I haven't been sleeping well -- up too late, congested (and seriously snoring, poor Husband) -- but I have been getting up early. The dark is still, cars are sleeping. I go off with my Bible to Peets, chat a bit with the Peets peeps, then sit down to strong coffee and Job. Pretty ideal.
Tonight Baby went to bed without a struggle. The chickens did too -- not one pooped on me. Unlike this morning.
Evening chores took longer than usual because one whole tomato plant blew over, cage and all, and I had to string it up. But it left behind two tiny orange tomatoes, along with the cucumbers that seem to grow overnight. Cut the last of the chard, which I'll cook with some other greens then make stock with the stems. Figs from TJs, but strawberries from the farm. Ditto the first corn of the season -- picked yesterday, shucked and cooked today, with just a little bit of butter and barely simmered through -- and tomatoes that are darker red than blood.
Now, if you don't know me well, you don't realize that every phrase after "ideal" belongs on Amazon's list of "statistically improbable phrases". Okay, the line about making stock is more usual, but the rest was unimaginable even 3 years ago. I love my high heels and proper glassware. Buses and subways are good. Cafes on every corner should be a law (no, I'm not talking about Starbucks here. Cafes.) And if you can't catch up on all the news worldwide by walking down the street overhearing, it's a sorry city.
We plan. God laughs, and gives eggs.
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
What are friends for?
It's astonishing that even when God offers to help, I can manage to gratefully decline.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Pandora didn't know how good she had it!
When the economy first started to tank, Wonderful Husband, decided it would be prudent to landscape our backyard and our front yard with edibles, to have chickens, maybe a goat. I balked: I've had goats, and a greenhouse, and I've been around a lot of chickens. I really wanted a Mediterranean, low-water landscape -- lavender and rosemary as far as your nose could smell. Plus I knew that when push came to shove, both the garden and the chickens would become lines on my to-do list.
But it mattered to him, and heck, I like fresh food as much as the next person, so here we are, backyard gardening and six chickens. (The front yard is still under discussion.)
Unfortunately, Wonderful Husband had no clue about the beast he had just let out of its box. I blame the bookshelves, really: they're still in fiction/nonfiction arrangement, rather than topic/author/date as they used to be. If our library was in order, Wonderful Husband might have noticed my "most precious" bookshelf. Some fiction, some religion, but mostly sustainable living, housebuilding, the gardens of Vita Sackville-West.
For many years, I treasured Scott and helen Nearing as much as I did God. Maybe more. I used Kloss' book on clean living until the pages wore out. I've read umpteen books on alternative building (such as straw bales, rammed earth, domes, yurts), and can tell you how to cook a meal on your car's exhaust system as you drive cross-country. A decade ago I drew up full plans for a Craftsman-style bungalow with stove heating. And have I mentioned to you the pilgrimage to Arcosanti? More recently, I've chewed on Omnivore's Dilemma and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and put up many pints of apricots, jam, and syrup.
And now the beast is loose. I'm dreaming about leaving paid ministry for rural homesteading, and house church planting, another kid, a bunch more dogs, co-op schooling. And the goats, because I love them and cheese is so easy. I'm wondering if Wendell Berry needs an assistant, or if Barbara Kingsolver has land near her.
God trumps the Nearings these days, by far. But I'm not sure I'd still be honoring God's call by choosing a road less taken. Or, that we'd survive financially. But the box is open and the tomatoes are starting to ripen.
Poor Husband. Better finally update those shelves.
But it mattered to him, and heck, I like fresh food as much as the next person, so here we are, backyard gardening and six chickens. (The front yard is still under discussion.)
Unfortunately, Wonderful Husband had no clue about the beast he had just let out of its box. I blame the bookshelves, really: they're still in fiction/nonfiction arrangement, rather than topic/author/date as they used to be. If our library was in order, Wonderful Husband might have noticed my "most precious" bookshelf. Some fiction, some religion, but mostly sustainable living, housebuilding, the gardens of Vita Sackville-West.
For many years, I treasured Scott and helen Nearing as much as I did God. Maybe more. I used Kloss' book on clean living until the pages wore out. I've read umpteen books on alternative building (such as straw bales, rammed earth, domes, yurts), and can tell you how to cook a meal on your car's exhaust system as you drive cross-country. A decade ago I drew up full plans for a Craftsman-style bungalow with stove heating. And have I mentioned to you the pilgrimage to Arcosanti? More recently, I've chewed on Omnivore's Dilemma and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, and put up many pints of apricots, jam, and syrup.
And now the beast is loose. I'm dreaming about leaving paid ministry for rural homesteading, and house church planting, another kid, a bunch more dogs, co-op schooling. And the goats, because I love them and cheese is so easy. I'm wondering if Wendell Berry needs an assistant, or if Barbara Kingsolver has land near her.
God trumps the Nearings these days, by far. But I'm not sure I'd still be honoring God's call by choosing a road less taken. Or, that we'd survive financially. But the box is open and the tomatoes are starting to ripen.
Poor Husband. Better finally update those shelves.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Going back
I had the privilege of officiating at a memorial service today. Officially I am on vacation through midnight, but the deceased was a longtime and very active member of our church community, so my being there mattered. 193 people attended, more than we've had before, and though the room was sweltering, the breath of the Holy Spirit moved like a breeze among us.
Perhaps the greatest gift of this profession is being Christ for people in their most important moments. It is the priestly role: from Aaron to Jesus to each of us, standing in the breach between God and God's people is an extraordinary honor. I guess it is also an extraordinary responsibility, though I've never experienced it as a burden.
Protestants of the low church varieties like to pretend that priests are at best irrelevant, and at worst sacrilegious. But every culture at every time has had those people, or those roles, in which God was formally made present through a single human being. There is something about someone "holding the space" -- that is, actively parting the veil between the mundane and the divine-- that we need. In our times of trial or tragedy or triumph, we look for a priest, if not for a word then for a symbol of the thin line between God and the rest of us. So officiating is a privilege, for not only do we say the words and do the gestures: we are the eternal, undying, love of God, incarnate if only for an hour.
Certainly worth going back early for.
Perhaps the greatest gift of this profession is being Christ for people in their most important moments. It is the priestly role: from Aaron to Jesus to each of us, standing in the breach between God and God's people is an extraordinary honor. I guess it is also an extraordinary responsibility, though I've never experienced it as a burden.
Protestants of the low church varieties like to pretend that priests are at best irrelevant, and at worst sacrilegious. But every culture at every time has had those people, or those roles, in which God was formally made present through a single human being. There is something about someone "holding the space" -- that is, actively parting the veil between the mundane and the divine-- that we need. In our times of trial or tragedy or triumph, we look for a priest, if not for a word then for a symbol of the thin line between God and the rest of us. So officiating is a privilege, for not only do we say the words and do the gestures: we are the eternal, undying, love of God, incarnate if only for an hour.
Certainly worth going back early for.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
... and God laughs
I'm on vacation, right?
Sunday, 2:48 a.m.
My eyes spring open as my brain engages. The house is soundless and dark, but I am awake as if an alarm bell were clanging. Reluctantly look at the clock, expecting the blue glow of five-colon-zero-zero.
Ha ha.
So I turn over, thinking that I should get more sleep. Around 3:30 I give in, and within seconds Child begins to cry. I wait a while So That She Learns to Self-Comfort, but she's got that flat crying sound that says something's up. A few minutes in the dark with her and a clean pacifier and she's back in the crib. I put the coffee on and slice Susan's bread for toast.
Ha ha.
Once again I hear the dulcet tones of Child, this time it's a bottle cry. Pour, warm, feed, shhhh. Back into crib. Sit down in chair with Bible, toast, coffee and cat. The dog's collar begins jingling.
Ha ha.
Happily, he settles himself down, but by now I'm mentally writing a sermon, planning worship, selecting new pillows for the living room, reading a You book, working on a Rule. All in my head; all before 4:15. So I get up, get more coffee, come upstairs, and start looking for a church to visit, since the plan to go to the evangelical contemporary church near our home church looks less and less appealing. The plan changes.
Ha ha ha giggle snort.
We plan; God laughs. Sunday morning on vacation before 5 a.m.
Sunday, 2:48 a.m.
My eyes spring open as my brain engages. The house is soundless and dark, but I am awake as if an alarm bell were clanging. Reluctantly look at the clock, expecting the blue glow of five-colon-zero-zero.
Ha ha.
So I turn over, thinking that I should get more sleep. Around 3:30 I give in, and within seconds Child begins to cry. I wait a while So That She Learns to Self-Comfort, but she's got that flat crying sound that says something's up. A few minutes in the dark with her and a clean pacifier and she's back in the crib. I put the coffee on and slice Susan's bread for toast.
Ha ha.
Once again I hear the dulcet tones of Child, this time it's a bottle cry. Pour, warm, feed, shhhh. Back into crib. Sit down in chair with Bible, toast, coffee and cat. The dog's collar begins jingling.
Ha ha.
Happily, he settles himself down, but by now I'm mentally writing a sermon, planning worship, selecting new pillows for the living room, reading a You book, working on a Rule. All in my head; all before 4:15. So I get up, get more coffee, come upstairs, and start looking for a church to visit, since the plan to go to the evangelical contemporary church near our home church looks less and less appealing. The plan changes.
Ha ha ha giggle snort.
We plan; God laughs. Sunday morning on vacation before 5 a.m.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Fantasy and reality
Got back last night at 10; got to bed around 2. Child slept in, as did dog, as did I (8:30 which is some kind of record for me). Had a couple of errands that needed doing today, and managed those.
Fantasy: I don't sleep for the 16 hours of travel, get to bed at roughly normal time.
Reality: Slept no more than 1.5 hours during travel. Hang out with Child's caregiver until maybe 11, then gaze at tv until less wired.
Fantasy: House is roughly clean and tidy, then I put in 2-3 hours making it right.
Reality: There are no piles, and Child's clothes are clean, but the compost bucket under the sink is truly horrifying, and I realize what counts as "clean and tidy" for me is not necessarily what counts for others.
Fantasy: After Child goes to bed, I have a grownup cocktail out on the patio then enter a gleaming house for a nice nibble and some well-written words.
Reality: Manhattan in a cracked Bushmill's glass while watching TLC, recorded. (A perfect Manhattan, it should be said.)
Fantasy: nice bath, then bed by 10.
Reality: Fall asleep while reading. Out loud. To Child. Several times between 7:30 and 8. Now re-energized but without desire to do anything productive or holy.
Home. Really.
Fantasy: I don't sleep for the 16 hours of travel, get to bed at roughly normal time.
Reality: Slept no more than 1.5 hours during travel. Hang out with Child's caregiver until maybe 11, then gaze at tv until less wired.
Fantasy: House is roughly clean and tidy, then I put in 2-3 hours making it right.
Reality: There are no piles, and Child's clothes are clean, but the compost bucket under the sink is truly horrifying, and I realize what counts as "clean and tidy" for me is not necessarily what counts for others.
Fantasy: After Child goes to bed, I have a grownup cocktail out on the patio then enter a gleaming house for a nice nibble and some well-written words.
Reality: Manhattan in a cracked Bushmill's glass while watching TLC, recorded. (A perfect Manhattan, it should be said.)
Fantasy: nice bath, then bed by 10.
Reality: Fall asleep while reading. Out loud. To Child. Several times between 7:30 and 8. Now re-energized but without desire to do anything productive or holy.
Home. Really.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Litourgeia
(Or however it's spelled in Serbian.)
Quiet suddenly pours over the worshippers standing in the church. The Holy Spirit (or is it merely light?) streams through the nave windows, first on the people then, as time passes, on the faces of Jesus and Mary, Mother of God.
In the last few minutes before the Divine Work of the People begins, a priest and two young men stand in a side chapel, blessing bread and candles before wrapping them in bags and taking them out. The young men are good humored, in jeans and tees, beautifully incanting the prayers. They leave with their packages, then return and slip through the door of an angel into the hidden altar room. When they reappear, gold robes cover their jeans, their hair is pulled back, and they bear large sienna candles, pure beeswax.
Men stand on one side, women on the other. Only the frail sit in the chairs so close to the altar, and only when their ancient legs can take no more. For the next hour and a half, the priests and the choir of men sing the liturgy, their voices mingling in deep and dancing tones. (How I've missed this sound!) Throughout we cross ourselves and bend at the waist, over and over, at every mention of every holy name. Some touch the ground; others gesture toward it. The half-room of men sing the responses. Men singing, consistently, confidently. From time to time, mostly on the alleluias, the chorus sprouts higher voices. All sing or speak the Creed -- at least it sounds like the Creed -- that 1600 year old statement of unity and faith, sung in the heavens and on earth.
Over and over we and the altar and the bread and wine are blessed with incense, rising up as prayer into the dome vault, and perhaps beyond. Everyone puts money in the offering, as the golden young men weave through the crowd. We don't put in much (I am extravagant with 100 dinar, or $1.35) as this isn't when tithing happens, but everyone responds to the blessing we've received.
As the baptized faithful move forward to take communion, others step to the "store" to buy candles to light at the various niches. Mary the Mother of God, St. Michael, Jesus, perhaps others receive prayers, kisses, flowers. Even apples, below the Mother of Tenderness.
