tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8728626828007414152024-02-02T16:24:54.103-08:00Chronicles of a Christian HereticFirst a fundamentalist. Then a heathen. Now a heretic. How did I get there? Where do I go from here?Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.comBlogger115125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-47803563305093118792016-01-07T16:08:00.000-08:002016-01-07T17:46:02.253-08:00Book Review: Adventures in Soulmaking (Part 2)<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0996760016/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0996760016&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20&linkId=YKBOEJXDBRNVPVSE" rel="nofollow"><img border="0" src="http://ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=0996760016&Format=_SL250_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=onhome-20" /></a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=onhome-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0996760016" height="1" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
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I've had a terrible time getting through this book. I'm only halfway through, not even finished with Part I. A large part of my difficulty is the overtly Evangelical nature and tone of so much of the book, which I've already discussed in <a href="http://chroniclesofachristianheretic.blogspot.com/2016/01/book-review-adventures-in-soulmaking.html">Part 1</a> of this review. It pokes too many of my sore spots and makes me twitchy.<br />
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But another aspect of the book that is an obstacle for me is something I find in so many self-published books: the inadequacy of the book design and the want of a dispassionate editor. At first I thought I was struggling to read because I was furnished with a .pdf version of the book that didn't play nicely with my Kindle iPhone app. Having to resize and scroll through each and every page was hugely distracting. Some hundred pages into it, I found that I could read the published ebook version through Kindle Unlimited and promptly downloaded that to my phone. Quite a bit easier to handle and a whole lot less strain on a nervous system always overwrought by hysterical illness.<br />
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The book still felt difficult to read. I even started from the beginning again once I got the Kindle version and this time I started realizing that it wasn't all me; the book itself is just kinda clumsy. The story illustrations are too long and too fully formed as stories to be effective illustrations. Caldwell states that his first desire in this book is to be a teller of stories. If that were his only intention, he could have made a stronger book, something more along the lines of <a href="http://amzn.to/1SD29h3" style="font-style: italic;">Women Who Run with the Wolves</a> or <i><a href="http://amzn.to/1S6Y2dR">Kitchen Table Wisdom</a>. </i>Caldwell clearly sees the value in good storytelling in its own right, he is married to a storyteller, but not being a storyteller himself, he confuses a good story with a good illustration.<br />
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Then there are the memoir and personal stories. We follow not only Caldwell's trip around the spiral path but also Debbie, a spiritual direction client, who appears in each chapter in long passages of her own words that sound more like extended answers to an essay question than good narrative. Debbie's story would be more effective if Caldwell has recapped her relevant experiences in his own voice and kept them much shorter. Not only do we hear Caldwell and Debbie, though, there's also Duane and Donna, and several others I can't even remember who are brought in to tell us about specific points Caldwell wants to make. In one complicated section we are treated to Caldwell, Debbie, Duane (or maybe someone else, I forget) and Tom, a patient of Caldwell's residency years, whose story we must enter both through Caldwell's own perspective and, awkwardly, from the perspective of his mother we are instructed to imagine we are, despite his mother have zero relevance to the point. Each of these people's stories are told in stop-action and abrupt shifting from story to story. Added to the multiplicity of stories and the profusion of characters within each story, the lack of decent formatting (no bold or underlining or other kind of visual marker to denote headlines or section titles) and sometimes no titles at all, I was constantly confused as to who was where, when, and why I should care.<br />
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I think Caldwell tried to include too much when he took on this project. All within the same book, he attempts to describe and promote spiritual direction to both those who are completely unfamiliar with the concept and those who already have some knowledge or experience, introduce Christian mysticism (without ever using that word) to readers who would probably be terrified to think they were being encouraged to mystical experience since Evangelicals are kinda neurotic about that sort of thing, describe the Jungian system of the person and make parallels to the Christian theology of the soul, and as if that weren't already more than enough, throws in Greek and German vocabulary with explanations and definitions. Is this a textbook for spiritual directors? a workbook for directees or solitary spiritual seekers? a collection of wisdom tales? a memoir? or three memoirs?<br />
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Keep in mind, I'm only not quite finished with Part I, the map of the soul or personality and description of the spiral path of mystics. Part II is a whole nother beast altogether! Caldwell could have written three or four books instead of one and all of them would be stronger for their simplicity than this one with its excess.<br />
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Most of what Caldwell is trying to convey is fairly straightforward and could be conveyed easily and intelligently in a traditional linear outline. And Caldwell himself seems like a mostly left-brained sort of intellect for whom linear thinking is preferential. Yet he writes in this circling around from story to exposition, from the diagram of the soul to the description of mystical life, from too long quotes by too many other writers to several pages of a meditation that not quite successfully analogizes the design of the Jewish SecondTemple with the architecture of the Christian soul. Whether consciously or unconsciously, it seems as if he wants to present his material in a right-brained, metaphorical and symbolic outline, spiraling around from topic to topic and back, as if illustrating the spiral path of mysticism itself. This approach might work well in small groups or one-on-one in mentorship, perhaps even in a classroom over a period of weeks, but it is less successful in book form.<br />
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A good editor and book designer could have taken all the separate pieces and given them a better home--perhaps in sidebars, chapter epilogues, and appendices--where they could shine more brightly on their own merit and not clutter up the linear outline that describes the anatomy of the soul and the roadmap of mysticism. Caldwell has some really strong pieces, though many of them are too long and extraneously detailed, but they don't work as strongly together. The whole here is not greater than the sum of its parts.<br />
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All of those complaints aside, I intend to keep reading. Despite the weaknesses of the book, Caldwell does indeed know what he's talking about and knows it very well. He has walked and is walking the walk and writes from his experiential knowledge as much as his intellectual and theoretical knowledge. Most books I've read of this nature are from only one side of that equation--theory or experience--and are lesser for it. Caldwell has deep wells of training in both theology and psychology and experience as both a contemplative and a counselor of spiritual adventurers from which to draw and I want to know what he can teach me. <br />
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<br />Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-89011756895658136772016-01-07T14:48:00.000-08:002016-01-07T14:48:00.270-08:00Book Review: Adventures in Soulmaking (Part 1)<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0996760016/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0996760016&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20&linkId=YKBOEJXDBRNVPVSE" rel="nofollow"><img border="0" src="http://ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=0996760016&Format=_SL250_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=onhome-20" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=onhome-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0996760016" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
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Despite the acres of books being sold in the category of Christian Living, the concept that one might benefit from anything other than solitary prayer and Bible reading in the making of the righteous Christian is bordering on sacrilege. Reading the Bible for oneself is after all probably the single most significant tenet of being Protestant. Finding it fully sufficient for salvation and sanctification, needing nothing else, is foundational to Protestantism and Evangelicals use that doctrine as the basis to denounce all kinds of spiritual practices from praying with beads or even praying memorized prayers, to meditation (except as they define it--conscious prayer and intellectual consideration of Scripture), to the lighting of candles or veneration of icons or saints or mandalas. <br />
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Although in practice Evangelicals often don't read their Bibles as often as they claim nor as completely or with the open-minded curiosity and willingness to question that marks the spiritual scholar, depending instead on the weekly exposition of the text by one's preacher and the writers of Bible study guides to interpret their religion to them, and though Evangelicals like spiritual mentoring lookalikes such as accountability partners or discipleship group leaders (both of which tend to focus more on behavioral changes in one's life that are supposed to demonstrate profound spiritual growth, but in my experience rarely do), actually entering into an intentional mentorship with a spiritual teacher or director for the purpose of open-ended spiritual development is rare. It was unheard of when I was fully immersed in Evangelicalism a couple decades ago.<br />
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For this reason, Troy Caldwell's book on spiritual direction, written by an Evangelical for Evangelicals is a very significant mark of progress. I heartily applaud Caldwell's desire to bring spiritual direction and other aspects of contemplative Christianity to Evangelicals, for whom it has long been anathema. Educating Evangelicals in such a foreign concept and its long-ridiculed related practices is a huge undertaking. Caldwell's heart for his mission is obvious and a credit to him and his work.<br />
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It is that same Evangelical flavor, however, that I consider to be the biggest flaw in this book. Schooled both in Jungian psychology and Baptist theology and practicing both, Caldwell appears to have made his own peace with the inherent contradictions between the two. I suspect he has done this by simply ignoring the Evangelical theology when it doesn't quite fit his Jungian perspective. He clearly has embraced the broader theology of the greater Christianity beyond Evangelicalism (quoting from authors in Orthodox, Celtic, Anglican, Catholic, Medieval European Christian, and other non-Evangelical traditions). In itself this embracing is no bad thing, as a Heretic myself indeed I commend him for it, but it makes his use of Evangelical language and theology awkward and jarring. His voice sounds much more authentic when he writes from his Jungian or contemplative traditional perspective. His use of Evangelical language, cultural assumptions, or doctrinal stances stands out to me as being a bit forced--as if he really isn't much of the paternalistic, chauvinistic character that is quintessential contemporary Evangelicalism.<br />
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Fundamentally, Evangelical Christianity is a theology of renunciation and annihilation. It is, or has become, a religion promoting simultaneously exceptionalism and shame culture. One is identified as a sinner worthy of death and is expected to own that identity. Only in owning that shame and subsequently renouncing one's identity (to take on the identity of Christ, or to cover one's own shame in the blood of Christ as Caldwell's imagery in the temple meditation describes) can one become redeemed. Upon redemption, however, one is immediately transformed into something far more exceptional than those evildoers still outside the righteous few. Furthermore, one is expected then to conform to culturally determined Christian behaviors or to experience further shaming, even to the experience of threatened or real excommunication in the form of social shunning, which is a psychological annihilation either in the shunning or in the renunciation of the self to become or remain one of the group. <br />
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In the same way that salvation or the renunciation of oneself, is the goal of Evangelical Christianity, the goal of Jungian psychology is individuation, becoming wholly oneself, through the integration of the opposing aspects of one's being. Evangelicalism is all about identifying with the Good and renouncing the Evil; Jungian psychology is about integrating and transcending any such dualism. In Jung's system there is nothing is wholly evil nor wholly good. In fact, good and evil eventually cease to have absolute meaning because any aspect of the person or any belief or experience one has contains within it both good and evil, as well as the means for using both the good and the evil in any aspect as a tool for transcending the moment and becoming more fully whole and more fully the Self.<br />
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While there has been some excellent work showing the parallels between Jungian psychology and broader Christian theology, the more limited and dogmatically dualistic Evangelical theology is more difficult to synthesize successfully. I think Caldwell's attempts to do so fundamentally shortchange either Jung or Evangelicalism. Admittedly, I am biased about Evangelicalism and find acknowledging its finer aspects all but impossible. I try but my efforts are insubstantial against the weight of my prejudice. Without doubt, that bias colors my reading of the parts of this book that are more overtly Evangelical. Almost certainly, an Evangelical reader of Caldwell's book would not notice or care about what I find so disconcerting--partly because they would be reading from within the Evangelical mindset and thus unlikely to be too critical about it, even more because they likely have little or no experience or exposure to depth psychology, mysticism, or contemplative Christianity. So to that target reader, the Evangelical layperson, study group leader, or counseling clergy, <i>Adventures in Soulmaking</i> is probably an excellent resource.<br />
