Recently, a friend posted a video clip to her facebook page. This clip is a compilation of tweets posted on twitter, arranged music video style, and uploaded to youtube depicting "death threats" against Wisconsin governor Scott Walker. The "story" is reported by FoxNews. A few blogs, like this one, have picked it up, criticizing democrats, the "Far Left Loons," union activists, and most especially the mainline, liberal media for failing to report on this "story."
The criticisms are about what one would expect from these sources: "liberals are mindless idiots", "democrats are ruining the country", "the liberal media once again plays favorites, demonizing Sarah Palin and the Tea Party while ignoring vitriolic hate speech and calls to violence of the left by failing to report on this 'story'."
Let me be clear on a few points:
1. I'm a registered Democrat
2. I'm really far to the left
3. I find calls to violence offensive regardless of who's calling
However, I find the notion that a few tweets by a couple of people is somehow newsworthy because it uses violent rhetoric ridiculous. And I find it grossly offensive that this "story" is being contrasted to the comments made by the liberal media in the aftermath of the Gabrielle Giffords assassination attempt; comments that, while calling out Sarah Palin and the Tea Party specifically, also chastised those on the left for their use of violent rhetoric in the past, repudiated their own past use of violent rhetoric, and called for increased civility in public discourse.
Here's why I find this "story" offensive:
Having watched the video, and looked at the twitter accounts of every individual who has a tweet represented, we have a total of 13 tweets represents 12 individual accounts with a grand total of 1,347 followers, and only one twitter user makes any mention in their biographical information that might indicate a political affiliation, and it's "progressive."
6 of these tweets actually call for violence.
4 of these tweets wish Scott Walker would die.
3 of these tweets draw the conclusion that someone is likely take violent action against Scott Walker for his policies.
This is contrasted with Sarah Palin's twitter account which has 421,622 followers. Sarah Palin and the Tea Party are household names. They are well known political activists who spend billions of dollars on political ads to put their names on television. They go on talk shows, news shows, participate in televised debates, and have historically made significant calls for violence in what they deemed colorful speech that no one could be expected to take seriously.
Do I believe that the hateful rhetoric of the right has contributed to a climate of hate? Yes. As has the hateful rhetoric of the left. Anytime we use hate speech we contribute to a climate of violence regardless of where we fall on the political spectrum--assuming we count ourselves on that spectrum at all.
Do I believe Sarah Palin and the Tea Party are responsible for the violent actions of others? No. We each make our own choices. We are influenced, certainly, by any number of factors. Ultimately, however, we choose how we act and react.
Do I believe that a few tweets by a dozen people who are followed by 0.00000449% of the US population is newsworthy? Definitely not.
Because, you know, if that were the case, then my local news channel failing to report on the amazing recipes I perfect and share with all of you is a gross oversight of liberal media. When's FoxNews going to knock on my door?
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
And Then, I Turned the Other Cheek
This past Sunday, our pastor preached on Matthew 5:38-48.
He spoke specifically about the 1st century culture of "turning the other cheek," "giving both your cloak and your tunic," and "walking another mile." It really was an excellent sermon, and I quite enjoyed it. As Ministry Intern at the church, I was asked to assist in the demonstrative portion of the sermon.
The demonstration came when the pastor explained how one would strike an equal, with an open hand or fist, to the left cheek with the intent to cause physical harm. If one was striking a subordinate, one would strike with the back of the hand, connecting with the right cheek instead, with the intent to "put one in his/her place." As the pastor explained it, "turning the other cheek," would, culturally, draw attention the evil of the superiors actions, equating their use of physical violence as a means of social control with the use of physical violence as a means of injury.
Now, when the pastor asked me before the service if I would be willing to assist in the sermon, I was more than willing. It was not until after I had consented, that he told me what he intended. I began to have reservations.
My concerns were not that my pastor would actually strike me. He is, perhaps, the gentlest man I know. He's kind and considerate, and incredibly jocular. I truly enjoy talking with him, working with him, learning from him.
Assisting in the worship service, participating in the worship service, being in the worship service prior to the sermon, however, I was distracted. I wondered about the theological implications of my pastor slapping and backhanding me, even if he stopped short of actually striking me. I wondered what the effect of witnessing such a demonstration might have on 1) those in the audience who had experienced domestic violence and 2) children in the audience who were going to see their pastor "strike" me.
I was actually quite troubled by the whole notion. By time the sermon came, and I stood before my congregation, I was really uncomfortable. My discomfort grew as the pastor spoke about the cultural significance as it related to male/female and superior/subordinate relationships. Here I was, a female intern, being "struck" by her male supervisor. Though my pastor's hand never made contact with my face, it was difficult. At one point, I remember thinking to myself, "Just keep it together. It'll be over soon."
Now, the whole "keeping it together" is a thought I have every time I'm called up in front of the church by my pastor. He likes to give them updates on my ordination journey--reintroducing me to the church when I applied for In Care status, telling them I'd be received by the deacons and would be applying next to the Association, that I was accepted by the Association and was now a "Member in Discernment" since they had changed the language two months ago.... All things better said in a newsletter, or better yet, the Annual Report, which hardly anyone, it seems bothers to read. I'm just not comfortable standing in front of a crowd while someone else talks about me. I feel like a stage prop. It's weird. But, I digress.
This time, however, I was trying to "keep it together" for other reasons. I thought about my mother. I thought about my sister. I thought about both of my brothers. All of whom have been victims of domestic violence or child abuse. I wasn't frightened or upset. I was mindful of the reality of my family of origin, and what it means to me, personally, to willingly participate in a demonstration of the abuses of power.
Now, certainly, this was a demonstration that spoke against the abuses of power. But it was an extremely uncomfortable demonstration for me, nonetheless.
As I returned to my seat, I wondered about a lot of things--were their people in the congregation, other than my family, who had been subjected to or perpetrators of domestic violence? How were they coping with the sermon demonstration? Did it register for them at all, or were they so divorced from their experience, as is common with trauma survivors, that they were wholly unaffected by what was unfolding before them on stage? What was my role in all of this? Do I, as an intern, have a right or a responsibility to share with my supervisor the realities of PTSD and the potential for such a demonstration to elicit a trauma response in those watching, even if they knew no violence was actually being perpetrated?
And how could this have been done differently? What would it have been like if my pastor had asked me, a female subordinate, to demonstrate on him, a male superior, the differences in between the two methods of striking? What were the theological implications of turning things upside down in that way? Or if the pastor had asked a male deacon to assist? How would that have been read, socially and theologically? And, hey, what about male-on-male violence in the U.S.?
I understand what my pastor's intent was, but somehow, I think it would have been better, much better, to use really descriptive language, to paint a mental picture, rather than use a live prop. Maybe we need to get the church to invest in a couple of mannequins.
At the end of it all, with the exception of really itchy skin, I walked away unscathed. But with much to ponder.
He spoke specifically about the 1st century culture of "turning the other cheek," "giving both your cloak and your tunic," and "walking another mile." It really was an excellent sermon, and I quite enjoyed it. As Ministry Intern at the church, I was asked to assist in the demonstrative portion of the sermon.
The demonstration came when the pastor explained how one would strike an equal, with an open hand or fist, to the left cheek with the intent to cause physical harm. If one was striking a subordinate, one would strike with the back of the hand, connecting with the right cheek instead, with the intent to "put one in his/her place." As the pastor explained it, "turning the other cheek," would, culturally, draw attention the evil of the superiors actions, equating their use of physical violence as a means of social control with the use of physical violence as a means of injury.
Now, when the pastor asked me before the service if I would be willing to assist in the sermon, I was more than willing. It was not until after I had consented, that he told me what he intended. I began to have reservations.
