Thursday short poem #3: Carl Dennis

I am getting lots and lots of hits as a result of Google searches for Amy Richards, and this is the top result at the moment for those folks who take issue with her choice. The debate has been very stimulating for me, I’ve read a lot of blogs I don’t normally read, and I’ve been humbled by the depth of feeling on all sides. I grieve just how vast the gulf is between the two core positions on this issue, and while continuing to stand against abortion, I am ever more eager to listen to and reach out to the other side. Given that the other side includes friends and family dear to me, it’s got to be done.

After a long time of languishing in “Flappy Bird” status, I am happy to report:

Given my guardianship of Matilde, this is most appropriate.

Anyhow, on to the Thursday short poem. It’s by Carl Dennis, an American poet who has only become well known in the last four years. This one really resonated with me the first time I read it last year, and I’ve come back to it again and again, even if the theology isn’t exactly “sound”!

The God Who Loves You

It must be troubling for the god who loves you
To ponder how much happier you’d be today
Had you been able to glimpse your many futures.
It must be painful for him to watch you on Friday evenings
Driving home from the office, content with your week—
Three fine houses sold to deserving families—
Knowing as he does exactly what would have happened
Had you gone to your second choice for college,
Knowing the roommate you’d have been allotted
Whose ardent opinions on painting and music
Would have kindled in you a lifelong passion.
A life thirty points above the life you’re living
On any scale of satisfaction. And every point
A thorn in the side of the god who loves you.
You don’t want that, a large-souled man like you
Who tries to withhold from your wife the day’s disappointments
So she can save her empathy for the children.
And would you want this god to compare your wife
With the woman you were destined to meet on the other campus?
It hurts you to think of him ranking the conversation
You’d have enjoyed over there higher in insight
Than the conversation you’re used to.
And think how this loving god would feel
Knowing that the man next in line for your wife
Would have pleased her more than you ever will
Even on your best days, when you really try.
Can you sleep at night believing a god like that
Is pacing his cloudy bedroom, harassed by alternatives
You’re spared by ignorance? The difference between what is
And what could have been will remain alive for him
Even after you cease existing, after you catch a chill
Running out in the snow for the morning paper,
Losing eleven years that the god who loves you
Will feel compelled to imagine scene by scene
Unless you come to the rescue by imagining him
No wiser than you are, no god at all, only a friend
No closer than the actual friend you made at college,
The one you haven’t written in months. Sit down tonight
And write him about the life you can talk about
With a claim to authority, the life you’ve witnessed,
Which for all you know is the life you’ve chosen.

It’s good stuff.

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“Relying on a man”; autonomy, interdependence — UPDATED

Long and meandering post a-comin’. Try and separate the wheat from the chaff!

My two posts on Amy Richards are still collecting lots of thoughtful responses. I’m getting lots of visitors this morning from a new (to me) blog, After Abortion. Go give ‘em a look.

The best critique of what I’ve written is over at Trish Wilson’s place. Thoughtfully and politely, and with courageous self-disclosure, Trish takes on several of my points. I don’t agree with her on many things, but I am glad our exchange on such a profoundly emotional issue is so civil. Let’s keep that tone!

In the comments section after her terrific post, a reader named AmarettiXL writes:

I’m the (single parent) daughter of a married woman who always advised me to never rely on a man. Many women advise their daughters in this way; so what? I’m not so dense as to see why some men get their shorts in a bunch upon hearing this phrase, but to them all I can say is…it’s not about you! It’s about making sure one’s daughter grows up with the ability to support herself if and when needed. Look through the financial-advice columns (Suze Orman, Michelle Singletary, etc); there’s still plenty of women out there in the so-called post-feminist world who don’t know a damn thing about their own family finances! I don’t want my daughter growing up to be one of them, so she’ll be getting the same advice from me. The message isn’t “men are deadbeats” the message is “take care of yourself”. Clear?

And a reader of mine, blackcoffeeblues, asks a similar question:

Just a quick question, Hugo…so do you mean to say that the teaching of women to not “rely on a man” is negative thing? I’m not challenging you, I’m must asking for a little more Hugo-thought on the statement.

