"Discipline Case": Restorative Justice Depicted in John Hughes' Breakfast Club

Another Preamble Disclaimer: If you have not seen John Hughes' The Breakfast Club (1985) enough times, this post will probably not be very interesting :-)

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Personal Investment:

Fewer devoted John Hughes fans exist in the world than I. I literally grew up on a steady media diet of his movies.  I probably watched Sixteen Candles first --when I was in first or second grade. It taught me about "cool." There were the undisputed cool kids (Jake Ryan, Caroline Mulford, and their rich, hard partying friends); there were the aspiring cool kids (Samantha Baker, Randy, and there muted middle crowd), and the undisputed uncool kids (Farmer Ted, Bryce, Cliff, Marlene, Long Duck Dong, and all other freshmen and kids on the bus). This movie, I can say without hesitation, was formative. 

 While Pretty in Pink (Hughes-produced, not directed) had a bit of edginess to it--poor kid dating rich kid with all the commensurate interferences that would issue in, out-of-work father and absent mother, etc.-- the menace was in and among the peer group, and the connection to the menacing agent was entirely voluntary. Andie, our nearly fearless protagonist, could have easily dispensed with the snobbishness and cruelty of the rich kids by merely keeping her previous distance, but she had a point to make: "I just want to let them know that they didn't break me."

 Ferris Bueller's Day Off pitted the hero, Ferris, against the villain, Mr. Rooney, and taught us all: "Life moves pretty fast; if you don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it" (cue "Oh Yeah" by by Yello). The primary menace in this story is a fanatical Dean of Students, obsessed with his "ability to effectively govern this student body." Remove Ed Rooney from this plot line and there is no story--just a kid and his friends skipping school. Nobody cares.

 The Breakfast Club always felt a little different. It's . . . dark. The film includes the usual elements of the John Hughes set up: the fictional Chicago suburb of "Shermer, Illinois," the epic battle of uncool (read: good) vs cool (read: evil), nearly absent adults, and a heartbreakingly honest rendering of the emotional lives of the young people at the center of the story.

 Synopsis of Harm Done--All Armored Up:

 The movie opens with five high school students being dropped off by their parents to attend an all-day "Saturday School" detention.  In the opening voice over, these students are identified as "a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal." We have the smattering of the high school social landscape encompassed herein.  Each of these, with the exception of the middle student who admits to "having nothing better to do," did something "serious" to warrant a Saturday detention: bringing a gun to school, bullying a weakling in a locker room, truancy, and pulling a false fire alarm, respectively.  During drop off, we get a brief glimpse into the home lives of these students. Our princess, Claire ("it's a family name"), doesn't want to go in because she fears the "defectives" she will be among.  She berates her father for not being able to "get [her] out of this." Mr. Standish, clad in his Burberry scarf and behind the wheel of his BMW, assures her that he'll "make it up to her" and that "ditching school to go shopping doesn't make [her] a defective," hands her her sushi lunch and wishes her a good day. Brian, the brain (a mildly clever anagram that doesn't exist in any other character's name) endures icier climes in his car.  His mother demands in a stern tone, with the full support of Brian's younger sister, that he "figure out a way to study" while in detention. Meanwhile, Andrew, our athlete, is lectured by his father. Mr. Clark epitomizes the "apple doesn't fall far from the tree" euphemism. He is not disappointed in Andrew for torturing a weaker kid in a locker room assault--this is "screwing around" and what "guys" do; instead, he shames Andrew for getting caught and potentially blowing his college wrestling scholarship. We meet Allison, the basket case,  and John, the criminal, next. Allison's invisible parent screeches to a stop as John walks with unbroken stride in front of their car. We discern later in the movie that John's home life is among the most precarious with parents who are verbally and physically abusive. Allison exits the car and stares through the passenger side window until the car drives off. So, we have three marginally engaged parents--seemingly concerned more with the ways in which their child's infraction reflects on them, and two kids whose parents are less present to the situation--perhaps because they are unsurprised by the occurrence of a Saturday detention. I hope it will suffice to say that there is a reason John Hughes begins with the parent-child interaction. It's the quickest way to show the "family of origin" demons that have formed the anti-social behavior for which the teens are being punished, and the ones they will return home to at the end of the day.