My concerns were not that my pastor would actually strike me. He is, perhaps, the gentlest man I know. He's kind and considerate, and incredibly jocular. I truly enjoy talking with him, working with him, learning from him.
Assisting in the worship service, participating in the worship service, being in the worship service prior to the sermon, however, I was distracted. I wondered about the theological implications of my pastor slapping and backhanding me, even if he stopped short of actually striking me. I wondered what the effect of witnessing such a demonstration might have on 1) those in the audience who had experienced domestic violence and 2) children in the audience who were going to see their pastor "strike" me.
I was actually quite troubled by the whole notion. By time the sermon came, and I stood before my congregation, I was really uncomfortable. My discomfort grew as the pastor spoke about the cultural significance as it related to male/female and superior/subordinate relationships. Here I was, a female intern, being "struck" by her male supervisor. Though my pastor's hand never made contact with my face, it was difficult. At one point, I remember thinking to myself, "Just keep it together. It'll be over soon."
Now, the whole "keeping it together" is a thought I have every time I'm called up in front of the church by my pastor. He likes to give them updates on my ordination journey--reintroducing me to the church when I applied for In Care status, telling them I'd be received by the deacons and would be applying next to the Association, that I was accepted by the Association and was now a "Member in Discernment" since they had changed the language two months ago.... All things better said in a newsletter, or better yet, the Annual Report, which hardly anyone, it seems bothers to read. I'm just not comfortable standing in front of a crowd while someone else talks about me. I feel like a stage prop. It's weird. But, I digress.
This time, however, I was trying to "keep it together" for other reasons. I thought about my mother. I thought about my sister. I thought about both of my brothers. All of whom have been victims of domestic violence or child abuse. I wasn't frightened or upset. I was mindful of the reality of my family of origin, and what it means to me, personally, to willingly participate in a demonstration of the abuses of power.
Now, certainly, this was a demonstration that spoke against the abuses of power. But it was an extremely uncomfortable demonstration for me, nonetheless.
As I returned to my seat, I wondered about a lot of things--were their people in the congregation, other than my family, who had been subjected to or perpetrators of domestic violence? How were they coping with the sermon demonstration? Did it register for them at all, or were they so divorced from their experience, as is common with trauma survivors, that they were wholly unaffected by what was unfolding before them on stage? What was my role in all of this? Do I, as an intern, have a right or a responsibility to share with my supervisor the realities of PTSD and the potential for such a demonstration to elicit a trauma response in those watching, even if they knew no violence was actually being perpetrated?
And how could this have been done differently? What would it have been like if my pastor had asked me, a female subordinate, to demonstrate on him, a male superior, the differences in between the two methods of striking? What were the theological implications of turning things upside down in that way? Or if the pastor had asked a male deacon to assist? How would that have been read, socially and theologically? And, hey, what about male-on-male violence in the U.S.?
I understand what my pastor's intent was, but somehow, I think it would have been better, much better, to use really descriptive language, to paint a mental picture, rather than use a live prop. Maybe we need to get the church to invest in a couple of mannequins.
At the end of it all, with the exception of really itchy skin, I walked away unscathed. But with much to ponder.
Saturday, February 12, 2011
Mental Illness and Bible Formation
During my time in seminary, I was asked by an instructor what kind of a visual I might produce to explain the formation of the bible. This is the kind of question that gets me totally stoked in the course of a discussion. Primarily because I tend to think in analogies. So, this was right up my alley. The images that struck me was a cosmic ransom note.
Now, I know a lot of people who hold to the notion of verbal plenary inspiration. I wonder if they've ever read The Epic of Gilgamesh, the Code of Ur-Nammu, the Annals of Merneptah, or any number of other historical texts that predate not just the old testament, but the Torah as well by over 1000 years.
So, here we have a new text (the bible) that is made up of bits and pieces of multiple older texts (all the parallel stories that predate the bible). It's like God (if one believes that God is the author of the bible) or the authors of the bible cut out bits and pieces, single words or sometimes just a letter from any number of newspapers or magazine articles and created a new document. Getting the visual, oh kind reader?
That was the image I had during my first semester in seminary.
I found a new image during my last semester.
I have two marvelous friends who both love games. Board games, card games, checkers, chess... The more people playing, the more fun they have. These are the friends who introduced me to Bananagrams. I was already familiar with the concept from Speed Scrabble. The competitive nature of these games, paired with my, at times frustratingly, large vocabulary made them games to which I naturally gravitated.
However, on the non-competitive side of things, and just ridiculously good fun when you have a large gathering, is Telephone Pictionary. This might be the most hilarious game I've ever played, and one that can be enjoyed in my family, because there are no winners or losers. Just really, really ridiculous fun. Additionally, learning Telephone Pictionary gave me a new mental image for the formation of the bible.
In Telephone Pictionary, everyone gets a piece of paper and a writing utensil. Each person writes a sentence on the top of his/her paper. Then, everyone passes the paper to the person on their left (if play is going counter-clockwise) or their right (if play is going clockwise). It is best to alternate from one game to the next which direction you are passing so as not to always end up having to interpret the sentence of the person to one side or the other.
After passing the paper, everyone draws a picture interpreting the sentence. Then, they fold the paper back so that the sentence is hidden and pass the paper, showing only the picture, to the next person. Now, everyone writes a sentence interpreting the picture that has been passed to them. Play continues in this way, with everyone receiving only a picture or a sentence to interpret through a sentence or a drawing, until each paper is once again in the hands of the originator.
This game is hilarious! Seriously. It does, however, require a minimum of 5 people to be truly effective.
Generally, by the time the originator gets his/her own paper back, the interpretation of the original sentence has become so convoluted, no one really knows how the original sentence read. Unfolding the paper and discovering how each step newly interpreted the previous step, and how each step was one step further removed from the original author's intent is really, really delightful.
Telephone Pictionary is the framework I use for thinking about the formation of the Bible. The original author(s) wrote something. It had a particular meaning in a particular culture. The meaning was pictured in the minds of the original readers in a way that might have been pretty accurate to the authors' intent. Over time, as the stories have been told, new layers of meaning have been applied. Over time, as the stories have been told, in new places, in new cultures, in new languages, those stories have been removed step by step from the original meaning of the text.
Ultimately, I think we might have a document that does not much resemble or effectively communicate the intent of the original authors. This isn't to say that the Bible is of no use to us today. The whole point of interpreting the Bible is discerning what these stories mean for us today. How do we, as a community in a new culture, speaking an entirely different language, make meaning from a text that is so far removed from its origins? That is, maybe, the best part of writing sermons.
I have some access through other sources to a cursory understanding of the cultures in which these texts were written. Sometimes, in the course of daily reading or intentional research, I'll come across a single sentence that illuminates a small aspect of 1st century Palestine, and it'll deepen, enrich, and transform my understanding of a given biblical pericope, making it alive and applicable in ways that light my faith on fire. It's fantastic!
But images of biblical formation aren't the point of this post. Which might seem ridiculous given the amount of space I've used to describe those images.
Nope, the point of this post is to process some of what I'm feeling about living with someone who is mentally ill.
I live with someone who does not communicate effectively. I do not know how much of this is a result of the mental illness and how much of it is a learned trait. In terms of communication, the individual in question is engaging in behaviors that mimic those which were modeled for him in childhood by his father, but with distinct differences.
Both the father and the son, at times, speak in riddles. Puzzles. Code, if you will, to which they alone (most of the time) have the key, and which they believe they alone (all of the time) can decipher. In the case of the father, there is a distinct attitude of intellectual superiority. It is an attitude that communicates a desire to frustrate and confuse others. For example, a note might be left on the refrigerator attached to a $5.00 bill. The note, however, will be written using only the first letter of each word.
For example:
DD,
PBOLOSGB.
