Jul 23, 2023 | My sort-of Sermons, Spirituality
A few years back, my oldest daughter told me about a podcast she’d discovered called Harry Potter and the Sacred Text. Hosted by Vanessa Zoltan and Casper Ter Kuile, each episode analyzed a single chapter from one of the books using poignant themes like loneliness, compassion, advocacy, etc. They were determined to show that you can treat secular things as if they are sacred.
From June 2016 through March 2021, the two of them read, interpreted, and exegeted every chapter of every book. They offered creative ways to look at the text, invited easy-to-apply practices (marginalia, florilegia, PaRDeS, lectio divina, to name only a few), and helped us become better people along the way. Then, in April 2021, Vanessa started over, this time with a new cohost and a commitment to “re-examine the whole Harry Potter series again from the beginning with even more rigor, demonstrating that loving a text responsibly means acknowledging the places where it falls short.” [Source] (Oh, how I love this last phrase . . . and could not possibly agree more!)
I wish I could say I have listened to every episode vs. only the first season. I have meant to go back and pick up where I left off, but it still has not happened. Nevertheless, Zoltan and Ter Kuile’s beautiful sacredizing of what most would consider secular has kept me in its grip . . . its embrace, really.
I grew up with the not-to-be-questioned belief that only one Text was to be called sacred; only one Text was worthy (and demanding) of my time, attention, devotion, and obedience. Whether because I am an oldest child or an Enneagram 3, perfection and excellence and proving myself were paramount where this Text was concerned. I read it, over and over again. I underlined. I copied whole sections into organized notebooks. I memorized. I undoubtedly read more books about it than the Text itself had pages. And I did everything in my power to live according to its teachings. Honestly: it was exhausting! I’d like to say that I did become a better person along the way, but not without cost.
What is the cost of viewing the sacred as something nearly unattainable but requiring our endless pursuit? What is the cost of determining one’s worthiness through a lens of self-sacrifice, sin, and the pursuit of perfection? What is the cost of believing the sacred to be something transcendent as opposed to a way of being that honors the everyday and the ordinary? I’m still counting those costs, to be sure: undoing them, deconstructing them, healing them.
It took me decades to even obliquely consider the possibility that the sacred was mine to define and discern, to experience and express, let alone be discovered outside the narrow and prescriptive path I’d been committed to walking. But once I began to see other ways of understanding the sacred, I couldn’t un-see. Thankfully.
It’s helpful to acknowledge the most common definition of “sacred:” The Oxford dictionary says it means being connected with God (or the gods) or dedicated to a religious purpose and so deserving veneration. Synonyms are holy, hallowed, consecrated, sanctified, revered. It assumes “religious” rather than secular and it usually embodies the laws or doctrines of a religion.
It’s no wonder this eludes our grasp, even our experience!
I prefer Vanessa Zoltan’s definition, instead:
“[The sacred is] something that you are in an intentional relationship with that gets you better at loving.”
This is worth reading again. (Go ahead: I’ll wait for you.)
It’s also worth pondering.
What are the things (people, activities, habits) with which you are in intentional relationship? Do they get you better at loving? What memories do you have of the sacred that expanded your way of being in the world, that invited you to more compassion (for self and others), that increased your capacity to love? If you were to adopt this distinct definition of “sacred,” with what might you choose to be in relationship?
These questions open up whole worlds of worship, really; vast realms of awe and wonder; room to move and explore and broaden our understanding and experience of the sacred. Which, it seems to me, is the very point of any kind of spirituality: more, deeper, wider, open, inclusive, expansive.
Sadly, we’ve been plagued for centuries by smaller and smaller allowances of the same. Denominations. Doctrines. Dogma. Smaller still, are the ways in which these very things now segment us from one another; they create us/them divisions with increasingly loud agendas: how we vote and for whom, who is allowed rights or even considered “sacred” in the first place, how much freedom particular people (women, specifically) have to make choices for themselves. . . .
As the collective mind narrows, it’s not all that surprising that we struggle to find the sacred in much of anything. We desperately need a new understanding, a new way forward, and for sure, anything that helps us get better at loving. Even if it’s Harry Potter . . . or Jane Eyre.
In 2021, Vanessa Zoltan wrote a book called Praying with Jane Eyre: Reflections on Reading as Sacred Practice. She used many of the same premises applied to the Harry Potter podcast, but this time with a literary classic (that I happen to love). Within it she says this:
Sacredness is an act, not a thing. If I can decide that Jane Eyre is sacred, that means it is the actions I take that will make it so. The decision to treat Jane as sacred is an important first step, surely, but that is all the decision was—one step. The ritual, the engagement with the thing, is what makes the thing sacred. . . . The text did not determine the sacredness; the actions and actors did, the questions you asked of the text and the way you returned to it.