I have mentioned on more than one occasion that the phrase “Don’t rely on a man” troubles me. But it upsets me primarily because I know that it is the unreliability of men that has made that phrase such an essential part of so many young women’s upbringing. Here is where I part company with most of the feminist movement: I continue to believe that feminism, at its core, is a logical response to a legacy of irresponsible, reckless, and disappointing male behavior. No, I don’t mean that if all men were just more reliable, faithful, dependable and moral than all women would be happy to be barefoot and pregnant! As a Christian, however, I believe that all human beings are made for relationship with one another. We are meant to lead lives that are neither dependent nor radically autonomous, but interdependent.

What do I mean by these terms? Dependency is a relationship rooted in inequality. A small child is dependent upon its parents. My chinchilla is dependent upon me and my girlfriend. It is certainly possible to be emotionally and spiritually dependent upon one’s spouse; that generally isn’t healthy. (Not that I am holding myself up as some expert on marriage). Autonomy is the attempt to lead a life of near-total self-reliance and self-determination. Autonomy has a lot of allure in our culture. Problem is, it doesn’t work for most people. To lead a radically independent life requires financial resources only available to a relative handful of educated, mostly white, Westerners. And even the richest and most independent person will begin life by having their diapers changed — and they are fairly likely to spend the final days of their life in that same condition. Real autonomy is a chimera, but a seductive one. And it is only appealing in the long run to adolescents and to those whose emotional wounds have left them perpetual teenagers.

Interdependence is living in complementary relationship. Mutual sacrifice, mutual reliance. Pregnancy is not easy. The extreme vulnerability of women during the later stages of pregnancy bears witness to the obvious need to depend on another human being for protection. (Yes, I’m “arguing from design”, a rhetorical tactic that most secular feminists absolutely despise. But so help me, it’s at the very core of my faith.) Interdependent folks know how to care for themselves, but they also know how to let another person care for them. They are capable of trusting another person, of being radically vulnerable to someone else (presumably, their spouse). On a practical level, that means being willing to merge your finances with another human being, all the while knowing how to take care of your money should disaster strike and you find yourself without your partner.

If God blesses me with a daughter someday, I will raise her to (to borrow a phrase out of context from Ronald Reagan) “trust, but verify.” To lead a successful and happy life, I believe we must be open to the likelihood that the highest form of joy is to be found in community, and for most folks, particularly within family; in love, marriage, and children. That does not mean that other, more solitary pursuits do not have value — merely that for both men and women, the longings of our own bodies and our own hearts suggest that the vast majority of us desire enduring connection with others above all else.

Okay, I’m getting carried away.

We live in a culture that is remarkably tolerant of bad male behavior. I am not asking women to start trusting men first; I am asking my brothers to start changing their behavior! One of the first things we guys need to do is to listen to women, particularly our sisters in the feminist movement. Men have to be willing to hear the stories of the betrayal, abuse, harassment, objectification, de-valuing and dismissal that so many women have experienced at the hands of men. When women don’t return my casual smiles on the street, when they avoid eye contact with my male friends, I don’t complain. I know that defensiveness is a logical learned response to a predatory male culture. I also think that most liberal feminism, the sort that worships “choice”, is also a logical learned response to bad male behavior. What woman wouldn’t want to maximize her own freedom, given that so many men in her life have behaved so badly towards her? We men have to hear that! And we have to be strong enough to prove that we are different. And we have to be strong enough to do our own inner work that leads us to be willing to be different!

One other aspect of the argument to touch on. In her last paragraph, Trish writes:

In his second post, Hugo brought up two things that I believe are irrelevant to Richards’ abortion – the man’s choice and Richards’ description of growing up without a father. He suspects, without any real proof, that Richards’ mother likely told her to never rely on a man because he says that’s what the young women of single mothers that he has met have told him. Again, I didn’t take Richards’ description of her home life the way he did. I didn’t take her “I never missed not having him” as an emphatic “never” the way he did. I saw it as a simple statement of fact, not a hidden code that she regretted being “fatherless.” I know that family values ideologues would have jumped all over her statements as “proof” that she is damaged goods because she “grew up fatherless” when there is absolutely no proof of any such thing. It came across to me as if Hugo was trying to find something lacking in her family background that would explain, to his satisfaction, why she would choose to have such an abortion and to discuss it the way she did. Those comments from him seemed to be more about him and less about Richards. I took her opening paragraph to say that she already recognized the hardships that went with raising children alone, since she saw families from all walks of life, including her friends who were raising their nieces and nephews because their sisters became pregnant out of wedlock. Richards saw the difficulties of single parenting and she did not have any romantic notions about it.

