Grad essay for M.Div
Hey all,
So I'm busy getting my application finished up for a few different programs for an Masters in Divinity. Right now, my number one choice is Emory in Atlanta, so I've been concentrating on their "Personal Essay" which is suppose to discuss your faith journey and how you've gotten where you are. I have a full 7 pages written, and I need to shave about 3 pages off. Any feed back would be FABULOUS!
Thanks, and good luck to all you who are busy typing away!
Is It I, Lord?
Personal essays have never been easy. We are taught to analyze, critique and evaluate in essays, but turning that scope inward and discovering the fixtures and flaws that make up who we are as people takes honesty and humility. In this biographical sketch, I could tell you about growing up within the metro Atlanta limits, experiencing racism and intolerance by neighbors, my mother’s alcoholism, and my failure to be chosen as a Fulbright scholar. But that is not the story of me that is important. The story I need to tell is how I, the child of two parents who last set foot in a church for my baptism twenty-two years ago, came to find a deep relationship with God and a yearning to serve His people.
That story started in middle school, when I first asked to attend church. St. Timothy’s United Methodist became my first real encounter with God and with Christianity. Aside from the festive parties and gift exchange of the commercial Christmas and Easter holidays, I had never experienced church or anything resembling faith. My father had been raised Catholic and had faith forced upon him. He chose to spare his children from the guilt and confusion that his childhood faith had left him. But, St. Timothy’s was a place that welcomed me and my struggles. They encouraged me to come and actively participate, despite the absence of parental involvement. At St. Timothy’s I found the child-like faith that sits in awe of God, a faith that has not yet begun to question or doubt. I was confirmed shortly before my family moved from Atlanta to suburbia, a move that changed my fundamental understanding of religion and the religious community.
Moving from the city to the suburbs changed not only my location and my general affluence level, but it also shaped how I viewed people and religion. In my search for a church, I visited several local churches from Methodist to Lutheran to Presbyterian, and even a non-denominational community church. I settled into a small United Methodist Church and was dropped off before Sunday school and picked up after services by my parents. I went to a few youth groups, but felt wildly out of place around families who had decades of friendship preceding my arrival. These families led secure, content lives that I was not welcomed into. Somehow this buxom thirteen year old from the city unsettled their static faith; somehow I offended their sensibilities, so much so that the minister pulled me aside and asked why I attended church alone. When I told him that my parents were not religious, he shifted uneasily and said that his congregation felt uncomfortable with me attending without a parent or sponsor - it was unseemly.
Unseemly; in one word the minister signaled my exodus from faith. I tossed my Bible on a shelf and angrily swore that Christ and all of Christianity was a fraud and I would never be fooled into believing in it ever again. I tried to make good my promise. I checked out every book on world religions my library had on shelf. I read up on Hinduism, mediated to Buddhist chants, and lit candles in an attempt to become a Pagan. I covered my hair and prayed at a Mosque with one best friend, and tried to learn Hebrew and celebrated Pesach with the other. While I have developed a deep and resounding love for the Jewish and Muslim faiths as a result of my searching years, I felt no closer to knowing God than I had when I left Christianity. But we have a persistent God, and when I was ready to listen, He was there.
During my senior year of high school, a good friend of mine invited me to Catholic Mass with her. Teri was from a very strong Catholic family. She welcomed my questioning and soul-searching. She humored my long rambles about whom God must be, why I believe gays have rights, and what I think happens after death. She reminded me that Christ came for the broken, and in my own struggle I became aware that He was there.
As I sat, listening to the choir, breathing in the thick frankincense and soaking in the streaming light from the stained-glass windows, I was blanketed with a feeling of awe. The elaborate ritual drew me in, softened my heart and forced me to look at Christian faith with new eyes. The more I attended St. Pious X, the more I uncovered a variety of faith and spiritual expression within the Christian community. Christianity was more than white, middle class Americans in khaki pants and sun dresses sitting politely on Sunday mornings; Christianity, I discovered, was at once a living and ancient faith, full of mystery and running the spiritual gamut from hard-line orthodox literalists, to new-age, metaphorical contemplatives. Although I do not believe in the infallibility of the Pope, Priest celibacy or in the holiness of Tradition in the institutional sense, I learned from Catholicism that there is room enough in Christianity for all people, no matter what their spiritual backgrounds. In these few months before I left for college, I recognized that faith is not a destination reached by piety, good deeds and self sacrifice. Instead, I discovered a rich tradition of faith that led me to positive questioning, constructive doubt and ultimately to choose a Presbyterian college.
