Johari Window results

To see the completed window, click here.

First of all, I want to thank everyone who participated in my window! 

Second, I’d like to explain why I ran this experiment again.  In the summer of 2007, I first created a Johari window to see what would come up.  The results from that window are here.  A week ago or so, I created the new window to see both what I would choose as traits that define me now and how my “presentation of self” has changed with the new friends I’ve made in the past few years.  (For the record, I did not consult the older window when I chose adjectives for the newer window.)  I’ve also recognized massive internal changes in myself, and I wondered if these changes that seem so tangible present themselves in my everyday life.

Sociology folks and anyone that has taken a “theory of knowledge” course may be familiar with the dramaturgical approach from Ervine Goffman’s “The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life.”
It’s most simple explanation runs something like this:

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts…
- Shakespeare

We all put on an act in our everyday life, but that doesn’t mean we are all lying. Playing a truthful role in everyday life, which you yourself believe, is called a “sincere” role. The opposite is called a “cynical” role. I have tried hard to keep my “roles” sincere because the idea of manipulation and simply using people strikes me as repugnant.

We all set stages, using a front stage and back stage. If you have ever cleaned your house, had someone over, and claimed that “it’s a mess,” you have presented an image to someone by playing a role. If you have ever cleaned your living room for guests and thrown stuff all around back bedrooms, then panicked when your guest wanted a tour, you’ve experienced a crisis in your presentation of self.

I use the dramaturgical approach to look at my own individual interactions and to see how I present myself to others. There were not many surprises (though a few), and it quickly became clear that the roles and traits others present to me figured prominently in their choices of how to define “me.” Trends appeared within groups of individuals.

The psychological side is what I think focuses strictly on “me.” I assume that if more people claim to see a certain trait, then they are the traits I have most internalized and they cut across any discrepant roles I play. They are then my true “self” and my most reliable traits.

So, here is what I noticed. 

In both windows, “intelligent” is rated as my most dominant trait.  The reason for the difference/ discrepancy between the two ratings is that I consciously decided not to choose ‘intelligent’ in 2011.  I remembered choosing that one in 2007, but for a variety of reasons I did not want to own it this time around; I went with “knowledgeable” instead.  Some of those reasons include an attempt at humility and a sense that I have intellectually plateaued.  This does not necessarily deny intelligence, but I felt more comfortable with knowledgeable.—probably due to the meaning with which I load ‘intelligent’ instead of adhering to an objective definition.  Perhaps this means I need to own both ‘knowledgeable’ and ‘intelligent.’ 

Reflective is the second highest trait in the 2011 window—with over half choosing that trait.  I chose it for myself in 2007, but only one person noted it then.  I think this indicates that I am becoming openly reflective and sharing in a way I was not earlier in my life.  Still, it is interesting that I did not choose that trait in 2011…

So, the two most dominant traits in 2011 ended up in my blind spot, and I had chosen both for myself in 2007.  One was a conscious choice not to claim the trait; the other was a true blind spot.

Oh, and ‘religious’ showed up in 2011 with about half choosing that trait, as opposed to one person in 2007.  I was expecting this shift.  I found it interesting that ‘spiritual’ is not an option, and I wonder if that would have an effect on my own window.  In any case, ‘religion’ is a word that is loaded in a way that it was not in the 1950s.  Any test that wants to identify transcendent/ immanent spiritual experience or adherence to a faith cannot rely on solely on ‘religious’ to name it.

That’s all I’ve got to say for the moment...

…But, because I can take criticism and because the Johari window is only the warm and fuzzy stuff, I present you the link to my Nohari window.  It’s the same principle as the positive Johari window, only with the Johari window’s antonyms.  Feel free to criticize me either in name or anonymously!

A secular holiday for a religious figure?

This is not an original thought, but someone once observed that the best way to domesticate a threat is to give the threat its own holiday. Yesterday and today, last week or this week, many people will be observing Martin Luther King Jr. Day with little attention given to how much of a threat his thought was—and still is— to the American status quo. For instance, we celebrate the nonviolent civil rights movement exemplified by King… while maintaining two wars and barely mentioning that King was an opponent of the Vietnam War in particular and all war generally. Racism and prejudice still affect many groups of people, although its explicitness is less evident. Racism and prejudice show up in more slippery and coded ways—as well as institutionally.

These are two immediate and general ways of taking stock of where we’ve come from and where we are. But today I am instead interested in the secular/religious border that “MLK Day” transcends. I do not have any of my text books from my K-12 days with me, but it always seemed to me that the story of Martin Luther King (the civil rights leader, not necessarily the economic, social, or anti-war activist) ran like this: “King, who was a preacher/pastor, was an important figure in the civil rights movement.” I think that history books, either for brevity or due to a religious blind spot, give short shrift to much of the role King’s faith played in his thoughts on how the civil rights movement should proceed. Then again, religious historians often complain about religion being ignored in American history. The nonviolent stance of the marchers and protesters working with King was not a PR stunt to show the viciousness of southern whites (although it certainly did that thanks to television), but the logical outworking of a theological imperative.

I contend that the history should be amended to read more like this: “King, who was a preacher/pastor, lived out his religious philosophy (i.e. the Gospels) in the public square as an important figure in the rights movement.” At least this accurate portrayal will be heard in some churches. While I do not wish to go so far as saying the religious camp can claim King's legacy over secular society, it is most accurate to say that the nonviolent civil rights movement was a religious movement with profound secular implications; the perceived boundary between the secular and the religious were frequently breached.

“Aha! Robert, aren’t you just magnifying the role of religion since you are a Christian? Aren’t you trying to sneak theology into schools?”

I could be. I think it is necessary to keep King’s Christian context in mind every time he is mentioned. This is important precisely because distancing King from his theology leaves one with an impoverished sense of why and how he acted the way he did. Even though I greatly admire King because his Christian faith is meaningful to me, good history also demands that we be accurate.

An extreme example of distancing King from his religious faith is evident in reading the work of “new atheist” Christopher Hitchens, who writes that King’s “legacy has little to do with his theology.” While Hitchens and others (including King) are quite correct that Christianity was a major force in maintaining the racial status quo in America, divorcing King from his theology shows a profound ignorance of King’s intellectual biography. King was not a humanist when he stood on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, as Hitchens asserts in his false reading…you’d also have to ignore the content of the “I Have a Dream” speech to reach that conclusion. It is little exaggeration to say that Hitchens’ method of concluding if something is religious is directly determined by how terrible the thing is. Hitchens exemplifies how the legacy of King could be divorced from the man’s own thought, unless historians and Christians publicly hold to a more accurate reading of King.

Luckily, King did write a short, easily accessible intellectual autobiography in 1959, full of choice tidbits. I will offer the bits that stood out for me, but of course I think the piece bears full reading, and your doing so will be more rewarding for you than my abridgements. In this short reading, it should be apparent that King understood his social activism in profoundly religious terms…and aside from domesticating King by giving him a holiday he would not want, the danger of having a secular holiday for a religious figure is that we forget why he acted in the first place.
_______________________________________
Below are the tidbits. I’m going to let King speak for himself, but I’ll put some brief personal commentary in italics.