Trish is certainly right about my desire to “psychologize” Amy Richards. And I think we’ve arrived at one of those moments where secular and religious folks may find themselves at an impasse. I don’t believe that any fatherless child can go through life without experiencing dramatic repercussions. I don’t think that is possible spiritually or psychologically (and I do have most psychologists on my side). And thus I do think that any woman who claims that her relationship (or lack thereof) with her father has no bearing whatsoever on her relationships with other men is in denial. Period. And I remain convinced, even without knowing the details of the story, that it is highly likely that her father’s absence is deeply connected to the fact that as an unmarried woman of 34, she chose to abort two of the three children that she and her partner had conceived.

The number one thing I as a man can do to end abortion is to teach responsibility to my younger brothers. I must role model for them the sort of behavior that will lead them to become the sort of men who will earn the radical trust of the women in their lives. That will damn sure cut the abortion rate in this country.

Rant over. By the way, Lance Armstrong was magnificent this morning!

UPDATE: Amanda at Mouse Words is not quite as kind to me as Trish; she takes vigorous issue with my posts on Amy Richards. I liked these bits:

This guy made me angry. I should avoid anti-choice people, particularly men, since the very fact that they think they have a right to use the force of the law to make women comply to their wishes means that they believe on one level or another that women’s bodies are naturally subject to men’s authority… really, sometimes I’m even pissier with guys who think of themselves as liberal and progressive and feminist even but then start shooting sparks when women actually exert some of the autonomy that’s been so long in coming… Trish is really nice to this guy–I want to kick him.

Fortunately, Amanda lives in Austin.

Honestly, I’m feeling snide

Things are busy. Finals are Thursday in my summer class. We leave for Colombia in just over two weeks. After the emotion of the last three posts, I don’t have much to blog about today.

Those who argue that political conservatives are generally more civil than progressives need to explain what happened to Linda Ronstadt in Las Vegas. After Ronstadt dedicated a song to Michael Moore,

some Aladdin guests spilled drinks, tore down posters and demanded their money back, said casino spokeswoman Sara Gorgon.

“We had quite a scene at the box office,” she said.

Let’s see. The country music anti-war left includes Willie Nelson, Emmylou Harris, Lucinda Williams, Allison Krauss, the Dixie Chicks, Steve Earle and Linda Ronstadt. The country music pro-war right includes Toby Keith and Darryl Worley. I wonder whose music will be more enduring.

I did enjoy this article that ran in both the Los Angeles Times and on Common Dreams. Entilted “Red State America Against Itself”, it explores the ways in which Republicans have become adept at using culture to encourage the American working class to vote against their own economic interests:

The corporate world — for reasons having a great deal to do with its corporateness — blankets the nation with a cultural style designed to offend and to pretend-subvert: sassy teens in Skechers flout the Man; hipsters dressed in T-shirts reading “FCUK” snicker at the suits who just don’t get it. It’s meant to be offensive, and Kansas is duly offended. The state watches impotently as its culture, beamed in from the coasts, becomes coarser and more offensive by the year. Kansas aches for revenge. Kansas gloats when celebrities say stupid things; it cheers when movie stars go to jail. And when two female rock stars exchange a lascivious kiss on national TV, Kansas goes haywire. Kansas screams for the heads of the liberal elite. Kansas comes running to the polling place. And Kansas cuts those rock stars’ taxes.

Gosh, that’s as good a paragraph of political and cultural analysis as I’ve read all year. But then again, I’ve never been to Kansas. Growing up, I was surrounded by affluent, pro-choice, moderate Republicans who were fiscally conservative and socially centrist. I have numerous friends and relations who fit that description. In terms of lifestyle, most of them have far more in common with “coastal Democratic elites” than with the GOP’s Bible Belt base. But they are grateful, oh so grateful, for the votes and the money that Midwestern and Southern social conservatives give to the party. My Republican friends and family generally don’t want to see the cultural policies of the religious right actually implemented, of course, but they do appreciate how necessary those policies are for “rallying the troops.” Above all, they recognize how a focus on an aggressive foreign policy and on “family values” allows wealthy country-club Republicans to convince the residents of the “fly-over states” that they share a common interest.

Sigh.

The perils of advice, and professorial self-doubt

This week’s Chronicle of Higher Education online edition has this rather sobering First Person essay by a Prof. Thomas Benton: An Adviser Without Advice. He writes of running into one of his brightest and best recent graduates working as a cashier at Target:

My former student scanned and bagged the objects as if she was running on a treadmill. She recognized me, and I tried to return her nervous smile. We each asked how the other was doing and said “good.” I swiped my card, and she gave me a receipt. There were bored people all around, and the whole conversation was understood in a few embarrassed glances.