These five are seated in the school library according to status and visibility with Claire and Andrew occupying a front row table together, indicating a level of comfort and familiarity--they know each other. These two are the most effortlessly celebrated of the group: the prom queen and a star athlete. They deserve premier seating at this venue, and they know it. Their backs are to everyone. Brian initially takes the table behind them, but is displaced by John who tacitly insists Brian is sitting in his spot. Eager to please, Brian moves across to the table beside him. Their position indicates a "middle" status of aspiration. Brian, sitting at the table on the right side, identifies himself through a perfectionistic need to do everything . . . "right." John, sitting to the left, conversely identifies himself through an antagonistic need to do everything wrong. Lastly, Allison occupies the seat all the way in the back. Everyone's back is to her, presumably like it is at home, as she later reveals with her line, "They ignore me." Allison exhibits a simultaneous anti-social vibe coupled with a desperate craving for social contact.  After all, she doesn't have to be there. She could be ignored in the privacy of her own home. As a "weirdo," she is at least guaranteed attention from her peers--which, for her, seems to be the start of some measure of comfort.

The film transitions into a "middle period" where stereotypes are reinforced, judgments articulated, offensive and defensive moves made. John then leads the group on a field trip to his locker to recover a bag of marijuana, then sacrifices himself to Mr. Vernon so the rest can safely return to the library. 

Restorative Circle--All Guards Dropped:

With the aid of John's weed, the five students begin to be goofy and have fun together, which then allows passage into knowing each other on a deeper level than their external caricatures. Claire asks John about his love life, Andrew is curious about the contents of Brian's wallet, and Allison dumps out her purse and reveals her intention to run away from home and her parents who "ignore [her]." 

Eventually, they are arranged in a circle, seated on the floor. The outer layers of clothing the kids came into the morning wearing have been shed and everyone is down to their base level. The conversation begins on a "fun" topic of "What would you do for a million dollars?" Claire nudges Andrew into a scenario where he would "drive to school naked." The conversation takes a turn after Allison hops in with a lie about being a "nymphomaniac" who sleeps with her therapist and ultimately (with the help of group pressure) forces a confession from Claire that the latter is a virgin. Claire becomes angry and confronts Allison about being "so weird."  John becomes insulted by Brian who implies that only "dopes" take shop class and confronts the latter's condescending attitude about academic achievement.  John also directly confronts Andrew and Claire during this scene for relishing in their social position and treating him like garbage. To the former, he repeats back to him words from earlier in the day: "I could disappear forever and it wouldn't make any difference. I may as well not even exist at this school, remember?" John then turns to Claire and unleashes the most venom of which he is capable and culminating with: "just stick to the things you know: shopping, nail polish, your father's BMW, and your poor--rich--drunk mother in the Caribbean! . . . Just bury your head in the sand and wait for your fuckin' prom!" Claire has an opportunity to take shots at Andy and John's hypocrisy during this time as well: "[to John] Why don't you take Allison to one of your heavy metal vomit parties, or take Brian out to the parking lot at lunch to get high, what about Andy for that matter? What about me? . . . they'd laugh their asses off and you would probably tell them you were doing it with me so they'd forgive you for being seen with me." Brian, who has been a peacemaker all day, finally confronts Claire about being "so conceited" and forces the room to see that, despite his high academic achievement, people pleasing sensibilities, and seemingly perfect home life (mockingly depicted by John earlier), his presence in detention was wrought by suicidal ideation after flunking a project in shop class. This circle conversation concludes, ultimately, in laughter when Brian reveals that the gun he brought to school was a flare gun that accidentally discharged in his locker destroying "that fuckin' elephant" and Allison confesses to not "hav[ing] anything better to do" than to come to detention. 

What happens in this circle and why it is so critical to the healing process: 

• the students who have been previously arranged in rows according to social status and visibility are now seated in a circle with equitable access to audience. They look at each other and speak directly to one another. 
• they share openly and honestly (with the weird exception of Allison's fictional tale of nymphomania)--they confess their faults to the group and the harms they have caused others; they call out "bad" behavior and the ways in which they have been hurt by one another; most importantly, they empathize with each other. 
• The shame that exists in and among social groups can only be healed with individuals within said groups who are willing to be vulnerable, honest, accountable, empathic, and forgiving.

The Kisses of Peace:

The movie resolves with three kisses, thus uniting previously segregated groups and healing the harms caused in that separation.

