Comedians and Conscience, Prayer and Protest

Louis CK has a bit he calls “Of Course, but Maybe.”  I’m about to borrow that bit.  I don't own any rights to Louis' jokes, or his image. I use his structure, of course, as an homage to the great comedian, but maybe to talk a little, too, about Protest, Trump and the State of the Nation.  So here’s history’s most unfunny description of a joke:  Louis CK starts out saying “Of course, I have this thing that I believe.”  He holds his non-mic hand high, to show this is the ideal.  Then he lowers that hand. “And then there’s a thing that challenges that ideal” and he gives a funny example.  That’s the whole, ingenious thing: he says “of course,” lifts his hand, and makes a point, then “but maybe” and he lowers it, makes a distasteful point challenging the ideal.

For me, it goes like this:  For one thing, of course it’s important that the government’s decisions represent God’s will.  Of course that’s the goal of our nation’s leaders. What’s legal represents what’s morally right.  In the issues of abortion, and drug use, we see this thinking clearly.  Of course, I agree, and believe that abortion is bad.  I agree with the police officer who came to my elementary school class to tell me drugs are bad.  

For another thing, of course the decisions of the government represent the will of the people. Of course I vote for people I agree with, so does everybody else, and those representatives enflesh those perspectives in law.  Of course.

But maybe, for one thing, deciding something bad is illegal isn’t reason enough to do the good.  Abortion was illegal when Dorothy Day procured one: that meant, for the most part, that the safety of her back-alley procedure could not be legally guaranteed.  The same “War on Drugs” that deemed the cash cows of alcohol and tobacco “legal” later brought charges against the officer who’d visited my elementary school classroom.  She, herself, had been caught dealing--harder drugs, but dealing nonetheless.  Maybe, when people in power calling non-conformity illegal, it  doesn't necessarily accomplish God's ends.

And maybe, for another thing, the majority doesn’t rule.  Maybe political machines use the electoral college to elect a candidate apart from the popular mandate.  Maybe that leader uses Executive Orders to circumvent the need for bipartisan cooperation.  And maybe he gets petty on twitter to blow smoke in the faces of the American people while his party pushes through policy that benefits the same oligarchy of cracker-ass rich folks.

Of course, violence is bad.  Between the first and second drafts of this post, a nutjob (who, like me, voted for Bernie Sanders) shot up a congressional baseball practice.  Bernie condemned it strongly, and I echo that condemnation: violence is never an acceptable way to voice dissent, and has no place in mature discourse.

But maybe—if, on the campaign trail, the candidate installed by the electoral college openly incites his supporters to violence—if, as president, he under-condemns violence—and if Mr. Trump neither has the mandate of, nor represents an American majority—maybe when the crazies among his opponents decide violence is their only recourse, it’s a little bit his fault.

Of course, when the government does something bad, protest is the answer.  Back in 2000, I learned that, at Fort Benning in Georgia, our nation trains the military officers of Latin American client Nations to use counter-insurgency warfare methods against their own countries’ poor people. Over the next three years, compelled by objections of conscience, I travelled down twice to carry signs and yell things.  The first time I was arrested for--but not charged with—trespassing, and simply told not to return.  The second time I couldn’t even do that much.  It was after 9/11 by then, and they’d put up a big barbed wire fence.  Everyone to cross it was immediately arrested and charged.  Of course, I was doing what I should do as an American who cares.

But maybe no one is listening.  In 2002, I stood at Fort Benning’s barbed-wire fence.  The protesters had bullhorns and were yelling about how president Bush was an idiot.  The military blared “Stars and Stripes Forever” from the other side.  The volley of noise simply passed back and forth over the barbed wire.  The protester’s rage, the military’s refusal to listen—both of these portrayed something I found in my own heart.  My own part in the corporate woundedness, I realized, was all I could hope to fix.  Two years later, I joined the monastery, to struggle against my own selfishness and seek a remedy.  Though I didn’t remain a monk, I discovered tools in the monastery that effectively began those processes: both the getting-honest and the healing.

In pacifist circles, I heard a story that’s important.  To paraphrase: A young person took a week-long, immersive service trip, into a situation of immense poverty.  After that week, he went to the program director and said “This is awful.  Of course, we’ve gotta do something about it.”

