Monthly Archives: October 2004

Anxiety, running, and Jesus’ shoes

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Just a quick early afternoon check in (I never post much on weekends).

This morning, I woke up anxious about the election. I got up early, ninety minutes before dawn, to get ready for a long training run. Frankly, I’m a worrier. I worried about how long my fiancee and I will have to wait Tuesday morning when we go to vote together. I worried about whether my ballot will be counted. I worried about other people’s ballots being counted. I worried about losing another heartbreaking election. I worried about daring to hope that “we” might win this one. I worried about how my friends and family members who are more emotionally invested in all this than I will react to victory — or defeat.

And then we went on our run. Today’s run is a route we do once a season, and without question, this one’s my favorite. It’s from Eaton Canyon Park to the top of Mt. Wilson in the San Gabriels; round-trip, it’s almost exactly 20 miles. The tough part is the climb up — 9 miles of it is a steady up-hill journey, taking you to the summit at 5800 feet. The descent is tough too — lots of “technical running” over boulders and rocks and debris left by last week’s big storm. It’s a three and a half hour round trip (with plenty of stops for refueling).

My favorite runs are always uphill. Spiritually, something in my body and my soul rejoices at the idea of “up”. Running up a mountain always strikes me as the perfect image for one’s own individual climb towards God. Today, as I ran with my friends, I found that I didn’t want to talk as much as I usually do. (Big surprise: Hugo is normally a chatterbox on long trail runs.) I wanted to breathe the mountain air (which was quite crisp as we climbed towards the mile-high marker); I wanted to hear the birds, I wanted to be alone with my heart pounding in my ears and with God. Under my breath, I muttered something I only say on very long, difficult runs: “I’m coming to see you, Lord, I’m coming to see you.” The God I worship is everywhere, not just mountaintops, but I am rarely more conscious of His presence than while going up His hills.

Sometimes, I like to imagine that Jesus is running alongside me. No, he’s not in a robe and sandals — he has all the right gear for a long outing on the trail. (I have no idea whether, like me, He wears New Balance — or Asics, Saucony, Montrail, or Nike. Actually, I’m almost positive he doesn’t wear Nike.) And He doesn’t talk much. He just keeps my pace, saying “come with me, Hugo, come with me.” Sometimes, like this morning, I feel him so acutely I have to stop and wipe my eyes because I’m tearing up from emotion. Today, he was with me for a long time.

The runner is home from the hill. The runner is ready for a nap. I still care about the election, but whether it be the endorphins, the pain, the exhaustion, or Christ on the mountain, I am far, far more at peace with whatever happens Tuesday than I was eight short hours ago. For those who know me who think I’m neurotic and high-strung: first of all, you’re right. And second of all, you should have seen me before I came to Christ and before I started trail running!

Women, advice, and a different kind of culture war

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Here at Pasadena City College, we have a very high number of Armenians in our student body. Indeed, the largest concentration of Armenians outside their native land can be found in the Glendale-Pasadena area, or so I’m told. What I’m going to focus on in this post is hardly unique to Armenian culture, but it is something I see most often among this particular ethnic group.

A former student of mine came to see me in office hours yesterday. We’ll call her Anita, though that is not anything like her real name. Anita is twenty, and took two of my classes last year. She’s trying to transfer to a university far away from home, and had asked me for a letter of recommendation. Anita was one of my best students in the 2003-2004 academic year. A gifted writer, she was talkative and gregarious, good-humored and remarkably insightful. Her essays — even in-class ones — were polished gems. She easily earned the highest grade in each of the courses she took with me. At the end of last semester, Anita told me she planned to be a lawyer.

Anita’s family does not want her to be a lawyer. They want her married (to a wealthy Armenian, of course) and a mother as soon as possible. She’s almost 21, and still has no boyfriend and no marriage proposal, and that has mom and dad worried. (If I were her dad, I’d be ecstatic.) Her younger sister (19) is already engaged. Anita’s parents want her to finish her degree nearby (UCLA, USC) and of course, live at home under their roof so they can “keep an eye on her”. Anita doesn’t want to marry until she’s much older, finished with her degree, and settled in her career as an attorney. Horror of horrors, she thinks she might want to marry a non-Armenian, because she has no desire to be a “well-coiffed, baklava-making housewife” (her words, mind you) subject to the rigid expectations of her culture. At the same time, her culture is all she’s ever known –and she fears shaming her family and being rejected by those she loves.