Queens University of Charlotte was my first choice and I consider myself blessed to have had the opportunity to spend four years there. I vividly remember my first Wednesday chapel service, sneaking into a pew behind most of the students and faculty that gathered there. I was dressed in all black, forgot to turn my cell phone off - to my embarrassment - and awkwardly tried to follow along without a worship bulletin. Dr. Diane Mowrey, the chaplain and a professor of religion, led the service and welcomed me warmly afterward. She saw in me, even then, what I did not see in myself. Her support and friendship taught me to lean on Christ through the trials that faced me that first year.
I joined a sorority my freshman year - Phi Mu - and found in it a group of women that became my college family. February of my freshman year tragedy tested that family. Nicole Flagge, a freshman and fellow sorority sister, died in a car accident. I remember sitting in the hospital waiting room with my sisters, all of us heaped upon one another grasping for comfort. I met her family, prayed that her coma would lift and pleaded that God would return her to us. Dr. Mowrey was there, praying alongside us. Although God did not answer our prayers as we would have liked them, I remember feeling His presence in that defining moment. I look back and remember how thankful I was for the community of support that surrounded me. About five weeks later, a family friend died of a heart attack shortly after marrying his long-time girlfriend. I was numb from shock. Up until this point in my life, my greatest trial had been my mother’s alcoholism. No one close to me had died before. Here I was tested, and here again I began to doubt God’s goodness.
I remember the phone call, clear in my mind like a movie reel. It was mid-April, I was the props manager for a friend’s production of The Odd Couple and we were running through our last dress rehearsal. I only pulled my cell phone out of my pocket to check the time, and I noticed that a call was coming though. Zena, my high school best friend, was calling in. I took the call. The rest of the evening is a blur of people, emotions and delayed reactions to hearing her devastated voice on the other end of the line: “My father’s dead.”
Austin “Barefoot Bubba” Yeatman was a second father to me. He was a tall, gray-haired man of few words, but he spoke profoundly simple messages about love and joy. Diagnosed with cancer, he had shown signs of improvement and had been in remission at Christmas break. This was the farthest thing from possible; how could Austin, my second father, my mentor, my friend be dead?
I only remember pieces of the rest of that night. I called all of our high school friends and told them the news; I was strong for my friend. I wandered aimlessly across my campus, trying to make sense of what was happening. Miraculously, I found my bags packed and two friends stowed me into the back of a car and drove me home. I arrived about four AM, dazed and barely cognizant. The funeral passed by the same way, hazy and surreal. I sat next to my best friend helping her recite the Mourners Kaddish for her father. I slipped and stumbled over the Hebrew, but I felt the firm foundation of God’s realness in that ancient prayer, even in that devastating moment.
After Austin’s death faith became a wrestling match between God and me. How could such a good man die so young? Would he be in Heaven or Hell? Did it matter? Was Christ really “the Truth, the Way and the Light?” Could righteous non-Christians be welcomed into Paradise?
I lack all the definitive answers, but I am beginning to discover them. The single most important event in my discovery of God’s Truth was my experience of Guatemala. Twice I visited the country and each time God profoundly impacted me. The people, the landscape, the history - each unique aspect of the culture taught me something new.
It was in Guatemala that I learned the true meaning of hospitality. We in America are not good receivers. We strive to fix problems, solve issues and bring our Western efficiency to others so that they, too, may experience our measure of success. The women of Corazon de Mujeres taught me to slow down, to be thankful for all the gifts I am given and to equally receive and give with grace. When Ophelia, the woman who welcomed me into her home and told me her story, opened her arms to me, I saw in her smile what Christ means when He commands us to love our neighbor.
When you first work in mission in a developing country, you spend your time in a constant state of shock and awe; every little thing is new, and unbelievable. No running water? No schools? Slums built upon the edges of the municipal dump? When you go for a second time you are more prepared. The chickens running around the airport are not such a surprise to you, the old women with leathery faces seems almost normal; you have braced yourself for the shock. Instead of being buoyed up by the sense of awe and desire to drink in every brightly colored bird and mural, I felt for the first time the true sense of tragedy. This was a poor nation. These people lived in a constant state of poverty. These are the same roads I rode down last time I came, and how much difference have I made for them? How did this short-term mission trip actually impact my life?
