Labor of Fear...Labor of Love

Once upon a time, back in a prior vocational incarnation, I worked with a guy who was almost a dead ringer, both in looks and in disposition, for Wally in the "Dilbert" comic strip. In quieter moments our Wally would hold forth on his philosophy of work ("Just keep your head down and do your job"; "Never volunteer") and, once he really got going, on life, the universe and everything.

"They say that love makes the world go around," Wally mused one day. "Not true. It's fear. Fear is what really makes the world go around."

You know what? Wally is right.

Politicians know this. Fear of terrorism...fear of unemployment...fear of the stranger, the other...fear of not having enough to go around...fear of the future...push the right fear buttons and you can win an election. And, depending on the country, your fearless leader might push the ultimate fear button: "Do this, believe this, or we kill you."

Marketers know that fear runs the world. Afraid of not fitting in? Buy these fine products that will make you attractive and popular and envied by others. Afraid of disappointing your significant other, or children, or boss, or even your pet? We have just the solutions for remaining loved and valued. Afraid of not feeling good all the time? Buy these drugs. Afraid of germs, or accidents, or other people, or the natural processes of your own body or mind? Step right up, ladies and gents -- here's the cure for all your ills.

Religious institutions have never shied away from exploiting the fear factor. Do this, don't do that, or God won't love you. Believe this, don't believe that, or you're going to hell. Don't tow our line? Then we draw the line, and you're on the other side of it; God help you then. In Sunday's Gospel text, when Jesus speaks of yokes and burdens, some scholars believe that he was referring specifically to the increasingly complex and onerous set of ritual laws that the Pharisees expected their fellow Jews to follow in order to be considered "good" -- good enough to be respected as truly pious; good enough, perhaps, to speed the coming of the Messiah and the end of the hated Roman occupation.

Ah, yes...that nagging voice that originates right inside our own psyches: Not good enough. Of all the burdens we carry, perhaps this is the heaviest one of them all. In the Epistle lesson for this past Sunday, the Apostle Paul writes eloquently of our perceived inability to get it right; our own profound sense of not being good enough. "Oh, wretched man that I am! Who will rescue me from this body of death?") Fear of not being good enough causes us to hate and reject ourselves; to live in cringing fear of others' judgments; to pretend to be people we are not; to become defensive; to pull rank on other people because, even if we're miserable and self-hating, there's a certain small comfort in rating ourselves less loathesome than someone else. Sometimes it causes us to simply give up, and let the boulder on our backs crush the very life and hope out of us.

And there, lying in the dirt, is where we meet Jesus.

Jesus' response to all of this, not only in Sunday's text but in his entire life and ministry? No Fear. He contrasts the burden of fear with his own burden of love -- a love that finds even the unloveliest people "good enough" -- good enough to eat with; good enough to touch; good enough to care about; good enough to teach and heal and treat as members of his own household. Instead of fear, Jesus lives in a state of freedom -- freedom to be human, to be vulnerable, to take chances on behalf of others, to zig while the various power brokers of this world zag. He tells his listeners: "See how I work in the world. This is the way to do it. Follow me -- come on -- let me show you." In the popular religious mind I think we sometimes hear Jesus' "Follow me!" call to metanoia as an imperious command; in my own life it's usually been more of a conspiratorial wink and toss of the head: Pssst...over here. Let me get you out of this mess. Follow me.

The other day while driving around the county I saw an Amish farmer with two oddly-paired Belgian horses in harness: a huge, placid plow horse, with a gangly, hyper teenager next to it. The colt's harnessmate was, in effect, its teacher. When I hear Jesus say, "Take my yoke upon you and learn from me," I don't perceive the yoke as something Jesus imposes upon us, but rather something that he carries right with us -- to show us the ropes, as it were, like that old Belgian.

Does fear make the world go around? You bet. But Jesus tells us we're not of the world; we just have one foot in it, with the other foot in the inbreaking Reign of God, whose rule is grounded in love. Living in that tension between the now and the not-yet, listen for that persistent, beckoning voice: Pssst...over here. Let me get you out of this mess. Follow me.



Stained glass, St. Jude's Church, Brantford, Ontario 

Happy Wheatland!

