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.”

Lowering my hands

I was scared. Without any other need or reason, I placed my hands over my eyes as my soul clung for dear life. It was a familiar pose, and yet looking back at me as a little boy I realize covering my eyes did nothing to remove the object of my fear. I suppose it offered me a sense of safety, but only a sense. Only when I lowered my hands was I able to breathe again and get on with my life.

I’m braver now, but, if I’m honest, I still lift my hands and cover my eyes, often. I still think if I don’t look at something it will go away. I do it with unexpected bills, difficult conversations, even my health. I also cover my eyes when it comes to my spiritual life. I suppose I hope my doubts and many failings will somehow disappear, or at least recede, into the margins of my life if I cover my eyes. 

But just as the adult encourages the frightened child to lower his or her hands, I must use whatever words I have, whatever compassion or empathy I can muster, to encourage myself to lower my hands and look at what there is to see. In the end, whatever I find will be better than the darkness my hands provide. Monsters will disappear, storms diminish, and eventually I will be able to breathe again.

Imperfect Poses

She wasn’t very good at yoga, but she went to class two times a week. Always sure to pick a spot in the back of the room, she tried her hardest not to look at the others and compare. Her downward-dog pose was crouched, her warrior wilted. Still, she tried. “It’s enough to strike the pose,” her wise instructor once said. “That you are here and trying is what truly matters.” Such graced kept her from quitting, and now she’s growing proficient in her practice.

When she told me about her yoga efforts, I was comforted by her instructor’s sage advice. It’s enough to get in position and try. When it comes to my life, particularly my spiritual life, that’s what I need most. Too often, I struggle with absolutes - I must do something absolutely, and it must be done to perfection. If you know me, you know that all the evidence is to the contrary.

I am working with my sponsor on steps two and three of the 12-steps, which are, believing in a power greater than myself, and turning my life and will over to the care of God, as I understand God. You would think for a minister such steps would be easy, but because I too often look around the room and see others who live more spiritual lives and see the countless faults in my spiritual “poses,” I often want to quit. I convince myself there’s more integrity in not believing than in believing imperfectly, but then I find myself drawn to God, once again. I can’t help it.

Today, I am going to accept my crouchy, wilty faith and trust that my showing up and trying is what matters in God’s sight. I will strike the pose and trust, somehow, it’s enough.