Outside there is a breeze, and gentled voices, except for the occasional squeal of delight from a playing child. The Roma women sitting at the gates have also received today, both money and acknowledgment, like the beggars at the temple in Luke.
In an hour and a half of a foreign language, with the waves of voices lapping and the Sun illuminating all dimensions, your mind has room to move. From the words to the sound to the mosaics, from the mundane (what shall I make for dinner?) to the divine, to plans and regrets and hopes, God is in the details, all of them, including the monkey mind and the vast transcendence.
Sabbath. Finally.
Alleluia. Amen.
Quiet suddenly pours over the worshippers standing in the church. The Holy Spirit (or is it merely light?) streams through the nave windows, first on the people then, as time passes, on the faces of Jesus and Mary, Mother of God.
In the last few minutes before the Divine Work of the People begins, a priest and two young men stand in a side chapel, blessing bread and candles before wrapping them in bags and taking them out. The young men are good humored, in jeans and tees, beautifully incanting the prayers. They leave with their packages, then return and slip through the door of an angel into the hidden altar room. When they reappear, gold robes cover their jeans, their hair is pulled back, and they bear large sienna candles, pure beeswax.
Men stand on one side, women on the other. Only the frail sit in the chairs so close to the altar, and only when their ancient legs can take no more. For the next hour and a half, the priests and the choir of men sing the liturgy, their voices mingling in deep and dancing tones. (How I've missed this sound!) Throughout we cross ourselves and bend at the waist, over and over, at every mention of every holy name. Some touch the ground; others gesture toward it. The half-room of men sing the responses. Men singing, consistently, confidently. From time to time, mostly on the alleluias, the chorus sprouts higher voices. All sing or speak the Creed -- at least it sounds like the Creed -- that 1600 year old statement of unity and faith, sung in the heavens and on earth.
Over and over we and the altar and the bread and wine are blessed with incense, rising up as prayer into the dome vault, and perhaps beyond. Everyone puts money in the offering, as the golden young men weave through the crowd. We don't put in much (I am extravagant with 100 dinar, or $1.35) as this isn't when tithing happens, but everyone responds to the blessing we've received.
As the baptized faithful move forward to take communion, others step to the "store" to buy candles to light at the various niches. Mary the Mother of God, St. Michael, Jesus, perhaps others receive prayers, kisses, flowers. Even apples, below the Mother of Tenderness.
Outside there is a breeze, and gentled voices, except for the occasional squeal of delight from a playing child. The Roma women sitting at the gates have also received today, both money and acknowledgment, like the beggars at the temple in Luke.
In an hour and a half of a foreign language, with the waves of voices lapping and the Sun illuminating all dimensions, your mind has room to move. From the words to the sound to the mosaics, from the mundane (what shall I make for dinner?) to the divine, to plans and regrets and hopes, God is in the details, all of them, including the monkey mind and the vast transcendence.
Sabbath. Finally.
Alleluia. Amen.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Random thought #3: Roma
I made the mistake of forgetting for a too-long moment about the Roma.
I had been thinking that Belgrade is remarkably level. Not topographically: like SF, it is built on 7 hills. But the years of wheelbarrows of paper money to buy bread are long gone. The chasm between poor and middle class is bridgeable. In general, Serbs run the gamut from antique white to beige to tan. Most are Orthodox, with some Muslims and Jews thrown in. People are well-fed, but few are fat. Houses are similar in kind and value (say what you will about Communism). Food is cheap; imported clothing expensive. I had been thinking that the standard of living varies, but if there are truly rich here, they/we have the decency not to stand out.
But I had forgotten about the Roma, until a little boy stood eye level urging me to buy candy. I was on the bus, taking a seat after standing with a heavy bag for a while. Other seats had opened, but I was too slow and too laden to reach them in time. Tired, and a little cranky, I quickly took the seat vacated by a 20-year-old on her way to the fair. When I looked up, a little boy was looking me in the face and offering me "candy". He wasn't offering whatever the Serbian word for candy is, but "candy". He was brown skinned, like well-steeped tea, and small. He might have been 4, or 8. I knew before looking that he was unaccompanied. He offered me candy, spoke a few words, and waited. His cutoff sweatshirt was filthy, his face stained with sugar and dirt. And my money was all buried at the bottom of my backpack, and safely in an account somewhere. When I responded with grimaces and "um-hmm"s, he got off at the next stop, squeezing through the legs of the beige adults around him.
A stop later there were two children crossing the street, the elder carrying the younger. "Elder" here being relative: maybe 7 years old. The younger? Perhaps my daughter's age: 18 months. No adults. Dirty. Determined.
Just an hour or two before I had been asking a OB nurse what happened to unwanted children here. If given up at the hospital they go to orphanages, where they will, with God's help, be placed with family members. If not they stay in orphanages until, well, until something else happens.
Of course, the Roma children are not unwanted. Though the Roma (the ones we tend to call Gypsies) are desperately poor, they love their children too. And their children are often the only ones who can bring in any money. Brown-skinned teens lane-split on foot, asking to wash car windows. Little ones wander the streets selling candy or asking for money. Elders sit by the churchyard gates or near the ATMs, pleading, their bowls and boxes empty.
My wonderful husband and I have been talking about adopting another child. But the difficulty of it -- the cumbersome process -- stops us. Then this one looks me square in the face, and though I want to pick him up and carry him home, I have nothing to give him. Nothing of use, anyway.
Serbs don't cry on the bus, but you know how Americans are.
Never forget about the Romas, or the others, wherever you are.
During the Reaganite cold war, Sting sang:
"There is no monopoly in common sense/ On either side of the political fence
We share the same biology/ Regardless of ideology
Believe me when I say to you
I hope the Russians love their children too"
I hope we love the Roma children too. And the Black foster kids. And the Mexican kids. And our own kids.
"Suffer the little children to come to me." Says our wise and sometimes too-distant Savior.
I had been thinking that Belgrade is remarkably level. Not topographically: like SF, it is built on 7 hills. But the years of wheelbarrows of paper money to buy bread are long gone. The chasm between poor and middle class is bridgeable. In general, Serbs run the gamut from antique white to beige to tan. Most are Orthodox, with some Muslims and Jews thrown in. People are well-fed, but few are fat. Houses are similar in kind and value (say what you will about Communism). Food is cheap; imported clothing expensive. I had been thinking that the standard of living varies, but if there are truly rich here, they/we have the decency not to stand out.
But I had forgotten about the Roma, until a little boy stood eye level urging me to buy candy. I was on the bus, taking a seat after standing with a heavy bag for a while. Other seats had opened, but I was too slow and too laden to reach them in time. Tired, and a little cranky, I quickly took the seat vacated by a 20-year-old on her way to the fair. When I looked up, a little boy was looking me in the face and offering me "candy". He wasn't offering whatever the Serbian word for candy is, but "candy". He was brown skinned, like well-steeped tea, and small. He might have been 4, or 8. I knew before looking that he was unaccompanied. He offered me candy, spoke a few words, and waited. His cutoff sweatshirt was filthy, his face stained with sugar and dirt. And my money was all buried at the bottom of my backpack, and safely in an account somewhere. When I responded with grimaces and "um-hmm"s, he got off at the next stop, squeezing through the legs of the beige adults around him.
A stop later there were two children crossing the street, the elder carrying the younger. "Elder" here being relative: maybe 7 years old. The younger? Perhaps my daughter's age: 18 months. No adults. Dirty. Determined.
Just an hour or two before I had been asking a OB nurse what happened to unwanted children here. If given up at the hospital they go to orphanages, where they will, with God's help, be placed with family members. If not they stay in orphanages until, well, until something else happens.
Of course, the Roma children are not unwanted. Though the Roma (the ones we tend to call Gypsies) are desperately poor, they love their children too. And their children are often the only ones who can bring in any money. Brown-skinned teens lane-split on foot, asking to wash car windows. Little ones wander the streets selling candy or asking for money. Elders sit by the churchyard gates or near the ATMs, pleading, their bowls and boxes empty.
My wonderful husband and I have been talking about adopting another child. But the difficulty of it -- the cumbersome process -- stops us. Then this one looks me square in the face, and though I want to pick him up and carry him home, I have nothing to give him. Nothing of use, anyway.
Serbs don't cry on the bus, but you know how Americans are.
Never forget about the Romas, or the others, wherever you are.
During the Reaganite cold war, Sting sang:
"There is no monopoly in common sense/ On either side of the political fence
We share the same biology/ Regardless of ideology
Believe me when I say to you
I hope the Russians love their children too"
I hope we love the Roma children too. And the Black foster kids. And the Mexican kids. And our own kids.
"Suffer the little children to come to me." Says our wise and sometimes too-distant Savior.
Friday, July 10, 2009
2 thoughts (with more alighting)
1) The national language of Serbia is graffiti.
2) ""The way I see it," he said "You just can't win it... Everybody's in it for their own gain You can't please 'em all There's always somebody calling you down
I do my best And I do good business There's a lot of people asking for my time They're trying to get ahead They're trying to be a good friend of mine
I was a free man in Paris I felt unfettered and alive There was nobody calling me up for favors And no one's future to decide You know I'd go back there tomorrow But for the work I've taken on Stoking the star maker machinery Behind the popular song
I deal in dreamers And telephone screamers Lately I wonder what I do it for If l had my way I'd just walk out those doors And wander Down the Champs Elysees Going cafe to cabaret Thinking how I'll feel when I find That very good friend of mine
I was a free man in Paris I felt unfettered and alive Nobody was calling me up for favors No one's future to decide You know I'd go back there tomorrow But for the work I've taken on Stoking the star maker machinery Behind the popular song.
Thanks to Joni Mitchell.
2) ""The way I see it," he said "You just can't win it... Everybody's in it for their own gain You can't please 'em all There's always somebody calling you down
I do my best And I do good business There's a lot of people asking for my time They're trying to get ahead They're trying to be a good friend of mine
I was a free man in Paris I felt unfettered and alive There was nobody calling me up for favors And no one's future to decide You know I'd go back there tomorrow But for the work I've taken on Stoking the star maker machinery Behind the popular song
I deal in dreamers And telephone screamers Lately I wonder what I do it for If l had my way I'd just walk out those doors And wander Down the Champs Elysees Going cafe to cabaret Thinking how I'll feel when I find That very good friend of mine
I was a free man in Paris I felt unfettered and alive Nobody was calling me up for favors No one's future to decide You know I'd go back there tomorrow But for the work I've taken on Stoking the star maker machinery Behind the popular song.
Thanks to Joni Mitchell.
Monday, June 15, 2009
The dog park KOG
Tanq, our French bulldog, is tumbling with a weimaraner cross and an Aussie cattle dog puppy. In the next run, a boxer and a lab run from one end to the next, leaping and dancing together. Old and young, small and large, shy and bold, they're out there together. When one tires or gets hurt, the others check in then let her rest. When outsiders arrive, the welcoming committee greets, introduces, then incorporates him into the play. If one misbehaves, the others let him know he's out of line, and then invite him back into the fold.
The Kingdom of God isn't fluffy clouds or an endless harp concert, to be sure. But maybe it's a neighborhood dog park, right around the corner from where you live.
Wednesday, May 06, 2009
Really? More input?
I just got off amazon, having finally ordered the compost bucket and filters that have been on my wish list since my last paycheck. I also purchased a bunch of copies of RF4RL for our basics class attendees. All good. And, I got yet another book on organizing your spiritual life/disciplining/discipling/overcoming acedia/etc. Nora recommended it, and I trust her judgment. Still, I have to wonder whether overcoming acedia is best achieved by reading about other people doing it. After all, genius is 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration. Could following Jesus have an easier ratio?
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
May newsletter column
I've had Pentecost on my mind. Pentecost isn't until May 31st, but two events this past weekend got me thinking about that glorious day, fifty days after Jesus' crucifixion when His church was born.
Not that it seemed much like a church at the time: the apostles had returned to an upper room in Jerusalem, probably a lot like the room where they ate the last supper. In that room were the remaining 11 apostles and the new guy, Matthias. With them were the women followers, Mary His mother, and His brothers. Of the crowds that had acclaimed Jesus' name, there were maybe 120 male believers left, plus women and children. They had spent the last few days in serious and constant prayer, first selecting the new apostle, then attempting to discern the will of God.
Meanwhile, outside the window, Jerusalem was once again teeming with pilgrims who had come for the festival Shavu'ot, which recalls God's giving of the Torah -- the instructions for living righteously. All of a sudden, the Apostles were given a gift for foreign language by the Holy Spirit, as well as an uncharacteristic desire to talk to the crowds. Leaning or stepping out of the room, they spoke to the people in the crowds in their own languages. Then Peter told the crowds the whole story of Jesus the rabbi who had fulfilled all the instructions of God completely, and whom God made both Lord and Messiah. That day, the number of believers swelled from 120 to over 3000, and they began to live in the beloved community that characterized the church. (Check out Acts 2, if you want to read more.)
That day is called Pentecost, and on that day the Holy Spirit gifted and empowered the apostles, others heard and experienced the gospel, and they began to live in a new way. That's church, you know -- the gospel lived out among a community of believers, who have been gifted and empowered by the Holy Spirit.