The program director cracked a tired, kind smile and said “Maybe what’s important is just to let it break your heart.”  As a protester, with my fist lifted in the air, I spent a lot of time agitating.  As a monk, I spent a lot of time noticing how I talked too much, and talked with my hands, when I’m agitated.  Psalm 51 says “a broken, contrite heart, O God, you will not spurn.”  It’s in brokenness that the protester and the enlisted man can listen to each other.  It’s in brokenness that the unresponsive president and his angry citizens are the same.  It’s in brokenness that I, a shitty contemplative, am finding a way to encounter all this.  I sit down more often these days, and listen.  More often, these days, my hands come to rest in my lap.

Two: The Cost of Compulsion

The bell rang.  I took attendance, so that the adults I work for wouldn’t send their goons to  my house.  Then I called on Will, hoping he’d start us off strong: “Will:  What is the first step of Compulsive thought?”

“Uncomfortable emotion” he said.  I turned to Hillary.  “Hillary, what is the second step?”

“Compulsive thought…craving Tamales” she said. I turned to Fatima. “Fatima, what is the third step?”

“Compulsive action?”  she asked, turning through her notes before she answered.  “Good.” I replied, “It’s okay to use notes as we’re learning this, just make sure you get this committed to memory by the quiz. I’ll tell you when that is with plenty of notice.”  I turned to Cole, who already had his hand raised. “Cole, what is the fourth Step of Compulsive thought?”

“Repetition.” He said, visibly relieved when he lowered his hand.  I replied “Right, because sugar highs adjusted our mood so effectively once, it’s natural that they would be just as helpful a second time.  Ralph, take us home.  What’s the fifth step?”

Ralph “Oh yeah.  You do it all the time.”

“Right.  Now, Folks, Today I want to share with you some of the most important teaching from back when I monked it up.  We’ll go deeper into this as the semester progresses, but today we’ll make a beginning. By the end of Class, I want everyone to have, down in their notes, what we'll call 'The Characteristics of Isolation.'  Let's get started.” I went to the “isolation” corner.  “Where am I?”

“Isolation.” They called out.

“If I’m in Mr. Warner’s class, and I’m thinking about a tamale: Hillary, what am I not able to focus on?”

Hillary looked up, surprised to be called on: “Class?”

“Yup,” I said, “Good Hillary.” I turned to everyone. “What we’ll eventually learn is that, in isolation, there are about eight categories of compulsive thought that we gravitate to over and over.  Will Parks: can you control compulsive thought?”

Will said “No? I think…”  

“Good,” I replied, “Why?  What does it cover?”  I saw Will snap back to remembering: we’d taken notes on this.

“Oh yeah.  Uncomfortable feelings.”

“Imma give y’all an example of a compulsive thought that we’ll eventually study.  It’s called ‘vanity.’  I suffer from this a ton.  Maybe you do too.”  I moved back into the “isolation corner.”  “Vanity is ‘the compulsive thought about new possessions or status, leading to putting other people down.’ We’ll write that down later.  For now, just notice what it leads to.  It’s that old song: I’m too sexy for my shirt.” Giggling commenced. “But it’s more than that.  It’s not just that I’m too sexy for my shirt, it’s that y’all’s wardrobe choices are just so ‘last season.’  The school uniform isn't a good look for y'all in the least.  Do you see what happened here?” They didn’t. “One of the Characteristics of Compulsive thought is ‘Divisive thinking.’  Don’t write that down yet.  Just notice that, while I’m suffering from Vanity, I’m elevating myself—I’m too sexy for my shirt—even as I’m putting others down.”

I asked them: “How many ‘human families’ are there?”

Cole, without raising his hand “One.

I continued “If I’m elevating myself by putting others down,” I asked “ Will Parks, how many groups am I creating?” 

“Two, Mr. Warner.”  

“Hey Cole, if you were asking a student for a pencil, and a teacher wrote you up for talking in class, what might you say to him?”

“I’d try to tell him I was just looking for a pencil.”

“Aha.  What that’s called is ‘rationalization.’  It’s a way of saying that you’re doing anything wrong.  I’ll tell you, ladies and gentlemen, if I ever write up a student, I know I’m gonna get a whole line of excuses, because no one wants to admit that they’re doing something wrong.  What’s that called when you don’t want to admit you’re doing something wrong?  It rhymes with a river in Egypt.”

There was a moment of confusion.  “It also rhymes with ‘schmenial’“ I said, “and starts with a ‘d.’”

Fatima raised her hand. “Denial.”

