Writing and Erasing

One of my favorite descriptions of theology is, writing with one hand and simultaneously erasing with the other. As one who used to live as if life was a cumulative work, with pages and pages that others would read and assess, the idea of writing with one hand and erasing with the other is as unsettling as it is freeing. It’s a image that brings me back to the present, reminding me that, in the end, what was written before and what might be written in the future are nothing to what is being written now. . . today. . . this minute.

I’ve returned to the classroom after many years and, while much is as I remember, there is much that has changed. It’s not new so much as it is louder. The students are desperate to know their grades, and parents wait at the door expecting only glowing remarks about their children. While I applaud the children’s desire to excel, and understand parents’ love, the desire feels more like desperation. I deserve an A, they seem to say with every hand raised. It sometimes feels as if their lives depend on it, or their worth, and that makes me sad. There’s so much I want them to explore even if they fall flat on their face, but they’re paralyzed by the grade they hope to receive.

We’re not much better, you and me. Even though we’ve long graduated from school, we still want an A. Whether it’s at work, home, or social settings we seem determined to shine all the time. Progress is the tarnished cousin to shiny perfection - if not perfection, then at least something better than the person to our right or left. We can dismiss such a notion, but its true of us all at some point, or on some level. It’s even true in our spiritual lives. We’re all about the hand writing, but not so crazy about the hand erasing.

Today, as I welcome the students to class, I’ll walk over and close the door, as I do each morning. As I do so, I hope I can shut out perfection’s looming presence. I hope I can quell the need to perform. I hope I can suspend the hunger for an A. 

“Let’s just write,” I want to say. “Write from that place deep inside, the one so often ignored or denied. Let’s do something we’ve never done before, go somewhere we’ve never been, especially if we aren’t so sure we know how. Then, let’s erase the board, trusting that in the writing (and in the living) magic if found.”