Lately, one of my preoccupations has been "what makes a text worth (re)reading?" It's ultimately a not-very-answerable question, since people come to texts from different traditions and with different intentions. The situation is further complicated by the fact that many people assume that other people are or should be reading the same way they themselves are. I see this everywhere: when I taught a course on Rowling and Sayers at Vanderbilt, it was the first time some of the students (who were mainly retired professors) had truly considered the notion of approaching texts written primarily for entertainment with a scholarly scalpel. For some, it was a significant leap to realize that other people devoted their entire careers to such exercises not as a one-time lark but as a lifetime's vocation, and I'm pretty sure not all of them bought into the validity of such efforts. I see and hear this in discussions of fiction (both genre and literary) and poetry (across the board), where writers obsess over how to be taken seriously and readers debate over who's worthy of it. I experience this pretty much on a daily basis within my own mind, as I try to strike a balance among writing for myself (the scribbles in my paper journals) vs. unpaid writing/editing (= writing to praise/nudge/influence/amuse) vs. paid responsibilities (= not really different from unpaid writing/editing, but generally a level or two more difficult for me to complete because of stipulations and restrictions and because these usually come with some degree of obligatory project management, which in turn comes with the mandate to adhere to what the client is willing to pay for rather than insisting on immaculate, no-contingency-unaddressed results. As I reminded one colleague last week, "There is only so much idiot-proofing one can do on a budget").

I spend a fair amount of time with people who engage with the analysis and interpretation of texts far passionately and personally than I. (Yesterday's lunch date started out with my companion railing about how religion studies insists on using outdated critical terminology that historians and sociologists discarded a decade ago, which leads to religion studies not being taken seriously by other disciplines...) It's not that I don't care, but I have found that I don't care quite enough: given limited time to make vs. discuss things, I'd rather focus on the making. Some people genuinely enjoy analyzing texts and theories and trends; I can't help paying attention to such things, but neither do they hold my attention for long: after a while, I inevitably circle back to my bedrock postulate ("It depends...") and reach for the next skein of yarn.

So, this morning's services at my church punched some of my mental buttons. They were devoted to interpretations of the Psalms, and the preacher (a Franciscan friar turned UU music minister) focused on how selective and agenda-framed "translations" and exegeses can be (contrasting the NRSV and Stephen Mitchell renderings of Psalm 139) -- and also how difficult it can be for people to be truly aware and accepting that other lives are on wholly different tracks than theirs, making it hard for them to grasp from whence the readings they wouldn't ever themselves make are springing from. (He didn't put in those words -- that's my takeaway from the sermon -- but the example he gave, that of his three-year-old daughter becoming aware (and temporarily obsessed-disturbed) with another congregant's life being lived mostly outside of her view or knowledge ("Daddy, what's T. doing right now?" "I don't know, hon") -- that's stayed with me, since part of what I continually struggle with in my own creation and distribution of texts is (1) not being moved by texts that affect other people tremendously (during coffee hour, I needed a break after 3-4 conversations, so I retreated to a pew with a book of poetry that had been highly rated by other SF/F writers, and I just couldn't get into it, even though the writer and I nominally share several major interests and influences), and alternately (2) investing a fair amount of time creating texts that end up connecting with few readers.

On the one hand, I would indeed write no matter what -- but on the other hand, there's a writing-for-self vs. writing-for-a-real-audience ratio that I have to respect in order to keep up with my mortgage payments. On the back right paw, there's the fact that I'm often more thin-skinned than I act and that I do crave approval and recognition. On the back left paw, there's the fact that I sometimes cannot regard all our collective sound and fury with any seriousness whatsoever. Every couple of months I can't help wondering, "What's the point of all of us trying so hard to get published and most of it ending up in recycling bins sooner rather than later, and why shouldn't I just shut up and stick with reading (and reading only) at leisure and really pay attention to what already exists instead of being in such an all-fired hurry to make more stuff that's just going to get ignored?"

(And the answer to that would be that you never know when something you bear witness to (be it in a text or via your presence or through the gesture of offering a cup of coffee or simply doing your job or taking the trouble to notice someone doing theirs) will be the means through which someone else connects with a grace, however momentary, that makes it possible for them to be more brave or more happy or more generous or some other version of more themselves. And the little moments build toward larger ones.)

(Although I still plan to adjust my scribbling:wibbling:reading ratio this year so there's much more of the third than the others.)

Other notes from this morning:

The opening hymns were "When We Wend Homeward" (a song more familiar to me as "Make Channels for the Streams of Love" -- what is it about that melody that prompts associations with rivers?), "By the Waters of Babylon" (a three-part round by William Billings), and "O Sing Hallelujah" (set to "Avinu Malkeinu," a High Holidays melody I irrationally but thoroughly dislike. Oh well). Billings, though -- oh, delight. Even a song as sad as "Babylon" -- to hear it soaring...

The call to worship was Mitchell's translation of Psalm 150. Mitchell is unabashedly contemporary in his re-envisioning of the Psalms, and there was a rumble of surprised laughter at both services when the word "computer" popped up.

The "story for all ages" was Jason reading the Psalm again -- this time with the congregation literally shaking rattles and tambourines, banging pots and pans (distributed by the greeters), stomping, improvising birdcalls, etc., to see what it might be like "making a joyful noise" in tandem with the call for a joyful noise. Me being sleepy-cranky, this was not my favorite moment of the service, but objectively speaking, if I had been a kid or a visitor, this probably would have captivated me. (I think one visitor said as much during introductions, and I found myself thinking back to the visitor last week who'd asked whether what he'd seen was "typical"...)

One of the readers was a piano teacher whose voice and face are as Southern as can be. She is one of the sweetest people I've met, and it was lovely hearing her voice travel through Mitchell's introduction to his translation -- and also a bit of a personal disconnect (in this case, the disconnect adding to the pleasure), since I also happen to associate Mitchell with Rilke's Duino Elegies and daffy novels about Hasidic Jews getting high by smoking broccoli.

My friend Ron turned 60. He's another sweetie -- and also incredibly inspiring, since he's a former corporate lawyer who's currently finishing up his criminal justice dissertation and recently started a major new job (the exact title escapes me, but it's some sort of directorship related to prison chaplaincy). If I'm even half that cool and engaged (and huggable!) when I'm sixty, I'll be doing very well indeed.

There's more, but I think it'll probably be better if I just ponder it on my own for the time being, and then link to the homily if/when it gets posted to First UU's sermon blog.

Last, but not least, I love the Stephen Mitchell version of Psalm 40 that was used as the epigraph in today's Order of Service:

Grant me awareness; keep my gratitude fresh each day.
Let my song give blessing and insight to those who can't see for themselves.
And let your compassion always shine forth from the depths of my heart.