tea

One thing I missed while pregnant was tea. Among the many diet restrictions (sushi, lunch meat, alcohol, street drugs) is caffeine. I used to have at least a cup of tea every day and, though it's got far less caffeine than coffee, I cut it out while gestating. Drinking my cup of Lady Grey right now makes me feel at peace with the world.

Tea-drinking is not something to be taken lightly. Making it well is an art. There are ceremonies the world over involving it. And drinking it draws people together. You could make the argument that all beverages, when approached with a spirit of intention draw people together and you would not be wrong. In Three Cups of Tea by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin, Haji Ali, village chief of Korphe in Pakistan says

Here (in Pakistan and Afganistan), we drink three cups of tea to do business: the first you are a stranger, the second you become a friend, and the third, you join our family, and for our family we are prepared to do anything--even die.

Three Cups of Tea is a phenomenal portrait of the varied peoples and complicated relationships of Pakistan and Afganistan. It's tempting in America to lump all the people in that area together--like those awful cubes of sugar. Whether you see all Arabs as terrorists or as radical Islamists or as victims, they're so much more than any label. Perhaps you read this and nod sagely and think, "Of course they are. We're all our own person," or similar. There's a difference between academic recognition and the story Mortenson has to tell. Some folk are indeed terrorists, pure and simple. Some are thugs. Some are protecting the land they've lived on for centuries from all comers--India, Russia, the US, even mild-mannered Mortenson. Some are victims. Some believe powerfully in Islam, but so, too, do many of us believe powerfully in Jesus. Some live and work and try to make do with what they have. And Mortenson met them all. He says

"I don't do what I'm doing to fight terror. I do it because I care about kids. Fighting terror is maybe seventh or eighth on my list of priorities. But working over there, I've learned a few things. I've learned that terror doesn't happen because some group of people somewhere like Pakistan or Afganistan simply decide to hate us. It happens because children aren't being offered a bright enough future that they have a reason to choose life over death."

He failed his attempt to climb K2, one of the tallest and most dangerous mountains in the world. He barely made it down the mountain alive and made a wrong turn in his way back to the nearest town. What he found was a tiny village at the edge of the glacier which welcomed him in as a stranger and later as a brother. They fed him tea with rancid yak's butter (their cream and sugar) and nursed him back to health. While there, Mortenson discovered that the village had no school--something like 50 children of all ages met on a wind-swept rock to copy out their lessons on their own with no help from a regular teacher. The cost of a teacher is the equivalent of $1 a week but the Pakistani government refuses to pay it. The children don't even have a building to meet in, yet they meet day after day on the rock. As my friend Bob would tell you, it's the small things that make you feel human, that give you hope. For Bob, it was having his teeth fixed so he was no longer ashamed of his smile. For this village and hundreds like it, it was having the opportunity to learn. The people of Korphe offered Greg Mortenson tea and he offered them hope.

baby blues

"Baby blues" is an interesting phenomenon. After a woman gives birth, she tends to be tearful and emotional--more so than during the pregnancy. It can go deeper and become postpartum depression or, in rare cases, postpartum psychosis. The stress of giving birth and the accompanying flood of hormones into the system are a shock.

I find myself crying over what my English-teacher husband calls "man's inhumanity to man." We watched Pan's Labyrinth the other night--and, by the way, not a kid's movie or a fun fantasy romp--and I couldn't watch large sections of it. It's violent, sure, but it was the anger and willingness to let another suffer that got to me. How could people act like this? Where is the good in the world? What kind of world have I brought my baby into? Just before I went into labor, we went to see the new James Bond flick Quantum of Solace with some friends. Fantastic movie. And all I could think about the entire time was, "These people are awful. Why are they so awful? I can't stand it." A moment near the end when our "hero" 007 leaves the villain in the desert almost made me sick to my stomach.

And I look at my sleeping baby's face and can't imagine how anyone could neglect or abuse a child. Besides the fact that she's so cute, she's a person with thoughts and feelings. How can folk stand to inflict pain on another?

I wonder if this emotional obsession isn't sublimated in the rest of my life? That normally I (and we) can ignore the details of man's inhumanity to man because we are busy with other things? That we have to ignore it to stay sane? The Good News is that Baby Connor is beautiful, healthy, and sweet. The Good News is that we won't be neglecting or beating her. The Good News is the blues will pass. But what becomes of all the hurt?

something to remember

Purloined from The Rev. Roger Greene:

Regardless of who wins the presidential election today, in a few months, we will be living under a new administration. As Christians, we have been living under a new administration for 2000 years.

totally new theology?