She poured all this out to me in my office yesterday morning.

First of all. it’s very, very hard for me to be tolerant of cultures that regard inter-marriage and assimilation as disasters. In my family, inter-ethnic marriage is the norm. My father is ethnically Jewish (from a blessedly assimilated background), my mother WASP. I have first and second cousins who have, in the last decade, married men of Chinese, Indian, and Costa Rican origin. (And made gorgeous babies with them!) My own fiancee is African/Colombian/Croatian. For mere aesthetic reasons alone, marrying outside one’s “race” seems quite sensible! For good liberals, it also seems like the most intelligent and enduring way to smash — forever — racism and prejudice. In my experience, “wanting to preserve one’s culture” by insisting on marriage within that culture is bigotry with a veneer of preservationism to justify it. I’m a big advocate of marrying and mating until everyone is a pleasing shade of brown. I’m trying to do my part!

It’s also hard for me to be appreciative of cultures that assiduously undermine the hopes, dreams, and aspirations of bright, ambitious, immensely capable young women! Anita has a mind like a steel trap — and a wit to match. Her parents don’t seem to care much, except to warn her that with that mouth, she’ll scare away all of the men. Her affluent family has no intention of helping pay for college if it means that she will move away — but they have no problem paying for expensive clothes and jewelry for their daughters to help them “fit in” with their peers. (Anita had a very real, very large, Louis Vuitton handbag with her yesterday.) She is misunderstood and underappreciated and undervalued, and she wanted to vent.

I listened to her vent. I thought, as she did so, about what advice to give. (She was asking!) I chose my words carefully, not wanting to cast aspersions upon an ancient, rich,and complex culture. But when she asked me whether I thought she should continue to try and buck her family’s wishes, it was all that I could do not to burst out, “Hell yes, sister!” I told her to keep on applying to schools out of the area. I told her I would help her with scholarship applications. If she ends up at UCLA or USC, I urged her not to let go of her dreams of law school — again, perhaps, far away. I told her that her first obligation was not to honor her parents and her culture, but to honor the gifts that she had been given. I laughingly told her of the old United Negro College Fund slogan: “A mind is a terrible thing to waste.” (Poor dear, like most 20-somethings, she didn’t know those ads.) I gave her as impassioned a good, old-fashioned pep talk as I could. I told her to keep in touch. I told her I was in her corner. Anita’s smile was wide when she left, but there was a pleasing steeliness in her eyes as well.

But I’m not feeling all that self-congratulatory. As a man from a liberal, Americanized, secular middle-class background, it’s easy for me to preach the doctrine of “to thine own self be true.” I haven’t paid a high price in my life for pursuing my dreams. As the day went on, I began to wonder if I had really done anything worthwhile for Anita. Yes, I had praised her intelligence and her wit and her work ethic. (Her family cares more about her looks and her hymen than her grades.) Yes, I had given her an honest assessment of her abilities — which, frankly, are tremendous. Yes, I had urged her to follow her dreams. But in doing so, had I carelessly condemned a culture which I barely understand? Had I really taken account of the cost of the rebellion I was advocating? Was I taking any responsibility for my advice?

I’ve known many Anitas. Many are Armenian. Some are Muslim. One was an orthodox Jewish gal (a rare site in Pasadena.) Another was from a conservative Sikh family. All are bright, though rarely as bright as yesterday’s visitor. All are caught between the expectations of their own cultures and the shining promise of autonomy and fulfillment in secular, Westernized American society. At times, I feel like a darned Pied Piper, merrily playing a seductive tune designed to get these young women out of their ethnic ghettos and medieval restrictions and into the tantalizing world of the life of the mind. I believe I am doing them a service, though even at the college level, I’ve had more than one call from an angry parent! But I worry. Am I missing something? Is my advice given too blithely? Is my own liberal Westernness blinding me to positive aspects of these cultures whose mores and expectations I so regularly disparage?