Summertime in Michigan means lots of great music festivals all around the state, including a growing number of traditional music festivals. But one of the biggest and best is the Wheatland Music Festival, held in Remus (surely you know where Remus is?...right smack in between Mt. Pleasant and Big Rapids) the weekend after Labor Day. It started out, the story goes, as a few hundred hippies in a hayfield, but has grown into a three-day, 14,000+-festivalgoer extravaganza of acoustic music performances, arts and crafts, music workshops, impromptu jamming, food and fun. And the locals -- who, after a few years realized that Wheatland was better than Christmas, retailwise, for a down-on-its-luck farm town in the middle of nowhere, and who have also benefitted from the Wheatland Music Organization's commitment to community education -- have embraced Wheatland weekend as well.

I've been going to the Wheatland Music Festival since I was out of college. It's hard to describe Wheatland to someone who hasn't been there, but try to imagine a cleaner, soberer (more or less), non-electrified Woodstock run by an amazing team of volunteers who constantly wrest order from chaos, do combination roadie/concierge duties for the musicians, direct traffic, keep the place clean, heal the sick, tell really bad jokes, teach folks about the environment, expel troublemakers, wrangle children and teenagers into wholesome activities and otherwise make Wheatland an enjoyable experience for everyone from young families with little kiddos to oldsters who remember(more or less) the good old days.

Wheatland's temporary village includes a nice little juried art fair; music vendors of various kinds; food vendors ranging from tie-dyed purveyors of co-op veggie fare to a cappucino stand to the local Knights of Columbus; 24-hour police presence; a health and first-aid tent; a masseuse; Friends of Bill W.; a Catholic mass and a pagan sunrise circle. In order to keep the driveways passable, especially in bad weather, there's even a regular shuttle bus service into the town of Remus. There's rough camping available at campsites scattered about the property. While the event is embued with a delightful retro mellowness, pets, loud radios, amps, fires and general rowdiness are verboten, and smokers are made to curb their habit around easily combustible wooded areas. While concert-goers are discouraged from driving in and out of the parking areas -- hence the shuttle buses -- if you do venture into Remus proper you will find a great diner, Helen's Restaurant("Where Friends Meet to Eat") -- the buckwheat pancakes are a rare treat -- a fun antique/ice cream store, numerous roadside fruit and vegetable stands and innumerable yard sales scheduled to coincide with this community's annual big event. You can also enjoy a lovely scenic ride up and down the country roads, taking in the sights and scents of the waning days of summer.

A good friend from my old job, sitting next to me one year, sighed, "I wish the whole world ran like Wheatland." I wouldn't go that far, since I have an unapologetic fondness for flush toilets and private hot showers. And these days I've given up the camping (partly because I lost my peer group, partly because I lost patience with things like slogging mud into my tent and freezing on cold nights), and just spend the day on Sunday, the grand finale. But you could find worse places to spend a late-summer weekend, and worse people to spend it with. If you're in or near Michigan, check out the link to the Wheatland Music Organization and consider heading up/down/over to Remus. A good time is had by all. You just need to remember the all-purpose greeting/goodbye/expression of general merriment and content: Happy Wheatland!

Calling All Cookie Monsters...

It's time again for my monthly delivery of cookies to a family in my parish who won a year's worth of cookies in our church silent auction. (Perfect timing, too, because a cold front just blew through the area last night, leaving us freezing -- I needed a good excuse to use the oven, other than warming my hands on the door.) This month I wanted to do something a little different, since I've made most of my personal fave-rave recipes. I happened to have part of a jar of roasted cashew butter on hand from a recent foray to my food co-op, so I tinkered with the classic peanut butter cookie recipe and came up with:

Cashew Butter Cookies
1/2 cup butter or margarine
1/2 cup granulated sugar
1/2 cup roasted cashew butter
1/4 cup honey
1 egg
1/2 tsp vanilla (adjust to taste)
1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp baking powder
1 1/4 cup flour (you may need a couple tablespoons more)
extra granulated sugar
Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Spray cookie sheets lightly with cooking spray.

Mix flour and leavening and set aside. Cream together sugar and butter until light and fluffy. Add nut butter, honey, egg and vanilla and beat until well blended.
Add flour mixture in increments, beating until well mixed. Chill for an hour, or until the dough is easy to handle.

Shape dough into 1-inch balls. Roll in a dish of granulated sugar to coat. Place about two inches apart on cookie sheets. Flatten cookies, in a criss-cross pattern, with tines of a fork dipped in sugar. Bake 7 to 9 minutes, or until bottoms are lightly browned. Let cool on wire rack. Makes about 3 dozen cookies.

