Communion

I was raised nominally Catholic for the first 11 years of my life.  I remember next to nothing about that history, except for the box of notecards from CCD (just the box, not the cards) and the Super Importance of Doing Communion Right--to the point where I fretted over if my left or my right hand was on top when I cupped them to receive the elements.

When I became a Christian two years later, I became decidedly Protestant, and learned a new way of doing communion that allayed all my fears about doing it right: pick up a tiny chiclet thing of a gluten product and a plastic shotglass of juice from the golden plates passed around.  (Well, all except dropping the dang thing!) No person directly in front of you, judging your hands and/or the response you gave.

In the intervening time, I have been exposed to a lot of theology and a lot of different methods of taking communion.  I have my beliefs about the theology of it (akin to consubstantiation), and a few opinions on the ways in which it should and should not be practiced (it should be done in community, with words spoken over it for us, and it should be given by another).  I have been taking communion for close to twenty years.  Yet, despite all this, communion remains a place of uncertainty for me.  And it is precisely through that uncertainty that Jesus has been able to meet me in it over the years.

A few weeks ago, I attended the ordination of a woman I knew from college.  I was so happy to participate in communion with her.  I was intent on honoring her in my receiving communion--a fair number of times, the power of communion to me has come from my recognition that the person serving me communion recognizes me.  I was intent on giving that experience to her, participating in the first communion she serves, and having her give it to people she recognizes.  I was so focused on giving that experience to her.  And still, the Holy Spirit gave to me.

I walked up to her, acknowledged her and smiled, and I reached out to tear off a piece of the bread from the loaf and...the bread just kept coming with my fingers!  It was massive.  And I felt appalled at its size, embarrassed.  But I was reminded that that bread was and is for me.  He calls me to take deeply of him, not shyly nibbling at the edges, but to eat of his body fully and to drink of his blood deeply.  There is enough.

First week of Advent

The first week of Advent is nearly over. This week of WAPIVCF 's five minutes of peace has been wonderful. It's *hard* to wait! But also, even after only a few days, I find myself yearning for those five minutes. 'When can I take them?' 'What am I going to do to make space for God?'

I missed yesterday's five minutes of peace. But according to the rules, that's okay! I'm grateful that's in the rules. I think I need that laid out for me, in writing.  I struggle a lot with perfectionism, and even if I know it's okay if my practice isn't perfect, I think it has been really freeing to have been given an open-ended practice to try... with community...and with a community to whom the same rule has been given.

Even if I didn't manage to set aside five whole intentional minutes, there were still single moments of True Peace, where my awareness shifted just a little, where I briefly peeked around the veil between worlds, it seemed.

Such a tiny practice, but I certainly feel like it's been an important one for me, given where my soul is currently. 

#Ilooklikeaprofessor

Some hashtags are fun to participate just because they are subversive and/or reactionary, for example: #distractinglysexy.  That was a hashtag that arose out of a distinguished leader in sciences commented on the distractions of having women in the lab.  So, us lady scientists took to Twitter and posted images of our female-ness in the lab captioned with snarky comments about crying in lab or whathaveyou.  Now that was fun to participate in, even if it was still rooted in defying stereotypes and misconceptions about women in science, which is something I'm growing aware of.

Relevant sidebar before we move on:  I never questioned if it was okay for me to be a scientist.  I think I owe that to the scads of adults in my life who never made me think or feel for even the tiniest moment that I couldn't.  They always believed in me and supported me in whatever I set my mind to.  I never felt treated any differently in my science classes at school, never felt any inkling of hesitation asking my male teachers to write me college rec letters for me to go study chemistry, or even when I asked my male professors to write me graduate school rec letters for me to go study physical inorganic chemistry at some of the nation's top research schools.  But when I stepped foot into the halls of my graduate school, suddenly no one looked like me.  There were no professors I could relate to.  With the exception of two women who roamed the basement and whom everyone seemed to forget about and the students were all afraid of, the department of over 40 people was entirely middle-aged white males.  When I left, I got a lab job where I was the only female in the company (granted, the company was like 24 people, but still).  So when I looked for a new place to study a few years later after I set my goals in order, I made it a point to look for a department where there were people I felt I could approach and relate to.  I fortunately found a fabulous department where literally half of the department was female.  And in that, there was a diversity of women that I could learn from.  I applied for and received a fellowship in graduate school designed for students from underrepresented groups in higher education seeking employment in post-secondary education.  I never would have consider myself that way, but the truth is, as a woman, in the physical sciences, in higher education faculty pools, I am.  The more I become aware of this fact, the more I realize what a role I have in making sure that even though my story was relatively simple, other young girls' and my students' stories may  not be, so I do what I can to support them and embrace my differences (because that's what I do. ;) )