“Liberalism provided me with an intellectual satisfaction that I could never find in fundamentalism. I became so enamored of the insights of liberalism that I almost fell into the trap of accepting uncritically everything that came under its name. I was absolutely convinced of the natural goodness of man and the natural power of human reason.”

“Liberalism’s contribution to the philological-historical criticism of biblical literature has been of immeasurable value and should be defended with religious and scientific passion.”

“It was mainly the liberal doctrine of man that I began to question. The more I observed the tragedies of history and man’s shameful inclination to choose the low road, the more I came to see the depths and strength of sin. My reading of the works of Reinhold Niebuhr made me aware of the complexity of human motives and the reality of sin on every level of man’s existence.”

King and Niebuhr seemed to be on good terms even though they had some slight disagreements. King sent Niebuhr an inscribed and signed copy of one of his books, and Niebuhr, already having bought the book, gave the unsigned copy to his son and kept the signed copy.

“I also came to see that liberalism’s superficial optimism concerning human nature caused it to overlook the fact that reason is darkened by sin. The more I thought about human nature the more I saw how our tragic inclination for sin causes us to use our minds to rationalize our actions. Liberalism failed to see that reason by itself is little more than an instrument to justify man’s defensive ways of thinking. Reason, devoid of the purifying power of faith, can never free itself from distortions and rationalizations.”

“In spite of the fact that I had to reject some aspects of liberalism, I never came to an all-out acceptance of neo-orthodoxy. While I saw neo-orthodoxy as a helpful corrective for a liberalism that had become all too sentimental, I never felt that it provided an adequate answer to the basic questions. If liberalism was too optimistic concerning human nature, neo-orthodoxy was too pessimistic.”

“… I also gained a new appreciation for the philosophy of existentialism. My first contact with this philosophy came through my reading of [Søren] Kierkegaard and [Friedrich] Nietzsche. Later I turned to a study of [Karl] Jaspers, [Martin] Heidegger and [Jean Paul] Sartre. All of these thinkers stimulated my thinking; while finding things to question in each, I nevertheless learned a great deal from study of them. When I finally turned to a serious study of the works of Paul Tillich I became convinced that existentialism, in spite of the fact that it had become all too fashionable, had grasped certain basic truths about man and his condition that could not be permanently overlooked.”

“The gospel at its best deals with the whole man, not only his soul but his body, not only his spiritual well-being, but his material well-being. Any religion that professes to be concerned about the souls of men and is not concerned about the slums that damn them, the economic conditions that strangle them and the social conditions that cripple them is a spiritually moribund religion awaiting burial.”

“I do not want to give the impression that nonviolence will work miracles overnight. Men are not easily moved from their mental ruts or purged of their prejudiced and irrational feelings. When the underprivileged demand freedom, the privileged first react with bitterness and resistance. Even when the demands are couched in nonviolent terms, the initial response is the same. I am sure that many of our white brothers in Montgomery and across the south are still bitter toward Negro leaders, even though these leaders have sought to follow a way of love and nonviolence. So the nonviolent approach does not immediately change the heart of the oppressor. It first does something to the hearts and souls of those committed to it. It gives them new self-respect; it calls up resources of strength and courage that they did not know they had. Finally, it reaches the opponent and so stirs his conscience that reconciliation becomes a reality.”

This is what it means to be a realistic—dare I say almost pessimistic?—pacifist. King knew so very well that death and suffering could so easily come from his convictions.  It is something that all pacifists need to wrestle with.

“In recent months I have also become more and more convinced of the reality of a personal God. True, I have always believed in the personality of God. But in past years the idea of a personal God was little more than a metaphysical category which I found theologically and philosophically satisfying. Now it is a living reality that has been validated in the experiences of everyday life. Perhaps the suffering, frustration and agonizing moments which I have had to undergo occasionally as a result of my involvement in a difficult struggle have drawn me closer to God. Whatever the cause, God has been profoundly real to me in recent months. In the midst of outer dangers I have felt an inner calm and known resources of strength that only God could give. In many instances I have felt the power of God transforming the fatigue of despair into the buoyancy of hope. I am convinced that the universe is under the control of a loving purpose and that in the struggle for righteousness man has cosmic companionship. Behind the harsh appearances of the world there is a benign power. To say God is personal is not to make him an object among other objects or attribute to him the finiteness and limitations of human personality; it is to take what is finest and noblest in our consciousness and firm its perfect existence in him. It is certainly true that human personality is limited, but personality as such involves no necessary limitations. It simply means self-consciousness and self-direction. So in the truest sense of the word, God is a living God. In him there is feeling and will, responsive to the deepest yearnings of the human heart: this God both evokes and answers prayers.”

Take that Hitchens!

Notes (and nothing more than notes) on a tragedy

 “We already know what form the analysis of the assassination attempt will be.  Everyone will say what a tragedy it is.  Then commentators will take sides.  Those on the left will blame the Tea Party's violent rhetoric and "Second Amendment solutions."  Those on the right will blame irresponsible individuals and Socialism.  Progressives will call for more gun control; conservatives will say more people should carry guns. Everyone will have some sort of spin that benefits their party, their platform, and their policies….This Sunday, many Americans will go to church.  A sizeable number of those people may be hoping to hear something that helps them make sense of the shooting of Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords and the others who had gathered at her sidewalk townhall in Tucson.  Some pastors may note the event in prayer and some may say something during announcements or add a sentence to their sermons.  But others might say nothing, sticking instead to prepared texts and liturgies.  Many will eschew speaking of politics.  That would be a mistake.” Diana Butler Bass [emphasis mine].

What would I say if I were in the pulpit today?  For my own part, I pray both for the victims and the shooter but I doubt I could handle the situation with the grace that Diana writes about.  And yet, as she says, something must be said.

In offering what the Christian response should be:

“At their best, American pulpits are not about taking sides and blaming.  Those pulpits should be places to reflect on theology and life, on the Word and our words.  I hope that sermons tomorrow will go beyond expressions of sympathy or calls for civility and niceness.  Right now, we need some sustained spiritual reflection on how badly we have behaved in recent years as Americans--how much we've allowed fear to motivate our politics, how cruel we've allowed our discourse to become, how little we've listened, how much we've dehumanized public servants, how much we hate.”

Diana does not say so, but by noting what we should learn through our spiritual reflection, we are indeed in the business of assigning some blame and offering critique.  The brilliance of her approach is that we are supposed to convict ourselves instead of shifting the responsibility to others.  She is offering an old-fashioned call to repentance… and that isn’t a bad thing, but ‘blame’ is an out-of-fashion word.

[Don’t let this fool you, I appreciate Diana’s column deeply.  I wouldn’t quote it at length otherwise.  It’s worth reading since I’m not addressing her central point.]

