I’m Eating, So What Now God?

I’ve been attending a bible study that I can stomach...well, at least two times so far. We aren’t fearful of disagreeing with each other. The people that attend represent a variety of theological stances, church backgrounds, cultures, and ethnicities. I’m not afraid to swear or say things that might be considered offensive in some more conservative circles. Christianese (you know, language Christians often use that people who haven’t grown up in the church culture wouldn’t understand) isn’t regularly spoken there. Communion is served at each study. And the fact that the Ruthruffs (the hosts) serve delicious food before each study definitely doesn’t hurt.

More so lately, I’ve had a pretty big aversion towards the practice and explanations of Christian tradition and orthodoxy that seem to exclude anybody who doesn’t immediately understand church or Christianity as a whole. In other words, I’ve been feeling something of a hate (and I think hate is a strong word, but for now it seems most representative of how I feel most times) for things that make a holy huddle. It’s my opinion that Christian practice should always seek to be relevant beyond a myopic and ingrown culture and/or worldview; ultimately representing a Christ that embraces the “other.”

Today we talked about the paschal meal – a recreation of the Passover Meal (which commemorates the Exodus of the Israelites as they were freed from slavery) that became the last supper of Christ. Historically, and in my own personal experience, these types of conversations usually leave me with a bitter taste in my mouth, the flavor of not having met some sort of Christian quota mixed with equal part shame and emotional self-flagellation. So when today’s discussion of the paschal meal led towards the topic of Lent, fasting, the exodus, identity formation, how we bear shame, and where God fits in without reverting to simple bible quoting, and included multiple self-disclosures of personal struggles in believing aspects of God and God’s actions in our lives – I became alive and engaged.

A few things surfaced in my mind as a result of the conversation.

In reading, “When he was at the table with them, he took bread, gave thanks, broke it and began to give it to them. Then their eyes were opened and they recognized him, and he disappeared from their sight” (Luke 24:30-31), we discussed how slowing down from the day’s activities to eat with those close to us can help us “unplug” from the static and hum of life which can sometimes act as a barrier toward mindfulness and attunement towards self. The act of intentionally eating with others can help us feel and recognize the physical and relational nurturing we all long for and need. Isn’t that what the act of abstaining in Lent is intended for? To not feel full anymore. To reconnect with our longings, and as a result see the shitty parts of our lives, who has been M.I.A, how we’ve been falling short, having our mommy and daddy issues surface, various traumas, etc., and then be able to sincerely ask, “So what now God?” Maybe when the disciples received the bread they really felt the “So what now God?” and as a result were finally able to see their answer in the presence of the resurrected Christ. I mean, how often do we in our efforts to tune out the hurtful parts of our life also tune out God’s presence in those hurtful parts? Maybe if we slowed down enough to feel what is floating in the undercurrent we might also have our eyes opened and recognize Christ.

I’ll end this post by submitting to the blogosphere a photo project I came across on the interwebs. “Dinner in NY” is a series of photographs by Miho Aikawa portraying various dinner times. I wonder how these people, in their eating practices, might also be practicing connectedness or dissociation. Do any of the photos remind you of your dinner times?

http://www.mihophoto.com/projects/dinnerinny/

Colorblind (Irate Chinese American Psychotherapist)

I think it’s interesting how conversations can be an organizing receptacle for scattered experiences…and the conversations that especially feel this way are the ones I most love. Tonight’s meeting was no exception. I’ve been meeting with a group of guys for over a year (I think it’s been that long), where we’d share about our lives and pray for each other on a regular basis. Although none of us are homeless or flossin’ twenty inch blades on the Impala, we’re socioeconomically diverse. We’re also ethnically and culturally diverse, with each of us representing various races and heritages. Some of us are married. Some single. Some single and divorced. Most of us attend different churches. I haven’t attended a church for some time. But we all are young men. We come together holding these differences and similarities in an effort to love and support each other; and with that, come many times where we’d get into animated discussions about how our struggles with the same thing can sometimes look so different…such as romantic relationships, encounters with the police, what family means to us, how others perceive us, how we perceive others perceiving us, etc. Our assorted perspectives collide like the reverberations of various instruments in a jazz improv, taking form and simultaneously adjusting, making melodies that provoke and inspire. Or at least that’s a fanciful way of how I’d like to think of our conversations. Sometimes it also sounds like a bunch of guys laughing and cussing up a storm, as it did tonight. So as we ended up talking about race, dating, and self-perception; tonight’s song sounded like, and reminded me of, a poem that I wrote a couple years ago to process something that struck me while I was sitting with one of my therapy clients. I’m still processing it...