“Good to see you,” I said, leaving. “Yeah, you too, professor,” she said, flatly. I saw her feigned cheerfulness droop a little as she turned to the next customer.

Benton reflects on what he told her when she came to him, a few years earlier, for professional advice:

I should have been looking out for her. She came to me for advice. I told her something like this: “A liberal-arts degree is the best preparation for life in general, but it helps if you also have some specific, marketable skills.” I had persuaded myself that I knew what I was talking about. I supported and reinforced her choices. And my vanity was gratified by the thought that I was helping her.

Okay, that is scary! I could have written that paragraph verbatim a thousand times over. I’ll quote his final section at length; bold emphases are mine:

All I have is an instinctive belief in the value of a liberal education without regard to its practical use. I am increasingly sure that it is wrong to encourage students (and indirectly ourselves) to justify the work and expense of education as a prelude to lucrative career opportunities. Yet I know that when so many students undertake so much debt to go to college, the link between education and future income becomes unavoidable.

It seems inevitable, though we are not yet willing to admit it, that a liberal education is becoming a practical impossibility for most young people. Or liberal education earns the justified reputation of something undertaken at one’s peril. Students know they have to make a living before they can appreciate Kierkegaard. They don’t have time to question their beliefs; they are too busy getting their academic tickets punched.

I understand that outlook, but students do not seem to know that even the practical choice is fraught with as much risk as following one’s heart. They seem unaware of how much their drive for “success” is a construction of consumerist pressures. Perhaps careerist choices carry even more risk, since you ultimately give up what you love for the sake of some opportunity that may not exist by the time you are ready to meet it.

Of course, this kind of pontification can only come from a position of privilege. I can remember all too vividly the fear of sinking into chronic underemployment and relative poverty, of feeling for the rest of my life the special scorn that socially mobile societies reserve for the people who haven’t “made it.” You’re a loser and nobody cares how it happened.

But what can I offer to my students besides the general advice to follow their talents wherever they lead? “Follow your bliss” and “find your vocation.” Those remarks seem as banal and unhelpful now as when they were uttered by the wiser advisers of my youth.

Most of my students at Pasadena City College are from working-class backgrounds. To put it bluntly, I am not. Most of my students are not white. I rather obviously am. Most of my students are first-generation college graduates, while I am the son of two Berkeley Ph.Ds. My kind and fortunate parents paid for my college education; I never had a nickel’s worth of student loans. I teach at a community college, but (and this is hard to admit) I would have been deeply ashamed if I had “had” to attend such an institution out of high school. Slowly, painfully, I am unlearning my snobbery, my elitism, and my privilege, but I confess that it is still a work in progress. (I can say I would not be crushed if a child of mine went to a JC for their first two years, but in all honesty, I would be a bit disappointed). With all that in mind, what from my own experience can I possibly offer to my students? As much as I want to be one, how can I be a satisfactory role model for them?

In the past decade, I have had maybe 70 or 80 students whom I have mentored. They have come to office hours and made special appointments, and they have come time and time again for career advice. Many want to become professors themselves someday. I offer the same sort of airy encouragements that Mr. Benton offered. Indeed, not a semester goes by that I don’t actually say: “Study what you love; the money will follow.” Though it has all the depth of a Hallmark card, my students nod their heads appreciatively, confident perhaps that if Dr. Hugo believes it is true, than so it must be. As I do in my teaching, I substitute outer enthusiasm for inner certainty. I can always muster the former. It’s not that I lie to them about their abilities! Rather, I find that I deliberately misrepresent the difficulties of getting tenure-track jobs in higher education. It’s easier to be relentlessly optimistic.

I do have a few former students teaching now at the college level. All are adjuncts so far, waiting and hoping for the appearance of a miraculous tenure-track job. But I’ve run into my share of former students at Target and elsewhere; they’ve graduated from four-year institutions, often with history degrees. I love running into my former students and hearing their stories. But I’ve seen — or imagined that I have seen — embarrassment in the eyes of several of them, as if they worry that somehow they have let me down by working at Starbucks fulltime rather than taking out still more loans to go and get a Ph.D. And I wonder, as Benton wonders, whether all of that encouragement and advice does any good.

