Sunday, August 16, 2015


This is the sixth blog post for the Companions on the Inner Way summer retreat. The featured speaker is Enuma Okoro.

You can find the other blog posts here:

Blogging for Companions on the Inner Way: It’s Not About Me. 

Seeking Home: Where Do We Come From? 

Who Have We Become?


At the second-to-the-last Lectio Divina group, the passage was I Peter 2:10. My word was “mercy.” 

Well. I’m so good with mercy as a policy (people who have served time for the felony for which they were convicted should get the right to vote in all 50 states!). But when it comes to myself or others with whom I’m in relationship? Not so much. Sometimes I’m so wrapped up in all the stuff that I miss the whimsy and delight and mercy around me. Here’s a reminder of the mercy I have received and the mercy I might consider extending to everyone, especially the people I know. 

Usually, and maybe this is because I’m a pastors’ kid, by the second or third worship in a row, I feel the temptation to skip it. That’s because I never skipped any worship as a kid (I really missed out on potential rebellion and I’m a little bit disappointed in myself). 

I didn’t want to skip any worship at Companions. I ducked out of the healing service early, but that was due to needing to call home at midnight eastern time. And it left me wracked with guilt and feeling disrespectful. (This may explain why I never skipped as a kid.)

It was worth not skipping. The preacher for the Thursday afternoon worship was Scott Quinn. He had me at “Star Trek.” The sermon, with a reading from I Peter 2:9-10, opened with sadness about the death of Leonard Nimoy and confessions of devotion to Star Trek. The character of Spock lived a paradox, never quite fitting in. The scripture reading tells us the hearers didn’t quite fit in because of their faith. They are urged to live that paradox. 

Whether insider or outsider, we belong to God. 

Not fitting in can be positive. Those of us who feel we don’t fit in are forced to look elsewhere for happiness. We can’t look for external validation; we have to look inside. We find belonging in God, in belonging to a purpose beyond ourselves. 

Those of us who are fans of Star Trek remember that in “The Wrath of Khan” (the second movie in the classic Star Trek series, for you newbies), Spock says, “The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one.” 

We are given community; in community, we are re-membered. We are reminded whose we are. Sometimes, the needs of the one outweigh the needs of the many (cf. “Star Trek III: The Search for Spock”). Each one is precious enough for the community to sacrifice on her or his behalf. Each one belongs to God and a purpose bigger than yourself. 

The preacher for the final morning worship was Enuma Okoro, a treat for those of us who had been journeying with her throughout the week.  The first reading was  from the book “Passion for Pilgrimage” by Ellen Jones (the section I caught was, “I do belong to God, and this love affair is true”), and the second reading was from Isaiah 43:1.

Enuma shared that where she is from, a name is given to a child on her or his eighth day at a naming ceremony with the elders, in the hope that the child will grow into her or his name. Names say something about who we are and who we could be. In Scripture, God does a lot of naming and re-naming.

We’re familiar, of course, with Jacob being re-named Israel, Sarai and Abram being re-named Sarah and Abraham. A new name means a shift in identity, a new direction. 

Some of us have taken on names or been given names that are not leading us closer to God. We experience people telling us who are, naming us as failures. We take on false names and labels, which make us smaller. One of Satan’s weapons, Enuma said, “is to try to convince us that we are not already named, that we do not belong.” 

But God has already given us names: saint, friend, daughter, son, beloved. We are already named, and God expects us to walk into that name. To be beloved means God is walking with you. “Beloved” is to be beckoned home.

I neglected to tell you we held hands and sang and walked when the retreat began. We did the same as the retreat closed. This was lovely and meaningful, but it was about ten times less lovely because I’m a sympathy crier. At an event like this, a lot of people are dealing with a lot of things. Having space with God in community can remind you of your preciousness, provide you the space to grieve those lost. So when others cried, I almost cried. Ugh, empathy. Messy. (I’m sure empathy is a gift, right? I just hate crying.)

On the way home, with three flights I had plenty of time to think. 

Things I will miss:
Morning prayer by the lake
Structure for prayer and engagement with the holy in community
Singing multiple times a day

Things I’m looking forward to:
2-ply toilet paper
Coffee at its appropriate strength
A whole week of meals with no processed soy products
Squeezing my friends’ baby
Internet fast enough for talking with nieces

If you are interested in attending a Companions retreat, next year’s retreat in Malibu will be February 28 and March 4, next year’s summer retreat at Lake Tahoe will be August 7-12, and the first weekend retreat will be October 14-16 in Newport Beach, CA. The weekend would be a great format for those of you who find it hard to take an entire week away. 

