Soul Sculpting Part I

WORDS

I have always loved words, the way they sound, the way they look, the ways new words can be crafted from others. Even so I have never been talented at crossword puzzles! But my mother was a whiz, and she breezed right through them. Her love affair with language lasted her entire life, and she learned early on how to measure and weigh her words with care. This was a skill she hoped her impulsive daughter would one day acquire.

By the end of March 1992, no words, at least no words that we could understand, had crossed my mother’s lips for two months. Cancer was destroying her brain. The last day I spent with her, words of love that I did not care about measuring flowed from me as did the music of songs long familiar to her. And then for the first time during her illness, I was moved to pray the Lord’s Prayer aloud. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven…. Amen. After a few moments, I quietly said, “You know, Mom, I pray all of the time.” My mother turned her face toward me, fixed her gaze upon me, and replied, “I know that you do.” She died two days later.

My mother was physically gone, but she had left me with one last and lasting gift. There have been many times since that day when I have been uncertain, many times when joy has filled my heart or grief has seared my soul. Never again, however, have I doubted that God is with us nor that the “Word was made flesh and dwelt among us.” Mysterious? Difficult to discern? Unfathomable? Yes. But always present.

If we could see our souls, I believe that they would resemble sculptures. Beautiful white marble or onyx sculptures; some souls might even be cast in bronze. The experiences of the past ten years in particular have sculpted me, skillfully preparing the material and shaping the rough form. Now the time has arrived for more detailed and delicate work. The following vignettes describe the process of the sculpting of my soul and the evolution of my faith that have led me to The College of Saint Catherine and to submit this application to obtain the Master of Arts in Theology.

JESUS WEPT

When my mother was so ill, I clung to the two words that I believed without a doubt: “Jesus wept.” As I moistened my mother’s lips and placed ice chips in her mouth, my faith grew faint and then stronger as I remembered and suddenly understood Jesus’ words on the cross and their significance: “I thirst.” I recalled the cruelty with which he had been answered, and I pondered what it means to love and what love means. My experience with my mother taught me to care in ways I had never imagined possible, even though I had also been present during the last days of my best friend’s life in 1985. Caring for individuals so dear to me and receiving tender care from friends who helped me carry on inspired me to reassess the ways in which I was living my life. I stood at a crossroads and decided to turn toward a life of service.

“I THIRST”

In October 1992 I left my career in management consulting that, once exhilirating, had lost its meaning. I accepted the position of Director of Education for the Mental Health Association of Minnesota. The change meant decreasing my annual income by 70 percent, but it also meant the fulfillment of a dream. I have never regretted my choice or the lifestyle that I gave up. Highly styled Italian shoes and designer clothing lost their allure as I began to understand more fully the power of the human spirit and the myriad ways the Spirit moves among us.

My six years at the Mental Health Association introduced me to a world of people whose boundless courage, integrity, and faith had ushered them through the Valley of the Shadow of mental illness. Indeed, Jesus could not help but weep with the persons whom I visited in psychiatric hospitals. Like him, they thirsted; many felt abandoned by God and were in fact abandoned by friends and family. I met so many individuals, some of whom I am honored to call friend, who persevere against all odds. These and many other people enriched and changed my life forever by sharing their wisdom with me. Among other things, they tried to teach me to examine my own heart and soul and to replenish my spirit because “You cannot give what you do not have.”



WE HAVE LOVED THE STARS TOO FONDLY

Now we return to the summer of 1988. It was just ten years after my graduation from Mount Holyoke College with a major in French literature, a minor in English literature, and a B.A. degree magna cum laude. In the meantime, I had married and moved to France, where I had embarked upon my career as a management consultant. In March 1988 I became ill and was hospitalized for two months.

While convalescing, I was also learning to cope with the repercussions of the diagnosis of manic depressive illness and preparing to begin a new life in New York City. One day, to ease my anxiety about the future and all of the unknown challenges it held, I went shopping. Not my usual response to life-changing events and a seemingly minor occurrence in the grand scheme of things that summer. I remember it, though, as clearly as if it had happened just hours ago.