T,
D
For those of you who don't read this type of code, it translates:
Dear Daughter,
Please buy one loaf of seven grain bread.
Thanks,
Dad
Any guesses out there as to what happens when the daughter to whom the note was addressed actually takes the $5.00 and returns home with a loaf of seven grain bread?
The father in question gets a look of disappointment that his note was understood and the request granted, and he then pouts for the rest of the evening.
It's a bit different in regards to the son. In the case of the individual with whom I live, there is no indication that the purpose of speaking in code is done to frustrate others. In fact, the person who gets most frustrated tends to be the individual himself. It's like he's speaking in a different language.
He makes statements or asks questions that do not provide enough information. When asked for clarifications, or when a person repeats what they understand him to be communicating and asks if they have it right, he insists that they are making it more difficult than necessary. He insists that he asked a simple question or made a simple statement. Except his understanding of "simple" often does not take into account culturally relevant understandings.
For example:
Today, he said, "I'm going for a four mile walk around [town]. Who wants to go with me?"
Now, the cultural understanding of "around [town]" is "from place to place in"; i.e. a four-mile walk around town would be a four mile walk from place to place in town.
This is where the confusion came in for me: the town in which we live has a 1/2 mile circumference. I wish I were kidding.
In trying to get a clear picture of where he would be walking, so as to be better prepared to decide whether or not to join him, I responded, "You're going to walk around town eight times?"
Him: "No. I'm going for a four mile walk around [town]."
Me: "Okay, but its only a half mile walk around [town], so, how..." interrupted by...
Him, yelling: "You're not listening to me! I said I'm going to walk around [town]!"
Me: "Okay, but..." interrupted by...
Him, yelling: "Look, as far as I know, if I take the blacktop, to the highway, turn right, walk up to the next gravel road, turn right, walk to the intersection of the next gravel road, turn right, walk to the next intersection, I'll be back to the blacktop, at which point, I'll turn right, and when I get home, I'll have walked 1 mile in each direction, and have walked four miles around town!"
Me: "Oh. So, you're going for a walk in the country..." interrupted by...
Him, yelling: "Just forget it! You never listen to me!"
I sometimes feel like I've been hijacked to crazy land, handed a ransom note, and the only way out is to interpret the note without any kind of a key. It's like trying to divine the intent of the original biblical authors without knowing biblical Hebrew, Greek, or Aramaic, and without any training whatsoever in ancient cultures. Sometimes, it just can't be done.
Not without a lot of yelling.
And see, that's the part that leaves me needing to blog about my frustrations. Not the fact that I've been hijacked to crazy land and constantly have to expend significant amounts of mental and emotional energy to understand anything this person says. It's the fact that because of his mental illness, he's volatile and unpredictable, with a history of violence.
Now, he hasn't demonstrated a tendency toward physical violence since he got clean and sober. So, I don't have any concerns for my physical safety. I just sometimes wish I could finish a sentence, to ensure that I understand what he's trying communicate without being interrupted and yelled at. Or, alternately, that he just wouldn't talk to me at all. Because, honestly, it's exhausting. And some days, I just do not have the energy.
Of course, I've told him this. Nothing changes. My only option, some days, is to stop what I'm doing and physically remove myself from an area. This is particularly frustrating if I'm trying to get work done on the computer or in the kitchen. Sometimes, I just can't stop working on a sermon--because I'm under a deadline. Sometimes, I just can't walk away from the kitchen--because if I leave a dish unattended it'll burn, and if I stop the process with the intent to return later, it'll be ruined. Something are just time-sensitive. And sometimes, I'm just tired.
And those seem to be the times when he comes in, most anxious, most unwilling to take "no" for answer, most unwilling to respect boundaries. Those are the times when I cannot give 100% of my attention and energy to figuring out what he's saying without asking any kind of clarifying questions. Those are the times when I need to remind myself that no matter how tempting the activity he's proffering might seem, "No," is always the best, most appropriate response. Because if I can't figure out immediately what he's talking about, asking questions might clarify things, but I'm going to get yelled at in the process.
Biblical interpretation and Telephone Pictionary are way more fun.
Now, I know a lot of people who hold to the notion of verbal plenary inspiration. I wonder if they've ever read The Epic of Gilgamesh, the Code of Ur-Nammu, the Annals of Merneptah, or any number of other historical texts that predate not just the old testament, but the Torah as well by over 1000 years.
So, here we have a new text (the bible) that is made up of bits and pieces of multiple older texts (all the parallel stories that predate the bible). It's like God (if one believes that God is the author of the bible) or the authors of the bible cut out bits and pieces, single words or sometimes just a letter from any number of newspapers or magazine articles and created a new document. Getting the visual, oh kind reader?
That was the image I had during my first semester in seminary.
I found a new image during my last semester.
I have two marvelous friends who both love games. Board games, card games, checkers, chess... The more people playing, the more fun they have. These are the friends who introduced me to Bananagrams. I was already familiar with the concept from Speed Scrabble. The competitive nature of these games, paired with my, at times frustratingly, large vocabulary made them games to which I naturally gravitated.
However, on the non-competitive side of things, and just ridiculously good fun when you have a large gathering, is Telephone Pictionary. This might be the most hilarious game I've ever played, and one that can be enjoyed in my family, because there are no winners or losers. Just really, really ridiculous fun. Additionally, learning Telephone Pictionary gave me a new mental image for the formation of the bible.
In Telephone Pictionary, everyone gets a piece of paper and a writing utensil. Each person writes a sentence on the top of his/her paper. Then, everyone passes the paper to the person on their left (if play is going counter-clockwise) or their right (if play is going clockwise). It is best to alternate from one game to the next which direction you are passing so as not to always end up having to interpret the sentence of the person to one side or the other.
After passing the paper, everyone draws a picture interpreting the sentence. Then, they fold the paper back so that the sentence is hidden and pass the paper, showing only the picture, to the next person. Now, everyone writes a sentence interpreting the picture that has been passed to them. Play continues in this way, with everyone receiving only a picture or a sentence to interpret through a sentence or a drawing, until each paper is once again in the hands of the originator.
This game is hilarious! Seriously. It does, however, require a minimum of 5 people to be truly effective.
Generally, by the time the originator gets his/her own paper back, the interpretation of the original sentence has become so convoluted, no one really knows how the original sentence read. Unfolding the paper and discovering how each step newly interpreted the previous step, and how each step was one step further removed from the original author's intent is really, really delightful.
Telephone Pictionary is the framework I use for thinking about the formation of the Bible. The original author(s) wrote something. It had a particular meaning in a particular culture. The meaning was pictured in the minds of the original readers in a way that might have been pretty accurate to the authors' intent. Over time, as the stories have been told, new layers of meaning have been applied. Over time, as the stories have been told, in new places, in new cultures, in new languages, those stories have been removed step by step from the original meaning of the text.
Ultimately, I think we might have a document that does not much resemble or effectively communicate the intent of the original authors. This isn't to say that the Bible is of no use to us today. The whole point of interpreting the Bible is discerning what these stories mean for us today. How do we, as a community in a new culture, speaking an entirely different language, make meaning from a text that is so far removed from its origins? That is, maybe, the best part of writing sermons.
I have some access through other sources to a cursory understanding of the cultures in which these texts were written. Sometimes, in the course of daily reading or intentional research, I'll come across a single sentence that illuminates a small aspect of 1st century Palestine, and it'll deepen, enrich, and transform my understanding of a given biblical pericope, making it alive and applicable in ways that light my faith on fire. It's fantastic!
But images of biblical formation aren't the point of this post. Which might seem ridiculous given the amount of space I've used to describe those images.
Nope, the point of this post is to process some of what I'm feeling about living with someone who is mentally ill.