Colorblind (Irate Chinese American Psychotherapist)

So he says to me,
“I’m colorblind. I don’t see color. I don’t see difference.”
Now, I’ve learned about countertransference dominance and I’m trying to build a therapeutic alliance.
I get it; in non-psychoanalytic terms it means don’t let your shit get in the way of your client sorting through his own shit.
But now the shit has hit the fan,
It’s flying everywhere and I’m trying to pretend like it doesn’t bother me as the flying feces bespeckles my face.
Okay, take a deep breath and go slowly…watch...your…pace.
Do you even see my face!!!
As someone who isn’t color blind, I see clearly that this bothers me.
As he IS colorblind or as he claims to be, he either doesn’t see that this bothers me
Or he’s in denial or he is stuck in a strange mix of sight and unsight from which understanding, knowledge, and relationship can flee.
Colorblind,
I think I understand the thought behind it. Treat everyone the same. Don’t focus on difference. Be blind to it.
And as a person who:
Has had so much fear, having grown up feeling like the striking features of my hair, eyes, cheekbones, skin tone have been consciously or unconsciously highlighted to align me with the popular media portrayal of exotic dragon ladies, martial arts masters, sidekicks, nerds, and seldom the main character in a non-Asian film;
This by default makes me an intelligent exotic nerdy subservient sidekick kung fu master who never gets the lady at the end of the film.
Damn it’s demeaning!
Who wants to be pigeon holed into that caricature?!?
Colorblind, I see
That you don’t want to see -
These things have been proliferated into the mass consciousness of Western sensibility.
I’d love to love to believe you,
But the fact that Jackie Chan and Jet Li recently starred in a kung fu movie as side characters to a no name Caucasian kid actor who gets the Chinese girl at the end of the story leaves me to believe otherwise.
Damn I’m pissed! Because real life seems to reflect this skewed perspective!
Yellow fever spreads as I watch my Asian sisters go for the White guys
Because for some reason a guy like me is a second place prize.
Do you not see this?
Do you not want to see this?
I guess that’s why you’re colorblind.
I guess that’s why you have color denial.
Sometimes the truth of our difference is too much to handle
And the fact that your simple statement to me is not so simple to me
Highlights a difference from which my mind’s eye will refuse to be blinded to and from which you will not claim to see.
Yes, we are all God’s people, but God has made me different and there is such tragedy and glory in it that it must be seen.
I want to believe that God’s glory can be found in my unique traits that only color can communicate. Do you see what I mean?
So I wipe the shit off my face
I watch my pace
I leave the rant in my head and heart
And return to the session

Embodied

Part 1: Drained
My body often wakes up to the sound of the baseboard heater’s buzz. Buuuzzzzzzz. Buuuuuzzzzz. “Shut the hell up! I was so close. You took me away from that confusing dream. I was on the verge of figuring something out. So close. So so close.” At least that’s what I say in my mind. My body says something else. My eyes are heavy with the sandman’s dust; which feels less like dust and more like bricks in the corners of my eyes. My right nostril went on strike and refuses to breathe. My bladder shoves me and tells me I should get out of bed. The rest of my body resists, like loose wet sand slipping between fingers. Isn’t sleep supposed to reenergize you? My energy has been sapped. After a few minutes of extreme ambivalence, my body finds itself moving into the bathroom…extreme relief. The next mission, twist the little knob on the wall and stop the most annoying hum in the world.

The body says so much when you wake up, as if it were competing with the rooster’s crow. My body says to crawl back into bed.



Part 2: OkCupid
The alarm sounds and my morning iPhone ritual begins (even though it no longer qualifies as morning because it’s 4pm). I am still wet sand. I check my email. I check Facebook. I check Instagram. I check Flipboard. I check OkCupid. Yes, I check OkCupid. Not only that, I begin answering the questions in it (to explain; OkCupid is an online dating website which has these multiple answer questions you fill out so that they can have data which is used to match you with others who answer similarly. I have entered the dark side…but not really, it’s actually kind of fun. Or at least I tell myself it’s fun because it’s satisfying my curiosity of about online dating?), because maybe if I find something interesting, this tired body might wake up. Please carrot, lead this old horse.