Post-baking/taste-testing notes: Because these cookies contain honey, they can brown rather quickly in the oven, so it's really important to watch them. And if I made them again, I might add maybe a half-cup of finely chopped cashews, just to intensify the cashew flavor, or maybe press a half-cashew onto each cookie before baking instead of doing the fork thing. But they're pretty good as is -- soft and slightly chewy, with a subtle nutty flavor. My dog, who gets almost as excited over the appearance of cookie sheets as he does when he hears popcorn in the microwave, shared a cookie with me and gave it a two-paws-up.

Lars Clausen: Spokes-Man For Reconciliation

A big hat tip to bls of The Topmost Apple for introducing me to Pastor Lars Clausen's unicycle trek across America in an effort to, story by story, make the GLBT community real to the rest of the Church and the rest of the country. You can find his bio...read the ongoing tales of his road trip...visit his blog...send him greetings and comments.

Thank you, Lars! Godspeed on your journey.

And after you've visited Lars' website, check out my friend Melancthon's post on "Coming Into the Light,, which I think does an excellent job of explaining to straight folks what gay pride is really all about.

Dennis Rader: One of Us

For our enemies and those who wish us harm, and for all whom we have injured or offended, we pray to you, O Lord.

Lord, have mercy. -- Noonday Prayer

We Lutherans talk a good game about grace and forgiveness. We often see ourselves as a necessary counterpoint, in the religious agora, to the unforgiving, penally oriented, graceless legalism rampant in other corners of Christianity. When we encounter seeking others who tell us that they are attracted to Christianity but feel "too bad to be forgiven," we assure them in the strongest possible terms that there is nothing -- not a thing -- that can separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus.

Dennis Rader is where our theology meets the reality of the darkness and dysfunction possible in a human soul.

It's easier for us to forgive persons who kill in the heat of passion, or even those who kill while in the grip of some ideological delusion, whether willingly embraced or imposed. But someone who terrorizes, tortures and then kills others purely for sadistic self-gratification, then adding insult to injury by taunting the police and the community for their inability to solve his crimes -- that crosses a line, in most of our minds, where forgiveness is damned hard to find.

Hearing about Dennis Rader's actions, and pondering the pain and terror of his victims, made me ill. And, truth be told, it made me cringe in shame, because his church affiliation and leadership role in his church became part of the news story, and part of the national buzz. In researching this post, I came upon more than one armchair commentator who opined that Rader's pastor did not appear sufficiently angry at him or sufficiently remorseful over what Rader had done; and -- perhaps not surprisingly -- Operation Rescue/Operation Save America noted on their website , "Just a cursory look at the ELCA will show that they are pro-abortion, pro-homosexual, and absolutely apostate – a breeding ground and a great cover for murderers." (A note to some of my more sheltered coreligionists who aren't used to being talked about in this manner -- yeah, it's a gut check. But The Boss said that comes with the job. And it seems to hurt less when we're standing together.)

What do we do, as people of God, with a Dennis Rader? How does a person this damaged, for whatever reason, fit into our picture of God's salvific power?

People don't wake up one morning and decide, "I think I'll be a sociopath. Yeah -- that sounds like fun." The ability to differentiate between self and others, to feel empathy for others and to interact with others in healthy ways, is learned during a specific developmental period in our babyhood. Once that window of opportunity passes, it doesn't come back; our brains are "set" in terms of our moral development and ability to relate to other sentient beings. Abandoned babies in developing-world orphanages, lying alone all day without being touched or spoken to or having their most basic needs met on a consistent basis, frequently turn into sociopathic young people and adults -- narcissistic, amoral, compulsive and violent. We don't know and may never know what nuturance Dennis Rader did or didn't get as an infant, or what organic insult may have affected the hardwiring of his brain, but the nature of his crimes suggests that, at some point in his young life, something went terribly wrong.

Yet Michael Welner, a professor of psychiatry at New York University and a student of the criminal psyche, wrote an op-ed piece in the Wichita Eagle where he suggested that it was Rader's involvement in a faith community that eventually led him to stop the killing. (Hat tip to bls at The Topmost Apple for the link.) Noted Welner:

Religion can reach morally empty psychopaths where psychiatry and incarceration cannot. To someone who believes himself to be clever enough to fool all of the people all of the time -- including his psychiatrist -- a higher authority may be the only entity to whom he is capable of feeling accountable.