“Good, Fatima.” I turned to the class “Denial! Also notice that you don’t think you’re at fault.  Denial can also extend to our vulnerabilities.  Pay attention to this next bit, it's the second characteristic of Isolation: No one wants to admit they’re going to suffer and die.  The words we use for that are ‘Perfect and Invulnerable.’  Now for the third: Hey, Ralph Cain—what are you sitting at?” 

“A desk,” he said, wearing an isn’t it obvious? look on his face.

I moved quickly now: “Good Ralph. Where was the desk made?”

Ralph: “In a factory.” 

Me: “Who made the factory”

Ralph: “Construction workers”

Me: “Who made the construction workers.”

Ralph: “Their parents.”

Me: “Hillary:  Who made their parents, and their parents’ parents and their parents’ parents’ parents?”

Hillary: “Um, God?”

“YES!” I hollered. “Pay attention y’all.  We can trace back everything we see until it leads to God.  It’s called the “sacramental lens.” Write that down. “The sacramental lens is the ability to see God through the things he has made.  Ladies and Gents, when I was in the monastery, being quiet like it was my job—because it was—there were times I was so depressed and self-absorbed that I couldn’t taste my food.  Compulsive thought can interrupt our connection with our senses.  We can be so caught up in Vanity that we can’t taste our pastrami sandwich.  We can be so caught up in thinking of ourselves that, even if God were to hit us in the face, we wouldn’t be able to see him.  We can see traces of God through what he’s made, but we lose that ability when we’re in isolation.

“Before we write down the Characteristics of Isolation,” I said, “we just need to say that there are eight types of thought—vanity’s one of them—that we experience in isolation.  Working together, they produce the Ego.  That’s an identity we make up out of all of our compulsive thoughts.  The last characteristic of isolation is ‘the eight evil thoughts.’  Don’t worry about what they are now, just know they exist, and work together to generate our ego—like parts of an engine do, to give off heat.  Everyone get out your notebooks and write ‘the Characteristics of Isolation’ at the top of a blank page”  For a moment, there was nothing but shuffling with school supplies and hasty scribbling.

“Good,”  I said, after a minute. “Now, I’m gonna give you an acronym to remember all this.  Down the left hand side of your page, writing one word per line so you have the rest to write in, write the sentence ‘Don’t take iguanas down escalators.’  I walked around the class, checking to see if they’d understood. “The sentence ‘Don’t take iguanas down escalators’ is how we’re going to remember isolation’s characteristics.  This will be on a quiz.  Next to ‘Don’t,’ write ‘denial.’” I paused. “Next to ‘take,’ write ‘thinking we’re perfect and invulnerable.’  Next to ‘iguanas’ write ‘inability to use sacramental lens.’  Remember ‘sacramental lens’ isn’t enough.  We need to remember that isolation makes us unable to use it.  Next to ‘down’ write ‘divisive thinking.’  I’m too sexy for my shirt, and y’all are chumps.  It makes two human families where there should be one.  Next to “Escalators” write the formal name of the kinds of compulsive thought ‘Eight evil thoughts.’  We’ll talk more about that soon.”

Everyone finished scribbling.  “Ok let’s review.” I ran to a corner of the classroom. “Where am I standing right now?”  With rapid randomness, they all said it “Isolation.”

“Hillary: What” I asked, “is this course about?  We go out of what, into what, by way of what.”  

As she said it, I ran around the room, frantic-white-guy style.  “We go out of isolation,” Corner. “Into Community,” Corner.  “By way of the sacraments,” and I ended in the center of the room.

“Yes!” I said “Fatima, what’s our Acronym for remembering the characteristics of isolation?”

She read from her notes “Don’t take iguanas down escalators.”

“Don’t do it”  I said. The bell rang as I waxed goofy: “Reptiles have a terrific phobia of moving stairs.  Not a good Idea.  More of this tomorrow, have a good day.”

I collapsed into my chair when they left.  It was satisfying to look around the classroom.  Our inner lives had a geography, and we were mapping it out.  By a week from now, my position in the classroom would cue their answers to my questions, and all I’d have to do to get specific is talk about lizards and escalators.

But it was deeper than that.  Though we were all different people, the “interior map” we were creating was the same for everyone.  I hoped that, on that map between isolation and community, wherever we found ourselves, we wouldn’t find ourselves alone.

Kairos, Koans and Conversion: Three--On Lectio and Lightning

Already I’ve experienced the limitations of this new lectio method.  Two days in, I sat down to read, and had soon fashioned a thesis statement.  Initiated by nervous energy, this "overarching theory" absorbed me for the rest of my lector time.  Afterwards, sitting in the wrecked remains of my peace of mind, I wrote something in all caps and underlined it.  Thrice. Koanic work, y’all, is fueled by intuition, not reason.  Anxiety is a great indicator that something’s not right.