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<br />Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-90933279432260311822015-11-26T00:30:00.000-08:002015-11-26T00:30:01.151-08:0010 Things on Thursday: Thanksgiving EditionTen thoughts about Thanksgiving 2015:<br />
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1. I still grieve that hysterical illness has stolen from me the ability to make a feast and create a holiday tradition for myself and my family.<br />
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2. In the renewed awareness of racial tensions in the United States, there is some talk about the racist origins of the Thanksgiving narratives. I wonder, however, if anyone even thinks about those stories once graduating from kindergarten and those hand-tracing turkeys. America absolutely needs to recognize our inherently racist society and our genocidal history (and current events) but I doubt if Thanksgiving is the best, or even a particularly relevant, talking point.<br />
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3. Black Friday has eclipsed too many Thanksgiving traditions and I think that is a spiritual loss.<br />
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4. With the expansion of Halloween from a simple children's holiday in the local neighborhood and the ever earlier Christmas creep, Thanksgiving has become merely a pre-Christmas, food bonanza to calorie up for the last mad, month-long, shopping sprint.<br />
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5. I miss when the televised Macy's parade was actually a parade and not pan-shots of balloons in between song and dance numbers from a variety of non-parade locations.<br />
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6. My oldest kid went off to college and this is my first year to get excited about family coming home for the holiday. She came home Tuesday night and I'm still not sure how I feel about that.<br />
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7. Our menu has only one vegetable and it's strictly a concession to my irrational love for green bean casserole with fried onions. Both the nutritionist and the chef in me are wincing.<br />
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8. Thanksgiving is the one time I do like living in Arizona because it's always nice weather to eat dinner with the windows and doors wide open and the sunshine streaming in. Sometimes we're even motivated enough to build a fire outside in the evening and sit around drinking and burning jacaranda deadfall. Mmmm, I love that smell.<br />
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9. Whenever I see <i>A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving</i>, I wonder why all the white kids are seated together on one side of the table and the lone black kid is by himself on the other.<br />
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10. I pray for enough community and compassion in the world today that everyone could have abundant food, shelter, security, and friendship to celebrate.<br />
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<br />Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-57944999152170215542015-11-19T00:30:00.000-08:002015-11-19T00:30:01.027-08:0010 Things on Thursday: ReintroductionIt's been years since I kept this blog up regularly. Crises in physical and mental health developed both for me and for family members and posting didn't seem important. Or possible. <br />
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In the spirit of new beginnings, here are ten things to introduce myself to new, returning, or long-time readers:<br />
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1. My hysterical illness finally got a few official and semi-official diagnoses, including Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, Migraine and several other kinds of headaches, Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, Fibromyalgia, Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia, Thyromegaly, traumatic brain injury, Temporal-Mandibular Joint Syndrome, PTSD, and Dissociative Disorder. There are probably a few others that have got overlooked. For example, I'm fairly certain I have Sjrogren's Syndrome, Dysautonomia, and an autoimmune thyroid disorder.<br />
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2. Medical professionals, conventional and holistic, have been uniformly unhelpful at best and downright damaging far too often. I've lost count of how many and what kinds of doctors I've seen. I found the NAET therapist extremely helpful until we uncovered some deep trauma layers in my psyche and abruptly we were outside the therapist's comfort zone, although he refused to admit any such thing. I stayed with him for months longer than I should have. The Doctor of Oriental Medicine, who used acupuncture, reiki, and other energy modalities, did the most good, not especially curative but kept me alive and functioning while I slowly found my own healing protocols. She was useful for acute care as well and I stayed with her for three years, only recently moving on. Her business partner, a chiropractor, was enormously helpful as well but less for her chiropractic than for her weird energy work--the name of which I never can remember. Through her work, the bones in my skull and face shifted significantly, allowing some healing of nearly fifty year old injuries, and reducing TMJ and migraine symptoms a great deal. I don't see her regularly anymore, only a few times a year for "tune-ups." My yoga teacher also facilitated a lot of healing simply by the kind of environment she created during Restorative and Yin classes.<br />
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3. Surrendering to the illness rather than fighting against it has been an important and ongoing aspect of creating health, if not curing any disease. Taking to my bed and staying there, admitting to myself and others when "normal" was beyond my capacity, learning to accept and live within the new limits allows me actually to accomplish a few things in a way that wasting all my energy on trying to be who and what I used to be could never do. Submitting to illness as a teacher, an agent of grace, rather than a demon to be destroyed, changes the whole paradigm.<br />
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4. Therapies and therapeutics that have produced real and sustainable curative results for me include shamanic journeying, homeopathic adrenal supplementation, constitutional homeopathy (self-prescribed, practitioners were not helpful), Low Dose Naltrexone, the Fuck It Diet, aggressive resting and following a heart-rate based exertion program, meditation and chanting, and Restorative and Nidra yoga.<br />
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5. I am still committed to finding a place in the Christian community. I still think in Christian. Christian metaphor still resonates in my soul in a way no other tradition's stories or vocabulary does. I will never be a conventional Christian, being a heretic is as much a part of me as being a Christian, maybe more. I am, however, determined to forge or find a space to bring together the ancient traditions of Christianity with modern applications. We needn't be syncretic with Buddhism or neopaganism (such syncretism isn't wrong but isn't necessary) to find meditation, magic, mysticism, contemplation, or apotheosis.<br />
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6. To that end, between relapses last year, I began facilitating a chant class at my yoga studio. I had to drop it last spring but I hope to revive it locally and in person as my health permits, online in podcasts or Skype groups if it does not (and even if it does). Ideally, I'd like to be able to facilitate chant groups in hospitals and VA centers for the very ill, the disabled, the traumatized. I see its importance for spiritual healing far outweighing its utility for the trendy yoga studio seeker.<br />
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7. My kids have grown up since my earlier writing. I'm no longer homeschooling except in the most legal and supervisory definition. My older daughter chose to attend public high school, graduated with honors and moved across the country to go to a private liberal arts college where she continues to swim competitively and aims eventually to physical therapy school. My younger daughter attends community college and is dual enrolled at cosmetology school. I still supervise her registration, sign her enrollment forms, and help as requested with papers (dyslexia is still a challenge), but I am no longer directly involved. She's also been a professional actor for several years. It still seems strange to think that what was such a huge part of my life is now over, but I also heave a sigh of relief to be finished. I don't regret it for an instant--and, thankfully, neither of my kids does either--but it was a lot of work for which I'm glad no longer to be responsible.<br />
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8. Due to injury and illness, I can no longer read books. At least 95% of my reading is through the Kindle app on my iPhone. While I am deeply grateful to have that option, since I dislike audio books, I miss the smell, the look, the feel of holding a book in my hands. I miss shopping at used bookstores and trolling library stacks. And I really hate paying the digital prices for books. I thought I spent a lot of money on books until I started buying ebooks at retail prices--criminey!<br />
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9. Chronic illness is isolating and annihilating. Even for persons not housebound or confined to bed as I usually am, illness forces an identity change. It demands consideration of existential questions of meaning, individual value, community, and purpose. Whether one faces these questions head on or ducks continuously to the side of them, they change a person. Chronic illness means facing one's death in a society that spends a great deal of effort to deny death.<br />
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10. Writing this post taxed me so much, I can't even think of a number ten. I'll just hit publish and have a little lie-down.<br />
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<br />Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-27487172428588647752015-11-16T00:30:00.000-08:002015-11-15T17:22:26.752-08:00Cast All Your Votes for Dancing<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I know the voice of depression<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Still calls to you.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">I know those habits that can ruin your life<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Still send their invitations.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Learn to recognize the counterfeit coins<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">That may buy you just a moment of pleasure,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">But then drag you for days<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Like a broken man<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Behind a farting camel.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">You are with the Friend now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Learn what actions of yours ...</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">bring freedom</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And Love.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="color: #333333; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 15px; text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">O keep squeezing drops of the Sun<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">From your prayers and work and music<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And from your companions’ beautiful laughter<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">And from the most insignificant movements<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Of your own holy body.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Now, sweet one,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Be wise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Cast all your votes for Dancing!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif; font-size: 15px;">--Hafiz</span></div>
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A few weeks ago, I logged into the Chronicles to revisit the path I'd traveled and remind myself of the person I used to be. I found this Hafiz poem I <a href="http://chroniclesofachristianheretic.blogspot.com/2011/07/cast-all-your-votes-for-dancing.html">posted</a> four years ago, the first summer I spent in my bed. I've abridged it here from the version I previously quoted to highlight what sprang at me as I read again. </div>
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After eight years of hysterical illness, four of them mostly in bed, I thought I would have learned to accommodate my disability, would have accepted the redrawn boundaries of my life. But the voice of depression still breathes her siren song from my own lungs, whispering seduction in my inner ear.</div>
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I still rebel against her, against my very frailty, by accepting that counterfeit coin, those invitations to indulge in habits of normal life so far beyond my capacity. Make a pot of soup. Shower and go to a therapy appointment in the same day. Have an argument. Simultaneously watch a documentary and knit a scarf. That's far more than a week's worth of energy. </div>
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And then I'm dragging ass for days like a broken man behind the farting camel. Life stinks. </div>
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Because I have forgotten to indulge most in those actions that bring freedom and love. Forgot that what I can still do is what is most valuable. I can still pray. There is still music. Sharing laughter with a child or a partner or a friend. These are the coins of value in life. With these coins, I buy freedom. I can squeeze drops of the Sun, the source of life itself, from them. </div>
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And I can even find life and freedom in the most insignificant movements that my body is still able to make. I can still dance with life, with love.</div>
