Hangin' With the Saints

Since I began our church blog, one of the regular features I've established is Saints Alive -- little hagiographies of the people who show up in the ELCA and TEC calendar of commemorations. I began by sprinkling our usual weekly rota of features with a bio on that individual's commemoration day, but recently switched to giving the saints their own day on the schedule.

Like most Lutherans, my knowledge of the saints was pretty spotty before embarking on this project. The names were recognizeable, sure; but I couldn't have told you anything of substance about most of them. And, deep down, I suppose I held the sort of knee-jerk inherited reservations about paying too much attention to the sainted faithful: that much of their actual stories have been obscured by imaginative embellishment; that they themselves would say, "Don't pay attention to me; pay attention to Christ"; that focusing on extraordinary, rock-star Christians takes away from the quiet, faithful everyday discipleship of the majority of believers; that -- oh, dear -- celebrating the lives of the saints might make one favorably disposed to a theology of [shudder] works-righteousness.

But after several months of laying aside my enculturated skepticism I've got to tell you all -- I love these people. I look forward each week to learning more about them; especially the less celebrated among them.

Just this week, for instance, I learned about Ansgar of Hamburg, the patron saint of Denmark...one of the ironies of Christian history, since both Denmark and Sweden proved almost impossible missionary nuts to crack for this poor man. He just couldn't catch a break. He toiled for decades to spread the Gospel in the Scandinavian countries, but with little success -- and wound up losing his own diocese to war and the vagaries of politics. After he died, much of the Scandinavian missionary effort fell apart and stayed that way for two more centuries. Ansgar should be the patron saint of every failed mission startup, every pastor who's had to oversee the dissolution of a congregation, everyone whose ever had a great idea for following the Great Commission that's completely blown up in their faces.

Gladys Aylward: another great saint, of modern times (who became the subject of a very good movie, Inn of the Sixth Happiness, starring Ingrid Bergman). Here was an English parlor maid with no means or education, who after attending a revival meeting was struck with a sudden conviction that she needed to go to China as a missionary. Rebuffed repeatedly by various missionary societies as being an unacceptable candidate, she persisted in this dream until she finally wheedled her way into a job helping an elderly missionary in China; she took her whole life savings, leveraged it into train fare and rode through Asia to get to this remote outpost. Aylward eventually took over the mission, won the trust and affection of her neighbors, eventually founded an orphanage, and during the Japanese invasion of World War II helped save 200 orphans from almost certain death by leading them on an arduous trek through the mountains to safety. And those are just the highlights of a remarkable career. When Inn of the Sixth Happiness came out the Newsweek film critic, apparently not understanding that it was based on a true story, panned the movie as being too fantastical to be compelling -- when in actuality the movie wasn't real enough in terms of adequately portraying Aylward's life.

And -- speaking as a feminist who isn't afraid to use the F word -- how can one not be impressed by the witness of such strong women of history? -- women who usually had to contend against the institutionalized sexism and vocational limitations imposed on them by the very Church that now celebrates them as exemplars of Christian life? I am constantly amazed by the courage, persistence and tough-mindedness of the women who've wound up in the Church's saints' days and commemorations.

It makes me wonder what we Lutherans have lost, in terms of inculcating a sense of identity and aspiration, by more or less kicking the saints of the Church to the curb. And our odd treatment of God's people in history -- our focusing almost solely on Bible stories, then ignoring the next thousand-and-some years of Christian history to fast-forward, sans context, to Luther nailing his theses to the church door 'n' stuff, then fast-forwarding again to the present day and telling one another and our kids, "We're all saints! Yay, team!" -- sorry, but if my kid came home from a history class with that kind of syllabus, I'd be having A.Talk.With.The.Teacher.

But, anyway...I am having a wonderful time hangin' with the saints, old and new. And as the famous hymn says, "I mean to be one too."

Gordon Ramsay: Church Consultant

Our household's new boy crush this winter is amped-up, foul-mouthed celebrity chef/restauranteur/ubiquitous television personality Gordon Ramsay.

We've gotten hooked on BBC America's version of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, in which, each episode, Gordon lands on the doorstep of a moribund eating establishment and proceeds to run the staff through a kind of restaurant bootcamp for a week. He departs for a month, then returns to see if the owners and staff have taken his advice to heart.

It's formula television to be sure, staged and edited for maximum entertainment effect. But despite this, we find Ramsay to be sincerely passionate about food; about the hospitality business; about the importance of honoring local food traditions and supporting local farmers and food artisans; about mentoring people, especially young people, who have the requisite talent and motivation. And he truly seems to want to help the hapless restauranteurs he encounters who have, in his words, gotten themselves in the shit. Yes, he's quite an exciteable fellow; but as my mother used to say, "I'm yelling because I care."

I told Fellow Traveler that I heart Gordon because I suspect I have an inner Gordon of my own who yearns every so often to be let loose on the world. FT, who after her time in the military and at the university spent many years managing food service in places ranging from airline catering companies to urban hospitals to care facilities for aging nuns, has a professional's insight into many of the issues that Gordon tackles on his shows, so for her they're like Old Home Week without the responsibility and stress. (And she freely admits to getting her Gordon on, at least in terms of intimidation if not vocabulary, during her career; her children joke that in a just world she'll wind up in a nursing home whose kitchen staff consists of her fired employees.)

I sometimes wonder what would happen if Gordon would apply to churches the same kind of tough love he applies to failing restaurants. Especially in the climate of the ELCA, where official pronouncements all seem to float amid a word cloud of fuzzy therapy-speak, and where intracongregational relations so often involve triangulation, obfuscation and innuendo ("Pastor, some people are saying..."), what would it be like to have Gordon Ramsay entering into the life of a congregation for a week and goading people into brutally honest communication and active engagement? Can you imagine him, say, critiquing the average church council meeting?

"What the b***** hell? You've gone on for 15 minutes now, and you haven't actually said a b***** thing! Christ Almighty, grow a pair of f****** bollocks and say what you mean!...'Somebody' doesn't like the changes to the Sunday School program? Somebody? Oh, for Christ's sake!  It's b***** well you, madam. You are the somebody. So stop the f****** whingeing and own your own statements! What the hell! You're all f****** adults in a business meeting, not toddlers in a creche, pissing yourselves in your nappies! Grow up! Let's start all over again..."

Or imagine Gordon critiquing an ushering staff on a Sunday morning:

"There's a visitor looking lost -- where the hell are you? Over here counting bulletins? What the f***?  What does an usher do? What does an usher f****** do? You greet people as they come in! You help them find a seat! You make them feel welcome!  You don't stand mooning about here in the narthex, you berk, poking through the b***** bulletins! Shit!  Useless...absolutely useless. Here, let me show you how it's done..."

Gordon attending a confirmation class:

"Turn off that b***** cellular before I take it out and stamp it into f****** bits! What the hell! This is a confirmation class, not a f****** pyjama party! Did you even hear what the pastor just told you about the Apostles' Creed? Did you? Did you? F****** unbelieveable. I'd tell you to go off and join the b***** heathen, but you're there already because you're about as f****** ignorant about Christianity. Jesus. Pay attention. All right then. Here's what we're going to do..."

It's fun to imagine, anyway. And I notice that, in his show, Gordon always pairs his Law with Gospel -- after getting his pupils' attention by verbally reaming new orifices into them, he offers to teach them another way; and models it, and sticks with them until they seem to be getting the hang of it.

In an era where we're all so afraid to offend, maybe it's just refreshing to occasionally come upon a character willing to sin boldly in service to helping other people be who they can be...who acts as a therapeutic rubber band snapped on the wrist of our psyches, making us sit up and take notice.

He yells because he cares.

February Friday Five

We have been having an uncharacteristically un-dreary midwinter here -- just the other day we were remarking on the number of sunny days -- but usually up here it's more the way RevGalBlogPal Sally describes it, in today's Friday Five intro:

Candlemass is past, and Christmas is well and truly over, here in the UK February looks set to be its usual grey and cold self. Signs of spring are yet to emerge; if like me you long for them perhaps you need ways to get through these long dark days. So lets share a few tips for a cold and rainy/ snowy day....



