Friends,
My apologies for the month-long hiatus I took from blogging, but trust me when I say that it was for the best. August was a roller coaster of a month on a variety of fronts, but I am happy to say that I think I am out of the thick of the proverbial woods. Being surrounded by my seminary friends once more has already made quite a difference, as has been beginning my new job at First Christian Church of Concord.
On August 14, I completed my Clinical Pastoral Education internship at California Pacific. I still have a few ideas for posts to include in the Dispatches from Gennesaret series on my own personal reflections of hospital chaplaincy, and I am going back and forth about whether or not to actually write and post them. I do want to offer this, though--that part of my internship experience included my own apprehension towards pastoral identity, and that, as a hospital chaplain, complete strangers were seeing me as a Christian minister. I was not, and am not, quite used to this. Honestly, I think that part of my ego thought that it would be pretty neat to be seen as a pastor--to be viewed as that office of ordained representative ministry, to be seen as a person who has devoted their life to (what I believe to be) one of the highest vocational callings there is...and as far as hospital chaplaincy goes, ministering to the sick is a vocation of inarguably noble intent. I cannot say I am especially proud of that facet of myself, that facet that sees my future occupation as a means of acquiring respect, but it is who I am. I accept it.
That process of understanding pastoral identity included a summer-long question of whether or not I would actually wear clerical vestments while working as a chaplain, so that I might have the experience of having others readily identify my office immediately upon meeting me. This is a decision I continued to explore as I recently started my field education position as a Student Associate Minister at First Christian Church, as the senior pastor and I have decided that I will be wearing a preaching robe at Sunday worship services. But at California Pacific, I ultimately decided not to wear any vestments, in part because wearing a collar or similar non-robe vestments is not something Disciples of Christ clergy do a lot of in the United States. Plus, I began to notice that carrying around a Bible, as I often did, would, in combination with my hospital employee badge, have the same effect of outwardly identifying myself as a Christian cleric.
But mostly, I began to realize that I didn't want to wear a clerical collar or similar vestment because it would obscure the string of puka shells that I have worn around my neck almost every day for over five years now, ever since my younger sister Katherine gave them to me before I left for college in the summer of 2004. Earlier this year, the string snapped, and my girlfriend Libby and her father painstakingly repaired the string for me. When considering the sentimental meaning that these puka shells had for me, I felt as though I was already wearing a reverential collar of sorts--a collar acquired and repaired by two women who mean an awful lot to me.
If this conclusion only reinforces the sappy ideals of familial and romantic attachment that I am exhibiting in spite of myself, I think the point has partly been lost. I have come to believe that the signs of ministry take place in a variety of ways, and that the aura of ministry can be found wherever we take the time to see it. Behold the many ministers of God, for in them, one beholds the God Itself.
Eric
"Have you not read in the book of Moses, in the story about the burning bush, how God said to Moses, "I am the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, and the God of Jacob"? He is God not of the dead, but of the living!" -Mark 12:26-27
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
Fine dining and living it up in the city
A quick break from my summer "Dispatches from Gennesaret" series of posts to say that my family is in Berkeley for a long weekend of vacation, and that while they are here, we plan on visiting some of the finer dining establishments that the Bay Area has to offer--Chez Panisse in Berkeley and Gary Danko in San Francisco, in addition to Citizen Cake (which we went to tonight, and it was quite good--more coming later) and Bistro Don Giovanni in Napa.
This is on top of the very enjoyable experience that Libby and I had dining at Fleur de Lys a couple weeks ago (and which I still have yet to blog about--but will). July and early August is shaping up to be a time of pretty fun expansion of my culinary horizons, even though I already fancied myself (probably ridiculously) as a little bit of a foodie.
I have enjoyed eating for as long as I can remember, and to me, splurging on a nice meal is as justifiable (if not more so) a use of disposable income than anything else I can think of. When I was a kid, I mostly ate to get full and to enjoy the rather unsophisticated tastes that most kids often have (lots of sugary cereal, candy, and, well, sugar in general!). I am really looking forward to this series of what I hope will be some pretty spectacular meals with my family.