Year in and year out, I tell my students that their lives will be better and richer because they know about Alexander, about Antony, about Arius the Heretic. They will be better citizens of the world because they know about Luther, Leibniz, and Lloyd-George. But I went straight from high school to college, and never worked for money while in school. When my classes were over for the day at Cal, I could wander over to Strawberry Glade and read a book and think about life; I could sit in coffee shops and pontificate my day away. My students race off from my classes to their jobs and their families. And then they come to me, asking me to mentor them! I am honored and flattered; it satisfies both my vanity and my longing to help. I am so grateful for the genuine close friendships I have formed with many students over the years. But so often, so often, I wonder: What good am I, what good are we historians, if we don’t have more tangible, practible advice to offer?

More on Amy Richards

My goodness, I should post on Sundays more often! 20 comments on my Amy Richards bit immediately below, and some 400 visitors in the past 15 hours.

I found the Amy Richards abortion story by accident, just browsing the NY Times online. Apparently, at the same time that I was blogging about it, arch-conservative Michelle Malkin was weighing in on the subject. (XRLQ links to her; she’s not exactly a regular read.) Other folks are blogging about it too.

I really do appreciate the many thoughtful comments below my post (and how nice to see that the Angry Clam is back on the beat!) This one from blackcoffeeblues was particularly accurate:

And, perhaps, those of us who are watching Rudy and Sam and are sympathizing with the difficulties that this loving family are going through, are more sensitive to the cold, harsh reality of another persons life decision and more quick to be critical and judgemental than usual.

For the record, folks, I write my posts very quickly. I give ‘em the once over for spelling and grammar and punctuation, and then put them up. I write impulsively. Yesterday’s post was not intended as a thoughtful essay on abortion politics; it was the product of an emotional, visceral reaction on my part. Make no mistake, if the story is true (and we have every reason to believe that it is), I still think that what Amy Richards did was morally reprehensible. But having had some time to reflect, and to read the thoughtful comments everyone left, I am prepared to offer some more temperate words.

I went back and read Amy’s piece in the Times again. And this time, I focused on the first two sentences:

I grew up in a working-class family in Pennsylvania not knowing my father. I have never missed not having him.

For some reason, that’s what is stopping me short this morning. The emphatic “never” in the second sentence defies everything we know about child and adolescent psychology and human nature itself! Amy never once wished she had had a father? Help me out here, folks… does anyone believe her? I don’t know Amy Richards but I wonder if the callousness of her decision is in some way linked to her own complete obtuseness about her own childhood.

I think everything that comes in the rest of her shocking, stomach-churning essay has to be read in the context of those opening lines. I do believe that abortion and male irresponsibility are inseparable. Amy’s experience of childhood poverty was tied to the absence of a father who could provide for her family. For her and for many women, what it means to be poor is to have a child without an adult man in the home. (She admits as much in her third line: what I probably would have gained was economic security and with that societal security.)

Many of my female students who were raised by single moms were told one thing over and over and over again: Never rely on a man. Many of the mothers of my students got pregnant while still in their teens (I have a number of students whose mothers are younger than I am). I suspect that Amy’s mom gave her that same stern message, and she clearly took it to heart. I wish we knew whether the boyfriend in the story (Peter) offered to marry her. (Oh, I could blog a lot about the Peters of the world. I’ll deal with him in an upcoming post. But if I saw three beating hearts on a sonagram, you’d have to take me away in handcuffs. Perhaps this is just grandiosity, but I’d like to think that I would have fought far harder for those kids. I suspect the Amys of the world pick the Peters carefully. He is a compliant fellow indeed.) But it’s not at all clear that Amy would have accepted his offer and kept all three of her babies even if he had! One child was the most she could have and still be able to maintain her precious autonomy; three children would leave her utterly dependent upon a man. And I suspect that to Amy, nothing could be more self-destructive and foolish than to rely upon a man. Abortion thus becomes a key tool in her fight for dignity and self-preservation. In her first paragraph, she writes of her fear of poverty: What would it take for me to just slip? An unplanned multiple pregnancy makes that fear tangible; but to stick with her metaphor, as for so many women, it is abortion that helps Amy regain her footing. Access to abortion gives women the opportunity to retain complete agency in their lives; for a woman raised as Amy was, that agency is precious enough to be worth stopping two beating hearts.