It was a charming—almost too charming—shop. To cheer myself up and on, I tried on a summery, flowery dress and then I wandered over to the greeting cards. My eye was immediately drawn to one card, and it turned out to be, of all things, a sympathy card. But then again, maybe I needed some sympathy! Needless to say, I bought the dress and the card and while I no longer have that lovely dress, the card has accompanied me everywhere I have gone since that long-ago and painful summer. A “Velveteen Rabbit” of sorts, tattered and worn, the card reads, “We have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.” Those words still inspire me, and there have been many occasions when I have needed them since 1988, including the grave illnesses and deaths of my closest family and the usual, sometimes slightly unusual, ups-and-downs that life sends our way. [1]

“FOLLOW ME”

In 1995 one of the ministers of my church asked me to give the meditation at the chapel service. The text I selected was the story of Zacchaeus. He was the tax collector who perched in a tree to get a glimpse of Jesus. As Jesus passed under the tree, he stopped and called out to Zacchaeus to get right down and get to work serving others. As I thought about the meaning of Zacchaeus’ story in my life and the lives of people I know, I realized that we, too, are called by name, called to climb out of whatever tree we happen to be in and to enter the world in a different way. As I wrote and delivered the meditation, I reflected upon another two-word sentence, this one an imperative: “Follow me.”

From that day on, my faith has revolved around three two-word sentences—“Jesus wept,” “I thirst,” and “Follow me.” Since then I have also yearned to heed the call to study theology. In the intervening years, however, I have tended to other responsibilities, such as caring long-distance for my father and my aunt, who had serious illnesses and who both died in August 2000. Since 1995 I have also changed jobs twice. In June 1998 I accepted the position of Director of Marketing for 89.3 WCAL, the public radio station of St. Olaf College, and in June 2000 I became the Director of Development of the Alzheimer’s Association Minnesota-Dakotas Chapter. Both of these professional experiences have given me great satisfaction, and I have met wonderful people whom I will always cherish—colleagues, volunteers, and donors alike. But like my “Velveteen Rabbit” card, the desire to attend graduate school has accompanied me every step of the way. This week I celebrate my 45th birthday and greet a new year. I am at another crossroads in my life, and I am at last ready to say “Yes!” to the adventures and discoveries that are waiting for me in graduate school.




“FEED MY LAMBS”

In 1997 I went on retreat to Clare’s Well, where I have always found great solace and inspiration. On my way there, the words “Feed my lambs” popped into my head. When I arrived at Clare’s Well, I thought at length about those three words and their meaning. Amazingly, I opened up my Bible that afternoon to John 21. In verses 15 through 18, Jesus admonishes Simon Peter to “Feed my lambs.” And then he says, “Follow me.”

In the “busyness” of the five years since my experience at Clare’s Well, I have tried to do both. I have sometimes succeeded and more often failed. Failed in large part because I have been weary. Like Martha, I have felt too overwhelmed to pause and pay more attention to friendships or to take the time to feed and refresh my own spirit. So I have not been able to give what I did not have. That is a lesson I thought I had already learned, but I can be a little slow on the uptake sometimes! The good news is that I am finally understanding that it does no good—and that it can in fact be harmful—if I keep trying to feed lambs while ignoring my own needs for nourishment. Ultimately lambs I love suffer, and so do I. Lately I have been contemplating another lesson about life and faith as well. Why worry? Why be afraid? As the old saying goes, “Fear knocked at the door. Faith answered. No one was there.” Faith, I am slowly but surely learning, is not just knowing but especially believing and trusting that no matter what we are doing or not doing for ourselves or for others, God is tending the lambs and touching our lives every moment of every day, in ways seen and unseen.

