I want to introduce myself to you all in relation to this class, Theology I.

One of the big things you鈥檙e going to learn in this class is about contextual theology鈥攖heology formed out of a particular context, like the theology of Latinos, African Americans, Asian Americans, the theology of white women, of men who have been dead for 50 years and men who have been dead for 1,000 years.

I鈥檝e heard it argued once that all theology is contextual theology鈥攚hat we might call plain ol鈥� orthodox theology might be better described as Western theology or white-male theology.

All theology has context.

This is my context: I grew up in the Protestant Midwest, the daughter of a Lutheran father and Jewish mother. I was baptized Lutheran then baptized again evangelical. I had a Pentecostal youth pastor, went to a Church of Christ summer camp. I graduated from a Wesleyan university and now attend the most un-Baptist Baptist church in Seattle.

This is where I begin my theological task.

Out of this diversity of traditions, the one theological question that has hounded me for so long has been: what do we do about the body, with its itches and desires? What do I do with my body? What do I do with the body of the Other? And consequently, what do we do with the body of Jesus?

Our bodies are what locate us in a context鈥攍ike, for example, though my boyfriend and I are both living in Seattle, I am a white-skinned woman of German/English/Russian descent and he is a brown-skinned man, the son of Indian immigrants. And Jesus, too, was born a certain race into a certain culture.

To work out these questions, I鈥檝e turned to the world of fiction, particularly to the work of John Updike, who spent his lifetime wrestling with similar themes. What Updike keeps coming back to in his work is the significance of Jesus鈥� bodily life, death, and resurrection intersecting with humanity鈥檚 bodily sinful nature and subsequent redemption.

So, I want to read to you a poem by Updike about the resurrection, a poem called 鈥淪even Stanzas at Easter.鈥� It鈥檚 a favorite of mine, because I think it bears the scandal of the cross and resurrection in a way that only poetry can bear.

Upon researching the poem a bit, I learned that Updike wrote this around the time of an intense spiritual crisis in his 20s, which makes me wonder if this poem represents not what Updike actually believed but more what he wanted to believe. (This offers me a lot of hope and maybe offers you hope as well鈥攁n acceptance that our theologies are often inchoate, only in the process of becoming what we really believe.)

鈥淪even Stanzas at Easter鈥� by John Updike

Make no mistake: if he rose at all
It was as His body;
If the cell鈥檚 dissolution did not reverse, the molecule reknit,
The amino acids rekindle,
The Church will fall.

It was not as the flowers,
Each soft spring recurrent;
It was not as His Spirit in the mouths and fuddled eyes of the
Eleven apostles;
It was as His flesh; ours.

The same hinged thumbs and toes
The same valved heart
That鈥攑ierced鈥攄ied, withered, paused, and then regathered
Out of enduring Might
New strength to enclose.

Let us not mock God with metaphor,
Analogy, sidestepping, transcendence,
Making of the event a parable, a sign painted in the faded
Credulity of earlier ages:
Let us walk through the door.

The stone is rolled back, not papier-mache,
Not a stone in a story,
But the vast rock of materiality that in the slow grinding of
Time will eclipse for each of us
The wide light of day.

And if we have an angel at the tomb,
Make it a real angel,
Weighty with Max Planck鈥檚 quanta, vivid with hair, opaque in
The dawn light, robed in real linen
Spun on a definite loom.

Let us not seek to make it less monstrous,
For our own convenience, our own sense of beauty,
Lest, awakened in one unthinkable hour, we are embarrassed
By the miracle,
And crushed by remonstrance.

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So I read the prayer I had written out, choking up every other word, making it nearly impossible for me to get to the 鈥渁men.鈥� When I finished, I sat back down and sobbed鈥攆or my boyfriend, for graduation, and for my future.

I entered the program sure I wanted to continue in my vocation as a creative writer. Yet as I got deeper into the program, the vision I had of my future began to expand. I wanted to write, yes, but I also wanted to teach: I wanted to facilitate learning and curate conversation around the arts and theology.

These two desires鈥攖o not leave my 天美视频 cocoon and to teach鈥攚ere met in one job: assistant instructor. I pictured myself sitting at Caffe Ladro, grading papers with a goofy smile on my face, giving out those A鈥檚, B鈥檚, C鈥檚 with confidence. I imagined meeting with teary-eyed students who would sigh, Oh, Lauren, all I want is to write as well as you do! And every student would cling to my guidance, changing that C average to an A.

Though in reality, in my job as an assistant instructor, my desires have collided with insecurity.

Every Wednesday when I walk into the classroom, a million thoughts clog my mind. I am too young for this job. I don鈥檛 know enough. I don鈥檛 look like I know what I鈥檓 doing. I don鈥檛 like the Bible enough for this class (whoops). There are people better fit for this position. Why was I hired?

