Welcome visitors! This is a blog I haven't updated in over two years it seems. Enjoy reading old posts. Assume that much of what I say here is "present-day me" and that some of it is not "present-day me." But that's kind of how it works, right?
Matt Boswell Writes Things Here
a blog about belief, dialogue, enjoyment, formation, funny, and the road to a PhD
"Before you can search for truth, you must be interested in finding it." -Miroslav Volf
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Friday, April 5, 2013
My Daughter and My Lord
Easter week has come and gone. Easter is arguably the height
of Christian remembrance and practice of the essence of our faith. It’s also a
reminder of how mysterious this all is—that in which we put our faith. There’s
so much I understand, but don’t really understand.
--
I don’t really understand the incarnation. The significance
of the birth of Jesus and presence of God on earth. God became a human? God
became someone that appeared to be a human but was really much more than a human because
that man was actually God? God sent someone on God’s behalf, an ambassador of sorts?
Or maybe in Jesus, a person was born
who would later become “adopted” by God? A person was born who would later grow
to embody everything that God is and stands for? Was this incarnation profoundly unique, or very unique but not that unique?
I don’t really understand the life and teachings and acts of
Jesus. Was he a pacifist? Did he expect us to successfully follow his teachings? Was he
doing away with Judaism or just offering a corrective to it? Did he believe the
end of the world was coming soon?
What’s the “Kingdom of God/heaven” and the
best way to express the character and import of this Kingdom? Did he preach a future judgment based on our good actions or lack thereof? Did he fully understand
his mission and the significance of what he was doing and saying?
I don’t really understand the death of Jesus. What happened
in/on the cross? What changed? Must
Jesus have died? Or was his death not necessary but simply the inevitable conclusion
of the life he lived? Is the cross the centerpiece of our faith, the element on
which everything depends?
Does his death reveal a defeat of the devil? Or, a kind
of substitution, as if Jesus suffered what we would have suffered? Did God kill Jesus? Did Jesus die to inspire us? Did God die on
the cross? Did we die on the cross?
I don’t really understand the resurrection. Was the corpse
of Jesus literally resuscitated and found wandering around for a time? Was he
more like a spiritual, ghost-y figure that could walk through walls? Was it
more of an existential resurrection, a resurrection in the hearts of the first
Christians? Is the Holy Spirit the resurrected form of Christ?
Was it a literal
resurrection but not in a sense we can understand, given our mental limitations and the reality that scientific study increasingly reveals more complexity to what we
call “matter” but is really so much more than matter? Is “Jesus is alive” a trite Christian
phrase whose meaning we can’t articulate very well or can we not articulate it well
because it points to something we know but can’t really put into better words?
And, what does the resurrection—whatever its nature—mean for us? Is it about our potentialities here and now, or does it point to something in an undefined
future moment?
--
I’ve heard the explanations for these things, and like all
Christians, I make choices. You might not think you’ve made a choice from among various ways to articulate the doctrines and events of Christian faith, as if you simply believe the right thing,
or what “actually happened” or “is.” If so, I don’t know what to say to
that.
As for myself, I make choices and, with faith and not certainty, lean toward various
understandings of the four above components of the person and work of Jesus,
and try to trust God on the rest. God is trustworthy, I think; human ability to
articulate mystery and the divine in concise, timeless, easily-digestible
formulas is not as trustworthy.
I don’t understand these mysteries very well. But I think
maybe I understand my daughter a bit better. My daughter, through her actions
and simple existence teaches me so much. Clara is a symbol of mysteries beyond herself.
Clara is a glimpse of life in all its glory.
Life was incarnated, several months ago, in my wife’s womb.
Life came to dwell inside her. I don’t really understand how it happened,
though I’ve read the books and seen the instructional videos (and probably
giggled watching them) and get it.
But I don’t get it. How friendship could lead to courtship could lead to
lifelong commitment could lead to intimate but kind of primal actions that
could lead to a sperm’s quest for "the holy grail" that could lead to the simple
beginnings of a person, tiny but packed with the ingredients for something much
more.