I’m so grateful for the opportunity to attend the Companions retreat and to get to blog for these good folks! And now that I’m back to the office, I carry with me a sense of delight cultivated by the past week.  

Thursday, August 13, 2015

Exile and Belonging

Questions for the reader are in a different font.

This is the fifth blog post for the Companions on the Inner Way summer retreat. The featured speaker is Enuma Okoro.

You can find the other blog posts here:

Blogging for Companions on the Inner Way: It’s Not About Me. 

Seeking Home: Where Do We Come From? 

Who Have We Become?



After our break yesterday, we had our Lectio group. The Scripture passage was John 15:18-21.

I am not particularly fond of the Gospel of John. And this is a particularly uncomfortable passage. The phrase that stood out to me was “on account of my name.”

What the heck is that about? I wondered.

I went to the art room (at least I’m persistent, eh?) and started with oil pastels. I wanted to draw the vortex that can be the national church.

I’m not saying this because I don’t love my work, or where I work, or my colleagues. It is a natural hazard of being national staff that it can become a vortex, both in the sense of how the place can feel during busy times, the number of hours I could work if I were feeling particularly unhealthy, and in the sense that in some settings you become a natural magnet for everyone’s complaints.

But I thought, “it’s about the call.” I don’t think that being national staff is akin to persecution. It is a privilege and a gift! I get to see things most people don't that are awesome. (Besides, I get to help publish books!) It’s just another way to serve the church. I wouldn't trade it for anything. I think following God’s call, however, can be a tricky beast. It gives life, and it can be very hard. Sometimes there are roses, sometimes the Holy Spirit shows up and says “I told you so!” and some times there are lovely gifts to be had. So. On account of the name.

When someone asks a why question, I always say “Jesus” – it’s a joke, but it’s true! Jesus is the reason!

Here’s my art. As you can see, I’m not 100% sure how oil pastels and watercolors work. I thought I’d contrast my work with my brother’s. You can find him at and if you click on his art, you'll be directed to his website in another window.


My brother's:

"In the Void"

"Sparks on Third"

Yesterday afternoon, I had a moment. I was getting tired. Writing makes me tired. Doing all the spiritual stuff can make me tired. And I was way behind on my Fitbit challenge with my colleagues. (I think being at 6500 feet elevation should give me extra points, but it doesn’t work like that.) So I had diet Pepsi at dinner. The beginning of the end.

After dinner was worship. Now, I thought it was a healing service, nothing more. Nope. It was a full service with the Eucharist and then a healing service. I love the Eucharist at every worship, provided the logistics aren’t too complex. I’m still impressed that at every Eucharist, the celebrants are wearing a different set of stoles that match the cloth over the altar. I was clearly tired, because I didn’t bring a note-taking device with me, which is why there are no Tweets from last night’s service!

Sharon Edwards was the preacher; the kind of preacher that makes me want to hang it all up and just go hear her. First, no manuscript. Second, completely coherent. Third, embodied.

I remember my own interpretation of the sermon, so forgive the inaccuracies. She pointed out that exile is not always a place we go. Sometimes it is waiting at home, and we get tossed into it. Sometimes exile finds us.

Exile is hard. In exile, sometimes it is all you can do to breathe. Being able to breathe is the first struggle. And when you can catch your breath, you might ask God “where are you?” And God says, “I’m in your breath.” Perhaps is it is no accident that the Hebrew word for the Spirit of God is ruach, interpreted as “breath” or “wind.” But exile is not all bad. Exile can give us new eyes; we can see new things.

This morning, I finally took a photo of the morning prayer by the lake. It is a series of movements, singing, readings, and a breath prayer. It is pure bliss.

When we gathered for our morning session, we began with a slide show of images and readings and song. Today’s theme was: “A People’s for God’s Own Possession: Belonging to God.”

The Scripture passage for the day is Isaiah 44:1-5.

We talked about Jacob, and about God’s covenant with Jacob. Belonging to God, Enuma Okoro, the speaker, pointed out, isn’t easy. Based on this relationship between Jacob and God, being God’s people means a lifetime of wrestling. This passage says, whatever happens, I am God’s. I am already claimed. And I belong to a people (generations of them) who are God’s.