1. Claire kisses John --> Claire, the hyper-social prom queen who says and does most things to draw people into loving her, and John, the anti-social deviant who says and does most things to drive people into hating him, forge an intimacy that culminates in a private kiss at the end of the movie. Claire initiates it and, when asked why, says, "Because I knew you wouldn't."  She also gives John one of her diamond earrings which he immediate dons in his left ear.  It's an engagement of sorts and signals that even if they cannot be public about their mutual affection, it is real and fixed.

2. Andrew kisses Allison --> the "Hero" openly displays his love for the "Freak" with a kiss in front of her parents and his father--the person whose pressure to be "cool" has earned Andrew a spot in detention and possibly jeopardized his future. Allison rips an athletic badge off of Andrew's letterman jacket--the final bit of poisonous identity he possesses--at the end of the film. Incidentally, Allison has been stealing tokens of identity throughout the film: John's switchblade and locker lock, Brian's wallet, Claire's strategic ambiguity about her sexual experience, and, lastly, Andrew's sports badge.

3. Brian kisses his essay --> the conformist makes peace with his subversive side. In this moment, Brian reconciles himself to something within that is not perfect and does not want to be. His tone with Mr. Vernon (the representation of academic authority) is spiky and non-compliant; "You're crazy to make us write an essay telling you 'who we think we are' [because] you see us as you want to see us." Brian implies that it was not the "brain child" of Vernon's essay prompt that signaled any change or development for anyone today, but the restorative efforts of the group members who were brave enough to shed their respective armors and connect as human beings. In this rebellious act, Brian becomes whole and real and, we hope, newly fortified against the pressure cooker of his parents' expectations.

In Conclusion:

I am a Dean of Students in a high school.  In truth, I am the Ed Rooney and Dick Vernon of my cinematic hero's films. It's sometimes hard for me to believe, having been so inculcated in my youth that these people were the enemy of all that was good and decent in the world. I was trained early in my teaching career with exclusionary methods that were in place when I was a student: desk in the hallway, detention, suspension, expulsion. These practices signal to the offender that he is not wanted, defective, disposable --that this community is a better place without him. The new trend in schools (and prisons for that matter) is a "restorative" approach whereby offenders are offered an opportunity to take responsibility for their actions and make amends to those they've harmed. John Hughes illustrated this approach in The Breakfast Club (nearly 40 years ago!) in a movie he almost named Detention. I always appreciated his sympathetic depiction of the various levels of "cool" and "uncool" and have become enamored with his vision in this movie of how to reconcile these rifts. Be brave. Shed armor. Share your story. Listen to and empathize with others. Take responsibility for the harm you've caused. Don't believe everything you're being told by the self-protecting adults in your world. Stand up for good. In the words of John Bender, "have the balls to stand up to your friends and tell 'em you're gonna like who [and what] you wanna to like."

Judgment and exclusion have never contributed much the realm of human development. Empathy and connection are what we need.

Lenten Reflection: Fifth Sunday

 We went to Catholic church this morning to hear the story of Jesus raising Lazarus from the dead.  This story, among others perhaps, is one with which I have a difficult time. I think any reasonable, empirical-evidence-demanding human would agree--it's a tough story to believe.  In the natural course of worldly events, people do not die, lie in a tomb for four days, and emerge as anything other than a decaying corpse and wafting stench.

This action is one of the proverbial last straws for the Pharisees. "We have to kill this guy--his love for social rejects is too frickin' powerful." I do wish I could have been a fly on the wall in so many historical moments --but not the least of which is the closed door meetings with Pontius Pilate and the Pharisees when serious negotiations were going on between powerful enemies against the common threat to their respective power. And we can gauge Pilate's power over the Pharisees because he wavers on the punishment for Jesus. His real, honest-to-God power backing of the Roman Empire against the Pharisees' regional authority is clear in the moment he displays his (at best) disfavor of or (at worst) indifference towards Jesus' execution.

It's not even clear to me how close Jesus and Lazarus were. The scriptural writers tell us that Lazarus' sister, Mary, "anointed [Jesus] with perfumed oil and dried his feet with her hair" Jn 11:2 (an action, incidentally, that would have had her burned at the stake 1200 years later or committed to an insane asylum in the 20th century), and that "it was her brother Lazarus who was ill."  In this synopsis, it is Mary who has established conscious contact with Jesus in the past --Lazarus only by way of being related to her. And yet, Jesus loved him. 

