sustainability and stewardship

Buzzwords:  green, eco-, sustainable, organic, homemade, simple, healthy, local… you see where this is going.

                           

Matt and I live in Seattle, where there’s no shortage of this kind of language.  And though I have yet to literally hug a tree, we feel right at home in the ecocentric Northwest. 

I was not always on board with the “environmentalism” paradigm (not that I was “anti-” either… I just hadn’t truly given it much thought).  As a kid, my parents raised me to love Jesus and love other people as well as I could.  And as I’ve gotten older, I’m learning just how integral caring for the earth is to both of those things.  There are a mind-boggling number of scientists, documentaries, and even small island nations that will tell you how dangerous climate change and resource exploitation are to humanity.  I don’t need to rehash those details here (if you’re curious, I’ve added some links below).  If you disagree, that’s okay—I hope we can still have this conversation anyway. 

I’ve had some interesting discussions on faith and ecological responsibility since starting my grad program at Fuller, and this culminated most recently at the end of last quarter when I wrote my final exegetical paper on a section from Romans 8.  Starting in verse 18, Paul writes…

“I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing to the glory about to be revealed to us.  For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God; for the creation was subjected to futility, not of its own will but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and will obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God.” (NRSV)

If you read through the entire text, you’ll find that there’s an “already-but-not-yet” element to Paul’s understanding of adoption and redemption.  Jesus inaugurated something great, but the Church he set up is bridging the gap between the Spirit that is already at work and the Kingdom that is yet to be fully realized.  I have heard the theory that the earth was given to humans to tame and to use; and that our rightful place is in heaven one day—so what difference does trying to save it make?  Paul (in my own humble understanding) seems to disagree.  There is a place for creation—all of creation—alongside the redemption of the children of God.  Might I even go so far as to suggest that we are called to be instrumental in breaking that “bondage to decay” that the world is experiencing?  John does say that God so loved “the world,” right?  Perhaps we should be doing more on its behalf. 

“God saw everything that he had made, and indeed, it was very good.” (Genesis 1:31). 

What if God, in creating humans in His image, intended for our “dominion” over the earth (Gen 1:27) to look more like stewardship than conquest?  In Ancient Near Eastern traditions, bearing the ‘image’ of the king meant bearing the stamp of his authority to rule, and doing so in the same manner the king himself would.  The ‘image-bearer’ is a representative.  How are we, those of us who call ourselves Christians, representing the care and compassion of God to our natural environment and the other species sharing it?  Because we know now that what we do to creation, we do to ourselves.    

So here’s where I land on this:  global and national policies need to change.   I firmly believe that Christians should be the first advocates willing to speak up in our private and political spheres for the protection of the earth.  However, while my voice makes whatever impact it may, I need the ins-and-outs of my daily life to reflect those values and convictions as well.  There are other tangible things I can do.  Things that may both (a) make an impact on the shalom of creation (even if it’s a very small one), and (b) regularly remind me that God gave us good gifts to hold and care for, not to use and lose.  Enter #sustainabilitygoals. 

Some of these are practices Matt and I are currently trying to put in place, and some are challenges that we hope to tackle in the near future.  Either way, here is a start to some small things [I think] we can do to steward well:

·         Using re-usable over disposable products.  Water bottles, coffee mugs, shopping bags, produce bags, napkins and paper towels, straws… the list here can get pretty substantial.

·         Buying in bulk.  The bulk section that is:  grains, beans, baking supplies… bring your own containers and skip the excess packaging.

·         Cooking more at-home meals.  You’re more likely to spend less, waste less, and consume more real food products.  Plus, there’s always more to learn!

·         Considering a minimalist approach // learning to declutter. Decrease ‘stuff,’ decrease stress.  We generally have more than we need.

·         Thinking about our traveling ‘footprint.’  Do you walk, bike, take public transportation?

·         Eating less meat.  It takes a lot less land and water to produce veggies.

·         Recycling and composting.  Even biodegradable materials become toxic in landfills.

·         Unsubscribing.  Paper and internet junk mail?  Don’t need that.

·         Practicing consumer consciousness.  This includes clothing and household items—ethical and high quality products do exist.

·         Planting a garden.  Producing healthy food + connecting intimately with what we eat = overall win. 

·         Reducing household energy use.  Turning off lights, unplugging appliances and accessories, and turning off the water each take just a quick second. 

If you’re already doing some of these things, I’d love to hear how they’re going!  Or if you have new ideas, please share and we can add to the list.  I know it’s easy to feel like a small fish in a big pond when it comes to changing the system.  But as Bob Pierce (the founder of World Vision) once said, “Don’t fail to do something just because you can’t do everything.”

Christ has no body on earth but yours,

no hands but yours,

no feet but yours.

Yours are the eyes through which

Christ’s compassion for the world is to look out;

yours are the feet with which He is to go about doing good;

and yours are the hands with which He is to bless us now.

-St. Teresa of Avila

Additional resources on climate change:

-          From NASA:  https://climate.nasa.gov/evidence/   

-          From the EPA:  https://www.epa.gov/climate-indicators   

-          Documentary on the islands of the Maldives:  http://theislandpresident.com/

baking bread, breaking bread

If you haven’t watched the Netflix documentary mini-series Cooked yet, go do it now.  Seriously – go binge it immediately.  Take a friend with you.  Then (please) come back and read this. 