My Loving Husband suggests this: God did Moses a favor by denying him access to the Promised Land.

His thinking is that anticipation is the best part of any situation--the moments before you eat a piece of pie when your mouth waters and you remember all the delicious pie that has gone before, the weeks leading up to a reunion/party/holiday/conversation in which you consider what will happen and how great it will all be, the increasingly pleasurable and painful heart palpitations as you look forward to something. The reality almost always disappoints--the pie isn't as tasty as you remember, the reunion/party/holiday/conversation doesn't go as expected, the thing you anticipated simply doesn't live up to expectations.

Thus, Moses had 40 years of anticipation (also 40 years of complaints from the Israelites, but that's another story) and, though he'd succeeded in getting the team to the Promised Land, it would inevitably disappoint. Instead of committing themselves whole-heartedly to God and resisting falling into old habits, the people would continue to live their flawed, human lives in the Promised Land, they'd pillage and murder, resent and frustrate. Moses gets to live up to the edge of his anticipation, not being let-down by reality.

sunday's sermon

Moses was kind of a big deal. He was discovered in the river by Pharoah’s daughter, talked to the burning bush, got Pharoah to “let my people go,” parted the Red Sea, brought the Ten Commandments down the mountain, and got water from a rock. He was bigger than big--a superstar among mortals--so great in fact that he spoke with God face to face. He must have had the patience of Job...if he had lived after Job...

Moses led the Israelites for 40 years through the desert. He put up with their constant whining... “It’s hot,” “I’m thirsty,” “He touched me,” “She was coveting my oxen and my male and female slaves,” “His 401K’s bigger than mine,” “Are we there yet?” ...for 40 years. That’s enough for an entire generation to die and a new one to take their place, yet he never gave up. He spent years telling everyone to chill and that everything would be okay in the end.

Forty years after they left Egypt, having eaten quail and manna every day of it, they finally made it to the edge of the Land Flowing with Milk and Honey--Gilead, The Promised Land. This was the end of the journey and everything was finally okay in the end. And, says the book of Deuteronomy, Moses went up the mountain and saw the Promised Land for the first time--its rivers and pomegranate trees and cedar forests, its abundant possibilities, its farmlands which sang of freedom, and its cities which smelled of triumph. He saw it all and, indeed, it was very good. And God said, “Here is the Promised Land--this is it–you’ve made it! Wilkommen! Oh, but you, Moses, superstar of the Israelites...you can’t come in.

Wait, hang on...what?! Why can’t Moses cross over to the Promised Land? He’s...do you know who this man is? He’s Moses... the Moses.
Yeah, about that...
Remember a few weeks ago in church we heard about Moses getting water from a rock? The Israelites were complaining about how thirsty they were, having not brought their water bottles, and Moses went to God and said, “This is ridiculous, what do we do?” And God said, “Go hit that rock with your staff and you’ll get water.” Well, that story’s in here twice–Exodus and Numbers–and the second time, Moses doesn’t fare so well. It’s almost the same story only the second time it says Moses didn’t think the hitting-a-rock-with-your-staff gambit would work and therefore he could never enter the Promised Land. Which is weird–Moses acts pretty much the same both times: he doesn’t say anything about how well it will work and he does exactly what God says. Plus, what about Aaron making that golden calf for the people to worship the other week, huh? He didn’t even pause–how come he’s okay? This is why Moses is denied entry? Everything is not ending ok.

We can easily read ourselves into the story here–Moses was left behind and we fear we might be, too. We live in uncertain times, this week, perhaps more than others. Bruce, news junkie that he is, tells me that the next few days could go down in history. We await the next blow in the global financial crisis; we wonder not just how we’ll survive but if. The Commerce Department will release this week the 3rd quarter gross domestic product--one of the many numbers we let tell us who and where we are–and it’s not expected to be good. Our investments, our jobs, our retirement all seem to be in flux. We are afraid this is the end–we’re left on the outside looking in. And we see folk much worse off than ourselves losing their homes, swamped by debt, laid off, unable to buy groceries. We fear for them–will they be left behind? And to add to all that, Leighton and I are expecting our first child any week now--it’s terrifying. Not just the labor and delivery part, though that’s scary enough, but the taking care of a new life, not screwing her up, offering her a world that is uncertain and dangerous. What if we can’t provide for her? What if she finds herself in an abusive relationship? What if we use the wrong kind of pacifier or diaper cream?

The Apostle Paul says all of creation is groaning with labor pains, birthing a new world. Sometimes it seems like all we can feel are the labor pains--Moses’ rejection, looming parenthood, possible financial doom, worry over the state of our souls–it’s all one and the same. We fear it’s the end

Here’s the thing–you knew there was a thing, right? It’s not a false promise or a fake smile but our deepest hope in Jesus Christ. Everything will be okay in the end: if it’s not okay, it’s not the end. Labor is not the end of parenthood. A recession is not the end of the world death, even, is not the end of the story. Our Christian hope is that there’s more to the story. Everything will be okay in the end: if it’s not okay, it’s not the end. Our daughter will have a great life and will be well-loved. The scrapes she gets into will be difficult but they’re plot complications, not the end of her story. Our investments could lose staggering amounts, yet our families and relationships will continue–it’s not the end. Moses was mourned by the people for a whole month and he’s remembered through history as unequaled, mighty, and wise. His greatest project–leading the Israelites to the Promised Land–worked. And that’s not the end either--his death marks the end of the Torah (the first 5 books of the Hebrew Scriptures) but the story goes on. There are kings and prophets and psalms and epics yet to come. Some think the Bible and the world end with the fear and destruction of Revelation, yet even that ends with a new creation.

Our fear is not the end. Our Christian hope is everything will be okay in the end: if it’s not okay, it’s not the end. This is not the end.
God is good–all the time. All the time–God is good.
God is good–all the time! All the time–God is good!
God is good–all the time!! All the time–God is good!!

found theology

everything will be okay in the end.

if it's not okay, it's not the end.

the myth of multitasking

National Public Radio has recently had several articles about multitasking. Essentially, it's a myth.

We can't actually do two things at once but switch very quickly from one task to another. You may say this amounts to the same thing, but I don't think it does. The researchers who were interviewed noted that neither of the tasks being worked on in a multitasking situation are done very well. That is, if you can't be entirely present to a thing--driving, a conversation, eating, reading a book--neither you nor the task will benefit. More to the point, in the above-referenced story, it was found that drivers who were talking on the phone (hands-free or not!) had the same affect as drivers just over the legal limit of alcohol. You simply cannot concentrate on both things at once but switch your attention between the two. If you're talking on the phone, you're not paying attention to the road. And let's not even get into texting while driving--no one I know does that...especially not myself...

That multitasking is a myth is both obvious and epiphanic. Of course we can't really do more than one thing at a time, but we've been getting away with it for so long, calling it better productivity or higher efficiency, that it feels like we can. Yet when I heard the story, it cut right into my marrow. I know full well that my attention is not on the road when I'm texting...that is to say, when I'm talking on the phone. I know full well that typing an email while talking to my Loving Husband on the phone means the email takes twice as long and probably has to be rewritten and Loving Husband gets the benefit of long, awkward pauses. I know full well that attention is what God calls us to.

Anthony de Mello was Jesuit priest who wrote many books about the spiritual life. One of my favorites is Awareness, his lectures about paying attention to the world, to our souls, to our justifications for what we want to do rather than what God is pushing us towards. In the very first chapter, he writes:

Spirituality means waking up. Most people, even though they don't know it, are asleep. They're born asleep, they live asleep, they marry in their sleep, they breed children in their sleep, they die in their sleep without ever waking up. They never understand the loveliness and the beauty of this thing we call human existence.

It's brilliant and abrasive and eye-opening. Every time he says "Wake up!" I physically start. Our lives are so fast-paced, so unfocused, so overwhelming. We don't help things by trying to be more efficient--all we're doing is sinking deeper into sleep.

I have stopped talking on my phone in the car. Texting, too. I am trying to focus on one task at a time, doing it well, and moving on to the next thing. It's hard to retrain myself, but so far it's been worth it.

gospel pie

Last year, the movie Waitress came out to positive critical review but almost no one saw it. Which is too bad because it's excellent. Jenna Hunterson is a waitress in a small town, married to an absolute lout. She rarely smiles. Her life is not what she wanted it to be. But she makes the most glorious pies—Marshmallow Mermaid Pie, Bad Baby Pie, Lonely Chicago Pie, and Naughty Pumpkin Pie, just to name a few. People who eat her pies can't help but love them. She pours her heart and life into the crusts with the fillings. Jenna gets pregnant, meets a wonderful stranger, meets a crochety old man, and the rest I'll let you discover when you rent it. It's the pies I want to talk about.