Once again, Jesus' friends are baffled by his desire to show love to someone in need. Like, "Bruh--we're not going anywhere.  Lazarus may be a cool guy and all, but they're actively trying to stone you in the streets these days. Let it go, man." We are told that Thomas (the doubter, I presume?) says to the disciples, "Let us also go to die with him" Jn 11:16.  No faith in the mission. C'mon lads--let's go die with him. Jesus, in deed, laying his life down for a friend who is ALREADY DEAD. Risking literally everything to seize on the opportunity to make more believers.

It's this precursor to Easter that demonstrates the true meaning of the holiday, the season: new life. Whatever it is that holds you back. Die to it. Whatever fears are present and keeping you from actually living your life. Die to them. It is only through a kind of death to what is that we can be reborn to new life. What was Lazarus' thing? Was he just a drain on the resources of his family? A non-food gatherer? Did Lazarus, like many of us, just insist on being taken care of by the people in his life? What did that guy have going for him that was worth saving? We never know what Lazarus did to earn Jesus' love and we never know what was so special about this person that Jesus made his way through murderous streets to bring him back to life. I guess it doesn't matter. God wasn't finished with him yet.

Resurrection. 

New Life. 

Death to fear/sin/torment/isolation/addiction/despair/fear. 

Emergence into faith--light--openness--truth--hope--service--faith.

Lenten Reflection: Fourth Sunday

 Today's meeting revolved around the topic of growing up.  As we read the second half of the twelfth step material, the focus was entirely on adulting. My childish pathology (from whence it springs, I have not been able to fully identify), is the belief that it is someone else's responsibility to take care of my needs--be they physical, intellectual, or emotional. From a time probably earlier than I can remember, I have looked for validation from external sources. Something recovery programs work to instill from Day ONE is that no one else in this world is responsible for my internal landscape. If I am not at peace with my interactions with the world, then the change must come from within.  How is such a change wrought, you ask? By taking ownership of my choices, finding a God of my understanding, writing out a fearless and searching inventory of my feelings and behaviors, sharing that inventory with another human being, working to pause when agitated, root out the cause of the agitation, and pray to have it removed. By making a list of all the people I've harmed and be willing to make amends -- which entails forgiveness of a whole smattering of things. I need to make direct amends to people when necessary without causing undue harm in the process. Then by a daily "maintenance" program of rigorous honesty, conscious contact with my higher power, and service and connection with other fellow suffering human beings.

In the chapter we read today on Step Twelve, the book outlines "right living" at the very end of the reading: 

Service, gladly rendered, obligations squarely met, troubles well accepted or solved with God’s help, the knowledge that at home or in the world outside we are partners in a common effort, the well-understood fact that in God’s sight all human beings are important, the proof that love freely given surely brings a full return, the certainty that we are no longer isolated and alone in self-constructed prisons, the surety that we need no longer be square pegs in round holes but can fi t and belong in God’s scheme of things—these are the permanent and legitimate satisfactions of right living for which no amount of pomp and circumstance, no heap of material possessions, could possibly be substitutes. . . True ambition is the deep desire to live usefully and walk humbly under the grace of God (124-5).

I don't know what I wanted for myself or what I thought an "adult" life would be before coming into AA. I know, at least, I was misguided in what constituted "grown up" living. I certainly looked to external markers of educational degrees, spouse, children, a house, a car, a dog, a career. The truth, however, is that I achieved all of that while still staying put in "self constructed prisons" and having no earthly concept of a "deep desire to live usefully and walk humbly under the grace of God." A new freedom and a new happiness exist in extricating myself from the swirling vortex of my thoughts and feelings and directing my energy and usefulness toward others.

AA teaches me that when I am lost in self, it's best that I --as quickly as possible-- turn my thoughts to another and how I might be of service to her. This may be another alcoholic, it could be a co-worker, my child, a friend, a sibling, a neighbor, a student.  Lots of need out there. The only real tool I need to be able to make this switch is active participation in recovery, and the switch brings a lasting relief the likes of which no liquid from crushed grapes or malt and hops could ever achieve.  God bless those who never have to journey into the hell of addiction to discover a path toward true adulting :D

Lenten Reflection: Third Sunday

 All the powers in the universe are already ours. It is we who have put our hands before our eyes and cry that it is dark. --Swami Vivekananda (a quotation that popped up in my Facebook feed this morning)

My week has been repeatedly infused with discourse about light. And whenever that happens--that consistent messaging about topic or theme--I think it's worth paying attention to.