Eric
This is on top of the very enjoyable experience that Libby and I had dining at Fleur de Lys a couple weeks ago (and which I still have yet to blog about--but will). July and early August is shaping up to be a time of pretty fun expansion of my culinary horizons, even though I already fancied myself (probably ridiculously) as a little bit of a foodie.
I have enjoyed eating for as long as I can remember, and to me, splurging on a nice meal is as justifiable (if not more so) a use of disposable income than anything else I can think of. When I was a kid, I mostly ate to get full and to enjoy the rather unsophisticated tastes that most kids often have (lots of sugary cereal, candy, and, well, sugar in general!). I am really looking forward to this series of what I hope will be some pretty spectacular meals with my family.
Eric
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Dispatches from Gennesaret, part III: Angelfire
(PSR friends, not to be confused with Angels Fear...)
My feet pound against the hospital floor as I keep pace alongside the medical staff.
I am whispering prayers softly under my breath.
And pounding in my head is a throbbing headache that keeps time with my feet.
One day, one of the patients on my service is rushed down to the emergency room. I had just walked onto the floor to see the medical staff preparing to move the patient to the ER. I ask the patient if they would like for me to accompany them to the ER, they weakly say yes. I am suddenly and starkly aware of the trust that is being invested in me--it is one thing to talk to the chaplain in a laid-back setting of a hospital routine, it is entirely another to have him at your side as you are being brought into the ER.
On television shows, the ER is a place full of drama, attractive doctors and nurses, and of patients who either accomplish incredible come-from-behind recoveries, or die in the most heartbreaking manner. Television got it right in at least one respect--any death has the agonizing capacity to be heartbreaking. But sometimes, the similarities end there. And especially for family--in this case, the patient's father, who came down to the ER with us--it is a place for long waits, confusion, apprehension, and sometimes, outright fear.
Providing pastoral care, at this point, extends beyond both routine conversation as well as the typical existential or theological questions (ie, "Why me?") that chaplains often answer. We are there to explain what we can and to comfort where we cannot explain. I cannot tell a worried father why exactly his child is being taken in for x-rays, an echocardiogram, an MRI, or any other tests, but I can tell him that the x-ray setup is very close by, that they have not taken his child far at all, and that through it all, God's divine presence remains very much alive in the room. And through it all, I continue to give my own prayers, silently and spoken, as an offering to anyone, anything that was listening.
Days later, in the wake of this crisis, the patient referred to me as their angel. That meant a tremendous amount to me--indeed, I felt like it gave me far more credit than I deserved--and it was and is a powerful reminder of the impact clerics can have in a person's life, for both good and bad. While the word 'angel' often carries connotations of great personal virtue, I think that once you put aside that connotation, there is an interesting connection to be made. Just as angels are the ethereal go-betweens from heaven to earth, so too are chaplains--and, indeed, many of the hospital staff--go-betweens from a patient's fears to their hopes. We are go-betweens from a parent's worry to their child's physical presence. And, I am sometimes seen by patients as a go-between from divine presence to the tangible, physical, fragile creation, even though to me I am, quite simply, human.
But on this day, I don't think about any of that. I walk to and fro, trying to make sure nobody is alone for very long. I try to offer peace where there is dread. I try to bring presence where there is unknowingness. And I pray.
And I pray.
After the doctor arrives once again, the patient gently tells me they are ready for me to go. I say good-bye, withdraw from the ER, and close my eyes as I allow everything that has just happened to wash over me and be taken in. When I return home, I immediately take 800 milligrams of ibuprofen and collapse onto my bed, painfully, mercifully, imperfectly, wonderfully human.
After about thirty minutes, the pills begin to take effect. I start drifting off to sleep.
And I pray.
Eric
My feet pound against the hospital floor as I keep pace alongside the medical staff.
I am whispering prayers softly under my breath.
And pounding in my head is a throbbing headache that keeps time with my feet.
