Risking Pain-Filled Humility

It's about 20 weeks after Pentecost, the birthday of the church, but I figure any day is a good day to write about life in relationship to the church's birthday. This story began on Pentecost 2009, back in May...

I heard recently, from a man who pours out his wisdom by the bucket-fulls, “God calls us into the pain of the people – to identify with it and if necessary to take it on. Great leaders are willing to enter into the pain of their people” (John Perkins speaking on 6/4/09 at Duke Summer Institute).

My own sense of Christian leadership is that it hurts to enter into the pain of a people, and it is also a great joy to be a part of the ongoing work of the church. At The Church of the Holy Family, Chapel Hill, North Carolina, we worship in a sort of in-between times. Hopefully, all churches plow and harvest in this season knowing that Jesus has been fully revealed in his life, death, resurrection, and ascension, and yet, the same churches are mysteriously aware that there is still something left to come. If there were not something else, then I believe pain would not feature so prominently within the fields of our lives. Humility in the face of pain is one area of human farming where the church has featured prominently, because where folks are humble, suffering is sure to be found.

During my time at The Church of the Holy Family as staff, lay member, and now ordained clergy (in another tradition, so still essentially lay in an Episcopal world), I have seen much work in the fields of humility. Some of what I love about Holy Family is that we do not fit neatly into boxes for others or our own descriptive purposes. We look liberal and conservative, orthodox and progressive, and many striations and variations in-between. I feel simultaneously insider and outsider, and over the years I have become less clear about who I am theologically, and spiritually. Such ambiguity may unnerve former professors, mentors, even my own family, yet I suspect that I am not the only baptized member there who thinks Holy Family is dually contributing to his own salvation and failure. I have shared in the failures of other members and the community at-large and seen these failures be to the glory of God. My time at Holy Family appears to be shaping me for confusion, not wanting to live in any one theological, political, or spiritual box. Can we be a people without simplistic answers to difficult questions? That’s a rhetorical question, loaded to the brim, but it has an affirmative answer for me. I no longer seek success, merely faithfulness. Those who yearn for faithfulness over and above success can rest assured their commitment to humility will be tested.

While this tends to contribute to my lack of classical success in jobs as of late, I believe such complexity can be to the glory of God. Others will not agree with me, believing that all should be tidied up where religious and vocational matters are concerned, yet God’s kingdom is rarely so tidy. It is a kingdom told in parables. It is a kingdom told in such statements as “those who are last shall be first” or “blessed are the meek.” Jesus never came pronouncing simplicity. His rule today is filled with a faithful commitment to mystery. Allegiance to mystery leaves more up to God then would make us the most comfortable. It also means that we will succeed on God’s timetable not our own.

One of the ways through last-ness and meek-ness might be to embrace these conditions rather than disdain them. To draw upon Dr. Perkins again, entering into the pain of a people is to first, be last among them, to be the humblest in their midst. To come last in the race will involve pain, humility, even embarrassment. Perhaps the church’s call is to be less triumphal than is typically our M.O. Instead we are to be a people more accepting of conditions of seeming failure. For what seems to be a failure is akin to God’s seeming failure—death on a cross. If we believe that God remains faithful to us, then it is all being worked out. It’s all good.

Though we are reminded that faithfully pronouncing, “it’s all good,” is not without pain. I have seen such digging in the realm of humility and pain at Holy Family. We were mixed on the ordination of a homosexual bishop. We were mixed on the ordination of a female presiding bishop and some are even mixed on the at-large ordination of women. Yet, we stay together. We weather the floods as Episcopalians within a complex Anglican Communion. This lack of shared vision does not always lead to increased tithing, and we deceive ourselves if we sense that giving is down only due to the recession. This parish was led by a rector/pastor so gifted it is almost laughable, yet we are far from meeting our budgetary needs. That tension exemplifies humility. I believe we live faithfully in-between the times primarily through shared food at the altar nearly every time we gather. Further, we practice acts as a weekly commitment to a penitential order including a kneeled prayer including the Ten Commandments. This penitential order has been practiced for eight years, since the initial invasion of Afghanistan in 2002. Cases could be made for many other worship commitments that are adhered to by Holy Family and its’ members—foot washing, anointing, etc. Through each of these acts we hurt individually and collectively with one another and the world. My hope is that we enter into this place of pain humbly, and in turn we celebrate joyfully as participants in God’s Kingdom.

The image of fire is the prevelant image at Pentecost thanks to the story from Acts, chapter two. This is an image filled with light, pain, fear, hope, reinvention. It's a mixed bag, paradoxical, like the church.