Pentecost is on my mind because last weekend the Holy Spirit got an early start:
Pastor Elane
Not that it seemed much like a church at the time: the apostles had returned to an upper room in Jerusalem, probably a lot like the room where they ate the last supper. In that room were the remaining 11 apostles and the new guy, Matthias. With them were the women followers, Mary His mother, and His brothers. Of the crowds that had acclaimed Jesus' name, there were maybe 120 male believers left, plus women and children. They had spent the last few days in serious and constant prayer, first selecting the new apostle, then attempting to discern the will of God.
Meanwhile, outside the window, Jerusalem was once again teeming with pilgrims who had come for the festival Shavu'ot, which recalls God's giving of the Torah -- the instructions for living righteously. All of a sudden, the Apostles were given a gift for foreign language by the Holy Spirit, as well as an uncharacteristic desire to talk to the crowds. Leaning or stepping out of the room, they spoke to the people in the crowds in their own languages. Then Peter told the crowds the whole story of Jesus the rabbi who had fulfilled all the instructions of God completely, and whom God made both Lord and Messiah. That day, the number of believers swelled from 120 to over 3000, and they began to live in the beloved community that characterized the church. (Check out Acts 2, if you want to read more.)
That day is called Pentecost, and on that day the Holy Spirit gifted and empowered the apostles, others heard and experienced the gospel, and they began to live in a new way. That's church, you know -- the gospel lived out among a community of believers, who have been gifted and empowered by the Holy Spirit.
Pentecost is on my mind because last weekend the Holy Spirit got an early start:
- Last Saturday, our friend John Rodgers officially began to live a new way. John has been gifted by the Holy Spirit with a desire to talk to the crowds in their own languages -- what we now call "sharing the good news" or "evangelism". On Saturday, you, the Silicon Valley Gay Men's Chorus, our Conference Minister Mary Susan Gast, and other local pastors laid hands on John and asked God's blessing upon him. We celebrated with amazing music (thank you Cheryl, Susan, and the Music Ministry!), inspired preaching, and great food -- just like the first church did. It's a shame if you missed it, because it was a once in a lifetime experience for both John and the rest of us.
- Then on Sunday, our "confirmation class", known as "[insert identity here]" led worship. From hosting to praying to preaching to playing, from planning to agape meals to cleanup, it was their day, and Jesus was in the house! With an uncharacteristic desire to talk to the crowds, the youth of [iih] led us right into the presence of the Holy Spirit. God is at work in our kids.
Pastor Elane
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Blogging Theology, pt 1
I was a terrible writing student. At the beginning of every paper, in nearly every class, through a bachelor's degree and three master's degrees, teachers required a thesis statement and an outline prior to beginning research. I would get stuck there, because I didn't understand how one could research anything with the outcome firmly in mind. If I came across data that contradicted my original thesis, could I change the thesis? And would I recognize the contradictory data if I did? Needless to say, both my teachers and I were often frustrated, and unable to see the other's position.
All human beings have limited perspective: we can never have a God's-eye view of anything. That perspective is the lens through which we view the world. We can learn to change lenses, even modify our particular lens, but we the world we see is always framed by our place and person. Being a "situated knower", as this philosophical problem is called, is both Suchocki's strength and her weakness. It is her greatest strength, because it leads her into concern about the effects of a pluralistic world on Christian ideology. It is also her greatest weakness, at least in Divinity & Diversity, because, like all my frustrated writing teachers, her lens is limited by the thesis she must prove.
Suchocki, like her colleague John Cobb, is one of the great explicators of process theology ["PT"]. Process theology (more on that here) has served to bend and puncture the boxy framework of
modern theology, as well as providing a wholly different understanding of substance (of God, of us, etc.). How does all that happen? By understanding everything and all that is, including God, as an interactive set of what I have elsewhere called "matter-moments" whose action and response is dependent upon other matter-moments' action and response. PT makes God necessarily changeable and changing, at least in part (which is really tough on some people). In PT everything is somewhat interdependent on everything else, including God.
Process theology, like Doug Pagitt's quantum physics, saved my life, and paradoxically made a personal relationship with God possible.
As it happens, I agree with Suchocki's strain of argument : the lens of process theology can help Christians take a different look at our ideology of exclusivity (Jesus as the "only way") because
1) "the image of God is not reducible to ... any individual human quality alone...God is... a complex unity that can only be expressed through irreducible diversity(67)"; and
2) God continually calls us into deeper and richer modes of incarnation.
From here, Suchocki argues that the "deeper and richer modes" of incarnation depend necessarily upon ever increasing depth and breadth of community. This leads her to her main conclusion (the one which "solves" human plurality"): God is calling us to a new and more intense form of mission... not to convert the world to our own religion, but to convert the world toward friendship."(109)
And that's where Suchocki, like all those writing teachers, frustrates me. The first three-quarters of her book, in which she explains PT through the lens of pluralistic culture, is clear, thoughtful, transparent. It should be mandated introductory reading for everyone entering seminary anywhere. (So should Henri Nouwen's Creative Ministry, especially if it replaces The Wounded Healer, which metaphor has by now become a sorry excuse for permanent brokenness. But that's another entry.) But that last quarter, where Suchocki applies PT to global relationships and Christian mission, is utterly clouded by her "situated knower"-ness as a 20th century liberal: her image of Christian faith, of mission, of Jesus himself is so limited that it is rendered a straw man.
In other words, the Christianity she is arguing against is a political effect, not a living faith. It is static and hardened, a cigar-store Indian rather than a creation in which God is and moves and has God's being. It is the mid-century bogieman against which the now-irrelevant ecumenical movement was fighting. The Christianity she portrays is dead or dying: there simply aren't that many churches sending missionaries out to convert the heathen through coercion or force.
More importantly, when Suchocki portrays the new Christian mission as no more than friendship and understanding (even highly relational and rarified friendship and understanding), she reduces the transformative (and essential and unchanging) nature of God's grace, as revealed and incarnated in the person and purpose of Jesus, to simply another tenet of simply another faith and culture. At our best, followers of Jesus are living witnesses to the very process Suchocki argues everything is anyway. Transformative community (of matter-moments or of people) cannot be about "why we believe this or that" (113) or "shar[ing] oneself with another so that the other might know who we really are, and how and why we understand God as we do." (113) By her own sense of PT, transformative community cannot be about "the Methodists [host]ing the Muslims for a church supper"(114) even if it leads to the mutual discovery of and action upon the critical need of their shared geographic community(114).
Godly transformation, the morphing of individuals and communities into the image of God -- into Christlikeness -- is not just about intellectual understanding or shared causes. Godly transfomation is not simply holding hands around the globe. It is beyond global and beyond cellular. It is nothing less than the complete transformation of the very matter and moments of all existence into unity with and incarnation of God. That's what we're about. That's what Suchocki's own process theology is about. But it's not where the book leads us, because retaining the thesis trumped the research and theology.
Which, as writing methodology or Christian ideology, still frustrates me.
All human beings have limited perspective: we can never have a God's-eye view of anything. That perspective is the lens through which we view the world. We can learn to change lenses, even modify our particular lens, but we the world we see is always framed by our place and person. Being a "situated knower", as this philosophical problem is called, is both Suchocki's strength and her weakness. It is her greatest strength, because it leads her into concern about the effects of a pluralistic world on Christian ideology. It is also her greatest weakness, at least in Divinity & Diversity, because, like all my frustrated writing teachers, her lens is limited by the thesis she must prove.
Suchocki, like her colleague John Cobb, is one of the great explicators of process theology ["PT"]. Process theology (more on that here) has served to bend and puncture the boxy framework of
modern theology, as well as providing a wholly different understanding of substance (of God, of us, etc.). How does all that happen? By understanding everything and all that is, including God, as an interactive set of what I have elsewhere called "matter-moments" whose action and response is dependent upon other matter-moments' action and response. PT makes God necessarily changeable and changing, at least in part (which is really tough on some people). In PT everything is somewhat interdependent on everything else, including God.
Process theology, like Doug Pagitt's quantum physics, saved my life, and paradoxically made a personal relationship with God possible.
As it happens, I agree with Suchocki's strain of argument : the lens of process theology can help Christians take a different look at our ideology of exclusivity (Jesus as the "only way") because
1) "the image of God is not reducible to ... any individual human quality alone...God is... a complex unity that can only be expressed through irreducible diversity(67)"; and
2) God continually calls us into deeper and richer modes of incarnation.
From here, Suchocki argues that the "deeper and richer modes" of incarnation depend necessarily upon ever increasing depth and breadth of community. This leads her to her main conclusion (the one which "solves" human plurality"): God is calling us to a new and more intense form of mission... not to convert the world to our own religion, but to convert the world toward friendship."(109)
And that's where Suchocki, like all those writing teachers, frustrates me. The first three-quarters of her book, in which she explains PT through the lens of pluralistic culture, is clear, thoughtful, transparent. It should be mandated introductory reading for everyone entering seminary anywhere. (So should Henri Nouwen's Creative Ministry, especially if it replaces The Wounded Healer, which metaphor has by now become a sorry excuse for permanent brokenness. But that's another entry.) But that last quarter, where Suchocki applies PT to global relationships and Christian mission, is utterly clouded by her "situated knower"-ness as a 20th century liberal: her image of Christian faith, of mission, of Jesus himself is so limited that it is rendered a straw man.
In other words, the Christianity she is arguing against is a political effect, not a living faith. It is static and hardened, a cigar-store Indian rather than a creation in which God is and moves and has God's being. It is the mid-century bogieman against which the now-irrelevant ecumenical movement was fighting. The Christianity she portrays is dead or dying: there simply aren't that many churches sending missionaries out to convert the heathen through coercion or force.
More importantly, when Suchocki portrays the new Christian mission as no more than friendship and understanding (even highly relational and rarified friendship and understanding), she reduces the transformative (and essential and unchanging) nature of God's grace, as revealed and incarnated in the person and purpose of Jesus, to simply another tenet of simply another faith and culture. At our best, followers of Jesus are living witnesses to the very process Suchocki argues everything is anyway. Transformative community (of matter-moments or of people) cannot be about "why we believe this or that" (113) or "shar[ing] oneself with another so that the other might know who we really are, and how and why we understand God as we do." (113) By her own sense of PT, transformative community cannot be about "the Methodists [host]ing the Muslims for a church supper"(114) even if it leads to the mutual discovery of and action upon the critical need of their shared geographic community(114).
Godly transformation, the morphing of individuals and communities into the image of God -- into Christlikeness -- is not just about intellectual understanding or shared causes. Godly transfomation is not simply holding hands around the globe. It is beyond global and beyond cellular. It is nothing less than the complete transformation of the very matter and moments of all existence into unity with and incarnation of God. That's what we're about. That's what Suchocki's own process theology is about. But it's not where the book leads us, because retaining the thesis trumped the research and theology.
Which, as writing methodology or Christian ideology, still frustrates me.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Ellen feasting
There is a young girl -- five or six years old -- who comes with her mom to the table for the Eucharist. She is a good bit taller than the communion table; from my vantage point it just barely covers her chest. She arrives at the table ahead of her mother, and takes a nice piece of bread. It's not the biggest piece, but it is sufficient. She has to lean to see into the eye-level chalice. Standing a bit away from the table, she carefully dips her bread into the juice, just halfway, which is enough.
Then, rather than cupping her other hand underneath the bread so as not to drip, this child of God stretches out so that her whole face and a good portion of her body are above the table. Then with eagerness and precision, she bites the juicy purple bread, sparing no drop, no crumb.
She chews the body and blood thoughtfully and with obvious pleasure, relishing its sweetness, and remains on spiritual tiptoe until the last bit has been swallowed. At this meal, nothing has been wasted: no food, no opportunity.
This happens every time we feast at the Lord's table: the joyful, thoughtless approach; the careful taking; the delicious bite; the poignant swallow.
We should all take communion so well.
Then, rather than cupping her other hand underneath the bread so as not to drip, this child of God stretches out so that her whole face and a good portion of her body are above the table. Then with eagerness and precision, she bites the juicy purple bread, sparing no drop, no crumb.
She chews the body and blood thoughtfully and with obvious pleasure, relishing its sweetness, and remains on spiritual tiptoe until the last bit has been swallowed. At this meal, nothing has been wasted: no food, no opportunity.
This happens every time we feast at the Lord's table: the joyful, thoughtless approach; the careful taking; the delicious bite; the poignant swallow.
We should all take communion so well.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Triduum
Quiet.
that's how our church campus is now. Quiet.
The traffic outside sounds like ocean waves set far apart. This keyboard is the only sound in here, besides my breathing. And the last sigh of Jesus of Nazareth.
Last night we celebrated Passover/communion. More people than ever came. We set up for more than had rsvp'd, and we still had to add chairs, with people squeezing a leg and hand in so as to be actually at the table. The first year we separated Holy Thursday from Good Friday there were, oh I don't know, maybe 30 at one and 15 at the other. Last night we had something like 45-50 people, and at least 12 baskets leftover.
Today, hubbub to set up the stations of the cross: fires, 100-lb crucifixes, crossbeams, candles, sound, ecce homo (by Reni), Gethsemane, a prayer room, journals. All the musee it takes to do what we do. Crazy madness. I got home at 5:20, showered, dressed, picked up the baby and the baby's Chris, and was back by 6. Run, run. "Set" changes. Prayer, lots of prayer.