So in the final analysis Dennis Rader winds up with the rest of us: beggars at the foot of the cross, each bearing our own variety and degree of brokenness, yet all of us cosmically down and out and unable to help ourselves, crying to God as we can for wholeness and reconciliation. People of faith living simultaneously in the now and the not-yet, we struggle every day with all the practical as well as spiritual implications of living in a broken world with broken others; but we hold to the hope that, some day, in Christ, "All will be well and all manner of thing will be well." Including Dennis Rader. And you. And me.

Friday Bloom Blogging

Red flowering maple, "Pineapple" coleus, red wax begonias 

Just a Closer Walk...

There is not in the world a kind of life more sweet and delightful, than that of a continual conversation with GOD: those only can comprehend it who practice and experience it; yet I do not advise you to do it from that motive; it is not pleasure which we ought to seek in this exercise; but let us do it from a principle of love, and because GOD would have us. Were I a preacher, I should above all other things preach the practice of the presence of GOD; and were I a director, I should advise all the world to do it: so necessary do I think it, and so easy too. -- Brother Lawrence


I was out for a walk with God tonight.

Actually, I’ve been doing a lot of walking lately. Part of it is in response to my normally laid-back physician’s baleful glare and sober threats of impending medication when she got the results back from my last cholesterol test. Part of it has to do with – and this is surely proof of the Almighty’s rollicking sense of humor – my being tapped to serve on my workplace’s employee wellness committee, creating a certain incentive to “walk the talk,” literally.

So I’ve gotten back in the habit of taking an evening walk whenever the weather permits. I’m aided in this endeavor by living on a lake surrounded by pleasantly meandering streets, some of them on fairly challenging inclines that provide an extra cardio workout. And – I will confess – I am an incredibly nosy neighbor, so I like to see what’s going on in the ‘hood; who is building what (like Possum Lake in “The Red Green Show,” there is is a constant chainsaw whine going on in our neck of the woods); which summer people are up for the week; and a neighbor’s interesting, if illegal, Araucana chicken operation housed in a cute little Dutch shed in the back yard. (Shhh...don't tell the township zoning board -- I want pastel eggs.)

Anyhow, in the midst of all this self-improvement and self-amusement, I find something else going on; it seems that God is rather fond of a brisk jaunt too, so we’ve been spending more time together. Not that we do a lot of talking; we’re just happy to be in one another’s presence. And I am finding that simply enjoying the presence of God is helping me overcome my tendency to engage in extemporaneous prayertime blabbiness and “I want a pony” petitions. Speaking without words; listening without speaking; that's how it is between us, walking around the lake together.

It’s nice, sometimes, to just hang out with God.



The road goes ever onward... 

Good News, For a Change

If you can, catch the series The New Heroes on PBS, which profiles "social entrepreneurs" -- individuals who've taken the initiative to create positive change in their communities and societies. I saw the first installment, and it was very heartening. It profiled Kailash Satyarthi, an activist fighting industrial slavery in India, both by rescuing slaves and by marketing Fair Trade Indian rugs; Mimi Silbert of the Delancey Street Foundation in San Francisco, which helps ex-cons, ex-addicts and others learn marketable skills and regain a sense of dignity and competence; and Zambian Moses Zulu, who is creating a self-sustaining village for AIDS orphans.

As someone who finds myself frequently angered and frustrated by the utter crap -- the constant fluff, fear-mongering and PR churnout posing as journalism -- presented in the American media, this program was like a breath of fresh air. Check it out. You'll feel happier for having watched these programs.

Holy Hospitality

We have this new guy at my church.

He dresses a little...uniquely; you can't miss him. And you can't miss him anyway, because he's appointed himself our church greeter, so that when you leave the sanctuary after the service he's right there at the bottom of the stairs, shaking your hand, saying, "God bless you." And every so often he's moved to stand up during the service and just talk -- usually about God-and-country-gemischt stuff that makes me brux my teeth.

