"Be not afraid."

One of my favorite people in the world lives at Georgetown. His name is Thomas King, and he is a Jesuit. He must be at least 117 years old. He still teaches theology here, though, and every day or so I see him slowly making his way from the Jesuit residence hall to his class.

He is a bit of legend here on the Hilltop. I imagine it's because he's so old. I don't know how you get to be the "head honcho" Jesuit anywhere, or what that's even actually called, but I figure he's probably it. He gives Mass every Sunday at 11:15pm. And every year for the last forty (?!) he has given the homily at the special Christmas Mass held the third Sunday of Advent. Since 1969.

Last year I went to Christmas Mass, which they hold in this absolutely gorgeous neighborhood church instead of the chapel because so many people attend, and I was absolutely floored. I'd never heard Father King speak before. I don't think I blinked during the entire homily. It was about Isaiah and the Babylonian captivity, and about John the Baptist living in the wilderness. It was about finding Jesus in our captivity, in our wilderness. At the end Drew leaned over and whispered, "He's such a man of God."

Sometimes I think Thomas King doesn't even know the gravity of the things he says.

Christmas Mass came again last night, and the same shaky old priest gave the same determined homily. Since I'd heard it before, I began to wonder what it must have been like giving that homily in 1969. In the Nixon era. In 2001. What big wilderness had entrapped the entire American consciousness during Vietnam? And he was there for all of it.

I finally coerced my attention back onto the Mass by the time Father King told the ushers to dim the lights, told the audience to bow their heads, and began reading the Christmas story as told by Luke. To my left the choir began humming "Silent Night" in harmony. It was a story we'd all heard before. There was a census, and Mary and Joseph went to Bethlehem, and there was no room in the inn, blah blah blah. But last night I discovered something new about it.

At some point in the story, an angel of the Lord, or maybe a few of them, come down to some shepherds in the area who are watching their sheep late at night, to give them the good news of the birth of the Son of God. The first thing they say to the shepherds isn't, "Hey, you might want to go check out this baby born a few miles from here." The first thing they say is, "Be not afraid."

Isn't that encouraging! When I was younger, I used to ask God to send his angels to keep me and my family safe at night. I used to envision them as tiny little cherubim figures floating over my bed like fairies. They weren't scary. And yet, when these angels appeared to these shepherds, the shepherds feared them. Sometimes when I think of Christmas I think about the angels as just prettier-than-average people who show up out of nowhere and bring some good news.

But isn't it amazing to know that maybe something bigger was at work, that maybe the entire kingdom of heaven was in cahoots to begin the life of this little helpless baby? Something huge and awe-inspiring and blazing may have come to those shepherds.

Here's what I think I would've said if I could've been one of those huge, blazing, C. S. Lewis-esque angels:

"Be not afraid. This is the most important thing either you or I will ever be a a part of."

Food...

Arianna Huffington, editor-in-chief of the Huffington Post (go figure) was Jon Stewart's guest on The Daily Show a few days ago. Apparently she has just written a new book about blogging, and while on the show she advised everyone to blog about their "secret passions." Her secret passion is cheese.

Right now I am thinking that International Finance is neither a secret nor an overt passion of mine.

I guess, as silly as it may seem, blogging about your secret passions can get you a good job. As long as you can turn it into actually writing about your secret passions. Like Amy Thomas of the New York Times. She spent an entire day riding a bike around Paris eating extremely fancy chocolate. Then she got to write about it in the Times. Yep. I'm jealous of her too.

In other news, I probably just added about 200 calories worth of half and half to my coffee. ("Oh my gosh, you're such a girl!")

Painting: Wayne Thiebaud

Things To Do...

I can't very well have a list of these things because each has its own category...for now.

Thing I want to do before I die:
- Climb Mt. Kilimanjaro (hopefully before the snows are gone)

Thing I want to do before I have children:
- Go to Israel

Thing I want to do before I am 35:
- Study at Oxford

Din zho doh...really, Jack?