I wonder. But I have no doubts this morning that Anita will make a damn fine lawyer.

The tragedy of the Klaas family and Prop 66

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XRLQ links to this Orange County Register piece (registration required) on the divided pere et fils Klaas. As anyone who has watched television this week in the Golden State knows, Marc and Joe Klaas are on opposite sides of Proposition 66, which would reform the Three Strikes Felony initiative. The father, Joe (who lives part-time in my hometown of Carmel) supports amending the law; his son Marc is adamently opposed. They lost their daughter and granddaughter, Polly, a decade ago to kidnap and murder.

Obviously, I’m with Papa Joe on this one. But it’s positively painful to see these two men appear in television spots opposing each other. It’s far more painful to read how much bitterness there is between them, though the Register article makes clear that it’s fairly one-sided:

Fury still burns in the hearts of her father and grandfather, but they’ll find no consolation in each other this year. Polly’s dad, Marc Klaas, curses his own father, Joe Klaas. “I can’t even believe the (expletive),” said Marc Klaas, raging. “This was his choice, to put his personal interest above our family. I begged him not to, and he wouldn’t listen. I’m ready to punch the (expletive)’s lights out.”

The elder Klaas sighed deeply. “Marc is a good man,” Joe Klaas said. “He’s angry, and he has a right to be. But most victims want revenge.”

Joe Klaas said he wants justice.

It gets worse:

Marc Klaas has kicked his father off the board of directors of the family foundation. He has forbidden his father from uttering Polly’s name.
“I’m not mad at him,” Joe Klaas said. In the long run, “I think it’ll be all right.”

His son feels otherwise.

“My (expletive) father decided he wanted to put prisoners back on the streets. He wanted to use my daughter’s legacy to repopulate crap into society,” Marc Klaas said. “I can’t even believe the (expletive). Are we going to make up? No. Are you kidding me? He has engaged in an effort to return violence to the streets. I think this is unforgivable.”

The bold emphases are mine.

We all cope with tragedy differently. But there is no question that one of these two grieving men has turned his grief to a crusade for justice, and the other for vengeance. I cannot imagine what it would be like to lose someone I loved to violence. I would hope, however, that Christ would bring me a spirit closer to that of Joe than of Marc, closer to reconciliation and forgiveness than enduring rage and resentment. If I had any doubts about the wisdom of voting yes on 66, the different attitudes of this father and this son make it explicit that this is a choice between fear and faith, between resentment and forgiveness, between revenge and justice, between blind rage and common sense.

I’m praying for Joe Klaas. I’m praying for Marc Klaas. I’m praying for healing and reconciliation in this family that has already lost so much. And I’m damn sure voting “yes” on 66 next Tuesday.

Asexuality — Paul’s gift?

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Silly me, I thought that after a decade of teaching gender studies, I’d seen it all. The Internet proves, once again, its worth: thanks to Alas, A Blog, I’ve learned of the Asexual Visibility and Education Network. Defining “asexual” as “a person who does not experience sexual attraction”, the group (AVEN is the acronym) is devoted to creating dialogue among and about the rapidly emerging group of individuals who identify as asexual. The AVEN folks have just started a blog; the current post is on how to “come out” to family and friends about one’s total absence of sexual desire.

Who knew?

They also have a nifty FAQ for folks wondering if they are asexual (written by a person described as paranoidgynandroid, whatever that means.) An excerpt:

When deciding to identify as asexual or not, it might be useful to consider if you have the drive to express your sexuality with other people. Regardless of whether your sexuality involves attraction to other people, another person could still assist you in expressing it somehow. If you don’t feel the need to involve another then you will probably be comfortable within the asexual community.