1. Exercise, what do you do if you can't face getting out into the cold and damp?
That's easy -- nothing. Both Fellow Traveler and I are terrible couch potatoes when it's cold and inclement -- FT has to watch her asthma, and we're both just disinclined toward indoor exercise (hence the barely used free fitness center privilege we earn as volunteer webmeisters), and we both have sedentary pastimes we enjoy more.


2. Food; time to comfort eat, or time to prepare your body for the coming spring/summer?
Soup is my wintertime comfort food...as folksinger Greg Brown puts it, Smells like winter at our house/winter smells like soup. Last week I made my mother's winter standard, cream of potato soup with bacon, to rave reviews. (Fry diced bacon until browned but not hard; drain and set aside, leaving maybe a tablespoon of bacon grease in the pan. Use this to sautee a small onion, diced, and about a cup and a half of celery, sliced thin. In the meantime cook about 5 decently sized, peeled and diced, potatoes in just enough water or stock to cover; when they're tender, drain off most but not all of the cooking liquid, then combine in a blender with the sauteed vegetables, and pulse until nice and smooth...or, if you prefer more texture, mash the potatoes by hand in the remnant of cooking liquid, then add the vegetables as is. Whichever you prefer, at this point return the pureed vegetable mixture to the potato-cooking saucepan/leave it there and add about a cup and a half of milk. Add the reserved bacon and heat mixture until hot but not boiling.)


3. Brainpower; do you like me need to stave off depression, if so how do you do it?
My Seasonal Affective Disorder is very positively affected by any extra winter sunlight whatsoever...so by about the second week in January I'm already feeling a bit more chipper.  December is usually the cruelest month for me; I think a combination of pleasanter-than-average weather and the busyness of our travel schedule was the only thing that kept me out of my usual December funk.)


4. How about a story that lifts your spirits, is there a book or film that you return to to stave off the gloom?
Garden and nursery catalogs -- garden porn, as we gardeners like to refer to it -- are my books of choice this time of year, much to the amusement of friends and loved ones. This is especially true this winter, as I've been tasked with the projects of 1) making our landscaping more bee-friendly, if we go ahead and pursue that particular new project; and 2) re-doing the plantings around our patio/gazebo, to replace the scraggly spirea that came with the house. The challenge of identifying honey and pollen plants and deciding where to place them in our yard, and the challenge of picking bee-friendly shrubs and perennials that will "pop" around our patio area -- which encompasses three different sun exposures -- has been keeping me very mentally and emotionally engaged. (Fellow Traveler, who is adamant that she knows nothing about color and shouldn't be asked about such things, was nonetheless intrigued by my latest suggestion to combine oranges and blues -- colors that I think would look swell against the colors of the patio and the house, and that I've used with some success in container gardening.)


5. Looking forward, do you have a favourite spring flower/ is there something that says spring is here more than anything else?
Around here it's the first appearance of the robins that usually get people excited.


Bonus; post a poem/ piece of music that points to the coming spring......
I love George Winston; his music reminds me of my bookstore-slumming days, in my 20's, with Windham Hill ambient music wafting through the store all day. Here's Winston performing "Rain":

Not Anytime Soon

If you are a Floridian, please understand that I don't think less of you as a person.

But...I don't want to be you.

It's nothing personal. It's me, not you.

It was awkward visiting Florida last week, being beseeched by family and friends to come back for two weeks, or a month, or a season, or forever, and smiling politely while thinking, "Not only no, but hell to the no."

As far as Orlando or Kissimmee, there's no question: Short of being kidnapped and held in chains (perhaps in the Medieval Times dinner theater), nothing could compel us to live there; not even our sons. Visit, yes; not live, not even for a month.

Fellow Traveler reconnected with one of her very best high school friends, who now lives with her husband in a retirement mobile home community in the cow-country interior. As much as we enjoyed that visit -- this lady and her husband are delightful, and real pistols -- we couldn't help but think, why? Why, of al the places on earth to live year-round, would they choose this place?  Now, I'm sure many of our friends would ask the same thing of us. But it seemed that this particular community, ironically, was quite a bit like ours, only without any of the good things, plus venomous snakes and breath-sucking humidity.

Our big road trip of the week was an excursion to St. Augustine. I enjoyed St. Augustine a lot -- its historicity and artsy-ness with a dash of college-town, and its proximity to the water. It looked and felt like the Leelanau in the summertime, only with more pirates. But, as Fellow Traveler told our filial chaparones, "This is the only place in Florida I'd ever consider living, and only if the weather were like this [breezy and barely breaking 70 degrees] year-round." -- an observation met with nervous, defeat-conceding heh-hehs.

Of course, our kids think we're insane for enduring the single-digit weather we came home to. But we don't mind. It actually, and I can't believe I'm saying this, felt good to feel the cold wind hit my face as we walked out of the airport to the parking lot. The Upper Midwest is a pretty good place to live.

Stealth Church

It's difficult to know even where to begin to blog after spending a week of nonstop activity in Florida -- and I'm still bringing my brain up to speed after a day of recuperative collapse here at home -- but since I'm a church geek, perhaps I'll start there.

We didn't get a chance to visit the ELCA church just a couple of blocks from our resort, because Saturday and Sunday were our busiest family-and-friend days. I enjoy intramural church tourism, so that was a bummer. As far as that goes, even in a tourist-focused community like the greater Orlando/Kissimmee area, it's hard to spit without hitting a church of some kind -- on the 192 main drag, usually a Spanish-speaking Protestant congregation operating out of a storefront.

What I found amusing, though, were the stealth churches. On our one free morning we decided to have lunch in a nice little Chinese place in the Watertower Plaza of Celebration, the Disney-engineered planned city between Kissimmee and Orlando. Despite the Disney connection, the plaza was refreshingly free of theme-park-icity, and actually seemed to be more geared toward locals than tourists. As we drove around the neat yellow blocks of storefronts we came upon one with a sign reading "The Hub"; underneath was a subtitle something like "A Place To Connect," with information about meeting times. A logo reading "Celebration!" was off to the side. Then, in the billboard equivalent of 5-point type, like the kind on the back of your credit card bills, was something about "Church." My keen analytical mind kicked into gear: Aha! A church that doesn't want you to know it's a church!"

After we got home I tried looking up this outfit online. Apparently it is a kind of satellite ministry of Celebration Community Church, a non-denominational congregation whose theological orientation was difficult to ascertain, even after wading several pages deep into its website and into its "What We Believe" section. I'm guessing Southern Baptist in a cabana shirt with a happy-face pin on the collar. I'm also guessing that, after getting involved in the congregation enough to feel comfortable enrolling in a "Lifeshaping" class ("I went to Pilates this morning, and then after dinner we're all going to Lifeshaping..."), one would find out that if you're female your role in the congregation is pretty much relegated to Kinder und Kueche, and that if you're gay or lesbian...well, let's not even go there.

My reaction to all this twee coyness and equivocation: Oh, cut the crap already. Or as our church-estranged Orlando kids, whose livelihoods are based on creating convincing worlds of illusion and who can thus spot fakery in a nanosecond, would say: Really? I mean, seriously?

On Monday, while visiting St. Augustine, Fellow Traveler and I paid a visit to the St. Augustine basilica in the middle of the old town. (Son-in-Law's comment, when we've gone church sightseeing before: "I'm always afraid I'll spontaneously combust if I step inside.") Here we got unabashed old-school Roman Catholic: crucifixes, candles, statues of Our Lady and the Infant of Prague, holy cards of tortured saints. A hint of lingering incense.

It is what it is. Hallelujah. As are the multitude of shabby little Pentecostal tabernacles and white clapboard churches dotting the backroad Florida countryside. As are the ecclesias along 192.

Here's a unique marketing concept for churches desperate for outreach: Stop the bullshit. Please. Stop trying to pretend that you're a "lifestyle center" or "gathering place." Stop the lying-by-omission on your signboards and in your websites.  You're not fooling anyone.

Authenticity. Being who you are, not what you think other people want you to be. What a concept.

Friday Five: "Friend Me!" Edition

This week the RevGalBlogPals Friday Five comes to my 'hood -- the world of social networking!