Along with many people on my Facebook feed, I think that the rhetoric coming from the Political Right in this country contributed mightily to the shooting yesterday.  Does that go into a sermon?  Like I said, I may not have the grace to leave that issue aside, and the desire for many to blame the Right may leave people disappointed if a condemnation is not forthcoming.  This does not necessarily make condemnation correct, it just means that strong words feel gratifying after such a horrific event.

And the to-and-fro of my thinking comes down to a central question:  in recent years people across the political spectrum have used martial and violent language, but how much direct responsibility do political figures and commentators really hold when a mentally ill individual decides to shoot people?  The Right is getting the blame on this one but they correctly point out that the Left has also resorted to violent language.  Perhaps the reason that the Right is seen as more prone to violence is because they are stereotyped as gun-toting looneys with hair-triggers while the Left is stereotyped as soft and cowering people afraid of guns.  Of course, it doesn’t help that tea party members come to events with signs that say “We came unarmed (this time)” and in some cases they do come armed.

Much is being made of Sarah Palin and her infamous map that put Rep. Giffords and other politicians in crosshairs.  At the time of its release, commentators predicted violence and this has come to pass. It is telling that websites supportive of Palin were quick to expunge the map from their archives yesterday, either out of respect for the victims or damage control.  Now the Palin camp is saying that the crosshairs were actually “surveying symbols,” even though the language of “taking aim” and “reloading” were common parlance during the same time period.  I can’t help but think that Palin and her supporters either 1) now realize that the symbols were irresponsible, but cannot say so because of the possibility of appearing weak to their constituency or 2) they still don’t see a problem with the map but know that the image is political trouble.  In any case, it is an implicit acknowledgement that words and symbols have a meaning beyond any original intent.

Most people are going to say that rhetoric needs to cool down, so I won’t harp on that, but I’m interested in what happens next in terms of rhetoric on the Left.  Keith Olbermann, a sanctimonious jerk who seems to me to be the Left’s equivalent of Bill O’Reilly (although Olbermann’s research dept. is much more accurate), gave a special comment last night in which he repudiated his own violent language and rhetorical excess.  He then issued an ultimatum to commentators on the Right to do the same, or give “silent approval” to what happened in Tucson   But, once again, I have to ask how much direct responsibility one must take for the actions of a mentally ill gunman, and more importantly, who determines that the line of violent rhetoric is crossed?  Is Olbermann willing to dispense his “Worst Person in the World” segment, since the 'worst person in the world' may arguably deserve to die at the hands of the state or vigilante justice?  Perhaps on Monday’s show, the “worst people in the world” will be the commentators on the Right who refuse even the slightest modicum of responsibility. Where will that leave us?

Rhetorically, I fear Olbermann’s ultimatum will be an exercise in maintaining a status quo.  If commentators on the Right refuse responsibility (even though they have undoubtedly contributed to the political climate) Olbermann has set them up to appear to his own audience as equally guilty of the deaths of the people at that shopping center as the shooter is.  I’ve already seen that opinion in my friends.  The ultimatum will most likely entrench commentators on the Right, who will refuse any responsibility instead of actually reflecting on their role.  I’ve seen that in other friends.

I can’t precisely answer how much responsibility a commentator using violent language has in the event that a mentally ill person decides to murder people.  But a good rule of thumb can be developed:  those who hold incredible influence with the public need to realize that the audiences they should worry about are the least rational people.  The problem is that toning down the rhetoric doesn’t make as much money, so we can’t expect the rhetoric to cool until audiences are willing to repudiate what appeals to our baser selves.  That is difficult to do when we are so invested in our worldviews and believe something deeply, whether it is that Obama is a Marxist bent on ruining the country or that conservatives are quite willing to maintain an American Empire while imposing theocratic rule (and this by no means exhausts the possibilities).

…Which is why Diana Butler Bass is correct.  The tragedy calls for a time to reflect on our own souls.  Christians (should) know we are flawed, so shifting the blame to others is the exercise of a slippery pride that takes ourselves out of the equation.  Reveling in Olbermann’s ultimatum is just as troubling and wrong-headed as pretending our words do not have consequences. Even as we call out others who act wrongly (because we dare not cede our ability to make decisions), we must keep a watch on ourselves so that our perceived virtues do not blind us to our vices.

If I were in the pulpit today, I would submit that there are questions we should all be asking ourselves:

1.      What am I afraid of? 

2.      How was I convinced to fear these things?

3.      What hope resides within me?

4.      How do Jesus’s examples and commands bear on my fears and hopes?

5.      What does it take to act according to the hope offered by Christ instead of the fear governed by the world?

Go, therefore, and proclaim hope to a world ruled by fear.

What Baptism and Confirmation Meant to Me

This might be a controversial thought:  I believe my confirmation means more to me than my baptism.  Or rather it was through my confirmation that I learned what my baptism means.  But it is also true that I am not finished learning what my baptism means.

A couple of weeks ago, I was asked what my baptism means to me.  I have a clear understanding of what my baptism means in terms of the Episcopal Church's Baptismal Covenant, and actually, the entire liturgy of baptism is incredibly rich as a teaching tool.  The question, however, was what my Baptism means to me.  That was a more difficult question.  This may actually be a common issue among people who move from one denomination into another.  Sometimes we have to make sense of our baptism in a new theological setting. I wholeheartedly believe the precepts of the Baptismal Covenant, but I was not baptized according to it.   So the issue turns into a question of belonging and identity and it took some intentional work to adopt a new understanding of baptism.  This was made easier by the fact that the Episcopal Church's understanding of the sacrament encompasses more in terms of Christian duty…and the range of meaning attached to baptism is also broadened.

Baptism can have a myriad of meanings, and the experience affects people in significantly different ways.  In my studies this semester, I was directed to an ecumenical document from the World Council of Churches that detailed at least five meanings of Baptism: 

1.      Participation in Christ’s death and resurrection

2.      Gift of the Spirit

3.      Incorporation into the Body of Christ (the Church)

4.      Baptism as conversion, pardoning, cleansing

5.      The sign of the Kingdom, initiating one into the people of faith and into the reign of God. 

None of these meanings are exclusive.  Neither should one be considered more important than the others.  It seems to me that baptism is ultimately a mystery, so trying to lock down to one meaning of baptism does injustice to scripture (from which these five meanings are derived) and to the work of God.  The best part of this list is that it makes the implicit parts of the Baptismal liturgy explicit.  Just for fun read through the Episcopal baptismal liturgy; you’ll find all of these ideas in either text or symbol. 

What I mean when I say that joining the Episcopal Church widened my understanding of baptism will take some biographical work.  [Disclaimer:  I am writing about my personal experience as a Southern Baptist before I reached the age of eighteen.  I acknowledge the experience was limited in that I wasn’t paying very close attention and I was only in one congregation with short visits to other congregations.  I do not wish to pretend that I have a deep understanding of Baptist theology.]