Last night was the proverbial gauntlet in Gaston Hall known as DCAF 2008 - DC A Cappella Festival. It featured the Georgetown Phantoms, Georgetown Gracenotes, Georgetown Superfood, the NYU N'Harmonics, and the UGA Accidentals.

For those not well versed in Georgetown a cappella culture, DCAF is the concert of concerts in Washington in the fall, if not the entire year. Set lists are chosen in August, music is arranged, and all the work up until the very last 'doo' is put toward around 15 or 20 minutes on stage in front of 800 people.

Basically, people care a whole heck of a lot about it. Groups feud about which of one them gets to sing a particular new Coldplay song, and singing songs designated as "DCAF" is totally taboo before the actual concert. We rehearsed for 5 weeks, starting from a blank music staff. Who knows how many hours we all spent arranging. Between squinting at syllables like "din zho doh zho doh din din zho doh..." and huddling around a piano for a 3.5 hour rehearsal two days before the concert to perfect every last vowel, the reason why we do this sometimes escapes our minds.

But then we have the privilege to stand in an awkward semi-circle on the stage in Gaston Hall - a privilege only afforded to us once in this semester - and we remember. We stand behind a little gingery freshman wearing a fake lip ring screeching "All The Small Things," and we remember. We swell on a perfect B flat minor chord at the beginning of "Hometown Glory," and we remember. We clap along with the audience on a 3-part harmony chorus of "Show Me Love," and we remember. We belt the soaring counter-melody at the end of "Viva La Vida," and we remember.

Recently I've been listening to a lot of Christmas a cappella (it's NOT too early!) by this group from Indiana called Straight No Chaser. Actually, they were from Indiana about 10 years ago. Now they have a major-label record deal and they have released a Christmas album. Their website has pictures of each thirty-something fresh face, experienced and polished. On YouTube, however, Straight No Chaser lives in all their college glory. Some of the guys are barely recognizable as their 2008 real-world selves. But they are having SO much fun.

And really, I think, that's what a cappella is. It's not trying to sound so perfect that you can win international competitions, perform at the White House, or land a deal with Atlantic Records. It's just so...collegiate. It's rocking out to Blink-182 with an inflatable guitar. It's every single note placed on a Finale file with care. It's watching at least 40 Phantoms alumni all singing "Africa." It's drawing this amazing sound out of 16 people, who, when you tell them not to swell on the final chord of that intro, leave a faint haunting note resonating in Gaston Hall before the driving piano comes in.

This doesn't exist anywhere else. It's a precious 4 years we get.

Life in 306.5

The following conversation just occurred between my two roommates:

Milly: "Is Enya alive?"
Aparna: "Yes! Enya IS alive! Producing wonderful Celtic music!!"

Apparently Aparna used to have a velvet-encased all-time Enya collection.

Now Enya is playing in my room.

We three roommates are grooving to the soothing Celtic sounds of Enya. Grooving, yes. Even though I don't understand half of the words to the song.

Life is good.

Steps

Last Thursday Drew said, "Let's go to New York!" And I said, "Let's."

So we did.

So at about 1:00 pm on Saturday, Drew and I rubbed our eyes and descended from our bus and before we could find Ralph and Jake I had already said to myself 3 times, "This. Is. So. Big." And I said it with a kind of weird combination of wonder and disdain.

We did the Times Square tourist thing for about an hour and went home to Westchester for the night and had a jolly good time in the calm of Autumn off Route 100, drinking green tea from the can and listening to stories about Ralph accidentally buying a dime bag of catnip down in the Big City during his college days.

I don't think I've ever spent a Sunday in the city before. I think they're the best days.

First we drove to Hunter College in the Upper East Side to hear Timothy Keller talk about Godly sorrow and repentance, and he said that Luther said that "All of life is repentance." And I liked that a lot. He said that repentance is the thing that ushers in God's love that is just waiting to break in like the water outside the dikes of Holland. The sermon was about the Prodigal Son. Outside the church we found Kurtis! and Ashley! and Steve! and the three brothers spent the next half an hour or so poking each other's muscles and smacking hands away and picking each other up like little lion cubs on the Discovery Channel. The next few hours were a blur of walking and laughing and dodging playful Indorf blows and rolling around in Central Park. It was beautiful.