Now, you might be wondering, what sort of Lutherans -- an Ordnung muss sein people if ever there were one -- would let these kind of shenanigans go on during church? I know I thought that, the first time this gentleman held forth during the liturgy. I just don't do worship spontaneity very well...when our kids perform their camp songs with full-body movement for the congregation before the service, I'm the geek adult who just sits there thinking, It's for the children...it's for the children...it's for the children...

So, anyhow, a couple of weeks ago the new guy got The Bag. The Bag is something we instituted several years ago -- when I first started coming to this church they were passing it around, and after a several-year hiatus it's started again. The Bag is a brown paper grocery store bag that members of the congregation are invited to take home with them, fill with three items symbolizing things important to them, then bring The Bag back the next week and explain what they put in The Bag, and why. It's been a catalyst for some amazing stories and self-disclosures; some of our shyest, most unassuming people have had some of the most articulate and moving stories.

But when the new guy got up to talk about the objects in The Bag last week, I found myself holding my breath in trepidation of what was coming next; and I rather suspect I wasn't the only one present doing so. Still, I listened. And what I heard was that this man was a Vietnam vet. His job, during the war, was to accompany body bags back to the States...over and over and over again. One of his mementos was a yellowed commendation letter from a church, thanking him for his presence at the funeral of one of the casualties he'd brought home and accompanied to the dead man's hometown. He also spoke about his faith, about his family's faith history and about how much our congregation meant to him; that after worshipping with us, he knew that this was going to become his church too.

Suddenly a lot of things came together for me.

Jesus tells us that when we welcome an evangelist, a prophet or one of the "little ones," the anawim, in Jesus' name, it's a very good thing.

I think, last Sunday, we won the trifecta.

Jesus on Family Values

This is the best commentary I've read on today's Gospel text...so I'll let you read it too, on Dylan's Lectionary Blog .

Sts. Clare and Francis -- two of the anti-family types spawned by this dangerous Jesus person (Icon from St. Joseph Studio ) 

A Nice Lutheran Boy

Many of you know Rick Steves as down-to-earth travel guide and affable host of PBS's "Travels in Europe." (My mother is a Ricknik who absolutely has to watch this program every week.) What you may not know is that Rick is also a member of the ELCA, whose faith informs his travel philosophy and social conscience. Steves has created a series of programs called Faithful Travel for the ELCA's "Mosaic Television." You can order these through the ELCA website. Good stuff even for armchair travelers.

Real Family Values

It's 93 here in Outer Podunk and my brain has turned into a runny pudding, so instead of imparting any self-perceived words of widsome today I instead direct you to my friend Dash's blog for an excellent discussion of "family values." In the meantime...iced coffee...must have iced coffee...

Friday Bloom Blogging...and Attack of the Killer Tomatoes

This basket hangs over my purple-and-orange annual bed. I just love those "Jolly Joker" pansies (see the cute little flower over on the far right)...they don't like hot weather, though, and tomorrow it's supposed to hit the 90's here...oh, well...

Meanwhile, I was shopping at my favorite produce market yesterday, wandering through its greenhouses, when I saw a four-pack of tomato plants left over from the big planting-season rush...Red Pear and Yellow Pear...they looked so forlorn, sitting there rootbound and unwanted...long story short, they are now part of my tomato collection. I can't help it; I root for the underdog, even if it's a plant.

One of my hanging baskets 

The Best Li'l Lutheran Mag You Probably Don't Know About

Cafe' is an online magazine published by the Women of the ELCA and targeted toward women in their 20's and 30's. Each issue focuses on one spiritual or social topic -- the current issue is themed around "Forgiveness" -- and features short think pieces, sidebars, links and opportunities to post one's own thoughts. It recently won an Award of Excellence for its class by the Associated Church Press and the Religious Communicators Council.

I checked Cafe' out today -- I know I'm a little long in the tooth to be reading it, but the staff will just have to live with occasional visits by the middle-aged -- it's nice; good for a quick coffee break at work.

Seeing that the ELCA often seems to exhibit a kind of corporate shyness when it comes to letting people know who we are and what we do...I'll do the shilling for them. Go visit Cafe'.

Saluting the Captain

Air Force Chaplain Captain Melinda Morton, a Lutheran pastor who blew the whistle on religious intolerance at the U.S. Air Force Academy, has resigned her commission, after 13 years in the service.

Morton had been forced to resign her job at the Academy, and was transferred to a post in Japan, after her observations were made public. She also became the target of some vitriolic bloggery at the hands of the Religious Right, as evidenced here .