I generally think of Advent (not Lent) as the season that presents us with the "darkest before the dawn" lesson, in order to instill the messages of anticipation and hope the holiday incurs.  Jesus' birth, at least for the purposes of aligning Christian practices with the pre-existing pagan rituals around winter solstice, occurs just at that time of year where we have the shortest span of sunlight in the day. And things were dark in Judea in the era of Classical Antiquity. In the macrocosm, King Herod, according to the reputation that has survived him, presents as a bloodthirsty tyrant, obsessed with his own power, and, according to one historian whose identity I did not bother to ascertain, was "prepared to commit any crime in order to gratify his unbounded ambition." I wonder if Herod also wore spray tan, a terrible hair piece, and looked like a fat, hideous orange . . .  Anyway, dark times-- with no reasonable expectation that things would be different anytime soon. On a microcosmic level, a thirteen or fourteen year old Jewish girl, Mary of Nazareth, was pregnant and, as far as anyone could tell, not by the man to whom she was betrothed. Thanks to the misogynistic Mosaic laws of the time, Joseph was entitled to a public stoning of Mary for this bitter humiliation, but decided it more suited his interests to quietly separate from her. Incidentally, this life-saving mercy is Joseph's first demonstration of the agape form of love for which his "foster" son would later be famous. And then executed. Moreover, as an outcome of meditation or hallucination, Joseph decides to not abandon Mary, but stick it out and be a father to this child he knows is not his. If these biblical renderings stick in historical truth, Jesus is literally born from selfless love, sacrifice, faith, and trust in the goodness of people.  At the solstice, the earth turns enough to shift the light/dark balance--and an increasing light pours forth into our days. Faith has a fascinating way of manifesting solutions. Love begets light to combat the darkness of fear.

In today's Gospel reading (and, full disclosure, I did not go to mass today), Jesus encounters a Samaritan woman at a well. Jesus, a Jewish man, has two points of superiority over this woman, yet he asks a service of her--"give me a drink."  She is baffled by his approach and tells him so. In order to convince her of his sincerity and his loving acceptance, Jesus allows the woman to know he sees her--in the light of all her marital flaws--and still believes she can be of vital service to him.  He sees she has something to offer. His friends are baffled by this encounter as well -- something along the lines of, "Bro--what are you talking to this bitch for?" Indeed, it was this mindset of non-judgment and inclusivity that earned this man an uncomfortable perch on a wooden cross in the ensuing months. I like to think of this woman experiencing a dark time. Jesus perceives real loss, real pain. We do not get the sordid backstory of this woman's failed romantic/domestic ventures, but she does not seem to be beaming with pride with her honest admission, "I have no husband." Jesus neither criticizes her status, nor minimizes her precarious social position. He simply states the truth as he understands it: "You are right . . . you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband." No scolding. No interrogation. No threat to publicly shame or punish her. Nothing but a statement of truth and a pause to make space for her next contribution to the conversation. The darkness this woman harbors is met with the light of Jesus' acceptance of her as she is. And the only thing she can imagine is that he must be a prophet--divinely inspired and protected.  How else could he be so . . . kind?

Today, as my secret society newcomer and I progressed through her "moral inventory" of fears and relationship pathologies, she slumped in her chair and said through falling tears, "I'm afraid that I don't like myself." I grabbed her hands and said sternly across the table: "You DON'T like yourself.  That's a fact. There's nothing to be afraid of. There's only the work of correcting that self-destructive position. Let's get to it." Here's the truth that Jesus understands in his conversation with the woman at the well: she's an imperfect human being with her own mistakes and fears to count. She's been judged by society, I'm sure. But there's no need of that. She's judged herself far longer and way more harshly than anyone else ever could. Imagine how freeing it was for the Samaritan woman to understand that she wasn't fooling anyone. That people could know the truth about her and still want to speak to her. To hear from her. Still ask her to be in service to the world. Still find her useful. In having her admit her shame, Jesus forces the woman to acknowledge her own lovability. There's nothing more freeing--more light and life giving than that.

May I share a light of honesty and empathy with others today. May the love light I shine be powered by acceptance and gratitude for what IS. May the gifts I receive include illuminating perspective and shame-destroying connection.