That’s worth reading again. (Go ahead: I’ll wait for you.)
Ascribing sacredness to something is not from “on high” or only reserved for chosen texts, people, or even deities. Instead, our decisions, our choices, our actions and engagement are what make it so.
And because this is the case, it opens us up to profound levels of possibility and grace. When the sacred is not a “thing,” but something we do—not a noun, rather, a verb—then nearly anything can qualify. Yes, reading a text. But also walking in nature, baking cookies, playing with your kids, writing for self and/or others, rearranging furniture, meditating, doing water aerobics, even watching a movie.
I’ve re-watched You’ve Got Mail many, many times. But it represents so much more to me than just a movie now, because I’ve made it more meaningful. I have very specific rituals for when and how to watch (always alone, always with a tub of Pralines and Cream Häagen-Dazs ice cream). It’s not an “Oh, what shall we watch?” kind of movie; it’s an “I’m feeling lost and alone, and I need everything I’ve got to bring me out of this slump” kind of movie. Certain lines are inscribed on my heart, like mantras. Characters are totems of how I want to be—or not be—in the world. While for most people it’s just another rom-com, for me, You’ve Got Mail is sacred. ~ Casper Ter Kuile, The Power of Ritual: Turning Everyday Activities into Soulful Practices
In other words (and said yet again), we get to decide what we deem sacred, what we will read and ponder and reflect on again and again, where we will find meaning (and what ice cream flavor best compliments such), and the endless ways in which all of this and then some invites us to become a better person along the way; to get better at loving.
Honestly, I could write about this topic for a very long time (and, of course, in many ways, I have been). But for now, let me make one last point. Better said, let Vanessa Zoltan make one last point—again from Praying with Jane Eyre:
My thesis in this experiment was not that Jane Eyre was sacred in and of itself but that if I treated something as sacred, it could be sacred. My trust was in my ability to treat something as sacred and for it to teach me if I did so.
Mmmmm. This feels like perfect prayer and benediction, yes?
May we act and engage in ways that treat things (and certainly each other) as sacred, because they are.
Jul 16, 2023 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Sovereignty
Exercise.
Ugh. To gain even the slightest insight into how I feel about this topic, you only need to hear the deep breath I just took and see how my shoulders slumped as I typed that singular word.
I do not like it. Not even a little bit. I never have. This is not to say I haven’t tried to like it, at the very least to persist. I’ve joined gyms, fitness centers, and workout programs designed exclusively for women. I’d downloaded apps. I’ve subscribed to online plans that have made amazing promises (along with a lot of fine print). I’ve bought a treadmill—then sold it. A Peloton—then sold it. I’ve had at least two yoga mats over the years that have been donated to Goodwill, almost completely unused. Weights, same. Even my desk converts to standing (a purchase I was sure I’d take advantage of), but I never press that button. I can find a gazillion reasons to not exercise. Well, up until last week.
My sister and brother-in-law spotted a gym just down the road from our house. Tom scoped it out on Monday and then took me with him on Tuesday before signing up, so that I could decide if I wanted to get in on the family discount. It’s a nice-enough place. Cardio equipment. Weight machines of every size, shape, and configuration. A pool that hosts water aerobic classes. Yoga (including “chair yoga”). Zumba. Spin. Tabata. Courses that are just for seniors—which, I guess, actually includes me. Personal trainers. Nutrition counseling. A smoothie bar. And an app for scheduling all these and more from the convenience of my phone.
I didn’t want to say “yes,” but I did. I want to want to go. And I do actually want to like it—exercise itself. Still, I’m not hopeful.
Do you remember the President’s Fitness Test? It’s highly possible that my resistance (and disdain) started there. The original six-part test consisted of push-ups, pull-ups, sit-ups, a standing broad jump, a shuttle run, a 50-yard dash and a softball throw for distance (ostensibly, according to this article, because it’s helpful to know who amongst the troops has the arm strength necessary to chuck a grenade the furthest, or at all). I hated the days set aside every year for these ranked activities. I could not do the pull-ups at all, the push-ups and sit-ups barely. A standing broad jump? Are you kidding? And the running—for speed? Uh, no. Let’s not even talk about the softball throw. All of this felt like a tortuous experiment to discern just how much shame an adolescent girl like me could endure. The answer? A lot.