Life lived and in a sense, taught. Life was very much alive
inside Joann, making its presence known. Life, for whatever reason, didn’t get
along flawlessly with Joann’s body, which caused us a lot of problems that we
didn’t take as seriously as we should because, as the now-obnoxious (to me)
saying goes, you don’t know what you don’t know.
Life grew, developed, became.
Life helped us grow, develop, and become as well, as individuals and as a
married couple. Life was inextricably linked to Joann, one with her, their
bodies influencing each other, part of an interdependent reality.
Life died. At least it seemed like that was the direction
things were headed. My tears of confusion and horrific fear flowed that night,
the night that it all happened so fast. I was told my wife might die. I was told my
daughter might die. I’m optimistic, and tend to hope for the best.
But my
personality bent could not defeat the looming possibility that threatened to destroy my world, and so I
broke. I feel anxiety this very moment as I think back to that night. We really
didn’t know what the outcome would be. Things were dark.
Life endured. Life was born early
the next morning. Healthy. Screaming. Kicking. Covered in baby goop (I haven’t
read all of the books I probably
should have). Joann’s body was rocked by it all, but she gradually recovered;
once Life was born, Joann’s body began to heal itself, with proper medical “nudges”
from doctors. Life was beautiful. Life was mine. And I was Life’s. Together we’d
both grow, one playing the role of Father, one the role of Daughter.
Life, or
Clara we call her now, laying there in her little hospital bed or on my chest,
looked at me. I looked in her eyes, and saw so much potential for goodness,
beauty, creativity, for life in abundance. Since that day I have enjoyed the
benefits of my profound experience of Life in Clara, and our story is only
beginning…there’s so much more Life to come.
There is a lot I don’t understand
about God and the meaning of life. But when I look at Clara, these things make
a little more sense.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Can You Buy Me a Hot Dog? I’m Homeless.
Being asked for small amounts of money by people on the
street is a bit bewildering for me. I don’t think I am the only one who
struggles with discerning a right response in these cases, but I’ll try to
speak for myself here and not generalize.
--
--
--
--
Three recent episodes (recreated as precisely as I can
recall) to explain where I’m coming from:
At a Chevron, while pumping gas:
Man, carrying gas can, walking toward me: Hey, I’m not going to ask you for money.
Me: Ok. Hi.
Man: I just need $5 to
get some gas, we’re all out.
Me: No, sorry.
Man walks around, asking several people for gas, all
obviously denying him. To me: Hey, I just
need some gas, could you buy me some?
Me: No, sorry.
Man stands behind and uncomfortably close to me while I pump
gas, looking around for other people to ask. He eventually finds someone to put
some gas in his tank.
At a drive-in Dairy Queen:
Man: Hey, man how you
doing tonight?
Me: Good.
Man (closer): Hey, how
you doing man?
Me: Good.
Man, to DQ attendant: Yeah,
let’s see, I’ll get (looks in wallet)…oh
man, I thought I had a five (opening wallet wide so I can see he’s only got
two ones)…oh that’s right, I spent it on
a haircut. Hey man (to me), do you
have a dollar?
Me: No, sorry.
Man: Alright (to
attendant), I’ll be back in a while. What
time do you close?
Attendant: 9pm.
Man: Alright.
Me, playfully: Don’t
come back at 9:03, they’ll be closed. I learned that the hard way. They take
their schedules seriously.
Man: Oh, alright. Hey,
can you buy me a hot dog? I’m homeless.
Me: No, sorry.
Man: Alright
(walks off).
In Santa Cruz on Pacific Ave:
Man: Hey, do you have
some spare change?
Me: No, sorry.
Man: Ha!
“No, sorry.” I don’t think I invented that line. I feel like
it’s the polite way of saying “I do not intend (nor want) to give you money at
this juncture.” Right? And people asking are intelligent; I would guess they
know the euphemism. Though, I’ve never verified that with someone asking for money. I
should. I will say that most people asking if I can give them money, when I say “no, sorry,”
are very polite and don’t pester or challenge the veracity of my response.