The following question is offered: “Do you believe that mind and body are separate entities (Dualism) or do you believe that they are in a state of unity (Monism)?”

You can only select one of the following answers: “Monism”, “Dualism”, “A bit of both”, “Uncertain.”

I skip the question altogether because I am undecided...or just too tired. The sand is still wet.



Part 3: House
After inhaling the El Diablo Azul burger, garlic fries, and a hearty winter warmer (which counts as breakfast, lunch, and dinner because I woke up so late), I feel the light and cold Seattle rain sprinkle baptize my satiated body as I make my way over to “Body Orthodoxy: A Sensual Education.” The house that the art installation is in reminds me of Carl Fredricksen’s house in the movie “Up.” Large and newer buildings in the South Lake Union Area encroach on the minuscule territory that remains for the rickety house left fending for itself. The quaintness of the house punctuates the mindfulness necessary as I prepare to take in the overt and the subtleties…the things I will see, smell, taste, and touch.

A homeless lady passes by the house and asks for two dollars. Her body is in need.



Part 4: Sensual
Each room features an artist or two and their work. There are many rooms.

I see collages of animals and people with the heads of icons transposed onto their heads. God is in all creation, but sometimes we are too blind to see it.

Crochet breasts, vaginas, and penises are mounted to the wall and we are invited to touch. What does my anxiety in touching say about the shame that Adam and Eve felt in covering themselves which is still viscerally alive in me?

Amongst statues of bodies, with televisions and books and grenades in their abdominal cavities, I smell incense and partake of communion; consuming the body and blood of Christ from a soldier’s helmet. The battles and wars we engage with our body involve the body of Christ and fragrant prayers. There is so much meaning, intent, and desire. Desire for what?

The dancer twists and writes. Her body moves beautifully; amazingly. I see a story unfold. Each movement is an exercise in freedom and discovery. Our flesh in movement is the embodiment and expression of our creative souls. How often do we move freely or restrict our range of motion to basic tasks? How do we hide from our spirit in our body? How do we discover our spirit in our body? How do we hide or discover our body with our spirit?

The lady sits on the floor and wraps herself with a mishmash of items tied together. The sheet of birth control pills is weaved into lingerie is weaved into a tampon box is weaved into stockings is weaved into a pregnancy test marker is weaved into…item and item and continuous item – items that barrage the female body. She wraps these items on her limbs and torso and repeats, “This is not what I want…but I want it also.” And we watch as she slowly and consistently engulfs her body in this burden. And we watch as she unravels and unburdens herself. What do we subject the female body to that says Imago Dei?

There was so much more. But all in all, I my eyes, skin, olfactory nerves, taste buds were all doused with a bit of mindfulness; or I should say, awareness of embodiment. Our bodies tell a very loud story that we often don’t take the time to listen to nor consecrate.



Part 5: Attack
It is tomorrow and I am in a “show of support” at the hospital. I enter the room and see an imposing and fuming body. The light fixture is ripped off the wall. A large chair is upside down on the bed. The patient is huffing and puffing and red. We clear the area so other patients aren’t at risk of injury. The trembling voice cusses at the staff that show up to address this angry and frightened body. The patient cools down; but not before long a nurse is punched in the face, followed by a cascade of hospital staff bodies engulfing the patient’s limbs. The writhing body fights. The teeth reach for a shoulder to bite. The staff hang on. We encourage the patient to breath slowly. “Remember to breath…Relax…We’re here to help you.”

Body on body. There is an internal battle that leads to an external battle. The flesh cries out.



Part 6: Both/And
I guess I believe in both/and “monism” and “dualism.” Body and mind are unique, seeming to have an apparent autonomy; but one would not be in its fullness without the other, therefore also taking part in making the other. The body is the extension of the mind and vice versa.



Part 7: Invitation
History resides in our flesh. Relationship forms our flesh. The body tells a story and makes new stories. From the waking aches, to OkCupid curiosities, to knitted privates and interpretive dance, and a raging patient that is swaddled in the protective grasps of many bodies – the flesh asks to received and honored. How do we miss the many ways our bodies cry out for God; or cry out and tell us God is already there?