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Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-40850868322080057082015-11-03T19:57:00.001-08:002015-11-03T19:57:23.063-08:00Silent Too Long<div>A poem by Penny Smith:</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I speak for those who cannot speak</div><div>For those whose secrets are locked too deep</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for those who are still in pain</div><div>For those who are suffocating in shame</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for the little girl with hurting eyes</div><div>For the little boy who never, ever cries</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for those whose smiles are hiding</div><div>The hurt that is beyond confiding</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for the wife--the girlfriend</div><div>Bearing bruises from the men they defend</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for the confused, adolescent boy</div><div>Who has somehow become the coach's toy</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for those whom no one sees </div><div>For those who feel they are diseased</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for those whose tongues are stilled</div><div>For those with no hope of ever being healed</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for those who have endured unspeakable things</div><div>For those who never see the hope that dawn brings</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for those who have no voice</div><div>For tiny babies never given a choice</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for those whose lives are living hell</div><div>For those wishing they had someone to tell</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for those with innocence taken</div><div>Who pray for the day they never awaken</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for you whose spirits have flown</div><div>To let you know--you are not alone</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for you, I feel your pain</div><div>I will not be silent while evils remain</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for you and-- I speak for me</div><div>I speak for the world to hear and see</div><div><br></div><div>I speak for those with no will to fight</div><div>To bring the secrets and darkness to light</div><div><br></div><div>I speak because I was silent too long</div><div>I speak because I did no wrong</div><div><br></div><div>I speak though there are those who would silence me</div><div>I speak because abuse should never be allowed to 'be'</div>Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-25824238769116715432014-12-31T23:00:00.000-08:002015-04-11T16:56:29.783-07:00Reconciliation: Who Needs It?<div style="color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, 'lucida grande', sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Once you've had a relationship to something in which you experience a divine union, when your perception of that experience is one where your soul loses its ego boundaries, when you have merged into sacred ecstasy--and I am fully cognizant that this is a relationship few people discover--and then the relationship changes and you can no longer experience that unity of spirit through the same channels and *it wasn't you that changed*, what happens next?</div>
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This divine union occurs in many ways but just to give this question some flesh, let's look at Jesus and his disciples and his (maybe, sure, why not, let's go there) wife. They had an experience with divinity. Maybe they called Jesus "God" and thought him divine or maybe they didn't, but they all certainly felt that their relationship with him was not of the normal order of human relationships. Then, through no particular action on their part (except maybe Judas) but definitely action on Jesus's part, Jesus dies and bodily disappears from their lives. The connection that they had with incarnated divinity is abruptly ended. </div>
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How do you go on? You've been married to Jesus (one way or another). You have become one flesh; you've been indwelt by the Holy. Or at least you've left your wife/husband/children/family system to bond with the spiritual master. Then in a fit of messianic suicide, Jesus goes on a political rampage--parading in the streets, publicly and virulently denouncing the local ruling classes, interrupting the One Percenter's nifty banking scheme to parlay the religious devotion of the Ninety-eight Percent into tremendous profits--and gets himself executed. </div>
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Now it's two months later. You and your friends have had some freaky ghost-sightings of your beloved, the Lover of your Soul, which maybe happened or maybe were produced in a mass hysteria or just out of your own deep grief. Then even those bizarre events stop and you are a widow, an abandoned friend, a master-less devotee. </div>
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Now what? How do you make sense of what happened? Of that whole interlude when you felt whole and holy? When your soul is ripped wide open and you are left alone with your memories and the knowledge that society thinks you've lost your freaking mind, what do you do?</div>
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When that divinity abandons you, how do you live? </div>
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Do you concretize the memories into institutions and liturgies? Do you take the blame for the leaving on yourself, claim he left for your own good? Do you forswear the divinity and pretend you never thought he was a god? </div>
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Do you trauma-bond with others equally bereft and form a cultic pocket of Christian communism in an attempt to recreate that sense of divine unity? When this community insists that the mass hysteria, the ghost sightings, the crazy, irrational stories constitute a Resurrection, do you accept that doctrine in a desperate attempt to reconcile your memory with your reality? Do you participate in the institutionalization of deification? Does that help bring peace to your soul that Jesus left broke wide open? </div>
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When the love that gave meaning to your very Being rips your soul into shreds, how to you go on? How do you live when everything that was Life has betrayed you?</div>
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When God left you behind.</div>
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What stories do you tell yourself? Your children? </div>
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Who needs to reconcile to whom?</div>
<br />Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-2066790355264461322014-05-07T17:21:00.000-07:002014-05-08T15:27:52.392-07:00Book Review: Why I Am an Atheist Who Believes in God <span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.frankschaeffer.com/">Frank Schaeffer</a>, author of such anti-Evangelical memoirs as <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B003P2VBWG/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B003P2VBWG&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20&linkId=NQL66JYYV4TTMCPY"><i>Crazy for God: How I Grew Up as One of the Elect, Helped Found the Religious Right, and Lived to Take All (or Almost All) of It Back</i></a> and <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0306820730/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0306820730&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20&linkId=3ACCHNJ2ACTM3ZMS"><i>Sex, Mom and God: How the Bible's Strange Take on Sex Led to Crazy Politics--and How I Learned to Love Women (and Jesus) Anyway</i></a>, has a new book <strike>coming out on May 15</strike> that released today: <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/149595501X/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=149595501X&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20">Why I Am an Atheist Who Believes in God</a></i>. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> Like so many postmodern Christian authors' recent books, publishers didn't know how to categorize this new book--it's too religious for a secular publisher and too heretical for the religious ones--and shunned his latest effort. Also like so many other authors whose work won't fit conventional categories, he has turned to self-publishing for his new title. And self-marketing. For this book <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/149595501X/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=149595501X&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20">Why I Am an Atheist Who Believes in God</a></i>, Schaeffer is dependent on the word-of-mouth promotion of social media. When he put the plea out on Twitter for advance readers who would review and promote his book, I jumped at the chance. I've read all of Schaeffer's post-Evangelical nonfiction and reveled in the sense that I'd found someone who really understood my love-hate relationship with my hyper-religious childhood. Here was someone whose memories were as bittersweet and painful-poignant as mine. His bitterness and nostalgia commingled in awkward harmony that echoed my own longings.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">In <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/149595501X/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=149595501X&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20">Why I Am an Atheist</a></i>, Schaeffer brings his paradoxical and sometimes schizophrenic love-hate for religion to a new reconciliation he has not reached before in his writing. Previous books acknowledged the contradictions in his spiritual life and his acceptance of the incompatible elements. <i><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B003NHR708/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B003NHR708&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20&linkId=CT2NV2YVDCAU5EXA">Patience with God: Faith for Those Who Don't Like Religion (or Atheism)</a></i> expresses this acceptance most clearly in showing how fundamentalist dogma breeds angry ranting whether it's religious or atheist. Yet even that book didn't seem to have the inner peace that comes from moving beyond acceptance of contradictions to a transcendence of contradiction itself, a reconciliation of Self that comes from the realization that contradictions are different faces worn by the same Truth.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">This book spends much less time dropping names or alluding to the royal houses of American Christianity than his previous memoirs do, a fact which pleased me as Schaeffer's previous frequent references to celebrity Christians seemed only to underscore his bitter longing for wanting to belong again while never wanting to be again the man who had belonged. I had to laugh--cynically and with a kind of almost-been-there, didn't-quite-do-that smirk--at his wry acknowledgment that leaving the establishment of Christian celebrities hasn't been any too good for his back pocket:</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">My dogmatic declarations of faith once provided status, ego-stroking power over others and a much better income than I’ve ever earned since fleeing the Evangelical machine. Certainty made things simple, gave me an answer to every question and paid the bills.</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #37404e;">People will pay good money to those who promote the party line in fresh packaging. When you can cut the certainty drug with ever new and exciting fillers and enhancers, you will always have a ready market who will pay good money for their next fix. </span><i style="color: #37404e;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/149595501X/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=149595501X&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20">Why I Am an Atheist</a></i><span style="color: #37404e;"> is for people who have left behind the party line, have embraced uncertainty, and are beginning to experience a new certainty: that Truth exists beyond dogma, past religion or no religion, in an inner space where neither religion nor atheism exist but both are true.</span></span><br />
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<a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/149595501X/ref=as_li_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=149595501X&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20"><img border="0" src="http://ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=149595501X&Format=_SL110_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=onhome-20" /></a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=onhome-20&l=as2&o=1&a=149595501X" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #37404e;">(I received a copy of this book for my review in hopes that I would say wonderful things about it but with no obligation on my part to be nearly so generous.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #37404e;"><br /></span></span>Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-39205837511312443822014-04-21T00:05:00.000-07:002014-04-21T00:05:00.696-07:00Book Review: Girl at the End of the World<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0307731871/ref=as_li_ss_il?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0307731871&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20"><img border="0" src="http://ws-na.amazon-adsystem.com/widgets/q?_encoding=UTF8&ASIN=0307731871&Format=_SL250_&ID=AsinImage&MarketPlace=US&ServiceVersion=20070822&WS=1&tag=onhome-20" /></a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=onhome-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0307731871" height="1" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I
preordered Elizabeth Esther's <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0307731871/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=0307731871&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20">Girl at the End of the World: My Escape from Fundamentalism in Search of Faith with a Future</a><img alt="" border="0" src="http://ir-na.amazon-adsystem.com/e/ir?t=onhome-20&l=as2&o=1&a=0307731871" height="1" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" />. I got it the night before it was released, when my
Kindle thought it was already midnight in wherever Amazon Standard Time is. I finished it by 1am. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">
If you grew up in fundamentalist Christianity, in the inner circle of church
leadership, in any kind of cult, or even in garden-variety abuse and addiction,
you paid a price with your very soul. And you will find solace in this book,
knowing that you weren't alone. I laughed and I cried and I tried to keep the
noise down so my husband could sleep. But I finished with a full heart, for
Elizabeth Esther wrote the drama of my childhood. Sure the setting was
different and the costumes were changed, but still the essence of the story was
my story too. It is the story of far too many children.