I grew up in a Southern Baptist household.  Baptists hold to the doctrine of believer's baptism, meaning that baptism is only for those who can make a profession of faith of an understanding of God's plan of salvation.  I remember taking the walk from the pew to the pulpit during the altar call. But I also remember talking to the preacher before the service and making the sinner's prayer for Jesus to “come into my heart.”  This is difficult to remember from so long ago, but salvation seemed to me to be only a matter of loving Jesus and avoiding pain and burning of Hell.  I was baptized the next Sunday by full-immersion. Notice that this understanding of baptism only corresponds to meaning four listed above: “baptism as conversion, pardoning, and cleansing.”  I never had a sense of participating in Christ’s own death and resurrection, or that the Holy Spirit was an expected gift.  I understood being grafted into Christ and sharing in the Kingdom only in the sense that I would be going to heaven… and I would not recognize the concepts using Kingdom language. “Body of Christ” may have been a stretch.  Once again, I probably do not have a sufficiently varied understanding of the Southern Baptist denomination’s theology of baptism, but the other meanings listed above never seem to be made explicit.

From about the time I was thirteen to seventeen, I found myself “backsliding,” but it is also accurate to say that I left the denomination because of conflicting worldviews and a conversation with a racist preacher. Since I had been taught to think that the Baptists had Christianity uniquely “right,” I didn’t see much use in faith through any type of organized religion or denomination. I became a pretty good deist.

Through those years, I rarely thought about my baptism or what it meant. When I did, baptism stayed attached to asking Jesus to come into my heart—a personal thing. But I wondered if it was a once-for-all thing. Could disbelief nullify it?  Are sins performed after Baptism also covered?  If baptism can be nullified by one's actions, does one get rebaptized? Other people I know doubted the sincerity of their own conversation experiences—and if one’s salvation is uniquely tied to the strength of that experience, any doubt in the experience breeds anxiety. Along those lines, is a ten year old really able to understand baptism as much more than fire insurance? 

I found myself considering joining the Episcopal Church around the time I was twenty-four. Since my baptism is valid, I did not need a re-do. I would instead be confirmed. The theological rationale of confirmation is that one makes a mature profession of faith, which I felt that I may have needed from a baptism when I was ten years old and simply scared of Hell. It is also when the Holy Spirit bestows charism on the confirmand. By my call to ordained priesthood, that notion seems to hold true for me.

During catechesis, I understood that baptism is a complete rite within itself, needing nothing further for completion. While my sense of justification was secure, I found my confirmation to be a completion of the work that my earlier profession of faith and my baptism started. Until joining the Episcopal Church, I understood my baptism to be only about me, about my soul, about my relationship to Jesus, about my salvation from Hell. When I was confirmed—and in so doing affirmed a Baptismal Covenant that was not only about me and God, but about other people and my relationship to them through community—only then did it feel like I started to understand the breadth of meaning of my baptism. And so baptism means more to me now, after confirmation, both in terms of my relationship to God through Jesus and the Spirit and in terms of greater sense of Christian duty to the Church and the rest of the world. 

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A few loose thoughts about Confirmation:

I can’t stress enough how important Confirmation was for me, even if liturgical scholars rightly note it is something of a sacrament in search of a theology.  To make the long story short:  As parishes grew in the Western Church, the priest became the head of a local church.  The chrism that the bishop used to do immediately after baptism became what the bishop did when he occasionally visited.  Confirmation (the last act of baptism) had to wait until the bishop came around and became its own rite. It developed from more ecclesiological issues than theological. That does not mean that that confirmation is useless.  Now, priests perform chrismation after baptism, and confirmation is an act of making a mature profession of faith in Christ and affirming the promises made in the Baptismal covenant, which may have been made on their behalf in infancy.

Because Confirmation meant so much to me I hold that confirmation should be a choice initiated by the child, teen, and adult…as opposed to the notion that that it is important and every other 7th grader in the church is doing it. Even if this means holding off for years.

I liken the danger of forcing confirmation to be like going through an arranged marriage.  Parents and/or clergy tell the person that confirmation is important or that they will understand/love it later.  If we would not tell a bride the same thing, we should not tell it to our children.  Many a justifiable resentment to the Church seems to start here.

If we were to try silence in prayer, we may discover that the discomfort we feel are the dark parts of our soul rising to consciousness. Our failings, our senses of inadequacy, our regrets come to the fore because we have deliberately chosen to no longer drown them out. It is difficult to sit with these thoughts for long, almost unhealthy to do so. But in a context of prayer, we hold ourselves up for our own introspection and we also hold ourselves up to God. These are aspects of our human condition that we would rather hide from God, from others, and from ourselves. Yet it is better to acknowledge realities, and in the presence of a God and Spirit who is willing to follow us into the depths of our being, the very core of our soul. We will find God forgiving and understanding. Once we get past our discomfort with ourselves and learn to rest in the love and presence of God, the conversation can begin.

I wrote and preached these words this summer.   They certainly held true tonight.

Sometimes the mystical experience is not the blinding white light of joy.
Sometimes the mystical experience is the Holy Spirit convicting you.
Or maybe it's the Holy Spirit letting you do the work of conviction.
But then, there is a reason She is known as the Comforter.
Because it felt like a dark buoyancy.
Forgiveness, love, and comfort.
The womb of God.
Thanks be to God.

On Love of the Poor and Reading the "Old Stuff"

"Do you think that kindness to others is not a necessity for you, but a matter of choice?  That it is not a law, but simply an exhortation?  I used to wish this very much myself, and supposed it to be true.  But that “left hand” has instilled fear in me, and the “goats” and rebukes that will come from him who raises them to stand before him: condemned to be in this class, not because they have committed theft or sacrilege or adultery, or have done anything else forbidden by the Law, but because they have not cared for Christ through the needy (14.39).”

This social justice quote is brought to you today by St. Gregory Nazianzen, from his 14th Oration "On Love of the Poor."  It was preached sometime between 367-371 AD.  It is probably the best sermon I've read on the Christian duty to the poor in terms of theological rigor, rhetorical skill, and pastoral intensity. 

It should be no secret that Matthew 25 is my favorite chapter in scripture, and that surely colors my view of this sermon.  In a reference to the parable of the sheep and the goats at the final judgment (Mt. 25:36-41), Gregory (following Christ in the parable) identifies a halfhearted attitude toward the poor with the goats, who did not care for Christ through the needy (and so go to everlasting punishment). “If you believe me at all, then, servants and brothers and sisters and fellow heirs of Christ, let us take care of Christ while there is still time,” by feeding him, clothing him, offering him shelter, and honoring him by service to the needy (14.40)” 

Theologically, the sermon is carefully constructed and touches on the nature of Christ's incarnation as both fully human and fully divine. Christopher Beeley (a professor at Yale) notes that “Gregory’s oration stands out among the other Cappadocians’ by the degree to which it links the love of the poor with Christ and the doctrine of the incarnation.” One could then go further and assert that by linking the care of the poor to the incarnation, care of the poor is also a component of a Christian’s sanctification/deification. While contemplation and scripture reading are certainly important to spiritual life and deification, all can seem to be for naught without tangible love for Christ though the care of our neighbors. The allusion to Matthew 25:36-41 is also powerful in its acknowledgment that Christ truly shared a fully human nature; in so doing helping the needy, indeed any human, is a service to someone sharing the same human nature of Christ and ourselves, and potentially His deified nature. It is to act both in imitation of—and obedience to—Christ, who fed and healed many in His own ministry.  In so doing, we gain a greater understanding of Christ and God; we come to participate in Christ and God toward the in-breaking of the Kingdom. 