One day, one of the patients on my service is rushed down to the emergency room. I had just walked onto the floor to see the medical staff preparing to move the patient to the ER. I ask the patient if they would like for me to accompany them to the ER, they weakly say yes. I am suddenly and starkly aware of the trust that is being invested in me--it is one thing to talk to the chaplain in a laid-back setting of a hospital routine, it is entirely another to have him at your side as you are being brought into the ER.
On television shows, the ER is a place full of drama, attractive doctors and nurses, and of patients who either accomplish incredible come-from-behind recoveries, or die in the most heartbreaking manner. Television got it right in at least one respect--any death has the agonizing capacity to be heartbreaking. But sometimes, the similarities end there. And especially for family--in this case, the patient's father, who came down to the ER with us--it is a place for long waits, confusion, apprehension, and sometimes, outright fear.
Providing pastoral care, at this point, extends beyond both routine conversation as well as the typical existential or theological questions (ie, "Why me?") that chaplains often answer. We are there to explain what we can and to comfort where we cannot explain. I cannot tell a worried father why exactly his child is being taken in for x-rays, an echocardiogram, an MRI, or any other tests, but I can tell him that the x-ray setup is very close by, that they have not taken his child far at all, and that through it all, God's divine presence remains very much alive in the room. And through it all, I continue to give my own prayers, silently and spoken, as an offering to anyone, anything that was listening.
Days later, in the wake of this crisis, the patient referred to me as their angel. That meant a tremendous amount to me--indeed, I felt like it gave me far more credit than I deserved--and it was and is a powerful reminder of the impact clerics can have in a person's life, for both good and bad. While the word 'angel' often carries connotations of great personal virtue, I think that once you put aside that connotation, there is an interesting connection to be made. Just as angels are the ethereal go-betweens from heaven to earth, so too are chaplains--and, indeed, many of the hospital staff--go-betweens from a patient's fears to their hopes. We are go-betweens from a parent's worry to their child's physical presence. And, I am sometimes seen by patients as a go-between from divine presence to the tangible, physical, fragile creation, even though to me I am, quite simply, human.
But on this day, I don't think about any of that. I walk to and fro, trying to make sure nobody is alone for very long. I try to offer peace where there is dread. I try to bring presence where there is unknowingness. And I pray.
And I pray.
After the doctor arrives once again, the patient gently tells me they are ready for me to go. I say good-bye, withdraw from the ER, and close my eyes as I allow everything that has just happened to wash over me and be taken in. When I return home, I immediately take 800 milligrams of ibuprofen and collapse onto my bed, painfully, mercifully, imperfectly, wonderfully human.
After about thirty minutes, the pills begin to take effect. I start drifting off to sleep.
And I pray.
Eric
Monday, June 29, 2009
Dispatches from Gennesaret, part II: Dark Moon Rising
A number of days ago, I served my first 24-hour shift as the on-call chaplain for the California Pacific Medical Center system. This meant that during the day, I would refer pages for a chaplain to the chaplain of that particular ward, and at night, I would be the only chaplain on duty and could respond to any page personally. The day was not particularly arduous, I simply passed referrals on to my fellow interns, residents, and staff chaplains. Some detective work and malfunctioning phone hijinks ensued, but nothing terribly dramatic.
That night, however, two patients died on my service. One of the two died in the evening, the other died in the middle of the night. Both times I was paged, and both times I spent a couple hours with the families. After all was said and done, I got less than four hours of sleep that night. It had taken a toll on me, if in no other way but in terms of sheer physical exhaustion.
In the days that followed, however, I wrestled with myself on how much the deaths of these two people should affect me. On a fundamental level, I feel like it should affect me because I bore witness to the extreme pain of their families in the immediate wake of such a loss. John Donne once wrote, "Because I am involved in (hu)mankind, any man's death diminishes me," and on a gut level, I connect so much to that statement. This experience had to affect me, how could it not?