You might say I'm nesting right now. With a little more than a month to go in my pregnancy, I'm cleaning and cooking like crazy. I've made pot roasts and meat loafs and quiches—things we rarely have at home. And I've made pies. My plan is to bake my way through the Pie and Pastry Bible, stopping only when I run out of butter or time. Today's pie is traditional Granny Smith Apple, though I may add some cranberries.

Pies are a conundrum. They're hugely tasty and comforting to the eater—the flaky, tender crust; the rich filling, sometimes fruit, sometimes savory; the warmth that comes from a fresh-baked pie that fills more than your belly. Yet pies are a challenge. I once preached about Lemon Meringue Pie a while back—the meringue is a monumental challenge if you make it by hand. But meringue is only an accessory, if you will, a garnish. If you want to make a truly marvelous pie, you've got to start with the crust. Four ingredients, usually—flour, salt, butter, and water—in the right proportion, at the right temperatures, combined in the right order. And it's not something you can rush—no-bake or store-bought crusts just aren't satisfying. You can't take too long, either. If you overwork the dough, you'll get a tough, unappetizing crust. It's a delicate balance. A good pie crust is flavorful, flaky, tender, and lightly browned. And it is a labor of love, sacrifice, and vulnerability.

Do you already see where I’m going with this? It's the time of year when we talk about financial contributions to the church—stewardship—and is traditionally the subject of much groaning. But think of your pledge as an ingredient in that pie crust. Making that transcendental pie requires sacrifice—of time, of money, of energy—yet it's a joyful sacrifice. Seeing the ingredients come together properly, adjusting as needed, looking forward with hope to the end product are all joyful things. That same pie requires vulnerability—at some point, we offer it to others, waiting to hear their comments. Will they like it? Will they come back for more? Will they pick up on the nuances of the crust and fillings?

We Christians put ourselves out there in the hopes that our lives may be seen as testaments to the Gospel. We give of ourselves, not because we ought to but because we want to. We share our stories with one another and with our friends and neighbors, not because we are commanded to but because we can't help but tell people the Good News we've experienced. And, brothers and sisters, nothing spreads the gospel like giving away a fresh-baked, homemade pie.

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food for thought

Just finished Jeffrey Steingarten's It Must Have Been Something I Ate and, aside from giving me a powerful desire to make fruit tarts, it's got me thinking.

Steingarten loves food. In all its forms. Fancy, greasy, insectoid, raw, and haute. He is singularly open-minded about what he eats and will spend vast sums of money and time to find the perfect version of something. He spent something like $4,000 on caviar within a few months to determine which kind was the best. In his previous book he determined "scientifically" that Heinz 57 is indeed the world's most perfect catsup (by trying upwards of 40 brands with fresh McDonald's fries).

What concerns me is the implication that there can be only one ideal of any given food. Or object or person or trait, for that matter. Take pizza: there's New York style and Chicago style, just to name two. New York style is thin and crispy on the bottom, most sellers crisping it up in their ovens just before you eat it. It's huge and greasy and satisfying. Chicago style is deep-dish, sometimes with more than one crust. It's rich and overwhelming and satisfying. They're both fantastic, they're both pizza and, as my Loving Husband would say, why choose between the two? Why does one have to be better than the other? The same could be said for BBQ. I know, it's an age-old controversy--dry vs. wet, tomato vs. vinegar vs. mustard vs. something else, beef vs. pork vs. mutton vs. poultry. Loving Husband and I have eaten a lot of BBQ. We have taken at least one vacation with the destination chosen solely because of the BBQ establishments. Certainly there have been times we didn't like the food offered, but not because of a particular style but because that style wasn't done well. Why does one style have to be the best BBQ ever? And again, Steingarten writes about the perfect chocolate chip cookie recipe (Toll House, of course), that it must be yielding but not cake-like, crisp but not crumbly, etc. In theory I agree. And most folk of any discernment would say that store-bought chocolate chip cookies are kind of crap. But one, be-all and end-all, perfect, ultimate recipe? I think not.