To speak of both pastoral intensity and rhetorical skill:  Gregory is known for his rhetorical abilities, and with good reason.  Translation does not always show the brilliance of speech, but in general his writing (preaching) flows easily from point to point; he also does not shy away from unpopular points. This particular sermon was given on a feast day, probably to a well-off congregation, and he mentions that it is precisely because it is a feast day in the Church that he talks about the plight of the poor. 

"The wail of their begging offers a counterpoint to the sacred singing within the the church, and a miserable dirge is produced, in contrast to the sounds of the Mysteries.  Why must I depict all their misfortune to people celebrating a feast day? Perhaps it is that I might stir up some lament in your own hearts...(14.13)"

Gregory asks whether a Christian’s joining of the royal priesthood does not give a duty to help.  Gregory takes his congregation on a tour of a dinner party reeking of opulence and gluttony (and it seems like they all knew the type of party he was talking about), before bringing a call to repentance.  “Shall we not finally come to our senses?  Shall we not cast off our insensitivity—not to say our stinginess?  Shall we take no notice of human needs (14.9)?” 

Part of the study of history is coming to know that things very rarely change.  Gregory confronts reasons people give to not help the poor, reasons that are as familiar to us as they were to Gregory:  some people deserve to be poor, they brought it upon themselves, There is "not enough", or it's a punishment from God.  Gregory will have none of it. In fact, in the face of these objections, service to the poor is necessary so that we might "restrain those who have such an attitude towards [the poor], and [that we] might not give in to their foolish arguments, making cruelty into a law turned against our very selves (14.35)."

Here's the point:  The "social justice" stuff that is pilloried by some is not a new-fangled way to be Christian.  It's as old as the Hebrew Bible, the New Testament, the Early Church, and the Patristic period down to our time.  

And it isn't optional.

___________

Confession: I've been lax in my own duty to the poor this semester.  I managed my time poorly and in ways that made it difficult for me to participate in the work that I've been given to do by God.  I will remedy this.
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This summary does not do justice to the Oration, which is lengthy, yet worth reading and re-reading.  The translation of oration 14 that I use is from Brian Daley’s Gregory of Nazianzus (London: Routledge, 2006), 74-97.

On Written and Unwritten Prayers

I often field concerns that I may be locked in a “dead style of worship” with no personality or heartfelt sentiment.  It is true, the solemnity of the more formal written liturgies seems to invite the claim that there is an absence of the Holy Spirit or meaning.  It is true that the stereotype which portrays formalized written liturgies as rigid and cold developed from a kernel of truth.   Liturgy can all too easily fall into a mindless routine.  To deny that this inattention is possible in formalized liturgies is to be guilty of not paying attention.  Such spiritual dangers are real.  But the kernel of truth is often too readily enlarged and turned into an oblique attack on denominations that use written liturgies.

I came from an evangelical background into the Episcopal Church, so I saw this sentiment often.  I still see it and hear it.  The default conception of a written prayer seems to be that if a person recites it, they do not really mean it.  It is thought that the prayer did not come from the heart.    The problem is that to judge one's preferred method of  prayer as better or worse than the other is to try to judge another person's conscience by trying to discover if they really "mean it."  Or worse, it is assumed that those who read prayers must not mean it.  We are accused of simply following "dead letter," but the people who say that do not realize that by speaking a written prayer, we who use written prayers give the prayer a voice and a power and a life that isn't apparent on the page and ink. 

There needs to be a middle way that acknowledges the place of both written prayer and extemporaneous prayer.  In traditions that worship from a written liturgy, both of these types of prayer are needed.  

The first thing that must be done is to break down the false dichotomy and the assumption that written prayers cannot be heartfelt, or that extemporaneous prayer is always heartfelt...and vice versa.  I've seen people who pray by written prayers who mean it it deeply, and those who don't.  I've known people who can pray extemporaneously and deeply mean it and I've known people who can fake it---and will admit to faking it.  I don't think either method of praying is better than the other in of itself; it is a matter of what works in a particular situation.

I'd like to mention how I came to appreciate written prayers.  When I started coming to the Episcopal Church, I greatly appreciated that there were written prayers that I could turn to.  I didn't feel like I knew how to pray (now I realize that prayer is prayer, regardless of a 'right' way...groanings and sighs can be a prayer).  So to turn to a written prayer that matched what I wanted to say to God was a gift to me in times when I didn't know what to say.  I continue to use the written prayers to form how I pray extemporaneously. The prayers form me and guide my relationship with God.  Still, I am not eloquent in speech.  I find it easier to write a prayer than to speak it.  (Perhaps I will do what a friend of mine did...she decided to do her chaplaincy at a hospital without using written prayers so that she would be better at extemporaneous prayer.)  Once again, we need to know how to pray meaningfully in both ways.
 

There is also an argument from tradition, for there is something valuable in praying the same prayers that Christians have used for hundreds of years, sometimes over one thousand years ago.  Then there are the psalms, which Jesus prayed.  It gives us a connection to all who have come before and those who will come after, all of whom we will meet in the End.  In using these written prayers, I also know that I'm joining millions around the world at any given time in the same prayers, and that gives me a keener sense of the body of Christians, Catholic and protestant, around the world.  If the prayer happens to be beautifully written, we also experience joy and delight in praying it and hearing it. 
 

In the end, I think God delights in our desire to be in God's presence, however we choose to get there, in good faith.  It can be from our own heads or from someone else.  The importance is whether the prayer penetrates one's heart and soul.  Of course, trying to judge whether that happens is a spiritually dangerous and prideful place to be.

A moment in the hall

In the corridors of the divinity school, there are class photos going back to at least 1905.  I know the pull to search those pictures because I have done so myself, looking for my bishop and his parents, the Niebuhrs, etc.  It is a pretty common sight to see someone looking at them closely and intently, so it is almost unnoticeable at this point.

I have never talked to someone who was looking at those photos.  Why should I?  I don't have the photos or the names memorized.  What's more, we had our prospective student day earlier in the week, so would visitors still be around?  I suppose so, but that would not necessarily seem to be a reason to talk to someone staring intently at photos.

Yet, as I was walking to class, I saw a young woman looking intently at the photos, and I did what makes no sense.

"Who are you looking for?" I asked.

"Oh, Moses Moore," she said.  Moses Moore is a professor in the Religious Studies Department at ASU, from which I graduated in May.