The first few days back in Guatemala were bittersweet; I felt as though I had let Guatemala and God down. But then, as we left Guatemala City and headed into the highlands (and some of the prettiest countryside I have ever seen anywhere), I watched the colorful homes and the small people and was filled with a sense of peace. As if I were some earthly tea cup being filled with celestial tea by God Himself, this peace flowed into my very being, soaking my skin, my blood, my DNA. I rode in silent contemplation of this profound peace, and at the striking beauty of a country where so much killing had taken place. God called my soul, gave me grace and allowed me to see Guatemala with new eyes. It is the miracles of these moments, moments when I least expect to feel God’s presence, that remind me that God is in control of all things.
Meeting the Mayan women and children during my two visits shapes my faith every day. It is because of their welcoming, their willingness to share their struggles and their belief in my abilities that I first began thinking about seminary. I know that my two weeks in Guatemala had little tangible effect on their daily lives; however, I also know that their love and God’s decree to serve the least of all imprinted on my heart over those weeks. Guatemala was my crucible for developing a strong, passionate faith.
Seminary was never a part of my life plan. I was not the child of religious parents, I do not have an arsenal of Bible quotes memorized, and I have made plenty of mistakes in my life. God leads us through the wilderness to teach us about His glory and about ourselves. The last six months tested my belief in myself and forced me to reevaluate my convictions. I never got my dream job. I moved in with my parents. I failed to become a Fulbright Scholar. Suddenly, I felt as though my hard work, my over-achieving involvement as an undergraduate had been for nothing. God tested me, forced me to look inward, to evaluate myself and my life.
I now recognize that all along God was nudging me toward ministry. My profound peace in Guatemala, my joy at serving the homeless through volunteering, my desire to find a church community against all odds - these were His subtle signs along my life path. I am passionate about being a servant to others. In the spirit of Christ’s servant hood, I am in the process of opening an Atlanta chapter of Room In The Inn, a ministry designed to help homeless men and women get off the streets during the winter months. I must remind myself constantly of Ephesians 3:20 and the encouragement that all things are possible through God. I am using this time in the wilderness to understand myself and to listen to God’s call in my life.
Is It I, Lord? Where shall this call send me? Through this Masters of Divinity program I plan to become better equipped to minister to the less fortunate, the weary and those without privilege, at home and abroad. With a greater understanding of Christ, and of His people from all edges of the world I hope to walk every day in His footsteps. Without a doubt, I cannot imagine a better way to spend my life.
x-posted to christianleft
So I'm busy getting my application finished up for a few different programs for an Masters in Divinity. Right now, my number one choice is Emory in Atlanta, so I've been concentrating on their "Personal Essay" which is suppose to discuss your faith journey and how you've gotten where you are. I have a full 7 pages written, and I need to shave about 3 pages off. Any feed back would be FABULOUS!
Thanks, and good luck to all you who are busy typing away!
Is It I, Lord?
Personal essays have never been easy. We are taught to analyze, critique and evaluate in essays, but turning that scope inward and discovering the fixtures and flaws that make up who we are as people takes honesty and humility. In this biographical sketch, I could tell you about growing up within the metro Atlanta limits, experiencing racism and intolerance by neighbors, my mother’s alcoholism, and my failure to be chosen as a Fulbright scholar. But that is not the story of me that is important. The story I need to tell is how I, the child of two parents who last set foot in a church for my baptism twenty-two years ago, came to find a deep relationship with God and a yearning to serve His people.
That story started in middle school, when I first asked to attend church. St. Timothy’s United Methodist became my first real encounter with God and with Christianity. Aside from the festive parties and gift exchange of the commercial Christmas and Easter holidays, I had never experienced church or anything resembling faith. My father had been raised Catholic and had faith forced upon him. He chose to spare his children from the guilt and confusion that his childhood faith had left him. But, St. Timothy’s was a place that welcomed me and my struggles. They encouraged me to come and actively participate, despite the absence of parental involvement. At St. Timothy’s I found the child-like faith that sits in awe of God, a faith that has not yet begun to question or doubt. I was confirmed shortly before my family moved from Atlanta to suburbia, a move that changed my fundamental understanding of religion and the religious community.
Moving from the city to the suburbs changed not only my location and my general affluence level, but it also shaped how I viewed people and religion. In my search for a church, I visited several local churches from Methodist to Lutheran to Presbyterian, and even a non-denominational community church. I settled into a small United Methodist Church and was dropped off before Sunday school and picked up after services by my parents. I went to a few youth groups, but felt wildly out of place around families who had decades of friendship preceding my arrival. These families led secure, content lives that I was not welcomed into. Somehow this buxom thirteen year old from the city unsettled their static faith; somehow I offended their sensibilities, so much so that the minister pulled me aside and asked why I attended church alone. When I told him that my parents were not religious, he shifted uneasily and said that his congregation felt uncomfortable with me attending without a parent or sponsor - it was unseemly.