While I want to leave it there, I also want to show my work, even if the paltry shack I sat to build is uninhabitable.  While I’m at it, with a little help of Mark’s temptation in the desert story, I’ll try to demonstrate that Jesus went through this too, though with an aplomb that’s markedly fancier. 

I.               When tempting him in the desert, Satan told Jesus to turn rocks into bread.  He was asking the Lord to deny reality, under-nourishing though it may have been.  As I sat in Starbucks, I knew this moment. It’s the moment when I am tempted to weave theories of life out of the wasteland of meaning that is normal experience.  My tendencies to OCD thought patterns have too often rendered me a football that insight picks up and runs with. It’s a trap I’ve willingly fallen into before, and will again. In the case of this first temptation, it’s with the Scriptures that Jesus refuses self-made meaning.

Though this post’s framework comes from Mark, I began, that day in Starbucks, with John’s Gospel. “What has come into being in him was life,” says the text, “and the life was the Light of all people.  The Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

A Koan unifies opposites.   I was curious about the meaning of words like “life” and “overcome.”  In Judo, “overcoming” an adversary is simply a matter of sidestepping an enemy’s violence, continuing their momentum into the nearby wall.  What if Light’s way of overcoming darkness was to yield to it?  Christ, who knew no sin, became sin for us.  Jesus was the light, and he became darkness for us.

II.              Then the devil took Jesus to the highest point of the temple.  He employed scripture, tempting him to use things religious in making a spectacle of himself.  Jesus was better at seeing this trap than I usually am. When nervous energy decides to play grab ass with my attention span, it’s actually my love of good things that hooks me.

The thought occurred to me: If it’s in the unity of opposites that our salvation is achieved, then we have to question how we have interpreted another scripture.

I turned to Matthew 6: 22 ‘The eye is the lamp of the body. So, if your eye is healthy, your whole body will be full of light; but if your eye is unhealthy, your whole body will be full of darkness. If then the light in you is darkness, how great is the darkness!”

Cascade-style, the thoughts came: If health comes as a result of acceptance that I’m unhealthy (which is the case for us,) then admitting my dualistic mindset is the first step to recovery.  “If the light inside you is darkness, great is that darkness.”  This is Jesus saying that, when light becomes darkness, that’s good.  St. Paul would echo it: we walk by faith, not by sight.  It’s healthy to be full of light.  But if you’re unhealthy, full of darkness, then that’s Christ.  And now we’re back at the beginning.  Christ was the Light of all people. As the Good Friday Liturgy says, “O happy fault, that gained for us such a savior!”

None of the above paragraph is false.  But the process of trying to fit big thoughts in small boxes was slowly bulldozing whatever peace of mind the morning held.  Pair that with too much coffee, and it’s a recipe for becoming a frenetic mess.

III.            After that, Satan takes Jesus to a high mountain, tempts him with political power, if only he’ll bow to him.  Jesus simply tells him to go away.  After I left Starbucks, I had to go home and lie down.  I had to listen to myself breathe, to notice the tension I’d allowed into my body.   I had to say gentle things to it, inner parent to inner child.  It seems silly, but it’s what I ended up needing to do to reclaim a sense of centeredness.

I can’t stress enough how important realization is.  A ring I knelt and give someone is the foundation of a relationship.  A ring I steal is a $20 negotiation at a pawn shop.  Truth may be graspable by reason, arrived at by effort.  But wisdom—and this is all that matters to the efforts at Under the Influence—wisdom is given.  I would rather write nothing, publish never again, than compromise on this.  The only thing worse than serving bullshit-cooked-from scratch to others is serving it to myself, telling myself it tastes like chicken.

Consider, with me, this bit from Luke:

‘The kingdom of God is not coming with things that can be observed; nor will they say, “Look, here it is!” or “There it is!” For, in fact, the kingdom of God is among you.’  Then [Jesus] said to the disciples, ‘The days are coming when you will long to see one of the days of the Son of Man, and you will not see it. They will say to you, “Look there!” or “Look here!” Do not go, do not set off in pursuit. For as the lightning flashes and lights up the sky from one side to the other, so will the Son of Man be in his day.

Before God and everybody, I’ll say it:  Though Under the Influence came about because embittered silence about the sacred wasn’t working, I won’t allow all things holy to be coopted by the worst parts of myself.  If this isn’t an exercise in being present, it’s worthless. 