And then, at some point, maybe after the thunder and His death, it grew quiet. Quiet through the vigil, quiet through private absolution. The sounds of those sporadic ocean waves, and tears. People not really ready to leave when It Is Finished.
Then hubbub as staff gathered for debrief. Then a little food, a little more prayer.
And now, quiet.
And a lynched rabbi, a dead savior, an executed king, and two days of waiting and hoping that new life indeed comes.
Quiet. Thank God.
that's how our church campus is now. Quiet.
The traffic outside sounds like ocean waves set far apart. This keyboard is the only sound in here, besides my breathing. And the last sigh of Jesus of Nazareth.
Last night we celebrated Passover/communion. More people than ever came. We set up for more than had rsvp'd, and we still had to add chairs, with people squeezing a leg and hand in so as to be actually at the table. The first year we separated Holy Thursday from Good Friday there were, oh I don't know, maybe 30 at one and 15 at the other. Last night we had something like 45-50 people, and at least 12 baskets leftover.
Today, hubbub to set up the stations of the cross: fires, 100-lb crucifixes, crossbeams, candles, sound, ecce homo (by Reni), Gethsemane, a prayer room, journals. All the musee it takes to do what we do. Crazy madness. I got home at 5:20, showered, dressed, picked up the baby and the baby's Chris, and was back by 6. Run, run. "Set" changes. Prayer, lots of prayer.
And then, at some point, maybe after the thunder and His death, it grew quiet. Quiet through the vigil, quiet through private absolution. The sounds of those sporadic ocean waves, and tears. People not really ready to leave when It Is Finished.
Then hubbub as staff gathered for debrief. Then a little food, a little more prayer.
And now, quiet.
And a lynched rabbi, a dead savior, an executed king, and two days of waiting and hoping that new life indeed comes.
Quiet. Thank God.
Monday, April 06, 2009
Resurrection
I woke up this morning excited about diving into the Easter texts. Each gospel account is so similar in event and so disparate in style and focus. Mark (minus the longer, probably added, ending) ends at the edge of a cliff and the disciples wearing hang gliders. In Matthew's gospel, the women worship the risen Christ -- a stark change from the pre-Easter relationship -- and Jesus takes authority for all that is and hands a chunk of it to the disciples. Luke shares post-Resurrection experiences, most notably the Emmaus story, and the disciples are told by Jesus to wait for their authority and power. (Plus Luke includes the ascension, which is always a visual treat; see here and here and here.) Then John, God love him, with Christ's appearance to naked Peter (an attempt to discredit, perhaps?) and the disciples return to their old lives after the crucifixion. It's all so rich and layered, and such an excellent reminder that Jesus does not appear to all of us the same way, regardless of all those paintings of him as Scandanavian, and that resurrection itself lives into our lives differently, that is, in accordance with our lives.
Yippee! What a wonderful thing our God's word is!
Yippee! What a wonderful thing our God's word is!
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Palms and passion
This year I'm preaching on atonement. The sacrificial kind. And this may be the first year it's ever really, truly made sense to me. Funny what the Holy Spirit and a heck of a lot of reading will do.
What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul!
What wondrous love is this, O my soul!
What wondrous love is this that caused the Lord of bliss
To lay aside His crown for my soul, for my soul,
Christ laid aside His crown for my soul.
What wondrous love is this, O my soul, O my soul!
What wondrous love is this, O my soul!
What wondrous love is this that caused the Lord of bliss
To lay aside His crown for my soul, for my soul,
Christ laid aside His crown for my soul.
Monday, March 23, 2009
So long, Tim
Does anyone want to chip in on a goodbye gift for Timothy Geithner? Yes, I know he's still at Treasury, but after his refusal to support the TARP bonus tax, I suspect his days are numbered. If we buy the gift now, we can avoid the rush.
Look, Geithner has been cornered since his confirmation hearings. He's got no staff, and has inherited a truly stupid bailout plan. Not just unpopular, not just unregulated. Stupid. (Feel free to quote me on that.) He's working on some good stuff, including small business loans and the joint lending program. But his constant defense of propping up the banks with taxpayer money, and the pervasive "too big to fail; too valuable to tax" attitude inside the Beltway may mean his days are numbered. Obama is not looking good in the reflected light; he might do well to give Geithner his own payout and wish him well.
I'm thinking that "The Saturated Society: Governing Risk & Lifestyles in Consumer Culture" due to be released next month, could be exactly the thing, and timed just right too!
Look, Geithner has been cornered since his confirmation hearings. He's got no staff, and has inherited a truly stupid bailout plan. Not just unpopular, not just unregulated. Stupid. (Feel free to quote me on that.) He's working on some good stuff, including small business loans and the joint lending program. But his constant defense of propping up the banks with taxpayer money, and the pervasive "too big to fail; too valuable to tax" attitude inside the Beltway may mean his days are numbered. Obama is not looking good in the reflected light; he might do well to give Geithner his own payout and wish him well.
I'm thinking that "The Saturated Society: Governing Risk & Lifestyles in Consumer Culture" due to be released next month, could be exactly the thing, and timed just right too!
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Why I hate books.
Some years ago I made the mistake of reading a book about a new church community in Minnesota called Solomon's Porch. The book confirmed some of the things I had been thinking about church -- that it's relational, praxi-cal, Spirit-ual, communal. Other aspects of that particular church were Great for Them, but they Wouldn't Work for my community. I read the book a couple of times and put it on the shelf. After that I spoke to the pastor at a conference, did yoga with his wife, blogged a bit about his late night talk on the life-saving dimensions of quantum physics. Read a few dozen more books.
Time passes, including maybe 18 months spent in a fog. Maybe it was a pillar of smoke, but it sure felt like a fog.
On my desk since last September has been another book from Minnesota, this one by the pastor, Doug Pagitt. At some point it moved of its own free will to my nightstand. This morning I woke up at 4:20, feeling like I needed to read it today. I went back to sleep.
At 5:20, I had no other choice. Off to Peets with book.
Now I'm halfway through, and know why I had to read it today. Darned book. Should've gone back to sleep.
Please include my church community and their pastor in your prayers: God is changing something, and I think it's me.
Time passes, including maybe 18 months spent in a fog. Maybe it was a pillar of smoke, but it sure felt like a fog.
On my desk since last September has been another book from Minnesota, this one by the pastor, Doug Pagitt. At some point it moved of its own free will to my nightstand. This morning I woke up at 4:20, feeling like I needed to read it today. I went back to sleep.
At 5:20, I had no other choice. Off to Peets with book.
Now I'm halfway through, and know why I had to read it today. Darned book. Should've gone back to sleep.
Please include my church community and their pastor in your prayers: God is changing something, and I think it's me.
Thursday, March 05, 2009
Reading food
For some time now I have been reading Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver and her family. "Some time" in this case means "some months." I generally read quickly, so my slowness is markable, and attributable to at least two factors. 1) There is rarely enough quiet in our home (and in my brain) to read. 2) I don't want this book to end too quickly. I'm trying to exercise a restraint in reading that is elusive in cookies -- a savoring of prose, image, and idea. The last (narrative prose) book I read that slowed me like this was Michael Pollan's The Omnivore's Dilemma.
You might notice a pattern developing. Your skills in observation are admirable.
I have always liked food. I have often also depended upon it to assuage hungers it cannot approach. I am a passibly good cook, having been alone in the kitchen since I was 7 or 8: food that is generally edible, and, rarely, inspired. But it has been only, oh, the last 17 or 18 years that food has provided pure joy, sensual adventure, and soul satisfaction.
There had been portents before. I was an exchange student in Greece right after high school, and discovered the bitter herbal buttery unctuous savor of good olive oil. I learned sherry (cream and fino) when I was living in Amsterdam. But it was a full decade later that I began developing a palate and a terroir-ized imagination.
I remember the first tomatoes I really tasted (a green zebra, followed by a brandywine), and the woman who aroused the tasting. I remember realizing that bread needed salt -- not to rise or brown, but to have been worth the trouble. (At that time I was baking 5 loaves of bread a week for our intentional household of three, plus the man who lived in the park next door. Discovering salt delayed the meltdown of that living situation by a good month.) I remember cooking with my foodie poet lover my first multicourse, wine-paired dinner, and that for exes and chefs and one besotted wine merchant.
As much as I can enjoy food (including a glorious cheese plate taken when dining alone in Minneapolis), I have a secret crush on food writing. I devoured MFK Fisher, nibbled at Elizabeth David, blackened pizza with Jeffrey Steingarten, and hoarded Babette's Feast (a movie, but someone wrote it). I have lolled in typeset restaurants with John Birdsall, and just occasionally simmered in the fatback prose of John T. Edge. And if we're talking Food Network then we're talking Alton Brown's Feasting On series, more literary than televisual, hence naked, somewhat guilty, pleasure.
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle is a food book, but, like Omnivore's Dilemma, it is more memoir and cautionary tale. A good writer helps you taste the soil and caress the rough hands that held the hoe or the cleaver. There are moments of sheer joy in the reading, satisfying to mind, heart, and soul. So it must go slowly. Thoughtfully. With relish.
Soon I'll take a break and go back to Marjorie Suchocki's new book Divinity and Diversity, which so far might be retitled "Process Theology for Dummies". This is certainly unfair and undeserved, yet next to descriptions of the first spring asparagus and the soil that produced it, how toothsome could it be?
You might notice a pattern developing. Your skills in observation are admirable.
I have always liked food. I have often also depended upon it to assuage hungers it cannot approach. I am a passibly good cook, having been alone in the kitchen since I was 7 or 8: food that is generally edible, and, rarely, inspired. But it has been only, oh, the last 17 or 18 years that food has provided pure joy, sensual adventure, and soul satisfaction.
There had been portents before. I was an exchange student in Greece right after high school, and discovered the bitter herbal buttery unctuous savor of good olive oil. I learned sherry (cream and fino) when I was living in Amsterdam. But it was a full decade later that I began developing a palate and a terroir-ized imagination.
I remember the first tomatoes I really tasted (a green zebra, followed by a brandywine), and the woman who aroused the tasting. I remember realizing that bread needed salt -- not to rise or brown, but to have been worth the trouble. (At that time I was baking 5 loaves of bread a week for our intentional household of three, plus the man who lived in the park next door. Discovering salt delayed the meltdown of that living situation by a good month.) I remember cooking with my foodie poet lover my first multicourse, wine-paired dinner, and that for exes and chefs and one besotted wine merchant.
As much as I can enjoy food (including a glorious cheese plate taken when dining alone in Minneapolis), I have a secret crush on food writing. I devoured MFK Fisher, nibbled at Elizabeth David, blackened pizza with Jeffrey Steingarten, and hoarded Babette's Feast (a movie, but someone wrote it). I have lolled in typeset restaurants with John Birdsall, and just occasionally simmered in the fatback prose of John T. Edge. And if we're talking Food Network then we're talking Alton Brown's Feasting On series, more literary than televisual, hence naked, somewhat guilty, pleasure.
Animal, Vegetable, Miracle is a food book, but, like Omnivore's Dilemma, it is more memoir and cautionary tale. A good writer helps you taste the soil and caress the rough hands that held the hoe or the cleaver. There are moments of sheer joy in the reading, satisfying to mind, heart, and soul. So it must go slowly. Thoughtfully. With relish.
Soon I'll take a break and go back to Marjorie Suchocki's new book Divinity and Diversity, which so far might be retitled "Process Theology for Dummies". This is certainly unfair and undeserved, yet next to descriptions of the first spring asparagus and the soil that produced it, how toothsome could it be?
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Virtue and hope
Virtue. What an antique and antiquated word. How long has it been since we have heard the call to virtue from the dais, indeed, from the pulpit? How long has it been since the I has bowed down to the We? How long has it been since we condemned greed and praised sacrifice? How long has it been since we have called every people of every nation our friends?
Hope is the nonrational belief in a reality greater than this one. Hope is never fulfilled by will, or by power, or by intelligence. Hope is only fulfilled in the presence of that reality, coming and come. Hope is only fulfilled when we know that we live for something greater than we are: a home, a neighborhood, a city, a state, a nation, a world. And not merely a world, but a reality that is not only concrete, but real and lasting. Hope is the nonrational belief in a reality greater than this one: the reign of the heavens, of love, of justice, of mercy, of enough, on earth and in our hearts.
God bless you, Barack Hussein Obama, our president and our reminder of both hope and the virtue that is needed to maintain and fulfill it.
Hope is the nonrational belief in a reality greater than this one. Hope is never fulfilled by will, or by power, or by intelligence. Hope is only fulfilled in the presence of that reality, coming and come. Hope is only fulfilled when we know that we live for something greater than we are: a home, a neighborhood, a city, a state, a nation, a world. And not merely a world, but a reality that is not only concrete, but real and lasting. Hope is the nonrational belief in a reality greater than this one: the reign of the heavens, of love, of justice, of mercy, of enough, on earth and in our hearts.
God bless you, Barack Hussein Obama, our president and our reminder of both hope and the virtue that is needed to maintain and fulfill it.
In the neighborhood
Can't find cable or satellite inputs for the beautiful flat screen that's in here. Nor a vga cable to plug a computer into it. But even on my little Dell e1405, it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood.
This country has been blessed so often and with so much. May we live like it.
May God have mercy on our incoming President, his staff, and Congress.