1) What have been the benefits for you of social networking (blog, twitter, facebook, etc...)
For me the biggest benefit has simply been the opportunity to meet people I would have never had the opportunity to meet otherwise...including Fellow Traveler, whom I'd met through other online acquaintances whom I'd met on a Yahoo group. Imagine that. And more recently, since getting involved with Facebook, I've had the pleasure of reconnecting with a couple of high school friends I'm really glad I've had the opportunity to find again; I enjoyed their company back then, and I enjoy their "seasoned" presence in my life even more now.


2) Which medium do you use the most? Or if you use them all, for what do you use each of them?
These days I'm on Facebook more than anything. (Which in part accounts for the paucity of my postings here, sadly.) I love the little snapshots of other people's days. When I'm not Facebooking, I'm usually focused on our church blog -- we have a readership now, and a thematic schedule, and I need to keep that up on a daily basis.

3) If you could invent a networking site (with no limits on your imagination), what would it provide? What would it not provide?
I think my head would explode if I had to deal with another networking site, so I'm not even going to answer that. I have a hard enough time even with Twitter -- and, really, my life is not nearly exciting enough to "tweet" -- which I subscribe to but don't do anything with. (And the really scary thing is...despite this, I get regular notifications of Twitterers "following" me...following me where, I wonder.)

4) Who have you met that you would not have met if it were not for the 'miracle' of social networking?
Once again -- Fellow Traveler, first and foremost; most of the RevGals and Pals; my Brit and Antipodal friends on the Ship of Fools community forums; and many other bloggers whose work I admire and enjoy.


5) Whom do you secretly pray does not one day try to 'friend/follow' you?
The only people I really do not want to be a part of my online life in any way are my former boss and Big Boss. I still experience frissons of terror if I think I see one of their vehicles in a local parking lot -- one day I delayed grocery shopping at the Outer Podunk supermarket for a full half-hour waiting for Big Boss' pickup to leave, that is how much I do not want to encounter either of them ever again.

BONUS: What was the most random/weird/unsettling/wonderful connection you made that would not have happened if it were not for the ease of which we can find each other in the computer realm?
One of my Facebook friends is a Swede, Anders, who asked me to friend him after seeing me on the Lutherans Concerned/North America "fan" list. Anders is an organist and belongs to the Church of Sweden, and he FBs a lot -- he has, like, 900 friends -- and he writes mostly in Swedish, which means that his posts are a mystery to me unless I take the time to run them through a translator, or unless they're churchy posts where I can pick out the operative words. I enjoy my Facebook page hosting random thoughts in Swedish; what can I say?

Florida, v.2

I am playing beat-the-clock on a complimentary resort computer -- spotty wi-fi here that I've not been able to access for more than 10 minutes -- here in Kissimmee. It's actually a nice, quiet, shady resort off the beaten path from Highway 192; just a little tatty in places, but that's okay.

This has been the un-theme-park, family vaycay, with every single day devoted to some activity involving family or relocated friends of Fellow Traveler. We finally got away this morning for a mini-date at a Chinese restaurant we discovered off the beaten path in a rather quiet, pleasant shopping center in Orlando, and a short drive around the original main drag of Kissimmee; FT called it "unplugged" Kissimmee.

FT and I wouldn't make good Floridians. For us the novelty of 75 degree January days, common northern houseplants the size of trees in the local landscaping and yards of Spanish moss are just that -- novelties; interesting but not something we want to live in the midst of. Son #1 and his partner are always lobbying for us to move south, but -- sorry, kids; ain't happenin'.

And, oddly enough -- we do not feel as physically safe here as we did in Brooklyn. We just don't. Nor do we feel accepted as a couple, really, anywhere outside Orlando, or even outside the gates of Disney World or Universal Studios or other haven of local creative types.

We always enjoy ourselves here. But we always enjoy coming back home.

Friday Five: Interview Edition

d

Around here we likes us our lowbrow television, so this week after watching Modern Family (in these days of Balkanized TV viewing it's the one program that everyone in our own extended fam seems to watch, so that we can actually talk about it with one another) we stayed our remote-clicking hands and watched another ABC family comedy, The Middle. Not as funny or as well done; but there was a hilarious scene where the dad, an out-of-work construction guy having to look for another job for the first time in many years, found himself subjected to interviewer after interviewer earnestly quizzing him with Baba Wawa, pseudo-psychological questions. He had a good work record; always got to the job on time; never took a sick day. What more did these people want from him? Well...stuff like this:

1. If you were a color, what would you be?
This is interesting...I picked burnt sienna, that quirky Crayola color that I'm not even sure they make anymore, because I always seem to be the odd crayon in the box. When I asked FT what color I was she said maroon, because (in her words) at first glance I'm a little dark and inscrutable, but if one looks a little harder they'll appreciate my deepness and richness. That was very nice of her. I think this means I'm buying lunch today.


2. If you were a flower (or plant), what would you be?
I think one could do worse than to be culinary sage: seasoned; adaptible; occasionally colorful; not the star of the herb garden, but the dependable botanical workhorse.

3. If you were an animal, what kind would you be?
I think I have some catlike qualities -- not anatomical, mind you, just dispositional. I can see myself as a bookstore cat, watching the action from some safe, warm corner; blinking benignly at customers; perhaps occasionally offering myself up for a scritch from some obviously cat-oriented passer-by but not going out of my way to ingratiate myself with the public.

4. If you were a shoe, what type would you be?
This is easy, and o so cliche' -- a Merrell-y/Keene-y shoe; something that's practical and absolutely un-foofy but nonetheless possessing a certain sense of style.

5. If you were a typeface, which font would you be?
A far more difficult question. I think maybe Freestyle Script -- flowing and mildly quirky, but with aspirations to become something edgier, like Rage Italic or Viner Hand. Although considering my love of things rural and agricultural and anachronistic, maybe at heart I'm an old-school typeface like something in the Goudy family -- something you'd find in an almanac.

Bonus metaphor: If I were a bar burger I'd be the locovorious special -- made with beef from the local 4-H sale, super-aged Pinconning cheese, sweet Amish onions and homemade pickles, served with a regional microbrew.  Sadly, no restauranteurs in our county would ever offer something like this, not even with Gordon Ramsay screaming and swinging a bar bat over their heads...but it sounds really good, doesn't it?

The Jack Sprat Syndrome

I feel so bad.

For the last two days Fellow Traveler, who has an ileoostomy, has been suffering ill effects from the brown-and-wild-rice pilaf I made for dinner.

FT was just recovering from this major surgery when we met, so we have both been on an almost four-year learning curve regarding food. Some foods, like nuts, are an absolute no-no. Others, like mushrooms or berries, are fine going down one day...but the same things eaten a month or a year later can result in hours of agony -- or even a trip to the ER.

Usually FT can handle rice, even brown rice, with no problems. But not wild rice, apparently.

FT's general rules are to avoid fiber; to drink juices like V8 with high concentrations of vitamins and minerals; to eat lots of dairy, particularly cheese.

My dietary needs, ironically, are almost the exact opposite because of my hypertension and cholesterol management issues. I need lots of fiber; I need lots of vegetables and fruits; I need less animal protein and fat and more plant protein, meaning more whole grains and legumes, meaning...more fiber.

This is all the more ironic in a home where we enjoy food, care about it, love to try new foods.

But love conquers all; and we manage, and do so without having to make separate meals. It involves celebrating our commonalities (oatmeal, for instance, and Chinese cabbage -- of all things -- are good for and good to both of us), respecting our differences (I like to keep a supply of baby greens on hand in the fridge to make an impromptu vegetable course, and I've also been bumping up the cholesterol-fighting factor with a couple tablespoons of flaxmeal a day), compromise (tofu, while not my favorite foodstuff, is good for me and highly digestible for FT, so we're trying to incorporate more of it into our meals) and planning ahead (no weirdo/potentially problematic food before travel or important appointments).

People with ostomies have to contend with a lot, logistically and otherwise, not the least of which is perceived discomfort on the part of others. I remember mentioning something about FT's surgery to a former coworker who looked surprised...then confided to me that she too had  an ileostomy. We started sharing stories, food experiences, helpful hints. This woman told me it was a relief to finally be able to work with someone who understood, who wasn't "grossed out."  We ourselves appreciated the bed-and-breakfast owner up in Empire who, when we expressed some misgivings about her proposed menus because of some potentially difficult ingredients, was willing and even eager to substitute different recipes to accomodate FT's needs. "I love a good challenge," she told us.

