The Reverend Jennifer DeBusk Alviar
Twenty years ago in my early 30s, I embarked on a call to ministry as an interfaith religious leader. Sometimes it takes a couple of decades to gain perspective and insight around the underlying motives of one’s choices and actions.
In my case, I equated “doing good” with “being good.” That meant being of service and becoming a change maker. I grew up in an academic family on a university campus. The leaders in my community were professors at podiums. Preachers in pulpits. These leaders honed the craft of masterful storytelling. They wove a narrative of liberation, healing and wholeness for all. They modeled civic life through education for social change. They modeled sacred life guided by a moral compass of prophetic witness and pastoral care. What could possibly go wrong with a compelling narrative like that?!
The shadow-side of storytelling is that some narratives are too small. Too limiting. Too confining for people whose own lived experiences fall outside the carefully crafted boundaries of societal expectations. My cultural narrative celebrated the spoken word as the epitome of leadership, excellence and achievement.
So imagine my shock to find myself voiceless and speechless due to a childhood brain injury at six years old. Without access to verbal expression, how would I communicate? How would I advocate for myself? For self-expression, I leaned into the nonverbal, sensory world of the visual arts, poetry and kinesthetic movement grounded in the natural world.
Yet even after I regained my speech from successful brain surgery, I felt self-conscious. Early in my recovery, I struggled with word-finding difficulties. It upended the seamless narrative of verbal expression as the mark of leadership, excellence and achievement. I experienced the shame of feeling somehow “less than.” How might I compensate for this apparent deficit by “doing enough” in order to “be enough”?
Once again, I leaned into the sensory world to guide me. In 1993 as a recent college graduate from California, I bicycled 5,200 miles cross-country to participate in a yearlong national service program in Boston with CityYear/AmeriCorps.
In my case, I equated “doing good” with “being good.” That meant being of service and becoming a change maker. I grew up in an academic family on a university campus. The leaders in my community were professors at podiums. Preachers in pulpits. These leaders honed the craft of masterful storytelling. They wove a narrative of liberation, healing and wholeness for all. They modeled civic life through education for social change. They modeled sacred life guided by a moral compass of prophetic witness and pastoral care. What could possibly go wrong with a compelling narrative like that?!
The shadow-side of storytelling is that some narratives are too small. Too limiting. Too confining for people whose own lived experiences fall outside the carefully crafted boundaries of societal expectations. My cultural narrative celebrated the spoken word as the epitome of leadership, excellence and achievement.
So imagine my shock to find myself voiceless and speechless due to a childhood brain injury at six years old. Without access to verbal expression, how would I communicate? How would I advocate for myself? For self-expression, I leaned into the nonverbal, sensory world of the visual arts, poetry and kinesthetic movement grounded in the natural world.
Yet even after I regained my speech from successful brain surgery, I felt self-conscious. Early in my recovery, I struggled with word-finding difficulties. It upended the seamless narrative of verbal expression as the mark of leadership, excellence and achievement. I experienced the shame of feeling somehow “less than.” How might I compensate for this apparent deficit by “doing enough” in order to “be enough”?
Once again, I leaned into the sensory world to guide me. In 1993 as a recent college graduate from California, I bicycled 5,200 miles cross-country to participate in a yearlong national service program in Boston with CityYear/AmeriCorps.
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Our team taught English as a Second Language to immigrants and refugees. Mentored youth at the Boys & Girls Club. And served as camp counselors for kids at the YMCA.
After graduating from CityYear/AmeriCorps, I shifted from urban service to environmental service. I backpacked for a month-long wilderness training program as an outdoor educator in Alaska with National Outdoor Leadership School.
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This, followed by four years of seminary in Berkeley, California culminating in my ordination as an interfaith minister. I pursued ministry with the intention to serve as a hospital chaplain given my own health history from my childhood illness.
Then the global health pandemic hit in 2020. It became a wake up call for me. A necessary reset. After decades of earnest public service, I found myself exhausted at midlife. How might I redefine leadership and service as a soul-nourishing, sustainable way of life?
This reset led me to pause at the intersection between sacred life and civic life through a new lens. I had lived life large from a bird’s eye view. My flight pattern had been one of rising and soaring. A life driven by a need to prove my worth on a national scale to make a positive social impact.
At this season in my life, I longed to shift my flight pattern toward nesting and resting. Tending and mending. I contemplated a new narrative. A life-giving story that welcomed a gentler, more grace-filled, spacious way of being in the world beyond the marketplace of productivity and efficiency as the measure of my worth.
The imagery and metaphor of birds reminded me of a worship service I led at a church in Port Townsend, Washington. This peaceful, tranquil seaport island in the Pacific Northwest is a destination spot for artists of all kinds. When I entered the sanctuary for worship, my eyes beheld a most spectacular tapestry. Displayed before me were four quilts of elegant cranes rising and soaring across a brilliant ocean sunrise.
This reset led me to pause at the intersection between sacred life and civic life through a new lens. I had lived life large from a bird’s eye view. My flight pattern had been one of rising and soaring. A life driven by a need to prove my worth on a national scale to make a positive social impact.
At this season in my life, I longed to shift my flight pattern toward nesting and resting. Tending and mending. I contemplated a new narrative. A life-giving story that welcomed a gentler, more grace-filled, spacious way of being in the world beyond the marketplace of productivity and efficiency as the measure of my worth.
The imagery and metaphor of birds reminded me of a worship service I led at a church in Port Townsend, Washington. This peaceful, tranquil seaport island in the Pacific Northwest is a destination spot for artists of all kinds. When I entered the sanctuary for worship, my eyes beheld a most spectacular tapestry. Displayed before me were four quilts of elegant cranes rising and soaring across a brilliant ocean sunrise.
When I inquired about the history of these quilts, I learned that a community of quilters from this congregation were inspired by the hymn, “Morning Has Broken.” This bird imagery wove its way beautifully between the visual arts and music. In fact, these artistic threads reminded me of a poem by theologian Wayne Mueller in his book, Sabbath:
“There is a hum the earth makes. When seasonal winds pass over wave and mountain all across the earth and sea, a sound is born, a low-frequency pulsation audible to migrating birds thousands of miles away. By listening to the music of the earth, birds find their way home. Many birds also possess an inner orientation to true north; when they fly at night, they use the patterns and movements of the stars to guide their flight. Even in a planetarium, with the night sky projected on the ceiling, birds fly in rhythm with the seasonal stars.”
Amen! I returned home from that island worship service feeling restored and rejuvenated in body, mind, and spirit with all my senses alive. Then, as I enjoyed a nature stroll through my neighborhood, I came across a P-Patch with a collection of bird houses – including a bird chapel!
“There is a hum the earth makes. When seasonal winds pass over wave and mountain all across the earth and sea, a sound is born, a low-frequency pulsation audible to migrating birds thousands of miles away. By listening to the music of the earth, birds find their way home. Many birds also possess an inner orientation to true north; when they fly at night, they use the patterns and movements of the stars to guide their flight. Even in a planetarium, with the night sky projected on the ceiling, birds fly in rhythm with the seasonal stars.”
Amen! I returned home from that island worship service feeling restored and rejuvenated in body, mind, and spirit with all my senses alive. Then, as I enjoyed a nature stroll through my neighborhood, I came across a P-Patch with a collection of bird houses – including a bird chapel!
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I marveled at the synchronicity of these two encounters. Between the sacred space of worship and the civic space of a neighborhood garden, I found just the balance I needed. That sweet spot of “enoughness.” A sustainable flight pattern from rising and soaring to nesting and resting. May each of us find our way home and “fly in rhythm with the seasonal stars.”
May it be so!