Cyclocross

Somehow, cyclocross is pulling at my heartstrings. I don't know why. I have never even sat on a cyclocross bike, but I want one and I want to race it in the mud. I want a wet fall day in NC, about 45 degrees and sunny. I could even stand to race in the snow. I think I could be good at a discipline that requrires a little bit of running with a bike.
Whatever...
It looks fun. Who cares if I am good at it.
Maybe next fall--2010. By then, I might get a bike and race like the wind.
All I had to do was get a fixey and now I have the bug. I want to race with gears, and in duathlons, and triathlons, and on a mountain bike for some long stage races with G4. And I want to race off-road on a cyclocross bike.
The last weekend in October, Curtis and I are going to go watch some races in Cary and/or Raleigh. I'll see what that does to me.
*Photo from Cannondale Website www.cannondale.com.

Lake Crabtree KIT Adventure Race

Yesterday George IV and I were in a adventure race together. We were in a canoe for a few minutes and then we ran fast. We popped a balloon. We ran up a trail. We did three bumpy laps on a bike around cones, or rather, George rode and I ran in front, alongside, and behind him. Then we ran down hill as George kept saying a motivating mantra to himself, “come on bud.” I guess maybe I was saying that to him, but I am not sure. He was really into the event and doing his best. He was doing a terrific job and I was certainly proud papa. We arrived at the big field out by the lake and George was three for three at throwing baseballs at a target. Then we did a short three-legged race and we were done. It was a great afternoon. Our time was 20:44. I think we might have been on the podium, but we did not wait to find out.

Later found out that we were fifth out of 17 finishers. Wow, there are some fast 5-7 year olds. George had clearly never felt breathing quite like that. I could tell it was a shock to the system, but he seemed to enjoy it. I was telling Marmot about the race today, and I said, thinking of George, “Welcome to a whole new lifestyle!” These endurance races will in fact, change your life. I remember when they changed mine some three decades ago.

Ironman Comeback

This is not my Ironman report. I'm no Ironman triathlete. I don't even like to swim competitively, but I do respect those who think 2.4 miles in open water is just the easy part of the three-fold day of working out. I might try some Duathlon (run-bike-run) this winter, but that's another story for another day. This report is written by my good friend Brett Rumble. Read it for an honest and not terribly optimistic stance on meeting some goals and falling short on others.

Brett wrote:
It’s been 6 years since my last Ironman. After a long series of injuries, I honestly never thought I would stand at the starting line of an Ironman again. Since the day I signed up nearly a year before, my primary goal was only to make it to the starting line. But on Sunday, there I found myself, knee deep (pun intended) in the waters of Okanagan Lake in Penticton, British Columbia for Ironman Canada 2009.

The day began routinely: up at 4 to eat and finalize packing, a short walk from the hotel down to the transition area around 5:30, body marking, pumping up bike tires, dropping off special needs bags, checking transition bags, putting on the wetsuit, and a warm up swim. Just another day at the office.

An Ironman swim start is a spectacle to watch. 2800 athletes plunging into the water at the same time. Thousands colored swim caps poke out of the water accented by black neoprene clad arms churning the calm, early morning water frothy. In the mix, however, it feels like trying to swim in a washing machine. As the starting gun went off, I started on the inside of the pack a few rows back. After 50 yards of stumbling over rocks in ankle deep water, I dove in and took my first strokes heading straight for the first buoy in relatively clear water. It was the only clear water I would see all day. After passing the first buoy, it felt like the entire field converged on me.

No Hitting, but Shoving Is Encouraged

As the field closed in on me from every direction, I tried to settle into a rhythm. However, it felt like I was the only person swimming in line with the course buoys and I had to keep looking up to check my line while repeatedly banging elbows, hands and shoulders with the other swimmers. After about 600 meters, I somehow managed to drift from the right side of the field into the middle. Boxed in by roughly 600 swimmers in a 10 square foot radius, I checked my heart rate and tried to be patient while glancing longingly with every breath at the clear water to my right. Eventually, I found my way back to the right of the field. Unfortunately, it was so far right there were no other swimmers around to draft. A woman settled in behind me, politely tapping my feet with her every stroke as she drafted me.

We converged on the first turn of the U-shaped course and things got crowded again. I was able to temporarily forget the traffic jam when I spotted 2 scuba divers floating calmly 10 feet below with ringside seats for the fight at the surface, ready to step in if something went awry. Despite the shepherding scuba eyes below, I shoved my way through the two turns and headed back towards shore.

I was hoping the field would thin out on the return trip, but to my dismay, I found myself continuing to fend off errant swimmers. At the same time, I found myself fighting my wetsuit. It felt too short in the torso and was compressing my back, which was starting to lock up. Moreover, I couldn’t find any fluidity in my stroke. So, I lumbered through my strokes, checked my heart rate which was hovering comfortably around 130, fought off a few more swimmers, and counted the minutes until I could get to shore and out of the wetsuit.