To me our meals are a metaphor for our life together in general. To which I say, l'chayim and bon appetit!

A Silver Lining Behind Pat Robertson's Haitian Earthquake Comments

You, know...his blaming the earthquake in Haiti on an apocryphal Haitian "deal with the devil," and calling it a "blessing in disguise." (See/hear here .)

The silver lining? It inspired me to coin a new adjective: asshattic. Used in a sentence: "Pat Robertson and  Rush Limbaugh  are asshattic fuckwits."

You're welcome.

Meanwhile...numerous relief agencies are mobilizing resources to send to Haiti. You know what to do.

Still Not Getting It

After a bit of holiday respite, I notice that the ELCA Facebook page is once again filling up with people angsting over the Churchwide Assembly vote allowing congregations to call partnered gays and lesbians as pastors/other rostered leaders.

Obviously I have a bias here; I have a dog in this fight, not so much for myself but for my sisters and brothers who are called to these vocational paths as well as to their relationships.

But can someone please explain to me why solidly heterosexual congregations in Outer Possum, North Dakota are freaking out over the thought that a congregation in NoCal or Ann Arbor or Manhattan might call a partnered gay person as a pastor? Can someone explain to me the use of words like "anguish" by these people in describing their state of upset?

Here's why I ask this.

This evening we are entertaining one of Fellow Traveler's high school friends, a fellow veteran, whom she found on Facebook about a year ago. He'd been seriously underserved by the VA, and FT has been helping him navigate through the system to quallify for the benefits he has coming to him, particularly for what is most surely PTSD that dates all the way back to the Vietnam era, as well as for possible Agent Orange exposure.

He's at our house today because this morning, somewhere en route to his "comp and pen" exam, he checked out. He tried calling his home but no one answered. He'd lost FT's and my phone number. He wound up calling another high school friend who is also on Facebook, and asked her to ask us to call him. And she did -- IM'd us in a panic. (All the Farmville and viral cut-and-paste silliness aside, Facebook can be a wonderful thing.)

When FT finally got ahold of her friend, he had made it to the VA, but had no idea of how he'd gotten there. He was crying over the phone, and not always coherent: "I can't remember driving here...I can't stop shaking...I don't think I can do this." FT jumped in the Jeep and drove the 40 miles to the clinic to help him; when she got there the nurses told her they were so concerned  about his not having someone with him to take him home that they were going to admit him as an inpatient. FT got her friend calmed down; spoke to the staff on his behalf; helped him get his VA ID card and some meds to tide him over for a couple of days, and insisted that he stay the evening at our home instead of attempting the four-hour drive back home. She had intended to have him park his car at the VA and ride back with her, but he chose to follow her back this far. We had supper, and now we're just watching TV, chatting, trying to keep things light.

Anguish is thinking about your Vietnam tour of duty in the dark of the morning, on a four-hour drive, and suddenly finding yourself there in the jungle with your friends getting blown up next to you by unseen enemies all around you, and  your heart pounding its way out of your chest, and your suddenly losing your ability to think or even to breathe, and your winding up in a hospital parking lot two hours later not remembering how you got there.

Amguish is sitting in a room with a VA doctor who's trying to find reasons to not grant you service connection, describing your experience all over again, along with the details of your entire military career and along with all the physical and emotional pain, all the failures and humiliations you have suffered, for the next 30 years because of what happened to you while you were in the Army.

Anguish is not being able to string words together into sentences, or remember instructions that someone gave you 30 seconds ago, or sleep through the night. Anguish is waking up each morning wondering what strange physical symptom is going to plague your body that day. Anguish is having panic attacks that come out of nowhere and leave you shaken and gasping. Anguish is knowing that your loved ones, the people closest to you, don't know what's wrong with you -- not really -- and not being able to explain it to them in a way they can understand.

That, dear readers, is anguish.

Getting upset because someone else's ELCA congregation may call a partnered gay person as a pastor, getting upset because you think the ELCA hasn't gotten it right about "the homosexuals," isn't anguish. I don't know what you're feeling, folks, but it's not that.

The Bee's Knees

Here I was, all ready to embark upon a thoughtful blog meditation expressing my misgivings over The Eucharist Diet ...oh, let's be honest; I was going to launch into some major upraised-eyebrow snark...but then the good angel who occasionally lights upon my shoulder whispered in my ear, "Just stop now."

I hate it when that happens. I heart my snark.

But anyway, I'm going to talk about bees instead.

Fellow Traveler, as I've mentioned in previous posts, has developed a fascination about beekeeping. I myself, gardener that I am, are fond of honeybees even though I've never really thought about raising them. And I keep running into articles like this one, about the hard times honeybees are facing these days;  how they need all the human friends they can get.

We are not at the hive-purchasing phase...we're not even at the hive-visiting phase, although we want to finagle ourselves into a tour or two this spring. For one thing, we're still at the baby stages of getting into our glass hobbies and gardening, let alone taking on a new endeavor. And I also have stepchildren to think of: "What the hell are you letting our mom do?..." But the more I think about it, the more I'm digging this idea as a long-term goal -- not a commercial enterprise, mind you, just a household hive out back. And even if we lose the magnificent obsession with beekeeping per se, I'd like to make our yard a more bee-friendly place, if not for bees of our own then for the honeybees I was so delighted to find in my garden this past summer, after so many summers of seeing hardly a one, and the native species of bee that are also losing ground to disease and habitat destruction. I see more flowers in our future.

Mollie's Bedtime Story

Our cat Mollie's ongoing personal development from mostly absentee roommate to animal pal has been really remarkable over the last three years.

Mollie's new thing: The family bed.

Now, Mollie has always made nighttime excursions onto household beds; my first night here, for instance, I awoke to find a neatly severed mouse's head laid on the quilt. (True story.) But these visits used to be solely while the humans were asleep.

Then Mollie began to check in when we went to sleep; shortly after turning off the light we'd hear a pitter-patter of little cat feet approaching from the hallway, then a cheery "Brrrrt!" and feel her jump lightly upon the bed. She would walk up and down the quilt a few times...then jump off and spend the night elsewhere.

Ever since we installed a television in the bedroom, though, Mollie has been hanging out with us for extended periods of time. Maybe it's because she enjoys the Food Network and the cheesy reality shows that make up the bulk of our must-see TV. (As I mentioned on Facebook, Pawn Stars is just like Antiques Roadshow, but with tattoos.) But now when it's bedtime she follows us into the bedroom, waits for us to get situated, and then leaps onto the bed: "Oh! Hey! Hi!" Mollie touches noses with Gertie, who at this time of day is a little tired and grumpy, self-exiled to the foot of the bed and not terribly happy that the humans are watching television. Then Miss Moll saunters up the bedspread, purring like a motorboat, and collapses into a writhing ball of kitteh happiness, pushing her head into the palms of our hands and boxing us with her feet. And she stays there until the TV goes off.

It's a surprising as well as endearing new quirk, especially contrasted with Mollie in the morning, when after her breakfast she stalks off to her room -- once a spare bedroom we referred to as The Grandchild's Bedroom, before it became Mollie's Room -- and spends the day atop her pillow on the bed. Mollie's grace toward human interlopers here lasts about 30 seconds -- if I need to get into the closet I make my apologies to the disapproving creature glaring at me from across the room, do what I need to do and skedaddle -- and Gertie is so intimidated that she won't even cross the threshhold.

It may be true that you can't teach an old dog new tricks, but our old cat seems to have taught herself a new one.

Friday Five: "Beautiful Dreamer" Edition

This week's RevGalBlogPals Friday Five sends us to Dreamland -- our own!

1. Do you tend to daydream?
Sometimes I think that's my usual state of consciousness.


2. Do you usually remember your night dreams? Do you find them symbolic and meaningful or just quirky?

I used to remember them almost every night, quite vividly...went through a patch, during my last employment, when they came few and far between...now seem to remember more of them again. I have had some dreams in my life that were indeed very meaningful to me whether metaphorically or in a very direct, smack-upside-the-head way. And others -- well, I chalk up last night's dream, in which I found myself tasked with driving part of a multi-unit float in a Presidential motorcade, to eating kale chips at suppertime. Sometimes a cigar is just a bad burrito.