So here I am.  Again.  For real this time.  I mean it.

One: As a Man thinketh: overmuch, and though he tryeth not to think

The paradox about teaching religion is this:  what my students need most is the one thing I can’t give them.  I can teach them about the articles of faith, but the gift of faith itself isn’t mine to give.  I may teach a man to fish, but whether he catches anything is someone else’s concern.  It’s humbling from the word go.

In the monastery, we used to say that the brothers are a mirror.  This is true of all people, full stop.  It means that the classroom, too, is self-revealing.  And whether I’ve struck up relationships of discord or concord with the people around me, I’ve done so because of something they mirror, for good or ill, about myself.  I teach because, from the class-clown to the quiet kid, from the weird kid to the perfectionist jock, all of my students are, to some degree, me.  At my best, I want to learn about myself.  Later, I’ll deal with the breakdown of these ideals—because they do, and must, deteriorate— but they’re a necessary beginning.

So when I walked into class this year, I was conscious of two things: first, that my primary responsibility was to empathize with everything students felt that wasn’t faith. Second, I knew that to divide pockets of talkers was to separate parts of myself, and I needed to treat my students, like the different parts of myself, clearly and with compassion.

So when I walked into class this year, I was conscious of two things: first, that my primary responsibility was to empathize with everything students felt that wasn’t faith. Second, I knew that to divide pockets of talkers was to separate parts of myself, and I needed to treat my students, like the different parts of myself, clearly and with compassion.

On day one, with classroom rules in place and the syllabus explained, I stood in front of my students.  “The entire focus of this class is this—and you should write this down—By way of the Sacraments, we come out of isolation, into community.”  As I said this, I stood in the corner that would come to be known as “isolation,” crisscrossing the room to the corner that would come to be known as “community.”  We did this three times, until they could tell me the name of the corner I stood in, and how I got from one to the other.

“Excellent, y’all.  Now, I’m about to ask some questions, and you won’t be asked to talk about specifics, ok?  By a show of hands: is there anyone who, like me, feels a little anxious?” Three hands went up.  “Thanks  for that.  Welcome to the club.  We should make T-shirts.  Is there anyone who, like me, has a few things they’re angry about?”  Two hands went up.  “Alright,” I said. “Me too.  The only act I do better than ‘sad white guy’ is ‘mad white guy.’  If we ignore emotions, they’ll make growth in faith impossible.  Officially, “Sacramentality” is the subject of this course, but ‘learning how to deal with ourselves’ is an unofficial learning goal as well.”

“Ok…” I looked out over the class. “Hey, Hilary Jones: where are you right now?”

Hillary Jones answered: “I’m in class.”

“Alright. How many people are, like me, wishing, with some small part of themselves, that they were elsewhere?”  Two hands went up.

“How many people, while they’re in class, are secretly looking forward to the ice cream they’re gonna purchase at the Paleteria after school?  Or maybe you’re just really craving a tamale?  Tamales are gorgeous: I know I am.  How many people?”  5 hands went up.

“So we can be confident that nothing we’re thinking about is something we’re thinking about alone.  Let’s get into some of the meat and potatoes of the course.  When I’m in Mr. Warner’s class thinking about Tamales, what am I not able to focus on?”

Cole Jensen’s raised a gregarious hand “You’re not focusing on class.”

“Right Cole,” I replied. “So even though we didn’t mean to, the things that we think can get in the way of ‘being where we are.’  Open your notebooks and Write that down:  The things we think can get in the way of being where we are.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw two students using a side conversation to avoid being where they are. I moved right next to them, and they desisted. “Let’s do an experiment.  Cole—on a scale of 1 to ten, how loud is the noise in your head?” 

Cole answered “three.”  

I replied.  “Three, ok.  Now, everybody take just 3 minutes and sit in silence.  Close your eyes if you have to.”  The whole class shifted into that mode.  After the three minutes was up, I called on Cole again “When your mouth was quiet, on a scale of 1 to 10, how loud was the noise in your head.”

Cole “It was a six.”

I pointed: “When your mouth gets quiet, your head gets loud.  That’s why so many people have troubles with silence.”  And turning to the rest of the class: “Does anybody really mean to be mentally absent, to be thinking about tamales or being elsewhere when they’re supposed to be here?”