And then. And then!

We went to the most magically uncomfortable and exciting place I have ever been. No. We went to the REAL New York City. We went to the New York from Fame! (the movie.)

THIS IS WHAT IT LOOKS LIKE. IT ACTUALLY EXISTS.

There were dancers everywhere. In one room was Maegan with about 30 other ballerinas parading across the floor in formation. In the next room was a little girl of about 10 shaking her little behind like I could never imagine doing. In the last room there was an Asian girl with blond streaks in her hair wearing a shirt that said "I HEART MY MONEY" and baggy sweatpants. This is real, I thought. These people are Trying.

I don't like big cities. I really don't. But I can imagine, that if I really wanted to be Something, I would have to go to New York. Heck, I watched a girl basically pull her foot over the back of her head onto her chest. Anything's possible.

Red and Black and Blue

It smelled like waffle cones walking by Village A the other night. I guess I didn't really stop to smell the waffles. I prefer my ice cream in the wax-coated paper dishes, thank you.

So much running! So many motions! Hobbes! Professor Douglass! Violent death!

My ridiculous Philosophy professor last year would describe Thomas Hobbes by running in place, probably the most motion he ever made in the class. Usually he would just gum his little peppermint candy and slowly and thoughtfully sip from his water cup. And slowly and thoughtfully unscrew our head-tops and fill them with Knowledge. It was beautiful.

I get it now!

"It is time for us all to decide who we are. Do we fight for the right to a night at the opera now?"

Actually, yes, we do. There are only 200 student tickets available for La Traviata at the Kennedy Center. I won't get one of them. Bitterness!

"What was right seems wrong, and what was wrong seems right."

Today in Religion, Ethics, and International Affairs we talked about Thomas Jefferson. My nun professor talked a lot about how she loves and abhors TJ at the same time. She talks about the use of some of Jefferson's ideas in the language of the French Revolution. All this liberty, equality, fraternity is making me hungry for musicals somehow. Yum. Revolution.

Tonight is the Vice-Presidential debate. Yum. Politics. I wonder what Enjolras would have to say.

Painting: Eugene Delacroix

Grandfather Clocks and A Cappella

Recently I've become aware of my life as represented by a metaphor of a musical pendulum. My grandparents have a huge old wooden grandfather clock with a hypnotic brass pendulum right in the middle. At quarter-past, half-past, and quarter-of the hour, it completes 1 quarter, 2 quarters, or 3 quarters, respectively, of a pleasant refrain which is only heard in its entirety on the hour. It is followed at that time by those obnoxious gong sounds which sometimes woke me up at night when I was little.

I started playing violin 11 years ago. I haven't stopped. This whole pendulum thing didn't exist until less than a year ago, when I started thinking I could sing and people started telling me I could sing and I thought, gosh, why not give that a try? Until January, 4 strings were all I knew. I lived and breathed those 4 strings every day and soon, even though I stopped practicing so diligently, they became my best therapists, my worst enemies, and my ever-goading challenges.

This past Thursday I had a scary thought that began to convince me of the changing direction of the giant pendulum of my music. It was the evening of GU orchestra auditions. I've been in the orchestra for the pats 2 semesters, so my place wasn't in jeopardy, and my level of preparation more or less reflected that. Still, I felt completely comfortable in that tiny room with interim director Popov as I played Melodie from memory for the millionth time since 8th grade, and I sightread some nonsense in 3/8 by Haydn.

I left feeling empty, as if I had just wasted 15 minutes with my violin and I felt guilty, I felt trapped. I felt like whatever I had played was maybe beautiful, but not interesting, and certainly not freeing. I was actually happy to be rushing off to a cappella rehearsal for the 4th time that week. And then I thought it:

"I would rather sing than play anyway."

GASP.

Typing it is even more frightening than thinking it.

I guess maybe I'll see if I can do anything to take violin in the same freeing direction as singing is for me. I guess I'll see if I can begin to remember how to lose myself in the violin as I lose myself when I sing. Stay tuned. I will too.