For some people expressions of love must involve sex, to them if you are capable of being sexual in any way then you would wish to involve your loving partner in this sexuality. Many asexuals do not make this connection between love and sex. They feel that they can express love and feel intimacy without any sexual activity. Keeping your partner out of your sexual feelings, especially if these have nothing to do with sex or other people, does not mean that you are rejecting them or not expressing your love fully.

People form identities around stuff that they need to figure out. People who identify as asexual tend to be trying to figure out how to live full emotionally complete lives without necessarily having to engage in sexual relationships with other people, how to live in a world that places a high premium on sexuality and sexual relationships. If this is something that you are struggling with in some way then the asexual community is worth investigating.

Well, it’s hard to imagine even the most troglodytic social conservative objecting to an “asexuality” movement. Indeed, I can’t help but feel that in a Christian context, these are the people who are truly called to a lifetime of celibacy. Jeez, I wonder if this isn’t what Paul meant in his treatise on marriage in 1 Corinthians 7:7:

I wish that all men were as I am. But each man has his own gift from God; one has this gift, another has that.

Paul makes it clear that he doesn’t “burn” with passion, and thus feels no compulsion to marry.

I’m convinced that some people, a small number, are genuinely called to celibacy. Given that we worship a loving God who does not play cruel jokes, I suspect that those folks to whom such a call is given are also given the accompanying “gift” of asexuality. It’s obvious that the folks at AVEN don’t see themselves as gifted — like all sexual minority groups, they see themselves as misunderstood and in some sense even oppressed. Theirs is a struggle for secular recognition, and I honor that struggle. Of course, as an inclusive liberal, it seems clear to me that the only folks who ought to be expected to remain celibate for a lifetime are those who are genuinely asexual. There is much to be said for congruence between action and desire, after all. For those who have no desire to mate and (or) marry, there are many other opportunities to serve God and the world.

It’s tempting to pathologize the folks at AVEN as repressed, emotionally wounded sorts who just need to find the right relationship. As a straight man, it’s infinitely easier for me to understand homosexuality than it is to understand asexuality. Because it is alien to my life experience, the desire to characterize asexuals as “in denial” is quite strong. But instead, I honor their unique gifts and their unique struggles, and recommend their site highly to anyone who is troubled by a lack of sexual desire.

Thursday Short Poem: Milosz’ Distance

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This was in this month’s First Things (which arrived today) and I had to make it my Thursday short poem. It’s from the final collection of the late Czeslaw Milosz:

Distance

At a certain distance I followed behind you, ashamed to come closer
Though you have chosen me as a worker in your vineyard and I pressed the grapes of your wrath.
To every one according to his nature: what is crippled shall not always be healed.
I do not even know whether one can be free, for I have toiled against my will.
Taken by the neck like a boy who kicks and bites
Till they sit him at a desk and order him to make letters,
I wanted to be like others but was given the bitterness of separation,
Believed I would be an equal among equals but woke up a stranger.
Looking at manners as if I arrived from a different time.
Guilty of apostasy from the communal rite.
There are so many whose are good and just, those were rightly chosen
And wherever you walk the earth, they accompany you.
Perhaps it is true that I loved you secretly
But without strong hope to be as close to you as they are.

Well, “if that don’t just beat all”, as one friend of mine from Oklahoma can get away with saying with a straight face.

At times, he has been my best friend. When I was a child, like so many others, I thought of Him as Aslan from the C.S. Lewis “Narnia” books. I’ve rejected him outright. I’ve embraced Him with embarrassing enthusiasm (the “slain in the spirit sort”). I’ve ignored Him. I’ve denied Him. I’ve come back on my knees to Him. (I can’t even decide whether to capitalize “him” or not. Sheesh.)

I’ve called Him my lover, and dreamed of Him at night holding me, His blood and his sweat all over me. I’ve raged at Him, told him to “fuck off” a thousand times over — and cried for Him. But even before I knew his name, I knew I loved him.

This is the best poem about faith I’ve read in a heck of a long time.

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Dependency and personal choices

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This post is a bit more dull than some, perhaps — but I’ve been thinking about interconnectedness and dependence lately.

