Post-Evangelical Easter Reflection

These are some of my reflections, as a post-Evangelical-possibly-heretical-possibly-not-Christian, about Easter. I wrote this in my journal in the sunshine today and, wanting it to have a home, I (pardon the pun) resurrected this blog. 

Reading time: 8 minutes

My Evangelically-Shaped Easter

I used to view Easter as a day (/weekend / week) to observe the historical moment in time where my inevitable, innumerable sins were paid for by a perfect God-man.  This gift, of God paying the price of my sins, was graciously offered to me and to everyone else in the entire world, past and present. (Or was it just present and future? I forget). Given that I’d already accepted God's gift of Eternal life--I did this as a young child, like most of the children in my church community--I knew I was saved from eternal damnation (aka hell. The eternal burn.)  

Because this was my worldview, Easter was, for the earliest years of my life,  both a joyous occasion to rejoice in my promised salvation but also a pressing reminder that many of my (unchurched) friends were still on the path to end up in hell when they died. (Because, you know…they hadn’t accepted the gift that Jesus offered them.)

I did what any loving evangelical convinced by this truth would do: I prayed fervently for God to work in their hearts so that they, too, might come to know the joy of eternal life in Christ. I prayed that they might one day be able to join me and the rest of the church congregation when we proclaimed “He is risen indeed!"

(NB: Some of you, reading my claim of wanting other friends to “know the joy” along my parallel statements about burning in hellfire might think I’m being facetious. But I promise: I am not. I really did feel such a deep joy on account of my Christian faith, and I longed for others I loved to feel it too. I have a lot of compassion for the version of myself who saw the world in this way; I know I felt a lot of love for others—in the way that I knew how to. So if you’re feeling like rolling your eyes or shaking your fists at any Christians you know who currently conceptualize life in these ways, I invite you to try to first remember that they are seeing the world in a different way than you are; and probably their hearts are filled to the brim with love for you—in the way that they know how. Anyway, I digress.)

 

So that was Easter for me. For about 20 years or so. A mix of joy and fear. Both feelings were immense. 

(Now, it’s worth noting that not all Christians interpret Easter in the way that I did. Easter was not (/is not) a reminder about salvation vs. damnation for the many Christians who do not believe in a literal hell from which our sinful selves need to be saved via a payment of a perfect being. I don’t know quite enough about other Christian modes of interpreting Easter to summarize them here, but I know they are plentiful and I don’t want to paint them all with the same brush. There are huge variations within the religion we call Christianity.

But this sin-ridden, hell-bound humans + loving, debt-paying Saviour was the Christianity that I grew up in and, thus, this was Easter for me. It was a striking reminder about eternity, and a time to rejoice that you’ve been saved while also fret for those who aren’t.)

Given that this particular mode of interpreting Easter was so dominant in my psyche for so many years, I am not altogether surprised that I eventually veered away from that view. I do, however, personally find it VERY strange and unexpected that, this year, I find myself acutely (re)drawn to celebrate Easter. But here I am. 

Post-Evangelical Explorations of Religion/Spirituality 

For those of you who do not know, I have spent the last decade or so exploring religious and spiritual views that extend far beyond the lens that the church I grew up in taught me to see the world through. In these last ~10 years, I have identified as an atheist, an agnostic, an ignostic, a Jew, a Buddhist, a Christian, a bhakt, “Spiritual But Not Religious”, “Religious But Not Spiritual”, and “Other” ….depending on who was asking me the question and how much time I had for my answer. 

A lot of my discomfort with identifying (solely) as a Christian now is due to the fact that the type of Christianity that I once (strongly and happily!) identified with is now very far from being a comfortable fit for me.  If I were to try to wear my earlier Christianity like a sweater, it would feel itchy, scratchy. It barely fits over my head. And yet... 

I love so many of the teachings of Christ. Indeed, I cannot help but think that if he looked me in the eyes and said “follow me” then I would pack my bag (—wait, I forget: am I allowed to take the time to pack a bag? It’s been awhile since I’ve read that biblical passage in Matthew…) and run after him. I would want to follow him, and be in his presence.  Sit at his feet; absorb his teachings. (At least for a little bit? Wouldn’t you? Who would not want to be in the presence of such a teacher!?!?!) So, given that I long to follow Christ... am I a Christian? Who gets to decide if I “count” as one? Does the fact that the Christianity I was born-and-raised with is no longer the Christianity I wish to embrace mean that I must forfeit the identity once and for all? 

I honestly do not know. *shrugs*

(One of the reasons I often, self-protectively, remind people that I am not a theologian (I am, rather, a cultural anthropologist who studies religion) is that a theologian would probably be required to have an answer for that question of whether or not I "count" as a Christian. I quite like that I am allowed to shrug my anthropological shoulders at it. A theologian would know a lot more about the history of Christian doctrinal norms over the years, and they would be able to say “yes or no” to my questions about whether believing X, Y, or Z about Jesus is enough to let me pass as a Christian.  

