We watched for two and half hours for whales off the coast of Virginia, but saw only the awesome creation of sea, sky, birds, and the glow of wind on my face. A breath of ocean air. A prayer.
Archive for the 'Cheryl Woelk' Category
Scriptures for worship recently have brought out themes of judgement for me… something that I’ve wrestled with and tried to leave alone in the past. This time, though, I decided to follow the scriptures and words from worship a bit further.
How do Christians understand God’s judgement? My first impression is a stern figure who punishes and rewards arbitrarily, based on largely unknown and undefined factors. I mean the first rule of thumb for educators in grading is making very clear what the grades are for — rubrics, quality indicators, all those are standards, but it God sometimes is portrayed as random with punishment and rewards.
And this is just it. So often, I think I’m stuck on the idea of judgement as dishing out punishments and rewards based on what people deserve. There’s lots to suggest this in the Bible too… especially Psalms talking about God going after the enemies of the Psalmist. But there’s another judgement… one to celebrate and for which to give thanks; one that people and all creation waits for with anticipation.
I wonder about these two views of judgement. They don’t seem to connect. Is this perhaps because judgement as punishment and reward is a human conception of judgement, not God’s? After all, God’s thoughts are not human thoughts, nor are God’s ways human ways. What if God’s way of judgement really is beautiful and something to be adored and admired? What if God’s way of judgement looks ridiculous sometimes and is filled with irrational grace, forgiveness, and second and third and fourth chances? What if God’s judgement is not whom to rebuke and whom to reward, but how to restore all people and all creation back to right-ness?
The story of the prodigal son read in today’s worship service affirms this view of judgement. Both of the sons expect punishment and reward based on actions and choices. The father’s response, though, comes from a different paradigm — a paradigm of reconciliation. Judgement here is choosing to celebrate the return of the son and deciding to work at the restoration of relationship.
This seems to be God’s judgement — certainly thoughts that are not human thoughts of deserving and weighing scales and ways that are not human ways of retribution. God is not punitive. God is restorative, merciful, forgiving, abundant in grace, and transforms even tragedy into goodness.
Thinking of God’s beautiful judgement that restores, I too can celebrate and wait with anticipation for God to bring all things back to wholeness.
Reflecting these weeks on “holding on and letting go” as part of Lenten devotionals, I notice yet again my urge to control everything.
Even in writing about choosing a personal focus for Lent, my journal records my unwillingness to let go — all of my Lent ideas involve holding on, working harder, trying again, pushing and forcing myself to do what I think is good. Holding on to everything with tight fists. There may be times for this kind of tenacity. After re-reading my brainstormed list, though, I realize the most important thing I could concentrate on this Lent is letting go.
Now I’m practicing. I’m letting go of expectations of perfection in my work and study. I’m letting go of judgement of myself when I don’t exercise and eat as well as I know I should. I’m letting go of trying to fix everything and of taking on responsibilities that are not really mine. I’m letting go of legalism, perfectionism, and criticism, and beginning to see what remains that I need to hold on to.
A friend shared his experience of how he holds on. As a Muslim, he follows the tradition of praying five times a day. These moments become daily markers of time and space for the essential. A reminder of what he needs to let go and what he needs to hold on to. Hearing his experience, I recognize a need for these reminders myself.
One step further. In addition to practicing letting go, I’ve started to stop at moments throughout the day (thanks to the multiple alarms on my phone to alert me!) to remember and pray. Everything else seems to slide into place and I feel centred again. I remind myself too, like my friend says, that it’s not about legalism. If I miss a time, I “jump up” to the next, knowing that I am free in God these moments are a gift, not an obligation.
Lent moves on another week and I keep trying to hold on, let go, and continue the journey.
One of my education assignments involved identifying a metaphor for education and the journey of teacher. Below is my response. Reading it again, I’d like to emphasis even more that the work of art is a collective effort — co-artists with learners and the learning community. I also recognize parallels to other areas of ministry and service. It’s not so much about the skills and tools as the Spirit.
Education requires an artist’s touch. In my journey as a teacher I have come to see learning as a work of art created by the learning community. A successful artist possesses a combination of a love of the art, tools and techniques, extensive experience in mixing colours and painting, and opportunities to share ideas together with other artists. I experience a similar journey as a teacher. While I began with a love of the art of learning, I continue to acquire strategies for teaching, experience in creating learning environments, and sharing through dialogue with other educators.