But I also began to tell myself that on a certain level, I needed to be able to emotionally separate myself from what had happened. I remembered an episode of Scrubs in which Dr. Cox, in explaining how another doctor was breaking bad news to a family, said of the doctor, "He's going to tell them the patient died, he's going to say that he is sorry, and then he is going to go back to work. Do you think anyone else in that room is going back to work today?" I still went to work the next day after my night on-call, and I still ministered to the patients I normally worked with on the dialysis ward.
I've been told by friends who talk to me about their problems that part of the reason they come to me is because they think I (generally) keep a pretty level head and can offer objective advice when I need to. I would like to think that is so. But I also have realized that I have a bit of a ways to go in being able to sort out just how much I can, should, or am able to allow my instances of crisis ministry to affect me (and even this presumes that I have some degree of control over it).
And, in reflecting back on that night and how I can most constructively make meaning out of what happened, I remembered the passage from Mitch Albom's "Tuesdays With Morrie" that I read to my intern cohort in seminar on the day of my on-call. In it, Albom writes about an Arctic First Nation Peoples tribe that believes that the moon is capable to receiving the souls of dying organisms before sending those souls back to earth in the bodies of new living things, and that sometimes, the moon is so filled with the souls of the world that it disappears from view on the nights of the new moon. But, as Albom writes, the moon always returns.
June 22 marked the night of the new moon for the month of June, the first new moon after my night on call. I would like to think that at some point in time, whether on the night of the 22nd or on any other night, there was indeed something greater than us, greater than anything we ever knew, waiting to welcome these souls with open and loving arms. I would like to think that there will remain the connection I made to the families of the dead, likely sustained only by the fragile threads of memory. And I would like to think that when I expire, I will be welcomed into the moon, into the heavens, into whatever awaits me, as the world continues on, as the sun rises and sets, and as the flowers continue to bloom.
The following night, June 23, marked my next night on call. A shadow of the moon was visible through the city lights and the rolling fog.
I was never paged that night.
Eric
That night, however, two patients died on my service. One of the two died in the evening, the other died in the middle of the night. Both times I was paged, and both times I spent a couple hours with the families. After all was said and done, I got less than four hours of sleep that night. It had taken a toll on me, if in no other way but in terms of sheer physical exhaustion.
In the days that followed, however, I wrestled with myself on how much the deaths of these two people should affect me. On a fundamental level, I feel like it should affect me because I bore witness to the extreme pain of their families in the immediate wake of such a loss. John Donne once wrote, "Because I am involved in (hu)mankind, any man's death diminishes me," and on a gut level, I connect so much to that statement. This experience had to affect me, how could it not?
But I also began to tell myself that on a certain level, I needed to be able to emotionally separate myself from what had happened. I remembered an episode of Scrubs in which Dr. Cox, in explaining how another doctor was breaking bad news to a family, said of the doctor, "He's going to tell them the patient died, he's going to say that he is sorry, and then he is going to go back to work. Do you think anyone else in that room is going back to work today?" I still went to work the next day after my night on-call, and I still ministered to the patients I normally worked with on the dialysis ward.
I've been told by friends who talk to me about their problems that part of the reason they come to me is because they think I (generally) keep a pretty level head and can offer objective advice when I need to. I would like to think that is so. But I also have realized that I have a bit of a ways to go in being able to sort out just how much I can, should, or am able to allow my instances of crisis ministry to affect me (and even this presumes that I have some degree of control over it).
And, in reflecting back on that night and how I can most constructively make meaning out of what happened, I remembered the passage from Mitch Albom's "Tuesdays With Morrie" that I read to my intern cohort in seminar on the day of my on-call. In it, Albom writes about an Arctic First Nation Peoples tribe that believes that the moon is capable to receiving the souls of dying organisms before sending those souls back to earth in the bodies of new living things, and that sometimes, the moon is so filled with the souls of the world that it disappears from view on the nights of the new moon. But, as Albom writes, the moon always returns.