I will be thinking of
this book for days, I know, as it pulls up long-hidden memories and deeply
buried feelings from my own childhood. It is a healing space.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Thank
you, <a href="http://www.elizabethesther.com/">Elizabeth Esther</a>, for creating a safe space for me to look more deeply at
the wounds in my soul.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-30230577915722336972014-04-20T00:05:00.000-07:002014-05-03T20:51:03.136-07:00Did Jesus Die to Appease God?<!--[if !mso]>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimV7v1ofjSIeVHdeetnjPY_KJDt4C_9-DL80tl9C0NYBxRdewalKkGnS3IDcloUlCQe6Vuw0rNzEpvOMjLaBBudF0TkPMMJ5x2ZmytQslNtwJ10ZIgVnqbbUKGDnvtmyim-h-8TzHGiMvR/s1600/bridge+christ.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimV7v1ofjSIeVHdeetnjPY_KJDt4C_9-DL80tl9C0NYBxRdewalKkGnS3IDcloUlCQe6Vuw0rNzEpvOMjLaBBudF0TkPMMJ5x2ZmytQslNtwJ10ZIgVnqbbUKGDnvtmyim-h-8TzHGiMvR/s1600/bridge+christ.png" height="480" width="640" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">(image from <a href="http://www.anchor1611.org/">http://www.anchor1611.org</a>, item #4)<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><span style="color: #10131a;">Jesus didn't die to appease God. Jesus died because he wouldn't appease men.</span><span style="color: #10131a;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">God sacrificed his ineffable infinity to become a
finite human with human limits in order to demonstrate The Way of Compassion
and a bottom-up society. He was killed "for our sins" in that the
society and culture we humans have created, ego-driven and top-down, couldn't
tolerate the radical and transformative message. Oppression sells. When the
oppressed rise up, the oppressors kill them. That is our collective human sin.
And that is what killed Jesus.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Penal substitution is one of the biggest lies
Christians tell themselves. When Christ “paid it all, all to him I owe” (as the
hymn goes), he wasn't paying a debt incurred by the individual sins of
believers (or the world, if you're a universalist). His sacrifice was not death
on the cross as some kind of late era human offering. His sacrifice was in
accepting the human limits on his infinite divinity in order to teach us compassion and equality. The human culture, created out of the blindly
ego-driven human desires for authority, hierarchy, and power-over, killed him
to save itself. <br />
<br />
Despite the sincere efforts of groups like Anchor Baptist Church, who published
the photo above, to establish that Jesus paid a debt to appease a deity whose
holiness demanded perfection according to an impossible standard set by himself,
the Bible actually never speaks of any debt owed to God (or even Satan, as one
version of this doctrine states) nor that Jesus paid it. Nor does the Bible
explain how failure to live up to the Ten Commandment standard, which standard
even God himself couldn’t maintain in the Old Testament, incurs a debt, demands
punitive justice, or is actually in any way responsible for the death of Jesus.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sin is “having eaten of the Tree of the Knowledge of
Good and Evil”, or, having come to a state of consciousness in which duality is
possible, believing that separation from God is not only possible but the
inherent way of existence. Sin is living
in denial of the fundamental unity of All That Is. Sin creates the human conditions of
power-over and oppression, of hoarding resources and poverty, of In-groups and
Othering. The consequence of such belief
and behavior is death and degradation of most of the human race. And a nearly
irreconcilable poverty of spirit for those few at the top of the heap. There is reason to believe that the poverty
of spirit is so acute that the One Percenters indeed lack any capacity for
empathy or compassion at all. Sociopathy
rules.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Jesus’ death was not to justify some cosmic accounting
ledger for a tyrannically holy, fully Other, tortuously punitive deity. That story isn’t in the Bible. It’s a story modern Christians have made up
for themselves to keep the masses shame-laden and burdened with exalting the
few who manipulate the stories. Much
like the few who didn’t approve of the story Jesus was telling of a radical,
inclusive, egalitarian compassion. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Jesus told of unity and oneness and the inseparability of holy
and human. He taught that the weak and
the poor are as worthy and powerful as the rich and the strong. The One Percenters of his day had created a
society in which such talk wasn’t only heretical but treason. The social climbers and power-hungry and
would-be rich-and-famous colluded with the society of sin and degradation to
put that story to death.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">We crucify Jesus again and all like him whenever we allow
oppression, hierarchy, poverty, or exclusion to occur. When we believe in the separation of sacred and
secular, when we ascribe to the few more worth than the many, when we deny the
holiness of all humanity.</span></span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="color: #10131a;"><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-80781938717165745752014-03-08T12:51:00.001-08:002014-03-08T17:26:36.772-08:00A Gentle Lent <div class="MsoNormal">
Elizabeth Esther opened a <a href="http://www.elizabethesther.com/2014/03/a-gentle-lent-linkup-eegentlelent.html">Gentle Lent link-up</a> on Ash
Wednesday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was definitely going to
link up a blog post.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always write a
blog post for Ash Wednesday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lent is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my thing</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And then…I didn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In preparation for Lent, I took a moment of spontaneous
solitude on Monday to smudge the house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is a ritual that breaks up the heaviness that clogs a space when
emotional upheaval has taken place, when unresolved conflict lingers on, when
grief and anger become bitterness and rage swept under the carpet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I knew the house, my life, my marriage,
needed some clearing but I didn’t consider how much that twenty-minute burning
of dried weeds would exhaust me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sure, I
have chronic fatigue as a major symptom of my hysterical illness but, holy
frijole! was I sick and exhausted afterward.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, of course, because I hate to follow rules and always
celebrate moments of breaking them, I threw all dietary caution to the wind on
Fat Tuesday, knowing that I was going to begin an even more restrictive food
plan on Wednesday.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wow, did that food
mess me up!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Just a little Starbucks
scone and latte with milk, some enchiladas for lunch, and popcorn in the
evening—regular food, not even a wild and crazy bender.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><br />
<br />
So, by Ash Wednesday itself, I lay in bed feeling like I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> sackcloth and ashes, no need to put them on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No post got written, no blog got linked; I
didn’t even get out of my pajamas or comb my hair.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By Thursday, I was back on my feet enough to
get to Restorative Yoga and to lead the Chant class I have taken on this year
but that was it, back to bed I went. Emotionally flogging myself all the while
for not having met my own expectations.<br />
<br />
Today, I popped over to <a href="http://www.elizabethesther.com/">Elizabeth’s blog</a> to see what other people had written
for Gentle Lent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The first thing I
noticed, though it was in tiny print at the bottom of the page, was that the
link-up was still open.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A window of
Grace! I could still participate even though I was three days late.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Woohoo!<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then I began to read some of the entries.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many of them spoke of setting intentions
and failing to live up to them, as if Lent were religious version of
just-hate-yourself-now unsuccessful New Year’s Resolutions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So many bloggers wrote of their relief that
Gentle Lent accepted failure, set up low expectations, simply wanted us to Be
instead of Do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The proverbial light bulb went off over my head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Isn’t that what I preach All. The. Time? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Be. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t Do. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Accept what Is and Love Always.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let Grace Happen.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I had to laugh at my own hubris.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hadn’t failed at Lent on the very first
day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d only begun to enter into the
liturgical adventure of self-discovery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Lent itself gave me the gift of falling down on the very first day of
trying to Do Lent from my ego self.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lent
gave me the gift of grace, the opportunity to realize my ego had tripped me up
once again, the chance to repent, to turn away, from that self-flagellating ego
and Be once again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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Falling down isn’t failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It is an opportunity to get up, turn away, and walk around the obstacle
that caused the stumble.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Transformation
occurs the second we turn our face in a new direction. Grace always gives you a
second chance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s what grace
is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span>
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<a href="http://new.inlinkz.com//luwpview.php?id=379805" rel="nofollow" title="click to view in an external page.">An InLinkz Link-up</a></div>
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<!-- end InLinkz script -->Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-42177791913532040912014-01-01T14:43:00.000-08:002014-01-05T14:52:32.696-08:00New Beginnings<br />
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Every
spiritual tradition that I have studied has in its creation stories a piece
that goes something like this: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><br /></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Before
the beginning<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
There
was timeless space<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Infinite
unity <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Of
All That Would Be. </div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Out
of the singularity <o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
That was Eternal Becoming</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Came
a Word.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
With
the Word<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Light
separated from Darkness<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
And
Time began.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
The
Word became incarnate<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Dividing
consciousness <o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Into
material and immaterial. <i><o:p></o:p></i></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
At
the beginning of time<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
The
Word was one with All That Would Be.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
The
Word <i>was</i> All That Would Be.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Out
of the Word was everything created.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
All
that was created<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Came
from the Word.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
The
Word is
eternal and
infinite</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Always
becoming<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Always
creating.<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Echoes of the eternal Word<o:p></o:p></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Rise
up from the very ground of your being</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Fall
from your lips with every breath.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
In
communion with</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
What Is Always Becoming</div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Let
us chant. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div style="text-align: center;">
Aum. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-61025616598187711872013-12-25T11:11:00.002-08:002013-12-25T11:11:21.174-08:00A Rant on Christmas Day 2013<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">I was so happy to finally be
able to go to Midnight Mass again. I've
been too sick to go for the last three or four years and I was excited to feel
up to a late night in a crowd. I began
attending Mass about ten years ago when I missed a religious component to Christmas
in our very secular household—I particularly missed singing all the Christmas
carols. I chose Mass over a Protestant
service because there's lots of singing, praying, liturgy (that I can bring my
own meaning to), and not so much preaching.