There is so much involved in this; I'm not sure where to start. The
topic on one hand provokes righteous anger and, on the other hand, guilt.
I’m doing some research on Dorothy Day and exploring her
obsessive use of the “works of mercy”—a Catholic teaching based on Scripture
(notably Matthew 25) that includes fourteen corporal (bodily) and spiritual practices
that all have an element of social concern: feed the hungry, visit the sick,
instruct the ignorant, forgive all injuries, among others.
Day is very serious
about the centrality of these practices—this is the heart of the Christian life
for her. She at one point even says “our salvation is at stake” in the successful
practice of these merciful acts. Whether she’s being literal, semi-literal or
rhetorical, she persistently calls people to practice these works and practices
them herself. She calls readers (of her Catholic Worker editorials) to practice
them, at a personal cost. She calls readers to sacrifice. She calls readers to
recognize the humanity of the poor, to dignify them, to recognize their
personhood.
Joann and I tried to meet the needs of others
with a short-lived “project” when we lived in Olympia. We didn’t like giving
away money to people on the street for philosophical and practical reasons, but we wanted to offer something. So we bought a bunch of bottled water and bulk food and made “snack packs” to
distribute when asked (mainly while in the car at intersections). But I think
we (at least I) just became undisciplined and would forget to add new packs to
the car and so our project faltered.
We also used to budget a small amount of money each month to
have on hand, available to distribute in person to whomever and to be given
away by the end of each month. This was a good practice for us. Though I guess
both these practices got lost in the birth of Clara and subsequent move to
California (as well our very different financial situation now that I'm a student again).
But so many thoughts race through my head in (and shortly
after) these kinds of interactions.
One is “make sure you dignify the person. Don’t ignore
him/her.” So even when I do not give out money but I drive past someone at an intersection or walk past someone sitting on the street, I
make a point to smile and say hello. They are already ignored in so many ways.
They make us uncomfortable. Sometimes it even feels silly to say hello, but I
do it. They probably think I’m weird because of how overly friendly I am, at
least in terms of saying hello. Though maybe when I subsequently deny them a
donation they think I’m less friendly.
Another is, “I don’t have money to give.” I might literally
have money in my wallet. I might not. The point is more an overall feeling of
“I really, especially as a husband and father with dependents who is already
taking out student loans, do not have
the money to spare.” But even a dollar? I can afford to buy that new shirt, even
though I have plenty of old shirts that still fit fine.
Another is, “Pressure, confrontation, ah!” It’s an awkward
thing to be asked for money. Sometimes I wonder if maybe my response is really
just an immediate reaction to the situation, as if “no, sorry” really means, “I don’t like
this conversation, make it stop.”
Another is, “well, I give in other ways.” I don’t know how
true that is. Maybe if you define “giving” broadly. I pay for friends’ lunches occasionally
but I don’t give to charitable organizations. I give love, time, prayer,
healthy meals, encouragement, and work hard now so I’ll be in a better place to
financially give later. But…I don’t know. Seems like self-placation.
Another is, “this potential donation will bring about no
systemic change, and this person will continue in this course of life. I’m not
helping them.” I think there’s truth to this; while charitable giving in
isolated incidents might be effective in making a giver feel good about
themselves, may be a good spiritual practice, and may meet an immediate need, it likely doesn’t make much of a dent in the larger social and structural problems causing this person to be in such need that are not being addressed (or are being addressed but the powerful aren’t
listening).
Another is, “forget the previous justification…what about
the simple joy of human contact, of giving, of connecting with someone by
buying them a hot dog, or gas, or a cigarette, or whatever they think they need
(not what I patronizingly determine are their actual needs.) What about the
simple grace of giving someone something when they ask, without hesitation?
Jesus spoke to this.