Old Habits Die Hard like Bruce Willis

Saturday I had planned to enjoy a nice little evening in. My mom went to a surprise birthday party for one of her relatives and so I was left in the house, flopped on the couch dreaming about getting up and actually doing something. I accepted an impromptu invitation for coffee with a friend - well, not coffee actually because it was already 9:00 and I have only slightly more tolerance for caffeine than my 70-year-old grandmother - and got up the energy to carry on a conversation for an hour and a half at Starbucks.

Everything was fine until I left Starbucks.

I drove home to find that my mother was still not home from her party at 10:30 and, hoping to avoid walking into my dark empty house alone, decided to drive around a little bit. Some background: I used to drive around a lot, back when gas was cheaper and I had more things to ruminate about in the comforts of my car. I would visit places I used to go, or places I knew other people were, or maybe sit in the parking lot of a park with Death Cab for Cutie on and think and be and feel oh so sorry for myself.

Saturday night I put the windows down and did my best to fill half an hour. As I drove around, for the first time on one of these drives I avoided the places I used to go, as if to say, hopefully, "I don't ever need to go back." At first I sang. Then I stopped singing without noticing. Then I turned off the radio. I thought as I arrived in the darkness of Dutch Mill on the East side of 141, why not speak? Why not talk to myself here in this car when I am most alone? Why not talk to God? So I did. I don't remember now what I said. I do remember being a little distracted by the road and thinking it wasn't quite the ideal place to have a conversation. But it helped. Weidman Road gets scary in the dark.

My Dulcinea

For the record, I have never seen Man of La Mancha or read Don Quixote. My friend Ralph told me the story of Don Quixote and Dulcinea a few weeks ago. He is a great storyteller. While he was telling me the story I realized that there may be at least one person to whom I am Dulcinea, though, because I am Aldonza and not Dulcinea, because I am broken and can see only the broken parts of me, I do not know it.

You know, it's a God story.

In quoting Don Quixote, Ralph said, "Why, I just want to call you what you are. You are my lady, my Dulcinea."

What you are.

In school they tell you to be yourself. Not to give in to peer pressure. But everyone wants to be Cool. Sooner or later, though, people like me discover that they are not cool and they begin to live with it and they call it being who they are. But who I am is Dulcinea. I just don't see it. So in all this being who I am I have missed out on being who I really am. Does that make sense? Of course that doesn't make sense.

I am not as bad as I think I am. To someone, at least to One, I am Dulcinea. And it is not that He sees me as Dulcinea. It is not merely His perception of me. It is who I am.

Donald Eugene

This evening after work I drove the short jaunt to my grandparents' house for dinner, as I have every Tuesday this summer. As I sat down at the table, my grandfather began telling this joke:

So there was this woman, she was 50 years old, and she had a heart attack. And she's laying in the hospital, it's hard to breathe, she's in a lot of pain, and she looks up at the heavens and says, "God? Is this it?"
Suddenly she hears a voice from the sky telling her, "No, Susan. You have 40 more years to live." So Susan is thrilled to hear this and in about a week she starts feeling better and leaves the hospital. She gets the full works of plastic surgery, tummy tuck, face lift, everything and she looks great. The next day she was driving down the street, got in a car accident and died. Later on when she was up in heaven, she was talking to God and asked Him, "What happened? I thought you said I had 40 more years."
And God said, "Oh that's right! Well, Susan, I didn't recognize you."

My grandpa tells these jokes all the time. They're ridiculous. His delivery has gotten a little rusty over the years, but he always has a corny joke when I come over. It occurred to me today over pork cutlets and mashed potatoes that I hope to be something a little like him someday. He's had 2 heart attacks (his first at age 39), 2 open heart surgeries, and now has an electronic defibrilator in his heart. He got married right after high school to my grandmother, never went to college, and retired from a huge aircraft company that probably didn't care much about him. But, and I can't really say this without sounding demeaning, he is simple. Not that he is not intelligent, because he is. But all it takes is a corny joke or a hug or a conversation about golf or baseball to really make him light up. My grandmother drives him crazy - she drives everyone crazy - but he never mentions it or shows it. He loves her. Today I saw a small light in his eye when he made a silly comment as he cleared our dishes from the table and I wondered what Donald Eugene must have looked like when my grandmother married him. A small, skinny kid with dark hair and blue eyes and an easy smile.