I live with someone who does not communicate effectively. I do not know how much of this is a result of the mental illness and how much of it is a learned trait. In terms of communication, the individual in question is engaging in behaviors that mimic those which were modeled for him in childhood by his father, but with distinct differences.
Both the father and the son, at times, speak in riddles. Puzzles. Code, if you will, to which they alone (most of the time) have the key, and which they believe they alone (all of the time) can decipher. In the case of the father, there is a distinct attitude of intellectual superiority. It is an attitude that communicates a desire to frustrate and confuse others. For example, a note might be left on the refrigerator attached to a $5.00 bill. The note, however, will be written using only the first letter of each word.
For example:
DD,
PBOLOSGB.
T,
D
For those of you who don't read this type of code, it translates:
Dear Daughter,
Please buy one loaf of seven grain bread.
Thanks,
Dad
Any guesses out there as to what happens when the daughter to whom the note was addressed actually takes the $5.00 and returns home with a loaf of seven grain bread?
The father in question gets a look of disappointment that his note was understood and the request granted, and he then pouts for the rest of the evening.
It's a bit different in regards to the son. In the case of the individual with whom I live, there is no indication that the purpose of speaking in code is done to frustrate others. In fact, the person who gets most frustrated tends to be the individual himself. It's like he's speaking in a different language.
He makes statements or asks questions that do not provide enough information. When asked for clarifications, or when a person repeats what they understand him to be communicating and asks if they have it right, he insists that they are making it more difficult than necessary. He insists that he asked a simple question or made a simple statement. Except his understanding of "simple" often does not take into account culturally relevant understandings.
For example:
Today, he said, "I'm going for a four mile walk around [town]. Who wants to go with me?"
Now, the cultural understanding of "around [town]" is "from place to place in"; i.e. a four-mile walk around town would be a four mile walk from place to place in town.
This is where the confusion came in for me: the town in which we live has a 1/2 mile circumference. I wish I were kidding.
In trying to get a clear picture of where he would be walking, so as to be better prepared to decide whether or not to join him, I responded, "You're going to walk around town eight times?"
Him: "No. I'm going for a four mile walk around [town]."
Me: "Okay, but its only a half mile walk around [town], so, how..." interrupted by...
Him, yelling: "You're not listening to me! I said I'm going to walk around [town]!"
Me: "Okay, but..." interrupted by...
Him, yelling: "Look, as far as I know, if I take the blacktop, to the highway, turn right, walk up to the next gravel road, turn right, walk to the intersection of the next gravel road, turn right, walk to the next intersection, I'll be back to the blacktop, at which point, I'll turn right, and when I get home, I'll have walked 1 mile in each direction, and have walked four miles around town!"
Me: "Oh. So, you're going for a walk in the country..." interrupted by...
Him, yelling: "Just forget it! You never listen to me!"
I sometimes feel like I've been hijacked to crazy land, handed a ransom note, and the only way out is to interpret the note without any kind of a key. It's like trying to divine the intent of the original biblical authors without knowing biblical Hebrew, Greek, or Aramaic, and without any training whatsoever in ancient cultures. Sometimes, it just can't be done.
Not without a lot of yelling.
And see, that's the part that leaves me needing to blog about my frustrations. Not the fact that I've been hijacked to crazy land and constantly have to expend significant amounts of mental and emotional energy to understand anything this person says. It's the fact that because of his mental illness, he's volatile and unpredictable, with a history of violence.
Now, he hasn't demonstrated a tendency toward physical violence since he got clean and sober. So, I don't have any concerns for my physical safety. I just sometimes wish I could finish a sentence, to ensure that I understand what he's trying communicate without being interrupted and yelled at. Or, alternately, that he just wouldn't talk to me at all. Because, honestly, it's exhausting. And some days, I just do not have the energy.
Of course, I've told him this. Nothing changes. My only option, some days, is to stop what I'm doing and physically remove myself from an area. This is particularly frustrating if I'm trying to get work done on the computer or in the kitchen. Sometimes, I just can't stop working on a sermon--because I'm under a deadline. Sometimes, I just can't walk away from the kitchen--because if I leave a dish unattended it'll burn, and if I stop the process with the intent to return later, it'll be ruined. Something are just time-sensitive. And sometimes, I'm just tired.
And those seem to be the times when he comes in, most anxious, most unwilling to take "no" for answer, most unwilling to respect boundaries. Those are the times when I cannot give 100% of my attention and energy to figuring out what he's saying without asking any kind of clarifying questions. Those are the times when I need to remind myself that no matter how tempting the activity he's proffering might seem, "No," is always the best, most appropriate response. Because if I can't figure out immediately what he's talking about, asking questions might clarify things, but I'm going to get yelled at in the process.
Biblical interpretation and Telephone Pictionary are way more fun.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
On Being Salty
Isaiah 58:1-12
1 Corinthians 2:1-16
Matthew 5:13-20
*****
Salt, in small quantities, is necessary for all animal life. It regulates the balance of fluid in the body. Without salt in our diets, our cells would become flooded, diluting our electrolytes and slowing our neural transmissions. It all goes down hill from there, and it ends in death. Salt is necessary for life.
Salt is also an excellent method of food preservation, and was the primary way in which meats were kept prior to the invention of refrigerators and freezers. Salt has been produced as a good for over 8000 years. Archaeologists believe salt was being harvested from springs as far back as 6050 BCE.
Production of salt continues today. And in epic proportions. In 2002, world wide salt production tipped the scales at 210 million tons. That's 420 billion pounds of salt--or roughly 70 pounds of salt per person in the world.
Of course, we don't eat all of that salt. 82.5% of all salt produced today is used for purposes other than food: salt is used in pulp and paper production, setting dyes in textiles and fabrics, making soap, detergents, and cosmetics, and, of course, salt is used for melting snow and ice in the winter.
Salt is used in various religions for ritual purification, blessing, and preservation of the covenant in Judaism. It is the most oft mentioned food in the Bible, appearing 40 times in the King James Version.
Culinarily speaking, salt is used as a seasoning. It makes food taste better. It makes food taste more like itself. I remember, as a child, watching my grandfather sprinkle salt on watermelon and cantaloupe because it brought out and intensified the flavor of the fruit.
Salt is also one of the only four "tastes" for which the human tongue has receptors. And while there are many things that taste sweet, sour, or bitter (as experienced by the other three types of taste receptors), only salt tastes salty. Salt also interferes with the receptors in the tongue for bitterness. Find coffee too bitter? Not a fan of grapefruit because of the bitter overtones? Try a sprinkle of salt. It cuts the bitterness and allows other flavors to come to the fore.
And pair salt with something sweet? It's a winning combination every time.
In the gospel reading for today, Jesus tells us that we are the salt of the earth. Considering everything that salt does, this is significant. And in the save breath, Jesus warns us against salt losing its flavor. When salt is no longer salty, it is "no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot."
It's not enough to look like salt. TO actually be of any value, it has to taste salty--and only salt tastes salty.
Jesus is known for speaking in parables and riddles throughout the gospels. I think this is one of those times when he's using metaphor to make a point. After all, none of us is made entirely of salt. And the only person in the Bible to be turned entirely into salt--Lot's wife--ended up that way because she disobeyed God.
I think what it means to be the salt of the earth and how salt can lose its saltiness is founder later in our gospel reading, and earlier in Isaiah.
Jesus tells us that "unless [our] righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, [we] will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven."
The Pharisees in 1st century Israel were the authorized teachers of the Law. They had succeeded the priests who had become ineffective. The Pharisees saturated every aspect of life--influencing the Sanhedrin (which was kind of like the U.S. Supreme Court), holding power in the synagogues (places of worship), and in the schools.