Lenten Reflection: Second Sunday

I belong to two churches. The first I visited last Sunday --it exists in a building that houses pews, an altar, reading missals, a "crying room" for restless children, a baptismal font, confessionals and many other tangible items to allow for the practice of Catholic Christianity.  The other church is pervasive -- it exists in the heart of its fellowship -- a group of men and women who are devoted to soberly living their lives one day at a time and following 12 Steps on a path toward emotional healing, personal growth, and spiritual enlightenment.  I visit this church every Sunday. There are, to be sure, many overlapping components between these two churches. I cannot say for sure that one is greater or lesser.  I cannot say that one is more "legit" than another. I find spiritual benefits to attending both.

I will say the people who sit in the second church (for the most part) are actively working spiritual principles of acceptance, faith, gratitude, forgiveness, and service to others. I will say, perhaps for this reason, the latter church challenges me more than the former. 

This morning, I sat among fellows reading about and discussing a principle of inclusivity. The "Third Tradition" of this church states: "The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop [seeking refuge from internal pain through external sources]." The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop poisoning oneself with false promises of comfort and security.  To enter this church is to accept that pain and suffering are part of the human experience and to have faith that simply not having to go through it alone might be sufficient to changing (and thereby saving) a life. How stunningly countercultural in a human society that loves to enact meritocracies and restrict inclusion of anything that might pose a threat to the significance of the standing board.  Obviously, this membership plan is not desirable for all groups.  I certainly would like to believe my lawyer, architect, or surgeon jumped through a few more hoops than merely the desire to call herself a lawyer, architect, or surgeon. But in the case of a club devoted to the spiritual uplift and emotional progress of its members -- why not cheerfully accept any and all who might come walking through the door?

If I am sitting in judgment of another, it is solely because I am terrified of my own shortcomings I see there. When a woman in a recovery meeting shares about prostituting herself so she could obtain crack, I feel no personal shame. Her share does not directly relate to my lived experience and, therefore, I am not bothered by her presence. When someone walks into a meeting desperately needy for the attention and validation of others in the room, I recoil. I cringe. I tense up. I am reacting to that thing in her that I hate in myself.  And I want her gone.  And this church says, "She has every right to be here. Love her for what she brings to this room. Love her for what she reveals to you about yourself. Love her so that you can love yourself, and we'll go from there."

After the meeting, I went to get coffee with a (relative) "newcomer" whom I am helping to take 12 spiritual steps. We are winding things up with the 4th which states, "Made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves."  It's been an amazing experience working with someone who is willing to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help her, God. What surfaces over and over (for me as I listen to her) is this axiom that I am bothered by myself when I am bothered by another human being. Judgment is at the top of both our inventories, and it is the starkest indication of spiritual and emotional unrest. I judge in others that (potential, at least) which I hate most in myself. 

I am grateful for the messages I received from my second church today. They align entirely with the messages of inclusivity that are talked about in my first church. It may feel comfortable, momentarily, to judge another for the things for which I am afraid I will be rejected and abandoned. But the practice does not point to anything other than a fatal soul sickness within me.

Today I will do my best to choose love over hate. Inclusion over exclusion. Compassion over criticism. Faith over fear.

Lenten Reflection: First Sunday

 I'd like to say that I've been so bitten by the "Lenten Season" bug that I opted for Sunday mass this morning of my own free will. Not really. Joey's 4th grade class mass was today, and so Emily and I were conscripted into attendance.  The readings and homily, however, were exactly what I needed to hear.  Readings about temptation -- about thinking I know what's best for me and forgetting to include God in any plans -- about fearing what I have to lose or stand to not gain -- about lying to myself in my own language.  Good lord, it was just so spot on.

The first reading centered on the temptation in the Garden of Eden. Satan approaches Eve (perhaps believing he could work with her inferior position in the scheme of things) to suggest that the injunction she's been given to not eat the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil is, for lack of a better word, bullshit. Satan lies to Eve in her own language --the language of fear of not being good enough. John Milton illustrates this exchange so beautifully in Paradise Lost when he delivers the temptation boom in Book IX. After convincing Eve that he, as a serpent, can speak because he himself tasted the fruit of this tree and was greatly improved by it, Satan moves in for the deadly scarcity message:

"Shall that be shut to Man which to the Beast 
Is open? or will God incense his ire
For such a petty trespass, and not praise
Rather your dauntless virtue, whom the pain
Of Death denounced, whatever thing Death be,
Deterred not from achieving what might lead
To happier life, knowledge of Good and Evil? . . .
Why then was this forbid? Why but to awe,
Why but to keep ye low and ignorant,
His worshippers?" (691-7, 703-5)

John Milton, some say, was a bit of an arrogant asshole. But he was indisputably a genius --so, I think he adeptly understood the concept of pride and ego and how Satan (who rebelled against God for the exact same frustration he senses in Eve) could target this trait in her to effect his plan. He lies to Eve in the language of her own fears of insufficiency and wounded ego. "God doesn't think much of you, does he, that he would prohibit you from partaking in this Godlike fruit that he has allowed me--a lowly snake--to eat."  But it's all a lie.  Satan is not a snake.  He has eaten no fruit.  She just doesn't know what she doesn't know.  What she knows is her own sense of self-worth.  And it's fading fast under Satan's postulations.