3. Have you ever had a life changing dream which you'll never forget?

Oh, yes. I once dreamed that I was being embraced by God -- it was not only a visual dream but a tactile one. It was during a time in my life when I didn't feel particularly spiritual or connected to God; it seemed to come out of nowhere. I will always remember that. (And how does God feel? some of you may be asking. It's really hard for me to describe what I felt; something warm and all-encompassing and electric, with a definite personality and ability to communicate.)

4. Share a long term dream for one or more aspects of your life and work.

Having come up in the 80's when we were schooled to always have a very targeted and aspirational plan for personal and professional success -- my long-term dream is to divest my psyche of whatever's left of that b.s. and instead cultivate real openness to whatever God may be up to in my future.

5. Share a dream for 2010....How can we support you in prayer on both the short and long term dreams?

One of my current magnificent obsessions in ministry, as constant readers know,  is the concept of the domestic church. I think that as denominations continue their slow deconstruction and as the cultural/civic Christianity of past generations gives way, this is going to become a more important element of Christian self-identity and of spiritual formation. I've touched on this on our church blog, providing our readership with links to various online resources for Christian households. Maybe one of my dreams is to do more with this idea in the future, although at this point it's a very freeform/unfocused idea.

Bonus share: While trying (competitive person that I am) to come up with a good "bonus" dream reference, a song I haven't heard or thought of in years, if not decades, popped up in my head: "Last Night I Had the Strangest Dream." I did a little YouTube research and came up with this clip of a young John Denver, in 1971, singing it at an antiwar demonstration. For a moment I was overtaken by a profound wistfulness for the idealism of those times, and the sadness of their passing and of John Denver's passing. I miss that simple, unaffected voice from back in those early days of his career. Requiem in pace.

Bible Study With the Church Ladies

Tomorrow I will be, in our pastor's absence, leading women's Bible study at our church. This venerable institution has been going on pretty much since World War I, and most of the participants are the true matriarchs of our congregation.

I recall, a few years ago on this blog, expressing my intense dislike of group Bible studies, so it's another indication of God's sense of humor that I have been tasked with this assignment. It helps that I enjoy the participants -- they're right-on women who take their faith seriously but can cut loose in a way that the uptight church ladies of my childhood did not. I think we'll have fun. Might learn something too.

Chalking the Door: Church Goes Domestic

Yesterday on the way home after church I stopped by a local dollar store and picked up a packet of chalk...for our first ever household Epiphany blessing/chalking of the doors.

I've never done this before. But over the past couple of weeks I've experienced an odd convergence of personal e-mails, Internet rabbit-hole meanders and readings that all seem to lead to discussions of this custom. "Hmmm," I thought. "Maybe the Universe is telling me something."

If this is an unfamiliar custom to you: In many countries households mark Epiphany by a general blessing of living quarters and, in some cases, by a ritual marking of main doorways as a means of blessing all who enter in the coming year. This idea of blessing resonates with me on any number of levels.

I was thinking about Epiphany anyway this weekend, and how at least in Lutheran circles, like so many other festivals that fall in mid-week, it's disappeared into the ether; and as a result laypeople lose opportunities to learn/refresh their memory of important Bible stories, history of the Church and major themes of Christian theology and worship. Yes, it's true; we're not in the Middle Ages, and the logistics of conducting worship services for all these special days, not to mention trudging off to them, simply isn't doable for most of us. But there is a means for preserving this wisdom and tradition: The so-called "Domestic Church."

I know that my more cerebral coreligionists are probably rolling their eyes right now. But I'm unabashedly riding this particular hobbyhorse this year. Just as we need more biblically literate laypeople in the ELCA, I think we need to inculcate a sense of everyday spirituality in our people -- ways to engage hearts as well as minds in our beliefs and heritage and practice. (Our Jewish friends are way ahead of us in this regard.) I believe that we are hardwired for ritual; and, to paraphrase one dog trainer, if you don't give people a ritual, they'll make up one of their own, and you won't like it.

I am also aware that some readers may have a difficult time observing traditional Christian holy days with questionable factual basis; who, for instance, respond to the issue of Epiphany by questioning the historicity of the Magi, sneering at the layers of folkloric embellishments to the biblical text, and so on. Well, that's okay; been there, done that. But maybe -- just maybe -- it's okay to turn off the historical criticism for a few minutes on any given day, and just play with the stories of faith, because they're our stories to tell to one another, generation to generation.

And if you'd like to chalk your door this Epiphany and ritually give the gift of blessing and goodwill to everyone who enters your home in the year to come, in Christ's name, here's how that works.

On the Nightstand

Christmas was very, very good to me in terms of books; I find myself with a tantalizing new pile of them to peruse these cold, wintry days.

The Kids, bless their hearts, hearing that I had never read any of the Harry Potter books (yes, it's true...it started out that, during the height of Harry-mania, I could never get my hands on one of the books at our local library, and then I just got busy and never followed up)...got me Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone. I got started during our stay in Brooklyn, and read more on the plane on the way home. It's great fun; and there's a Dickensian quality to the matter-of-fact way in which J.K. Rowling portrays Harry's ghastly pre-Hogwarts life that I think may resonate with many young readers, along with that note of hope -- that the despised "other," the one who doesn't fit in, the sufferer, can be a hero for others and the hero of his or her own life story. That's pretty cool.

A wonderful surprise was Julia Child's classic Mastering the Art of French Cooking, which Fellow Traveler told me she ordered shortly after we went to see the film Julie/Julia. My foodie heart went pitter-patter as I tore open the wrapping paper. While I have no aspirations to replicate Julie Powell's blogged journey throughout the entirety of the cookbook, we did talk about maybe doing a "Julia" meal once a week.

Two books, also cookbooks, were explicitly on my wish list: Artisan Bread in Five Minutes a Day and Healthy Bread in Five Minutes a Day, both by Zoe Francois and Jeff Hertzberg, a pastry chef and scientist/amateur bread baker who have come up with methods for creating no-knead yeasted bread doughs that can be kept in the refrigerator and broken off as needed for fresh, artisan-quality loaves. While I love the ease of a bread machine, it has its limits; so I'm really interested in trying out some of these recipes, even though it means a willing suspension of my disbelief in most things "new and improved."

Finally, a book I gave myself for Christmas/my birthday: Gertrud Mueller Nelson's To Dance With God, a book about sanctifying home life through ritual; something I want to do more of in our own household and a concept I'd like to share in our own faith community and beyond.

My only regret in all of this: I can't find my booklight, which I think I am going to need as I work my way through all these wonderful books!

My New Year's Resolutions

Today I came across a blog written by a con-evo Intervarsity type -- someone who seems to embrace the sort of Pietistic scrupulosity an online acquaintance of mine once referred to as "Is picking my nose Scriptural?" -- who suggested that New Year's resolutions have a whiff of Pelagianism about them. This made me chuckle -- a neo-Puritan wringing his hands over other people's perceived works-righteousness. Off to the pillory for you, dude.

But anyway: I have found making resolutions to be less than helpful, not because I think of them as a Pelagian stairway to heaven but because they generally don't take; which isn't surprising since it takes about 21 days, so I'm told, to train oneself into a new habit, and that the average human being can't handle more than about three of these new habits at once.

Nonetheless, I have made a couple of small and I think doable resolutions for the coming year.

One is intended to solve an ongoing annoyance/stressor in my life: Using the many cloth grocery bags we have obtained over the last year in the way they were intended -- hauling groceries -- instead of keeping them stashed behind the pie chest in our entryway or using them for carrying shoes, last-minute travel supplies, empty bottles, dog toys -- everything except groceries. We have at least a half-dozen of these things; my goal is to keep two of them in each of our vehicles, and the spares stowed in the entryway. We bring a full bag of groceries into the house, we take an empty bag back out. I think we can do this.

My other resolution is a joint venture with Fellow Traveler: We really want to start a weekly Bible study at home, on a designated "front room" evening. FT has a difficult time with our church's Sunday morning Bible study, which covers the day's lectionary lessons, because in the herding-cats milieu of the regulars' group the discussion tends to fall off the topical trolley rather quickly, and because a couple of the participants frankly use the hour for impromptu group therapy rather than actually discussing the texts at hand. FT says, "I know I'm not being patient -- but I'm a very concrete, task-oriented thinker. If I'm going to commit to an hour of Bible study I want it to be Bible study and not hearing the same stories about people's personal issues over and over again." (Don't tell FT, but I think she'd really dig the seminary-professor-taught biblical studies sections of the Lay Ministry Training Program, which are pretty down-to-business simply because of the volume of information being presented within a limited amount of time.)