I stopped dead in my tracks.  "Are you from Arizona State?"

"Yes," she said; she finished her undergrad degree in the religious studies department in May; she walked in graduation the day after me.  Now living in Chicago, she is considering coming to YDS.  I talked with her for a while.  She got in late for the "prospective student" events and was waiting for her flight.  Tisa Wenger, also from ASU, teaches here now...  M.A.R.'s have more academic freedom since they do not have the practicum requirements of M.Div, which is more of a professional degree...She has some time to decide between the two degree programs...Chicago is her fallback school...

Then she dropped a bomb.  "I feel that God is calling me here."

The philosophical side of me started to work.  What is the power of a coincidence theologized?  How do I make sense of the fact that I did something I never do in talking to a stranger in the hallway?  Can I really chalk this up to the Spirit?

"If you feel God's call, trust that. I did the same,"  I said, and her already bright face become positively luminescent... she looked lighter.

As we parted so I could get to class, she said that perhaps she would see me in the fall.  I walked away lighter, almost like I was under the influence of adrenaline. Oddly enough, that's what the Spirit tangibly feels like to me.  I also walked away with a sense of accomplishment that I do not think I rightfully own.  The veil was thin indeed in those moments.

Three short thoughts

It seems to me that part of seminary has been a time to act on what my reality should be (and what it has become) and to reorient my attention to the other.  This has meant coming to a better understanding of myself and cultivating the ability to do the 'Jesus thing'.  Here are some examples.
_______

I think it was 2005 or 2006.  My dad gave me his gun--a 9mm Beretta--as a birthday gift.  I had wanted that gun for years, and even after I had left military school.    I think over the years since then I had fired the gun twice, both times at a range.  When I started my discernment process in Arizona, I started to feel uneasy about owning the gun.  Laura was always uneasy about having it in the house.  I eventually came to the conclusion that, for some reason, I found that I didn't need the gun anymore.  Whatever place or mystique it had held in my mind was gone. 

In my mind, I was pulling away from my militaristic past (now I realize it was always more of a front than a reality) to my pacifistic future.  While I am still quite comfortable around guns, and I can find target shooting as enjoyable as I always have, the desire to own a gun or an identification with the martial meanings of guns hold no sway with me anymore. 

While Laura and I were in Mobile, on our way to Connecticut, I left the Beretta boxed and with the extra magazines on dad's dresser and without comment.  A gun certainly isn't the tool of a priest and  I ain't gonna study war no more. At least not in the way of a practitioner.
_______

I was on a flight to Charlotte from Phoenix.  We were still boarding and I had found my seat on the plane, an aisle seat.  Down the row came a mother and her four year old daughter.  Apparently they had gotten tickets pretty late; they were not going to be sitting together.  They were on my row, yet they both were in the middle seats on opposite sides of the aisle.  The mother was trying to explain this to the little girl, who was obviously scared.

It's odd how the idea of "our seat" as assigned to us by the airline company holds such power.  The four of us already in the row were watching the drama enfold in front us in the way people tend to watch these things:  as though it was on TV, as though we weren't really there, as though we hoped it would be over soon, as though we were powerless.  The mother was trying to explain to the little girl that it would be okay and the little girl wasn't understanding it.  Why should she?

Then I saw the little girl's bottom lip tremble, and my duty became clear.

"I'll trade seats with your daughter, ma'am."       

It occurred to me that some would say that it would not have been a big deal for the mother and daughter to sit apart; some would argue it would have been a benefit to the little girl to learn to be apart from her mother.  Yet it seemed clear that the little girl wasn't ready for that.  It also seemed to me that to force a separation for the sake of something so artificial as assigned seats was nonsensical.

I wish what I did would not seem so exceptional. It was an application of something that was commended to me the weekend before the flight: the ability to break the boundaries we are used to, to pay attention to the people around us, to sense pain and fear and to commit ourselves to finding the better alternative.
_________

What do you do when a cashier breaks into tears while talking to the customer in front of you?  Do you look for another line?  Do you stay in the same line and pretend you didn't see the tears?  Does it depend on why you think he or she is crying?

We don't always know what to do with pain that breaks out in public. It interferes with our efficiency, our ability to get from point A to Point B unhindered.  It forces us to expend brainpower in the interim between meetings or between work and home, exactly when we think we do not need to think.  And so we might feel like we need to shut out the pain of the other.  It'll get us home faster.  It'll "protect his or her privacy."

I submit both of the options above, finding another line or pretending something didn't just happen right in front of us, are dehumanizing to the person in pain.  It denies the person their brokenness.  And then, as we drift to another line or pretend we aren't moved by tears, we further alienate the broken person, even as we expect them to serve us.  We emphasize in that moment just how alone they are.  To dehumanize and alienate a person in such a way is an abdication of a Christian duty to be a healing presence.

Stay in the line.  You don't need the complete rundown, but ask "May I pray for you?"  Go from there.  Get names if nothing else.  Be willing to follow the person into the depths.  Let the others behind you find another line or wait.  This moment of connection is what you are meant to do.  Be an agent of the Kingdom, an agent of resurrection. 

Of Praying Always

Sermon on Thursday night to St. Brigid’s Community

…Pray always and do not lose faith…- Luke 18:1

I have missed you.  On behalf of Laura and myself, I thank you for your prayers while we have been away.  It has been 16 weeks since I have worshiped with this community and 11 weeks since we left St. Augustine’s and Arizona.  But I have joined you on Thursday nights by praying compline, 2481 miles away, and then it doesn’t seem that we are so far.

Seminary has been draining, uplifting, and challenging in all of the good ways.  In some ways it has been spoiling me.  For the past six weeks, I have participated in Eucharist at least six days a week.  From both Episcopal and ecumenical services offered from the two communities of YDS and BDS, I can worship at least thirteen times a week.  I generally make eight.  Then there are the numerous parishes around Yale, each offering a different flavor and different ways of being an Episcopalian.  

But St. Brigid’s and St. Augustine’s is where my heart is.

I think we’ve worked very hard to make this liturgy—this time of prayer—a safe space.  But I think the word safety may be deceiving.  We are free to admit our vulnerabilities to each other, and we hold open space for all.  We should not fear our neighbor.  Yet God moves among us; to call upon God (our opening hymn is Veni Sancte Spiritus—Come Holy Spirit—from Taize) is to bring God’s power and presence into our midst.  Worship and liturgy do not simply create community and give us a way to talk to God, they offer God the space to work small ontological changes to our very being.  My experience of eight worship services per week allows me to witness a quickening of that work in myself and in others. 

Liturgy here at St. Brigid’s and St. Augustine’s changed me in those small ways.  I recognized a call to the altar.  That isn’t very safe.  It meant Laura and I moved across country, a risky move in this economy, and a dedication of three years to more graduate work.  Then there is a near-certainty of a return to somewhere in Arizona after these three years, but that remains an open question.  And I’m doing this on some vague-sounding yet certain conviction of “calling” that never sounds adequate when I try to talk about it.