God’s love constantly speaks to the heart and soul. How do we come to trust this still, small voice, which so mysteriously can be understood even when the mind cannot form the words of a reply? Years ago when I lived in Paris, I volunteered with a young woman in her late teens who had autism. She could not speak or walk, but when I sang to her and hugged her, her eyes sparkled. A friend’s husband has Alzheimer’s disease, and his cognitive skills have slipped away. Recently, though, when he held a child in his arms and she cooed at him, he responded, “Abba.” One of my friends has battled severe mental illness for more than thirty years. She recently spent two years in a psychiatric hospital. She has just moved to a new home, joined a church and is busy making new plans for her life. She never gives up. Last week I visited with an individual whom I greatly admire. His wife has early onset Alzheimer’s disease and can now barely function. I feel certain that she is aware of his love, but just what entitles me to offer up this opinion when no one knows? Does my feeling come from ignorance of the situation or does it come from a deeper place, a place where trust and faith are blossoming?

RENEWAL—A NEW WELL

When I throw a coin in a wishing well or make a birthday wish, I close my eyes and silently pray, “Allow me to give back everything I have received.” All of my wishes have come true. Professionally, I have given back to the world even when I was a management consultant, but especially in my different roles at the Mental Health Association and as Director of Development at the Alzheimer’s Association Minnesota-Dakotas Chapter. I have spent much of my personal life caring for others.

But I want to stop spending time. I would rather deliberately set the next two years apart as a time to care for my own physical and spiritual needs. I want and need to linger for a while at a well of wisdom I have never before visited, where I will learn more about how God, Christ and the Holy Spirit manifest themselves in the world and through us. I seek refreshment from a new well where I will learn to draw from time-honored paths to faith and trust. Now is the time for me to explore the promise of new and renewed ways of thinking, perceiving, feeling, discerning, and acting in the world. Exactly what the promise holds, I am not quite sure. That is what my journey of contemplation and study will reveal.

When I make my birthday wish this week, I will ask that beauty, sorrow, and joy continue to sculpt my soul.
I will wish for the opportunity to grow, to change, and to participate in the life of the community at the College of St. Catherine as I pursue the Master of Arts degree in theology.




Theological Knowledge

When I first read the questions about theological knowledge, all I could think of was the book I had just reread. “To Kill a Mockingbird” tells us in simple and direct language what we need to know: “To kill a mockingbird,” declares Scout,
“is a sin.”

In the late 1990s I participated in a bible study group that helped me to think about my faith; I delivered three meditations at my church, one of which I mention in my personal statement. The others were equally important and helped me to grow in faith.

As I also mentioned in my personal statement, I prayed all of the time when my mother was ill. And I still do. But let me not exaggerate; maybe I don’t pray all of the time, but I talk to God frequently. Very frequently. I talk about mundane matters; I talk about the things of the spirit; I ask for help for the people I care about, for the world, and for myself.

I read. I read a lot. What are the theological works I have read? Titles include (but of course are not limited to!): “The Genius of John” (Ellis), “A Cry of Absence” (Marty), “Visions of God” (Armstrong) and the “History of God” (Armstrong), “Through the Narrow Gate” (Armstrong), “Masks of God” (Campbell), “The Path of the Kabbalah” (Sheinkin), “God” (Miles), “Heaven and Hell” (Swedenborg), “The Gnostic Gospels” (Pagels), and “The Brothers Karamazov” (Dostoevsky). I have read nearly everything that Nouwen wrote; nearly everything that C.S. Lewis wrote; much of what Buechner has written and most of the poetry of T. S. Eliot. I have tried with all my might to read the “Summa Theologica.” I read “Markings” by Dag Hammarskjold nearly as often as I read the Bible, which is to say almost every day. I read Rilke and Donne and Yeats and Gerard Manley Hopkins. I have read the works of St. John of the Cross and Thomas Merton. I read about the lives of the saints, and I keep the Missal close by my side and read it almost every day. Sigrid Nunez’s book “A Feather on the Breath of God” is in a prominent place in my dining room along with “Crossing to Safety” by Wallace Stegner.

I have already spoken in my personal statement of my love for sculpture. What can express God’s love for the world more poignantly than La Pieta? Or the sculpture of Brancusi, Rodin, and Claudel? What of the paintings of Georges de la Tour? Or, or, or…. Art, too, is theological work. Not to mention music and the music of the spheres.