June 22 marked the night of the new moon for the month of June, the first new moon after my night on call. I would like to think that at some point in time, whether on the night of the 22nd or on any other night, there was indeed something greater than us, greater than anything we ever knew, waiting to welcome these souls with open and loving arms. I would like to think that there will remain the connection I made to the families of the dead, likely sustained only by the fragile threads of memory. And I would like to think that when I expire, I will be welcomed into the moon, into the heavens, into whatever awaits me, as the world continues on, as the sun rises and sets, and as the flowers continue to bloom.
The following night, June 23, marked my next night on call. A shadow of the moon was visible through the city lights and the rolling fog.
I was never paged that night.
Eric
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Dispatches from Gennesaret
I just completed my first week of my Clinical Pastoral Education internship at California Pacific Medical Center in San Francisco. It is a gig that will take up a lot of my time through August, and so if you do not see me around much (in person, online, whatever), please accept my apologies in advance. I knew going into this that it would require me putting most aspects of my life on hold while I do this. This is an important summer for me, since hospital chaplaincy is a vocation I have felt compelled towards for years.
Unlike last summer, when I documented a few of my observations and rants about being a pizza deliveryman, I won't be blogging quite so much about my experiences as a hospital chaplain, mostly because of the commitment I made to honor the confidentiality of the patients I will be ministering to.
I will say, however, that one of the reasons why I felt compelled towards chaplaincy is quickly being proven true--that it is possible for people to be at their most authentic in an environment as extreme as a hospital. This obviously isn't always the case--a person may put up walls or a mask to any stranger, including myself, but the patients I have met and worked with have been, with few exceptions, some of the most genuine people. In the hospital, where the chips are often down and people find themselves facing fear, dread, and the possibility of all manner of health concerns, humanness is an absolute godsend. Here, ministry has only an appetite for what is real. And in the voices of my patients, the words they speak and the topics we discuss, there is something both very tangible and very intangible...but still very real. And I am quickly learning that there is no word or term for that particular something. For now, authenticity will have to do.
A quick note about the title of this post--in the Gospel of Matthew (and I think in others, but I need to double check on this), Gennesaret is a region across the sea in which Jesus performed a significant amount of his healing ministry. Even before I began this job, I had seen hospitals as pieces of holy ground, where the extremes of human experience, life and death, loss and joy, are experienced in full. And as I continue to develop my theology of ministry, I pray for the same healing power for my patients as the followers of Christ found from Him at Gennesaret. In this way, the hospital is not unlike a temple, a small bit of holy ground, a burning bush, in the urban wilderness of the city.
Eric
"...and they begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed." -Matthew 14:36
Unlike last summer, when I documented a few of my observations and rants about being a pizza deliveryman, I won't be blogging quite so much about my experiences as a hospital chaplain, mostly because of the commitment I made to honor the confidentiality of the patients I will be ministering to.
I will say, however, that one of the reasons why I felt compelled towards chaplaincy is quickly being proven true--that it is possible for people to be at their most authentic in an environment as extreme as a hospital. This obviously isn't always the case--a person may put up walls or a mask to any stranger, including myself, but the patients I have met and worked with have been, with few exceptions, some of the most genuine people. In the hospital, where the chips are often down and people find themselves facing fear, dread, and the possibility of all manner of health concerns, humanness is an absolute godsend. Here, ministry has only an appetite for what is real. And in the voices of my patients, the words they speak and the topics we discuss, there is something both very tangible and very intangible...but still very real. And I am quickly learning that there is no word or term for that particular something. For now, authenticity will have to do.
A quick note about the title of this post--in the Gospel of Matthew (and I think in others, but I need to double check on this), Gennesaret is a region across the sea in which Jesus performed a significant amount of his healing ministry. Even before I began this job, I had seen hospitals as pieces of holy ground, where the extremes of human experience, life and death, loss and joy, are experienced in full. And as I continue to develop my theology of ministry, I pray for the same healing power for my patients as the followers of Christ found from Him at Gennesaret. In this way, the hospital is not unlike a temple, a small bit of holy ground, a burning bush, in the urban wilderness of the city.