I'm *not* a theologian, but I vaguely remember reading something by the Christian theologian Roger Haight in the delightful book Jesus and Buddha: Friends in Conversation where he asserted that there are a few “bottom line” doctrinal points that Christians have to believe in in order to be a Christian. One of these doctrines was about belief in resurrection. If that's correct, then even if I’m able to INTERPRET resurrection as having a different purpose than paying my sin-debt, I suppose I do struggle to believe that someone was medically dead for three days and then returned to life. So maybe I’m eternally-outcast on the Christian identity bit, I’m not sure. Go ask a theologian!)

Returning to Easter

But here’s the thought that has kept circling around in my mind leading up to, and during, this Easter weekend: I care about Easter. After a multi-year hiatus from caring at all about it--or really any religious holy day--it is beginning to feel meaningful for me once again. So, I've wondered: why am I leaning back towards it? What’s the substance of my inklings? (Some Christians might say that God is calling me back to him. I suppose that's a possibility.) But, at this point in time, I'm more interested in what is going on in my heart/mind/soul/body. What rises up in me? If Easter is giving me an emotional response, what are these emotions? (FYI, I'm trying to get better at knowing and naming my emotions. It's something that Marc Brackett speaks very wisely about.) There is no tangible sense of joy, nor fear, that I have been able to locate and yet there is a deep sense of meaning, respect, and awe. 

I’ve been trying to narrow in on what I find meaningful about Easter. Is it akin to nostalgia? Or, levelling-up, is it like the Portuguese saudade , e.g. the deep emotionally-entrenched longing for the familiar? Or is it that I want to be able to punctuate my annual calendar with spiritually-meaningful moments, and the global take-over of Christianity has made it quite convenient to align myself with Christian holidays? After all, I’m not sure about you, but my Good Friday day-off-work was, indeed, quite good!

It might be some of those things. 

But I think it is also the story of Easter itself that I find meaningful and compelling: it’s a story about a loving, wise teacher who inspired many and challenged more. Who chose non-violence when faced with violence. Who suffered, brutally, in
the midst of it all—who felt abandonment/betrayal from God himself [...herself.../Itself..?]—and who still persevered. And who, the story goes, managed to overturn the very notion of death itself through resurrection. It's a story about the act of death itself being somehow able to defeat death...in other words, it's a story about how all things eventually turn back to life. 

Photo by Nika Kuchuk

Resurrection is Everywhere

This sense---that all things eventually turn back to life---feels overwhelmingly true the more I experience and reflect on life. As the snow melts around me and the energies of springtime begin to flow—in the budding leaves, in the soaring and singing birds, in the rippling water…and, I hasten to admit, in the smelly dog-shit and bits of trash that are being more and more revealed in my neighbour’s backyard—I cannot help but feel that a story about the way that everything leads back again to life, is a story worth celebrating. Resurrection tales are not unique to Christianity and Jesus, but the details of the Jesus/Christian story are a uniquely-formed invitation to reflect on the ways that death and life intertwine and, indeed, get mixed up with each other. I for one find the story quite awe-inspiring. 

I’m a little fuzzy over whether it’s rude or even inappropriate for me to summarize the Easter story in this way without paying attention to either historicity or theological accuracy. But I love the story. It feels hopeful—if a little heretical. 

Grad School + Beyond:

I'm 3 years into my PhD and I just read the statistic: "only three or four in every hundred PhD students in the United Kingdom will land a permanent staff position at a university."
The stat showed up in this article in Nature's International Weekly Journal of Science, which is written with regard to the sciences, but I have my severe doubts that the humanities are any better off: the reality is that myself and most graduate students I know will be hard-pressed to get a permanent contract with a university even after we've all become "Doctor ____."
This should cause us to pause and reflect on why we're doing these degrees in the first place.
To me, graduate studies---isolated yet competitive work culture, high-stress, long hours, low-pay, and seemingly with no promise of an academic job that most people assume they will fall into---is really only worth it if you (a) can work with the flexible learning environment it allows (/forces upon) you; and (b) can stay happy/healthy while doing it.
An alarmingly high number of students struggle to stay happy and healthy + link this struggle to their studies/work environment. Some studies like this one in Science have shown that 1 in 3 graduate students struggle with mental health on account of their workload and work environment (and, based on my friend/colleague circle, I'd speculate it's actually significantly higher than 33%.)
I assume I will be happy to have done my PhD even if I wind up in a career totally outside of academia where my PhD specifics aren't really needed (/useful?) (--but then again, I only pursued graduate studies in the first place because it provided a debt-free, albeit financially meagre, way to do full-time learning on topics that interest me.) I truly hope that other grad students feel similarly, and that they're studying their various research topics primarily because they enjoy the process of studying. (At least, I pity those of you who are wading through grad school, not enjoying it at all, but are under the [false?] hope that you will end up in a TT professorship job.)
So, if this is indeed true that the process itself ought to be enjoyable, it is most important that we focus on enjoying the actual process at hand.
A few things come to mind in this regard. I'm writing them out somewhat with the hope that I will force myself to adopt them for myself...(that is, they are pieces of advice which are thus far hypocritical due to not following them myself...)