I salute Captain Morton for having the courage to speak truth to power despite the personal and professional cost. Her criticisms of the Air Force Academy only underscore what many of us know from personal experience -- that there are conservative evangelicals out there whose vision of Christianity is as a militant, nationalistic, triumphalist, bullying, take-no-prisoners movement that reminds this correspondent, at least, less of the Gospel and more of 1930's-era National Socialism.

Captain Morton makes me proud to be a member of the ELCA, and I wish her all the best. The Air Force's loss is our church's gain.

Body and Soul

I have a confession to make.

The last few days of my life have been about as unspiritual as you can get. Church on Sunday? I was there in body only. I pretty much phoned in my weekly blog reflection on the Gospel lesson. My prayer life -- flatlining.

And the really irksome thing about it all was that I knew this was going to happen. Because it always does, every month. I can almost graph my spiritual highs and lows on a monthly calendar. Whether this is due to sporadically effervescing hormones, or phases of the moon, or some subtle interplay of multiple forces, I don't know; it just happens.

And it bugs me, because part of me hates the idea that my physicality affects my spirituality. Which is very Greek, and very geek, of me. I had to laugh when I read
The Velveteen Rabbi's recent meditation on embodied spirituality, and her use of the term "brain in a jar," because as a kid (a chubby, clumsy kid) I thought that would be a really swell way to live. I remember watching a Star Trek episode about an alien species that had evolved itself into brain-in-a-jar existence, watching William Shatner's frowny-faced soliloquy on the tragedy of it all, and thinking, "I really don't see a problem here, Captain Kirk." Reading some of the Pauline epistles, I rather suspect that he might have found the idea of disembodied existence appealing as well.

This feeling of unease with the soul-body connection seems to be intensifying as I slouch farther into middle age, when my body has a greater tendency to let me down. One morning before work I stared at myself in the mirror -- like the old REM song says, feeling gravity's pull -- pondered my graying hair and thought, "So it's come to this -- I am a bona fide anti-hypertensive-pill-popping, calcium-carmel-chewing, triglyceride-monitoring, saggy-baggy middle-aged broad." It's a little frightening to think that the grinding gears of this jalopy have anything to do with my spiritual life, when it can't even get my blood pressure right.

But, as The Velveteen Rabbi points out, living into God's shalom includes acknowledging that, on the whole, we are "fearfully and wonderfully made." In The Lives of a Cell, Lewis Thomas suggested that, if we truly understood the intricacies and even mysteries of our physicality, we would be staggering around in a constant state of stunned amazement.

I'm trying to get to the "thank you." Part of that is treating myself better -- paying more attention to what I eat; moving more. Part of it is being kinder to myself; learning to give myself permission to have an "off" day once in awhile. That's where the practice of fixed prayer becomes so helpful. The Daily Office is the Daily Office whether I'm in a state of near spiritual ecstasy or just muttering the lines as quickly as possible to get them over with. It's the saying of the prayers, and not my feelings about them at any particular moment, that matters.

And here are some morning prayers, courtesy of The Velveteen Rabbi, that bless our embodiedness. I suppose it doesn't matter how I feel when I pray them either, but I'd like to think I could muster at least a spark of wonder and gratitude, no matter what time of month it is.

Something To Chew On

As long as we're on the subject of food...

This book will help people learn to enjoy their lives more -- perhaps much more. Recognizing the goodness of God in our eating is one way to discover such delight and joy.

So begins Food For Life: The Spirituality and Ethics of Eating by L. Shannon Jung (Fortress Press). In July I'll be part of a group discussing the book online with Jung.

I've not yet started the book, but glancing at the table of contents I note that it addresses its subject from both a personal and collective perspective. One chapter heading I found especially appealing was "Food As a Communal Expression of Grace." I like that; although frankly I'd find it difficult to appreciate the grace quotient of, say, lutefisk, the eating of which to me would be more of a penitential work.

Seriously...if you're interested, follow the link above to Fisher's Net, where you can sign up for the discussion. You don't have to be Lutheran to participate, although if you're not Lutheran you may not get our Jello and sauerkraut jokes. And you might also want to pick up, if you haven't read it already, Robert Farrar Capon's wonderful book The Supper of the Lamb, an extended meditation on the spirituality of food and mealtime hospitality.