May the Holy Spirit lead all of them into humility, wisdom and trust.
Amen.
Yippee!
This country has been blessed so often and with so much. May we live like it.
May God have mercy on our incoming President, his staff, and Congress.
May the Holy Spirit lead all of them into humility, wisdom and trust.
Amen.
Yippee!
The challenge of scarcity
I awoke at 4:50, having slept. Fine mood. Ready for coffee.
Lay in bed for a few minutes in prayer and thanksgiving.
Suddenly thought, "if I don't get in there and make coffee I won't get any". Not that articulately, but...
Then thought, "I should check out what rooms those noisy women from last night are in and put notes under their doors how can they be here for Ignatian exercises and be that unaware that others are here in silence why are people here anyway this is my mercy center my floor my time with God."
Hoo boy.
By 4:58, God decided to stop this nonsense: Elane, what ever happened to loving? Mercy is big enough (I think God meant Mercy Center but the abbreviated version was even better). Don't you know yet there is enough of everything, including My love and My time to go around?
The hard part of the great commandment isn't the loving. It's the deep realizing in those dark lizard brain moments that there is enough time, enough stuff, enough room, enough God, enough me, to go around.
Good morning, everyone.
Lay in bed for a few minutes in prayer and thanksgiving.
Suddenly thought, "if I don't get in there and make coffee I won't get any". Not that articulately, but...
Then thought, "I should check out what rooms those noisy women from last night are in and put notes under their doors how can they be here for Ignatian exercises and be that unaware that others are here in silence why are people here anyway this is my mercy center my floor my time with God."
Hoo boy.
By 4:58, God decided to stop this nonsense: Elane, what ever happened to loving? Mercy is big enough (I think God meant Mercy Center but the abbreviated version was even better). Don't you know yet there is enough of everything, including My love and My time to go around?
The hard part of the great commandment isn't the loving. It's the deep realizing in those dark lizard brain moments that there is enough time, enough stuff, enough room, enough God, enough me, to go around.
Good morning, everyone.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Reducing clutter
Last night my Wonderful Husband, once again abandoned to solo Baby and pet care, sent me off to Mercy Center by saying, "I know you need to get away from us and rest."
I was angry, and insulted, and saddened by the accusation that I was coming here simply to be away from them and to rest from them. As if I were going on vacation. That anger and injury and sadness so fueled me for the evening that I was able to sustain my resentment all the way until bedtime. Powerful stuff, the inference of insult.
This morning, after 5 a.m. reading, 6:30 a.m. meditation, 8 a.m. breakfast, the fuel has been exhausted and I am in a more ruminant mode. (Feel free to think "holstein".) Time away and rest? What a selfish idea! How dare he accuse me of wanting self-care?
Haha, the heavenly hosts chortle. Practice what you preach, sister, Wisdom proclaims from her streetcorner.
The truth: I do not come here to get away from them, or to get away from my church, or to get away at all. I come to get to: to God, to internal silence, to the present.
On a daily basis, the clutter in my own head threatens to pour out my ears, and I live in the next thing, rather than whatever thing is the thing now. I'm planning meals while reading Scripture, writing prayers while feeding Baby, pondering the dirty bathtub while eating dinner. Not having a next thing for a few days helps me to return to the thing now. My church as it is now. My health as it is now. My marriage. My relationship with God. My child. After a couple of days of silence, of reading, of meditation, of meals I don't have to make happen, clutter evaporates.
Two questions (or prayers) arise: 1) How do I bring this now into my regular now -- how do I arrange my life and my brain for more present silence? 2) How do I humbly accept the possibility that yes, perhaps I do need some time away in order to love better, and that spending quiet time with God is, in fact, a kind of vacation for my mind and soul?
I was angry, and insulted, and saddened by the accusation that I was coming here simply to be away from them and to rest from them. As if I were going on vacation. That anger and injury and sadness so fueled me for the evening that I was able to sustain my resentment all the way until bedtime. Powerful stuff, the inference of insult.
This morning, after 5 a.m. reading, 6:30 a.m. meditation, 8 a.m. breakfast, the fuel has been exhausted and I am in a more ruminant mode. (Feel free to think "holstein".) Time away and rest? What a selfish idea! How dare he accuse me of wanting self-care?
Haha, the heavenly hosts chortle. Practice what you preach, sister, Wisdom proclaims from her streetcorner.
The truth: I do not come here to get away from them, or to get away from my church, or to get away at all. I come to get to: to God, to internal silence, to the present.
On a daily basis, the clutter in my own head threatens to pour out my ears, and I live in the next thing, rather than whatever thing is the thing now. I'm planning meals while reading Scripture, writing prayers while feeding Baby, pondering the dirty bathtub while eating dinner. Not having a next thing for a few days helps me to return to the thing now. My church as it is now. My health as it is now. My marriage. My relationship with God. My child. After a couple of days of silence, of reading, of meditation, of meals I don't have to make happen, clutter evaporates.
Two questions (or prayers) arise: 1) How do I bring this now into my regular now -- how do I arrange my life and my brain for more present silence? 2) How do I humbly accept the possibility that yes, perhaps I do need some time away in order to love better, and that spending quiet time with God is, in fact, a kind of vacation for my mind and soul?
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Pro-life, finally?
Skye Jethani posted (and syndicated at Out of Ur) on an evangelical redefinition of "pro-life". The one comment so far (besides mine) states that "pro-life" has never meant only "pro-fetal-and-embryonic-life-and-anti-choice" to most evangelicals.
Coulda' fooled me, and about 200 million other people. If that's true -- if pro-lifers have had a broader vision in mind -- then the public rhetoric, and political platforms, and funding, and governmental focus, and judicial litmus tests, and protestors, and, (being a little unkind) domestic terrorists killing doctors they don't like, have been co-opted or duped by an itsy-bitsy fringe-y whisper at the edge of "Christian" faith.
Um. Probably not. It's certainly a lot easier to raise funds (and blood pressure) with pics of babies and aborted fetuses than it is with pictures of convicts, hungry mothers, welfare "cheats", and truants. I have never once been spammed, individually or through our church website, by someone imploring me to come to a public pray-in in front of City Hall, demanding higher taxes for better school funding. Not once. But during the last election season I was forced to create a new spam filter for all the emails I rec'd labeling Obama (and others) as "babykillers" and "not really Christians."
So good on you, Skye. Even if it's not quite yet true -- even if for most evangelicals, valuable life ends at birth -- saying life is life may make it so.
Coulda' fooled me, and about 200 million other people. If that's true -- if pro-lifers have had a broader vision in mind -- then the public rhetoric, and political platforms, and funding, and governmental focus, and judicial litmus tests, and protestors, and, (being a little unkind) domestic terrorists killing doctors they don't like, have been co-opted or duped by an itsy-bitsy fringe-y whisper at the edge of "Christian" faith.
Um. Probably not. It's certainly a lot easier to raise funds (and blood pressure) with pics of babies and aborted fetuses than it is with pictures of convicts, hungry mothers, welfare "cheats", and truants. I have never once been spammed, individually or through our church website, by someone imploring me to come to a public pray-in in front of City Hall, demanding higher taxes for better school funding. Not once. But during the last election season I was forced to create a new spam filter for all the emails I rec'd labeling Obama (and others) as "babykillers" and "not really Christians."
So good on you, Skye. Even if it's not quite yet true -- even if for most evangelicals, valuable life ends at birth -- saying life is life may make it so.
Thursday, January 01, 2009
on the premise that whatever one does on New Year's Day one will do all year
We reviewed the year last night, as everyone else did:
The world was just as...unsuspecting? as we were. Though how anyone didn't expect the crash is beyond me. I'm no economics whiz, and I saw it coming years before it happened. But I don't think we expected to elect a brown man, and I don't think we expected the banks and the automakers to be the big welfare recipients of the year. (BTW: you wanna talk socialism?) Israel's bombing of Gaza was a matter of time, as was Pakistan's rebellion against "the war on terror" on its borders and in its mountains. Prop 8's passage was a function of a truly lousy and lazy strategy on our side. People seem surprised by all this, and just a little Disappointed (by everything except the election, God have mercy on the President-Elect). Apparently the pony wasn't under there after all.
No. The pony and the rest of the treasure are peeking out through the silt and ash, way over there. Complain if you must, but:
Last night, my wonderful husband also asked: so how is your relationship with God these days? And I was able to answer, confidently: peachy. God and I are doing really well, like comfortable old friends who occupy a room together, occasionally chatting, doing things together and apart. When I feel distant, I know it's just me -- that I need to pick up the phone and call.
And that's a pretty good place to be with the Alpha & Omega & Everything-In-Between.
So on the premise that what one does on New Year's Day one will do all year, I'm not rushing, am blogging, am seeing my Renovare sisters, calling the right-coast friends, enjoying Bug and WH and the four-leggeds, drinking champagne, and hanging with the Big G(al/uy).
Happy End Of 2008, everybody.
- We didn't move, which, for a while in the beginning of our marriage, was the annual dislocation.
- No one started a new job, though my wonderful husband left one. That was bigger than we knew.
- Dear friends moved across the country just as the market was crashing: accidental but fortuitous timing, given the state of things in CA.
- Revelations abounded -- of health, marriage, friendship, matterings.
The world was just as...unsuspecting? as we were. Though how anyone didn't expect the crash is beyond me. I'm no economics whiz, and I saw it coming years before it happened. But I don't think we expected to elect a brown man, and I don't think we expected the banks and the automakers to be the big welfare recipients of the year. (BTW: you wanna talk socialism?) Israel's bombing of Gaza was a matter of time, as was Pakistan's rebellion against "the war on terror" on its borders and in its mountains. Prop 8's passage was a function of a truly lousy and lazy strategy on our side. People seem surprised by all this, and just a little Disappointed (by everything except the election, God have mercy on the President-Elect). Apparently the pony wasn't under there after all.
No. The pony and the rest of the treasure are peeking out through the silt and ash, way over there. Complain if you must, but:
- Rick Warren is a bold move as Invoker-Select, since traditional evangelicals don't like him any more than liberals do, and he's a Boomer (hence elder generation) par excellence;
- The barbarian hoards attacking the castle walls of common wisdom are finally the environmental version of flat-earthers, rather than the Gores among us; the lifeboaters; the antiseasonal produce-purveyors; the black/whit-ers; and the IwantitNOWers.
- In the religion conversation (at least among my threads of X'y), Third and Fourth and Fifth Ways are being discovered, as we realize the Holy Spirit is less bound by either-or than we are.
Last night, my wonderful husband also asked: so how is your relationship with God these days? And I was able to answer, confidently: peachy. God and I are doing really well, like comfortable old friends who occupy a room together, occasionally chatting, doing things together and apart. When I feel distant, I know it's just me -- that I need to pick up the phone and call.
And that's a pretty good place to be with the Alpha & Omega & Everything-In-Between.
So on the premise that what one does on New Year's Day one will do all year, I'm not rushing, am blogging, am seeing my Renovare sisters, calling the right-coast friends, enjoying Bug and WH and the four-leggeds, drinking champagne, and hanging with the Big G(al/uy).
Happy End Of 2008, everybody.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Luke 19:40
Do You hear the stones cry out their praise?Do You taste the steam as it rises from the melting snow, or feel the flashing wings of the hummingbird?
Do You see or smell, or is all that fleshly, embedded in the body?
Those trees outside -- are they as silent to You as they are to me? Or more so, since You have no ears to hear?
Perhaps You became flesh and dwelt among us not only for us, but for You, so that You could know Your creation in a new way.
For what are we, what are the stones or the snow or the hummingbird, but the product of Your immaterial hands, Your unbeating heart: wouldn't You want to feel the dirt under your knees as You prayed?
Wouldn't You long to touch the face of a child, or to crunch the fall leaves in Your hands?
Maybe we are Your eyes, Your hands, Your ears, not only because we have work to do in Your name, but also to share with You the beauty and tragedy and joy of all You have made.
Maybe we complete You.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
Earthly hope
More than Obama's victory last night, more than the waves of young people and very old people standing on line to touch a screen or punch a ballot, I am moved by both candidates' speeches. McCain was gracious and unifying, silencing negative shouts. Obama was solemn, aware of the mantle being lowered onto his shoulders: humble, hopeful, and mindful of history. The Holy Spirit was moving, inspiring love, humility, and the "hunger and thirst for righteousness".
On 8, the writing of discrimination into the CA constitution: Remember that CA has the very best domestic partnership laws in the union -- that will not end, it will continue to influence the policymakers outside CA -- and the ideas of equality it represents remain in our DNA. We who support true citizenship, rather than an antiquated separate-but-equal philosophy, were complacent about this election, about the notion that human and civil rights in fact extend to all humans.
More important, and the reason I am hopeful and grateful, there is a major shift in the US. The paradigm has changed, and prop 8 is the last fearful gasp, the cold dead hands clutching the old narrow privilege. If it passes, which it may well do, we should count it as the millstone that will eventually drown the voices of fear.
Jesus is my president; may his Holy Spirit continue to move among us.
On 8, the writing of discrimination into the CA constitution: Remember that CA has the very best domestic partnership laws in the union -- that will not end, it will continue to influence the policymakers outside CA -- and the ideas of equality it represents remain in our DNA. We who support true citizenship, rather than an antiquated separate-but-equal philosophy, were complacent about this election, about the notion that human and civil rights in fact extend to all humans.