As a reminder, a covenant is a binding contract, and in this relationship, we see Jacob is bound to God’s purpose and love. He wasn’t bound because he was perfect (Enuma said, “Jacob was kind of a scoundrel.”), but because he is claimed by God in who he is. After wrestling with the angel of God, Jacob walked with a limp. Every step was a reminder of the wrestling and the blessing.

We were invited to draw how our bodies feel. We had to illustrate how we feel, physically. As the speaker said, many of us are taught to think with our heads and our hearts, but taught to ignore our physical bodies, and what they are telling us. She invited us to consider these questions:

Draw your body. How does my body feel? How does my stomach feel? How does my heart feel? Imprisoned? Scared? How do my hands feel? Why? Do they feel empty or fumbling?

Here is my drawing. For a fun contrast, I included one of my brother’s figure paintings.


My brother's:

After we drew our bodies, we engaged in a conversation with God. We imagined God was looking at our image with us, and asking us questions about it. We wrote God’s questions in pen with our dominant hand, and answered the question as ourselves in our non-dominant hand with colored pencil.

What does God want to know about your self-portrait?

Not surprisingly, in my conversation with God, God came off a little sarcastic. Unfortunately, in my imagination, God is like a little too much like me. Big oops. And I didn’t get to how my body FEELS in the first page. (I have a former therapist who used to say, “I hear how you THINK but how do you FEEL?” Apparently I’m not perfect yet.)

God in black ink: Those dark circles under your eyes... um...
Me in purple colored pencil: I'm tired, but I'm having too much fun to sleep.

Then we gathered in small groups to look over our prayer cards in groups. We did a shared exercise, in which we asked a question that we’re mulling over, and we looked at each card, in order, to answer the question. When you have three minutes to use your card to explain an answer to a question, and you have that time for three different cards, with nonjudgmental listeners, a lot can happen. I’m grateful.




What are you working through, or asking about, in your life? What do your prayer cards show you?

Now, onto other important things. I put on my swimsuit to write this blog post because I really want to get in the water. This is where I’m headed. And here are some flowers for you, lovely reader.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015


Questions for the reader are in a different font.

This is the fourth blog post for the Companions on the Inner Way summer retreat. The featured speaker is Enuma Okoro.

You can find the other blog posts here:

Blogging for Companions on the Inner Way: It’s Not About Me. 

Seeking Home: Where Do We Come From? 

Who Have We Become?

Exile and Belonging


Yesterday’s afternoon worship involved no internet access, so I didn’t tweet the sermon, delivered by Roché Vermaak. He preached as Joseph. He had several great lines, like “my brothers hated me for my Technicolor dream coat” and “we had a slightly dysfunctional family.” He also said that he (as Joseph) had made Egypt into his home, but after the reconciliation with his brothers, home was with his family in Egypt. Letting go of past resentments helped make a new home. Letting go is not the same as forgetting. We have to deal with the past in order to live in the future.

(As a side-note, I have to say that the conference staff are impressive. They are always moving around the worship space, keeping it fresh with different arrangements and elements. And the music is pretty darn amazing.)

The Scripture for last night’s Lectio Divina group session was Genesis 45:3-5.

I found a website about Lectio Divina that might be helpful.

The word that stood out to me, or “glimmered,” was “presence.” I have no clue as to why. But as we did further reflection, and went away and did some art and some prayer-walking, things became a little clearer.

I call this “Presence.”

Presence: I rarely feel alone. This is in part because I have great community, even if they live far away, and because after a childhood of running around in the woods and years spent in large cities, I know I’m never alone. There is always some critter or someone else out for a walk. And the cosmos is full of life. But presence is not necessarily something that can be controlled. It isn’t a docile pet.

I have also been thinking a lot about presence, because I know a few people who have been in Ferguson, being presence in the midst of vigils and protests and important work. I struggle with how I can be a presence for social change, as a couple of earlier efforts to be present and in solidarity without going to Ferguson did not exactly pan out. I've been in marches and vigils and actions in New York, Chicago, and Atlanta for various causes related to police brutality, war, worker justice, banking reform, and ending the death penalty, but I still haven't been able to participate in anything in Louisville, where I now live. And I'm not sure I would be the right person to show up at Ferguson, a year late. I can do important work within institutional structures, and none of what I do is visible. Of what use is my presence, really?

This morning I went down to the lake early. I might do the same thing again tomorrow, since I have yet to find time to use the bathing suit I brought with me.

Today’s session was about exile, or unbelonging. Of course, exile can mean many things. We were invited to consider what it is like when home is a place of exile, or when we feel we are in exile from a person or from a place.

What are the periods of exile in your life?

The Scripture passages were John 15:18-21 and Jeremiah 29.

As I listened to Enumo Okoro speak, and reflected on exile and unbelonging, I thought of a few things. The first is that the church can be a place that is both home and a place of unbelonging. This pertains particularly to those who are not cisgendered heterosexuals. Too often, people who identify as non-gender-conforming or transgender or gay or lesbian or queer find that the churches that raise them are also places of rejection. Some of us are incredibly fortunate, and never have that experience. But just because the church has changed its policy doesn’t mean individual churches are equipped to be true homes.

The other thing that came up for me is my relative comfort with exile. I’ve been in exile for years. Currently, it has to do with where I live. Sometimes it’s great. Sometimes it’s tiring. When people ask me where I’m from, I say I live in Kentucky, but I’m from the west. (After living for 15 years east of the Mississippi, the amount of land in the west I’m willing to claim as home has expanded dramatically. Sometimes I’m happy just to get as far west as Denver.) I live in the south, but I am not of the south. In the discussion we had in pairs, I started laughing, because after having had five years in the south, I now defend the south to people who look down on it or don’t understand it.

Yes, you heard that correctly. I defend the south, because the south isn’t just Fox News and Duck Dynasty. It is also Moral Mondays and queer activism and a fantastic food culture.

Exile isn’t always bad for me. But it is not just about location. It is also that I do not always fit into my social or professional group because of my Asian American biraciality. Just because I identify as Asian American or as a person of color doesn’t mean it’s easy for me to connect with Asian Americans and with people of color. The way my denomination is structured is that each racial or cultural group that isn’t white has its own group (caucus). But how you get connected with the caucus is either you do a lot of national church work (me) or you belong to a racially-specific or culturally-specific congregation that relates to the caucus. People like me, who are people of color but not affiliated with a culturally-specific (non-white) congregation, are not universally connected with the caucus. I really love my time with the Asian American caucus, and they have been nothing but welcoming, but it takes extra work on both our parts to be in relationship. It’s not bad. It’s just how it is for me.

The value of these explorations in community wasn’t lost on me. As the speaker pointed out, our individual paths and journeys are grounded in the larger Christian narrative, which already has an ending.

Walter Brueggemann writes about exile, of course. In Jeremiah 29:4-7, God makes it clear that being in exile is its own sort of call. The people are given instructions (build houses and live in them, plant fields and eat from them) that are about what they are to do in exile. They are to really live it. They are to make themselves at home, even marrying their children to others already in the land.

And because I consider myself somewhat in exile, it was striking when Enuma Okoro pointed out the text indicates that exiles can still be beloved and chosen. Exile is not forever. It does not mean God will forget you.

We listened to a partner’s story of exile. And then we did art about not-belonging. Here is mine.

What does un-belonging look like for you?

The last time we moved, we rushed to unpack. And we didn’t unpack important files or our clothes. We unpacked linens and put up art on the first floor. We made sure beds were made for guests and the vases for fresh flowers were available. A few months after the move, and I’m still pulling out clothes from boxes. Fresh linens and flowers and art are far more important to feeling settled and at home, even in a land I don’t yet much appreciate. We have people over for dinners and drinks and an open house, hosted a work retreat, had family for a few days, and we felt at home in the midst of exile.

A life-long question for me, that the speaker also raised, is how we go one without feeling we are home. (Clearly, I put out art and make up the guest beds and gather friends around for food and conversation.) Perhaps God is really our home, whether or not we are in our place of belonging or un-belonging. Even in exile, we are accompanied.

When you feel a sense of not-belonging, of exile, do you make your home in the midst of it?

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

Who Have We Become?

Questions for the reader are in a different font, and resources are listed at the bottom

This is the third blog post for the Companions on the Inner Way summer retreat. 

You can find the first here: Blogging for Companions on the Inner Way: It’s Not About Me. 

And the second here: Seeking Home: Where Do We Come From? 

The fourth blog is here: UnBelonging

Here is the fifth: Exile and Belonging

And the sixth: Beloved

Here is an afternoon Lake Tahoe photo for you.

We left off yesterday during the afternoon break, the only time I can realistically write a blog post. After time to pray, relax, enjoy Lake Tahoe, or work (me), we reconvened with worship. The preacher was Jenna Meyers, on staff at Seventh Avenue Presbyterian Church, which houses Companions. She preached about Elijah.