And generally Catholics really know how to enjoy the Baby Jesus and the
Holy Family, Protestants tend to skip over Jesus' actual life—he was born so he
could die, that's the only important thing!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Last night my 15yo and I
went to a different church than we've gone to in the past, to meet up with a
friend of hers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The service was very
much about the pageantry and spectacle:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the
Knights of Columbus in full regalia, swords aloft, to guard the procession of
the Bible and the priests to the altar; incensing everything; bowing, kissing,
crossing, in front of statues, Bibles, Eucharist paraphernalia; the entire
liturgy was sung, we bounced from seated to standing to kneeling to
standing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was high drama religious
theater.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Then the pastor comes down
in front of the altar to preach and starts out with a slide of an Orthodox icon
that he used to introduce his point in object lesson form.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Initially I was impressed because this guy
was clearly reaching outside his own tradition in what he considered a
broad-minded and ecumenical inclusion.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But then he veered off into his main point—the baby Jesus depicted in
grave clothes and in a coffin, the Reason for the Season is Death and Ultimate
Sacrifice <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(as if being born a human baby
isn't a bigger sacrifice for a deity)</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>That God "loved" us so much that …blah, blah, blah, John
3:16…that God loves us enough to transform us <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(loves us enough to change us from our obviously currently unacceptable
selves)</i> if only we will let him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Still the onus on us to DO something to "be reconciled" with
God.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">But truly, all that
depressing theology aside, the bits of the homily that upset me the most, that
I raved about all the way home <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(at one in
the morning, to the annoyance of my totally "all religion is a joke"
daughter)</i> was the casual, almost throwaway references to the Culture War:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the priest opened his homily with "Merry
Christmas! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(We responded "Merry
Christmas, Father")</i> You can say that here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unlike Out There, like in the stores and
stuff, where you might not be able to say it, here we rejoice that we can
loudly proclaim the reason for our celebration…."<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Really?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There are places, stores or anywhere, where
people are not allowed to say Merry Christmas to each other?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Where does this priest hang out?)</i>, and
then later his patronizing tirade about an atheist conspiracy to evangelize our
youth into atheism, by spending "lots and lots and lots" of money on
"billboards around town, I'm sure you've seen them" that try to claim
God isn't a rational proposition "when we all know, everyone knows deep in
your heart that God exists."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why make up shit like that? There are enough
reasons that actually do exist, that are real problems faced by Christians even
in a society that privileges Christianity, why make up stuff?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although I admitted, that he probably
actually believed it was true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He seemed
like a True Believer™ so he most likely didn't even think he was
propagandizing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;">Which was probably the
saddest thing I saw last night.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><br /></span></div>
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Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-31906336723287129432013-07-07T18:57:00.000-07:002013-07-07T18:57:02.841-07:00Trauma Therapy--Heavy Metal Style<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/fZHUl9G9hfg" width="480"></iframe><br />
<br />
A friend sent me a link to this song, thinking its story might find resonance with my story. He had no idea how right he was. Despite his trigger warning, I didn't expect how deeply into the buried recesses of my mind this song would reach. I listened to it probably five times straight through before I could make myself quit hitting repeat. Or, my hands were shaking so badly I couldn't press the button. I didn't have the luxury of truly falling apart then. Ruthlessly shoving the response back into barely conscious places, I kept on with my week until I did have a few hours of uninterrupted time to allow the ripples of trauma to bubble up from their underground hiding places. <br />
<br />
The migraines and gastric disruption that I had so recently learned how to (mostly) control came back and lingered despite my extra handfuls of pills. Fatigue overtook me again no matter how early I went to bed. Strange dreams echoed (barely) into my waking. I needed to feel this song. Hear this song. Sing these lyrics. Scream these lyrics.<br />
<br />
This song is mine, it owns me. It cries the words I've never said, could never say. It is the song of far too many, so many children grown to adult or even old age without the words to capture the ache in their souls. The smoldering coals of rage that lie waiting under the ashes of long burnt flame in so many hearts, branded on our bodies in chronic disease, mental disorder, addiction and social dysfunction. <br />
<br />
This morning I put this video on constant replay for nearly two hours, until the shaking and nausea ended. Even so, I was able to only barely more than whisper the words, though now they echo like a descant in the back of my mind. It still owns me. <br />
<br />
I will sing this song, write this song, my story, until I own it. Until I own it and can set it free.<br />
<br />
<br />Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-86312737719800930802013-06-08T15:43:00.000-07:002014-04-23T18:12:36.344-07:00SleepI lay in my bed and the darkness closes in.<br />
The world around me silent<br />
Only the chatter in my mind clamoring for attention.<br />
<br />
<i>Why didn't you</i><br />
<i>You should have</i><br />
<i>Did you think of</i><br />
<i>What about</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I bolt upright.<br />
No more! Make it stop!<br />
I turn on the light.<br />
<br />
The voices recede to quiet muttering<br />
Until my eyelids droop<br />
And I slide into sleep.<br />
<br />
<i>Screams and</i><br />
<i>Shouting</i><br />
<i>And moans and</i><br />
<i>Crying</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
When will it end? Will it<br />
Ever end?<br />
Please,<br />
<br />
Morpheus, sweet Morpheus,<br />
Silence the pain<br />
And let me sleep.<br />
<br />
And let me sleep.<br />
<br />
(© 1987)Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-8795411163266095312013-04-19T15:15:00.002-07:002013-04-19T19:10:05.963-07:00Truth and Reconciliation: a Beginning<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><i>(reprinted with permission)</i> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"> Dear Sandy, </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">As I was eating my brunch just now, I couldn’t get your blog post out of my mind. I really didn’t try too hard, realizing that stuffing uncomfortable thoughts, images, memories is one of the things I tend to do. I decided to reread it, now that I am straight on whose words these are—not some author whose book I’d read and with whom I felt a certain pain, but my daughter … whose pain over this I was not aware of for I don’t ever remember hearing of these events … unless these were among those thought, images, and memories that I stuffed because they were too uncomfortable for me to live with. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">When I first read the post before brunch, I was struck by your description: "Men, however, especially with a liter or two of lager in them, were delighted to ‘talk about love’. And to fondle me, grope my breasts, and press their leering, beery bodies close to mine.” I had felt revolt that these half-drunk slobs would do such things to Rachel. But as I reread it, knowing this is <u>you</u> talking, I am more than revolted. I was ready to punch them in their red, inebriated noses! “That’s my young daughter your treating like less than a human being. You are just that—<i>less than a human being</i>—to act that way!”
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Then, the thought entered my mind, “And how many times have I thought of such things, without acting on them?” That is all part of the patriarchal culture I was reared in, and which I am having one hell of a time pulling myself out of for it is so engrained in my as an integral part of psyche! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">The patriarchal home in which you were raised was more subtle than those half-drunks, but no less damaging. My therapist and I have talked about the fact that I was abused growing up by my mother—emotional incest—and that has the same lasting effects that sexual abuse does. Surely the attitudes, actions, words, innuendos, double entendres, and the like, that were evident as you were growing up, were equally as damaging to you. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">And when I think that I was as responsible for this part of your abuse as were those intoxicated guys, I more than cringe! I get equally angry. My only excuse: I didn’t know better. I was simply repeating what I had experienced in my home growing up with a father who had wanted to divorce my mother after having more than one affair … even as he actively took part in leading worship of our fundamentalist congregation. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Obviously all this is well engrained, not something involving just your, mine, and my parents’ generations. It goes back to the beginning of the church, back to its Jewish roots. Women are property … playthings. Oh, I never heard it put so bluntly within the church. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">No wonder you did not talk to anyone about this? The men in leadership would have been more blind than I, and the women had been beaten into submission to men since they themselves were children. That’s the way it was (and still is in many places). Surely this price was not to much to pay so that one of those slobs on the streets of Dusseldorf could find the “joys” that you had found in being a Christian! Did the mission leadership have any idea what was going on out there on the streets? And if they did, were they at all aware of the horrible effect it was having on the young women and teenage girls they were sending into the brothel, as it were, to surrender their bodies and souls for Christ? </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">If you had said anything (it is probably just as well you didn’t!), you’d not have been “given a place of safety and refuge in which to recover. There would have been no sense of the fact that you needed “a place of safety and refuge in which to recover.” If you had mentioned it to me—and if you did, I (like the leadership) unconsciously considered it too insignificant to deal with or even remember—I would have had no idea that you needed to be “given a place of safety and refuge in which to recover.” It would have all been off our radar screens; we would have seen you as less than dedicated. (God, did I really just write that about myself?) </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<b><span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Oh, Sandy! What I’m experiencing as I read and write just now is so eye-opening. And so horrifying.