More important, and the reason I am hopeful and grateful, there is a major shift in the US. The paradigm has changed, and prop 8 is the last fearful gasp, the cold dead hands clutching the old narrow privilege. If it passes, which it may well do, we should count it as the millstone that will eventually drown the voices of fear.
Jesus is my president; may his Holy Spirit continue to move among us.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Tuesday, October 07, 2008
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
Life a long time coming
Miss Abigail Dillashaw Spencer was born this morning, September 30, 2008, at 4:55 am in Asheville, NC. Abigail is the long-awaited daughter of Shannon and Heather Dillashaw Spencer -- literally, as it took many hours of labor to coax her out of her temporary home.
Asheville is too far away from Burlingame, and yet very very close.
"My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servants. From now on all generations will call us blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for us—holy is his name."
God be with this little family. Grant Shannon quick healing of body, mind and spirit. Give Heather some rest. And may You give little Abigail unfailing knowledge of Your love, and the love that already surrounds and holds her in this earthly life.
(And, if You don't mind my asking, may we get to see them soon!)
Asheville is too far away from Burlingame, and yet very very close.
"My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servants. From now on all generations will call us blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for us—holy is his name."
God be with this little family. Grant Shannon quick healing of body, mind and spirit. Give Heather some rest. And may You give little Abigail unfailing knowledge of Your love, and the love that already surrounds and holds her in this earthly life.
(And, if You don't mind my asking, may we get to see them soon!)
Monday, September 29, 2008
Waiting too
A few days ago Heather posted an entry on her blog entitled Waiting. Her wife is 9 mos. pregnant, so waiting is a big part of her life.
Today I am at Mercy Center on retreat, waiting on the Lord. 6:30 am meditation was fruitless--I could not get my brain to settle down, couldn't draw back to either emptiness (in which Christ would have room to move) or focus (in which I would at least be directed toward Him). The last months have been wonderful and hard on my practice, so I am doing my part in the assurance that God will do God's.
Now another distraction: Heather's wife has been admitted to the hospital in real labor. Great joy! and a new phase of waiting. If God has God's hands full on the other side of the country, I can wait. I'm in no hurry, but that new little life for whom we have all been waiting, may be.
God of all things, creator and sustainer of all that is: grant Shannon easy labor, health to the new babe, and joyous expectant waiting to my dear friend. And if you have the time, give me some peacefilled waiting too.
Today I am at Mercy Center on retreat, waiting on the Lord. 6:30 am meditation was fruitless--I could not get my brain to settle down, couldn't draw back to either emptiness (in which Christ would have room to move) or focus (in which I would at least be directed toward Him). The last months have been wonderful and hard on my practice, so I am doing my part in the assurance that God will do God's.
Now another distraction: Heather's wife has been admitted to the hospital in real labor. Great joy! and a new phase of waiting. If God has God's hands full on the other side of the country, I can wait. I'm in no hurry, but that new little life for whom we have all been waiting, may be.
God of all things, creator and sustainer of all that is: grant Shannon easy labor, health to the new babe, and joyous expectant waiting to my dear friend. And if you have the time, give me some peacefilled waiting too.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
A nudge and a whack
In my Renovare group today, we were offered a choice of practices to do this week. Since we're in the "contemplative tradition" section, they were all familiar to me. Things like "take 5-10 mins. daily to pray", "write a letter to God and read it every day", "sit in silence 5-10 mins. each day). Stuff like that.
I sat there thinking, "whoo boy, I Already Have these as my so-called disciplines, and am not very disciplined about them At All. Now what?" Then I re-read them, more as something to do than as a prompt to choose. In the re-reading I noticed three sentences, one in each of the first three practices. They all had something to do with attitude and approach, to wit:
"...The idea is simply to set aside your busy activities (or not start them) and turn your attention to God." (prayer)
"...Simply enjoy God's presence, God's loving arms wrapped around you. (meditation)
"...instead of reading what you select simply to understand it, read it "with God", knowing that God is there in the room with you." (devotions)
Nudge. Nudge. Whack.
So God wants me to simply spend time with her/him, rather than to Achieve the Requisite 10 minutes, or to Clear My Mind Completely, or to Really Take In What the Writer Had To Say. Imagine that: it's not a competition; it's not an order of magnitude. It's spending time with God. Simply. Gently.
A whole new spiritual practice, discovered in a morning whack with friends.
I sat there thinking, "whoo boy, I Already Have these as my so-called disciplines, and am not very disciplined about them At All. Now what?" Then I re-read them, more as something to do than as a prompt to choose. In the re-reading I noticed three sentences, one in each of the first three practices. They all had something to do with attitude and approach, to wit:
"...The idea is simply to set aside your busy activities (or not start them) and turn your attention to God." (prayer)
"...Simply enjoy God's presence, God's loving arms wrapped around you. (meditation)
"...instead of reading what you select simply to understand it, read it "with God", knowing that God is there in the room with you." (devotions)
Nudge. Nudge. Whack.
So God wants me to simply spend time with her/him, rather than to Achieve the Requisite 10 minutes, or to Clear My Mind Completely, or to Really Take In What the Writer Had To Say. Imagine that: it's not a competition; it's not an order of magnitude. It's spending time with God. Simply. Gently.
A whole new spiritual practice, discovered in a morning whack with friends.
$619 v $700
Marcy Kaptur is one of my human heroes.
I feel like I missed a memo. Yesterday the House passed a $619 billion war spending bill without a quiver, whisper, or reporter in sight. The same day, our President declared the economy a wreckage, doomed without $700 billion of my money (and your money).
What would happen if the House introduced a bill (or Bill) for $700 billion for hungry, poor, or struggling Americans? But if they tacked on a couple of rounds of ammo for our boys in Baghdad, would it be more likely to pass?
We are criminals, every one of us, for allowing this to happen: for voting for tax reductions instead of charity and care; for preferring insurance agencies over doctors, nurses, and clerks; for loving oil more than air; for allowing neocon (which is just old-style con, as in grifter con) and the free market to be our mantra instead of love your neighbor.
Raise my taxes, redirect my war support, and give it to the poor and hungry and sick and the damaged vets. Please.
As the thief said while on the cross: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.
I feel like I missed a memo. Yesterday the House passed a $619 billion war spending bill without a quiver, whisper, or reporter in sight. The same day, our President declared the economy a wreckage, doomed without $700 billion of my money (and your money).
What would happen if the House introduced a bill (or Bill) for $700 billion for hungry, poor, or struggling Americans? But if they tacked on a couple of rounds of ammo for our boys in Baghdad, would it be more likely to pass?
We are criminals, every one of us, for allowing this to happen: for voting for tax reductions instead of charity and care; for preferring insurance agencies over doctors, nurses, and clerks; for loving oil more than air; for allowing neocon (which is just old-style con, as in grifter con) and the free market to be our mantra instead of love your neighbor.
Raise my taxes, redirect my war support, and give it to the poor and hungry and sick and the damaged vets. Please.
As the thief said while on the cross: Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
de-cocooning
"Adult butterflies emerge from the chrysalis with shriveled wings and squat, puffy bodies. They will hang beneath the chrysalis remains and pump fluid into the wings to inflate them. Newly emerged butterflies secrete an unpleasant smelling liquid, called “meconium,” that contains the waste materials from the chrysalis stage. After a couple of hours the butterfly’s wings will be fully formed and dried, and it will be able to fly off..."
I feel as though I am finally emerging from the last nine months. (How appropriate.) My wings are shriveled, and do we have to mention the squat puffy body (I've gained 10 lbs since Beautiful Baby came home.)? There is no question that the temptation to hang beneath the remains is strong, and even if you can't smell my meconium, it's definitely there. But it's gonna take more than a couple hours for my wings to form and dry.
I love our child. But in the last 9 months I stopped reading, blogging, studying, meditating, working out. I traded the quick hit of Facebook for the more time-consuming (and satisfying) blog-reading I had been doing. (What has Tall Skinny Kiwi been doing, anyway? Anyone?) Basically I stopped being Me, and didn't become any more devoted to God in the process. Not okay. Really not okay.
But today there are some cracks in the chrysalis. I won't be the Me I'm used to, but now there is some hope of flight.
I feel as though I am finally emerging from the last nine months. (How appropriate.) My wings are shriveled, and do we have to mention the squat puffy body (I've gained 10 lbs since Beautiful Baby came home.)? There is no question that the temptation to hang beneath the remains is strong, and even if you can't smell my meconium, it's definitely there. But it's gonna take more than a couple hours for my wings to form and dry.
I love our child. But in the last 9 months I stopped reading, blogging, studying, meditating, working out. I traded the quick hit of Facebook for the more time-consuming (and satisfying) blog-reading I had been doing. (What has Tall Skinny Kiwi been doing, anyway? Anyone?) Basically I stopped being Me, and didn't become any more devoted to God in the process. Not okay. Really not okay.
But today there are some cracks in the chrysalis. I won't be the Me I'm used to, but now there is some hope of flight.
Monday, September 08, 2008
On not raising taxes
It is not the stated purpose of this blog to provide political commentary unconstrained by the wisdom of scripture and Spirit. I usually resist the temptation to rant or review or rave about a particular news item or event, but today I feel succumbing coming. So if you prefer to enjoy my blog without the lingering bitter taste of elephant that has passed its expiration date, read no further. Do please return -- this won't become a habit.
How long has it been that the Republican battle cry has been "No new taxes"? How long have we drunk in the trickle-down theory even though those in the "down" aren't even yet damp? When did we begin to believe that the Founding Fathers meant deregulation when they wrote "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" (and yet, having eloquently stated the basis for civil and civic rights, Somehow couldn't manage to express the heady concept of deregulation, leaving it to Congress to help them out)?
I know when humans confessed our desire for an earthly king, full of power and full of other... things.
I know when the Supreme Court decided that a fiscal entity (the corporation) was entitled to the same rights as flesh-and-blood-living-breathing-endowed-by-their-Creator-with-certain-inalienable-rights-entities (people). (That would be 1886 in, of all cases, Santa Clara County vs. Southern Pacific Railroad. The SC didn't actually decide to afford "legal persons" more power than "natural persons", though it is quite clear that case law has managed to do just that. For unabashedly biased accounts, click here or here.)
But do tell me, dear friends, why we of at least some small brain decided to go along with it, and to elect and re-elect the shills to put such destructive nonsense into play?
I refer here to the federal bailouts of certain large fiscal entities. Need we be reminded that that is, in fact, our taxes funding poorly managed, deregulated, tax-sheltered, legal persons? Which means that the defaulting corporations are major recipients of yours and my tax money, while at the same time, loud cheers of joyful support go up to the heavens when the current Republican candidate for President (don't get me started on the Democratic one) repeats the sounding joy "no new taxes", and promises to lower maximum corporate tax from 35% to 25%. That is before the deductions, my friends, that lowered the 2000 effective tax rate for all corporations to 27% . The GAO reported last month that over 60% of US-owned legal persons paid no federal income taxes; of those "most of the large USCCs that reported no tax liability in 2005 also reported that they had no current-year income".
Really? No income? Well, then, let's Do decrease their tax rate, because clearly it's become a burden.
Still, we have a strong economy, based on the unimprovable (and unprovable) economic theories of the Right. To wit:
End of direct and sarcastic political commentary. We now return you to your regularly scheduled pabulum.
How long has it been that the Republican battle cry has been "No new taxes"? How long have we drunk in the trickle-down theory even though those in the "down" aren't even yet damp? When did we begin to believe that the Founding Fathers meant deregulation when they wrote "life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness" (and yet, having eloquently stated the basis for civil and civic rights, Somehow couldn't manage to express the heady concept of deregulation, leaving it to Congress to help them out)?
I know when humans confessed our desire for an earthly king, full of power and full of other... things.
I know when the Supreme Court decided that a fiscal entity (the corporation) was entitled to the same rights as flesh-and-blood-living-breathing-endowed-by-their-Creator-with-certain-inalienable-rights-entities (people). (That would be 1886 in, of all cases, Santa Clara County vs. Southern Pacific Railroad. The SC didn't actually decide to afford "legal persons" more power than "natural persons", though it is quite clear that case law has managed to do just that. For unabashedly biased accounts, click here or here.)
But do tell me, dear friends, why we of at least some small brain decided to go along with it, and to elect and re-elect the shills to put such destructive nonsense into play?
I refer here to the federal bailouts of certain large fiscal entities. Need we be reminded that that is, in fact, our taxes funding poorly managed, deregulated, tax-sheltered, legal persons? Which means that the defaulting corporations are major recipients of yours and my tax money, while at the same time, loud cheers of joyful support go up to the heavens when the current Republican candidate for President (don't get me started on the Democratic one) repeats the sounding joy "no new taxes", and promises to lower maximum corporate tax from 35% to 25%. That is before the deductions, my friends, that lowered the 2000 effective tax rate for all corporations to 27% . The GAO reported last month that over 60% of US-owned legal persons paid no federal income taxes; of those "most of the large USCCs that reported no tax liability in 2005 also reported that they had no current-year income".
Really? No income? Well, then, let's Do decrease their tax rate, because clearly it's become a burden.
