Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Seminary Tidbits

Last night, walking back to my room (I stay in a seminary dorm three nights a week), I asked a gentleman I ran into who all the visitors on campus were. Board meeting. And so I asked a bit about him, and he asked about me and, upon discovering that I am in my last year, questioned me, "Is it tough?"

I looked at him in confusion. What does he mean? I wondered. Is what tough? School? How could school possibly be tough, in the context of living? School is . . . this week, anyway, something of a distraction. It's fine, I said. As he walked away it finally dawned on me that he wanted to hear that our program is a challenging one. Oh. How would I know? I do it, it works out . . . .

I have been working, off and on all day, on the mammoth outline I have been creating for my Church and Sacraments class. I love that class; the professor is brillant ~ quietly and modestly so ~ and his construction of the course is a work of art. As I sift through my notes, I notice the rather stark divide that emerged over the term in our discussion section. There are those who long for a church in which the lines are clearly drawn, in which authority is clear and tradition is immutable. There are those who long to fling open the doors and see barriers crumble. (And there are those who have remained silent.) I think that we all see the pros and cons of each viewpoint, but I think that we are also all settling into something of what will be our ministerial identity.

I worry a bit, about this C&S exam that I am preparing for. While I was out walking today, when I should have been reviewing some of the material in my mind, this is what I was thinking about instead:

I feel brain damaged. I feel as though my brain has suffered a major contusion that will not heal. If you took some kind of scan of my actual, physical brain, there would be a large and permanent dent in one side. I forget things: words, sequences, trains of thought, entire conversations. I forget pretty much everything I study or read within a matter of minutes. (It is rather astonishing that I remember my own opinions.) This past week-end a major conference concerning an issue I care about occurred practically on my doorstep, and I did not go to one single event, because I have to guard my energy so carefully. It has slowly seeped into my consciousness that a year from now I will no longer have the luxury of an academic respite; I need to decide something about what's next. But I can't think about that, because I have to think about now.

And yet, I have to acknowledge: it seems that with one side of my brain sadly dented, the other is unfolding a new space. If I remember (ha!) what little I know about brain development, I think it would be fair to say that this new space consists of very dense gray matter. It is jammed with what I have learned about suicide, about grief, about survival, about listening, about things that matter when none of the usual does anymore. It is packed with a kind of courage I had no idea existed. It is filled with the things that a very few people have had the grace and love to share with me, things which may be of use to others someday (much as I might wish that not be the case). And it has developed an astonishing capacity to promote silence in the context of encounters with unbelievably stupid statements aimed my way.

About a year ago, I made my first foray back into the work to which I have been called. I spent an hour each day for a week with a young lady making a retreat; she was participating in a college program and I was her spiritual director. Each day she spent a bit of time in contemplation, and then we talked together about her prayer and her life. I would get up about about 3:00 in the afternoon, shower and dress and drive to our meeting place, listen and talk to her, drive home, and crawl into bed, conpletely depleted and usually in tears.

A week or two ago, I found myself, over the course of a few days, in three major conversational and email exhanges about suicide and its survivors -- all in the course of my usual day. Other people in the computer lab are reading Facebook, working on papers, listening to music ~ and I am writing about suicide in between working on my own papers. A year ago, one such conversation would have sent me to bed for hours. Now ~ they are almost an expected part of my routine.

So. I don't know whether school is tough, and I don't have a clue as to whether I will remember what Calvin had to say about preaching or Bonhoeffer about community a week from now, when it will count toward a grade. But I do know a tiny bit about how to listen to someone who is groping for both words and connection, something I wish I had known more about fourteen months ago. I have done some learning that has been very tough indeed. Not much of it in class, though.

8 comments:

Kathryn J said...

That man is probably still wondering about your blank look in response to his question. I know it's been tough but you are doing it. Your writing and your clarity belie the existence of a dent but I don't doubt its presence. The class sounds interesting - the whole process of tests and grades, eh. None of it will matter a few years from now.

Karen said...

The dent, I understand. The expanding other side of your brain, I haven't found that one yet! Hah!
I think your perseverance with your course work is paying off and integrating itself into your new, deeper understanding of life, suffering, loss, hurt, and mystery. You're "mentally handicapped", yet much smarter than you were.

RevDrKate said...

I think it's wisdom that is on that expanded side...it far outweighs the dent that may impede the retaining of facts....salient though they may be, for now. The wisdom lasts, and matters.

Lisa :-] said...

Life has things to teach us that are much more challenging--and more true--than anything any educational system could concoct.

Also, don't forget what they say about people of "our age:" You have come to the point where your brain is full, so for every new fact you stuff into it, another one has to fall out. I feel very much that way myself, sometimes...

Hot Cup Lutheran said...

i think loss, whatever the source, creates a new view. i think of a kaliedescope i had as a child. i was fascinated by turning the wheel... each time the view was different. sometimes i missed the old one, and wanted it back... but it wouldn't return... all the pieces of color and shape shifted.

loss does that... creates new colors and shapes, similar to previous ones, yet different, very different... your perceptions are keen and your ability to not have to rush in and define the new shapes, and name the new colors is wise indeed...

Cynthia said...

Just a few weeks before Randy died, my doctor told me that I have an unusually large amount of scarring on my brain. The months and tests that followed revealed nothing than an unusual amount of stress. I've wondered since then how many more scars there are. That new space of yours has been a gift to many people in exceptionally hard times, but oh, how I wish that it had never been caused.

Gal said...

Indeed...

Ruth Hull Chatlien said...

Your courage and perseverance continue to astound me. And as for the course work versus the things you have learned in class, I think Jesus' description of Mary applies here: You have chosen the better part.