I hit shore around 1:08—a little slower than I wanted but still under the 1:10 goal I had set. And with an average heart rate of 131, I wasn’t feeling too bad. I dodged my way through the masses like a pinball, had my wetsuit stripped off by the volunteers, grabbed my transition bag (helmet, shoes, food), unracked my bike and was on my way.



The Long and Winding Road

The crowds lining the street in town were huge and loud. I settled in and forced myself to be patient and take the first 20 minutes of the ride comfortably as other riders sped past. I cruised out of town along the shores of Skaha Lake and I slowly found a rhythm. The golden rule on the bike at Canada is to not go too hard the first 40 miles, which are flat and fast and can lull unsuspecting riders into overexerting prior the serious hills that start around 45 miles. I sat in comfortably and cruised towards the impending 6 mile climb up Richter Pass. I passed the time drinking water, popping my requisite 5 salt tablets an hour, and ogling the expensive bikes of slower swimmers as they breezed by. I passed the 40 mile mark in 1:54 and waited for the boom to drop.

I made the right hand turn and began the climb up Richter, shifting immediately into my granny gear and starting to spin as I quickly found a good climbing rhythm. I spun easy for the first part of the climb. As I neared the top, the throngs of cheering spectators increased and so did my pace as I got caught up in the excitement. I careened past a cheering spectator clad in a Tigger outfit and I smiled as I breezed by other riders struggling up the climb.

I crested Richter a little winded but feeling pretty good, took two pedal strokes ,and immediately found myself going 35 miles an hour as I barreled down the harrowing 2 mile descent. Before long I was tearing down the hill at 40 miles an hour, clenching my teeth and the handlebars with a death grip too scared to notice the other riders plummeting by.

I made it down safely and began the section of course affectionately referred to as the “7 rollers.” As I coursed through the rollers, two things became abundantly clear: I climb better than I do descend. Up the climbs, I would cruise past packs of riders, only to have them pass me as I white-knuckled the descents. Getting passed going downhill was a little disheartening and I drifted into a bit of complacency as the middle miles of the bike ticked by. But, I checked my progress after three and half hours and pleasantly found I had 70 miles down, an average of 20 mph. Spirits renewed, I floated through the out and back section and headed towards the final climb up Yellow Lake.

While Richter is the steeper climb of the two, Yellow Lake is harder as it comes 90 miles into the bike. I, however, felt effortless up the climb. The climb was littered with spectators and I caught a glimpse of Erin early on the climb. We exchanged a few words and I cruised on up the climb past Superman and two women dressed as Wonder Woman. I summited Yellow Lake and started the 10 mile descent back into town clinging to my bike at 40 miles an hour. Back in town, I finished off the 112 mile ride with a total bike split of 5:59, an average pace of 18.7 mph, and an average heart rate of 128. I handed my bike off to a willing volunteer and meandered into the changing tent.

What Is Called Resignation Is Confirmed Desperation

As I was putting on my running shoes, I found I wasn’t in any particular hurry to head out onto the run course. Nonetheless, gel in hand, I headed out on course. I ran through the first mile and checked my pace: 9:27. Not bad, but I could already feel something wasn’t right. I managed to get out of town and away from the crowds before I sheepishly stopped to walk. My legs felt fine, but nausea was setting in and I was feeling a little light headed. I collected my thoughts and started the all too familiar tug of war between my stomach and my pace. I was able to run the majority of the first 10 miles, walking the aid stations while taking in just enough water and salt tablets to stave off any gastrointestinal fireworks.

Around 10 miles, I knew the wheels were going to come off—it was just a matter of time. The thought of ingesting anything was repulsive and I was starting to get chills, despite the 85 degree temperature—a classic sign of dehydration. On top of it all, the smoke from the forest fires in the area had settled into a dull haze over the course and that, combined with the dry air, caused my nose to start bleeding slowly. I watched an ambulance roar by with siren blaring on its way to pull an unfortunate athlete off the course. I sniffled back blood, trying to avoid any attention that might resign me to a similar fate and counted the miles until the turn around. I hit the turn at 2:24 and managed to run/walk to 15 miles, with more walking than running unfortunately. From 15 to 20, running (and that term is used very loosely here) became the exception rather than the rule as I stared at the ground in solemn misery.

The run course of an Ironman can be a lonely place at times like that. The silence is deafening. All conversation among athletes has dissipated. The only sound to be heard was the scraping of my shoes on pavement over the tapping of other athletes’ running shoes. The lonely clapping of the smattering of spectators left on the course mixes with the occasional calls of aid station volunteers offering water. Amidst the silence, I clumped along with resignation while the clock slipped away with the daylight.

Coming Home

Whether I was smelling the barn or feeling a little better, I think my pace lifted a little the last 4 miles. Although I had resigned myself to finishing outside my goal, I felt obligated to do as little walking in town where there were more spectators. Around 2 miles to go, I finally gave in to my stomach and gave up any hope of taking any more gel, throwing away the food and salt pills I was unable to eat. I shuffled to the last mile marker, took a walk break and prepared myself for to try to run the last mile. Over the last mile, the streets were line two and three people deep with spectators cheering wildly. Nonetheless, I managed to pick Erin out of the crowd as I trudged my way towards the finish.

Perhaps in a show of embarrassed defiance, I managed to catch the runner in front of me just before the line. But at that point, it mattered little to me. I had such high hopes for this race and to succumb to a nutritional issue (again) was disappointing—and it showed as I crossed the finish line. No raised arms. No smile. No sore legs. Just a flick of the wrist to stop my watch and to end my day.

When the smoke cleared from my 5:17 run (again, using that term loosely), my final time was 12:39. My average heart rate on the run was 110 and for the whole race, 120. I burned 6721 calories.

I have to admit that for most of the year prior to the race, in the back of my mind I kept waiting for an injury to prevent me from doing the race as it had over the past 6 years. But it didn’t. In fact, my training went very well. In that sense, I did achieve my original goal: making to the starting line. I do take some solace in that fact. And I don’t completely overlook the fact that I finished. But at some point, the races become more than just finishing. In that sense, as I walked away from the finish line, my resignation resonates louder than my accomplishment.

Standing in the Need of Healing

Earlier this week I saw Lydia at the library and the chance encounter filled my heart with prayer for her and for missing some students from my past. She had been such a a good friend—more than a parent. I offered some help, but I knew from her responses and that she was not ready for that and I did not press.

It was the longest I have held someone in a hug for a long, long time. When we separated she was filled with tears. I imagine she was embarrassed, but just as much tired, longing for purchase on her life. For the chance to start over, but in no way sure how to find a way to start over. In fact, I don’t think she was embarrassed.

She seemed to see an old friend, someone to trust. Someone who could love her for what she was and I tried, with very few words, almost none, to convey the hope that where she currently finds herself is fleeting and will pass.

I had not seen her in 15 months. I had only heard rumors of addiction to crack. She looked tired, but okay,, somehow a little better than how I imagine crack addiction looks. It was mid-week, mid-morning. Perhaps the setting offered a reprieve from the worst of it, but really, I don't have a clue about the look and feel of such habits.

I believe that in the friendship we shared there is saving. Her daughter is growing up motherless. What must she be feeling after 15 adolescent months without a mom? She is athletic, this child, growing up without the maternal wisdom that only Lydia possesses.

Lydia needs purchase on the world. She said, “Some of us have a hard time sleeping in the bed we have made.” How true. What’s the solution? Is there one?

I pray TROSA upon Lydia. I believe they can help her. I believe that TROSA can save her life. I felt saved by TROSA when I was there. I miss my brief time there, though not a resident, I felt like TROSA on James Street was a community of honesty, discipline, and accountability.

I told Lydia, “You know it seems like some people have it all together, but they don’t. They are struggling on the inside. Taking life one day at a time.”

Of course, on some level, I meant me. And she knew it. I know she did by the tears that welled up in her blood-shot eyes, the eyes of too many sleepless nights, too many parties that brought no real joy. Eyes that felt needed for the first time in a long time. I needed her as a friend. I made myself vulnerable to her because I knew it would do her good as well as me. When we share stories with one another, real stories of pain and joy, we can be made whole.

She can get clean. I know it.

When she came near me, I was reading, Surprised by Hope, a defense of Jesus’ resurrection from the dead.

Because of the resurrection, Lydia can be made whole.

At least, she can struggle more successfully.

Standing at the shore

This photo depicts Rodney, Julian and I standing at the shores of the Red Sea. Julian is in the place of Moses about to part the waters. Katherine Smith had us pose for this picture as we walked back from the garden to the main part of camp at Chestnut Ridge during Duke Youth Academy, July 2009. We had been picking weeds in the garden on an abnormally cool July day. Only Julian could pick up a stick on a casual hike and feign a likeness to Charlton Heston in The 10 Commandments.

These two are hilarious. Rodney was new to DYA this year, but immediately found his way among staff and students as the great youth minister that he is. Julian and I spend the bulk of DYA laughing uncontrollably and trying to stay out of trouble. I am happy to count both of these men among my friends and I hope to work with each of them again soon.

FINALLY THE WATERS ARE PARTED!

Goats and Blackberries

berries bloom but three weeks a year
rest of the time, 49 weeks,
by my count
nothing but a nuisance
most the time

sure, everybody loves the sweet nectar
nectar from the gods
But
Is it worth it?

Don’t ask the eaters, the pickers, the bakers, or the tourists
What do they know?

ask the goats
they eat up vines of nuisance
‘spect they like 'em more 'an we like the berries

I’m just sayin’

*Check out NPR story, August 20, 2009