Still, we have a strong economy, based on the unimprovable (and unprovable) economic theories of the Right. To wit:
- the poverty and hunger rates are rising;
- health costs put families into bankruptcy (Hey! Incorporate and apply for a bailout!)
- the war(s) (remember Afghanistan? Anyone?) cost me and you $284,722 per minute That's roughly $809 billion thus far (interestingly, the war in Southeast Asia (aka "Vietnam") cost $670 billion in today's dollars);
- or, put another way: $5000 per Iraqi in 2007 alone. (What could Iraqis have done if we'd simply handed each of them $5000? What could our hungry people do if we handed them $5000? Oh, but right, we don't believe in government handouts. Darn!);
- the high school dropout rate in CA is about 25%, while the incarceration rate stands at 3.2% nationally and 4.7% in CA. Reported unemployment here is 7.3%. Today; check in tomorrow;
- the Governor of California, himself the lucky benefactor of a recall initiative, is currently facing recall for suggesting a temporary 1% sales tax hike, and
- Ford stated this month that it "cannot afford" to sell its 65 mpg car in the US. That's with $100m net income Q1 2008. That's net, folks. Wonder what it will have been come tax time...
- until we begin to believe and act and vote as if we are jointly responsible for each other,
- until we decide that people are people and corporations aren't,
- until the financial health of the country is based on how the "least of these" is doing rather than on the "productivity" levels of major corporations (we Do understand that productivity goes Up when fewer people are needed to do the same amount of work, which benefits the legal person but not the natural one, don't we?)
- until we decide that one of the ways the federal government exercises its constitutional responsibility to "preserve and protect" its people is to promote and provide for the welfare of the natural persons under its care,
End of direct and sarcastic political commentary. We now return you to your regularly scheduled pabulum.
Monday, August 04, 2008
Catching up
I love road trips. Even the one that contained a horrible ugly breakup in the middle of the desert was great. They are the chance for spaciousness. Horizons. Unconstrained time. Uncluttering the mind. This one was hard on Heather (because it was a thing-that-had-to-be-done in the middle of a complicated move without her pregnant wife) but great for me. We went through NM, with its unexplainable beauty like something out of another Mind, and into the rolling ancient mountains of the northern South, all trees and red dirt and granite (or is it slate?) rock sheers.
It was a easy trip, roadwise. Except yesterday morning, when we deliberately left early so Heather could spend time with her sister, going back to pt school. We were stopped near the edge of Tennessee, about 200 yds behind a semi tractor on fire. 1 hr 45 mins of alternating prayer, boredom, and bladder needs. Many emergency vehicles came; we saw only one leave. But -- when we finally passed the blackened carcass, it looked like the kind of thing a driver could see coming and escape. At least we hoped so.
About an hour in yesterday, I realized I'd forgotten to send our worship team liturgy for an agape meal. Nothing to be done at that point, which was good: it meant God had to step in and provide for our quite-capable team. How wonderful to leave liturgy (the work of the people!) in such Capable Hands.
Now, headed toward New Orleans, Denver, and home. Blocked ears, open heart. And a few more emails to clear out of my inbox before I get home.
It was a easy trip, roadwise. Except yesterday morning, when we deliberately left early so Heather could spend time with her sister, going back to pt school. We were stopped near the edge of Tennessee, about 200 yds behind a semi tractor on fire. 1 hr 45 mins of alternating prayer, boredom, and bladder needs. Many emergency vehicles came; we saw only one leave. But -- when we finally passed the blackened carcass, it looked like the kind of thing a driver could see coming and escape. At least we hoped so.
About an hour in yesterday, I realized I'd forgotten to send our worship team liturgy for an agape meal. Nothing to be done at that point, which was good: it meant God had to step in and provide for our quite-capable team. How wonderful to leave liturgy (the work of the people!) in such Capable Hands.
Now, headed toward New Orleans, Denver, and home. Blocked ears, open heart. And a few more emails to clear out of my inbox before I get home.
Sunday, August 03, 2008
There's a there here.
1:15ish: A sign of hope in Tennessee
2:12 p.m., North Carolina welcome center
Austin doesn't know it, but he's nearly home.
2:40 p.m. Asheville, NC, Heather's sister and brother-in-law's house, Austin meeting Tuck.
2:47 p.m. Sisters & lunch: Home.
Pics of Heather are blurry, 'cause the fatigue was falling away and the contentment flowing on.
Narrative tomorrow. It's time to sleep.
2:12 p.m., North Carolina welcome center
Austin doesn't know it, but he's nearly home.
2:40 p.m. Asheville, NC, Heather's sister and brother-in-law's house, Austin meeting Tuck.
2:47 p.m. Sisters & lunch: Home.
Pics of Heather are blurry, 'cause the fatigue was falling away and the contentment flowing on.
Narrative tomorrow. It's time to sleep.
Cookeville, TN
Just off 40 for gas and coffee at 8:22 a.m., an hour and no coffee after setting out. Austin ate both last night and this morning, so he's happy and relaxed. Or, maybe he knows it's the last day on the road, and is just grateful, like his mom.
Over the last few days, I've gone to a double venti nonfat misto.
Over the last few days, I've gone to a double venti nonfat misto.
Saturday, August 02, 2008
MEG in her Natural State (Arkansas)
We stopped for lunch today in North Little Rock, where my wonderful husband's mother, Elaine, lives. 101 degrees, only God knows how much humidity.Austin (see above right -- he's much handsomer in person) didn't even want to walk around the beautiful big park we stopped in.
Elaine (left, obviously) looked cool, as always, and brought a picnic of goodies. (MEG -- I finished all the cookies tonight!)
That plate was made by her eldest when the kids were young. Yes, I saw the one that my wonderful husband made when he was maybe 4. Caterpillaresque.
Tonight we're walking distance from Opryland and the Grand Ole Opry, but are sleeping rather than walking. Tomorrow, God willing, Asheville.
The chains remain the same
7:14 Oklahoma City
The sun rose late today,just a half hour or so ago. Starbucks, 1.2 miles away next to a hwy entrance,opens at 5:30. It looked closed -- no cars. But Heather's half-caf and my double venti nonfat misto were ready lickety-split, one of the advantages of an empty store. This is the second empty Starbucks I've ever seen, the first being yesterday in Tecumcari, NM.
It's 81 degrees. We have the windows open because it's so cool.
No, I have never said or written "lickety-split" before. All kinds of firsts are happening.
The sun rose late today,just a half hour or so ago. Starbucks, 1.2 miles away next to a hwy entrance,opens at 5:30. It looked closed -- no cars. But Heather's half-caf and my double venti nonfat misto were ready lickety-split, one of the advantages of an empty store. This is the second empty Starbucks I've ever seen, the first being yesterday in Tecumcari, NM.
It's 81 degrees. We have the windows open because it's so cool.
No, I have never said or written "lickety-split" before. All kinds of firsts are happening.
Friday, August 01, 2008
Where do terrorists come from?
We're in Oklahoma City tonight, home of the Redhawks, the Will Rogers Park and Horticultural Gardens, and the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum.
It is also the home of the Oklahoma City National Memorial & Museum. Its tagline is "On American Soil". The home page and front history page tell the story of the bombing of the Murrah federal Building here in 1995, killing 168 people. It is a nice website, and I imagine the memorial itself is quite special.
A couple of mouse clicks down through the History menu options you will find one sentence on the bombing itself:
That said: one narrative reference to the terrorist, McVeigh, an Anglo-American. One narrative reference to "domestic terrorism". And 22 to this being a terrorist attack "on American soil". That is, if you missed the reference to McVeigh, and the one to "domestic terrorism", you could easily assume that this was a foreign attack on a national landmark. Even though, of the 335 incidents of terrorist acts in the US logged by the FBI between 1980 and 2000, 250 (75%) were committed by American citizens.
As we crossed the border from Texas to Oklahoma, Heather and I commented that we didn't know much about Oklahoma. Heather knew about Oklahoman Indian branches on her family tree. I knew of the Cheyenne and the Cherokee. We both knew the Rodgers and Hammerstein 1943 musical. And we both remembered the Oklahoma City bombing.
To the dead and the survivors, we remember you.
We remember too that violence and terror live not-so-deeply in our fallen souls.
And we remember that all acts of terror are on domestic soil, all are against our people, for we are all "part of the main", and potential immortal citizens in the Kingdom.
It is also the home of the Oklahoma City National Memorial & Museum. Its tagline is "On American Soil". The home page and front history page tell the story of the bombing of the Murrah federal Building here in 1995, killing 168 people. It is a nice website, and I imagine the memorial itself is quite special.
A couple of mouse clicks down through the History menu options you will find one sentence on the bombing itself:
On the morning of April 19, 1995, Timothy McVeigh parked a rental truck with explosives in front of the complex and, at 9:02am, a massive explosion occurred which sheared the entire north side of the building, killing 168 people.There are 13 more references to McVeigh, most in the first person remembrances, but that's the only "official" mention. There are 30 references to "terrorist" and 62 to "terrorism". The Memorial has become a center for the study of the "impact of violence" the futility of using violence to affect governments, and "the importance of personal responsibility". Fair enough: the mission is broader than the tragedy that inspired it.
That said: one narrative reference to the terrorist, McVeigh, an Anglo-American. One narrative reference to "domestic terrorism". And 22 to this being a terrorist attack "on American soil". That is, if you missed the reference to McVeigh, and the one to "domestic terrorism", you could easily assume that this was a foreign attack on a national landmark. Even though, of the 335 incidents of terrorist acts in the US logged by the FBI between 1980 and 2000, 250 (75%) were committed by American citizens.
As we crossed the border from Texas to Oklahoma, Heather and I commented that we didn't know much about Oklahoma. Heather knew about Oklahoman Indian branches on her family tree. I knew of the Cheyenne and the Cherokee. We both knew the Rodgers and Hammerstein 1943 musical. And we both remembered the Oklahoma City bombing.
To the dead and the survivors, we remember you.
We remember too that violence and terror live not-so-deeply in our fallen souls.
And we remember that all acts of terror are on domestic soil, all are against our people, for we are all "part of the main", and potential immortal citizens in the Kingdom.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
It's why they always paint Him that way
You know all those paintings of Jesus, where the sky is pierced by beams of light which shower down upon him? We saw that yesterday, somewhere between Winslow, AZ and Santa Rosa, NM (which is where we stopped for the night). Not being a photographer, and not having brought a camera, I couldn't get that picture. So these will have to do (taken by my trusty Sanyo Katana DLX):
We had been watching rainclouds developing in the distance for quite some time. As the distance to them got shorter, we were fairly convinced that we were headed into a storm. Instead: a clear double rainbow that we could see from end to end.
Can't you just see the light of glory?
"The rocks and stones themselves would start to sing."
We had been watching rainclouds developing in the distance for quite some time. As the distance to them got shorter, we were fairly convinced that we were headed into a storm. Instead: a clear double rainbow that we could see from end to end.
Maybe 200 drops on the windshield. It was so clear that we watched it move across the landscape -- the individual shrubs and the grass -- as we drew nearer.
Then at once we passed under it, and it was gone.
Then at once we passed under it, and it was gone.
"The rocks and stones themselves would start to sing."
Takin' it easy
"Standin' On The Corner Park", a Route 66 Roadside Attraction.
No idea? It's as in "Well, I've been standin' on a corner in..."
No idea? It's as in "Well, I've been standin' on a corner in..."
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Kingman, AZ 8:11 pm
It's the day's end at the Days Inn. (How many times have they heard that one?) The goal was to get out of California, and 583 miles or so later, here we are.
View Larger Map
Didn't take the route Google suggested, or the one AAA highlighted on the three maps, but we made it. It takes three maps to get out of California, and one to get from Arizona to North Carolina.
Easy drive today, though Austin is completely disoriented. And bored. It's really sad that a 55 lb. red haired sweetie dog is more bored than his graduate-degreed human companions. Of course, we're able to see the blistering expanses of rock, dirt, and cactus, which I suppose makes it more interesting. It was 104 when we stopped for gas ($5.79/gal. in nowhere CA), but only 94 when we stopped again ($3.95/gal. in nowhere AZ).
Passable pizza, tastily overdressed Caesars, and Sierra Nevada in the room, and we're headed to sleep. After I work on the newsletter, of course, with the raison d'trip lying on the floor.
View Larger Map
Didn't take the route Google suggested, or the one AAA highlighted on the three maps, but we made it. It takes three maps to get out of California, and one to get from Arizona to North Carolina.
Easy drive today, though Austin is completely disoriented. And bored. It's really sad that a 55 lb. red haired sweetie dog is more bored than his graduate-degreed human companions. Of course, we're able to see the blistering expanses of rock, dirt, and cactus, which I suppose makes it more interesting. It was 104 when we stopped for gas ($5.79/gal. in nowhere CA), but only 94 when we stopped again ($3.95/gal. in nowhere AZ).
Passable pizza, tastily overdressed Caesars, and Sierra Nevada in the room, and we're headed to sleep. After I work on the newsletter, of course, with the raison d'trip lying on the floor.
970 Hwy 17 SJ2SC
First day of driving Shannon's dog, Austin, to North Carolina, 7:50 a.m.