"Go In Peace; Feed the Hungry"

I stopped into our local food bank today.

Every month I bring over a grocery bag of food -- usually boxes of cereal, since the manager told me that's what families ask for a lot. I wait until one of the local supermarkets has a decent sale on healthy, not-too-sugary cereal, then pick up a few boxes while I'm shopping. I know it's not a particularly efficient way to donate, but it's meaningful to me to shop for the items myself, instead of just sending money. And it seems that I spend so much time procuring food for my little, most decidedly non-hungry household...it's not going to kill me to spend five extra minutes picking up a few more groceries for someone else who really needs them.

I'm sharing this not to toot my own horn -- usually I like to keep this small personal project under the radar, including my own, as much as possible -- but because I just found out that summertime is really rough for agencies fighting hunger on the local level. Kids who've been in school for most of the year, taking advantage of breakfast and lunch programs there, are at home now, making it hard for families on the edge to keep them fed. And the public tends to concentrate its giving around the Thanksgiving and Christmas seasons, leaving a gap in the summer months.

So if you've been meaning to clean out your pantry, or you've decided to turn in your empties, or the penny jar is overflowing and you need to clean it out...now's a good time to do a good turn for your local food bank.

By the Book

Purechristianithink of Rebel Without a Pew tagged me for the roving book meme. So here goes:

How many books do you own?

Hmmmm...a few hundred, maybe. The last time I moved, I downsized my collection by about half. And I enjoy giving books away; my rule of thumb these days, just to keep things simple, is to give away any fiction I purchase, and any books that I know I won't want to keep for future reference. But my book hoard has been slowly growing again, and I find myself playing the game, "How many more books can I fit onto this bookshelf before it collapses?" (Maybe I need to read Physics for Dummies.)

Last book bought: To Darkness and to Death by Julia Spencer-Fleming -- a gift for my mom for Mother's Day.

Last book read: Fictionwise, I'm in the middle of To Darkness and to Death (I love it when a plan comes together...) Last non-fiction book read: Loving Jesus by Mark Allan Powell

Books that mean a lot:

Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass, the top two books of my childhood.

My mother's big old green cookbook, a circa-1950 wedding present, which I loved to death as a little kid, looking at the photos; it is now minus covers and much of the introductory pages, so I don't even know the title of the thing. Many of the recipes, like Stuffed Goose Necks and a l'Italienne Wieners, have not stood the test of time, but every once in awhile I still find a good one in there.

The Children's Illustrated Bible, which I got for Christmas when I was about seven years old -- sometime earlier, I had overheard my parents murmuring concern that I did not seem adequately interested in religious matters(!), so this volume appeared under the Christmas tree. And, of course, since I knew my parents had a frowny-faced agenda in giving it to me, I refused to even pick it up...in their presence. When they weren't around I surreptitiously read and re-read it. I can still see the illustrations in my mind's eye -- including a blond Jesus who looked like Chuck Norris; what was up with that?

My mother's, aunt's and uncle's 1930's-era high school lit books, which -- unlike my school -- introduced me to the classics of American and British literature at a very young age.

Time-Life science books: Ditto -- they filled the gaps where my public-school education failed me.

The Psalms, the Book of Isaiah and the Gospel of John -- when I finally got around to reading a real Bible.

Our Bodies, Ourselves. Um...that's all I'll say about that.

Pilgrim at Tinker Creek -- The juxtaposition of natural history field notes and the asking of Big Questions really moved me when I first read it. And the prose reads like poetry in places.

Uprisings: The Whole Grain Bakers' Book -- how I learned to bake bread that didn't have the weight and texture of cinderblock.

...and a large and ever-growing host of fiction, non-fiction and poetry, by an assortment of authors, that has enlightened, moved, amused and inspired me.

What magazines do you read regularly? Anymore, I don't. I used to be a voracious magazine reader, but these days about the only ones I read are in waiting rooms, or if I'm hanging out in a Barnes & Noble. I do enjoy the magazine I get from Heifer Project , because it's uplifting; unlike the constant media onslaught of bad news from the developing world, it highlights stories of individual families and communities around the world who are empowering themselves and others.

Tag Five People: If you are reading this, and you haven't participated yet -- tag; you're it.

"Psst! Next book: Dog Grooming For Dummies!" 