Though the Pharisees were lay officials, they were experts in the Law who acted as power brokers between the aristocracy and the masses. The Pharisees were focused primarily on ritual purity.
The scribes were an elite class of individuals from many corners of Jewish life. So named because they were among the few who were literate in the 1st century, the scribes were teachers of the Law. They also interpreted the Law in new circumstances, and served as lawyers, theologians, guardians of tradition, and curators of the text.
The scribes and the Pharisees were the keepers of Old Testament traditions. They held to the peoples' fast described in Isaiah--seeking God and claiming to delight in God's ways, while forsaking God's ordinances; they fasted but did not see; they fasted "only to quarrel and to fight and to strike with a wicked fist." They served their own interests and oppressed all their workers.
Being salt of the earth, a salt which is salty, means holding to the heart of the Law, rather than the letter of the Law. It means choosing the fast that God chooses: loosing the bonds of injustice, undoing the thongs of the yoke, letting the oppressed go free, and breaking every yoke.
Being the salt of the earth means sharing your bread with the hungry, bringing the homeless poor into your home, and clothing the naked.
I also believe, though, that being the salt of the earth means choosing to act in ways similar to the rock salt.
We should bring flavor to life! We should make life taste better. We should melt the cold around us, bringing warmth and safety everywhere we go. And we should deter bitterness, making things sweeter wherever we find ourselves.
Paul writes a bit about this in 1 Corinthians--how we are to bring the light of Christ into the word--"not with lofty words or wisdom...but with a demonstration of the Spirit and of power."
I think he actually says it better, though, in Colossians:
"Pray that I may proclaim it clearly, as I should. Be wise in the way that you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. Let your conversations be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone."
"Let your conversations be always full of grace, seasoned with salt...."
Seasoning our words with grace is one way we can be salt and light to the world everyday.
When we choose to be salt and light--removing the yoke, the pointing finger, the speaking of evil; offering food to the hungry and satisfying the needs of the afflicted, seasoning our conversations with grace--the Lord promises to guide us continually, to satisfy our needs, and make our bones strong. we will be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail.
Today, may you be salt and light to all your encounter, and may God meet your needs as you meet the needs of others.
*****
Just for fun, as a practical application for being "salt of the earth," during the children's sermon, I had the kids hand out the salt caramels I'd spent the last two days making. SO! MUCH! FUN!
1 Corinthians 2:1-16
Matthew 5:13-20
*****
Salt, in small quantities, is necessary for all animal life. It regulates the balance of fluid in the body. Without salt in our diets, our cells would become flooded, diluting our electrolytes and slowing our neural transmissions. It all goes down hill from there, and it ends in death. Salt is necessary for life.
Salt is also an excellent method of food preservation, and was the primary way in which meats were kept prior to the invention of refrigerators and freezers. Salt has been produced as a good for over 8000 years. Archaeologists believe salt was being harvested from springs as far back as 6050 BCE.
Production of salt continues today. And in epic proportions. In 2002, world wide salt production tipped the scales at 210 million tons. That's 420 billion pounds of salt--or roughly 70 pounds of salt per person in the world.
Of course, we don't eat all of that salt. 82.5% of all salt produced today is used for purposes other than food: salt is used in pulp and paper production, setting dyes in textiles and fabrics, making soap, detergents, and cosmetics, and, of course, salt is used for melting snow and ice in the winter.
Salt is used in various religions for ritual purification, blessing, and preservation of the covenant in Judaism. It is the most oft mentioned food in the Bible, appearing 40 times in the King James Version.
Culinarily speaking, salt is used as a seasoning. It makes food taste better. It makes food taste more like itself. I remember, as a child, watching my grandfather sprinkle salt on watermelon and cantaloupe because it brought out and intensified the flavor of the fruit.
Salt is also one of the only four "tastes" for which the human tongue has receptors. And while there are many things that taste sweet, sour, or bitter (as experienced by the other three types of taste receptors), only salt tastes salty. Salt also interferes with the receptors in the tongue for bitterness. Find coffee too bitter? Not a fan of grapefruit because of the bitter overtones? Try a sprinkle of salt. It cuts the bitterness and allows other flavors to come to the fore.
And pair salt with something sweet? It's a winning combination every time.
In the gospel reading for today, Jesus tells us that we are the salt of the earth. Considering everything that salt does, this is significant. And in the save breath, Jesus warns us against salt losing its flavor. When salt is no longer salty, it is "no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot."
It's not enough to look like salt. TO actually be of any value, it has to taste salty--and only salt tastes salty.
Jesus is known for speaking in parables and riddles throughout the gospels. I think this is one of those times when he's using metaphor to make a point. After all, none of us is made entirely of salt. And the only person in the Bible to be turned entirely into salt--Lot's wife--ended up that way because she disobeyed God.
I think what it means to be the salt of the earth and how salt can lose its saltiness is founder later in our gospel reading, and earlier in Isaiah.
Jesus tells us that "unless [our] righteousness exceeds that of the scribes and Pharisees, [we] will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven."
The Pharisees in 1st century Israel were the authorized teachers of the Law. They had succeeded the priests who had become ineffective. The Pharisees saturated every aspect of life--influencing the Sanhedrin (which was kind of like the U.S. Supreme Court), holding power in the synagogues (places of worship), and in the schools.
Though the Pharisees were lay officials, they were experts in the Law who acted as power brokers between the aristocracy and the masses. The Pharisees were focused primarily on ritual purity.
The scribes were an elite class of individuals from many corners of Jewish life. So named because they were among the few who were literate in the 1st century, the scribes were teachers of the Law. They also interpreted the Law in new circumstances, and served as lawyers, theologians, guardians of tradition, and curators of the text.
The scribes and the Pharisees were the keepers of Old Testament traditions. They held to the peoples' fast described in Isaiah--seeking God and claiming to delight in God's ways, while forsaking God's ordinances; they fasted but did not see; they fasted "only to quarrel and to fight and to strike with a wicked fist." They served their own interests and oppressed all their workers.
Being salt of the earth, a salt which is salty, means holding to the heart of the Law, rather than the letter of the Law. It means choosing the fast that God chooses: loosing the bonds of injustice, undoing the thongs of the yoke, letting the oppressed go free, and breaking every yoke.
Being the salt of the earth means sharing your bread with the hungry, bringing the homeless poor into your home, and clothing the naked.
I also believe, though, that being the salt of the earth means choosing to act in ways similar to the rock salt.
We should bring flavor to life! We should make life taste better. We should melt the cold around us, bringing warmth and safety everywhere we go. And we should deter bitterness, making things sweeter wherever we find ourselves.
Paul writes a bit about this in 1 Corinthians--how we are to bring the light of Christ into the word--"not with lofty words or wisdom...but with a demonstration of the Spirit and of power."
I think he actually says it better, though, in Colossians:
"Pray that I may proclaim it clearly, as I should. Be wise in the way that you act toward outsiders; make the most of every opportunity. Let your conversations be always full of grace, seasoned with salt, so that you may know how to answer everyone."
"Let your conversations be always full of grace, seasoned with salt...."
Seasoning our words with grace is one way we can be salt and light to the world everyday.
When we choose to be salt and light--removing the yoke, the pointing finger, the speaking of evil; offering food to the hungry and satisfying the needs of the afflicted, seasoning our conversations with grace--the Lord promises to guide us continually, to satisfy our needs, and make our bones strong. we will be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail.
Today, may you be salt and light to all your encounter, and may God meet your needs as you meet the needs of others.
*****
Just for fun, as a practical application for being "salt of the earth," during the children's sermon, I had the kids hand out the salt caramels I'd spent the last two days making. SO! MUCH! FUN!
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Fetishistic Little Weirdo Doggie
My dog is a weirdo. Like a total freak. I can't begin to explain it. She's just mommy's little weirdo.
