respect. What makes my relationships different though, than what I observe in male-to-male relationships is that men tend to earn and give respect based on their intellectual and academic accomplishments. The respect and kindness afforded me most often seems to be for my being womanly – e.g. nurturing, tender.

The article points out that the results of this study show female faculty often feel excluded from male social groups in part because “evangelicals are more guarded about cross-gender relationships.” The theological wars over issues of women in leadership, the roles of women and men, among other things has fostered an ethos in which men and women are socially awkward in relating professionally with one another. Should a male colleague and a female colleague meet in an office alone to discuss a research project? Can they meet for lunch or at a coffee shop? If someone sees them, what will people think of them? The typical end result of this awkwardness and paranoia is that it’s often just easier NOT to engage professionally, which consequently means that women get left out of the discussion. I cannot even begin to count the number of times I have felt excluded from professional conversations in which I knew or suspected that it was primarily because of my gender. And, sometimes, I was the one making that choice.

Finally, a point closely related, was “how social exclusion leads to professional disadvantages by virtue of being left out of informal information-sharing networks. . . .” In my own experience, for many, many years, I have watched as the men go to lunch together, talk shop over coffee, play sports together, socialize together with their families and very rarely was I or any other female faculty member included. And, here is where the benevolent part comes in. Many of my male colleagues would consider me a friend, and if I raise the issue of women being left out of social networks, I typically receive two kinds of comments: “We are not stopping you from having your own social networks;” or “you may be right, but it’s too uncomfortable, it’s not appropriate or healthy, etc.” And the researchers are correct, in that this subtle benevolent form of sexism leads to less academic and professional opportunities for women: advancement and promotion, grants, access to networks that lead to book contracts, journal articles, etc. Succeeding professionally is often about mentors and networking, getting your name out there because of the social networks you develop. The ethos of benevolent sexism on Christian college campuses makes it much more difficult for women to develop the needed relationships to thrive professionally. Sexism by any other name is still sexism.

Election Day Reflections

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Walking down the hallways at my university yesterday, I was struck by how many students, faculty and staff wore I VOTED stickers. At least one of the local department stores was giving significant discounts for people walking in with their voting stickers. But, as I surveyed the crowds in the hallways, I didn’t think they were wearing their stickers to receive a store discount, but because of the pride they felt at having the privilege of voting.

I couldn’t help but think of the different stories behind each sticker I saw. For some, it was the first time they were old enough to vote and I imagined the nervousness and excitement of going into the voting booth for the very first time. I noticed others, closer to my age, and knew that their sticker represented decades of being committed to exercising their right to vote for candidates and issues that embodied their values and convictions. I saw young women and students of color and wondered if they understood the cost and fight of others before them that won them the privilege of voting.

Estimates of voter turnouts across the country were somewhere in the range of 70-78% of registered voters. There were periods during the 1970s and 80s when voter turnout was plummeting and pundits bemoaned the apathy of the electorate assuming that the trend downward would continue. Quite the opposite has happened. Since 1996, turnouts of registered voters have continued a strong and steady climb. Devastation of loss because of Hurricane Sandy didn’t keep people from finding ways to exercise their civic possibility. I say possibility, rather than civic duty because duty sounds like fulfilling an obligation. Perhaps there is an element of obligation, but civic possibility speaks to the notion that each vote matters, each vote has within it the potential to shape and influence society.

When Cierra plays soccer, I show up for as many practices and games as I can. I want to cheer her on and support her (though she insists I do that with silent cheers)! Every time I show up, I get anxious and my stomach churns. My fears and anxieties kick in. I want her to do her best and not fail. I want her team to win. I want her to be able to celebrate her efforts and her team’s efforts. BUT, even as I want that for her, I also want all of the players and all of the teams to win. While I can’t say that I wanted all of the candidates to be successful or all of the issues on the ballots to win, the same fear and anxieties kicked in yesterday. Every victory, every defeat represented hundreds and thousands of individuals going to the polls, standing in line, casting their ballot. It sounds a bit trite, but this morning as we assess and evaluate the results, we are all winners because of our civic possibility. Yesterday, I chatted with a dear friend who had just voted. We talked about lines, ballots and our hopes for outcomes. At the end of the conversation he noted, “Tomorrow, the candidates I voted for may have lost, the issues I supported may not have won, but I will still feel good because I had the opportunity to vote.”

On Monday, my friend Amy Jacober wrote eloquently on this blog challenging us to be people who actively live through the lens of faith rather than the lens of political causes. I resonate with her comments. I appreciate Amy’s call to be God honoring in our ‘everyday choices.’ Critically thinking about the issues of our communities, neighborhoods and nation and showing up to vote in light of the convictions we hold is one way of being people of faith. I am in awe of what happened yesterday. I VOTED!