Secretly lurking in my liberal heart is a feisty social conservative. He only comes out once in a while, and he is particularly stimulated by the monthly Catholic journal First Things. Last month’s issue is finally on-line, and from within it, this terrific article by Mary Ann Glendon: Discovering Our Dependence. It’s a fine op-ed about personal choices, interdependency, and aging. Here’s a section:

Longer life spans have expanded the population of frail elderly persons, including victims of dementias characterized by lengthy periods of disability. Changes in women’s roles have greatly reduced the traditional pool of caregivers for the very young and the very old alike. Low birth rates are decreasing the ratio of active workers to pensioners and persons requiring social assistance. In combination, declining birth rates and improved longevity mean that the dependent population now includes a much smaller proportion of children and a much larger proportion of disabled and elderly persons than ever before. But with increased divorce and unwed parenthood, the impoverished population is now composed largely of women and children.

A serious problem indeed, especially in Western Europe but perhaps also in this country. She goes on:

Where children are concerned, changes in the sexual and marital behavior of large numbers of adults have altered the very experience of childhood. Moreover, as the proportion of childless households has grown and societies have become more adult-centered, the general level of concern for the well-being of children has declined. They are out of sight and increasingly out of mind. Cambridge economist Partha Dasgupta noted an interesting “free rider” problem: childless individuals (who as a group enjoy a higher standard of living than child-rearing persons as a group) expect to be cared for in old age through benefits financed by a labor force that they are not helping to replenish.

Well, how about replenishing by encouraging immigration? Oh, never mind. I’m childless and 37 — clearly, a “free rider” in training.

And here comes Mary Ann the social conservative:

With widespread acceptance of the notion that behavior in the highly personal areas of sex and marriage is of no concern to anyone other than the “consenting adults” involved, it has been easy to overlook what should have been obvious from the beginning: individual actions in the aggregate exert a profound influence on what kind of society we are bringing into being. Eventually, when large numbers of individuals act primarily with regard to self-fulfillment, the entire culture is transformed. The evidence is now overwhelming that affluent Western nations have been engaged in a massive social experiment—an experiment that brought new opportunities and liberties to adults but has put children and other dependents at considerable risk.

I like the way she puts that — balancing increased liberties with increased risk. To her credit, she doesn’t do what most social conservatives do: urge women to return to their traditional tasks of “sandwiching” (caring simultaneously for their children and their parents and grandparents.) The solution to the problem is obviously not one that can be born by women alone. But if we expect the state to provide crade-to-grave care while expecting to sharply limit our own fecundity, the numbers simply don’t add up long-term. I wish our politicians would talk about this.

The most compelling argument that social conservatives make about marriage and the family tends to be the one that Glendon made above: individual actions in the aggregate exert a profound influence on what kind of society we are bringing into being. This is true about many things. It is true of our reproductive behavior, of course. It’s also true about recycling aluminum cans and any other environmental action, though social conservatives are, without exception that I know of, more conserved with the preservation of the traditional family than with our fragile ecosystems!

When I grow old and feeble, I hope to be cared for by those I love — up to a point. I would want them to visit me, but I don’t want some future child of mine helping me on and off the toilet! Then again, I don’t know that it’s any more progressive to want what rich old folks have now, which is usually to have working-class immigrant women wiping their soiled bottoms instead. That doesn’t seem terribly feminist or socialist to me. I ‘m conflicted.

Here’s Glendon’s sobering conclusion:

To state the obvious: if the outlook for dependents is grim, the outlook for everyone is grim. Despite our attachment to the ideal of the free, self-determining individual, we humans are dependent social beings. We still begin our lives in the longest period of dependency of any mammal. Almost all of us spend much of our lives either as dependents, or caring for dependents, or financially responsible for dependents. To devise constructive approaches to the dependency-welfare crisis will require acceptance of this profound and unchangeable fact of life.

Amen.

A quick burst of fraternal pride

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I have brilliant siblings on two continents.

My younger sister, Elizabeth, is fast becoming a noted dance journalist; here’s her latest piece in the Sunday Herald (Scotland).

