Just Dead Wood

One last thing before I disappear into Christmas:

One of the ministers (from my childhood denomination, several of whom are secretly cheering me on) told me the other day that they were taught in theological school that when people like me resign, it is like the removal of dead wood from the tree.
My "death" in the church isn't a loss or a tragedy, it is a removal of dead wood.

How lovely.
That explains a great deal.

I know many women who are groaning in pain with the injustices and invisibility and dismissal, no longer content with the scraps under the table, and nobody seems to care! Nobody is listening in any way more than the politically correct, "It is good that you communicate," (barf) way. Not the leaders, anyway. The more fringe ministers have enough safety to support, if not too publicly, the dead and dying. But the closer to central leadership they are the less open and warm the men seem to be.
So when one girl friend finally resigned after years of struggle and trying to make it work, she got the equivalent of, "That's nice. Bye." From the pastor in her congregation.

No regrets. No good wishes. No ongoing support in her ongoing spiritual life. Nothing.
She died!
Hello?!
By that, I mean, this is like a death to her! Believe me, I know! The amount of investment and attachment some of us were raised to have borders on the cultic. It is ENORMOUS to step away. It is terrifying and lonely and very very hard. Extremely painful.

Then, some people treat you like you have leprosy, because they can't imagine why you would go where you have gone. And you don't want to tell them, because it's ugly and makes people they trust look bad, and no matter how lonely you are, you don't want other people to go through the same horrible pain.

But meanwhile, there you are, dead. And people are just stepping over your body and getting on with life and there's no outcry, no mourning the loss, no recognition of the dead having had any worth.
Dying is the fault of the one who died, I guess. Mourning would mean somebody did something wrong besides the corpse. If we don't notice, nothing is wrong. It couldn't possibly be like canaries in the mine. It couldn't possibly be a sign that there is disease in the system!

OUCH!

And here, I thought the church cared about her. Nope, if the work-horse stumbles, let it starve and die. We don't have time for the lame or stumbling. If shaming them into looking happy doesn't work, leave them behind. Don't waste food on the invalid.

Invalid. In-valid. No longer valid. No truth. Silenced. Dismissed. Feelings are invalidated. If my complaints aren't sanitized and polite enough, they are made wrong. If I make people uncomfortable, the faster I disappear, the better. It all makes sense now. I couldn't understand the complete non-reaction to the many complaints and increasing resignations.
A whole new meaning to "The religion that makes sense."

I just read a paper by a woman in the MARS program (masters in religious studies) attached to the all-male theological school of my childhood denomination. (The word is that the women aren't even allowed to take courses with the men. It's all separate. I guess the female thinking might contaminate the lofty "masculine wisdom." Someone correct me if I'm wrong.) Women get a pat on the head and a piece of paper saying they studied. But even what they have studied is not equivalent to what the men get.
I think I'm glad. I don't like the way the men are thinking who come out of there.
We would need a completely new curriculum designed by women.

Anyway, her paper is about trying to let women be ministers.
It just struck me as an attempt to sell pork to Hasidic Jews. Far more worthy a goal, actually, and about as viable. It's like trying to use only the teachings of Paul to convince men that women are on a level in every way with them. It's slaves asking for freedom, when the economy depends on them staying slaves.

My forehead is still scarred from banging against that wall.
Maybe somebody some day will get enough enlightenment, and have anough power to turn the Titanic around. Meanwhile, I'm far away, doing just fine in my life boat. And I'm moving steadily on. Up ahead are several big ships that turned around ages ago. . . . People on board are smiling and waving and reaching out hands in greeting, ready to help me climb aboard.

Winding Down

So my last paper is handed in, and I'm recovering from a subsequent stomach bug. I've been too busy to think straight, and very grumpy that I can't enjoy myself. And I was so looking forward to a break! (Of course, I could try to do eighteen fewer things.... But, but, but. . . !)

AND I'd rather try to do everything, and be exhausted and frazzled, than not try.
Having said that, I am dropping from 5 courses to 3 for winter semester. Phew!

My grades are coming in, and so far, they are very good.
Meanwhile, I am acutely aware of my inadequacies. I have already resolved to catch up on my reading and review tons of Greek over the break. Ha ha.
We'll see if that happens. I need to breathe!