Yet there is comfort in prayer and in community and in knowing that I am remembered and loved in this place.  I offer that you can expect the same.

It makes the fearful manageable…not safe, but manageable.

And we follow a God and Christ who were not safe, but good.

So pray always.  See what worship and liturgy (with God) lead you to…For God is at work here.

In class; remembering saints

Today was a day of raw emotion for me... as in it feels like my heart was sandblasted.  One of my classes is about worship and liturgy and we talked about funeral rites. The evidence we have from the early church about funerals (which isn't much until the 6th century) is that the Church sees its role in the death of a member as accompanying the dying member to the point of death, where the Church then lets go, and asks the heavenly hosts, saints and angels, to take over in the person's journey to God.  This was the view of the church (at least in Rome) in the 6th century AD. 

The class called to mind Aunt Mable.  When she breathed her last and before any of the other family members arrived, I said two prayers over her from the Book of Common Prayer:

Depart, O Christian soul, out of this world;
In the Name of God the Father Almighty who created you;
In the Name of Jesus Christ who redeemed you;
In the Name of the Holy Spirit who sanctifies you.
May your rest be this day in peace,
    and your dwelling place in the Paradise of God.

Into your hands, O merciful Savior, we commend your
servant N. Acknowledge, we humbly beseech you, a sheep of
your own fold, a lamb of your own flock, a sinner of your
own redeeming. Receive her into the arms of your mercy,
into the blessed rest of everlasting peace, and into the
glorious company of the saints in light. Amen.

See how these prayers continue that image of the early church, where we are accompanying the soul as far as we can? 

Here is a 6th c. funeral prayer, one of the earliest we have from the Church:

Come to help, you saints of God;
Hurry, you angels of the Lord;
Take up this soul {your servant} and offer him/her before the face of the Most High.

...A beautiful image.

Before the Burning Bodies

Sadly, I’m not going to be able to preach when I’m in Arizona next month. But I’d like to offer my own take on the lectionary texts for that particular Sunday.
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Jesus told his disciples a parable about their need to pray always and not to lose heart. He said, "In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor had respect for people. In that city there was a widow who kept coming to him and saying, `Grant me justice against my opponent.' For a while he refused; but later he said to himself, `Though I have no fear of God and no respect for anyone, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will grant her justice, so that she may not wear me out by continually coming.'" And the Lord said, "Listen to what the unjust judge says. And will not God grant justice to his chosen ones who cry to him day and night? Will he delay long in helping them? I tell you, he will quickly grant justice to them. And yet, when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?" -Luke 18:1-8

In the summer of 2009 I attended the house blessing for a family of refugees from Africa. It was a well-attended event, marking the completion---or near completion---of a habitat house. It was a very emotional moment; the family had been through so much in leaving their country, coming to America, adapting to our culture, and starting from nothing but what Catholic Charities and church could offer. We arrived at the place in the service where an organizer offered a prayer, and we all prepared to enter the Presence of God. But something jarred me during the prayer, and it was when the organizer said that she was thankful that the family had survived a horrendous attack on the refugee camp they had been living in and “that God had a plan for them and brought them here.”

I don’t want to be misunderstood. I thank God that the family survived. My problem is with the concept of “God’s plan” and “God’s will” in this context. Many died during that particular attack on the refugee camp that the family survived. Was the entire massacre a function of God’s will? Can we arrive at that conclusion by positing that if that particular family’s survival, by God’s providence, means that God could have saved others by providence…but that God chose not to because of God’s carefully orchestrated plan?

We tend to say things in generalities when bad things happen and then claim the reason for it may be the work of God. “Perhaps God is testing your faith.” “He wouldn’t lead you to it if He could not lead you through it.” Fill in your own blank here: “_______ seems bad but I’m sure God knows what he is doing.” All of these assume that our particular circumstance in life is simply the working s of God.

We have all heard these. We probably have all given our own versions of these to other people. We may take comfort from these. They come in handy when we do not know what to say when we are confronted by another’s suffering.

I cannot.

I think the general way the response is given helps us to provide comfort…our own comfort in the face of another person’s trauma… at the expense of God’s goodness. To offer some examples of my point, let me take you from the generalities above and plug in some specifics, and I’ll use some examples that I’ve come across recently. Maybe we shall see if these words of comfort can really stand.

A US-born nun went to Guatemala in 1989 and, while she was there serving God, she was abducted and tortured by members of the Guatemalan security forces. These particular Guatemalan personnel were taking orders from an American man somehow connected to the American embassy. At that time, the U.S was selling weapons to Guatemala. The first time of many times this sister---our sister--- was raped, her attacker (a Guatemalan police officer) whispered in her ear, “your god is dead.” Perhaps God was testing her faith.

A massacre in which hundreds die while they are supposed to be under the protection of the United Nations… child soldiers… and the bodily mutilation of many seems bad… but I’m sure God knows what he is doing.

This sounds atrocious does it not? Surely I can’t be seriously saying that God is responsible for such acts?

No, I am not blaming God for these atrocities. I simply wish to point out that in our daily conversations we attribute many things to God... but when we increase the level of evil the reasoning falls to shambles. We realize that we attribute evil to God in the hope of comfort and to grasp at some sort of understanding of pain…and we want that comfort and understanding now.

Of course, many would reply to me that God is not responsible for evil… that man is responsible for evil. I agree; my problem is when we attribute man’s evil to a plan God may have. We do this, all the time, when we tell someone that “God led you to this problem” or that “God is testing you.”

I suggest what we need is a way of talking about God that works across the spectrum of evil. But I need to confess that I cannot explain evil. No one can. Instead I wish to offer you a theological framework that I learned by reading Jewish theology. After the Holocaust, Jewish thinkers know quite a bit about evil and suffering… and unfortunately Christianity seems to have sidestepped the issue. So I offer a simple statement by which you can test your own theology. It has served me well as a way of testing my own theology:

“No statement, theological or otherwise, should be made that would not be credible in the presence of the burning children.”- Rabbi Irving Greenberg

Imagine standing in front of the large open-air cremation pits the Nazis ordered to be dug using Jewish slave labor. Now imagine that in that pit are the bodies of burning children…charred flesh and hair, some reduced to bones, and in others you can see the still-open lifeless eyes. Now, imagine saying “God is testing us,” “God knows what he is doing,” or “This is God’s plan.”

Can you do it? Can you really mean it?

This sermon is shaping up to be quite a bummer isn’t it?

I want to be clear about this: I am not trying to refute the day’s Gospel reading. I know that what I have described up to this point can be interpreted as a refutation. But I want to be clear about the state of the world we actually live in. Injustice is rampant. People the world over are exploited, kidnapped, raped, and murdered. Entire populations are subject to policies that seek to eliminate them. The 20th century was by far the bloodiest in human history.

We DARE NOT forget these facts when we read this Gospel text. We DARE NOT in our own relative comfort think that justice is easy.