Unseemly; in one word the minister signaled my exodus from faith. I tossed my Bible on a shelf and angrily swore that Christ and all of Christianity was a fraud and I would never be fooled into believing in it ever again. I tried to make good my promise. I checked out every book on world religions my library had on shelf. I read up on Hinduism, mediated to Buddhist chants, and lit candles in an attempt to become a Pagan. I covered my hair and prayed at a Mosque with one best friend, and tried to learn Hebrew and celebrated Pesach with the other. While I have developed a deep and resounding love for the Jewish and Muslim faiths as a result of my searching years, I felt no closer to knowing God than I had when I left Christianity. But we have a persistent God, and when I was ready to listen, He was there.
During my senior year of high school, a good friend of mine invited me to Catholic Mass with her. Teri was from a very strong Catholic family. She welcomed my questioning and soul-searching. She humored my long rambles about whom God must be, why I believe gays have rights, and what I think happens after death. She reminded me that Christ came for the broken, and in my own struggle I became aware that He was there.
As I sat, listening to the choir, breathing in the thick frankincense and soaking in the streaming light from the stained-glass windows, I was blanketed with a feeling of awe. The elaborate ritual drew me in, softened my heart and forced me to look at Christian faith with new eyes. The more I attended St. Pious X, the more I uncovered a variety of faith and spiritual expression within the Christian community. Christianity was more than white, middle class Americans in khaki pants and sun dresses sitting politely on Sunday mornings; Christianity, I discovered, was at once a living and ancient faith, full of mystery and running the spiritual gamut from hard-line orthodox literalists, to new-age, metaphorical contemplatives. Although I do not believe in the infallibility of the Pope, Priest celibacy or in the holiness of Tradition in the institutional sense, I learned from Catholicism that there is room enough in Christianity for all people, no matter what their spiritual backgrounds. In these few months before I left for college, I recognized that faith is not a destination reached by piety, good deeds and self sacrifice. Instead, I discovered a rich tradition of faith that led me to positive questioning, constructive doubt and ultimately to choose a Presbyterian college.
Queens University of Charlotte was my first choice and I consider myself blessed to have had the opportunity to spend four years there. I vividly remember my first Wednesday chapel service, sneaking into a pew behind most of the students and faculty that gathered there. I was dressed in all black, forgot to turn my cell phone off - to my embarrassment - and awkwardly tried to follow along without a worship bulletin. Dr. Diane Mowrey, the chaplain and a professor of religion, led the service and welcomed me warmly afterward. She saw in me, even then, what I did not see in myself. Her support and friendship taught me to lean on Christ through the trials that faced me that first year.
I joined a sorority my freshman year - Phi Mu - and found in it a group of women that became my college family. February of my freshman year tragedy tested that family. Nicole Flagge, a freshman and fellow sorority sister, died in a car accident. I remember sitting in the hospital waiting room with my sisters, all of us heaped upon one another grasping for comfort. I met her family, prayed that her coma would lift and pleaded that God would return her to us. Dr. Mowrey was there, praying alongside us. Although God did not answer our prayers as we would have liked them, I remember feeling His presence in that defining moment. I look back and remember how thankful I was for the community of support that surrounded me. About five weeks later, a family friend died of a heart attack shortly after marrying his long-time girlfriend. I was numb from shock. Up until this point in my life, my greatest trial had been my mother’s alcoholism. No one close to me had died before. Here I was tested, and here again I began to doubt God’s goodness.
I remember the phone call, clear in my mind like a movie reel. It was mid-April, I was the props manager for a friend’s production of The Odd Couple and we were running through our last dress rehearsal. I only pulled my cell phone out of my pocket to check the time, and I noticed that a call was coming though. Zena, my high school best friend, was calling in. I took the call. The rest of the evening is a blur of people, emotions and delayed reactions to hearing her devastated voice on the other end of the line: “My father’s dead.”
Austin “Barefoot Bubba” Yeatman was a second father to me. He was a tall, gray-haired man of few words, but he spoke profoundly simple messages about love and joy. Diagnosed with cancer, he had shown signs of improvement and had been in remission at Christmas break. This was the farthest thing from possible; how could Austin, my second father, my mentor, my friend be dead?
I only remember pieces of the rest of that night. I called all of our high school friends and told them the news; I was strong for my friend. I wandered aimlessly across my campus, trying to make sense of what was happening. Miraculously, I found my bags packed and two friends stowed me into the back of a car and drove me home. I arrived about four AM, dazed and barely cognizant. The funeral passed by the same way, hazy and surreal. I sat next to my best friend helping her recite the Mourners Kaddish for her father. I slipped and stumbled over the Hebrew, but I felt the firm foundation of God’s realness in that ancient prayer, even in that devastating moment.
After Austin’s death faith became a wrestling match between God and me. How could such a good man die so young? Would he be in Heaven or Hell? Did it matter? Was Christ really “the Truth, the Way and the Light?” Could righteous non-Christians be welcomed into Paradise?
I lack all the definitive answers, but I am beginning to discover them. The single most important event in my discovery of God’s Truth was my experience of Guatemala. Twice I visited the country and each time God profoundly impacted me. The people, the landscape, the history - each unique aspect of the culture taught me something new.
It was in Guatemala that I learned the true meaning of hospitality. We in America are not good receivers. We strive to fix problems, solve issues and bring our Western efficiency to others so that they, too, may experience our measure of success. The women of Corazon de Mujeres taught me to slow down, to be thankful for all the gifts I am given and to equally receive and give with grace. When Ophelia, the woman who welcomed me into her home and told me her story, opened her arms to me, I saw in her smile what Christ means when He commands us to love our neighbor.
When you first work in mission in a developing country, you spend your time in a constant state of shock and awe; every little thing is new, and unbelievable. No running water? No schools? Slums built upon the edges of the municipal dump? When you go for a second time you are more prepared. The chickens running around the airport are not such a surprise to you, the old women with leathery faces seems almost normal; you have braced yourself for the shock. Instead of being buoyed up by the sense of awe and desire to drink in every brightly colored bird and mural, I felt for the first time the true sense of tragedy. This was a poor nation. These people lived in a constant state of poverty. These are the same roads I rode down last time I came, and how much difference have I made for them? How did this short-term mission trip actually impact my life?
The first few days back in Guatemala were bittersweet; I felt as though I had let Guatemala and God down. But then, as we left Guatemala City and headed into the highlands (and some of the prettiest countryside I have ever seen anywhere), I watched the colorful homes and the small people and was filled with a sense of peace. As if I were some earthly tea cup being filled with celestial tea by God Himself, this peace flowed into my very being, soaking my skin, my blood, my DNA. I rode in silent contemplation of this profound peace, and at the striking beauty of a country where so much killing had taken place. God called my soul, gave me grace and allowed me to see Guatemala with new eyes. It is the miracles of these moments, moments when I least expect to feel God’s presence, that remind me that God is in control of all things.
Meeting the Mayan women and children during my two visits shapes my faith every day. It is because of their welcoming, their willingness to share their struggles and their belief in my abilities that I first began thinking about seminary. I know that my two weeks in Guatemala had little tangible effect on their daily lives; however, I also know that their love and God’s decree to serve the least of all imprinted on my heart over those weeks. Guatemala was my crucible for developing a strong, passionate faith.
Seminary was never a part of my life plan. I was not the child of religious parents, I do not have an arsenal of Bible quotes memorized, and I have made plenty of mistakes in my life. God leads us through the wilderness to teach us about His glory and about ourselves. The last six months tested my belief in myself and forced me to reevaluate my convictions. I never got my dream job. I moved in with my parents. I failed to become a Fulbright Scholar. Suddenly, I felt as though my hard work, my over-achieving involvement as an undergraduate had been for nothing. God tested me, forced me to look inward, to evaluate myself and my life.
I now recognize that all along God was nudging me toward ministry. My profound peace in Guatemala, my joy at serving the homeless through volunteering, my desire to find a church community against all odds - these were His subtle signs along my life path. I am passionate about being a servant to others. In the spirit of Christ’s servant hood, I am in the process of opening an Atlanta chapter of Room In The Inn, a ministry designed to help homeless men and women get off the streets during the winter months. I must remind myself constantly of Ephesians 3:20 and the encouragement that all things are possible through God. I am using this time in the wilderness to understand myself and to listen to God’s call in my life.
Is It I, Lord? Where shall this call send me? Through this Masters of Divinity program I plan to become better equipped to minister to the less fortunate, the weary and those without privilege, at home and abroad. With a greater understanding of Christ, and of His people from all edges of the world I hope to walk every day in His footsteps. Without a doubt, I cannot imagine a better way to spend my life.
x-posted to christianleft