Flying Without a Net; Living in the Leap

Suffering and rejection are the summary expression of Jesus' cross. Death on the cross means to suffer and to die as someone rejected and expelled. That it is Peter, the rock of the church, who incurs guilt here immediately after his own confession to Jesus Christ and after his appointment by Jesus, means that from its very inception the church itself has taken offense at the suffering Christ. It neither wants such a Lord nor does it, as the Church of Christ, want its Lord to force upon it the law of suffering.

This makes it necessary for Jesus to relate clearly and unequivocally to his own disciples the "must" of suffering. Just as Christ is Christ only in suffering and rejection, so also they are his disciples only in suffering and rejection, in being crucified along with Christ. Discipleship as commitment to the person of Jesus Christ places the disciple under the law of Christ, that is, under the cross...being expelled, despised, and abandoned by people in one's suffering, as we find in the unending lament of the psalmist, is an essential feature of the suffering of the cross, yet one no longer comprehensible to a form of Christian life unable to distinguish between bourgeois and Christian existence. -- Dietrich Bonhoeffer

St. Teresa of Avila, the story goes, was hastily leaving a convent one night -- actually, she had been kicked out of it, after attempting to reform its complacent and unspiritual sisters -- when the wheel of her donkey cart hit a ditch along the road and sent the good saint sprawling into the mud. As she sat in the ditch, covered in muck, Teresa is said to have prayed to Christ, "Lord, if this is how you treat your followers, it's no wonder that you have so few of them."

Yet this is indeed the scenario that Christ foresaw for his followers in Matthew's Gospel. The first hearers and readers of this Gospel were members of a Jewish Christian community around 70 AD who, in the wake of Rome's defeat of Jerusalem and destruction of the Temple, found themselves being expelled from their synagogues, as the larger Jewish community grappled with how to live faithfully in their new religious and political reality. Some commentators suggest that Jesus' comments about rejection and persecution did not actually originate with Jesus, but were redacted into the story because of this situation. But I can't help but think that Jesus and his disciples lived every day with the realization that proclaiming the inbreaking Reign of God was countercultural enough to put them at serious odds with the powers that be; I'm sure this was grist for more than one campfire conversation.

In any event, in last Sunday's and this Sunday's lesson both, we find Jesus warning his listeners that his message of reconciliation, of inclusion, of re-imaging community according to the values of God's Reign, was dangerous stuff. He talks about being called before the political authorities. He talks about being rejected by religious authorities. And, this week, he talks about, in this most family-minded of cultures, being rejected even by one's own kin. His message: Follow me, and you will lose whatever comfort, protection and group identity afforded to you in this world by political, cultural and familial power brokers who want to tell you who you are, how you should live, what you should think and what you should believe. Follow me and you fly without a net.

I suspect that a lot of clergypeople who follow the lectionary decided to preach on the epistle lesson, from Romans, instead today -- good, stern stuff about sin that plays well to the pew, especially since that's easily transferrable to Those Other, Bad People Out There -- or offer a painless paen to dads for Father's Day.

As Bonhoeffer notes in the quote above, the Church over the past two milennia has lost its grip on the radicality of the Gospel; it's become, in many cases, just an amen choir to the agendas of government, bourgeois society and its own internal quest for temporal power. And woe to the person (as St. Teresa, Martin Luther, Oscar Romero and countless others have found out) who actually seeks to refocus the Church on its original Christ-commissioned work in the world.

So...with all that in mind...why would any sane, non-masochistic individual sign onto the Jesus program?

Because that's where Jesus is. That's where God is. And that's where God's beloved anawim, or "little people" are -- all those who have been, in various ways, marginalized, disempowered, wounded, even crushed by political, cultural and tribal forces.

"Do not worry..." "...have no fear..." "Do not fear..." "So do not be afraid..." The same Jesus who prepares his followers for what to expect from the dominant culture also assures us of God's presence and saving power as we work for God's Reign. And instead of the safety net we think we can count on from playing by the rules as dictated by the powers and principalities, Jesus offers us the vision of a fathering/mothering God whose love and care extends even to a fallen sparrow, much less to the wounded friends and followers of God's Anointed One; who knows each hair on our heads; who offers, as one of the epistles puts it, the life that is life.

Flying without a net? Living in the leap. That's Jesus' challenge to us.


Lesbia Weeping Over a Sparrow, by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema