Living Our Stories

     I think I may've related this "story" before, but, many years ago, when I was Episcopal Campus Minister at UC-Berkeley, I was serving on a committee that was planning a campus-wide student leadership conference. At the first planning meeting, we did the obligatory "ice-breaker". This particular one was called something like "Mild, Medium, or Spicy". The individual on the "hot-seat" could declare which category s/he chose, and then the rest of the folks could ask questions appropriately.  "Mild" questions were about "favorite colors" or "pets' names", etc. Medium questions were a bit more "challenging" ("Tell us about the first time you failed an exam, and why."). I'll leave it to your imagination about "spicy" questions in a collegiate setting.
      As it turned out, I was the last person to be queried. And, that meant that, while everyone else had about 5 minutes (yeah, right), to answer questions, when it came to me, I had 30 seconds. And, to show how "cool" I was, I chose "Spicy"! The response from the room? Crickets. (The looks on some students' faces said "How can we ask a "spicy" question of a clergyman?") Finally one student, with whom I'd worked before, asked, "So why ARE you in this religion 'biz', anyway?" It certainly wasn't the kind of "spicy" question I expected, and with 30 seconds, I didn't have much time to ponder. After a pause  I simply replied, "It's the best way I know of making meaning in my life." He nodded, as if to say, "Not bad . . ." And the meeting ended.
      Today (as I write this), in the Western Christian calendar, is Good Friday. For many, it is a pivotal part of the Christian story, a story of self-sacrifice for the sake of humanity, the culmination of which is located several days hence, with the resurrection of Jesus. That story, again, for many Christians, is foundational in how they "make meaning". The specific direction each individual takes in interpreting it may vary. But, in the end, most would say that there is a strong suggestion of "light at the end of the tunnel", or, ultimately, hope in the midst of uncertainty. 
      As the letter below suggests, I am now in a somewhat uncertain position. I have announced that I will be leaving DU at the end of June. But, at this point, I am not absolutely sure where I will land. For a marginal "control-freak" like me, that is terra incognito! That said, my foundational story -- the one which helps me "make meaning" -- tells me not to worry. It will all be good.
      That's my story, and I'm sticking to it!
       What's YOUR story?

Namasté,

Gary

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An announcement made to the University community on March 29, 2017.

Dear friends and colleagues,

    In the summer of 2007, I was honored to join the University of Denver with the responsibility of re-creating the position of University Chaplain. Over the last eleven years, I’ve advocated for the integration of religious, spiritual and ethical voices and values at DU. And, in doing so I’ve engaged many partners on-, and off- campus; I’ve had the opportunity to work with amazing colleagues, and, most importantly, our bright and committed students.
    Now it is time to turn over what I have put in place, and to move to the next phase of my career. After having spent more than 25 years in ministry in higher education, I hope to translate all that I’ve learned in that arena into parochial ministry within the Episcopal Church. I have several irons in the fire, but none are finalized at this point.
    While I will be a DU employee through the end of June, I am making this announcement now in order to give both the university and myself the opportunity to move forward transparently in order to facilitate the transition.
    In addition to a Community Celebration at the end of the quarter, I know there will be opportunities for “farewells”! And I wish you all the best!

The Rev. Gary R Brower, PhD
University Chaplain

[Note: The official announcement, sent out over the Chancellor's signature, was an edited version of this communique.]

Held in trust

     One of the facets of becoming a "grownup" that I enjoyed was the experience of moving out of a rental house into one that my wife and I purchased. No longer did we have to deal with landlords (regardless of how good they were!). We didn't have to see whether or not they'd allow our cat(s). We didn't have to put up with all of the walls being white or beige. We could change the shrubbery/garden plants to suit our tastes. Ownership was good! We could do ANYTHING with our house (well, almost, especially if there was a Homeowners' Association involved).