The artist’s palette as a personal symbol reminds me of the art and science of teaching. Artists prepare a variety of colours on their palettes, based on their vision for the work. They know about the science of art, including what results would likely occur when mixing colours, the effect of proportion and line, and the textures of different strokes. They can prepare the appropriate brushes, canvas, and paints. Yet no artist can predict the exact outcome. It takes a certain sense and spirit to respond to the canvas. In the same way, the learning community creates the learning experience together. While the teacher-artist may have skills to decide when to use which instructional strategies, the students, other teachers, and the school environment also shape the learning experience. Despite the best lesson plans, the vision that the teacher-artist had in mind may turn out very differently. The teacher’s role contributes to the learning experience as a work of art, highlights points of beauty, and identifies areas that “work.” As the colours, shapes, and ideas flow into one, the learning experience becomes a beautiful piece of art.
Last week Greg Boyd spoke at Park View Mennonite Church in Harrisonburg, about his book The Myth of a Christian Nation. His main idea was that there is the kingdom of the world, and the kingdom of God and that they are different. You can tell because the kingdom of God on earth looks like Jesus. So if you ever want to know if something world kingdom or God kingdom, just check whether it looks like Jesus or not.
The Anabaptist tradition has centred on this fairly closely, historically. Boyd urged the Mennonites in the audience to keep this voice strong, while at the same time challenging to be flexible and open on everything else that is not about God’s kingdom. A challenge, to say the least.
He emphasized how God’s kingdom is inclusive, radically inclusive, so much that the Matthews (tax collectors) and Simons (zealots who “sometimes assassinated tax collectors”) could follow Jesus together in the same group of disciples, dialoguing, interacting, and focusing on living the God’s kingdom –kind of life.
As followers of Jesus, we can have different opinions and viewpoints on politics and the way the world should go, but ultimately we are gathered together as one in the kingdom of God, which takes priority over all other issues.
So this is my citizenship. I need to remember this and not be confused while living in a ‘foreign’ kingdom of this world. I was reminded that while I can dialogue and challenge and engage the world kingdom, my identity and primary allegiance lies in God’s kingdom. If I choose to follow Jesus, I give up my citizenship to the world. There is no dual citizenship here.
I watched “The Invention of Lying” the other night. Despite the trite descriptions of “the man in the sky” and the obvious Moses-mocking with pizza boxes in either hand, the movie prompted some interesting thoughts on the narratives humans tell ourselves and the role that those narratives play.
The main character, Mark, lives in an alternate reality where people can only speak the truth in full, complete with embarrassing an d hurtful details. One day, he discovers that he can speak something that “is not” while at the bank. He starts out by using this new ability for his benefit, but soon realizes that sometimes speaking what is not can bring hope, happiness, and encouragement to others, including telling his suicidal neighbour that “everything is going to be alright.”
In his book “Helping,” Edgar H. Schein describes the cultural norms and social language 
we follow in helping one another, including stories, roles, and narratives as depicted in the film. In fact, he uses the term “theatre” as a metaphor for the patterns of human interaction that we depend upon to keep functioning socially. Mark’s use of these narratives even in his world that usually doesn’t follow them pushes him up in social status and admiration of others. Awareness of these narratives and their emotional impact can empower us to help and be helped and to avoid causing hurt through our helping attempts.
I’m reminded of the passage in Ephesians describing unity in the body of Christ, and the growth of followers of Christ, “speaking the truth in love” along the way. This requires an investigation of the narratives we use and to what extent they constitute “truth” while at the same time “in love.” Words of encouragement, affirmation, and hope do not necessarily stem from what “is not” but from the truth framed in Christ-like love for others.
By the end of the film, Mark realizes that lying holds no appeal when with someone he loves. Instead, he learns to look for the affirming truths in others and to speak those in place of truths that hurt. Not bad for a simple comedy.
As the new year begins, I find myself reflecting on the year that has passed and planning for the year to come. Like many people, I’m sure. Setting goals and resolutions, renewing commitments and promising to change usually come to mind.
Recently, though, I’ve been thinking about my need for space. Prompted by a study of Barry Hart’s “Peacebuilding Wheel” in relationship to peace education in a class last year, the concept of physical, emotional, and relational space continues to come to my attention.