Perhaps this is why I'm an Episcopalian--we are, at least on paper, interested in the best of all sides, willing to have space at the table for vinegar BBQ sauce lovers and tomato-based sauce lovers, crisp and cake-y cookie lovers alike. There is such joy in being open to a multitude of tastes and people. Why restrict a church and even the Kingdom of heaven to only those people and theologies that we ourselves espouse? Why not see the beauty in each person, in each image of God, in each pot-luck dish and celebrate it as a gift from God?

sabbath musings

I can't help but feel guilty on my day off. This morning, I got up around 6:30am, ate breakfast and...wait for it...went back to bed for 2 1/2 hours. Then read things on the internets, read some comics, did a few dishes, made a dinner reservation, ate lunch, read Loving Husband's Harper's magazine. It's been a good, quiet morning, precisely what a day off should be. And yet I feel guilty.

I should be ironing LH's work shirts for next week or spending quality time with the sewing machine and worship banners or cleaning the bathrooms or burying the compost or subjecting the basement to CleanFest 08. And here I sit updating the blog I have ignored for weeks.

At the end of the day, I'll no doubt cry, "I haven't done enough" and shake my fist dramatically at the ceiling. But I'm trying to let that go. Our culture is so fast-paced and pushy, we can't help but feel guilty or twitchy when not accomplishing something. Qoheleth would remind us that fast or slow, there is nothing new under the sun and everything we do is like chasing after the wind. Some might find that depressing, but I find it calming. Things fall apart, it says. Some things remain. You have no control and, far from filling me with fear, that thought gives me permission to let go.

be the change you want to see

EDIT: Photo taken at the Underground Railroad Freedom Center in Cincinnati, Ohio in 2007.

rambling

“School’s out for summer!”

Yeah, except that it’s started already for Walnut Hills and everyone else’s going back any day now. And I’m freaking out about curriculum and planning for being gone with the baby. What happened to the summer?

It’s late and I’m here at Redeemer typing away to the low hum and vibration of the industrial air conditioning. It may just be my imagination, but I think I can see the fluorescent lights flickering. I am surrounded by bits of paper—Time and Talent printouts, Youth Council agendas with movie lists on the back, magazines I meant to read a month ago which are still open to the fascinating article I bookmarked, Banquet bulletins to correct. I’ve had four back-to-back meetings today and still didn’t get everything done that I should have.

Seems like summer vacation wasn’t very vacation-y. You ever have that feeling? I was sick over my Spring Break, too, if you can believe it. But if I think about it clearly, there were moments—even whole series of moments—when I felt at peace this summer. Days when I didn’t have anything or anyone pressing on my time and I could sit around or work on a project and feel content. Like I could breathe or like a light breeze blew in to cool my skin.

It’s easy to forget those moments—and I know you had them, too—it’s easy to forget that we had some time off, some peace, some chillaxin’, some vacation. It’s easy to forget that in the sudden running around of school starting.

Try.

the road taken

Navajo roads are something else. For one thing, "road" isn't entirely accurate. "Dirt track" or "suggested pathway" might serve better. We're used to paved roads wherever we go, roads which sometimes develop potholes or cracks but which, sooner or later, are repaired and we go on our merry way, rarely thinking about the ground beneath our feet.

On the reservation of the Navajo Nation in Arizona and Utah, most roads are unpaved. There are a few major highways which the state keeps up, but if you spend any time on the reservation, most will be on dirt roads. You drive on hot, orange sand tracks, some as wide as 3 lanes of traffic, some narrow enough for a single vehicle, some merely hints of a direction leading away from where you are. Either side of the road is banked and covered with desert flora—tumbleweed, etc. You can look across the desert towards a distant mesa and think that it's quite close, perhaps a mile or two, and know that it's at least 3-6 miles away.

One of the first things you might notice when driving from point A to point B on the reservation is that there is no straight line connecting the two. Even the main road meanders around the bases of mesas, connecting homes to one another rather than creating an efficient route and expecting homeowners to make their own ways. You drive in large arcs, sweeping around a valley in a way that suggests the road's architects knew what they were doing—each turn shows you a new side of the mesa you're approaching. There might be a quicker way to get across Chee Valley, but the Navajo seem uninterested in it.

The next thing you might notice is that there are no street signs. There is no direction whatsoever to reassure you that you're on the right road nor to suggest where you might turn. Driving on the reservation is intuitive. I asked our brother Tono Haycock once how they give one another directions and he said, "We don't." They just know where they're going and where everyone lives. For us white folks, we have to navigate from memory, learning where the bumps and dips are, physically remembering which turn to take and which mesa is home.