As Jenna says, stories help us peek below the surface of what is ordinary. Elijah’s encounter with the angel who feeds him after he prepares himself for death is full of ordinary things that do the extraordinary: a jar of water, a bush, a cake. He has enough for forty days.

The preacher shared that ever since she moved away from home, her mother has sent her full birthday cakes made from scratch, complete with candles to light and blow out. This cake might seem ordinary, but in times of feeling homesick, it reminded her where she belonged. The chocolate from her mother’s cupboard, water from Denver, baked in the family oven. A simple, ordinary object can become overlaid with memories and tap into a deep well of perseverance.

What ordinary object reminds you of where you belong? What ordinary thing helps you through difficult times?

After dinner, we met in our Lectio Divina groups. For those of you who aren’t familiar with the practice of Lectio Divina, it is a way of reading the Scriptures while allowing lots of space for the Spirit to speak. Or maybe a way to let the Spirit sneak through the cracks of our lives and holler, “Gotcha!”

The Scripture for reflection was Deuteronomy 26:1-2. I’m not really into colonialism, which of course is what I heard immediately in this passage, but I focused on the word “ground.” I’m having issues with ground right now. Ever since leaving Chicago five years ago, I’ve felt like I’m merely floating along the top of where I live. I find good restaurants, good friends and neighbors, and nice places to hang out, along with a good church, but I’m less good about digging in and getting invested in the place. Learning the politics of Atlanta was very challenging, and trying to care about Louisville, where I have lived for just a year, is really hard for me.

This group gathering lasted 90 minutes, but it didn’t feel like too long, because we had space in the middle to go off and consider the scripture and the question, and the intimacy of the conversation was a gift.

Also, I did art. Check me out! I did art!

The top photo is supposed to be Kentucky, where I live. I’m the round tree and spouse is the palm tree. Maybe. I kept working with the same scratch-off piece of paper, and so the second is Kentucky’s Cumberland Falls at night with a moonbow, one of two waterfalls with moonbows in the world. I think I’m going to try to get connected to the ground where I actually live, not the ground where I wish I lived. As I told my group, I maybe shouldn’t be following the baseball in Seattle and the politics in Chicago and whatever else is going on in New York. I just need to figure out Louisville.

Last night was the first compline service, which I love. Yeah, I love sitting in a dark room lit only by candles, with song and silence and scripture and prayer.

(It occurs to me that my stuff with maybe sucking at spirituality isn’t a lack of knowledge, or even of practice. It’s that I just don’t really engage in it in my usual life. And because I have no choice this week, I’m finding that it is comfortable. I slip right back into it, and find meaning in it.)

Speaker Enuma Okoro set the theme for this morning: “Who Have We Become?” What are the key experiences that shape our sense of self and belonging? She then asked participants why we were drawn by the topic of home and belonging.

Answers varied, of course. Belonging can be anywhere, for someone whose home is always shifting. Some find home in community, in church, in self, in another person, with God. For some it is a landscape, or a childhood home, or a way of being. As we move more and more in our society, how do we maintain a space where we are nourished? When we are nourished, we are able to go out and nourish others. Sometimes there is a need to let go of old homes and old belongings that no longer fit us or are safe for us.

Enuma spoke about the key moments in our lives that shift the understanding of self. She thinks of them as doorways. Donald Miller calls them “story turns.” We were asked to think about those story turns that impact how we interpret our own lives/selves. Perhaps it is a loss of some kind that alters who we are becoming and where we belong.

To illustrate story turns, we looked at Joseph’s story in Genesis 39 through 41. A major story turn is when Joseph was betrayed by his brothers and sold into slavery. We practiced reading parts of Joseph’s story out loud and suggesting potential titles of the story turns. We also looked at how many of his story turns might have started out positive or negative, but were the opposite in hindsight after knowing his life story.

The following exercises come from Donald Miller's excellent work. (You can find out more about his work here: His book is listed at the bottom of the blog post.

An exercise: Think about the story turns in your own lives. Write down one for each age increment:
Give each story turn a title, assign it “positive” or “negative,” and give it a description.

We turned the journal of the exercise above into a timeline. On the top of the timeline: titles of positive story turns. On the bottom, titles of negative story turns.

In your story turns, what are the themes that have emerged from your life? Have negative stories been redeemed?

I won’t post mine here, because it needs more work. But I found something interesting… even the negative story turns had been redeemed one way or another (and probably thanks to all the therapy). I was able to grow in my sense of self. And the positive story turns were about growing in love. For instance, the story turn in the 21 to 25 range was the delightful discovery that the world is a lovely and big place, and so is the church. I was one of the Presbyterian representatives to a small World Council of Churches consultation of only women, and there I learned to not worry about the demise of denominations (honey, there are so many Christians all over the world), and I found there is so much more to learn. Learning is a beautiful thing.

I wasn’t able to come up with a story turn for my current age, which is perhaps because I have no distance, and distance helps us see ourselves more clearly.

The homework assignment is as follows:
Give yourselves five minutes on a timer. Write “I have come from…” and write until the time is up. Re-set the timer for five minutes and write “I am going to…” and write until the timer is up. Do you notice anything that helps you understand where home is, has been, could be?

We ended the morning with soul collage work. The prompts for our collage were the following: Acknowledge our lives are intricate. Don’t think. Just gather what grabs you.

Here is my collage, entitled: “Loved and Freed: But I Sure Do Work My Ass Off.” Includes empty space for growth.

We shared our collages with a conversation partner. We began with “I am the one who…” And when we had no more to say, our partners said, “And then?” to keep us talking. Try it. It’s a neat exercise.

Some book resources for you

Donald Miller's book is Storyline

by Elizabeth Liebert

Just now published!

by Elizabeth Liebert

by Howard Rice

by Marjorie Thompson

Monday, August 10, 2015

Seeking Home: Where Do We Come From?

This is the second blog post for the Companions on the Inner Way summer retreat.

You can find the first here: Blogging for Companions on the Inner Way: It’s Not About Me.

And here is the third: Who Have We Become?

The fourth is here: UnBelonging

Here is the fifth: Exile and Belonging

Here is the sixth: Beloved

Questions for the reader are in a different font, and resources are listed at the bottom.

The conversation last night and this morning introduced us to the topic for the week. The speaker, Enuma Okoro has been considering the topic of home and belonging, and is sharing that with the participants at this week’s Companions retreat. What is home, and where do we belong? She asked us to consider how we incarnate home and belonging in our own diverse lives.

We began with stories. Stories, as Enuma says, shape us. They are sacred, and form the unique spaces we come from. Today was a chance to honor where we come from.

This question of where we come from is a bit touchy for me. That’s in part because as an Asian American, one of the most frequent (and annoying) questions my fellow Asian Americans and I get is “where are you from?” Typically, “Seattle” or “Houston” is not the answer people are looking for. These people are not digging for where we’re from, they are trying to figure out our ethnicity. Why this is a game for people who aren’t Asian American (especially for white people), I’m not sure. Well, obviously, racism, the perpetual foreigner, blah blah.

It’s touchy for me on another level because I come from a family that moves. My mother told me she counted 19 times through the course of my parents’ marriage. My partner and I have moved seven or eight times. Many of these moves are within the same area, but many are interstate. When I visit my parents, I'm not going back to the same house where I grew up. I have been formed by each place I have lived. What is home?

Enuma invited us to think about another way of defining where we are from. We started by writing a poem.

I’m all about words, but not so much the poetry. I can engage in literary criticism of a poem, or use a poem as a reflection in worship, but I do not write it. So thanks, Enuma, for giving me a format I could use!

First draft of where I’m from. (Don’t overthink it, people. I sure didn’t.)

I am from coffee, from Trader Joe’s and Keen’s
I am from open
I am from evergreen needles
I am from New Year’s day parties and a love of reading from Satoru and Diana and Howard
I am from try-everything-once and listen-to-everyone’s-problems
From “find one good thing about the person you dislike the most” and “choose your battles”
I am from grounded, not closed
I am from San Francisco, challah, satsumage, and bacalao
From the rain-drenched asphalt and critical race theory
I am from both/and.

Where are you from? What defines you? 

The Scripture to ground the conversation was Deuteronomy 26:1-8. It gives a narrative, as interpreted in the rabbinic tradition, instilled in Jewish people. Here is the gist of what Enuma shared: If the wandering Aramean is Laban, without Laban having cheated Jacob, Joseph would not have had those older brothers, so he would not have been sold into slavery, and the Hebrew people would not have been enslaved in Egypt. Instilling a narrative into each generation affects our sense of self.

Science has shown that those who have a sense of their family stories have a stronger sense of belonging. According to one study, “the more children knew about their family’s history, the stronger their sense of control over their lives, the higher their self-esteem and the more successfully they believed their families functioned.”

In this vein of knowing where we come from, and exploring our narratives, we were all instructed to draw a family tree that went back to our great-grandparents. We were asked to consider what the family tree reveals to us, how much of our family story we don’t know, and which people in the family tree stand out.

Draw your family tree. What does it tell you about yourself? About your family?

I do not have a picture for you, because I didn’t have something to write with besides my computer (and a family tree in a document format is terribly unwieldy). My family system is also made particularly challenging by the adoptions (especially the open one), divorces, remarriages, multiple sets of siblings with different wives (it’s always new wives in my family), the family members that have cut each other off, and the fact that there is an entire branch of the family that isn’t technically related by blood or by marriage, but by circumstance/proximity/shared history. I couldn’t draw it if I tried. Besides, even if I tried, I’m pretty sure there are some family members or ex-spouses I’m not supposed to mention. (This right here is when I get very grateful that my parents and I and my partner have been through extensive therapy.)

We were then asked to consider what are the two or three instilling narratives we were raised with.

The predominant narratives I was raised with, which I assume were largely unintentional, are the following:

Japanese American internment. Two entire generations of my family were removed from their homes and schools and businesses and farms and placed for several years into concentration camp. That is why I still hoard boxes (I might have to leave at any time) and I’m pretty sure that’s how I ended up with a multiracial family (80% of the generation born after internment married out). My adult interpretation of the impact of this narrative is the following: your government can turn on you for who you are, so be ready to pick up and go. Don’t expect anyone else to speak up on your behalf. But because you have experienced this, it’s your duty to speak up for others who are victims of the government.
“He’s white, but at least he’s Jewish.” We are discussing my dad. The narrative of the white Jewish side of the family wasn’t lost on me growing up, and my adult interpretation is this: the Jewish side of the family came to this country fleeing persecution, and ended up dealing with anti-Semitism in the U.S. for generations, so it is our duty to pay attention to those who are marginalized.
Religion. My Christian upbringing shaped virtually everything about me. But because we have Buddhist/atheist/Unitarian (y’all get your own category)/Jewish/Pentecostal/ mainline Protestant/Catholic/no affiliation relatives (oh, add Muslim now), just because I adhere to one religion doesn’t mean it’s the only way of being with a significant contribution to make to society. And I’m not allowed to make my religion the dominant one in the room. That’s rude.

What family narratives have shaped you?

These musings have been interspersed with other types of spiritual disciplines.

As for spiritual disciplines, here’s where we stand. I’m going to try everything at least twice. This morning, I was a little late to the prayer by the lake. There was scripture, song, and movement. We did a breath prayer together. The facilitator read from Margaret Wheatley’s Turning to One Another, a book I have used for my own facilitation. One of the questions asked “what is important to the people I care about?” And because my Twitter and Facebook timelines had been blowing up about Ferguson in the past twelve hours, that’s all I could think about.

I haven’t walked the labyrinth yet this week (I’ve walked labyrinths plenty of other times, so I’m not in a rush). But this is where it is placed. Not a bad location.

Later this morning, we made a collage reflecting on the themes of the morning. (Yes, that’s a picture of the Rev. Dr. Christine Hong. I found it among our photo options and couldn’t help myself.) Clearly, I find home in food and nature and large cities and dialogue in difference. Because I tried not to overthink it, I completed the collage in record time. My number one challenge to this spirituality thing: the inability to slow down.

After the collage, I returned to do my own art project. I didn’t overthink it, so that may be why I ended up with glitter paint around the tissue paper. What does it mean? Who knows.

I’m now questioning how I am treating this whole week. Am I treating it like work, or am I treating it like a genuine exploration of the spiritual life?

I think I’m treating it like work. This isn’t altogether bad; I’m here for work. I have things to do. That’s why I’m attending everything and trying new things at least twice. Make a to-do list, check off the items as they are completed.

However, I find myself faced with a challenge. Suppose the spiritual life is not about completing a check list? Suppose it is an openness with no list whatsoever? What if completing the check list allows for God to sneak in, anyway?

How do you explore the spiritual life? Is it a check-list or an openness?

Downloadable Adult Study Resources for Exploring Spirituality

Spirituality 101

Benedictine Spirituality

Children’s Spirituality

Adolescent Spirituality

Reformed Spirituality 

Sunday, August 9, 2015

Blogging for Companions on the Inner Way (It's Not About Me)

This is the first blog post for the Companions on the Inner Way retreat. You may find the second blog post here: Seeking Home: Where Do We Come From?