My younger brother, “Pip” as we call him, has his second book out this month: Literature, Nationalism, and Memory in Early Modern England and Wales. Pre-order now in case stocks run out.

My youngest sibling, Diana, is in her first year of grad school in Environmental Science at Cal.

Since they are all too busy to blog, I, as eldest Schwyzer of my generation, proudly brag for them.

Ouch, and a reply to the web-elves

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Lots of hits coming in this morning, as the “web-elves” at the Classical Anglican News Network have linked to my Monday post on our confirmation class at All Saints and their responses to being part of what is called a “gay church.” The web-elves give the following caption for the link:

STRUGGLES OF TEENS at All Saints’ Pasadena aka “The gay church.” But it’s OK– kids are resilient– it’s the narcissistic needs of their elders that need to be fully satisfied first …

Okay, I’m guilty of narcissism in many areas of my life. (The fact that the first half of the post was on running might indicate that.) But it’s not narcissism that leads me — and countless other straight folks — to be involved in the struggle for inclusion in the church. It’s not narcissism that leads me to talk to the kids about enduring homophobic taunts as part of the cost of discipleship.

The biggest lie that I think religious conservatives tell about those of us who are progressives is that we offer, to quote my beloved Bonhoeffer, “cheap grace.” Because we are willing to embrace GLBTQ folks and even bless their unions, we must be so open-minded that the wind blows through. Because we see the Gospel as being as much about “kingdom now” politics as about heavenly salvation, we aren’t “serious Christians.” To be fair, there is some small truth to those charges. Some folks want to come to a church like All Saints Pasadena because they don’t want to be challenged, they don’t want to be pushed, they just want complete acceptance for whatever it is they are doing.

But spend some time around our youth program, and you’ll find soul-searching and contemplation a-plenty. We push our kids out of their comfort zones all the time — and in doing so, we push ourselves out as well. It was only because I was a youth leader at All Saints that I first started touching, and even hugging, the homeless on Skid Row in downtown L.A. It was only because I was a youth leader at All Saints that I got up at 4:30 one morning a few years ago and after all these years, finally marched in a gay pride parade (behind an All Saints banner). It was through All Saints that I first learned what it is to “tithe”, to give to God first rather than last, after all the other bills are paid. None of that, web-elves, is cheap grace.

No church is perfect. Evangelical churches in this country have a hard time distinguishing cultural conservatism from the Gospel; progressive churches have the same problem distinguishing cultural liberalism from the message of Jesus. We all struggle to live humbly, loving mercy and doing justice and fulfilling the Great Commission. We do it in different ways. But web-elves, let me assure you that we are not doing this out of narcissism alone: we hit our knees in the morning, we read the Gospel (at All Saints, we are finishing up a great six-week study of Ephesians, one chapter at a time), we march, we give, we teach, we hug, we struggle. In short, we are trying — imperfectly — to humble ourselves before God and God’s Son every bit as much as our brethren on the other side who oppose us on issues of homosexuality.

Call me a narcissist because I have a picture of me running shirtless in my photo album. Call me a narcissist because I do care whether my students respect me or not. Call me a narcissist because I like to wear Lucky Brand Jeans. Call me a narcissist because in giving to teens, I get so much in return — and I love it. Call me a narcissist for any superficial reason you like. But don’t dismiss a passion for justice and a passion for the spiritual and emotional development of the young as narcissism! For whatever reason, that’s got me hoppin’ mad this morning.

Or, maybe, it’s just the Sudafed in my system.

More on how folks get here, and my official election prediction.

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Just one week out, and I’m predicting a narrow Kerry victory. How narrow? Less than 1% in the popular vote, and somewhere between 280-320 electoral votes. I’ll share more predictions (and hopes) as we get closer.