There鈥檚 an Internet meme I love of a dog dressed in safety goggles, sitting in front of beakers and graduated cylinders. The caption reads, 鈥淚 have no idea what I鈥檓 doing.鈥� Often in my job I feel this way, that I鈥檓 鈥渇aking it till I make it,鈥� that I鈥檓 a Labrador in a laboratory.

This culminated last term, when I graded a stack of 54 鈥淗arry鈥� papers. The students were assigned to read about a boy, Harry, growing up in the Ozarks with three old men after witnessing his friend get blown up by a grenade. Then each student wrote a dialogue with Harry, imagining how they would talk with him about class concepts and sit with him in his suffering.

When I took the class two years ago, I totally biffed my paper. I could not get to the heart of the assignment, to listen to Harry and stay present in our imaginary conversation, rather than hide from the big issues in his life. Wanting to show off my creative writing skills, I spent too much time constructing our imaginary setting and making sure I perfected Harry鈥檚 voice. My grade was well-deserved. I did not have the capacity to be with Harry the way he needed me to be; I realized this when I began grading my students鈥� papers.

I recognized, first, that some students just got it. And despite my own insecurity, I felt pleased to give them A鈥檚. On one paper I wrote, 鈥淚f it were possible to 鈥榳in鈥� a paper, I think you鈥檝e just won.鈥� I was delighted; I found reparation in his receiving the A I did not get.

Second, I noticed that what we were asking our students to do, to sit and listen to Harry鈥攖o indwell with him in his story and in his suffering鈥攚as what I needed to do in my grading. As an assistant instructor at 天美视频, I鈥檓 not just checking off boxes on a rubric. I鈥檓 accepting an invitation to sit with every student鈥檚 paper as if I鈥檓 having a conversation with him or her.

This is not what I thought I would be experiencing as an assistant instructor. I thought my job would be spent circling grammar errors (though there is some of that), not engaging with students emotionally both in office hours and on paper.

In reflecting on this, I鈥檝e come to realize that the indwelling that I鈥檝e asked my students to do with Harry, and that I鈥檝e come to do with papers, is what I need to do with myself. Instead of pushing down those insecure messages of you鈥檙e not good enough or allowing them to control me, I sit with them. I ask them, Are you true? Are you worth listening to?

Practicing this kind of mindfulness has made my Wednesdays at the school less exhausting. It鈥檚 helped me see the stack of papers I have waiting for me as less frightening. I know this is something that I can take with me, too, when I finally leave 天美视频 community and its red brick walls.

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I have this photo on my phone that I flip to often, probably more than I am comfortable admitting. It鈥檚 a black and white photo of the 20th century literary genius John Updike juggling. Juggling! I find myself looking at it for a few minutes or more, blushing, then slowly rejoining reality.

Updike is my literary crush. I have yet to find an author, dead or living, who knows how to write about the Christian existence the way he could. He was brutally honest, bringing to life Christian characters who鈥攕urprise, surprise鈥攍ive lives of brokenness. I鈥檝e met so many Updike characters who live gritty, X-rated lives. I鈥檝e met even more who are unsure of what to do with God, characters who search for Him in sex, sports, and science.

Reading Updike, and writers like him, has led me to wonder about the interplay of theology and literature. I鈥檓 compelled to ask, how does theology inspire literature and how might literature help form one鈥檚 theology?

So I got this idea to do an individualized research project with a 天美视频 instructor on this topic, looking at one of Updike鈥檚 novels, Roger鈥檚 Version. I wanted to study the theology that informed Updike鈥檚 writing (particularly that of Karl Barth and Tertullian) in order to answer those above questions.

I chose that book particularly because I found it impossible to sit in any class鈥攅specially a theology class鈥攚ithout thinking about Roger Lambert, its narrator. Roger鈥檚 not a real person; I know that. But when conversations around the nature of God or divine revelation or Christology spring up, Roger comes alive in the room and starts talking.

Literature does that to me, and to most bibliophiles I know鈥攊t brings to life characters who live out our own beliefs, questions, and failures. In reading fiction, we can鈥檛 escape ourselves. So as I鈥檓 working through this project, I鈥檓 having to face my own doubts about who God is, who Christ is, and what I鈥檓 doing here, alongside Roger and other characters. This story is shaping my theology, without my always realizing it.

As I carry on through the rest of the semester, I will have to face myself in the dense theologies of pre-modern and modern theologians as I unpack Updike鈥檚 prose. But most importantly, and maybe most fortunately, I will have to face myself in between lines of fiction, in characters who are asking the same questions I am, who are sinning just like me, but cannot hide.

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