That was a good first reading today to illustrate how quickly I can be deterred from trusting God's will if I'm only encouraged--for even a short time, by a seemingly credible source--to be afraid of my own inadequacy.

The second reading was taken from the Gospel according to Matthew and features Jesus being tempted by the same Satan who has a knack for turning one's greatest fears against him. Jesus does not buckle, but Satan makes three attempts.  In the first temptation, he hopes to entice Jesus, who has been fasting for over a month in the desert, with food. Jesus draws from the divine scripture to respond.  Satan's second pass is to tempt Jesus to test God--"Hey, if you're so sure of this God of yours, fling yourself off this cliff and see if He saves you!" Jesus again draws from what he knows about holy teachings to respond, "Again it is written, 'You shall not put the Lord, your God, to the test." On his third attempt, Satan goes old school --takes Jesus to the top of a mountain and says, "Look, man--ALL of that can be yours if you just forget about this God (LOVE) of yours and come follow me (FEAR)."  Jesus says, one more time, "It is written: 'The Lord, your God, shall you worship and him alone shall you serve.'"  And so Satan bails, presumably to go find less formidable temptees.

Knowing what we know about Satan (again, read: fear), we know he must have been lying to Jesus in his own language.  Jesus of Nazareth was a human being.  What human can withstand the true pain of starvation hunger? Or the call to place faith in himself and his own ability to manipulate a situation? Or a need to be significant and secure in his own earthly power? Make no mistake. Satan had Jesus' number. But Jesus never broke off from his deep-seeded trust in divine scriptures and the teachings of his faith. He threw his unbroken connection with God right back at Satan and it fortified him against the grip of a universally human fear that sometimes whispers and sometimes screams: "You are not good enough. You are unlovable."

Here's the truth. God is love. Sin is fear. Fear is not evil. It is a human condition. But it can most certainly lead to evil. I have a choice to make every minute of every day--which master I will serve.  Today, I will choose love.

Lenten Reflection: Ash Wednesday

I really love Lent. And I love Ash Wednesday --probably more than Easter. This is the hard work of reflecting on the things that hold us back from being the best version of ourselves (read: fear).

A few years ago, I made a shift in my Lenten season resolves to add in a healthy behavior, rather than just remove an unhealthy behavior. This year, along with removing the excess of sugar and attention/sympathy-seeking, I wanted to add in daily exercise (walking, really) and a regular reflective writing practice.

I blew past the opportunity to write about Ash Wednesday this week, but it is the kick off event for Lent and so should be reflected on and written about, albeit days later. I dug through some old writing and resurfaced a poem written, I believe, back in 2016:

Ash Wednesday

Hers is perfect:  

a beautiful symmetry of crossed ash

revealing the faultless state of her soul.

The black edges blend into the skin,

as if the particles knew not what it meant

to be separate from her brow—

the home of patient expression, 

inexplicable love, and assurance 

in those around her.

Everyone knows her faith today;

her ashen forehead reveals her order,

her inner-peace, her integrity.

Mine is horrid:

a smudge—something like 

marks on police reports—

revealing chaos within.

The muddled blob sits clumsily

until someone remarks:

“You have dirt on your face.”

“No,” I say, knitting my sullied brow,

“It’s Ash Wednesday.”

But the tacit truth remains:

I have dirt on my soul—

disclosed to you now

through the guise of piousness.

I can't say the sentiment has changed in the 7 years since this poem was composed.

Ashes signify the remnants of something that once was but has since passed away. A death and a resurrection. When I take the ashes on my forehead, I surrender to my imperfection and those aspects of myself that need to die so I can be reborn into clearer perspective, kinder action, more compassion and greater connection with my higher power.

Ash Wednesday is a perfect start to a season of growth and movement in the right direction: forward.