I know that I need physical space. I realized the extent of my claustrophobia in Korea on the packed 11pm underground trains where my breathing was interrupted by the push of people against me. What does it mean, though, to have emotional and relational space? How does that relate to time?
In the last year, I experienced the loss of a good friend. Through the grief process, I’m starting to understand the need for emotional space. While I rarely give myself the freedom to just feel what I feel, I see the negative impacts this lack of space has on me and the people close to me. When I do give myself space to grief, to listen to my feelings and how my body is telling me it needs me to listen, I come to a sense of release and renewal. If I have emotional space, the grieving process can continue in healthy and life-giving ways.
The relational concept of space creates a place for friendships and connections to be nurtured. When I have my to-do list and I am so busy checking off on thing and the next, being productive, I more than likely will miss the nuances of my spouse’s facial expressions and forget to ask how his day has gone. I tend to rush out of the student lounge after saying hi to a few from my class to get back to my office and “get things done” rather than sit together with honesty and presence. Relational space draws me into the lives of others, and makes their stories my own. It creates the opportunity for authentic encounters.
So perhaps this year my resolution is not doing something new, but letting go and creating space. I seek to focus less on doing and more on being. In some ways, it’s easier to resolve to add more commitments and promises to my schedule than to honestly reflect in space which may frighten and threaten me with its emptiness. I find it more difficult to stop, release, and be present. I sense, though, that Hart’s “Peacebuilding Wheel” has something that I’m missing as one who seeks to create peace. This year, I’d like to discover some space.
I noticed my family talks about “having” Christmas. We’ll have our family Christmas on the 24th, then go to my grandparents to have Christmas on the 27th, and have Christmas with the other side on New Year’s. Yet when we sit down to “have” Christmas, what does it mean? We open gifts, eat lots of chocolate, read the story in Luke, sing a carol or so. It’s nice. Its nice to “have” Christmas.
I wonder, though, what is the main point? Is it exchanging gifts and eating lots of food? Even popular culture is starting to realize this is not the centre of Christmas. Is it spending time with family? Society would certainly identify that as a “reason for the season.” Is it that Jesus was born? Churches and popular Christianity might emphasis this. Yet that gets complicated. The scriptures don’t talk so much about that Jesus was born, as about how Jesus lived.
What about if the point of Christmas is to remember to live as Jesus lived, with the outcasts of society, the weak and oppressed, serving others, not relying on material goods for security, and using love instead of weapons even in the face of death. This is a frightening image of Christmas, risky, and filled with facing darkness. It’s not the kind of Christmas most people would like to “have.”
Perhaps this can become part of the Christian tradition, though. Remember with Jesus’ birth, with family gatherings and gift exchanges, how Jesus lived. Perhaps then we can shape our traditions and gifts to his model, caring for the least, giving not just to loved ones but even to enemies. Maybe then we’ll talk not about “having” Christmas, but courageously “living” Christmas, empowered by the spirit to walk in the way of the one whose birth we celebrate.
The snow came Saturday with thick fast falling flakes filling the crevices and hollows first then settling in, piling in, tree boughs dipping under the weight of millions.
Someone appeared outside our door, smiling mysteriously.… and has already gone.
A glimpse of a Northern home.
What do you need most in your life? What would you do to make sure that need is met? Would you continue to go after your need even if you thought it might cause conflict?
Recently, I’ve been thinking about human needs. In my education class, we recalled Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, which suggests that human’s require certain needs met before others. For example, basic physical needs such as food and safety come before needs esteem and self-actualization. In educational settings, this theory often supports programs such as providing breakfast at school for children to meet basic needs.
While these programs may be helpful, my Conflict Analysis class discussed an alternative perspective which divides needs into material, social, and cultural categories. In actuality, basic human needs do not lie at the root of most conflicts, but rather issues of identity and security. People may even give up basic needs in order to achieve a sense of security or to maintain their cultural identity.
I wonder about human needs as I see the work of the church. Out of a desire to follow Jesus’ teachings of caring for neighbours, it seems the church has been quick to respond to physical and basic needs, such as sending aid and engaging in development work. More difficult, though, is response to needs of identity and security. Caring for our neighbours in relation to these needs more closely connects with active peacebuilding.
Next time a conflict arises, I’ll try thinking about needs. My needs, others’ needs — how our needs can connect. Perhaps we can find ways of caring for one another even when our interests conflict.
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