I not only read but also write poetry. The poem I wrote on Good Friday 1995, published in 1996, follows.

I have always loved literature, poetry, sculpture, music, and art. We can find great theological meaning in all of these forms of the soul’s expression. Just think of the many examples there are. I have a feeling that in my pursuit of the Masters of Theology at Saint Catherine’s, I am going to find the way to combine my love of literature and art, my knowledge of French (I am bilingual), and my love of God into a meaningful whole that will transform itself into service.



















Good Friday 1995

The pain of the world

H
ANGS

today upon the Cross.

Darkness was upon the face of the deep.

Death.

And then,
There was Light.

Fiat lux; lux fiat.

On the third day—or was it today in Paradise—
the
Light
illumined
every crevice,
every cranny,
every dark and desolate wilderness.

The Light
of the World
lives and reigns
over All.

Not

the dying of the Light;
but the ReBirth of Light
into the receiving
Hands of God.

“Into Thy Hands, I commend my Spirit.”

Light merged with Light.

Now lettest Thy servant depart,
according to
Thy Word.

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the
Word was God.



Christiana Adams
In Sacred Suffering
A Lenten Journal, February – March 1996
Bradley Hills Presbyterian Church
Bethesda, Maryland






EASTER 2002


THE EPISCOPAL PARISH OF
ST. DAVID





THE FLOWERING OF THE CROSS






A GLAD SHOUT FROM THE HEART:

WHY NOT?
POURQUOI PAS APRES TOUT?

CREDO.








AFTERWORD, FOREWORD AND FORWARD



Today is the second anniversary of my father's death. Last evening I reread the words that I shared at his memorial service. My remarks began with the words of Shakespeare that I had contemplated on my long journey home: “When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought/I summon up remembrance of things past.” I concluded my remembrance of my father in part by saying that “He was and will remain for all of us who knew and loved him both a mystery and a wellspring of clarity. ”

Last evening I knew with sudden clarity that there is another two-word sentence, this one a declaration that belongs in my journey as both the afterword to my personal statement and as the foreword to the journey on which I now embark.

"I believe."

Reduced to and expanding into one word: Credo.[2]

August 22, 2002






September 11, 2002

Tonight I realized that there are three seven-word sentences that belong here; sentences that form me and that now inform my life:

“I am the Light of the World.”

“And the darkness shall not overcome it.”

“Into Thy Hands I commend my Spirit.”

October 1, 2002

Which of course we can say anytime and perhaps every day for as long as we live!

Jesus wept and smiled . . . I imagine He even laughed from time to time . . .


CREDO.



ADVENT 2004



Today is the day that the Lord hath made
Let us rejoice and be glad in it.

The First Sunday of Advent~
The Death of my dearest, dearest Soul Friend

The Third Sunday of Advent~
Rose Light and purple hues.

Gaudeamus!

Let us
rejoice.

Rejoice in the Lord always.

And again I say rejoice.

For the Light shines in the darkness;
And the darkness has not overcome it.


Thanks be to God.

Jesus Christ said,
“I am the Light of the World. Believe in me.”

And now there is a two word prayer I make:

Send me.

May it be so.

Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.


Walk in love, beloved.



12 December 2004















AMOR VINCIT OMNIA


[1] When I received the diagnosis of manic depression (now more often referred to as bipolar disorder), I decided that I would not hide my condition from employers or friends despite the ongoing stigma and discrimination that still attach to mental illness. It is not usually the first thing I tell people about myself, however, because I prefer discussing topics much more interesting than my health! I mention it here because although it does not define who I am or what I do, it is a part of who I am and has shaped my experience; this illness has enriched my life considerably and sculpted my soul in ways I may not fully apprehend or comprehend. I am exceedingly fortunate, unlike other people I know, that this illness has not unduly disrupted my life or my career. The major symptoms of my illness have been “in remission” since 1988.
[2] Credo, to believe, I learned during my first class at St. Catherine’s, means “To give one’s heart to.”