In the calmer world of this Monday morning, I am still angry at Amy Richards. But I am also angry at a legacy of male betrayal, irresponsibility, and abandonment. I’ve been saying for years that the struggle for abortion rights is rooted in (among other things) a profound disappointment in men. That disappointment and distrust becomes multi-generational. I believe in working to end abortion by a variety of means, including legal restrictions. But as a man, I know that increasing male accountability is a critical component of the struggle to end abortion. And surely, greater male responsibility is something we can all agree on.

Crying with rage at Amy Richards

This post no longer fully reflects my current views. Nonetheless, I’m leaving it up because I think it is important to document one’s stages of intellectual evolution!

I said I wasn’t going to blog again today. But I just read this short piece in today’s Sunday New York Times Magazine, and I have tears of rage running down my cheeks. Entitled “When One is Enough”, it’s the story of a 34 year-old woman named Amy Richards who became pregnant with triplets, and decided to kill two of them and give birth to the third. No medical complications were involved; her real reasons are here:

On the subway, Peter (the boyfriend and the child’s father) asked, ”Shouldn’t we consider having triplets?” And I had this adverse reaction: ”This is why they say it’s the woman’s choice, because you think I could just carry triplets. That’s easy for you to say, but I’d have to give up my life.” Not only would I have to be on bed rest at 20 weeks, I wouldn’t be able to fly after 15. I was already at eight weeks. When I found out about the triplets, I felt like: It’s not the back of a pickup at 16, but now I’m going to have to move to Staten Island. I’ll never leave my house because I’ll have to care for these children. I’ll have to start shopping only at Costco and buying big jars of mayonnaise. Even in my moments of thinking about having three, I don’t think that deep down I was ever considering it.

At this point, I thought I was reading a not terribly clever satire of 30ish East Coast career women, their elitism, and their incessant anxiety about becoming “just a mom”. But the story continues grimly:

When we saw the specialist, we found out that I was carrying identical twins and a stand alone. My doctors thought the stand alone was three days older. There was something psychologically comforting about that, since I wanted to have just one. Before the procedure, I was focused on relaxing. But Peter was staring at the sonogram screen thinking: Oh, my gosh, there are three heartbeats. I can’t believe we’re about to make two disappear. The doctor came in, and then Peter was asked to leave. I said, ”Can Peter stay?” The doctor said no. I know Peter was offended by that.

Two days after the procedure, smells no longer set me off and I no longer wanted to eat nothing but sour-apple gum. I went on to have a pretty seamless pregnancy. But I had a recurring feeling that this was going to come back and haunt me. Was I going to have a stillbirth or miscarry late in my pregnancy?

I had a boy, and everything is fine. But thinking about becoming pregnant again is terrifying. Am I going to have quintuplets? I would do the same thing if I had triplets again, but if I had twins, I would probably have twins. Then again, I don’t know. (Bold emphases are Hugo’s).

Anyone on the pro-choice side want to make a case that what this woman did was morally defensible?

I’ve mentioned before that I’ve worked and given money on both sides of the abortion divide. Pro-choice until about four years ago, pro-life since; always, always, sympathetic to both sides of this immensely troubling, personal, complex social issue. As a man, I’ve no way of actually knowing what it is like to carry life inside of me. But as I get older, and spend more time with children, and think about becoming a father myself (Lord willin’), I find it harder and harder to accept the old pro-choice bromide that men “have no say in what a woman does with her body.” When I was younger and irresponsible, I liked that line. Pro-choice rhetoric thrust all responsibility on to the woman; I, like other young men, was off the hook. If it’s not my body, ultimately, then my obligation to respect and care for it is lessened accordingly.

Maybe it’s Sunday, and I’m just tired. I’m usually so good at seeing both sides of the issue. Normally, I would blog about this woman and explain how she was clearly caught in a terrible place, and while I disagree with her ultimate decision, I respect her choice, etc., etc., etc. But honestly, folks, the more I think about Amy Richards, the angrier and more tearful I get. I’m sitting here at my keyboard trying to muster sympathy for her, and I just can’t. Amy fucked up. (Honestly, Ph.D. and tenure and all, and that’s the most apt expression I can come up with right now.) And for once, I’m not going to blame what she chose on our society’s treatment of women, or male irresponsibility, or consumer capitalism or anything else. Her own words, as far as I can read, are too damning.

All I can think of is three heartbeats becoming one and I shudder and shudder. I’m going to go hug my girlfriend and my chinchilla now.