Beyond this annual torture, there was recess and PE. I would have far preferred to sit in the corner and read a book than have to engage in activities that consistently left me feeling less-than, uncoordinated, unchosen and unwanted. Dodgeball. Tetherball. Four square. That dreaded horizontal ladder I watched my friends swing across with ease and joy. (More deep breaths and shoulder slumps just remembering all of this.)
I’d like to tell you I’m past all of this now, that these (very) old stories are no longer present in my psyche . . . nor remotely relevant. Still, as I walked through that gym just a few days ago, it all came flooding back. I saw the in-process “High Fitness” class filled with close to 30 women moving to loud music and the instructor’s endless “whoop” keeping time to a thumping bass; the incredibly strong (and buff) people lifting free weights and using machines I’m quite sure I should stay far, far away from; the pervading presence of muscles and discipline and skill, even ease. It was like I was 12 years old: I felt insecure, out-of-place, and instantly ashamed.
It somehow doesn’t matter that I know better, that I can most-certainly get on a treadmill or stationary bike without hurting or embarrassing myself, that I can probably even take a water aerobics class and survive. It doesn’t even matter that I know any and all of these things will make me feel better, increase my range of motion, build needed (and admittedly declining) strength. Somehow, the indelible reminder of shame supersedes my sanity—even now, even still.
I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one. And I’m definitely sure this is not limited to physical fitness or lack thereof. All of us have stories, memories, and specific places/events that, when replicated in the slightest, compel us to resistance and avoidance. It’s understandable. It’s allowed. And it’s normal. Of course we stay away from scenarios and experiences that summon unpleasant emotions! But here’s what I’ve been asking myself this week: What if I was able to let go of the story I’ve been telling myself for more than fifty years and instead, choose a new one?
What if, indeed!
You wouldn’t think this was much of a revelation for me, given that I talk and write about this all the time: the honest naming of the stories that have shaped us, our sovereignty to write them as we wish—with wisdom, courage, agency, and hope. But often hidden in unsuspecting places, is continued opportunity for me to practice what I preach. Thankfully.
So, Tuesday morning I said “yes” to the gym membership. Wednesday morning I went to a water aerobics class. Then again on Thursday. And Friday. (Shocking, I know!)
Believe me, I am under no illusion that three 45-minute sessions in the pool have miraculously cured me of my exercise-dislike. (It’s a wonder I returned after the first one given that the entire class, all 45 minutes, was choreographed to only remixed Madonna songs!) But then exercise isn’t really what I’m writing about here.
What I am writing about is taking stock of the poured-in-concrete stories we fervently cling to and faithfully believe (especially when we’re barely aware of such), the stories that still shape our choices or lack thereof, the stories that have formed our preferences and likes and dislikes, the stories that have kept us convinced of what we can and cannot, will and will not do.
- Our perspectives on self and body and appearance.
- What we believe about money and success.
- How we view race and class.
- What constitutes goodness and good enough.
- Why we stay in relationships that do not serve.
- Why we too-often compromise and comply.
- Where we land on religion, politics, gun control, abortion, and issues of gender and sexuality.
- Which battles we’ll fight and which we’ll intentionally avoid.
- How we parent.
- What we think of conflict.
- What we tell ourselves, over and over and over again, about where and why we fall short or aren’t enough or are most-definitely too much.
None of our beliefs, attitudes, opinions, or behaviors related to any of these are formed in a vacuum, ex nihilo. They are formed and then reinforced by the stories we’ve been told, the ones we’ve lived, and those we continue to tell ourselves. When we look closer and dive deeper, when we honestly and bravely name our experiences and memories—especially the ones bound in shame—we are able, bit-by-bit, to choose and step into a new story; a story that is shaped by our own intention, choice, and will.
It’s possible that all of this sounds far too simplistic, as though *just* acknowledging an old story or two about exercise has somehow magically converted me into a water aerobics fan or fitness fanatic. Uh, not so much. But here’s the thing: in my experience, it’s been seemingly small “a-ha’s” like this one, tiny and unexpected glimpses into my subconscious, that wake me up to the possibility of change, to a different story, to one that is completely and wholly mine.
I’ve highlighted this quote before, but it is worth revisiting:
“Those who do not have power over the story that dominates their lives, power to retell it, to rethink it, deconstruct it, joke about it, and change it as times change, truly are powerless.” ~ Salman Rushdie
I hope you’ll join me in endlessly and infinitely looking closely and with tender care at the stories that have dominated your life; that do so even now, even still. I hope you’ll do as Rushdie recommends: retell them, rethink them, deconstruct them, and if appropriate, even joke about them; give yourself permission to change them as times change. You deserve to live the story that you choose, that you write, that you desire. Yes, even if it includes exercise.
May it be so.