I guess, when all is said and done, he is selfless in his own way. His "self" is his job at the golf course, his love of baseball, and his family. There are a lot of days that he doesn't feel well. He worries when that happens. But I don't think a day goes by that he is not really content. I think maybe that's what we're all trying to find.

PrideFest STL

On Sunday I went on an expedition that I thought would be a little more eye-opening than it was. At least, it wasn't eye-opening in the way I expected it to be.

Late Sunday afternoon as the all-day St. Louis clouds were finally clearing - just as my father and I were getting home from our damp motorcyle ride - I cleaned up and drove over to my best friend's house. She quickly hopped in my car and we were off to Tower Grove Park. We were headed to what we thought would be a pretty culturally shocking experience, though we had braced ourselves for it. We were headed to PrideFest. Specifically, the 29th Annual St. Louis PrideFest.

We thought PrideFest would be interesting because, primarily, we are both heterosexual. I entered the park with the idea, and maybe the hope, that there would be many other straight people there, and that these individuals would be wearing some sort of stickers or hats or sandwich boards which read, "Hey! I'm straight too! Let's be out-of-place together!" No such luck. But I didn't feel uncomfortable for a second while I was there for almost two hours. My best friend and I wandered around the many tents, admiring the rainbow decorations, speculating about all the churches with little booths set up, and sometimes blushing at some of the raunchy merchandise being sold.

Then, at 20 minutes past 6:00 PM, we settled down by the stage for the reason we were there - a free concert given by Gregory Douglass, an openly gay singer/songwriter from Burlington, Vermont who I happen to adore. My best friend was lukewarm but she was a trooper for enduring my girlish excitement during the whole thing. (She was a double tropper for enduring a drag queen's lip syncing of a song called "Push the Button" which, you guessed it, is NOT about operating an elevator.)

Long story short, I had a great time. PrideFest had an unbelievable air of freedom and permissibility and progress. Gregory Douglass's performance was spectacular. A few highlights were his performance of "Dry" with its stinging guitar riffs and intense lyrics as well as his a cappella version of Alicia Keys' "No One," which I was fortunate enough to capture on video.

When I left I was glad that there are people like Gregory Douglass who just love to sing and play and jam and I was glad I am one of the people who love to watch that happen.

Check him out!

http://www.gregorydouglass.com/
www.myspace.com/gregorydouglass

Newfound Feminism and "What is God, really?"

Lately I've been reading Theology for Skeptics by Dorothee Soelle (1929-2003), a German Christian theologian. It's by far the most honest discussion of what it means to believe in God I have ever read, almost to the point of pushy. The most telling parts, though, aren't Soelle's reflections themselves, but rather her stories of the people she encounters in her many social circles (she was active in movements for peace, environmentalism, feminism, and liberation theology). In one particular passage, Soelle describes how one woman came to understand God:

"I remember a feminist group in New York where we tried to speak of our own religious experiences. A woman who has been my friend ever since that day reported on the destructive and humiliating experiences of her Christian socialization. Then she paused and spoke about her sexual experience, which showed her for the first time what might be meant by the word 'God' - that oceanic feeling of not being separate from anything or hindered by anything, the happiness of being one with everything living, the ecstasy in which the old 'I' is abandoned and I am new and different" (43).

How blasphemous! Can it be possible that the closest feeling to experiencing God is sex? Or rather, sex correctly interpreted and, ahem, executed? And yet, how liberating! If experiencing God is like sex, then all of the power-structure relationships, especially those based on gender language that are so denounced in Soelle's book, disappear. Our relationship with God becomes reciprocal - we are in God and God is in us. There are flaws in conceiving of God this way, especially given the misrepresentation of sex in popular media, but the possibility of an immanence so profound certainly cannot be ignored from a spiritual standpoint. Indeed, it might be more fulfilling than it seems.