Eleven search terms that folks used to find my blog since noon today:

definitions of feminism (there are many, folks, don’t use my blog for all of ‘em)
human female masturbation (yes, Virginia, there is a clitoris)
plastic tiaras (what? Too cheap to spring for the real thing?)
funny hyphenated names (a redundancy if I ever heard one)
withdraw support for samaritan’s purse (the Graham family outfit is annoying someone)
urban outfitters anti-choice (well, if you’re looking for preppy clothes, they are)
chinnies nude women (I really can’t decide if they want Chinese or chinchillas)
harrassment of the elderly (a bad idea all round)
women want hard bodies (of course — but whose? Theirs or their mates?)
rate my professors photo (Cripes, you want pictures too?)
words men use (Sigh. We’re so much better at non-verbal communication)

Home, sick, and listening to the body

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I’m home sick with a cold. I cancelled my classes today.

When I first started teaching, I would never cancel classes when I was ill. Sneezing and coughing and wheezing, I would “power through.” It’s one thing to cancel when one is going out of town, and one gives one’s students lots of notice. It’s another to wake up at 5:00AM feeling so horrible one can barely get out of bed, and call in an absence. I hate the thought of my kids making an unnecessary trip to campus. So, in the early days, I prolonged my illnesses and probably passed on my sickness to innumerable folks.

When I was in junior high school, especially 6th and 7th grade, I often feigned illness in order to stay home from school. My mother found it to be an exasperating habit, and in later years, I felt considerable guilt for having missed so many school days under false pretenses. As a result, by the time I was in college, it was almost impossible to keep me out of the classroom, regardless of my condition. I discovered that massive amounts of coffee and DayQuil together could get me through anything — even if it ended up prolonging the illness for days.

I’ve learned my lesson. I’m staying home today, drinking tea and eating lightly. I’ve been fighting this cold since before we went to Texas eleven days ago, and yesterday afternoon, it hit with full force. I’m absolutely confident I will be better tomorrow — my sincere apologies to any of my students who happen to be reading this post. I do dislike doing this to you guys!

One of the reasons why I am willing to cancel classes when I’m sick is that I think it’s important that I send a message that it is okay to listen to the needs of one’s body. Heck, whether anyone gets the message or not, I need to listen to my body! When I was teaching while coughing and wheezing and hanging on to the podium for dear life, I believe I was sending a message of profound disrespect for the body’s needs. We live in a culture that says “push through it”, “keep going”, “you can rest when you’re dead.” Though I don’t believe we all can or should seclude ourselves at the first sign of a scratchy throat, I do think our hyper-competitive culture places an undue premium on gritting one’s teeth and “powering through” illness. I think that’s unfortunate.

Yesterday’s post immediately below was about respecting the needs and desires of our bodies. I was writing in terms of food in particular; I also touched on sex. But today, in a small way, I am reminded of my body’s frailty. I, like so many others, am guilty of thinking of my body as a machine that can be pushed and pushed and pushed. As an amateur athlete, I push my body up and down mountains. As a “busy professional”, I tell my body it needs to perform while only sleeping 6 hours a night (and often less). Though I am getting better about this, in my youth I alternately stuffed my body full of sugar and then deprived it of all sustenance for far too long. And I still force it to process gallons of diet Coke a week. I too have a long way to go towards balancing the real needs and desires of my body and the demands of my job, my avocation, my culture.

As as Christian, I believe in stewardship: the responsible management of the resources with which we have been entrusted. That refers to everything from recycling bottles and cans to tithing to the church to honoring our bodies’ needs. We have a commandment to “rest” for a reason — and there is perhaps no other commandment in the decalogue so easily ignored by folks of faith as that one! And it’s not enough to rest one day a week. We honor our bodies when we allow ourselves to delight in food, sensuality, and yes, sleep and rest. I’m not advocating gluttony, promiscuity, or sloth. But I am advocating opting out of a culture that confuses the sin of sloth with the basic obligation to care for the bodies in which we are incarnate.

My students will survive, and probably be more than happy with a day off. The missed work can be made up. I can leave the computer, curl up on the couch with CNN and apple-cinammon tea, and maybe, if I’m up to it, do a little grading. Or not. Matilde the chinchilla is an expert at daytime resting. For the rest of the day, she shall be my muse.

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