There was a smattering of “well, sometimes.”  Will Parks, sitting towards the back, said “not really.”  I pointed at him. “Good Will, Good. The fact is, some thoughts come about on their own, without our helping them.  Others are intentional.  The ones that arise on their own are call “compulsive thoughts.  Please write this down:  There are two kinds of thought: Compulsive thought and deliberate thought.  Compulsive thought comes about on its own.  We cause “deliberate thought.

“Has anyone ever heard of comfort food?” I asked. In a general air of recognition, I continued “This is a caricature, but if a girl—lets call her Jane—gets stood up for prom, why do we often think that there will already be a spoon in the freezer’s carton of ice cream.”

When Fatima Garcia raised her hand even that small gesture betrayed her pervasive elegance.  Confident, she said “She’s trying to eat her feelings.”

“Uno tristeza, per tienes cierto.”  I said: It’s sad, but you’re right.  Her eyes raised when I spoke Spanish.  From then onward, between the two of us, we would speak it often. “She’s right, I said, addressing the class. “So “Compulsive thought begins as an uncomfortable emotion we don’t want to deal with. In your notebook, write ‘The 5 Steps of Compulsive thought.’  Write the number 1, and the words ‘uncomfortable emotion.’”

Our “note taking had begun in earnest.  Amidst some grumbling, they scribbled away.

“Back to Jane!” I said.  “After she felt sad about the rejection, what did she think about?”  

“Ice cream” three students, in rapid succession.

“The Second Step of Compulsive thought is what gives it its name.  We compulsively think about something, and it’s a source of comfort.  By number 2, write ‘compulsive thought.’  It’s why most of us, when we don’t want to be in Mr. Warner’s class, think about tamales.”

“Someone raise your hand and tell me: After jane thinks about ice cream, what’s she gonna do?”  

Ralph Cain raised his hand and said “She’s gonna destroy that tub of ice cream and get diabeetus.”  He leaned into the joke.  The class laughed.  

I followed up speedily, attempting to reclaim the class from its giggles “Everyone write down ‘Compulsive action’ by number 3.”  I gave them a minute.  “Someone raise your hand and tell me: What Chemical in the ice cream helps people feel better?”

No one raised their hands.  I called on Hillary. She fidgeted a bit, then said “Um, Sugar?”

To Hilary: “Absolutely.  Look at you, knowing stuff about stuff.  Well done.”  Then, to everyone: “The sugar is like a drug.  It gets you real excited—we call it a ‘sugar rush.’  What eventually happens though?  People often experience this on the day after Halloween.  Someone raise your hand and tell me.”

Cole Jensen, who had spent the class raising his hand every time I’d asked, raised it this time as well. I called on him. “You get depressed,” he said.

“Yessir…our friend Jane crashes and gets depressed again.”  I said, following up with “When Jane depressed, what does she crave to get excited again?”

There was a chorus of “more sugar!” and “ice cream” responses.  

“The Fourth step of Compulsive thinking is ‘Repetition.’  If Jane repeats it and it solves her sadness, what’s she gonna do, more and more frequently, when she’s sad?”

A few students reprised the chorus. I said “The fifth step of compulsive thought—everybody write this in your notebooks—is ‘habit or addiction.’”

“Given the number people whom addiction has caused to lose houses and families, is addiction good or bad?”

Fatima said “Bad” and I agreed.  I followed with “Society doesn’t like people to do bad things…it declares them illegal.  Is someone who is an addict gonna feel good about themselves, or ashamed?”

The class understood.  He’d feel ashamed.  “But wait a minute now.  We’ve just seen that  every one of us sometimes wants a tamale with a force that sometimes completely distracts us from what we’re supposed to be doing.  We’re just like addicts.  But how did y’all feel, earlier, when we surveyed the class, about admitting that stuff, and why?”

Without raising her hand, Fatima said, “It was ok, Mr. Warner.  It’s natural, we’re all human.”  She was right, and I was pointing at her.

“After step 5, write this down: Compulsive thought is a source of community to those who admit they’re part of it.  It’s a source of judgment for those who think they aren’t.”  I let them write. “We’ve just seen it: in this class, compulsive thought is something we all do.  It’s my goal, and let’s make it our goal, to always focus on how that brings us together.”

And so we’d made a beginning.  My students had looked squarely at the way they were mirrors of each other.  And they’d used side-talking and joke-cracking less than I figured they would to cover the discomfort of it.  Like Peter had, for an unrecognized Christ, my students had lowered empty nets in the heat of the day.  Day today as I teach, I’m still just watching and waiting.  Providence, as it wishes, will supply the rest.