Eric
"...and they begged him that they might touch even the fringe of his cloak; and all who touched it were healed." -Matthew 14:36
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Ar Hyd Y Nos
My dad had his birthday this past weekend. Happy birthday, pops.
Final papers have kept me too busy to post for the last couple of weeks, but I'm down to my last final paper before I am done with my first year of God school. One of my final papers, for my Christian Worship class, involved writing a full worship script (as one would write a script for a play) accompanied by a theological commentary. I will say one of the issues I had with how the final paper was assigned is that it generally allowed students to stay within their comfort zones in terms of a model of worship, and I was no exception--after years of Taize-style worship at both Saint Andrew in Kansas and at Lewis & Clark in Portland, I am pretty steeped in its rich tradition of contemplative reflection, and I wrote a script that relied heavily on Taize music, prayers, and trappings.
An exception to the Taize model was the music I chose for a closing song--the Welsh hymn Ar Hyd Y Nos ("All Through the Night"). Taize is a continental European tradition, coming out of the monastic Catholicism of Switzerland. But Ar Hyd Y Nos is a song I have wanted to use as a closing hymn for a long, long time, ever since Diana Butler Bass, one of the great champions of progressive Christianity, wrote about an alternative set of lyrics to the song in her book "Christianity for the Rest of Us." The version which Butler Bass chronicled ends like this:
"Go, my children, with my blessing, never alone.
Waking, sleeping, I am with you, you are my own.
In my love's baptismal river I have made you mine forever.
Go, my children, with my blessing, you are my own."
The original lyrics, even translated into English, are just as poetic, and they bear witness to a divine presence that did not stop with the creation. They speak to me, that wending, weaving, threading in and out of ourselves, God longs to live in us. Over, among, without, and within ourselves, God stays with us. And transcending time and space, God loves us. The hymn evokes a message I couldn't not include. The hymn evokes a God I couldn't not love.
Eric
All through the night
While the weary world is sleeping
All through the night
O'er they spirit gently stealing
Visions of delight revealing
Breathes a pure and holy feeling
All through the night."
-Ar Hyd Y Nos
Final papers have kept me too busy to post for the last couple of weeks, but I'm down to my last final paper before I am done with my first year of God school. One of my final papers, for my Christian Worship class, involved writing a full worship script (as one would write a script for a play) accompanied by a theological commentary. I will say one of the issues I had with how the final paper was assigned is that it generally allowed students to stay within their comfort zones in terms of a model of worship, and I was no exception--after years of Taize-style worship at both Saint Andrew in Kansas and at Lewis & Clark in Portland, I am pretty steeped in its rich tradition of contemplative reflection, and I wrote a script that relied heavily on Taize music, prayers, and trappings.
An exception to the Taize model was the music I chose for a closing song--the Welsh hymn Ar Hyd Y Nos ("All Through the Night"). Taize is a continental European tradition, coming out of the monastic Catholicism of Switzerland. But Ar Hyd Y Nos is a song I have wanted to use as a closing hymn for a long, long time, ever since Diana Butler Bass, one of the great champions of progressive Christianity, wrote about an alternative set of lyrics to the song in her book "Christianity for the Rest of Us." The version which Butler Bass chronicled ends like this:
"Go, my children, with my blessing, never alone.
Waking, sleeping, I am with you, you are my own.
In my love's baptismal river I have made you mine forever.
Go, my children, with my blessing, you are my own."
The original lyrics, even translated into English, are just as poetic, and they bear witness to a divine presence that did not stop with the creation. They speak to me, that wending, weaving, threading in and out of ourselves, God longs to live in us. Over, among, without, and within ourselves, God stays with us. And transcending time and space, God loves us. The hymn evokes a message I couldn't not include. The hymn evokes a God I couldn't not love.
Eric
"Sleep my child and peace attend thee,
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee,
All through the night
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping
Hill and vale in slumber steeping,
I my loving vigil keeping
All through the night.