She has this thing for socks. My socks. Your socks. It doesn't matter. Scratch that. It TOTALLY matters. Because while she might decide to play with your sock if it's lying around unattended, and unfooted, in the living room (if you were say an eight year old girl visiting her relatives for the weekend and you forgot it, left it behind, and hey, at that point it's fair game), she won't actively seek out your socks. (Unless, of course, you're that same eight year old girl visiting her relatives, and then my little weirdo doggie isn't seeking out your socks, she's seeking out you, and she's on high alert, barking out her code, "Danger! Danger! Stranger! Stranger! Stranger! Evil!" Whether you are evil or not is not the issue here. To her, you are an unknown entity, and that means "BAD!"
On the other hand, if it's my sock, or more like a pair of my socks neatly folded together, in my dirty laundry hamper, which is kept tucked under the bed for space, tidiness, and aesthetic reasons with about three inches of clearance between the top of basket and the bottom of the box spring, well I can pretty much be guaranteed that at least once a week, my dog will manage to dig to the bottom of the basket, where I keep the whites, in order to dig out a pair of my socks, proceed to shake them until they are a messy ball of socks, and leave them somewhere strange--like the middle of my room in the hallway. If she's feeling less ambitious, she might just pluck the black pair of slipper-socks off the top of the pile, where I keep the darks, and play with that instead. One weird little doggie.
What's more, she feels the need to steal my toy! I have one toy left from childhood. Well, two, but one that lives with me permanently and spend most of its time lost in my bedclothes or under the bed itself, but which is mine. Totally, completely, unquestioningly mine. It does not matter to me that 19 years ago my evil grandmother's dog (or is it my grandmother's evil dog? hmmmm....conundrum) attacked this toy and tore the nose almost completely from its dear, sweet face. It's mine, and appreciated the nose that hung from a few bits of acrylic fabric stitched together. After all, 19 years ago that toy did battle with a minion of a force of evil and won!
So, it was a less than happy moment when I discovered my toy, not in its proper place against the pillows on my recently made and tucked bed, but at the foot of the bed, face down, the plastic nose next to it, and the plastic washer that had kept it in place all these years on the floor! It did not escape my notice either that being at the foot of the bed, it happened to be directly over the place where my feet, occasionally stockinged, rest while I sleep. Nor did it escape my notice that this place where I rest my feet during my nightly repose is precisely above the laundry hamper from which my little weirdo doggie regularly steals well concealed socks.
I guess I have to face the hard fact--my little weird doggi is fetishistic. She loves all things socks. She loves to steal anything sock related, and will even steal non-sock-related items and destroy them in sock-related places.
Now, it may be the case that there are those who would make the argument that she is a dog, a puppy even. And being a puppy, she is likely to get into all kinds of mischief, and it's perfectly normal for her to steal socks and chew on toys that look so much like the squeaky toys her loving mommy gives her to play with.
Not so, I would argue. After all, this is the second doggie to whom I have played doggie-mommy, and my first doggie never misbehaved. He knew that his toys were his toys. He knew that my toy was my toy. He knew that if a treat fell on the floor of our room, he wasn't permitted to touch it without permission. A small bit of Pupperoni once sat next to his food dish for close to a week, untouched, because I had told him he had to wait for his treat. It sat for so long because I'd forgotten about it. It wasn't until I saw it several days in a row that I remembered I'd not given him permission to eat it. Finally, I gave it to him, and he gulped it down, happily. He'd also had daily treats in the interim, but he never touched one without permission.
So, I say, "No," to those who would argue that she's just being a dog, because clearly anecdotal information proves that she is not being a dog. She's being a little weirdo doggie. But she has my heart. So, I reprove her. I discipline her when I discover her in the midst of naughty doggie deeds. I try to get her adequate exercise, though I honestly believe she could go all day and never tire. I try to train her. It's hard, though. Because she's so unlike my other doggie; and my expectations are high, and likely completely unfair.
I have a fetishistic weirdo doggie who loves all things socks. And I love my little weirdo doggie. Maybe I'll start a line of fetishistic weirdo doggie sock toys. Or fetishistic weirdo doggie foot wear toys. Just in case she develops and eye for my dress shoes. You just never know. Regardless, I love my fetishistic little weirdo. I wouldn't trade her for the world.
She has this thing for socks. My socks. Your socks. It doesn't matter. Scratch that. It TOTALLY matters. Because while she might decide to play with your sock if it's lying around unattended, and unfooted, in the living room (if you were say an eight year old girl visiting her relatives for the weekend and you forgot it, left it behind, and hey, at that point it's fair game), she won't actively seek out your socks. (Unless, of course, you're that same eight year old girl visiting her relatives, and then my little weirdo doggie isn't seeking out your socks, she's seeking out you, and she's on high alert, barking out her code, "Danger! Danger! Stranger! Stranger! Stranger! Evil!" Whether you are evil or not is not the issue here. To her, you are an unknown entity, and that means "BAD!"
On the other hand, if it's my sock, or more like a pair of my socks neatly folded together, in my dirty laundry hamper, which is kept tucked under the bed for space, tidiness, and aesthetic reasons with about three inches of clearance between the top of basket and the bottom of the box spring, well I can pretty much be guaranteed that at least once a week, my dog will manage to dig to the bottom of the basket, where I keep the whites, in order to dig out a pair of my socks, proceed to shake them until they are a messy ball of socks, and leave them somewhere strange--like the middle of my room in the hallway. If she's feeling less ambitious, she might just pluck the black pair of slipper-socks off the top of the pile, where I keep the darks, and play with that instead. One weird little doggie.
What's more, she feels the need to steal my toy! I have one toy left from childhood. Well, two, but one that lives with me permanently and spend most of its time lost in my bedclothes or under the bed itself, but which is mine. Totally, completely, unquestioningly mine. It does not matter to me that 19 years ago my evil grandmother's dog (or is it my grandmother's evil dog? hmmmm....conundrum) attacked this toy and tore the nose almost completely from its dear, sweet face. It's mine, and appreciated the nose that hung from a few bits of acrylic fabric stitched together. After all, 19 years ago that toy did battle with a minion of a force of evil and won!
So, it was a less than happy moment when I discovered my toy, not in its proper place against the pillows on my recently made and tucked bed, but at the foot of the bed, face down, the plastic nose next to it, and the plastic washer that had kept it in place all these years on the floor! It did not escape my notice either that being at the foot of the bed, it happened to be directly over the place where my feet, occasionally stockinged, rest while I sleep. Nor did it escape my notice that this place where I rest my feet during my nightly repose is precisely above the laundry hamper from which my little weirdo doggie regularly steals well concealed socks.
I guess I have to face the hard fact--my little weird doggi is fetishistic. She loves all things socks. She loves to steal anything sock related, and will even steal non-sock-related items and destroy them in sock-related places.
Now, it may be the case that there are those who would make the argument that she is a dog, a puppy even. And being a puppy, she is likely to get into all kinds of mischief, and it's perfectly normal for her to steal socks and chew on toys that look so much like the squeaky toys her loving mommy gives her to play with.
Not so, I would argue. After all, this is the second doggie to whom I have played doggie-mommy, and my first doggie never misbehaved. He knew that his toys were his toys. He knew that my toy was my toy. He knew that if a treat fell on the floor of our room, he wasn't permitted to touch it without permission. A small bit of Pupperoni once sat next to his food dish for close to a week, untouched, because I had told him he had to wait for his treat. It sat for so long because I'd forgotten about it. It wasn't until I saw it several days in a row that I remembered I'd not given him permission to eat it. Finally, I gave it to him, and he gulped it down, happily. He'd also had daily treats in the interim, but he never touched one without permission.