1. Abandon the 'publish or perish' paradigm. 2. Stop stressing that I haven't read enough theories, or don't know as much of the literature as xyz. 3. Focus on learning for the sake of improving my knowledge of a topic that interests/intrigues me---not for appearing smart, not for impressing my supervisor, etc. 4. Don't try to make a perfect + brilliant thesis/paper/etc. That benchmark is unrealistic and can be somewhat uninspiring. Try to write something that is interesting, or challenging, or inspiring, or beautiful, ...and coherent. It doesn't have to incorporate everything you've learned and it doesn't have to be applauded by the academe. 5. (I would like your tips/feedback!) And, now, a poem...which I find challenging, inspiring, beautiful, and coherent.

"Every day I see or hear something that more or less

kills me with delight, that leaves me like a needle

in the haystack of light. It was what I was born for - to look, to listen, to lose myself inside this soft world - to instruct myself over and over in joy, and acclamation."

~ Mary Oliver (USA, 1935-), from “Mindful,” Why I Wake Early

5 Things That Teaching Has Taught Me

5 Things That Teaching Has Taught Me

This summer I have been teaching a creative writing course to high school students, 6 days a week. I'm pretty passionate about what I do, and it's no exaggeration (despite being horribly cliche) to say that I am pouring my heart and soul into it. It's exhausting and I love it.That being said, here are some things I am learning as I teach.

1. Sometimes the best learning happens when I stop teaching.

Even before going into this month of teaching, I was of the philosophy that a big part of teaching was not simply lecturing or giving information, but actively creating an environment in which students were able to explore new things in creative ways. This mandates that the atmosphere be both comfortable and challenging; it’s an interesting balance to strike.
This being said, as I entered the classroom I found a temptation to continue to give more and more information. To lecture. To instruct. To guide. To (re)direct and (re)adjust). To a certain extent, this is fine—students need to receive knowledge and guidance. But it is easy to go overboard on this, and to never allow space for students to explore through independent learning or group discussion. Some of the best moments of learning happened when I was not directly involved. This is a humbling recognition.

2. I am a micro-manager, a mother-hen, and a hand-holder. This isn't inherently a bad thing...but these tendencies do not (always) do justice to the intelligent and creative minds on the receiving end of this.

Those of you who know me well are probably smiling at the fact that I think this even merits any mention, as if it is new information that I am a control freak. (Okay, so I’ve always known that I’ve been this way..) but I did not realise the extent to which I was this way. I had to make conscious efforts to step back and let my students do things in a way that I KNEW was not the most efficient, or the most brilliant, or the most sensical. They learned through doing, through making mistakes, and through trying again—and this is an important process. After all, isn’t that how I’ve learned some of my most important lessons? I had to be very conscientious of this, and to let myself step back and let them explore and try things out on their own. I’m glad to be aware of this now—better late than never.

3. Organisations are bureaucratic and sometimes suck. It is important to remember, and focus on, those students whose lives might very well be changed by their interaction with their teacher.

I am doing this job for the experience of interacting with students—not for the money nor for the CV line (though both of those things are nice perks.) It can be difficult to remember that I am doing this for the students when other bureaucratic things get in the way of this. I have had, in the (I think) most literal of sense, life-changing and life-saving teachers throughout my MANY years as a student. Some of those teachers probably didn’t even realise the influence they had on me; they were just plain old great, passionate teachers and happened to have a student (probably more!) who needed such a teacher in their life at that time. I want to be one of those teachers. Seeing one of my students smile as they quietly read my feedback on one of their drafts is the best feeling. If I can make students smile, and help show them both how they are /their work is impressive and valuable and important AND how their writing can be improved...well then I think I'm doing alright. This should be what I focus on.

4. Thirteen year olds have a lot of feelings; they are still so new to the world and only beginning to grapple with failure, with being indignant, with disappointment, with cruelty. Their versions (and degrees) of each of these things take up their entire capacity for these feelings, no matter how small their particular 13-year-old vessel is. Don’t belittle it. Don’t dismiss it. And don’t wish it away. If you can, help them to wade through it.

I’m teaching creative writing. My students write poetry and they are thirteen years old…I don’t think much more needs to be said about that in terms of the angst-ridden content that is all too readily produced. I’m learning to meet them where they are at, and to share in that part of their life—and maybe even to speak into it, if the moment strikes!

5.  Everyone has a story that is waiting to be shared and that will be interesting when told by someone who trusts their listener. Learn to be that listener, and learn to show you are such a listener. And, learn to trust others when sharing your own story.

I am, among other things, a poet and song-writer. My knees still buckle when I read my poems or play my songs to my thirteen year old students. “Will they like it?,” I wonder. “Will they laugh at me behind my back after class?” (These are real thoughts I have…I am more than twice their age; how is this a genuine concern of mine?!?! And yet it is.) Sharing parts of ourselves is a scary thing—especially so, I think, when it involves both our own story and our creative spin of it. But I think that, through demonstrating vulnerability, we can create an environment where others are also more free to be vulnerable. And I suspect this is overall a positive thing. 

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So, what'd I miss? What have you learned this month? Or what have you learned when in the role of teaching? I welcome your thoughts and comments!