When the daughter of artist Howard Ikemoto turned seven years old, she asked her father, "What do you do at work?" Ikemoto told her, "I work at a college, where my job is to teach people how to draw." She stared back at her father, incredulous, and said, "You mean they forget?"
Adulthood does a number on our memory. (Says the man who can't find his glasses.) Yes, we forget many things that came naturally when we were young: play, delight, giddiness, enchantment, coloring and nap-time. In other words; wholeheartedness.
Instead, as adults we spend our mental energy learning how to look good (we posture or pretend or play-act). Or, we give way to the tyranny of the "should"--you know, looking over our shoulder to know what we should feel, should do, should say.
Kate Wicker calls herself a failed perfectionist, and shares this story in
Faith and Family. When I was 3, I fell and cut my mouth while playing in the backyard. I ran screaming to my mom with blood dribbling down my chin and onto my summer dress. "Does it hurt?" Mom asked as she drew me into her arms to comfort my pain.
"No, Mommy," I sobbed, "but I've ruined my pretty dress." It wasn't the cut in my mouth, but the bright red blood splatters on my dress that threw me into despair.
It is no surprise, that it is the nature of our culture to live vicariously through those who are placed on a pedestal. Someone who "has it all," or is "above it all." (Only to be taken aback when the bubble is burst. "Tsk, Tsk," we say. "How could that happen?" Nothing says Christmas like swirling tales of whatever is risqué or melodramatic. All of it enamors us. We can't decide to act shocked, or to Google this year's Kardashian Holiday card for entertainment value.)
A few years ago, after Tiger Woods' very public blunders, one writer's lament (sprinkled liberally with incredulity) made my head turn. He wrote that "sadly," Tiger had been "reduced to being a mere human."
Wait a minute.
Is this a bad thing?
To be human?
It makes me laugh, because I didn't realize that being human is a downgrade, and something to be avoided at all costs.
Not that I haven't heard it before. As a child, my church taught me to "war against" my "sinful-humanity" (the two words always joined, which is a lot of mental luggage for a first grader). Well, they got it wrong. Because Advent (Christmas) is the story about someone becoming human. So I find the pundit's comment odd (or perhaps poignant), because this is the season when we wait on a God, who is being "reduced" to becoming a mere human. This is the story of this season: the incarnation, meaning God in-flesh-ment. A God who embraces and enters all that is human.
Here's the deal: Being fully human is not a caveat. It is an invitation to celebrate. So maybe the gift this Christmas is the freedom and permission to lovingly accept the humanity--even if it means the "broken" humanity--entrusted to us. To be reduced to being human? Absolutely.
The humanity that is "in-fleshed" on Christmas day.
It is this humanity that gives us our capacity to choose, to risk, to fail,
to learn, to try against all odds, to rage against our frailties
and the darkness even in our own hearts,
to feel without reservation,
to have our hearts poured out for causes and loves unrequited,
to find gooseflesh until we believe we will explode with joy undeserved, honoring all of our emotions,
to fight, to doubt, to give, to forgive,
to make mistakes and to find the courage to fix them,
to own and confess behaviors that are not serving ourselves
or those around us,
to enjoy the journey recognizing that we are a work in progress,
and in it all, to give others the permission to be human too,
because it is the very reflection of God.
Nelson Mandela died this week. After the recently released biopic, Mandela: Long walk to freedom, one newspaper noted that it revealed a "very human" Mandela (Madiba). Here we go again.
I would argue that what made Madiba remarkable is that his incredible acts of magnanimity were enfolded into his humanity.
Life is hard. And there's a breaking point for some people and not for others. Suffering embitters some people, but it ennobles others.
In Mandela's case, suffering did not just ennoble, but became the experience--the crucible--that gave him the authority to say, "I forgive."
To open the gates of reconciliation wider.
To live fully human.
That is what is remarkable.
Maybe this is the first gift of the season. Today we give ourselves permission to embrace our humanity. To remember how to draw...
However, truth be told? There are some days I believe. And there are many days I do not. Some days I see God in all things. Other days, I don't know if God exists. I mine my heart for faith, and sometimes come up empty. I have flashes of hope, and stretches of gloom. I am funny, cynical, empathetic, sad, sensitive, angry, thoughtful, dark, impatient, intense, both caring and insensitive, articulate, a writer though sometimes wordless, insightful and at a loss, self-confident, though at times racked with doubt and reduced to tears. I am a Christian. But there are days I am an agnostic. I am a sinner. I am assuredly a child of God. And before I go about trying to change all of this, or run from it, I need to know that this is, in fact, the me that God loves the best. Yes. And that, well, that is good news.
I wish for each of you, rest and peace--not
from the struggle, nor
fromthe temptation to eliminate any muddle. But the permission to be free
from the need to rise above it all.
Pausing is a place where we can see our selves clearly and without shame.
It is cold here. Unseasonably cold. In the teens cold. (In Michigan's UP, where my father lives, it is 11 below zero. I'll take what we have here.) My frozen pond edge is rimmed in white, as if frosted. The plants in my garden shrivel. Most will survive. But some will not make it. Although something inside will tell them to try. As for me, I think that I'll put everything away but the glass of Port, and Sarah McLachlan singing Silent Night, as darkness surrounds us on the Island.
