I have sketched the place from which I write on this blog in various ways: I’m a theologian; I’m gay; I live on the margins of church life—in truth, on the other side of a wall that runs between gay people and the church.
I also write from a physical place that, to many people, is almost non-existent: one of those fly-over cities in the middle of the
I write from an even more specific place, an east-facing room in a house perched on a gently-sloping hill in the foothills of the Ouachita Mountains, their first eastward escarpment along the banks of the
My chair overlooks a garden on which Steve and I have labored, with more or less (emphasis on the latter) success for almost a decade now. The garden was thriving some four years ago, with several plum trees laden with fruit one spring, when the city decided to run a sewer line through the back of the garden, uprooting the plums and two beautiful apple trees we had also planted and tended towards maturity. Though the city promised that it would preserve the garden, its contractors stuck the trees back into the ground just as summer arrived, and of course, they did not grow again. At that point, I gave up on dreaming big dreams for my little garden.
Slowly, though, we have massaged it back into some semblance of a garden, and I write these days overlooking a scene I know I will see only for a few days, since spring is fleeting, and each day brings with it new illuminations. To be specific: I am looking out these days through a trellis Steve has just built on the east side of the house, to support
We first got the rose from an elderly neighbor of ours in
“My” trellis, as I now think of it, is a frame for what grows just beyond the eastern window, just beneath the trellis itself. These days, it’s a wonderful medley: light yellow witch hazel blooms on a bare tree, hanging like miniature Chinese lanterns with the faintest spots of green sprinkled across the yellow; beyond them, spikes of purple flag that have just burst into bloom in the past two days; beneath the witch hazel, tiny narcissus, a deeper yellow than the witch hazel blooms, which the dogs have somehow failed to trample down; and to the north and east, like a haze beyond all of this, the deep red-brown of the smoke tree opening its leaves.
I cherish the scene, because I know it will not last. It will give way soon to something else, all the roses in bloom at once, followed by the intense hot days in which the Louisiana iris, Texas star hibiscus, and pomegranate all bloom on the unshaded eastern side of the garden that gets sun all day long. Hot colors for hot days—scarlet, orange, sun-yellow, with intense greens to frame them.
Why all this garden talk? I don’t know, frankly. In part, because the news often depresses me. I read in one news account today that, as our president cantered and capered this week—this week in which news of 4000 dead soldiers arrived—at a press conference in D.C., the reporters gathered to witness this performance applauded him, gave him a standing ovation.
What kind of world do we live in? What kind of world, now? What kind of world, in which the purveyors of “knowledge” and “information” can applaud cantering and capering atop a mass grave?
Enough. Such “news” sickens me, and I turn to nature for consolation, the starling I see right now, as I type, slowly clacking across the leaves to the bird bath, moving like a ponderous Oxbridge don in academic regalia, intent on a destination only he can see in his own head.
I write about the mundane, the particular, as well, because this kind of writing is an act of defiance—defiance of the norms that tell men (and scholars, and women whose power depends on playing by men's rules) they should write about the serious and not the domestic. Again and again, in my academic career, when I have submitted academic articles in which I reference the homey as an illustration of a ponderous point, I receive the edited article back with notes that, while the “riff” on cornpone may be interesting, it is off-topic.
Not to me. My garden, what I cook in my kitchen, the pollen I washed in dull yellow layers off my front porch yesterday: these are the stuff of my daily existence. My thought arises out of this stuff. Most of the world’s inhabitants live in worlds in which their lives are made of similar stuff. It is only a minority who live and work in academic studies, in high-rise office buildings, who can write while someone else (someone almost certainly female) does the cooking, the scrubbing, the garden-tending, the food-growing, food-selecting, food-preparing.
We need a theology that reflects where people really live and move and have their being. We need a theology—a serious, academic theology—that writes from the kitchen, the garden, the porch that has to be scrubbed daily. We need a theology in which the things that those who live in such places think about are taken seriously, as food for academic discussion.
I write about these matters on my blog because I can do so. For the first time in my life, in my academic career, in my vocation as an educator, I can write about gardens and kitchens as if they matter, and matter ultimately. I can use the homey to talk about God and not have an editor in a high-rise building, for whom someone else cooks and cleans (someone almost certainly female) eviscerate the homey references from what I have written.