So -- we're trying to come up with something workable. Since I do a mini-study every week on Sunday lectionary texts for our church blog, that might seem to be a logical starting point; but FT has noted that, when she reads these, and then hears our pastor's sermons that will touch on some broad theme of the week but that often don't directly engage the texts for very long, she feels like something's missing.

My thought is to just start at the beginning of one book and go right though the whole thing, using all our available study-Bible and other reference tools but then also re-approaching the text from a more immediate, personal "What does this mean for me at this time?" perspective. We might just start at Genesis. I'm sharing Luther Seminary's Enter the Bible website with FT to see if that resonates with her.

FT is an eager student ready to, as Kelly Fryer puts it, swim out to the deeper end of the pool, so I think we'll have some fun with this.

A New Year's Day Friday Five

Happy New Year to all!

We're having a low-key day back home...I'm getting ready to make a lamb roast, and this evening we'll be playing Family Feud on the Wii.

But of course a new year (not to mention a new decade) brings with it much potential...maybe some anxiety...maybe some regret. Here's this week's questions from the RevGalBlogPals:

What will you gladly leave behind in 2009?
My former job. I honestly thank God every day that I don't have to work there. And my former vehicle -- I really grew to hate The Hoopty that last year. I love my Prius, even though at this point we treat it like a hothouse flower and keep it garaged except for weekly exercise sessions (good for the battery and the motor) and long trips -- at 40 miles to the gallon, it's our vehicle of choice for our monthly excursions up- or downstate.


2. What is the biggest challenge of 2010 for you?
I think my greatest challenge is going to be to start crafting an intentional life that involves some sort of useful labor on my own terms. When I quit my job I had visions of immediately plunging full-tilt boogie into some equally intensive endeavor; but I didn't -- because I couldn't. I had to recover -- recover emotionally, intellectually, even physically -- from my previous employment. That has taken an entire year. And both Fellow Traveler and I got temporarily, if happily, sidetracked by the arrival of G-Baby, a Big Event in our family. I feel regrouped now; humbled by some false starts, but ready to move on, this time in perhaps a more intuitive way.

3. Is there anything that you simply need to hand to God and say "all will be well, for you are with me"?
It's interesting...I've begun feeling my mortality more in the last couple of years. Some days more than others; I'll get a sore muscle in my arm or a touch of indigestion after a challenging meal, or hear about people younger than I am succumbing to a heart attack or cancer and will actually begin feeling anxious. These are good times to remember the Serenity Prayer.

4. If you could only achieve one thing in 2010 what would it be?
Only one thing, eh? I think I want to achieve a daily schedule that has the right amount of structure -- enough to keep me purposeful and focused (that teaching us to number our days thing) without overprogramming myself; enough to go to bed every night feeling satisfied and thankful, not frustrated and stressed.

5. Post a picture, poem or song that sums up your prayer for the year ahead....

I'm posting this for the lyrics, not the video -- just so you know:

Christmas Cards, to the Unchurched

I know that in many Christian homes the sending of Christmas cards is an activity fraught with uncertainty and guilt: Should we buy separate religious and secular cards? What about the hybrid cards, with secular graphics but a religious message? (The picture to the right, by the way, illustrates one of our trifecta of card designs for this year, carefully chosen for each recipient based upon his or her anticipated reaction.) Am I "ashamed of the Gospel of Christ" if I don't send an explicitly Christian Christmas card?

Well, this year Fellow Traveler and I, as guests in our children's home, got to see firsthand the reaction of non-churchgoing, non-religious individuals to the reception of such cards.

Some background: The Kids are getting heavy pressure from Son #2's biological father and his partner to have our grandchild baptized -- preferably in a Roman Catholic church, although I understand that Grandpa, without consulting me, offered my services for a marginally acceptable substitute baptism. (I told Daughter-in-Law that I both understood and appreciated her viewpoint that making religious vows that she and Son #2 have no intention of keeping in regard to their child's religious upbringing is not living with integrity.)  So religion has become a newly prickly issue. 

Then, to make matters worse, The Kids received a stealth-Christian Christmas card from maternal Grandpa -- someone who has no discernable religious affiliation, whose bad behavior has estranged him from his children for some time -- featuring a quaint English village illustration, with a non-sequitur Bible verse tucked inside.

With this subtext in mind...let's just say that the reaction was not pretty. "What the hell?..." I think was the common response of both kids to Maternal Grandpa's stealth CHRISTmas card.

Points made:

- Christmas cards that look religion-neutral but have Christian stuff written in them are interpreted as being pushy and proselytizing in an especially creepy way.

- Both overtly and covertly religious cards, if sent by schmucks, are subject to particular scorn and ridicule. If you don't live it, then don't try to promote it.

- An alternative interpretation of a religious card sent by a family member to another family member known to be non-religious: They must have pulled this one out of the bottom of the drawer. If they really knew or cared about us, they'd know we wouldn't appreciate this.

Even though Fellow Traveler and I were not on the receiving end of this sentiment (we are not dumb enough to provoke our children to anger by sending them potentially objectionable holiday cards)...I for one still felt like I was taking one for the team listening to this excorciation of Christmas-card stupidity.

Why are Christians so pushy? Why do we think that some non-believer is going to have a metanoia moment reading a context-free Bible verse cut-and-pasted into a cheesy Christmas card? What are we proving, and to whom? Do we have a fantasy that God, working on the heavenly Excel spreadsheets, is saying, "Ah -- LutheranChik took a defensive stand in the War on Christmas by quoting the Gospel of Luke in her Christmas cards! Well done, good and faithful servant!"? Oh, please.

So Fellow Traveler and I will be, for the foreseeable future, maintaining our custom of multiple card designs for our multiplicity of friends, and hope that, for people who have issues with organized religion, what we do all year long says more about our faith than what Christmas card we send.

There's Something About Mary...

...that turns certain Protestants into complete jerks: Read the comments generated by this Internet Monk blog post. (I am not a regular reader of iMonk, but every so often another blogger links to it; and I always leave it feeling like a tourist fleeing a particularly unfriendly, uncomfortable region of Christendom, eager to get back on the plane for home.)

Now, I'm sure that Mary, tough Jewish mother that she is, can take care of herself when confronted by what always appear in my mind to be frowny-faced, Evangelical 30-40-somethings with the requisite alpha-male goatees and bowling-alley sartorial sensibility ("I'm just a fun, sensitive, cuddly guy who also happens to be a homophobic misogynist fundamentalist"). But the vehemence with which some of the respondents reject any notion of according the mother of our Lord with any significance or honor whatsoever makes me want to get into these fellows' faces and snarl, Hey -- you leave her alone.

Since I can't, though, I'll just volunteer a two-word armchair analysis of what lies underneath the theologized veneer of the Marian discomfort I read in this discussion: Mommy Issues.

Addendum: This discussion came up on Beliefnet's Lutheran forum, apparently even as I was writing this post...my friend Wayne provided this article on Luther's attitude toward the Virgin Mary.

Singing Mit Feeling

A wistful Rod Dreher post about men singing together, and our experience of Christmas Eve Mass where the otherwise engaged congregation fell silent during the hymns, got me thinking this morning about singing in general, and how all of us do so little of it.

I love my congregation -- I really do -- but apart from the nursery-school-aged chitlins they're the most terrible, unenthusiastic singers in all of Lutherland. I just don't get it. Even on Reformation Sunday, a day when most Lutherans are belting out "A Mighty Fortress" with the vigor of Cubbie fans singing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" at the seventh-inning stretch, our congo sounds like they're in painful recovery from major oral surgery. Sung liturgy? Fuggetaboutit, except for a few brave souls during Holden Evening Prayer at Advent and Lent.

My dad, who thanks to his arts-averse family could not read one note of music, was nonetheless a robust church singer with a good ear, constantly at the receiving end of entreaties to join the church choir. He always refused. "Someone's got to lead from the pews too," he'd argue.