All through the night
While the weary world is sleeping
All through the night
O'er they spirit gently stealing
Visions of delight revealing
Breathes a pure and holy feeling
All through the night."
-Ar Hyd Y Nos
Saturday, May 2, 2009
My life five years ago
This is probably going to be a very long, very emotional post. Consider yourself warned.
It was five years ago to the day that I came as close as I ever have to seeing God. I have never considered myself a "born again" Christian--my faith is a pilgrimage, a journey that I am always walking at varying speeds. But on this weekend, my faith didn't just walk--it sprinted..but not at first.
It was my final youth-led worship at Saint Andrew before I would leave for Lewis & Clark. I was preaching, along with Kelly Rand, one of our youth group's spiritual pillars and an all-around amazing person. At this point, I'll let what I wrote five years ago take over.
This is an excerpt of what I wrote about today, in my old blog:
Left prom early since I had to preach the next day.
(end of excerpt)
I genuinely cannot remember much about those two worship services that morning. I remember small, almost thrown-off things. I remember the story I used to introduce my sermon, about a little boy named Reese who I worked with at Brookridge Day School in the summer of 2002 who died in a swimming accident. I remember that I quoted Emerson in my sermon. I remember Kelly coming up to me in between the worship services to give me a hug.
But I also remember at the start of my second sermon, for the later worship service, that my lapel mic wasn't working properly--or working at all. At this point, I was still running on fumes energy-wise, and my psyche was utterly shot. And I wasn't believing the words I was preaching--I was at a loss as to why an omnipotent God lets tragedies occur. So, my voice was already ringing hollow to me on several levels. I looked across the sanctuary as I was preaching to see a couple of folks checking the sound equipment and then looking back at me and shaking their heads--the mic wasn't going to work this time.
And this is the last thing I remember about that sermon--I looked up, and I saw the sunlight streaming in from the windows of the sanctuary. And whether it was because I needed something--anything--to cling to and the sunlight just offered itself up at the right moment, or because I needed to know that there was something waiting for me outside the walls of the church and the bounds of my sermon, I was, at least for a moment, put at ease.
I no longer believe that God is omnipotent. Some might think it ironic that a God experience would lead me to disbelief of divine omnipotence. But it was then that I realized that God was still so many things to me--a teacher, a creator, a parent, a friend...and a companion. None of these things I would associate with omnipotence, so why place that mantle upon God? But I have to think that on that day, God's presence grieved with me, walked with me, spoke with me, and ultimately sustained me.
I am a different person now in a lot of ways than who I was five years ago. I think that is to be expected of almost anyone, especially in people as young as me. But who I was in high school was someone so filled with so much bitterness and anger over religion. I spent so much of my time and energy being angry...I despised the homophobia and single-mindedness I saw from people I knew at school, but I also despised myself because I did not know how speak like them on behalf of what my faith told me to be true. I refused to bear witness to the revelation of an open-minded God. I thought it was not my place. I thought it never would be my place.
Until then.
Like I said at the beginning of this now excessively long post, I do not consider what happened on May 2, 2004, to be a born-again experience. It started a process that continued as I moved to Portland, and from Portland to Berkeley. My pent-up bitterness over a religion I loved was like a poison--it had to be extracted slowly and delicately, which I think Portland helped accomplish (and it is partly why I love that city as much as I do). I would like to think that process had already begun--I spent my senior year of high school trying to resuscitate the potential I had cast aside during my years of emotional depression, but senior year was just one piece of the puzzle.
But on that weekend five years ago, God came down to sustain me. In doing so, God taught me how to live by means healthier than bitterness. Who I am now is someone who I love much more than who I was at pretty much any point between 1999 and 2006.
And for that, God has my devotion.
Authentically,
Eric
It was five years ago to the day that I came as close as I ever have to seeing God. I have never considered myself a "born again" Christian--my faith is a pilgrimage, a journey that I am always walking at varying speeds. But on this weekend, my faith didn't just walk--it sprinted..but not at first.