Here are the other blog posts:

Seeking Home: Where Do We Come From? 

Who Have We Become?


Exile and Belonging


I am delighted to spend this week as the blogger for the summer Companions on the Inner Way retreat (more information at, a “guided retreat grounded in the Christian tradition. By honoring body, mind and soul, companions are invited to the inner journey with the Spirit.” It is an ecumenical gathering at the Zephyr Point Presbyterian Conference Center at Lake Tahoe. (If you want to make my heart flutter, say “ecumenical” or “Lake Tahoe.”)

This week’s theme is “Seeking Home & the Practice of Belonging.” The featured speaker is Enuma Okoro, who is a fabulous human being, author, speaker, and consultant. You can find her at

First, a word about Christian spirituality.

Spirituality is a big topic and a big field with diverse expressions, I know. And generally speaking, I leave this field to my mom. She’s the practicing spiritual director (you can find her at She’s often on faculty at the Diploma in the Art of Spiritual Direction program at San Francisco Theological Seminary, which is the longest standing spiritual direction program at a Protestant seminary. People love and respect her and my dad, who has been a colleague and companion to her (also a pastor). Thanks to her, I know a fair amount about the many styles of individual and communal prayer, and I knew about Hildegard of Bingen and Julian of Norwich in high school (not every Presbyterian can say that).

I’m a religious person. When I told someone on the airplane that I was coming to a spirituality thing (that’s how I talk), she said, “Oh, and it’s nice you can be spiritual without being religious.”

I said, “I think this group is both. I’m more religious than spiritual.” (This is why I try not to talk to people on airplanes.)

I love religion. I love the academic study of religion, all religions, and I have a robust skeptical love for the practice of my own religion. I even love the institutional church in its diverse expressions, with its horrific history of colonialism, sexism, homophobia, racism, and rampant mismanagement, because that history also holds deep strands of resistance to institutional evils grounded in a joyful faith narrative of freedom and power from the underside of society. At our first General Assembly (the highest governing body of the Presbyterian Church (USA) and a biennial national gathering), my mom came down with a stress-related condition, while my love of the church was sealed forever. We are definitely different people.

Nevertheless, here I am, without my mom, at a Companions retreat.

There will be silence. Silence is hard for me. Oh, I can do it. I’m familiar with the discipline. But like most of us, I have a brain that goes five million miles a minute, and I have no commitment to changing it. This is partly how I manage to juggle my work and life and family and frequent travel, even if I neglect to send birthday cards to pretty much everyone. My to-do lists are extensive. Companions involves silence, time for contemplative practices. In silence, I usually think of all the things I need to do. Like how one day, I will actually create a system by which household receipts are filed weekly (insert hysterical laughter here), and one day I will plan something romantic for an anniversary instead of just texting a selfie and cute heart emoji.

At Companions retreats are also lectures and group activities (thank you Jesus), plus the integration of art, music, and movement.

A word about art. I come from a family of artists. My grandmother was an artist. My cousin is an artist. My brother is an artist (one so talented and enterprising that he makes a living through the practice and instruction of art – you can find him at

I can’t do art. CAN’T. My brother can give a painting as a gift. I will buy a book or cool socks. So let’s see how the art thing goes this week.

A word about movement. My dad does InterPlay. I was the worst student of ballet. I’m unnecessarily self-conscious about movement. Liturgical movement in worship is something I think is important, but I don’t really “get” it. So I don’t bother. I hereby commit to moving this week as a spiritual discipline.

Music is fine; I can manage. I like lectures and group activities. Singing and worship are the kinds of spiritual exercises I enjoy.

But to be frank, words are my medium. I’m usually outgoing, a constant talker, and I’m pretty good with the written word. My work now involves talking with church people, attempting to navigate institutional and group dynamics, and editing. It’s perfect for me right now.

But this week isn’t about me.

I think this Companions retreat will have something for everyone. What good is the spiritual life if we aren’t open to being stretched, to trying something new, to participating in something that isn’t really our thing? Religious practice, those disciplines of spirituality, ultimately aren’t about me and my preferences, but are about being Christian.

I’m here as a blogger who might suck at many aspects of spirituality. It is an honor to do this, and I will spend this week sharing it with you. Thanks for reading.

If you want to follow Companions more closely, you can find them on Facebook at and on Twitter at @OnTheInnerWay. I will be tweeting the retreat at @lmcheifetz and blogging here at