And once you reach your destination, you'll find an entirely different network of roads—almost every home on the reservation is surrounded by several interconnected paths which lead you to the different living spaces they've created. One goes semi-directly to the main house. A couple branch off towards livestock areas which in turn have roads back to the main house and each other. There might be another home on the property or garage or shed which has its own set of roads leading back. And there are usually at least two ways to leave from the compound. The options are almost endless.

You might say my point here is obvious—we are all following some sort of road in our lives. Your path is much different than mine, but they all seem to sway back and forth without signs to show us the correct way. Because there is no correct way. You are moving towards a destination (eternal life in community with God) yet how you get there is unclear. If you take this turn or that, it may seem that you are in fact moving away from your goal, but another turn brings you leaps and bounds closer. You can get mired down in the short, interconnected roads near home and never realize there's a glorious panorama outside your comfort zone. And so on.

Yet this journey image of life is not at all obvious. How often do you find yourself so focused on a task that you've lost the big picture? How often do you find yourself arguing for a single, exclusive understanding of a situation at work or at church and unable to acknowledge that others might also have the truth? How often do you find yourself wishing things were simpler, clearer, more obvious to you and those around you? As bumpy as they can be, driving the reservation roads each year refocuses my mind and heart—let it go, they seem to say. Just follow the path, take things as they come, pay attention to the other people you're with on the path, let it go.

we are all fish

I am in the middle of reading a book called Gould's Book of Fish: A Novel in Twelve Fish by Richard Flanagan. It's very weird in an 18th-century meets Fight Club meets Griffin and Sabine sort of way. At the moment, it feels very physical, very dense, very difficult but true. Here's a taste from the narrator and fish-painter:

They diminish me with their definitions, but I am William Buelow Gould, not a small or mean man. I am not contained between my toes & my turf but am infinite as sand.

Come closer, listen: I will tell you why I crawl close to the ground: because I choose to. Because I care not to live above it like they may fancy is the way to live, the place to be, so that they in their eyries & guard towers might look down on the earth & us & judge it all as wanting.

I care not to paint pretend pictures of long views which blur the particular & insult the living, those landscapes so beloved of the Pobjoys, those landscapes that trash the truth as they reach ever upwards into the sky, as though we only know somewhere or somebody from a distance--that's the lie of the land while the truth is never far away but up close in the dirt, in the vile details of slime & scale & filth along with the Devil, along with the angels, & all snared within the earth & us, all embodied in a single pulse of a heart--mine, yours, ours--& all my subject as I take aim & make of the fish flesh incarnate.

truth vs. falsehood

Some people say that religion is just a collective delusion—that it’s all false and the hope we find isn’t real. Karl Marx is famously quoted as saying “Religion is the drug of the masses”—that is, religion lulls us into a false sense of security and joy. I suppose they could be right. I mean, we’re surrounded by false images. Ads for anything from make-up to beer are touched up to the point that they barely resemble their original subjects. And they tell us we can be prettier, smarter, and better-liked if we just buy a certain product.

But who tells us the truth? How do we know when something is really truly true?

I just watched Lars and the Real Girl [PG13]. It’s about this painfully introverted guy Lars who buys a life-sized doll and falls in love with her. Sounds weird, huh? Well, it is a bit, but it’s also really beautiful. It’s not really the story of his love for “Bianca” but about his small town’s love for him. He’s obviously delusional (thinking that “Bianca” talks to him and has a whole other life) but they go along with it. It’s very funny at times—the moment he introduces her to his family is priceless, mostly because you’re cringing the whole time. It’s dark humor about how even a lie can bring joy.

And that’s what I want to say to people who doubt what I put my faith in. Greater minds than mine have tried to prove the existence of God so I won’t try here. But I do want to say that the joy that “Bianca” brings to this small town and the community Lars experiences are so very real. Who’s to say that “Bianca” isn’t real, too?
Maybe truth comes in different and surprising packages. My experience of the world tells me that God is not a lie, that the comfort and challenge I find at church are not false but deeply true. Others may look into my life and say it’s all a delusion, but to me, the beauty and ugliness of the entire story are Truth.

lord, I believe. help thou my unbelief

warning: slight grossness

A friend of mine once commented, "If you want to understand me, start with Emilio Sandoz." That's a horrifying comment since, in the novel The Sparrow Emilio has the flesh forcibly removed from his hands, sees all his friends die horrifically, and then is raped by an alien race.