But this #Ilooklikeaprofessor one, while rooted in similar reactionary earth, is much more important to me and empowering to me than #distractinglysexy.  It is still challenging what images we have of people in various positions, but this one feels much more important to me.  Because this precisely is part of how I feel as I step into the classroom: I feel I have to actively compensate for something about me.  Internally, in addition to all of the insecurities I'm feeling as a new professor (I just finished my first year!), I feel my mistakes are magnified because I am a young woman--and a tiny one at that.  When I walk into the lecture hall for the first time, I am very aware that I am not who my students expect.  I feel like I walk in, and they see a student who walked in the wrong door, OR they see the professor's teaching assistant who is filling in for the professor in his or her absence.  Wherever I go in a professor's capacity (ie, stepping into the lecture hall for the first time, showing up at the IT desk to use the scantron scanner, participating in my college's social gatherings, etc.), I am excessively conscious of what I'm wearing, and how I walk, and how I talk, and I make sure I am wearing my nametag.  Doing everything I can to prove that I am worthy of the space or resources I am using.  Students with complaints about their experiences in the course have gone directly to the department with them instead of speaking to me about them, and I have to wonder if I were an older male professor if they would be doing the same thing.  So despite the fact that I am a part of a department with an unusually high percentage of female faculty, I still actively feel that I am an anomaly in higher education.  I still actively feel like I have something to prove when I step into the classroom that I am not sure my male colleagues have to.

I am grateful for the #Ilooklikeaprofessor campaign, because it reminds me that I am not alone in feeling this way, and because it is actively reminding me that the professoriate is truly and in reality more diverse than what google shows us when we search for "professor".

Easter

The two days in the Easter holiday week that seem to speak to me the most are Holy Saturday and Easter Monday.

Holy Saturday is this time of tension...a reminder that there was an entire day (and change) while Jesus was entombed.  An invitation to enter into the pain and confusion that the disciples felt after the crucifixion of the one in whom they had placed their lives, hope, and love.  A reminder that these are real and valid feelings, particular resonant perhaps when we feel God has betrayed us or abandoned us.

I love Easter Monday.  A day with a name that reminds us that Easter was not a one-time deal.  He rose from the dead on Sunday...and is *still risen.*  That just because Sunday was this huge, big, bright celebration, and Monday comes and it's back to school or work...that doesn't mean the celebration doesn't end, it doesn't mean that what Jesus did didn't last.  His hope is *eternal.*

The Lord our God Is

The Lord our God is ever faithful
Never changing through the ages
From this darkness
You will lead us
And forever we will say
You're the Lord our God

Promise maker, promise keeper
You finish what You begin
Our provision through the desert
You see it through ‘til the end
You see it through ‘til the end
I believe
In the silence, in the waiting
Still we can know You are good
All Your plans are for Your glory
Yes, we can know You are good
Yes, we can know You are good

We won't move without You
We won't move without You
You're the light of all
And all that we need

--Kristian Stanfill

Spiritual Health

I'm currently feeling tired, cranky, emotionally unstable, and...worn out.

Yes, I could probably use some better sleep, and yes, I probably need to go exercise.  But those address my physical health, and what I'm feeling feels deeper than that.

I'm pondering the metaphors and language that my faith circles tend to use that use language of thirst and hunger for things in our spritiual lives...I know there a handful of examples floating around in my notes somewhere but right now allt hat comes to mind is the Beatitude "Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness..." (Matthew 5ish).  And I'm wondering if those are not just flowery words, born out of trying to make a connection to something more concrete that we experience.  If maybe, like physical hunger, spiritual hunger is indicative of a lack of a substance, and just as in physical hunger, it serves as a reminder of a need to be met.  You wouldn't be hungry for something that's just an extra perk to living, would you?  You feel hungry when something that is necessary is missing.

Hexaflexagons: Lesson 1

Another deviation from my norm here of contemplating life and faith:  math.

I have, courtesy of Facebook and YouTube, discovered hexaflexagons. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VIVIegSt81k) I am reasonably intrigued by these...things.  I've watched two hexaflexagon videos a few times over, and have spent about 15 minutes so far playing with them myself.  So far, I have learned:

1. They seem to be like this weird multi-messed up Mobius strip...
2. The folds need to be very precise--specifically, all of your vertices of your fold points need to be exact for ease of flipping.

I think that is enough for tonight.  I look forward to sitting down with more paper, a pair of scissors, and a good work surface to explore these orgigam-atical mathematical things of mystery...