I don’t have a good answer. I don’t think a consistent
“method” would work for me; I think discernment in the situation is
appropriate. I think remembering that they are people with names and stories
and not just nuisances interrupting my flow/trajectory/expectations is
important. Perhaps I’m lacking compassion. Being selfish. Being disrespectful.
Perhaps I need to go back to snack bags. Perhaps I need to think more about
what it means to give, to be generous, to have a proper relationship to money...what it means to call something "mine."
No easy answer.
--
An addendum: since I wrote the above, the following conversation
happened, while we were sitting in our car, windows down, Clara asleep on
Joann:
Man: Hey, do you have
any spare change? I need something to eat.
Me: Can I give you an
apple?
Man: I don’t have any
teeth.
Me: Oh.
Man: It’s okay, never
mind (walks away).
Monday, March 25, 2013
Farewell, Twenties
I’m now thirty years old (and one+ week). I haven’t yet
really taken the time to decide whether or not that means anything to me. I don’t
feel much different. Maybe I do feel a small degree of pressure to “be”
something or to have “accomplished” something, as if there’s a universal expectation of
what a thirty-year-old should look like. But, not surprisingly, I did not feel
any kind of ontological shift on the day of transition to my thirties. Nor did anyone give me a
jacket and a cigar signifying admission to an exclusive club. So far, thirty just feels like one more than twenty-nine.
But the change in not one but two digits has caused me to reflect back on my twenties and consider all
that transpired in those years. For example, I...
- Went skydiving (thanks to Joann’s prodding).
- Taught English in Xiaogan (near Wuhan), China for a year.
- Got married. Still married.
- Had a daughter. Still have her.
- Tried to co-pastor a church plant and was eventually asked to leave for not being theologically conservative enough.
- Tried to win the hearts of several girls and failed. (Even picked flowers for one girl from five different European countries, pressed and dried them in a picture frame and gave them to her. She was “flattered” and that was about it. Should have just bought her coffee. Wouldn’t mind getting the flowers back, actually.)
- Had four (that I'm aware of) seizures in my sleep over a two-year period. Been free of them since 2008, thanks to chiropractic (who knew?) and God knows what else.
- Remained obsessively and fanatically loyal to a baseball team that missed the playoffs every year of my twenties.
- Stayed in a tiny hostel room in Prague with two gorgeous Argentinean blonds in their skimpy pajamas. And talked religion. I have ambivalent feelings about whether or not I made the most of that experience.
- Completed a BA, started and finished an MDiv, and began a PhD.
- Did two months of grant-funded research on the Latin American “emerging” church, traveling to four countries and learning a ton. Also, while there, visited Machu Piccu and talked a drug dealer out of shooting me.
- Took two trips to Europe—study trip in Western Europe, backpacking in Central Europe.
- Buried my childhood dog after 18 (exclamation point) years.
- Jogged on the Great Wall of China.
- Spent a month in Africa in service and safari.
- Watched my Grandpa—heavily involved in my childhood—decline with Alzheimer’s and eventually pass away.
- Became a cult legend at Tumwater High School for my masterful chaperoning and for wearing a stuffed lion on my head.
- Bought an engagement ring from my then-unofficial-fiancĂ©e (in hundreds) that she had bought on her parents’ credit card earlier that day. Gave it back to her three days later. I mean, "proposed."
- Cried three times (all in the last ten months…damn, almost made it the whole decade...I'm breaking).
- “True, honorable, unsurpassed nobility, duly (dually?) existential as we realiiiizzeee…” (Inside joke, forgive me).
- Had my first kiss. Didn’t happen as a teenager…probably due to some combination of being prudish, awkward, "religious", shy, a pansy, or being unattractive to the girls I was attracted to.
- Worked a short stint at Starbucks right after college (as every good northwest college grad should).
- Ran a marathon.
- Started wearing vests, V-necks, and converse (Joann’s influence). Wore “Boswell shirts” (last inside reference) with great frequency.
- Two Disneyland visits. It gets better the older I get.
- Wrote timeless classics such as “Flee-ber” and “I Want All of Your Clothes to Be Off of Your Body.” One for children and for my wife. Please correctly discern which for whom.
- Had a profound work experience as a direct care worker for three developmentally disabled men. Had a less profound work experience installing outdoor lighting systems (well…digging trenches for a guy who installed outdoor lighting systems).
- Worked for EF International with a team of fabulous teachers. Taught English to a community of Venezuelans, Germans, Saudis, Libyans, Vietnamese, Koreans, Russians, among many others. Occasionally learned English from fellow teacher and word artist Dave.
- Participated in the weddings of Chris, Ron, Brad, Mark, Pat, Vic, Trevor, Dan, Ian, and Matt. And my own wedding, of course.
- Remained thoroughly Jesus-centered but experienced a gradual shift in theology and values. As a 20-year old I felt pity for all those people who didn’t know the Truth. As a 29-year old I felt pity that I knew so little of it. As a 20 year old I thought men should be out rescuing “the beauty” wherever she might be (John Eldridge terminology/thought). As a 29-year-old I thought those same men should be allowed to rescue beautiful men too.
- Faced the scariest moment of my life as I nearly lost my wife to HELLP syndrome (would have had we lived a century earlier).
- Played alto saxophone as a guest artist on a jazz album.
- Moved to the Bay Area. Began referring to our home with the more inclusive term "Bay Area" because San Francisco isn't quite accurate, Berkeley is where our academic and social life are, and no one really knows where Vallejo is, and the part of Vallejo we live in is really not all that Vallejo-ish.
- Tweeted. Once. On July 22, 2012. I wrote: “Clara grunted.”
It was a good decade. And my thirties are off to a good
start: turns out I left my car door open all night! Nothing missing, car started fine. No
indication that anyone or anything (our neighborhood is known as “Skunk Hill”)
slept there last night.
Sunday, March 3, 2013
Who Are Your Spiritual Models?
I have a question for all who pass by this blog. I welcome
any responses you might have, either in the comments section of this post or in
response to the Facebook link that may have brought you here. I will likely
learn something from you and your response, so…feel free to take a moment and
be my teacher. Or you can just ponder the question for a few moments without responding...that might be valuable, too.
My question is this: is there someone whose spirituality—a term
I’ll purposefully leave open and undefined—you deeply admire? Is there one particular person, maybe a mentor, maybe a friend, who
comes to mind when you think of a really “spiritual” person, someone who has
some quality, attribute, way of life, philosophy, pattern of behavior, formal
or informal commitments, whatever—who you look to and say something like: “that’s
the kind of person I’d like to be.”
I’d love to hear from you. Whether you are spiritual but not
religious, religious but not spiritual, spiritual and religious both, or
neither. Whether you are Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, atheist, or one
of the many other religions or spiritualities with which one might identify. Is
there someone, other than a particular “founder” or “centerpiece” of a tradition (so not Jesus, Muhammad, the Buddha, Nietzsche, Elmo, etc) who
possesses a spirituality that you find inspiring or impressive or worthy of
emulation? Someone you’d call a “model”? Someone who makes you think, “if more
people were like (this person), the world would be a better place!”
If you don’t want to share their name, that’s
fine…I’m more curious as to the why. What
is it about this person that makes them a spiritual guide, an exemplar, an
ideal? For example, maybe they possess astounding generosity. Maybe they sing
songs in church with an inspiring level of passion and abandon. Maybe they live
an extraordinarily simple life, free of attachments, material goods, etc. Maybe
their prayers inspire you. Maybe they are in touch with beauty in a way you
could only hope to be. Maybe they spent countless hours helping people with some kind of need. The list could go on.
They could be someone you’ve never met but only read about. But they might be someone you know personally, someone you brush shoulders
with, someone whose life, values, actions, etc. you can vividly draw to your mind because you've seen them in action. What is it about them that makes them a spiritual exemplar, that is to say, a model of what it means to be truly spiritual? Is there
something you can point to and say, “that’s it—I want more of that in my life?”
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