So, I say, "No," to those who would argue that she's just being a dog, because clearly anecdotal information proves that she is not being a dog. She's being a little weirdo doggie. But she has my heart. So, I reprove her. I discipline her when I discover her in the midst of naughty doggie deeds. I try to get her adequate exercise, though I honestly believe she could go all day and never tire. I try to train her. It's hard, though. Because she's so unlike my other doggie; and my expectations are high, and likely completely unfair.
I have a fetishistic weirdo doggie who loves all things socks. And I love my little weirdo doggie. Maybe I'll start a line of fetishistic weirdo doggie sock toys. Or fetishistic weirdo doggie foot wear toys. Just in case she develops and eye for my dress shoes. You just never know. Regardless, I love my fetishistic little weirdo. I wouldn't trade her for the world.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Claiming Our Inheritance
Today's sermon is actually from next week's texts. The privilege of knowing next week's sermon is going to be on the Epiphany texts!
Ephesian 1:3-14
John 1: 1-18
*****
"I am a child of God, and I claim my inheritance. All of it."
These words come from a dear and much beloved friend I met while in seminary. I heard them more than once, and they were always spoken with absolute conviction.
"I am a child of God, and I claim my inheritance. All of it!"
In two of our readings for today, Ephesians and the Gospel of John, we read that we are children of God. Jesus, whose birthday we celebrated yesterday gave us the power to become children of God; children born not of blood or flesh or the will of man, but of God.
This is one of those truths I hear so often that I easily forget what it means. It's everywhere. I think about eighty-five percent of the publicly recited prayers I have heard started with "Heavenly Father" or "Father God." Or, they were interrupted every few words with "Father," "my father," "our Father," or again the ever so popular "Father God, Father God, Father God." Every single week, we sit in the pews on Sunday morning and begin the same prayer, the same way, "Our Father, who art in heaven..."
We read and hear and talk so much about our Father-God-in-Heaven that we sometimes forget the counterpoint to this statement. We are His kids.
I am His kid!
I am His kid. I am a child of God. And so are you.
You were made by God. You came into being through God. And before you ever came to a knowledge of any of this, you were claimed by God.
Being God's kids means that we have been blessed in Christ with every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places. There is a world apart from and beyond this world in which we live, a world that at moments intersects with our lives--a heavenly realm, a place full of blessings. And God, who claims us as His children, at various times and places reaches through through from that realm to this to bestow those blessings upon us. These are sacramental moments; moments when God's grace is made palpable, concrete, something we feel so deeply in our hearts we can proclaim with total conviction: I am a child of God! These are moments when God's grace becomes more than just something we know with our heads--it is a reality we begin to live into from our hearts.
These moments of grace come to us through Jesus, who chose us, who makes us holy and blameless. We have been set apart. God chose us. And when God looks at us, set apart from our sin, He sees us without blame or blemish. He sees us as we were created to be. Who you are is not determined by the things that you do, but rather by Whose you are! And we are children of God.
We have been redeemed and forgiven. We have received wisdom and insight. And God is gathering all things to Himself--and that includes you and me. Being God's kids, we also have an inheritance.
Now Paul, when he writes to the church at Ephesus about this inheritance, isn't super clear about what it entails. But then Paul isn't ever really super clear about anything. I won't pretend to know Paul's precise meaning concerning this inheritance, but I've got a couple of guesses:
1) All those spiritual blessings. This is, admittedly, vague. But remember those sacramental moments I mentioned a minute ago? Well, I'm guessing we get more. And I'm guessing they're less intermittent. More continuous.
2) Everything.
The concept of an inheritance hasn't really changed at all in the 2000 years since Paul put brush to papyrus. The cultural expectations are a little different, but ultimately, the idea is the same: Somebody dies, and somebody else gets all the good stuff.
Back in ancient times it was the first born son who received pretty much everything. Subsequent sons might get a token, but lion's share went to the first born. And forget the daughters. Seriously. Forget about them. They didn't count.
But here Paul is, telling us that we--men and women, young and old--get an inheritance from God. And why? Because when God looks at us, He sees us through Jesus--the first-born of all creation.
And why does God see us through Jesus? Because Jesus, the Word, the very Word of God, even God himself, who was in the beginning--not hanging around at the time things began, but in the very act of beginning, in the act of creation itself, in the beginning from which sprang all this--Jesus, the Word of God, Jesus who is God, came.
He left those heavenly realms and was born in this earthly place. He came as life and as the light of all people. Jesus came and brought the light of Christ into the world. The light of Christ we invite into our worship every week when the acolytes begin our service. The light of Christ we take into the world when we leave this place.
All because the Word became flesh and lived among us.
It's that whole "living among us" part that allows us to see God.
It's that whole "in the flesh" part that means Jesus is really, well, and truly alive today. And he is alive in each one of us.
Being a Christian does not (only) mean having Christ in us. The word "Christian" literally means "Christ followers" or "one who follows Christ," and as such necessarily requires that we see Christ in others.
No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father's heart, who has made him known.
"If we do not recognize God in the flesh, we do not recognize God."
I remember the first time I truly understood this; one of those sacramental moments when my knowledge about God became my experience of God in another person.
My friend from seminary, standing in front of me, proclaiming with conviction:
I am a child of God, and I claim my inheritance. All of it!
My friend who loved me deeply, and unconditionally, and well. My friend who, in the short time we had together, showed me what it was to see Jesus in someone else.
That's the point of incarnational faith--the logos en sarki, the Word made flesh--the very reality of God, as Jesus in each one of us--the body of Christ.
Having God as our father means we each can proclaim with conviction:
I am a child of God, and I claim my inheritance. All of it.
My hopes for you this morning and in the coming year are that your knowledge and experience of God will continue to deepen; that you will have those sacramental moments when more than knowing about God's grace you find yourself living into God's grace; that when you look at those people whom God has placed in your life, you'll recognize Jesus in them, and that you find yourself able to say with all conviction:
I am a child of God, and I claim my inheritance. All of it!
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Peace and Quiet
I sometimes wonder how I survived childhood. Those who know a bit of my family history probably think they know where this wonderment comes from. I'm not referencing my father here, however.
I'm actually thinking about my mother. How did my mother manage to raise us to adulthood and not end it all by killing us in the process? I mean, I actually marvel at this fact.
My mother is not a violent woman. It seems odd that I might, retrospectively, expect her to have killed us in our youth. In particular, I'm amazed that my mother didn't kill me. Forget the other three--the ones who weren't home, too busy running with their friends, experimenting with drugs, making babies in their later teen years. I was the one at home. I was the one present. How is it that my mother stayed sane enough to spare my life?
Sure, she's a peaceable, loving, lovely woman who would never hurt a fly. I can't remember my mother so much as spanking me as a child except once, for a fairly grievous offense at that. She never lobbed death threats or even threats of violence in any way. She was a thoroughly fantastic mother who did the best she could with what she had.
And all she really ever asked us in return was a little peace and quiet.
Which doesn't seem like much to ask.
As I grow older, I find myself valuing silence more and more. I don't own a radio. I do not listen to music unless I'm in the car with 1) my father, 2) other people who insist on turning it on, or 3) a trip alone, longer than 30 minutes. If I'm alone on a trip longer than 30 minutes, I usually go for NPR, where they only play music in the evening. And if their news-y bit is about an up-and-coming musician where they play more than 20 seconds of a given song, I turn off the news, too.
I like the quiet.
And I own a dog. And my sister has six children. And my dog does not like my sister's children. My dog, my small, adorable, precious dog is a yappy dog. To make matters worse, she's yappiest when my sister's kids come around. My sister's kids who are loudest children God ever created. Seriously.
