Monthly Archives: July 2013

brilliant

As part of a recent course, the instructor asked the class to write about a moment in which we felt most alive. “What were you doing?” she prompted. “What was happening? What noises do you associate with this memory? What color is that moment?” The class laughed when she asked about the color, but the answer, for many of us, was immediate. I struggled to write down the specifics of the color flashing in my mind: Light. Clear. Bright and in focus. Well-lit. White? Sun beams reflected off moving water.

As we shared, one participant said her memory was yellow. Those of us who knew her nodded, yes! Of course she’s yellow! One person wondered aloud, in a concise illustration of calling and flourishing: how can we help her be more yellow, or help her be yellow more often?

It wasn’t until much later that I began to apply the concept to myself: what does my color say about me? And of course, I pinpoint the color I was really trying to name, and with it the frustration and anger and elevation and pressure and pleasure and delight when people say to me: “You’re just

so

brilliant.”

There was a day last year where I vented to a friend about how my peers didn’t engage me or interact with my ideas or add to the conversation, they just told me how brilliant I was. I said the word with contempt. Brilliant. I took their complement as a statement about my intellectual capacities, an urging for me to perform so they could consume the words and ideas. My friend listened, nodding, then responded, with overwhelming strength and compassion, “Well, you are brilliant. Literally, you shine.”

And in this moment it all clicks together. It’s never been about intellect, it’s been about personhood and flourishing and identity. My peers have been calling me to be more me, have been calling me into the moments where they see me have the most life, have been calling me to be the person I was created to be more often, have been calling me to flourish—not for consumption or as superficial complements, but for delight and for glory. The intellect is just the self-created shadow I’ve been hiding in, hoping to dull the shine. What would it look like for me to allow myself to be light, clear, bright and in-focus? What would it look like for me to allow myself to be more brilliant, or to be brilliant more often?

I’m scared.

brilliant

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JJ Abrams’ Star Trek Into Darkness (2013)

What sticks with me most about the latest Star Trek movie isn’t a sense of adventure or excitement, but of infuriated distraction. Among the first females we see on screen are the two in Kirk’s bed. Two is a good number of women, apparently, because it’s also the number of female characters who have any weight in the plot. We don’t see them speak to each other; not even about men. When they do speak, it’s largely out of emotion, often with tears, occasionally petty and at entirely inappropriate times (like on a stealth mission to a hostile planet). The female uniforms are irrationally sexy for the kind of work being done, and at one point Carol changes in front of the camera for no explicable reason at all. Female nudity is so gratuitous now that apparently there’s no need to even attempt to work it into the narrative.

I do what any angry consumer does today: I angry-tweeted. A lot. I was just going to do one, but once I got going…I couldn’t stop. Since my tweets forward to facebook, soon I was in a gender argument with a defensive male acquaintance. He eventually apologized, I said thank you, and then he had to post one more comment: “It’s still a great movie.”

And that’s when I realized that we were having fundamentally different conversations. For him, this was simply a side-issue to an otherwise great film, so far to the side, in fact, that it had little influence on the overall viewing. For me, it was so blatant and distracting that it interfered with every moment, disturbed the entire experience.

This is what we mean when we say that men—even feminist men—don’t see sexism the way we do.

star trek

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“repent of thinking evil of evil”

Those words were one line in the closing blessing of tonight’s liturgy. In the wake of the Zimmerman trial, of what feels like a massive injustice, a failure of our system, a brokenness of humanity, they rang through my soul. I’ve been thinking of Zimmerman as an evil man with a cold heart and hard intentions, and while that might be true for the moment in which he chose to pursue with suspicion rather than step away and trust in the workings of the universe, decided to kill rather than lose a fight against a teenager, that is not the sum total of who he is as a person.

I recently got into an argument about whether or not it’s acceptable to say “the cross” with reference to the entire life and death of Jesus. I’m convinced that it is not: invoking the cross does not also invoke the resurrection, much less the many years and teachings of the incarnate divinity before that moment. By saying “the cross” to mean “the life,” by invoking the metonym of a part to represent the whole, we are choosing to remember him only for the worst thing that ever happened to him. But he wasn’t simply a victim of the state; he was a helpless infant, and a wise child, and an unconventional rabbi, a man who loved, who had compassion, who wept. How dare we reduce him to a symbol from just one day in a rich life?

And yet that’s exactly what I had wanted to do to George. (It feels more human to be on a first-name basis with a man with whom I have wrestled internally so much.) I had wanted to define him by the worst thing he had ever done, to name him simply ‘murderer’ and not have to deal with the complexity of his life in all its love and pain and joy and fear and shame. Which isn’t to say that justice is irrelevant; it’s not, and I would love to see him repent, to see him confront his prejudices and hatred, to be in community with those he fears, to heal and become more whole. Which might happen, who knows. I do know that his life and actions are beyond my control; I must step away and trust in the workings of the universe. I must repent of thinking evil of evil.

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