</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Ah, and when you realized you were being abused, you felt that you were cheating God by not being willing to sacrifice yourself—including sexually—on that so-called Christian altar. How often I’ve felt the same way, though not because I was sexually abused, just because I was not a good witness, I was not willing to die for Jesus. And oh the shame that has grown within me. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">I have not resolved anything here, but I did not intend to. I only want you to know that my eyes were opened if just a bit, that I’m willing to see some of your pain, that there is a new awareness of things relative to you, to the church, to patriarchal Christianity, to the homes you and I grew up in. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">All I can say is that I can pray for you as you enter your personal retreat next week, and I can pray with much more awareness than I could have an hour ago. May the compassionate God meet you during your times of thought, meditation, relaxation, unburdening, and the like; may find healing. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Sandy, my daughter, forgive me for all I have done, years ago and much more recently, out of utter ignorance and blindness.
I love you. I cry with you. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif;">Dad</span>Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-61775428865420287632013-04-16T11:48:00.003-07:002014-05-03T20:17:42.302-07:00"Will You Live for Jesus Today?"<br />
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<i>(My response to "<a href="http://rachelheldevans.com/blog/why-i-dont-witness-to-people-on-airplanes">Why I Don't Witness to People on Airplanes</a>" by Rachel Held Evans)</i></div>
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I abhor "evangelism", "witnessing", and whatever else people call proselytizing for Christianity. Now, in my late 40s, I am much more confident striking up conversations with strangers than I ever was growing up in Evangelicalism, but I'm also much less inclined than ever to sell someone an ideology they likely don't need and definitely weren't looking for before I crossed their path. I had my fill of the guilt trips for being a preacher's daughter who'd never "brought a soul to Jesus" and who couldn't work The Four Spiritual Laws into my conversational gambits. I'd had my fill of the guilt and subsequent doubting of my own worthiness and my own salvation long before I actually gave up the practice, though. Peer pressure, I guess.</div>
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But the real reason I stopped trying to "advance the Gospel" directly was my experiences as a summer missionary working the local beer fests for the annual evangelism push of a church in Dusseldorf.</div>
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Given no training or advice beyond a pick-up line ('Can I talk to you about love?") and a stack of church literature, I was sent out to the streets during the day and into the festivals in the evening. Not surprisingly, women didn't want to have anything to do with someone pushing religious literature at them and turned away before I could even get my line out.</div>
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Men, however, especially with a liter or two of lager in them, were delighted to "talk about love". And to fondle me, grope my breasts, and press their leering, beery bodies close to mine. The conditions of love they suggested didn't involve attending church the next Sunday.</div>
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Given my upbringing in the church, I was sure that there was something I was doing to entice them, that I led those men into thinking I was offering something besides Jesus. I was also trained that no price was too high, no insult too much, not when it was the Gospel. So I continued my duties, night after night at the fairgrounds, feeling ever more like I'd totally failed God.</div>
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Finally I broke down at a street theater evangelism at the end of the week. I walked away from my assigned task of working the gathered crowd. I sat down on a bench across the plaza, sure that I was cheating God--despite the fact that I was shaking, my teeth were chattering in my effort to hold myself together, and I could barely stand anymore I was so weak from the strain. I let myself cry for about five minutes, wrote in my journal about how unsuited I was for the Lord's Work, and worried that someone from the church would "catch me playing hooky."</div>
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It wasn't until two decades later that I realized how traumatized I'd been by the sexual assaults to which I'd been subjected, and that what I'd experienced had actually been sexual assault. Twenty years until I got pissed off that any young woman (or girl, we had teens on our team) should be sent out alone into partying crowds, that women are taught that we have to accept such insult, that it is our fault when men act disrespectfully. Twenty years before I realized that it had never even occurred to me, nor to my fellow team members (male or female), to inform the evangelism organizers of my experiences; much less to expect that I be given a place of safety and refuge in which to recover.</div>
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But after that summer, I never again felt guilty about not "living for Jesus today".</div>
Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-51683346598483654992013-04-04T22:50:00.000-07:002013-04-04T22:50:13.106-07:0010 Things on Thursday<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc9xHuXKCc3rqAPt1VvERufyMLkYsH244TDRaTh-pPNVWbUgPShiTf087cHTWuRjyHPyJ8nsSzLW1E83az3tu68ykZXUNn6Yi81f16tVNyjtyt8HvOL5Kke0QHqwFQ163rItHgsK6CGvqv/s1600/IMG_2916.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc9xHuXKCc3rqAPt1VvERufyMLkYsH244TDRaTh-pPNVWbUgPShiTf087cHTWuRjyHPyJ8nsSzLW1E83az3tu68ykZXUNn6Yi81f16tVNyjtyt8HvOL5Kke0QHqwFQ163rItHgsK6CGvqv/s400/IMG_2916.jpg" width="298" /></a>I am planning a solitary DIY retreat for the last week in April. Here are ten things for my portable altar:<br />
<br />
1. An alter cloth (that will double as a <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00BUT9C7W/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00BUT9C7W&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20">head scarf</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=onhome-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B00BUT9C7W" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /> when I am out in the sun)<br />
<br />
2. A few <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00657HZLO/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B00657HZLO&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20">tea light</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=onhome-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B00657HZLO" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /> candles<br />
<br />
3. A lighter<br />
<br />
4. A small <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B0044PO6TI/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B0044PO6TI&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20">abalone shell</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=onhome-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B0044PO6TI" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /> to hold the candle<br />
<br />
5. A found shell that reminds me of half a wing as a meditative focus<br />
<br />
6. A bag of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B005U5JPM4/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B005U5JPM4&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20">Dead Sea salts</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=onhome-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B005U5JPM4" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
7. A flask of <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B007C660WC/ref=as_li_ss_tl?ie=UTF8&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=B007C660WC&linkCode=as2&tag=onhome-20">whiskey (yeah, not really this one)</a><img alt="" border="0" height="1" src="http://www.assoc-amazon.com/e/ir?t=onhome-20&l=as2&o=1&a=B007C660WC" style="border: none !important; margin: 0px !important;" width="1" /><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
8. Heretic Anointing Oil (my own blend that a <a href="http://www.desertsageherbs.com/Desert_Sage_Herbs/Products.html">local store</a> makes up for me)<br />
<br />
9. A collection of <a href="http://www.worldprayers.org/index.html">prayers</a><br />
<br />
10. A <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/97635630/healing-sacred-sage-smudge-stick-with">rose petal/white sage smudge</a> bundle<br />
<br />
<br />Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-81700678367870674752013-04-03T18:27:00.000-07:002014-04-23T18:35:33.817-07:00The Weaker Vessel<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<!--StartFragment-->
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
see myself <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Repugnant
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In
the sight of men. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Men
who exploited <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My
innocence, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My
obedience, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My
female body, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To
gratify their own lusting. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To
assuage the bursting ache of their own grasping for control, they used me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then,
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because
of their use, <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They
despised me. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
am a <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Walking
manifestation of the <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Evil
they have been <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And
cannot acknowledge. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
must bear their shame: <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It
must be I who <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Am
too alluring <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With
my developing sexual body. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
who <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In
my very vulnerability <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Should
be protecting myself<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And
them <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
From
their own over-reaching desires. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
am the one in the wrong place, in the wrong clothes, too weak, too alone, too
silent. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
wear the mark <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of
their transgressions <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In
my wounded eyes. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
fear <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
evil I must be <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To
have tempted those <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In
whose care I am <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To
violate their sacred responsibility. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The
weight of their (my) shame weighs heavy on my soul.<o:p></o:p><br />
<br />
