lux et veritas

“We live in the description of a place and not in the place itself.”
–Wallace Stevens

When you commit to a year of service, something you hear again and again is that you will be challenged to step out of your ‘comfort zone’, something that sounds very noble and worthy, especially to young people. But it is impossible to know how this idea will manifest itself in your own experience until you actually engage it in daily life. For me, my current struggle stems from an unexpected source.

 

When I first heard about the Saint Hilda’s House program, I knew nothing about the city of New Haven, except that it was home to Yale. Saint Hilda’s itself is not a part of Yale, but there are definite associations. I live in the rectory of Christ Church, located just across the street from the edge of campus; we interns attend the mid-week worship service and dinner at Berkeley (the Episcopal seminary at Yale Divinity School); we participate in spiritual direction groups sponsored by YDS; and many of the Christ Church parishioners are Yale students, professors or alumni. There were a number of factors that influenced my decision to come here, but I must admit that I found the idea of living in proximity to such a vibrant center of intellect and culture immensely appealing.

 

My first evening here, several of us were sitting and chatting around the dining table. In the course of our discussion, it came up that I had done a masters degree in Scotland. Someone asked what I had studied.

“Early Modern history of the British Isles,” I admitted with the sheepish expression of an academic who knows how little interest ‘normal’ people take in her subject. “My thesis compared political ideologies in England and Scotland before the Union of 1707. But I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

“It wouldn’t bore me,” said the guy sitting next to me. I learned later he was a Yale College graduate who had taken several classes on political theory.

“You’ll love that about Christ Church,” Fr. Robert chimed in. “There’s no shortage of parishioners who are happy to spend hours discussing the most obscure topics!”

 

Then, to my delight, I learned that my daily work commute would cut right through the heart of the Yale campus. Its sprawling stone structures, many of them Neo-Gothic in style, are among the most impressive examples of American architecture that I have seen. (Though it’s a bit of a let down to find out that many of them weren’t constructed until the 1930s.) I also found out that the intern who was interested in my thesis was going to be my coworker. As a Yale grad, he would be full of facts and stories that would make the idealized institution become a ‘real’ place. It seemed like a dream come true.

It was, at first. But soon I began to realize that beyond an initial sense of wonder and delight, there were other emotions: discontent, resentment and, above all, insecurity. The truth was, I didn’t want merely to be close to Yale. I wanted to be a part of Yale itself.

 

For a number of years, I had one clear goal in life: to earn a PhD, preferably from an elite university, and become a college professor. One of my most favorite professors had done his PhD at Yale, and I wanted so much to be like him. Naturally, when I applied to graduate schools, Yale was one of my choices. I didn’t get in. In my mind, I know that my rejection shouldn’t reflect on me personally. Graduate programs in the humanities are brutally competitive: for the 20 students that Yale accepts every year for the PhD in history, upwards of 400 apply. I always knew it was a long shot.

Even so, it is one thing to receive a rejection e-mail (they don’t send real letters anymore) from an ivory tower that one has never actually seen; and something else entirely to walk past that tower every day and know that I cannot enter. Sometimes I am jealous of the students I see, because they appear to be enjoying the life that was denied to me. Sometimes I am resentful of my coworker, because I have a self-imposed (and unnecessary) compulsion to prove myself as an intellectual equal. Sometimes— often— I am frustrated with myself for not being ‘good enough’ (whatever that means).

 

And then I think how self-centered I am!  I have become so entangled in personal reflection—‘refraction’ is probably a better word—that I fail to perceive the place where I actually am and the things I am supposed to do.  I did not come to New Haven to prove how smart I am, or to have others stroke my ego. No, I came for precisely the opposite reason: that by giving of my time and talent to others, I might better understand what it is to be a very member of the Body of Christ. I am reminded of John the Baptist’s statement, “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30, ESV). My identity does not lie in how others see me, or how I want them to see me, or even in how I see myself; but in how God sees me, and so in living my life in a way that brings honor and glory to Him.

 

I could approach this from another angle entirely. Rather than wonder about what I have missed by not attending Yale, I could consider what I may have been spared. Would being in this environment have cultivated my pride, pretension and arrogance? Not because I think that Yale inherently fosters such negative characteristics (indeed, I have little evidence to suppose so), but because I know myself and my own tendencies. Perhaps I would have learned to rely on my own strength, rather than to fall upon the mercy of God. But enough speculation. I must be mindful of where and what is, now.

This year is going to be an exercise in humility. For that, I am grateful.

 

“…whoever does what is true comes to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that his works have been carried out in God.”—John 3:21 (ESV)

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