Justice was not easy for the Jews before the Exodus.
Justice was not easy for the Jews in the Babylonian captivity.
Justice was not easy for the Jews and Christians under Roman rule.
Justice was not easy for the Jews under Christian rule.
Justice was not easy for the Caribbeans and Native Americans under European Christian rule.
Justice was not easy for the Native Americans under American rule (and still isn’t).
Justice was not easy for the Africans who were brought here and kept here in slavery, and whose descendants then suffered second class status, under American (supposedly Christian) rule.
Justice is not easy for many religious people living in oppressive societies today.
Justice is not easy for those who seek to not be harassed by paperwork while trying to earn a living wage.

And we live with many other examples… along with the ramifications of all of the injustices that have come before us.

But we inherit a promise… that in God’s good time all things will be set right. That God, being the good judge, will give justice to all who are wronged.

So pray. Pray fervently. Pray without ceasing. Be like the widow and constantly demand justice. Believe that those prayers matter to God. However, our duty to pray is not enough for those of us who can do more. While I don’t have an answer for the problem of evil, I have a position I take in opposition to evil:


“To talk of love and of a God who cares in the presence of the burning children is obscene and incredible; to leap in and pull a child out of a pit, to clean its face and heal its body, is to make the most powerful statement— the only statement that counts.” -Rabbi Irving Greenberg

…And I am reminded that, “That which we do for the least of these…you did for me [Christ].” (Matt. 25:40)


Christians are a commissioned people. We are called to action. Love is a verb and so is prayer. We are called to the work of God: to heal, to reconcile, to save, and to sacrifice. Our neighbors near and far cry out justice and mercy, shall we not love them as ourselves?... as our very children?...As Christ? How often we have lost sight of these goals within the church… and how often we need to be reminded.

So pray, and let your prayers do their work within you and inspire you to action. Know that we do not work alone, that God works through us and is present to us in our prayers. Do not lose heart, for God will preserve the works of His mercy through us. Live in the faith that while justice may be slow, it does come incrementally as God enables us and as we learn to follow God in Christ.

Dear brothers and sisters in Christ, we have work to do. Will you jump into the fire?

The Holy Spirit as Feminine/ God and Gender

In my last sermon, I referred to the Holy Spirit in feminine language. I'm taking a few minutes to explain my reference to the Holy Spirit as feminine.  I appreciate that others have asked about the reference, and I'm glad to write about it.  Below is a short history about why the language about God is an issue, a direct answer as to why I refer to the Spirit in the feminine sense, a digression about my own sense of talking about God, and a summary.

Background
Inclusive language has become a major issue in some denominations.  It is a battle that has played out in liturgies, orders of service, and even Bible translations.  To give an example, the King James Version of the Bible sometimes refers to "mankind."  We understand this to mean all humans, but newer Bible translations, such as the New Revised Standard Version went the extra mile and translated the word for "mankind" as "humankind" or "all the peoples."  I think this makes the Biblical point much better than simply "mankind."  In fact, the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV) of the Bible, which is the translation used in mainstream Christian denominations and in academic study of the Bible, took as a translating principle that, unless a word referred to something specifically masculine, then the translators would use neutral or inclusive language.  So, when there is a reference like "my brothers," but we know that this meant all people, it is translated as "my brothers and sisters."  The NRSV then footnotes the change and gives the original wording.

In any case, these issues of translation were happening in a time in which some Christians were reacting to many other societal issues (1959-1990), and people drew lines in the sand at the issue of gender when it came to talking about God.  Feminists wanted more (or only) feminine language in referring to God, and those who would lean to the conservative side reacted strongly, saying that God (the entire Trinity) is male and needed to stay that way.  I stand somewhere in the middle of these two positions, as my answers will show.

Direct Answer
In my sermon I referred to the Holy Spirit as "wisdom and knowledge Herself."  When I wrote this I knew it would be picked out.  The language we've used about God has been masculine for so long that it is hard to think of God in other ways.  And since we think of God and Jesus as male, then the Holy Spirit must be male as well.  I no longer think like this because male-only language seems to put God in a box that is too small for God (female-only language about God has the same problem).

Christian theology has long understood the Holy Spirit to be the inspiration of all truth and knowledge, flowing from the Father and the Son.  Wisdom, in Scripture, is sometimes personified as a woman (see for example Proverbs 1:20-33).  This reference to wisdom as feminine is the case in both the King James Version and New International Version of the Bible...and these are translations which are certainly not known for using gender-inclusive language.  Given this scriptural basis, we can say that at least some aspect of the Holy Spirit may be referred to as feminine. 

But, going further, Hebrew and Aramaic (the languages of Jesus) are gendered languages, like German and Spanish.  A word can either be masculine, feminine, or neutral.  In Spanish, you can tell which is which by the "el" or "la" in front of the word (Example: el hombre is masculine, la mujer is feminine).   The word in Hebrew and Aramaic for spirit/breath/wind is ruach and it is feminine in gender.  In Greek, the translation of spirit/breath is pneuma, which is gender-neutral.  So, the original languages would have us refer to the Holy Spirit  as "she" or "it," but not "he."


Some other digressing thoughts
I'm going a bit further afield here, but here are some other thought's I've had regarding God and gender.  Over time I've become convinced that references to God and the Holy Spirit are best when they make no reference at all to gender. 

1. If all humankind is created in the image of God, then both men and women bear some traits of God.  So, to refer to God as only male or only female does not accurately portray the complexity of God.  Throughout Christian history and even going back to scripture, a variety of metaphors have been attributed to God...and while most are masculine, there are quite a few that are maternal and/or feminine.  We would do well to remember all of these references, masculine and feminine, because they all tell us something about God.
2. We learned from Jesus to refer to God as "our Father" when the disciples asked Jesus how they should pray.  Jesus wasn't making a point about God being male, but about God being as close as family and a loving parent.  I came to this conclusion when I learned that the word "Abba," which Jesus uses as father, is closer in meaning to "daddy/poppa" than our formal "father."  Further, in the society in which Jesus lived, both Jewish and Roman, a father was in complete (particularly legal) control of his family.   "Abba, Father" implied the type of sovereignty God has over all the world and God's closeness to us, not just God's gender.

Summary
Okay, I've written a lot, so I'll summarize.  God transcends our understanding of gender and sex.  God is greater than the language we mortals can use about God.  I find it more proper to avoid gender when referring to God, though I can still speak of God as father in the sense that I am a child of God.  Scripture, talking about God in metaphor, uses both masculine and feminine language.  This is proper since God is greater than those gendered labels.  In referring to the Holy Spirit, the original languages allow for either "it" or "she," but not "he." So when I talk about the Trinity, I try to keep God as God, Jesus as male, and the Spirit as "it" or "she."  I'm comfortable with feminine and masculine language about God, although I try to avoid it or use both equally.

I hope this helps explain my sermon.  It tends to be that a sermon reflects years of study, and one word in a sermon can inspire an essay's worth of material to explain the choice of the word.