In blogging, I believe I am continuing my work as an academic theologian and educator. But I am doing so outside Jerusalem, so to speak, outside the norms and boundaries that dictate what an academic theologian and educator can and must say. In nurturing an alternative discourse field—a new garden—for those of us who want to talk about God, about justice, about peace, about gender, I am, I hope, making it possible for new voices, those that have traditionally not been permitted into the conversation, to sound forth.
I hope. 4000 are now dead. A president capers. Reporters applaud. My voice is tiny. People I know are seriously ill, and my heart is heavy because of this.
But I hope. And so I go on speaking.
4 comments:
Bill, your blog remains a constant joy to read. It is refreshingly affirming of all the things people in esteemed offices give no regard.
Who was it that said something about the rejected stone becoming the foundation or the last being first?
I have long been a student of "Garden and Kitchen" theology. So-called "mountain-top" experiences are awe-inspiring, but, ultimately, they are meaningless if that "God-present" moment doesn't translate into something that is relevant to our day-to-day existence.
I am reminded of a song written and recorded several years ago called "Buffalo Hills" in which the author describes a moment of being keenly aware of God's presence in the middle of one of his son's little league baseball games. It was a mundane, ordinary, unspiritual activity, but, yet, there was God, holying up the thing.
It was an artful reminder that the Creator is as present in those every day moments as in the extraordinary ones. These anecodotal experiences may have little relevance to those in ivory towers, but it is those unremarkable gestures of kindness, grace, and devotion, of tending a garden, preparing a meal, or even going to a little league game, that we truly hear the "still, small voice" of God.
As my conclusion, I will quote the full lyric of the song I was reminded of by your post today.
"Buffalo Hills"
by Terry S. Taylor
I float on a cloud between the boy and the ball
The long haired mermaids lie on rocks by the ocean
Around the diamond grass
My Blue-Eyed Dream comes home at last
to the Buffalo Hills, to the Buffalo Hills
Here's God disguised as men in dark shirts and masks
In the center of the galaxy, I breathe
bright stars and planets
Sun dips to kiss the earth
My angel makes the play at first
on the Buffalo Hills, on the Buffalo Hills
Snap shot, visible sign
Spirit moving, bending the grasses
Runs free down the chalkline
Child of Wonder
Long legs and lashes
Proud fathers cursing the fates, then
speaking in tongues
Our dim dreams circle the moon, like
fog around gaslight
When all is said and Done
we pray that innocence has won
on the Buffalo Hills, on the Buffalo Hills
In flares of distant nights
I see it all work out all right
on the Buffalo Hills, on the Buffalo Hills...
I float on a cloud between the boy and the ball...
"This song is for Andrew. Buffalo Hills is a little league ballpark."
Bill, Your post made me think of what a circuitous route I have taken to understand the same thing. For me it happened standing at the back of a drill rig in no where Nevada. We had just hit a pocket of intense yellow clay, which turned to orange and then red, and then purple, and finally green. We were drilling some 500 feet down and had struck a rainbow. I couldn't help but comment on the marvelous hidden things in God's creation. Who'd a thunk it. The drillers I was working with, not known for their theological insights, were just as taken as I was with this unexpected gift. Even the geologist, who insisted on explaining why the colors were only the product of certain minerals, couldn't ruin this moment.
Our driller said to the geologist: "Just proves God's smarter than you."
BC, I'm proud to have you as a reader, and glad that my blog affirms what those who rule us often overlook. I often think far too much emphasis is placed on claiming that God is in the extraordinary. If religious claims mean anything at all, it seems to me, those claims have to be convincing where folks live and move and have their being. When we claim to find God only "out there" or someplace exotic, we also exempt ourselves from struggling with the presence of the divine right here in our midst, as well as with the uncomfortable questions that come from that presence in our midst. Thanks for pointing me to that song, which I didn't know of.
Colleen, rainbows under our feet: I like that image! And the theology of drill operators. If we had more theology coming from more places like that, I think we might not have some of the messes we have in our world. I wonder how long the rig operator would let bishops keep abusive priests in the midst of the flock? Not very long, I suspect.
Now you've made me want to go out and walk while keeping that image of the rainbows under our feet in my mind . . . .
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