Random Friday thoughts on running, Canadian Mennonites and homosexuality, and some good links

I haven’t been sleeping well this week, which is frustrating. I slept in until almost eight this morning, which is not a good idea when the weather is blisteringly hot! After watching an exciting finish to today’s stage of the Tour de France, I went off and did a hard ten-miler in the hills after the temperature was already well into the upper 80s. I was very slow.

I’m not training for a race at the moment. My long-term goal is to run a 50-miler next year (the famed Leona Divide race). I’d like to squeeze in a couple of marathons along the way, and I have committed myself to investing in a road bike so I can start doing more cross-training. My goal these days is to try and run at least 40 miles a week; that seems to be the kind of mileage I need to do so I can eat with abandon. (The truth comes out at last.) And like everyone else, I find that as I get older, my metabolism is slowing down. I don’t burn off the candy and the muffins and the cupcakes quite as fast as I did a decade ago. I will be 40, after all, in 34 months. Yes, I am counting. And I have I mentioned I am procrastinating on my duties as temporary chair of the Carmel High School class of 1985 twentieth reunion?

I came across this statement (released in February, a PDF file) from the Mennonite Church of Eastern Canada on homosexuality. In our increasingly acrimonious and politicized climate around that issue, this document stands out for its grace and its courage and its sanity.

The MCEC Executive Board recognizes that:

1. All people, regardless of their sexual orientation, are of sacred worth and equally loved by God.
At the same time, all people share in the brokenness of humanity. In the context of the church we are called to find wholeness in relationship with Jesus and in Christian community.
2. Sexuality is a good gift blessed by God. However, we live in a highly sexualized culture where sexual innuendo and promiscuity are pervasive. We acknowledge that marital infidelity and extramarital sexual activity are present in our churches. The church needs to speak to many issues surrounding human sexuality.
3. There is strong disagreement at all levels in MCEC on the matter of homosexuality. We have disagreements within our congregations, among our pastors, and we are not in agreement as an Executive Board. Collectively we are not in a place to be able to say, “. . . it has seemed good to the Holy Spirit and to us. . . .” (Acts 15:28).

Hallelujah. Some folks recognize they don’t have all the answers. Would that everyone else in this country had half that humility! So what to do? MCEC decided that they are going to be the church:

In order to move forward as a conference, we need to allow space for differences on this issue. We
believe God is calling us to find our place of meeting in Christ rather than with those who agree
with us in order to stand against those who disagree with us.

In order for respectful dialogue to continue there must be a sense of safe and sacred space. Without such space, no God-honouring solution to the division we experience on homosexuality will be found. It is essential that we commit ourselves to:

1. Provide safe space for persons struggling with questions of orientation and sexuality.

2. Stop the painful exclusion homosexual persons often experience. Anything that perpetrates hatred
or violence has no place in the church.

3. Stop the politicized maneuvering at either end of the spectrum to silence voices of disagreement.
The church will be healthier if all points of view can be openly heard. Among the voices that
deserve to be heard are, for example: homosexual persons who choose to remain celibate for the
sake of Christian conviction; homosexual persons who are in heterosexual marriages and wish to
remain there; those who support change ministries; those who see homosexuality as a sin; those
who celebrate homosexuality as part of God’s creation; and those who want gays and lesbians
included as part of our community.

Oh amen, amen, amen, amen, amen! That third point in bold (emphases are mine) captures the love and the generosity of the third way of Anabaptism perfectly! Let’s hear it for folks who are committed to living with tension, ambiguity, and doubt — and can find joy while they do so. I’m so sick of the self-righteous certainty of both sides on this issue.

My question for my fellow believers out there: Regardless of your own politics and beliefs, what are you doing to reach out to those within your community who hold radically different views on key issues of faith and morals? Or do you even have any dissenting folks?

Lastly, let me note a few blog postings that I’ve been reading:

Father Jake has these good thoughts on John Kerry’s nuanced position on life and abortion.

Josh Claybourn had an interesting post on Christian Libertarianism (something he embraces); the comments section is worth a read too. I found it via The Gutless Pacifist, which is a daily read.

Lorie had a bad Target experience.

Mumcat has these fine meditations on Arizona weather.

Graham (who used to be Felix) at Leaving Munster has some good ground rules for theological debate on the Internet. I liked this bit: If you’re thinking, “Is he really that stupid, or am I missing something?” the answer is: you’re missing something.