      Of course, few of us actually own our houses. Most of us are in the position of having a bank/lender own the building/property; we are simply hoping that we'll get to the point where we can get to the point where we've bought it from them. In the meantime, the lender is trusting that we'll keep their asset in good enough shape that, in case we were to default on the loan, they could recoup their investment. It's a trust issue.
      For a number of reasons, I started to think about this "trust issue" beyond the scope of home-"ownership". I was recently in a workshop where I heard quoted the Christian theologian Douglas John Hall: "We own nothing; we are entrusted with everything." This was in the context of a discussion about the concept of "dominion" -- as in Genesis 1.26 where, after God creates humans, they are given "dominion" over the earth and its creatures. Does that mean that humans OWN the earth/creatures and are able to anything they want with what they "own"? Certainly some people seem to think so. Or, does it mean, as Hall puts it, that humans are entrusted with everything? The latter idea, of course, implies that at the "end", the earth and its creatures are returned "as good as new" or improved!
       I recalled, too, that a somewhat similar notion is found in the Bhagavad Gita. Especially spelled out in Chapter 5 is the idea that all of creation is part of the Divine, that it reflects the Divine. If that is the case, then any action taken with regard to any creature is an action directed at the Divine, This implies both any positive action (such as community service) or any negative action (such as harm). The implication is that we are beings entrusted -- all of us -- with the welfare of all others.  
      And then, of course, I recalled the oft-quoted Native American proverb: “Treat the earth well: it was not given to you by your parents, it was loaned to you by your children. We do not inherit the Earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children.” Beyond that proverb, there are numerous other quotations from past tribal sages about the "folly" of western beliefs about land "ownership". The notion contained within them all is still, holding the earth in trust.
       But what if we expanded the notion beyond holding the external environment -- water, air, birds, fish, mammals, amphibians, etc -- in trust. What if we held our relationships with one another as "trust" relationships rather than utilitarian? Certainly not all of our relationships are transactional, but what if, for example, in negotiating, we were as concerned that the other party leave enriched and empowered as we were for our own success? Ponder the possibilities.

Namasté,

Gary

Love-locked?

     If one drives (or even takes the train) from Denver to Sacramento/San Francisco, the most direct route will take you through the town of Lovelock, NV. Since I have family and friends in Northern California, I've made that trip often enough! The town was founded in 1849 by a gent named George Lovelock, and was a stopping point for folks headed to California (a lot of them, probably, in search of gold!). Within a few years, there was a train depot, and the town became quite a hub for mining activity, as mines were established in the area. More recently, it has attracted a lot of tourists, primarily because of the association of its name with a particular February holiday, as sweethearts will head to Lovers Lock Plaza, and attach a lock to symbolize their love. (And, of course, it being Nevada, it's easy to seal that love with a trip to the local court house.)
     I didn't know that there was a Lovers Lock Plaza until doing a bit of research for this post. I DID know that Valentine's Day was BIG there, because signs on the freeway touted the celebration. (I assumed that the town was banking on its name, much as does Loveland, CO!) But, every time I went by the town, I recalled my family's trip to China in December of 2003. As part of our "tourist-time", we visited the Great Wall of China where . . . there was a practice of lovers coming to the wall, attaching a lock, and throwing away the key! And it was the practice in China that inspired the Lovers Lock Plaza in Lovelock, NV! The implication of the action, whether on the Great Wall or in northern Nevada, is that the love being declared is eternal/everlasting.       After a little bit more poking around, I learned that there are numerous places where this ritual is practiced. Another is Budapest. Within the city, one can go to Erzsébet Square, or to the Szechenyi Chain Bridge over the Danube. And, while some lovers chose a "hardware store" lock, others go "all out", and have them engraved and decorated. The advantage, of course, of the Chain Bridge is that the key can be thrown into the river -- dramatic, and un-retrievable! While some would argue that the practice of love-locking around the world is a Chinese "export", almost all agree that it's a pretty lovely sentiment.
       In thinking about this a bit more, the cynic in me (and, yes, there is a bit of that!) began to wonder what happens to the locks if the couple decided they would part ways. Does someone go back to the bridge/Wall with a big pair of bolt cutters -- somewhat akin to someone having a tattoo of a former lover removed? There is something, I think, in the imagery that suggests that the couple's feelings for one another -- at that moment -- will be static throughout their relationship. They "lock" themselves in a moment in time.       Extending this line of thought to a different kind of "love affair", I started wondering about how we can often "lock" our thinking in place.  "I took a class on that subject a few decades ago; I know what I'm talking about." "What do you mean research suggests that I need to change my  behavior? My mother smoked three packs a day and lived to be 90!" Or, more currently, "The framers of the Constitution guaranteed . . . ." Thinking like that can't bear the idea of breaking out the bolt-cutters, and the results can be tragic.
       I certainly can understand the symbolism of snapping the lock shut and throwing away the key. But what might it symbolize to use a combination lock instead, which might allow for some growth? Imagine returning to the Great Wall or the Chain Bridge or Lovelock NV, more experienced and wiser, and gently taking down that first lock, and replacing it with something that reflects a new reality. 

Namasté,

Gary

Do-be-do-be-do-be . . . .