I mean, I lack an inside voice. No joke. My pipes just weren't created that way. I can whisper, and I do, but at a normal speaking volume, my voice carries. Everywhere. To ear that I do not want to hear. To everybody. This works wonders in my chosen profession, but is a bit frustrating at times in my daily life. I'm not really one to yell most of the time. I don't scream. I don't need to. My voice is just bizarrely loud. And if I do raise my voice in a moment of frustration or to be heard over the din, well, it doesn't take much. There's no effort involved. Just a little extra air.
None of which is the point, and which will, at some point, lead to another blog entirely.
So, back to the kids. The really loud kids, whose ability to make noise far surpasses my own natural vocal talents. The ones who think that any walking occasion in which they aren't stomping is a lost opportunity. The ones who think that it would be a waste of energy to approach someone politely and make a request at a normal volume when they can just yell across the house. The ones who think that doors were made to be slammed as they stomp into and out of the house ever three minutes thirty-seven seconds.
The same ones who think that they can drink an entire can of soda, but lose interest 1/3 of the way through and leave the nearly full can on a ledge of some table or the entertainment center or a counter or the floor, which they inevitably end up knocking over later, having forgotten it entirely. Then comes the chaos of noisy soda explosions and adults grumbling. The excuses and justifications, and "I hate you!"s when you ask them to pick up their mess or take their dishes to the sink, or horror of horrors, wash their really smelly, clammy, thoroughly gross hand when they've sneezed into them, and then used their mucous-y saliva to style their cowlicks into submission. The really loud, disrespectful, kind of gross-to-a-germ-hater kids!
I sometimes tell people that I dislike children. Okay, so closer to the truth is, I regularly tell people I dislike children. This, however, is not exactly true. I like children. In theory. I just don't like the disrespect that accompanies my sister's children. And I really dislike the crying, screaming, temper tantrums that accompany other people's kids almost everywhere I see them.
I mean, would it really kill a person to shell out $8.00 for a babysitter when they run to the grocery store so that I'm not subject to their four year old's shrieks and screams over their refusal to buy Twinkies? I mean it's a noise that sets my teeth on edge. It's makes my eardrums pound, and my skin crawl. It's literally physically painful to be in the same store as these noisy hellions people foist on unsuspecting fellow shoppers. And if you can't afford a babysitter once a week, save up and get a dog kennel. And a padlock. Just make sure the kid's got plenty of fresh water available while you run your errands.
I just do not like noise. I like the quiet. I like peace. I like to have a moment to myself. Generally, I like that moment to stretch far longer than any of the moments I'm with other people, no matter how great those other people are. And for those of you who know me, if we talk on the phone, getting past 15 minutes of conversation is a sure sign that I love, respect, enjoy, and miss you! Because at 15 minutes, I'm looking at the clock and wondering how much longer I have to spend feeling weird and uncomfortable before I can find a really great excuse to hang up. And if I really, really, really love, respect, enjoy and miss you, I might even forget to look at the clock. I might even ignore my rather full bladder for 35-40 minutes just to talk to you longer before I tell you how much I love you, and how desperately I need to hang up. And yes, Ms. M., I'm thinking of you ;)
For the rest of you, well, it's kind of torture. Don't get me wrong, I'm willing to endure. To some degree. For some time. But talking on the phone, without actually spending time together, without seeing your face, without any other social cues to pick up on, or a smile to see, or something in a common environment to comment on...well, it's a struggle, and I find myself longing to be able to hang up, and enjoy the quiet.
Which when I do hang up, leaves me with...my dog. My thoroughly loving, adorable, fantastic, small, high-pitched yappy when the kids come over, or the neighbors drive by on their ATVs, or the UPS guy delivers a package, or sees herself in the mirror but doesn't understand the concept of a reflection dog. My dog, whom I love.
My dog who follows me just about everywhere. Especially if I'm the only one home. And if I happen to head to the basement to do laundry or send an email or post to my blog, she'll be standing on the top landing, whimpering for me. My dog. The one who follows me into the bathroom. The one who scratches and whines incessantly at the bathroom door unless I leave it open. The one who comes in to look at me doing my business or taking a bath if I do leave the door open a crack, just so I don't have to listen to the incessant whining and scratching.
And it reminds me of when I was little. When my mother would take a bath. The water would be running, and then it would be off. I'd hear the squeak and rumble of skin moving against the fiberglass tub as she washed herself and shampooed her hair. And this was always followed by silence. It was a silence that was always a lifetime in length, even when it only lasted three minutes. It was a silence I always interrupted. Tentatively creeping up to the bathroom door, softly knocking, holding my breath in fear that my mother's response would be world-weary, terrified that she wouldn't respond at all, steeling myself for the moment I was sure would come, when I would peek around the corner to see blood, pools of blood on the bathroom floor, streaks of blood on the tub surround, the water stained crimson as her life drained away.
I was always terrified that my mother would one day take her own life, with a razor, in the bath tub, determined to get out and seeing no other way. My fear was, I know now as an adult, rooted in my own suicidal thoughts, which had plagued me from the age of five through my adolescence. But eight year olds don't know the word "projection." And so it was with the image of my mother's death swimming before my eyes that I would sigh with relief when she answered, a world-weary "Yes?" and I would reply, "Nothing, mama." And sure enough there would follow a comment about how she could never get a moment's peace, not even in the bathroom, a place where most people would expect they could go and be alone.
Here I am, twenty-some years later, wanting the same quiet I feared so much as a child. Wanting the peace that comes with knowing if it's quiet, I don't have to be perfect, I don't have to perform, I don't have to pretend to be interested in something when I'd rather read a book, that I don't have to cook for and clean up after a child who's utterly ungratefully and totally disrespectful, that I'm not being set-up for failure with mind games and puzzles, and barbed insults that say less about me than the person lobbing them, but which hurt nonetheless. Quiet means my world is my own and I don't have to figure out the right response to someone else's query, the response that tells them I'm listening and supportive in the way they need to hear it. Quiet means that I don't have to have an opinion on anything. It means that I don't have to justify my opinion to anyone. Quiet means I get a moment of peace.
And it makes me wonder how I survived childhood. How is that my mother didn't kill us all just to get a moment's peace? It truly astounds me. Don't get me wrong, I would never kill anyone just to get a moment's peace. But I sometimes wonder if what saves me from doing serious emotional damage to my sister's kids is my ability to remind myself that in just a few more hours, they'll be gone, and I won't have to see them again for at least a week, maybe longer! Even then, there are times when I can't muster up the grace and I tell them, flat-out, they aren't welcome in my space and to, please, just leave me alone, I do not want them near me--and be quiet wherever it is that they may find themselves in the house, and no, we are not watching Spongebob Square Pants again because we've seen that episode 12 times already this weekend and I'd rather watch the Rachel Maddow show.
And I remind myself that there will come a day when I won't be awoken by my dog curling up in the groove of my pillow, leaving me with acne and itchy eyes (did I mention I'm allergic to dogs), and that one day soon, she'll prefer her kennel to her bed, just as she recently moved from my bed to her own. There will come a day when I can go to the bathroom or to do my laundry and she might follow me like a shadow, but then again she might not. And there will come a day when she won't follow me at all, when she'll join my last dog in a wooden box on my dresser, with a just a picture and paw print set in clay.
And I remind myself that giving up a little peace and quiet now means getting a little more time with people I want to love (and sometimes think I actually might). It means another morning waking up with my dog in my face, a dog I definitely love. It means a few more minutes on the phone, connecting with people I value, and accepting that circumstances prevent what I would prefer--a cup of coffee on a shared couch. So I'll make do with what is available to me, even if I'm not a fan of talking on the phone. Something is better than nothing.
And I'll find peace and quiet where I can. I will take it when I really do need it. And I'll try not to grumble too much when going without, for a few hours, means blessing someone else.
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