Some who've noticed this non-singing phenomenon in the culture in general blame the entertainment industry and its professionalization of music; back before the days of easy access to musical recordings, families and friends used to sing together for amusement, and coworkers would sing to relieve the tedium of repetitive work; now we rely on our sound systems and radio to supply our music. Likewise, church musicianship -- and just so I don't get pounded for firing a shot in the worship wars, I think this is true in traditional worship modalities as well as contemporary ones -- has developed a kind of self-conscious, aspirational quality that makes people uncomfortable with the idea of providing their own untutored sung praises to God, instead of delegating that responsibility to a trained choir or "praise team."

I don't know what the solution, if any, is to this. But if you happen upon a traveling band of itinerent singers willing to seed the pews of a non-singing church, please send them my way.

Terror in the Skies

I found out about the attempted bombing of the Delta/Northwest flight landing at Detroit Metro the day after it happened, glancing at a New York Post over at the bagel place down the street. It turns out that Fellow Traveler had seen it on the news the evening before, when I was asleep, but didn't want to tell me about it because she thought it would make me too anxious flying home.

She needn't have worried; I was frankly more anxious about briefly losing track of my driver's license in my handbag the other day. But I am angry -- specifically over an article in the Detroit Free Press which quoted a member of Detroit's Nigerian Muslim community hoping aloud that the attempted bombing wouldn't lead to profiling members of that community at airports.

Really, now? That's the big concern of the Nigerian Muslim community in Detroit? -- that one of them might be subject to a secondary search at the airport? Hmmm. I would think that -- hello -- getting blown up by a fundamentalist fruitcake might be of slightly more concern to any human being with half a brain and a normal impulse to stay alive.

I am sometmes made fun of for exhibiting political correctness, but this is one area where I'm not going to do so: If someone fits the ethnic and religious profile of an Islamic terrorist, then for heaven's sake the TSA and local law enforcement should profile them...and their innocent coreligionists/countrypeople need to stop whining and cooperate, like people who find terrorism repulsive and unacceptable.

If a cabal of middle-aged Lutheran lesbian grannies gone bad suddenly began creating life-threatening mayhem on board airplanes, I would gladly volunteer to go through an additional airport screening; because I have nothing to hide; because I'm not doing anything wrong. And if my fellow Lutheran lesbian grannies started sniveling about harassment and privacy and prejudice, I'd tell them to woman up and do what needs to be done to identify the bad apples and prevent them from wreaking more havoc.

Many years ago, when a spate of films depicting gay and lesbian villains hit Hollywood at the same time, provoking an angry response in the gay community, I remember some gay activist -- maybe Larry Kramer -- noting that a community has not really reached a state of maturity, self-acceptance and self-confidence as long as it can't acknowledge the fact that some of its members are bad people. Maybe someone should convey that bit of advice to Muslim groups who publicly express more outrage over perceived insults to their community than outrage over the carnage and fear generated by terrorism.

Brownstones

This morning Fellow Traveler and I are being quiet in the living room/dining room area while the rest of the family sleeps at the opposite end of the apartment.

We're in a brownstone -- for those of you whose experience of New York is limited to films and television, this is the real deal, with long stone stairways and black iron gating, that looks so picturesque when, say, the Law and Order cops are interviewing a witness in front of one.

When you open our doors, though, what you will find is not the sparkling modernity of a made-for-television set, but a real taste of old New York, circa 1890's.

Space, as always, is at a premium in this town. So our kids' living spills out of their rooms into the hallways, into ponderous antique dressers and dorm-style shelving units. The bathroom -- featuring a fin-de-siecle sink on clawed metal feet and a bathtub whose rim is nearly a yard high, necessitating the grandmas' summoning of all the dexterity they can manage to crawl inside -- is chiseled out of a corner in the hall, and is small enough that I can pretty much touch the opposite walls with outstretched hands. The kids' actual living space consists of one large room, divided up by sliding doors into a dining/living area, storage area and sleeping area, with a tiny kitchen/laundry off to the side facing the neighbors' back yards. Grandmas are staying in a small spare bedroom off to the side of The Kids' apartment that actually belongs to the landlord -- it's where he houses his son when his son pays a visit -- but that he has graciously donated to our extended family during all the new-baby visitation.

Logistics gets tricky in this patchwork of living areas. Grandmas have easy access to the bathroom from our room at the opposite end of the hallway...but we can't get into the kitchen without opening the door into The Kids' bedroom, which we are not going to do until they're safely up and dressed. Likewise, our coats are in a closet in the central part of the apartment, walled off by the two sets of sliding doors, and trying to get at them involves more noise than we can safely manage in the morning. The tininess of the kitchen -- just to give you an idea, in order for us to set up the crockpot for dinner yesterday we had to park the coffeemaker in the hall, and the top of the dryer also serves as stand-in storage space for cooking implements-- provided me with new insight into why The Kids live on takeout. Sometimes I sit here and wonder what it was like to dwell in these buildings with the large families of past generations.

Not that everything is cramped and crowded, though. We have very high, airy ceilings, and a nice bay window that's a great place to eat breakfast and people-watch. And the architecture is fascinating -- all the turned wood of the stairs; the elaborate moldings; the (closed) fireplace; the colorful surprise of a stained-glass skylight at the top of the stairwell.

The affable landlord -- a very entertaining guy, a Renaissance man whose knowledge base covers everything from deep-sea fishing to the more notable residents of Greenlawn Cemetery, and who could easily create a profitable sideline narrating tours of greater Brooklyn -- took us on a grand tour of the entire building yesterday, which he has been lovingly restoring for the past 25 years, repointing and renovating the basement and stripping the wonderful beechwood moldings section by section to rediscover their original honey color. He lives on the first two floors of the building.

The Kids are planning on moving to California in the next year, so this will be our last time in this place. Despite its logistical challenges, I think they'll leave with a touch of sadness.

Christmas in Brooklyn

Happy Boxing Day/St. Stephen's Day to all. Grandmas offered to babysit while The Kids went out for breakfast -- I think this is, like, their first date alone since the baby -- so I'm sitting here in our living area, laptop on my knee, with Miss Ruby nearby in a little vibrating baby seat; she is mightily fighting the urge to sleep (in a good-natured way), but her little eyes keep closing. Fellow Traveler is in the kitchen making sangria for our Mexican formerly-Christmas-dinner-turned-LC's-birthday-party feast. (Our Christmas Eve lobsters arrived late Christmas Eve because of weather delays elsewhere, so we have moved our menus back one day. While nervously tracking our lobster that evening, we encountered a FedEx customer service rep who, when we explained our problem on the phone, seemed to begin weeping uncontrollably. We felt terrible -- maybe our call was the one holiday problem call to send her over the edge, we thought -- but then she explained she was trying to tamp down an uncontrollable cough from a cold that wouldn't go away. We had her laughing when we hung up; so we trust she was finally able to have a semi-Merry Christmas.)
The Kids are not churchgoers, so we really didn't know if they would have plans to go to church on Christmas Eve; but Son #2 seemed inexplicably moved to attend services. So after Ruby was up from a needed nap we walked about five minutes up the street to Our Lady of Perpetual Help, a huge basilica church with attached school that takes up an entire city block, for its 10:30 pm Spanish Christmas Eve Mass. We passed Santa Claus in a pickup truck, and gave him a wave -- I love New York -- and numerous families carrying elaborately decorated Baby Jesusi to be blessed at Mass, and proceeded up the formidable steps into the main worship area. No one paid a great deal of attention to us; a few elderly ushers were stationed in the narthex, but when we took what we thought were bulletins we found to our disappointment that they were simply a list of persons who'd donated poinsettias to the altar.

We had a great time as church tourists -- even our rather more skeptical daughter-in-law, who is also still experiencing postpartum discomfort of various kinds familiar to readers who are also parental units, and who spent an awkward hour half-sitting/half-lying sideways on a hard old-school church pew, with a leg propped against the kneeler. She was a very good sport about the whole thing. 

Our little party accounted for five of the maybe eight Anglo worshippers present -- along with a tall, very Hibernian-featured young seminarian in a black cassock who smiled throughout Mass and kept bobbing rhythm with the uptempo music, and a couple of non-Latino women across the aisle from us. Every bit of the Mass was in Spanish except for the chorus to "Feliz Navidad" -- ironic, that -- and I was only able to follow along because I know the liturgical drill and know enough entirely passive pidgin Spanish to pick up the important words. Sitting, or more appropriately sitting and standing, there, I  developed a new empathy for both immigrants and nonchurchgoers like DiL, thrust into the mystery of the liturgy with little clue as to what is going on.