I've been having lots of trouble sleeping. Not sure what that's about. I usually do, but it's much worse lately.

Isn't life complicated?

The Bossy Apostle

I was translating Greek a few weeks ago, and the sentences are all about the houses of sinners and the gospel of Christ and the good children. It's all good and evil and sinners and believers and churches and boats and wildernesses. And apostles and disciples.
You get the idea.

So in one sentence an apostle tells an angel to go out of the church.
Well, that's one bossy apostle, I thought! Telling angels where to go?
And then I thought what a fun phrase that is: "bossy apostle."

"The Bossy Apostle." It's like a favourite pub on campus.
Maybe if this minister-thing doesn't work out, I'll open a coffee pub at Pacific School of Religion and call it "The Bossy Apostle". . . .

Dream Two

I had another dream a few weeks ago.

It was a continuance of the last dream. I was married to that very rich son of the influential minister. But I'm living with my parents. My lesbian sister is moving in too. My mom is talking about skin---about clear, unblemished skin, and how to treat acne so as not to have it. My sister has a locket similar to mine, and wants to trade.

I want to talk about the "big pink elephants" in the room, and don't know where to begin. The more my sister and I try to conform to our parent's ideas of who we should be, the more pleased my parents are, but the less "real" we are. Actually, it's mostly my mom. My dad is hovering somewhere in the background. But it's my mom's face I am reading. Trying to find approval, and not finding it.

My sister gets smiles and pats, so long as she looks like she's playing the game. So, if she's leaving her life partner of over 15 years to move in with her parents, this is good. If I were to leave my husband, this would be bad.

I'm pondering the double standard.

I Clean Up For Parties

My son is playing Christmas carols on the piano. From his memory. Arranging them as he goes. It's a little stop and start, but really quite pleasing. He paused and looked at me, and said, "I need to work on my piano playing."

Huh. If only I could play like he does!

I've sent out my 2005 Christmas letter, and feel a little squirmy. I think about who will read it, and how they might react. Do I sanitize everything, and put in smiles and serenity where there hasn't been any? Do I hide the ugly places? Or do I show the nuts and bolts of all the workings? There is a place for both.

My house looks very lived-in right now. Laundry waiting to be folded piled up in front of the TV, breakfast dishes scattered. Flotsam and jetsam of five people scattered around amidst papers and books and opened Christmas cards. . . . (Grammar aficionados---please just let me make my incomplete sentences. They WORK in this setting.)

This is what a house looks like when it is being used. A house is meant to be lived in. But it is messy. It looks messy. And yes, sometimes the mess gets to me and I become ballistic-mommy and yell and rampage for half a day and rally the troops and get things picked up a bit. . . .
But really, this is what the house really looks like 98% of the time.

I clean up for parties.
I like having parties because it gives me an excuse to really clean up! And decorate. And add nice little details.... It is a kindness to me as well as my guests to clear off the chairs and couch so there is somewhere to sit at least. I wonder if it isn't 90% for ME that I clean up? When I go to someone else's house, I go for the company, not for the cleanness or the decorations. . . .
Sometimes I'm relieved to visit a messy house! It reminds me that I'm normal.

All of this is a sort of metaphoric attempt to process my discomfort over the edginess of my blog content, and my Christmas letter content. . . .

Not sure what conclusion I'm coming too.

There's a place for being tidy and decorative, and a place for being raw and honest and in the process of life. I guess I see enough of the Martha Stewart presentation of life that I'll help balance the scale. I'll talk about the messy stuff.

But it IS nice to clean up for a party. I recently went out to a nice event, and decided to really put an effort into my appearance. Style my hair and hair spray and contacts and make-up, and a nice outfit that slimmed me down a bit (there's really no hope).

And a few people didn't recognize me....

It was pretty funny. Am I that grungy and goofy-looking the rest of the time? I can clean up pretty nice when I want to. (For a forty-something mother of three.)

"But it's not the point!" she said, screaming like Grover the muppet and waving her arms around wildly. I'm my insides! Not my outsides!

Maybe that is what is going on....

Will you still love me, when you see all of me, not just the party face---the pretty face, the cleaned up, made up, sprayed and shelacked and tucked in and zipped up Alison---but the no make-up, crumbs on my shirt, bags under my eyes, what-ever hair, absent-minded, tired and slightly sad Alison?