Yet, in thinking about it, Emilio is something of a kindred spirit. He is a Jesuit priest and has been for most of his life. He is a brilliant linguist and a devoted priest, yet he admits that he has never really had the feeling of the presence of God. He knows in an intellectual way that God is present and watching and participating, but has never felt God's action or love. It's all theoretical until he journeys to the planet Rakhat where the divine lamp is turned on and he is suffused with joy and peace. I have had moments in my life where the presence of God was evident, where I felt warm and full and right, but they are few and far between. It sometimes feels like I'm forcing something to be a God-moment because I want it to be.

And lately, I have noticed a great fear of being useless, of not being able to work, to do, to earn my way. Emilio's useless hands struck me powerfully throughout the book as I wondered what that might be like practically and spiritually. One day, I will grow old and be "useless" in the conventional sense. Right now, I have absorbed the world's ideas of success and beat myself up when I don't achieve them. I, alone, am responsible for the spiritual growth of the youth in my care, I think. I, alone, can change their lives concretely. And when something comes by (illness, normal human imperfection, whatever) that challenges those assumptions, I am crushed. My ego is so firm that I don't really know what to do with failure.

Failure is not only normal but expected. And we don't really believe it. The prophet Isaiah was called to a failing ministry, all the prophets lived in disgrace, Jesus died. Living with faithfulness and righteousness means suffering and failure. I want to be okay with "enough" and with imperfection but it is really difficult to let go of a culture's assumptions.

Our Jewish brothers and sisters would say that perfection is not about being right but being righteous. Christian mystics have said that our journeys are not about success but about being faithful. I believe that. I really do. Lord, help my unbelief.

how have you been changed?

There is a moment when things change. A moment that makes all the difference between one thing and another. Back in the day, when I was little, they sold these postage stamps that had been in space. NASA sent stamps up in the shuttle for a mission and then sold them as mementos. The stamp itself was no different than any other stamp you could buy around the corner—BUT IT HAD BEEN IN SPACE—it was the moment that gave it significance. Something happened to change them.

Our lives are like this: we are constantly on the move, constantly changing, constantly jumping from moment to moment. God, too, is not static—God creates but then strolls in the garden at the time of the evening breeze; God wanders with the Israelites in the wilderness for 40 years; God incarnates—God becomes human and grows and learns and travels. God, in Jesus, does a surprising amount of wandering. He’s always on the road to somewhere or meeting people as they’re on the way. He couldn’t even stay put in death but left an empty tomb and questions behind him, only to meet a couple of his disciples on the road to Emmaus.

C.S. Lewis wrote about this traveling God in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. You remember, the characters saying that Aslan—the lion who was king and also God—“Aslan is on the move.” God is on the move. This is not a God who is content in one place. This life is not going to stay put and neither is our relationship with God. We are complicated people, you and I. We love God one minute, but the next are so angry we could spit. We worship in ecstasy and doubt with passion. We are apathetic. We sin, we repent, we give up on the whole business. And that’s ok. Hear, O Israel—where you are on your Exodus road, where you are on your road to Emmaus, where you are on your spiritual journey is ok. Notice it. Embrace it.

i'm just saying...

There is a place in heaven for every single person regardless of what we've made of our lives. That said, to club a baby seal, you really have to hate all that is good and true and beautiful.

mind over matter

I heard on one of the news programs on NPR the other day that economists say the economy is doing fine and that consumers say it's not. Maybe this is nothing new but it got me thinking about perception. I remember talking in my high school economics class about why things happen the way they do; the consensus among the old white guys we read was that the perception of the people is the primary factor. That is, if people in general thing things are going well, they'll spend and invest more and thus things will be going well. And if they start to panic and think things are going sour, they'll spend and invest less and thus things will indeed go sour. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Of course, there are outside factors including wars and natural disasters, but the state of the economy seems to be largely based on how we feel about it. Makes one wonder if the Depression could have been avoided if folk either hadn't known about the Stock Market numbers or hadn't assumed the worst and taken all their money out of the banks. It also makes one wonder how much we buy into the collective consciousness--just because we hear things aren't good doesn't mean we should panic. Unless of course you're one of the unlucky who are let go from a job because your employers have gotten concerned about the downturn.

Because in that moment, the theoretical, collective consciousness, vague theory of economics becomes hard and sharp and real. What do you say to someone who's lost their job or had hours cut in the face of rising gas and medical costs? Just think happy thoughts?