Corianne may be only 20, but she writes good. Ignore the Britney pictures on her site, read this. It rings perfectly true.

Jenell, with whom I co-chair the currently fantastical North American Evangelical Gender Studies Association, also writes real good. She has a question for everyone today.

Kendall links to a great sermon on reconciliation and healing, entitled No One Needs to Leave the Table. In the comments section, the arch-conservatives rip it to shreds. Sigh.

Annika has posted about her blogroll’s demographics, and that’s got me thinking.

And lastly, let’s all stay in prayer for Sam Carrasco and the rest of his family. Please visit Jen Lemen’s blog (where she is organizing both financial and emotional support), and read regular updates from Rudy here.

UPDATE: I just got a concerned e-mail from my dear mother, who recently retired from teaching philosophy here. She writes:

Dearest,
I loved the Sexton poem but I am very uncomfortable with “writes real good”! You may be using it in fun, but some of your readers might not know better. Tons of love – Mother

For the record (and out of fear that my Ph.D. may get revoked), I am aware that “good” is generally an adjective and “well” generally an adverb, and it is fun to use the former as the latter, even when one oughtn’t.

Anne Sexton, and Thursday Poem #2

A week ago, I began my new practice of the Thursday Short Poem with W.S. Merwin’s “The Vixen“. I mentioned then that Merwin is my favorite living American poet. In the category of favorite dead American 20th-century poet, Hugo’s choice is the late Anne Sexton.

I’m not saying she’s the best American poet of the 20th century. But no one else moves me as she does. In my mind, there’s a big difference between saying something or someone is objectively “the best” and saying that something or someone is your “favorite.” (“King Lear” may be Shakespeare’s “best” play, but my favorite is “Richard II”. Michael Jordan is arguably the best basketball player ever, but my favorite player was John Stockton. Arsenal may be the best soccer team in the English Premiership, but my favorite is Newcastle. You get the idea.)
Anne Sexton is my favorite dead American poet.

I first read her in junior high school, and was fascinated by her rawness, her dexterity, and her wickedly black humor. In college, I read her through a feminist lens. In one particularly dark period of my life, I read her through the lens of my own despair. Now, she is simply familiar — Sexton “got it”, I suppose, in a way no one else ever has. I have many of her poems that I adore; and I’ve had a hard time narrowing it down to one for this week. I thought about this one, which was my favorite years ago (and I won’t say why.) Or this one, which was my favorite a few years later (and I still won’t say why).

My favorite now is this one, written shortly before she committed suicide in 1974. (It’s part of her final collection, entitled The Awful Rowing Towards God.) She wasn’t a Christian in the confessional or conventional senses of the word, but there is faith a-plenty in this poem. Her God is often my God, the God of surprises, laughter, and of the fifth ace.

“the rowing endeth,” by Anne Sexton

I’m mooring my rowboat
at the dock of the island called God.
This dock is made in the shape of a fish
and there are many boat moored
at many different docks.
“It’s okay,” I say to myself,
with blisters that broke and healed
and broke and healed–
saving themselves over and over.
And salt sticking to my face and arms like
a glue-skin pocked with grains of tapioca.
I empty myself from my wooden boat
and onto the flesh of The Island.

“On with it!” he says and thus
we squat on the rocks by the sea and play–can it
be true–a game of poker.
He calls me.
I win because I hold a royal straight flush.
He wins because He holds five aces.
A wild card had been announced
but I had not heard it
being in such a state of awe
when He took out the cards and dealt.
As he plunks down His five aces
and I sit grinning at my royal flush,
He starts to laugh,
the laughter rolling like a hoop out of His mouth
and into mine,
and such laughter that He doubles right over me
laughing a Rejoice-Chorus at our two triumphs.
Then I laugh, the fishy dock laughs
the sea laughs. The Island laughs.
The Absurd laughs.

Dearest dealer,
I with my royal straight flush,
love you so for your wild card,
that untamable, eternal, gut-driven ha-ha
and lucky love.

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Update on the Carrascos

Rudy Carrasco has created a website to provide updates about his son Sam. It’s called Psalm 34. (Wondering why he named it Psalm 34? Here’s the psalm. I’ve always liked this bit:

The righteous cry out, and the LORD hears them;
he delivers them from all their troubles.
The LORD is close to the brokenhearted
and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

Jen Lemen is still raising money at her place; we’ve gotten well into four digits. Excellent news. Whether money can be sent or not, keep the prayers comin’.