Music was provided by a small folk group who sang what we assumed to be traditional Mexican hymns, although worshippers sat poker-faced throughout; every once in awhile the leader of the group would motion for the congregation to join in, but no one took her up on the offer. Having been in a folk group in college that often garnered the same response from the older generation in churches we visited, I sympathized with the woman, who who looked a little sad as she beseeched her fellow worshippers to sing along.)  The liturgy, however, was a livelier affair, with the crowd actively participating and even a few charismatic hands thrust into the air.

Our Mass was celebrated by three priests and two deacons, assisted by an equal number of girl acolytes; something I found pleasantly surprising. Two quietly self-assured and neatly attired teens, a girl and boy, read the lessons.  The homilist was earnest and lively and worked without a net, speaking extemporaneously as he wandered back and forth in front of the congregation; I caught the phrase "The glory of Christmas is love," and gleaned from the rest of the homily that in our tendency to romanticize the Christmas story we miss the amazing story of God in Christ becoming one with humanity in a way that's hard for us to comprehend. After the Eucharist the sequin-bedecked assortment of little Baby Jesusi laid at the altar by families were censed and blessed. We sang "Feliz Navidad" -- featuring the one English sentence of the entire Mass -- as our final hymn.

Not that I am prejudiced or anything, but Miss Ruby gave the blingy El Ninos some competiton for attention at church; the priests made much of her during the recessional ("Oh -- this one is real!" exclaimed one cleric with a grin as he approached our pew), and the people around us were all smiles as they saw her in her little polar-bear snowsuit.

A good time was had by all, even though we didn't get home until very late indeed, and promptly tumbled into bed.

I hope all your Christmases were equally wonderful!

Welcome to Brooklyn!

I am writing this from The Kids' dining room table, on the top floor of a Brooklyn brownstone flanked by sycamores. The snowman belongs to a neighbor on the other side of the street. (We took this photo a couple of days ago, when the snow was still fresh; he's looking the worse for wear today, missing a hat and one eye.)

It is almost 5:30 pm, but we are on lobster watch -- according to FedEx, the lobster we ordered for tonight is on the truck...somewhere. We called a very nice, very ill customer service representative who is helping us figure out what's going on. But we have a Plan B...so don't worry about us.

 We had planned on attending family Christmas Mass down the street at Our Lady of Perpetual Help. This will not happen, partly because of the lobster but mostly because Miss Ruby, who's had a fussy day, is finally asleep, and we're overjoyed about that, and not about to interrupt her slumber. (We think Baby Jesus would understand this.)  We may go to the Spanish service at 10:30...there's also a Chinese Mass at 12:30, but that's pushing it...we'll figure something out.

Meanwhile, the other neighbors have been decking their halls, or more accurately their brownstones, with wonderful Christmas bling; this is a much more festive neighborhood than ours back home. I'm just sitting here with Fellow Traveler, watching the lights and the neighbors and the traffic.

No matter what you and yours are doing this Christmas Eve, we wish you a blessed and Merry Christmas.

Friday Five: Christmas Traditions Edition

It's an easy, seasonal RevGalBlogPals Friday Five this week...all about:

•traditions you always do
We always put up a tree -- even this year, when we won't be home, we'll still have the tree up to greet us when we get back.  Because I brought my tree and bling with me from Cold Comfort Cottage our ideal is to have the "family" tree with more whimsical and homemade ornaments in the living room, and then the blingy traditional tree with my collection of blown glass ornaments in the front room...but that scenario will have to wait a year.

Since we've been together, I've always bought a romantic Old World-y blown glass Christmas ornament for Fellow Traveler and myself -- hearts, snuggling birds and the like.

We always have Christmas creches. I usually put up my old family one with the mismatched shepherds and the gimpy three-legged sheep; but in the meantime we've collected others we enjoy, that we display elsewhere.

For years I've always taken a tag off whatever community Christmas tree I happened to live near, and buy presents for the indicated giftee. FT loves to do this too. We also buy a critter for Heifer Project.

We also open our presents on Christmas Eve -- this is a tradition I've brought with me to our home. FT is the kind of impatient giftee who's shaking and squeezing and sniffing wrapped gifts weeks before Christmas, so she's fine with adopting the custom of my people.

FT's family, unlike mine, is big on Christmas stockings, which are filled with an assortment of little goodies and practical items, all individually wrapped.  Everyone in the family has a monogrammed L.L. Bean stocking for this.

And of course we go to church on Christmas Eve, although at this point we're still wondering if, when and how this is going to happen in our kids' Brooklyn neighborhood.

And you read about the cookie thing...I'm still feeling like that's a "left undone" this year even though we just mailed off two hearty tins of cookie-walk cookies to the younguns in the family.



•traditions you always cook or eat
Growing up, my mother always made her good tuna noodle casserole (the solid kind made with eggs as a binding, that you can cut into squares)  for a fast Christmas Eve supper. Christmas dinner was generally ham. We on the other hand tend to eat Mexican food on and before Christmas. (FT notes that the only other positive of her relationship with her ex-husband, apart from the existence of our two kids, are the recipes she learned from her Mexican ex-mother-in-law, who couldn't speak a word of English but who nonetheless taught FT how to make tasty dishes like chicken mole'.)

•traditions you would like to start
Our tradition plate is pretty full, thanks...although we think we might start buying granddaughter Ruby an ornament each year. This year her parents are getting a glass baby bootie with her name on it.

•traditions you would like to discard
I very often have a cold at Christmas, and/or one of those [TMI alert!] perimenopausal female-plumbing issues that make the middle years of my life so very special. Those are two traditions I'd be happy to dump.

•anything about your family Christmases
It's wonderful to live into family Christmases that are much better than the ones I grew up with -- much less relational Sturm und Drang, much less anxiety, much more fun. As someone once said, it's a wonderful life.

The Kids

For Constant Readers who've always wondered about The Kids:

Daughter-in-Law and Son#2, coming home with Ruby.

Son#1 and Son-in-Law.













This instant-fully-raised-and-grown family thing is great. I highly recommend it.

Another G-Baby Photo!

"So...you come here often?"

A Mid-Michigan Advent: Only a Week Away

And the four living creatures, each of them with six wings, are full of eyes all around and inside. Day and night without ceasing they sing, 'Holy, holy, holy, the Lord God the Almighty, who was and is and is to come.' -- Revelation 4:8

A healthy amount of ink has been devoted, I'm sure, over the years to a discussion of what the "living creatures" in Revelation represent. An interpretation that resonates with me is that they indeed represent...living creatures; the created world.

We have a soft spot in our hearts for other living creatures around here. We feed the birds. We chuckle at the individual idiosyncracies of our neighborhood deer herd, and worry about the two late-season runts who were still in spots when the leaves began turning color.  We try, each year -- albeit with minimal success -- to enliven the ecoystem of our backyard pond. We take personal responsibility for two four-legged creatures in our own household, and have been friends to others in our neighborhood (rest in peace Charlie, our neighbors' geriatric pointer, who wore a track through our yard on his multiple daily treks to our patio door for biscuits).

To us, making our designated space on the planet a healthy, welcoming place for other created things isn't an option; it's something we do. It makes us feel good, but not in a self-serving way; it feels good because it is good; it's making something right within our little scope of influence, and it's respecting the right of other living things to live here with us in this place.

I'd like to think that this is just a basic Christian environmental ethic. But I've met more than my fair share of Christians whose terror of "paganism" (as if they have an inkling of what this even means) is so deep and gripping that they are afraid to love the nature around them. Their theology offers the false dichotomy of nature worship or Gnostic disdain for nature as nothing more than, at best, an interesting backdrop to the human drama.

Well, I'm not buying it. Nor do I buy C.S. Lewis' argument that our animal friends' lives have individual meaning only insofar as we individual humans assign it to them. That's hubris I'm not willing to assume. I'd rather choose to see "all my relations" in the vision of John of Patmos, their lives in everlasting song to the Creator.