I'm on an express bus of the local transit authority (VTA). The number's 970, but none of the signs say that. They all say Hwy 17, which is the only through road from San Jose and the rest of the Bay Area to Santa Cruz and the rest of the northern South Bay. (California has another South Bay, but it's in Southern California near Los Angeles and might properly be called the southern South Bay.) Hwy 17 is known for being crowded or closed: it's two lanes each way of winding mountainous road, speed limit 45-55, real speed 15 or 75. What happens is people drive 75, crash, and then everyone else drives 15. And once there's an accident, forward motion ceases. Done. Might as well pull out your nearly pristine copy of War and Peace.
The bus, however, rocks hard. Cupholders. Comfy seats. Luggage racks. Clean. And get this: Wi-fi. Free. So the first leg of the journey -- San Jose to Santa Cruz -- is a breezy hour of blogging and getting work done. The next five days, driving I-40 with Heather and Austin in August. The company will be great; we'll see about the rest. I hear Heather has the ends of the flu. I have an ongoing ear infection and cough. Austin snores. Raise the roof.
But I have mapped all the Starbucks, Peets, and local dives along the I-40. Can you say "road trip?" I can. Happily.
I'm on an express bus of the local transit authority (VTA). The number's 970, but none of the signs say that. They all say Hwy 17, which is the only through road from San Jose and the rest of the Bay Area to Santa Cruz and the rest of the northern South Bay. (California has another South Bay, but it's in Southern California near Los Angeles and might properly be called the southern South Bay.) Hwy 17 is known for being crowded or closed: it's two lanes each way of winding mountainous road, speed limit 45-55, real speed 15 or 75. What happens is people drive 75, crash, and then everyone else drives 15. And once there's an accident, forward motion ceases. Done. Might as well pull out your nearly pristine copy of War and Peace.
The bus, however, rocks hard. Cupholders. Comfy seats. Luggage racks. Clean. And get this: Wi-fi. Free. So the first leg of the journey -- San Jose to Santa Cruz -- is a breezy hour of blogging and getting work done. The next five days, driving I-40 with Heather and Austin in August. The company will be great; we'll see about the rest. I hear Heather has the ends of the flu. I have an ongoing ear infection and cough. Austin snores. Raise the roof.
But I have mapped all the Starbucks, Peets, and local dives along the I-40. Can you say "road trip?" I can. Happily.
Friday, June 20, 2008
The heavens are open
You know how sometimes in the Gospels the heavens open and the glory of God is revealed? After two weeks with Dallas Willard and Keith Matthews, and 20 fellow vineyard-workers, I know what that means. At this moment (and I pray it lasts) I can see the scope and arc of Scripture, the majesty of the kingdom, the interrelation of the law and the logos in Christ, the real meaning of evangelism, and the point and practice of following Jesus.
Wow.
Now how do I live, teach, and share this?
What an incredible blessing -- I am humbled by the Glory and the Presence.
Wow.
Now how do I live, teach, and share this?
What an incredible blessing -- I am humbled by the Glory and the Presence.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Body of Christ
Can't say I've ever craved the Eucharist before, but last night, walking back from Whole Foods to the retreat center where I'm studying "spirituality and ministry" with Dallas Willard, my whole body got hungry for the Eucharist -- not just for the liturgy and body prayer, but for the body and blood itself. I could taste the wine and bread, not in my mouth, but in my soul's memory. So, since none was to be had, I mentally rewrote our liturgy as I walked...which made me late for dinner.
Reminding me of the food that satisfies.
Reminding me of the food that satisfies.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Timing
I don't know how they do it.
My emailboxes are full of promotions from other pastors. Brian's new book and tour. Rob's articles.
My Firefox bookmarks link to regularly updated blogs. Daily, even.
Opportunities for reprioritizing abound: 7 Habits; Make Your Time Top-Heavy' Purpose-Driven.
Me? I'm up at 3:30 a.m. because it's quiet and had to feed the baby anyway. It's been 2 months -- 2 months! -- since I was here in cyberspace. I have exercised maybe 1x/week. Precious little meditation. No more than a book a week (not including those little black-and-white shapebooks that we "read" to our kid).
Talk to me all you want about how a baby turns your life upside down. Talk until you're blue in the face. Others manage it -- manage to do meaningful work, manage to stay in touch with the Big Gal. What gives?
I'd like to think that She's trying to teach me something. But, other than "don't compare yourself to others", I'm at a loss. And honestly, given the Holy Spirit's movement in my communities, and the book bubbling in the back of my mind, Her timing stinks.
If you're a pastor, writer, parent, and faithful contemplative, please email me with how you do it. I'm open to suggestion. And do tell me what has to go to make it happen.
My emailboxes are full of promotions from other pastors. Brian's new book and tour. Rob's articles.
My Firefox bookmarks link to regularly updated blogs. Daily, even.
Opportunities for reprioritizing abound: 7 Habits; Make Your Time Top-Heavy' Purpose-Driven.
Me? I'm up at 3:30 a.m. because it's quiet and had to feed the baby anyway. It's been 2 months -- 2 months! -- since I was here in cyberspace. I have exercised maybe 1x/week. Precious little meditation. No more than a book a week (not including those little black-and-white shapebooks that we "read" to our kid).
Talk to me all you want about how a baby turns your life upside down. Talk until you're blue in the face. Others manage it -- manage to do meaningful work, manage to stay in touch with the Big Gal. What gives?
I'd like to think that She's trying to teach me something. But, other than "don't compare yourself to others", I'm at a loss. And honestly, given the Holy Spirit's movement in my communities, and the book bubbling in the back of my mind, Her timing stinks.
If you're a pastor, writer, parent, and faithful contemplative, please email me with how you do it. I'm open to suggestion. And do tell me what has to go to make it happen.
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Our Christmas gift
Elisabeth Ladoska Scottborn 12.26.07, 4:55 p.m.
7 lbs. 5 oz., 19"
Elisabeth
"Consecrated to God"
Ladoska
My great-grandmother, the Spiritualist minister and theologian
Scott
My husband's family name
Welcome home, long-expected one.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
An advent cleaving
You can tell by the advent candles when our lives cleaved.
It is Christmas morning in our house, as it is in much of the world. Even the Orthodox are celebrating the Feast of the Nativity today. (We rarely align, due to different calendar systems. How unlikely!) After heating yesterday's coffee, setting a fresh pot going, and putting rice on for our diarrheic dog, I turned my attention to our kitchen table, which has been buried under cookies and candy and boxes and tissue and ribbon and communion bread for a long time.
That table was its own record of the season. 16 days ago, we had friends over to bake cookies, drink wine, eat amazing hors d'oeuvres, and generally celebrate friendship. The table never really emerged from that event, as we continued to pack cookie bags and wrap staff and team leader gifts and sort through dog harnesses and xmaswear and take phone notes and make lists.
This morning, I packed the last three cookie gifts, condensed the remainder, put away the boxes and tissue and ribbon, and swept up the crumbs and more sticky reminders. Then, I turned to the table that holds our little stereo, unburied the advent candles, and replaced them on the table.
Two have been burned. Two have not, and the Christ candle looks as virgin as the Holy Mother herself.
Somewhere around December 9, our world cleaved. We got a call from our adoption agency, asking us if we wanted to connect with a certain birthmother, living in Florida, due to give birth on January 3. On December 20, we had spoken with her, flown her to California, and were meeting with her and the agency to work out details. Since then -- five days ago -- we have moved her twice, scoured the area for affordable weekly housing (don't bother -- it's not here), collected gently-loved baby goods from our church family, run countless errands, gone to clinics and Medi-Cal offices. And: planned 4 worship services, written sermons and entire liturgies, led small groups, thrown parties, created graphics, rehearsed, decorated, redecorated, and redux over the last week of the divine waiting. Did I mention prayer? There's been a lot of prayer in there.
Things could still go differently than we imagine. The birthmother could change her mind. The baby could not survive. The birthfather could decide to contest. The last remaining Indian tribe might claim the child, with scarcely a drop of native blood, as its own. There are lots of unknowns in this scenario, including God's will.
Today is Christmas, and a young woman is very far from home, staying at an inn, waiting for the birth of her child. And we, we are exhausted and terrified, and very very hopeful.
Yesterday's doctor said the baby isn't going to wait until January 3.
Improbably, the word "cleave" has two precisely different meanings. To cleave is to "split or divide as if by a cutting blow." It is also "to remain faithful."
You can tell by the advent candles when our lives cleaved. We need to light them all tonight, on this first day of Christmas, to celebrate the arrival of the long-expected babe.
Painting: Nativity, by He Qi (China)
It is Christmas morning in our house, as it is in much of the world. Even the Orthodox are celebrating the Feast of the Nativity today. (We rarely align, due to different calendar systems. How unlikely!) After heating yesterday's coffee, setting a fresh pot going, and putting rice on for our diarrheic dog, I turned my attention to our kitchen table, which has been buried under cookies and candy and boxes and tissue and ribbon and communion bread for a long time.
That table was its own record of the season. 16 days ago, we had friends over to bake cookies, drink wine, eat amazing hors d'oeuvres, and generally celebrate friendship. The table never really emerged from that event, as we continued to pack cookie bags and wrap staff and team leader gifts and sort through dog harnesses and xmaswear and take phone notes and make lists.
This morning, I packed the last three cookie gifts, condensed the remainder, put away the boxes and tissue and ribbon, and swept up the crumbs and more sticky reminders. Then, I turned to the table that holds our little stereo, unburied the advent candles, and replaced them on the table.
Two have been burned. Two have not, and the Christ candle looks as virgin as the Holy Mother herself.
Somewhere around December 9, our world cleaved. We got a call from our adoption agency, asking us if we wanted to connect with a certain birthmother, living in Florida, due to give birth on January 3. On December 20, we had spoken with her, flown her to California, and were meeting with her and the agency to work out details. Since then -- five days ago -- we have moved her twice, scoured the area for affordable weekly housing (don't bother -- it's not here), collected gently-loved baby goods from our church family, run countless errands, gone to clinics and Medi-Cal offices. And: planned 4 worship services, written sermons and entire liturgies, led small groups, thrown parties, created graphics, rehearsed, decorated, redecorated, and redux over the last week of the divine waiting. Did I mention prayer? There's been a lot of prayer in there.
Things could still go differently than we imagine. The birthmother could change her mind. The baby could not survive. The birthfather could decide to contest. The last remaining Indian tribe might claim the child, with scarcely a drop of native blood, as its own. There are lots of unknowns in this scenario, including God's will.
Today is Christmas, and a young woman is very far from home, staying at an inn, waiting for the birth of her child. And we, we are exhausted and terrified, and very very hopeful.
Yesterday's doctor said the baby isn't going to wait until January 3.
Improbably, the word "cleave" has two precisely different meanings. To cleave is to "split or divide as if by a cutting blow." It is also "to remain faithful."
You can tell by the advent candles when our lives cleaved. We need to light them all tonight, on this first day of Christmas, to celebrate the arrival of the long-expected babe.
Painting: Nativity, by He Qi (China)
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Did Jesus have a theology?
This morning at 7 a.m. Bible study (3 parts caffeine, 1 part Scripture), my wonderful husband and I got into a theological discussion about the nature of God, and the bipartite nature of Jesus.
(As background, we had just read Luke 3:21-38, where Luke tells of Jesus' baptism and then gives his lineage. Or not. I noticed for the first time the qualifier in verse 23, where Luke writes "He was the son, so it was thought, of Joseph." Luke is taking pains to contrast God's paternal claim on Jesus at baptism, and the common belief about his "paternal" ancestry through Joseph.)
Wonderful husband gives this idea (my words -- his were better): Jesus in the flesh was the constant creative tension between his humanity and his utter divinity. That is, every moment, every action, was a pushme-pullyou of those competing natures -- utter particularity and utter universality -- shown definitively in his cries on the cross.
That took us on to other things (and discovering that wonderful husband is pretty much a Christian Platonist), which is always fun.
Then, he decided I was becoming an apocalyptic, aiming for/reveling in the ushering-in of God's kingdom, a/k/a the End Times. (Not in the paperback novel sense, for Christ's sake. No leaving the car behind for me!) I told him I'm still all about Process.
So, apparently, I'm a "Process Apocalyptic."
Which, I'm inclined to think, reflects the can't-help-but-live-it theology of my Lord.
(As background, we had just read Luke 3:21-38, where Luke tells of Jesus' baptism and then gives his lineage. Or not. I noticed for the first time the qualifier in verse 23, where Luke writes "He was the son, so it was thought, of Joseph." Luke is taking pains to contrast God's paternal claim on Jesus at baptism, and the common belief about his "paternal" ancestry through Joseph.)
Wonderful husband gives this idea (my words -- his were better): Jesus in the flesh was the constant creative tension between his humanity and his utter divinity. That is, every moment, every action, was a pushme-pullyou of those competing natures -- utter particularity and utter universality -- shown definitively in his cries on the cross.
That took us on to other things (and discovering that wonderful husband is pretty much a Christian Platonist), which is always fun.
Then, he decided I was becoming an apocalyptic, aiming for/reveling in the ushering-in of God's kingdom, a/k/a the End Times. (Not in the paperback novel sense, for Christ's sake. No leaving the car behind for me!) I told him I'm still all about Process.
So, apparently, I'm a "Process Apocalyptic."
Which, I'm inclined to think, reflects the can't-help-but-live-it theology of my Lord.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
