Unashamed

Here at Carleton we have a publication called "Unashamed"--it's supposed to contain an open discussion of faith. Although I do not approve of the title (to me it implies that there might be a reason for shame), I squeeked out a mini-essay last night a few minutes before the submission deadline. The prompt was "Labels of faith... are you Labeled?"

So here it is. Now I need to start a paper. That's due in twelve hours.

...

There's something very human about putting labels on things. Maybe our tendency to classify the universe is buried somewhere in our neural circuits, for it's apparent that we draw great comfort from our labels and sweeping generalizations: the poison arrow frog, like the common toad, is an amphibian. China is a country in Asia. The people there are Chinese. I am an American. My classmates are Juniors. Some of them are Christians, and some of them are Atheists. Every one has a label.

Now, my plan is not to tell you that these labels are unfair stereotypes that unduly strip individuals of their essence. Stereotypes, after all, are just permutations of language, and I love language. Language makes poetry.

I do, however, think that there's a disconnect. We create linguistic conventions and hasty judgments about people and objects and everything that might possibly matter. These words and generalizations may be helpful, or even beautiful, but they always fall short of what's real. Does "mountain" really fit into eight letters? "Joy" into three?

Therefore, in my search for truth, I often find that I'm grasping for the grayness between labels and the emptiness that shimmers between words. This makes things confusing. I resolved last fall to devise a concise statement to divulge regarding my religious inclinations, but now I'm beginning to wonder if it can ever be that simple. For now, I will tell you this:

I'm a religion major: I write essays about faith. I've spent countless bewildered hours trying to fathom diverse manifestations of beauty and that ephemeral force that mobilizes hearts en masse. I articulate with inevitable labels why Israel is soaked with blood, how the ocean makes me feel, and exactly what constitutes a prayer.

I'm a human being: I struggle to compress my identity into a flat monochrome of text, an introduction, or a simple "yes" or "no" response to the question "Do you believe in God?"

I recognize the irony; I realize that I'm chasing down fog banks with butterfly nets. Sometimes my failure--this beautiful failure, that, in my mind, defines the human condition--makes me feel like crying.

But more often I laugh.

Today

Hello there, everyone.
It's been a while, I know...

I drove back to school almost three weeks ago (Western Montana was my favorite), and now I'm in Minnesota. The temperatures have plunged to almost -50 (when it gets that cold, recently boiled water thrown from a teacup turns into a cloud before hitting the ground). I've read Locke, and James, and memorized 82 structures of a sheep's brain. There was a new year, and now there's a new President. I watched his speech on an internet live stream while I was at work, and it felt momentous even with the hiccups in the bandwidth. Someone just gave me a balloon for no reason.

I'm not quite sure why I've taken a break from this blog, but, for now, I feel like I might start writing again. There's something about the structure of words--a hefty, yet breezy artistry--that always keeps me coming back for more.

And now the end of a poem of Maya Angelou's of which I am particularly fond (this poem was written for President Clinton and read during his 1993 inauguration):

"Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning."