Boundaries and Cows

This morning at church, in an introduction to the ten commandments, Pastor Katherine began discussing the craze with American flags after 9/11. She compared them to cows.

When a cow senses a predator, it begins to moo. The moo means "I'm a cow. Are there other cows around?" Other cows hear the moo and join in, congregating together until there are a big group of cows, surrounding and protecting each other in a world of danger. The moo is a symbol of identity and a call to community. So to speak. (After all, we are discussing cows)

Some are familiar with the mathematical/theological issue of bounded vs. centered set. This mumbo-jumbo is basically the question of whether our communities of faith are bound together by what is at the heart of our shared life, or the outward boundaries of what separate us from others. The 10 commandments became those boundaries for the ancient Hebrews, wandering in the wilderness, learning what it means to become the people of God.

In a patriarchal nomadic society, God's revelation of Himself became concrete in ten laws that embodied his character and His relationship with the Hebrew people. Rights and responsibilties were outlined, human dignity upheld. They must not act in ways that dishonor or mistreat one another, such as murder, theft or false testimony in court; they must honor and care for aging parents; the men who hold power in this patriarchal society must not misuse it; wives, slaves, and even livestock must never be exploited for personal satisfaction.

As powerful as they are , these laws do not function abstractly or in a vacuum. They were given to a particular people in a time and place in history, and in a covenental context. When stripped of this, they can be easily misused, such as children from abusive families being told to honor their parents despite mistreatment.

As communities also shaped by God's revelation in Jesus, we remember his summary of the law-- to love God and neighbor wholeheartedly with all the force, resources and passion we possess. His life and words and power are the center of our lives and communities of faith, drawing us in to Himself even when the outward boundaries are unclear. Even when the cows are mooing and trying to group themselves against an unknown predator, the wrangler is the one who keeps them safe.

And thus ends the spiritual lesson of cows.

Language and Education

Wandering through the hall at Cal State LA, it was screaming out to me from the bulletin board of the special education department. African-American and Hispanic children are diagnosed with autism at least a year and a half later (on average) than white children. If Hispanic, they're assumed to be delayed due to second-language problems; if African-American they're discounted as having behavioral issues. Once diagnosed, they are far less likely to receive the services they need. Low-income communities don't have the money or social capital to launch the exhaustive legal battles required to get the government to pay what every handicapped child is technically required to receive. Actually, some are muttering that the schools don't have the money anyway.

On NPR the other day, CDC was quoted as saying that autism is a national health crisis. 1 in 150 children are now classified as on the autistic spectrum. And yet some children move forward in learning communication/social/functional life skills, and others remain in the shadows.

Now rewind the tape a little to last week, while I was observing a Speech therapist at a school in Pasadena. The therapist is a wonderful woman who does her job well, but I couldn't believe my ears when she began commenting on his African-American dialect. "He has no phonemic awareness. I keep trying to get it into his head that it's "ask" and not "aks".

African-American English has been extensively researched by linguists and established as a legitimate rule-governed dialect of English, with complex verb tenses that don't even exist in Standard American English. The American Speech-Language Hearing Association (ASHA) puts diversity issues front and center on their website, as well as requiring them to be addressed in master's programs. Yet, on the level of children receiving speech services in the schools, the same incongruities, injustices and inconsistencies remain.

How do I even begin to imagine my role in this world where so much has gone wrong?

Daydreams

The notes below were hastily written a few weeks ago to myself, a reminder of things bigger than myself, while reading a book on counseling clients with communication disorders. Individuals, families and communities are hit hard by stroke, childhood disability, brain injury or degenerative disease... SLP's like myself are some of the people placed to absorb their stories and work with them on the road to grieving and coping and healing.

• group counseling/sharing sessions are an ethnographic experience, understanding where people are coming from is the basis for reconciliation, problem-solving and effective ways of helping ourselves and one another.
  
• problem-solving in community support groups is the path toward resolving family/ethnic divisions, and for providing solutions to communication challenges, coping with the grief of disabilities
• The classroom/therapy center is a means of bringing diverse groups together, humanizing eachother through shared experiences of grief
• Christ's transformation in the midst of grief and loss, His principles for relating to one another, solving social concerns, living our lives, handling grief and pain

Learning to lament

These last few years have taught me about the gift of lament. The year after my college graduation in '05, I watched at a distance as our world was rocked by surge after surge of devastation: the 7/7/05 London bombings, hurricane Katrina, the Pakistan earthquake, the genocide in Darfur, the war in Lebanon. It was affecting me personally, on a deep gut level, to the point where I didn't know how to pray anymore. "Dear Lord, now I lay me down to sleep, please bless the children shelled in Lebanon and raped in Darfur" just didn't seem to be adequate.

It wasn't.

At the same time, I was going through inward turmoil in some areas of my life, gritting my teeth against unanswered prayer. I was seeing heartache in the lives of my friends. I was angry at God.

It was then that I realized the power of those depressing psalms, the ones I usually skip over when I'm laying myself down to sleep and want comfy bedtime reading. You know, the ones that say things like "The best of [our days] are but trouble and sorrow" (Psalm 90) or "How long, Lord? Will you hide yourself forever?" (Psalm 89) or "I am worn out calling for help; my throat is parched. My eyes fail, looking for my God." (Psalm 69)

Brutal honesty, raw anger, utter helplessness, true humanity.

Denise Ackermann, in "After the Locusts", helped me to see that these songs of lament are subversive; we name the evil for what it is because we will not accept that things should be this way. We cling to God's justice and call on Him because of His character and His promises. We sing the songs defiantly in the face of all that has gone wrong, daring to believe that evil will not have the last word.

Boenhoffer writes, "Suffering must be endured in order that it may pass away". Mysteriously, as we participate in the weeping and struggling of life, we are part of that renewal process, along with Christ Himself. I don't understand it, but it helps to know that my tears are not in vain; they are paving the way to make all things new.

Somehow, we are not only made to endure the suffering, but to experience joy. I've always seen these at odds with each other. It seems impossible to acknowledge depravity and suffering for what it is, and still to be joyful. But maybe my understanding of joy is far too narrow, too shallow, too naive. I want a soul that is full of depth and nuance, that is able to enfold the human experiences of others, in all of their stark reality, and to meet them in the place where the hand of God dips into our lives.

In the godforsaken, obscene quicksand of life
there is a deafening alleluia
rising from the souls
of those who weep
and of those who weep with those who weep.

--Ann Weems, upon the death of her son
(From "After the Locusts", by Denise Ackermann)