(© 2013)</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-4557022465182362742013-02-13T00:00:00.000-08:002013-02-13T00:00:19.628-08:00Living in the And<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><span id=".reactRoot[96].[1][2][1]{comment421531701259178_421958594549822}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0]"><span id=".reactRoot[96].[1][2][1]{comment421531701259178_421958594549822}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[0].[3]">Lent has traditionally been understood as a preparatory time before Easter to participate in the sacrifices of Christ by making some difficult sacrifices of your own--usually involving some kind of fasting (no meat, no fats</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><span id=".reactRoot[96].[1][2][1]{comment421531701259178_421958594549822}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3]"><span id=".reactRoot[96].[1][2][1]{comment421531701259178_421958594549822}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0"><span id=".reactRoot[96].[1][2][1]{comment421531701259178_421958594549822}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[0]">/oils, no sweets, hence the over the top revels of Fat Tuesday to mark the end of Mardi Gras--literally Fat Tuesday--with the sweet and fatty foods) as well as something unique to the penitent that is given up. By entering into the sacrificial postures, it is supposed to make you more aware of how much more Christ gave up to descend to humanity and be killed on your behalf.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;">I am not a substitutionary atonement adherent and don't observe Lent with those purposes. I see the death and resurrection of Christ as just another variation of the many springtime renewal stories. Every tradition has something that honors the Life Cycle springing forth at this time of year. Whether it is a Pagan celebration of Earth Day, Chinese New Year, Passover/Easter, everyone has some ritual of honoring that which died in order to generate the new life that sustains us through the coming year.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><span id=".reactRoot[96].[1][2][1]{comment421531701259178_421958594549822}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[6]">For me, personally, I am looking at the death of who I was (more accurately, who I thought I was) and the rebirth of myself into who I am becoming. It is a time every year when I consciously try to let go of habits of thought and pre-conceived ideas about who I am, of what I think the world is, of How Things Are. The Lenten period marks a space between the worlds, a gestation as it were between What Was and What Is. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><span id=".reactRoot[96].[1][2][1]{comment421531701259178_421958594549822}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[9]">Yogis talk often about the Space Between the Breaths. a little death in the middle of the breathing that sustains us. Enlightenment, they say, is to be found in the Space Between, in the And of in-and-out. </span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><span id=".reactRoot[96].[1][2][1]{comment421531701259178_421958594549822}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[12]">For me, Lent is a conscious Space Between last year and next year. It is living in the And. Recognizing a space between Ending what came before and Beginning the rest of my life.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><span id=".reactRoot[96].[1][2][1]{comment421531701259178_421958594549822}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[15]">Therefore I take up practices for the Lenten season that will provoke my thinking into that death-and-resurrection, rest-and-renewal, sort of focus. Usually some form of meditation, some form of giving-up, some form of service, or all three.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><span id=".reactRoot[96].[1][2][1]{comment421531701259178_421958594549822}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[18]">This year I'm attempting all three: a fairly rigorous dietary restriction for the purpose of clearing my mind and entering the hidden depths of repressed memories and emotions, a meditation on my old journals and (unexpectedly) the New Testament book of James, and a creative service by participating in the <a href="http://religionfreebible.com/">Religion-Free Bible Project</a> and (hopefully) getting my Heretic blogging back up and running.</span></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #333333; line-height: 14px;"><span id=".reactRoot[96].[1][2][1]{comment421531701259178_421958594549822}.0.[1].0.[1].0.[0].[0][2].0.[3].0.[21]">It is a hefty undertaking. More than I have attempted before. Given my health ups-and-downs (mostly downs) I don't know how much of my To-Do list will get done. But the honor is in the attempt, in the being willing to place myself in the space, to submit to the process, rather than the perfect execution of the tasks.</span></span></span><br />
<br />Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-67499402575702177472012-12-10T17:22:00.001-08:002012-12-10T17:30:56.355-08:00A Parable of ForgivenessOnce there was a very old man who lived next door to me. He'd lived there forever; I'd grown up with his children, and his wife was my confidant. Long after I grew up, I moved back into the old house to raise my own children. He was still next door.<br />
<br />
After living some years as friendly neighbors, sharing rakes and shovels and plates of Christmas cookies, I discovered that he had taken something from my garage. Something that had been there from my own childhood, just some old junk of my grandma's, probably only worth ten bucks at a garage sale. It's value to me was mostly that it had belonged to my family for three generation. But still, he'd just come over and taken it.<br />
<br />
I confronted the old man. He sorrowfully professed his apologies but said the item had since broken and he'd thrown it out; there was no returning it. I was vastly annoyed and wanted little to do with him after that, though still being close with his wife, I had to swallow my irritation and make nice.<br />
<br />
Another while passed and my children began watching one of those antiques shows on television where people sell their attic-finds for pennies or fortunes. They discovered that the item the old man had stolen was not worth the mere ten dollars I'd imagined but was being bought by collectors for a thousand dollars. I began to doubt that grandma's junk had so conveniently broken as the old man had claimed. <br />
<br />
My anger and resentment of the old man grew. Bitterness galled in my belly when I saw him in his yard. My relationship with his wife withered. I realized that I had to forgive him for my own sake, if not for his. I told myself that I hadn't lost anymore than when I was unaware of the actual monetary value of grandma's piece. It was simply a bit of family history and I still had my memories of grandma, after all. It took a long time of inhaling <i>So</i> and exhaling <i>Hum</i>, of praying for peace and seeking to see the divine in the old man. But finally, I could smile at him and actually mean it.<br />
<br />
Eventually, the old man's wife became ill and died. My family and I went over to help him sort out his belongings and close up his house before he moved in with his daughter. I found a note addressed to me in his wife's handwriting, wavering and spotty, clearly written just before her death.<br />
<br />
The note revealed that in her last days, the old man had confessed to her. For decades he had been breaking into my house and systematically stealing my grandmother's treasures. After emptying the storage boxes in the garage, he decimated the long neglected attic. He'd even brought in knock-offs to replace the valuable antiques he stole from the main house. My beloved family heirlooms, the tangible bits of long ago memories, the irreplaceable things I'd so adored because I thought they held the imprint of my grandma's touch were all cheap fakes. The dead woman guessed that the old man had sold my belongings for hundreds of thousands of dollars, at least a half a million, probably more. She'd thought he'd been fortunate at his online trading, when in fact, his trades had been disastrous and it was the sale of my own goods that had kept the two of them out of financial disaster many times.<br />
<br />
I was shocked into immobility while my mind raced. What good had been all the work I'd put into forgiving him for the one theft I'd known about? Had his apology that I'd struggled so to accept had any value at all? Could he possibly have had any repentance for the one when he still continued with the other? Was my hard-won forgiveness worth anything at all in the face of this deeper and infinitely more personal violation? <br />
<br />
Worse than the loss of the material goods he'd stolen was the sense that his theft had been from my soul. He'd stolen forgiveness from me with his fraudulent apology, capitalizing on my own inner belief in turning the other cheek. I wished I'd never wasted any effort at all on the struggle to forgive him for his now-petty crime. I wished I'd built up the wall between our houses, cut off relations with his wife, guarded myself from his thievery. He'd manipulated my goodness and his wife's to serve his own greed. He'd exploited my trust to cover his poor judgement in stocks. His rape of my innocence tainted even the memories his false heirlooms once inspired. I couldn't even think of my grandma without being ripped off by him all over again.<br />
<br />
I doubted that all the novenas, all the <i>so hums</i>, all the praying in the world could ever give me the grace to forgive the old man again. Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-24934717471063057122012-12-07T13:13:00.000-08:002012-12-08T14:25:35.384-08:00Into the LabyrinthMyth, according to scholar Karen Armstrong, looks at events not as one-time historical happenings, but instead as something that happens all the time. In myth, there is No Time or perhaps, All Time. Mythological events happen again and again, or constantly, in thematic or psychological metaphor. The same event seen historically happened only at one time and in one place. <br />
<br />
In a historical sense, I walked into a labyrinth a month ago and walked back out an hour later. In a mythical sense, I walked into the labyrinth and I am still there. In the center of the figure, where the grace happens, in the midst of transformation. Historical truth is that the fear that I walked in with is now the peace that I hold. Mythological truth is that the demon is still shape-shifting into its angelic form.<br />
<br />
I walked into the labyrinth a month ago, still trailing wisps of smoke from the smudging of handmade incense that my walking partner had brought. She stepped in ahead of me, crossing herself. I made my own gesture of reverence at the opening, acknowledging the sacred intention we had come to manifest. Step by step, through the gentle curves and hairpin turns that comprised this labyrinth, I placed my foot as on holy ground, knowing that it is I, actually, who am the holy ground. <br />
<br />
Along the winding path, I held the posture of fear, a permanent flinch. It is a mental posture that I have maintained for decades but that has become a physical necessity in my pain of the last few years. The fear has kept me a literal captive in my own body as the muscles and joints pinch and ache. But walking into the path, I held the posture deliberately, gazing with the mind's eye straight at the fear, regarding it, admitting that both fear and flinch had served a holy purpose: survival of soul and mind. <br />
<br />
I met my partner in the center. She planted her candle in the ground, among the rocks and pebbles of the tiny altar that grows there from the offerings of the pilgrims. Contrary to custom, I had brought nothing to leave in the labyrinth. This ritual was, for me, not about leaving something behind but about transforming something within. So instead of a tangible offering, I made a prayer of my body, with my body. Through a series of mudras, yoga-like gestures of the hands, speaking from that soul-place beyond words, I offered the pain and fear and flinching and utter terror to that sacred space. I submitted humbly to the spiritual path upon which I have been set, asking that I find authority over the demon fear, that it would be a companion on the journey rather than a jailer in my prison. I acknowledged the holiness of all things, even the demons, who still act according to a higher plan. <br />
<br />
Then I bowed to show respect to the power of grace that sanctified the space. And I walked back out of the labyrinth. Or did I? The change in perspective that I sought in the center of the labyrinth is not complete, my body and mind do not yet fully believe that the demon Grace is under my control. <br />
<br />
After the walk, my partner and I entered a tiny, spiral-shaped chapel, steeped in the prayers of the many supplicants before us. In the center of the chapel was a small sunken space that drew me in. I left my partner on the wall-bench that circled the chapel and sat on the floor in the very center of the spiral. Why had I been pulled to this place?<br />
<br />
The work of Peter Levine, one of the foremost names in the field of trauma and trauma recovery, demonstrates that the natural response of an animal (or human) to a perceived life-threatening situation, after the fight-flight-or-freeze condition has ended, is to release the enormous quantities of fear-induced hormones like adrenaline through a period of shaking or trembling. In his work with recovery, he found that people who have been allowed to have this period of trembling rarely if ever have post-traumatic reactions. Similarly, people with PTSD who can call up in their bodies the memory of the trauma (whether the memory is conscious or not) will nearly always experience some kind of shaking, however small or large, as part of their release. <br />
<br />
Cross-legged on the chapel floor, I sat with my hands resting on my knees, awaiting whatever had called me into this space. The tiny trigger point in my shoulder, where pain so often grabs me, tensed and a powerful electrical impulse shot down my arms. Both my hands twitched and clenched. My left hand started to shiver, then shake, and finally to flail. The muscles in my wrist and my forearm spasmed, the nerves firing completely without my conscious control. The intensity of the shaking was enough to hurt, the muscles were contracting so hard. Faster and faster, harder and wilder, my arm danced with the demon. I wondered if my whole body would be pulled into this last dance of fear, the birth spasms of freedom. <br />
<br />