      Dear daughter is now three-quarters the way through her first year of college (out-of-state). Dear son is three-quarters the way through his first year of high school. They are both "doing" what they're supposed to be doing, what I as a parent would want them to "do." They're exploring new vistas, new possibilities. And, for the most part (if the reports are true), they're enjoying the experience and doing well. Again, I'm glad.
       I've been surprised, however, by some of the side-effects. For a couple of decades now, dear spouse and I have been "doing" for the kids: taking them to and from school and/or doctor's appointments, making sure they have all the right (sized) clothes, acting as computer tech-support (especially when a paper's deadline looms in 10 minutes!), serving as a cheering section at ballet or tae-kwon-do events. But, with one less kid in the house, and the other increasingly self-reliant, I've found myself with time on my hands.
      Now, you might think this would be a good thing (and I suppose it is, in the sense of training for the "empty nest syndrome"). But, according to my StrengthsFinder, my second-strongest strength is "Achiever". In other words, I live to get things done! But, with about 60% what I formerly needed to "do" no longer necessary, I'm casting about for other things to "achieve". Our financial records are now meticulously organized. I've culled old clothes and cellphones. I've re-arranged all of the stuff in the garage. Given that we're still coming out of winter, I've not been able to devote much energy to the yard, but . . .  just wait! Oh, I can take the lawn-mower to get it tuned up! That's not only doing something, but making it possible to do something better when I can mow!
       Another facet of this, though, has been that I have had the (almost enforced) opportunity to not do. While I might protest the lack of do-ables, I have found that the additional time has allowed me to peer around corners in my own life that I've ignored while pounding straight ahead in pursuit of a "product". In other words, I've had to question my role as a "human doing" and consider a role as a "human being". Some of the insights have been surprising.
        It is in this new reality that I found the following quotation from Joseph Campbell provocative:

We must be willing to get rid of
the life we've planned, so as to
have the life that is waiting for us.*

         

Namasté,

Gary

* The quotation is used as the epigraph in Dan Brown's latest novel, Origin (Doubleday, 2017).

"You can't take it with you."

      The other day I was listening to a fishing-oriented podcast. The podcaster is a professional guide and devoted the last episode to answering the question:  "What do you pack to take with you on a fishing trip." I don't know what kind of answer the questioner expected, but I doubt s/he anticipated ALL of the information that filled the hour. The podcaster covered just about every possible trip:  solo road trip (he could fill the car with the equivalent of a fly shop); family trip by air (maybe one rod); Guide trip (many rods, specific gear); winter trips (lots of layers and a heater); summer trips (chaco sandals); camping or lodging (sleeping bag? food?). In short, the kind of trip dictated the amount and type of "stuff" he took with him.
      This got me thinking about the "stuff" that I accumulate, and what I can "take with me". And I was reminded of the "de-cluttering" industry that seems to have gained steam over the last several years.  You know, Clear Your Clutter with Feng-Shui (by Karen Kingston) or Marie Kondo's The Life-Changing Magic of Tidying Up: The Japanese Art of De-cluttering and Organizing ("Does that pair of socks give you joy?"), or, moving from Asia to Scandinavia, The Gentle Art of Swedish Death-Cleaning by Margareta Magnusson. Every so often, I find myself on a tear, trying to get rid of stuff I no longer need (and maybe never did need), so I find these "systems" somewhat intriguing.       But, then I started thinking: "If I'm ever successful in "getting rid" of extraneous stuff, what would be left?" (because I'm certainly not in the position -- being a husband and parent -- of being able to divest myself of everything and retiring to a cave). If I assent to Marie Kondo's mantra ("Does it give you joy?"), it would seem that "what's left" should make me happy. I think, too, that what was "left' would say something about who I am or what I value.      Reflecting on the kind of stuff I keep around me led me to start thinking about the kind of people with whom I associate. And I recalled a fun conversation my wife and I had several years ago. We were dining out, and, for some reason, I asked: "If we 'construct' a cul-de-sac that would be populated by the people we enjoy most, who would have in our neighborhood?" Now, we'd been married a long time, and had lived in many different places, so we had a LOT of folks from which we could choose. It made for a VERY enjoyable dinner discussion, as we were "forced" to think about the qualities of our "future neighbors".  Of course, we couldn't "take them with us" and create that kind of neighborhood. But, even the mental exercise of thinking "who was left" revealed something (to me at least) of what I value or who I am.
      "Naked I came forth from my mother's womb, and naked shall I go back again", declared Job, after most of his family and wealth was "taken" from him (Job 1.21). He knew that, ultimately, he "couldn't take anything with him". It's true . . . we can't. But (mixing religious metaphors), what kind of karmic dust from our "stuff" and associates might we wish to be remembered by?       

Namasté,

Gary