It was my final youth-led worship at Saint Andrew before I would leave for Lewis & Clark. I was preaching, along with Kelly Rand, one of our youth group's spiritual pillars and an all-around amazing person. At this point, I'll let what I wrote five years ago take over.
This is an excerpt of what I wrote about today, in my old blog:
Left prom early since I had to preach the next day.
Sunday: Woke up at 4:30 in the morning to the phone ringing. Was the father of one of my friends, Eric Hooks (his dad and my parents go back several years...why Eric and I have the same first name is simply coincidence). Anyways, Eric and some of his friends were out late and they got in a massive car wreck. One of them walked away relatively unscathed. Two others were paralyzed below the waist. Eric was killed almost instantly.
I still had to preach at church, which I tried to do to the best of my abilities under the circumstances. I know Eric wouldn't have wanted me to step down from preaching, even though given what had happened, I know everyone would've understood. But my sermon was about keeping faith even throughout the most difficult of trials...something I've always struggled with. At the very least, I feel like I owed it to Eric to deliver that message to as many people as I could.
After worship, I spoke briefly with Eric's dad, then went home to return my tux. Crashed after that.
(end of excerpt)
I genuinely cannot remember much about those two worship services that morning. I remember small, almost thrown-off things. I remember the story I used to introduce my sermon, about a little boy named Reese who I worked with at Brookridge Day School in the summer of 2002 who died in a swimming accident. I remember that I quoted Emerson in my sermon. I remember Kelly coming up to me in between the worship services to give me a hug.
But I also remember at the start of my second sermon, for the later worship service, that my lapel mic wasn't working properly--or working at all. At this point, I was still running on fumes energy-wise, and my psyche was utterly shot. And I wasn't believing the words I was preaching--I was at a loss as to why an omnipotent God lets tragedies occur. So, my voice was already ringing hollow to me on several levels. I looked across the sanctuary as I was preaching to see a couple of folks checking the sound equipment and then looking back at me and shaking their heads--the mic wasn't going to work this time.
And this is the last thing I remember about that sermon--I looked up, and I saw the sunlight streaming in from the windows of the sanctuary. And whether it was because I needed something--anything--to cling to and the sunlight just offered itself up at the right moment, or because I needed to know that there was something waiting for me outside the walls of the church and the bounds of my sermon, I was, at least for a moment, put at ease.
I no longer believe that God is omnipotent. Some might think it ironic that a God experience would lead me to disbelief of divine omnipotence. But it was then that I realized that God was still so many things to me--a teacher, a creator, a parent, a friend...and a companion. None of these things I would associate with omnipotence, so why place that mantle upon God? But I have to think that on that day, God's presence grieved with me, walked with me, spoke with me, and ultimately sustained me.
I am a different person now in a lot of ways than who I was five years ago. I think that is to be expected of almost anyone, especially in people as young as me. But who I was in high school was someone so filled with so much bitterness and anger over religion. I spent so much of my time and energy being angry...I despised the homophobia and single-mindedness I saw from people I knew at school, but I also despised myself because I did not know how speak like them on behalf of what my faith told me to be true. I refused to bear witness to the revelation of an open-minded God. I thought it was not my place. I thought it never would be my place.
Until then.
Like I said at the beginning of this now excessively long post, I do not consider what happened on May 2, 2004, to be a born-again experience. It started a process that continued as I moved to Portland, and from Portland to Berkeley. My pent-up bitterness over a religion I loved was like a poison--it had to be extracted slowly and delicately, which I think Portland helped accomplish (and it is partly why I love that city as much as I do). I would like to think that process had already begun--I spent my senior year of high school trying to resuscitate the potential I had cast aside during my years of emotional depression, but senior year was just one piece of the puzzle.
But on that weekend five years ago, God came down to sustain me. In doing so, God taught me how to live by means healthier than bitterness. Who I am now is someone who I love much more than who I was at pretty much any point between 1999 and 2006.
And for that, God has my devotion.
Authentically,
Eric
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