Hanging in the Balance

These last few weeks have been a bit chaotic. A few extra bits to do here and there were further complicated by my going to the American Academy of Religion. This is a massive meeting of scholars of religion and theologians, and was held in Denver this year. It was the first in-person AAR for me since 2019. I always have a little bit of AAR regret just before going, wondering why I do this as I rush to get everything done before leaving. But once I get there, all regret falls away as I experience intellectual stimulation and meet friends old and new. This was especially true this year as I ran into people I have not seen in person since before the pandemic.

Of utmost importance for connecting are the evening receptions – a highlight in many ways. Of course, the panels and presentations are great as well, and I heard some profound papers. I gave one on the topic of sin and shame, and one on friendship as well. I received helpful feedback that I can incorporate as I move these toward publication. All told, it was a rich experience. But I was glad to get home again, as I always am when I am gone away.

As one might expect, there was plenty on my plate upon return, and the first couple of days were packed. Thankfully Saturday gave me a bit of breathing room, which I relished. I spent the morning doing a bit of over-due marking but was able to spend the afternoon making bread. There is something astoundingly satisfying about this. So much of what I do has very few tangible deliverables. Making bread is something rectifies this for me. Also, there is nothing quite so enjoyable as eating fresh bread.

I spent the evening doing some painting, which I have not done for the last little while. I have had a few conversations with people who do art, but not fulltime, and we remark how life-giving making art is, but it is too often the first thing that we let go in order to meet deadlines etc. Luther said that when he was especially busy, he spent more time in prayer. I think we can add to that wise advice the admonition to be more attentive to art when life gets chaotic. Art, for me, is a practice of self-care – allowing me to spend time with me, without an agenda.

As I think about Saturday against the horizon of my time away, it brought into relief the importance of balancing time with others and time on my own. I am increasingly aware of the need to keep that balance in check. Missing out on one or the other weighs heavy on me, and others I assume. Of course, balance will look different for different people. Moreover, I suspect that many of us will have experienced that Covid has altered that sense of balance.

In a world that valorizes progress at all costs and makes busyness to be a virtue, balance is a life giving, if not counter-cultural, way to be in the world. Hanging in the balance, finally, is what thriving really looks like.

Ensconced for now…

And now I am firmly ensconced in Bossey, Switzerland at the Ecumenical Institute. At least, as ensconced as one can be for four days. I am here with a working group of the Lutheran World Federation. We have gathered from near and far to deliberate over the nature of the church, and what it means for the LWF to call itself “A Communion of Churches,” and what it means to be in communion in light of those human frailties that fracture unity, community and the self.

I give a paper tomorrow, but today I am mostly trying to stay awake. I flew through the night, which gives me that curious sense that somehow, someone has robbed me of a day. I am doing all I can to stay awake, not wanting to sit up in bed four hours hence, wide awake even while I know that this is exactly what will happen no matter what. Jetlag exacts payment. You don’t get to defy space without time exacting its revenge.

I went for a walk in the late afternoon, and after about 10 minutes ran into a wall. I literally felt as though I was pushing through a pool of jello (without that curious mixture of uncommon texture and too common flavour). Each step required an act of the will, a volitional defiance of everything in me that said: lay down and have a nap. I refused that then and I refuse that now, and so I write. But not for long.

Soon, the words will blur, my sentences will slur as if I were sheets to the wind. My body winds down. Soon it will be time to succumb to the memories of a day’s travel: airports thick with a lifetime or more of agony and ecstasy; babies crying and parents stoically refusing to join in; the unlikely discovery of a Swiss Chalet (yes that Swiss Chalet) in Switzerland; the meeting of new colleagues and the re-meeting of old; and that curious sense of disorientation that comes when a threshold has been broached and a new challenge announced.

Soon it is time to let the day’s memories of spring flowers, song birds, and greening grass pass over me like a wave of tomorrow. Soon