I have no idea how long I sat there with my arm shaking, at least five minutes, probably less than than fifteen. What I do know is that the trembling waxed and waned three times before the wave passed off me. <br />
<br />
By the time I got home, I was completely wrung out. For the next several days, I was incapable of much more than brushing my teeth. I had the classic detoxification symptoms--weakness, flu-like digestion, headache, general aches and pains. <br />
<br />
During the rest of the month, the shaking and spasming of my left arm would come over me many times, fortunately without the flailing, since it often came while I was driving or laying in bed at night next to my husband. Each time, it left me tired and drained. But somehow also liberated. <br />
<br />Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-15248237258738875112012-11-28T00:49:00.001-08:002014-05-03T19:06:49.522-07:00Preparation for a PrayerLast spring, as I approached a particular NAET treatment, I became inexplicably anxious. I looked for ways to procrastinate, postponing appointments, finding other things that just needed to be treated first, forgetting to do the necessary preparatory work. The morning of the treatment, I awoke from a dream that my father had had sex with me. It was repulsive: his casual use of me. I went into my healer's room shaking with a fear I couldn't explain. <br />
<br />
During the treatment, I had a conversation with my dead mother that, by midnight that night, indicated to me the depravity of the sexual abuse of my childhood and adolescence. I began to think I had repressed memories far beyond the few incidents that I could recall. It was a realization that tipped the axis of my identity sideways. <br />
<br />
The apprehension with which I'd gone in for the treatment began to make sense. <br />
<br />
Tomorrrow morning, at the height of the full moon eclipse, and some conjunction of Venus and Pluto that my astrologer assures me is auspicious, I will perform a purification and initiation ritual. My intention is to strip away the denial and repression that keeps me from realizing my spiritual potential, to purify my vision, and to commit myself to my life's calling more deeply, though I will not know really what that is until the blinders fall away from my inner sight. It is a step of faith, fidelity to the path, because I know that the rigors of vocation will be more than I can imagine at this point. <br />
<br />
The trepidation that wavered into total terror, then rushed headlong into stunned horror, that accompanied last spring's NAET treatment also finds me now as I prepare for this coming ritual. What knowledge am I about to face? To what life am I committing myself?<br />
<br />
The ceremony itself is little more than minor theater with fire and salt, psychological smoke and mirrors. But psychologist-priest that I am, I know the power of theater to give life to the soul. It is a powerful statement of faith, of my willingness to follow a calling I've denied my whole life. <br />
<br />
It is that commitment I fear. What if it is too hard? What will it cost me? It will, of course, cost me everything I have. That is what callings are. They demand your life, one way or another. <br />
<br />
This ritual is a declaration that I am willing to meet that price. I will follow the truth that is yet to be revealed, lead where it will, cost what it may. <br />
<br />
I shake with reverent fear, holy terror, and determination. The demon in my head, who is not yet convinced that this is grace, screams in pain. A door is opening into new depths and the migrainous screeching of its hinges alerts me to the potential horrors lurking within. Do I really want to enter? How can I not and hope to live with myself?<br />
<br />
Would that this cup should pass from me. But be it not my will, but Thine. <br />
<br />Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-2050882686599137592012-10-31T22:38:00.002-07:002012-11-01T17:11:31.461-07:00A Haunting<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Halloween. The veil between the worlds of spirit and body wavers and thins. Knowledge and fear of knowledge, consciousness of The Unknown, are</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> close at hand. Ghosts walk, demons dance, a</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">ll the skeletons in the closet rattle. I am tense with horror at what I am about to call up, at my own deadly courage in facing the shade that hovers. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A year ago, I was lying here in my bed, weeping again from exhaustion. It was 7pm, the trick-or-treaters were in full parade. One daughter was downstairs dispensing candy to the crowds and laughing with the neighbors; the other daughter pacing the floor, waiting for a ride to a party who never showed up. I was so tired, fatigued from my hysterical illness, the six weeks of continuous bleeding, the runaround in the health-care system. I drove my daughter to her party, shaking like a palsied old woman. Three hours from now, I was <a href="http://chroniclesofachristianheretic.blogspot.com/2011/11/normal-0-false-false-false-en-us-ja-x.html#uds-search-results">checking into the Emergency Hospital</a>.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDT_XCLk1NmiuUroAObdSqugmniOGE2C3v5NGOEB-Z32uX5K14h-PfhiD6zpP13GjFeamAcBULBm5TqOfrCe9NzsQjmhko5F_Bct2uf7NIguQ4fer4FR-UAE4BBBO-ZerDMNX7Bq420656/s1600/IMG_0585.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDT_XCLk1NmiuUroAObdSqugmniOGE2C3v5NGOEB-Z32uX5K14h-PfhiD6zpP13GjFeamAcBULBm5TqOfrCe9NzsQjmhko5F_Bct2uf7NIguQ4fer4FR-UAE4BBBO-ZerDMNX7Bq420656/s400/IMG_0585.jpg" width="300" /></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">A year of doctors and tests that told no story, of healers and pills and therapies that dug new stories out of the depths of lost memory. I lost forty pounds; it all found me again and brought extra. I've been to a dozen doctors. I've consulted astrologers, psychics, and charlatans. I've been hopeful and morose, resigned, and suicidal. I spent thousands of dollars and hundreds of hours in analysis, diagnosis, meditation--scouring my case history for clues, making peace with skeletons in my past, finding skeletons lurking that I never suspected.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Last Christmas I lay in my bed, wishing I were dead. Lent came around to find me hopeful of a <a href="http://chroniclesofachristianheretic.blogspot.com/2012/02/another-ash-wednesday.html">resurrection</a> into new life, a renewed spirit. I wondered what would grow from my broken body and bruised heart. Grace had cracked open my life, deeper than I imagined possible. The self I laid down is dead; the self that rises now, I still don't recognize.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Not two weeks after my Lenten post, I lay on my healer's table, confronting my long-dead mother. More than one of my sensitive friends told me that I had an attachment, that the ghosts of uneasy souls lay in my spirit. My mother appeared to me with remorse, anxiety and longing. Death had given her a new perspective of our lives. She begged my forgiveness for her sins. She warned me of demons hiding in my psyche. She gave me few words but what she said turned everything I remembered of my childhood upside down. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">It felt like my memories, and the meanings I attached to them, were a kaleidoscope, a familiar pattern of sights and sounds and feelings. But Mom came and shifted the lens just a quarter turn. All those pieces suddenly fell into a different pattern with all new meaning. Everything I thought I understood about myself, my childhood, my family was new. I had stepped into a parallel universe, a Twilight Zone. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">But how could these implications of my mother's words be true? I had no recollection of anything that supported what she suggested that day. I was haunted now as I'd never been when her spirit had lingered. I'd watched her fade into the light of my healer's window but I was burdened now with a new, terrible truth I couldn't accept.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My lack of confirmation weighed heavy, though the scars of the truth were now clear. I felt like a physicist who hadn't seen the unknown planet but knew it had to exist because of its effects on nearby space were obvious. Suddenly, the many questions through the years from psychologists and psychics weren't so absurd. Perhaps the wounds they suggested had happened.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Then the memories began to leak out. In dreams. And flashbacks. Glimpses of sights and sensations that had no context but I could feel them in my body, gagging me, tearing my most sensitive places, burning my belly, the gall strong.The demon danced always just out of sight, daring me to call him by name. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">My body is the battleground of this fight to own my memories. I was struck with Bell's palsy; I lost part of the vision in one eye, and have been tortured with pain that threatened to blast my brain out through the sutures of my skull bones. The medicines and therapies prescribed to lessen the pain, served also to weaken my defenses that blocked these memories to begin with. The more I mediate the pain, the more the demon dances and, by force of long and well-ingrained habit, I try to repress him. I am about to start my third round of remedy/therapy combinations that will safely exorcise this evil from me. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I long to name this demon with confidence. Fetch him to dance to my tune. Tame him to work for me in healing, not destroy me. As I write, a muscle under my eye is twitching, my whole body aches in a permanent flinch, the frozen trauma caught in the muscle memory I can't yet allow fully into consciousness. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Tonight I step into the circle, howling my terror, singing my strength, this demon is mine. Bring to consciousness the fears and the memories that terrify. While the veil to the unconscious is thin and shifting, when the power of those saints who passed before us lingers close, I invoke Grace. The demon Grace who dances, not to terrify but to save me from what I could not be permitted to see. Grace, whose blindness now will be sight, I call you to transmute from fear to love, no longer Death but Life. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Tomorrow, I go to a Franciscan labyrinth to honor All Saints Day/Dia de los Muertes. I will walk into the path as to the grave, to bury my fears and traumas. The dreams and knowings I call forth tonight will go with me tomorrow into the labyrinth. I will bring the demon fears with me, but in the holy center space where grace happens, he will be no demon to me. When I come out, it will be wisdom that walks with me. </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
</span>Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-872862682800741415.post-30274748778522169782012-10-25T14:40:00.001-07:002013-04-04T22:13:29.431-07:0010 Things on ThursdayTen Things I'm Afraid Of:<br />
<br />
<br />
1. I'm afraid that I will be regarded as a dilettante blogger because I don't blog every day. But I'm afraid if I blog everyday, I will end up with mostly frivolous posts. <br />
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2. I am afraid of being Stoopid. My hysterical illness has mucked up so much of my executive functioning that I am just a dingbat all too often. I'm afraid that my hysterical illness has stolen so much of my brain that I won't ever be able to write consistently and reliably, that I won't be able to "just show up" to my writing. <br />
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3. I am afraid i will lose my mind altogether. I hate that I can't be counted on to organize the family's finances or even the grocery lists with any certainty. <br />
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4. I am afraid that I won't provide my kids with the social skills and education that they deserve. I am afraid that my own disabilities will create disabilities in them. I'm afraid that I did them a disservice by homeschooling. <br />
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5. I'm afraid I've wasted my intelligence on fundamentalist thinking and haven't got anything left now that I'm not a fundamentalist anymore. <br />
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6. I'm afraid that the best thing anyone will be able to say about me at my funeral is that "she loved her kids". But I hate that I can't see loving my kids as a valuable accomplishment. <br />
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7. I am afraid of dying before I'm fifty (like my mother). I am also afraid of being old before my time. <br />
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8. I am afraid that I will let the limitations of my hysterical illness hold me back as much as I let fundamentalist thinking and religious addiction limit me. <br />
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9. I am afraid that I make no difference in my world. <br />
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10. I am afraid of fear. Sandra Keehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16979912092987681396noreply@blogger.com2