Cooked is the visual rendition of Michael Pollen’s new book on the way the four elements of nature—fire, water, air, and earth—have influenced the history of human cooking and culture.  It is fascinating.  Now that you’ve watched it (because of course you did... 😉), you will undoubtedly understand my strong desire of late to bake my own bread, and lots of it. 

Have you ever pounded the palm of your floured hand into a ball of yeasted dough?  Or smelled a fresh free-form loaf come out of the oven, when you can still hear the crust crackling?  Have you broken warm pieces amongst friends and family at the dinner table, sipping red wine or perhaps dipping them into a bowl of homemade soup?  Store-bought bread is great, and I still enjoy picking up local artisan loaves when I need to.  But pulling your own homemade bread out of the steaming oven and letting the smell waft through the kitchen as people walk in asking, “You baked bread?!”… that’s pretty heavenly.  Now I can even more fully appreciate when Jesus said, “I am the bread of life.”  Sustenance for the body, yes; but sustenance for the spirit too.  The baking and the breaking of bread is an entire joyous, communal experience.

Case in point:  We spent the last full week of June this year with our family in Utah.  At Bear Lake, in fact—near where Matt and I got married almost five years ago.  It was wonderful.  In six days I got to bake ten loaves of bread for 19 people.  On three separate occasions, I made two loaves of honey oat bread for toast and sandwiches (Cora and Josh expertly spread the honey on top)...  

And on Thursday night, four simple boule loaves came out of the oven to go with Matt’s signature gazpacho.  (These have been a hit at work, too – the kids I nanny have christened them “Bre Bread”… though I’m fairly certain anyone can mix together flour, yeast, salt, and water.  That’s literally all there is to it!).

    

I loved when everyone got excited about a fresh loaf and could hardly wait for it to cool to cut into it.  I loved that people asked about the baking process.  I loved when the kiddos got their hands sticky with dough and honey.  I loved toasting a piece and eating it with peanut butter and coffee in the morning. 

Please, please, even just once, try baking your own bread.  And while you do it, think about what a small miracle it is.  The wheat grows, and then it dies.  The yeast ‘brings it back to life’ and it grows again, and then we bake it and it cooks and ‘dies’ again. But then, we get to eat it.  We get to break it and share it and enjoy it—around the entire globe—and because of that miracle of bread, we are imparted nourishment and life.  Death, life, death, life… sound familiar?    

Perhaps once I'm on my one hundredth, or one thousandth, loaf many years from now, the excitement will wear off.  But I sure hope not.  I hope that for the rest of my life I get to keep thinking about what a little bread (maybe, on occasion, taken with a little wine) can do. 

"O taste and see that the LORD is good..."  -Psalm 34:8

flaws and faithfulness (i.e. skipping church)

Oh my… it’s been a while.  I suppose that’s fairly normal.  I did write a post on ‘seasons’ a time ago, and it seems to still apply, even with blogging.  I think for a while I was subconsciously freaked out by the ‘permanence’ of the internet and the thought of writing something I’d later feel stupid about.  But then there’s Facebook—so who am I kidding?  We’ll all someday look back on a former version of ourselves that has since “matured” significantly.  Maybe.

And maybe we’ll just be that same person, with different flaws and questions, but still working out what it means to live a meaningful life.  I’m finding this to be true. 

This morning I picked up a book I had long ago set down unfinished.  I read the final chapters of Philip Yancey’s Soul Survivor and came across a description of something the author had learned from Henri Nouwen.  He wrote:

In countless personal appearances, in more than forty books, and most of all in his daily life, Nouwen demonstrated that flaws and faithfulness do not supplant each other but coexist. 

Can I just tell you… this was like a cup of cool water to soothe my soul.  If you’re not familiar, Henri Nouwen was a Catholic priest, university professor, and prolific author and speaker who spent the last ten years of his life serving the mentally and physically handicapped at a place called L’Arche Daybreak in Toronto, Canada.  Many people didn’t understand why such a successful theologian and professor would step out of the limelight into a place of such seeming insignificance.  But Nouwen found that while his former lifestyle swelled his ego and his sense of external worth, the move to L’Arche was the better choice for his spirit and a place of true belonging and love.  He identified both with the elder brother in Jesus’ parable of the Prodigal Son, but also secretly with the younger (and later also with the Father, who attempts to show mercy to any wayward sons sitting on his steps). 

Right now, I also feel like the older brother—trying, sometimes desperately, to do all the right things to earn the respect and love of my Father and other people around me.  But my flaws show up all the time.  It’s infuriating. 

To give an example:  this morning we skipped church.  (I know, I know… flaw, really? But as someone who’s literally spending years of her life and thousands of dollars training to lead and serve this very church, it’s a little hypocritical, don’t you think?)  I woke up at 10 AM with a twinge of guilt.  Occasionally, we’re out of town and have a legitimate excuse to miss.  But here’s a sliver of how this worked itself out today instead:

[12:30 AM last night:]  Oh, geez—it’s late.  I should go to bed.  I need to go to church in the morning.  But Matt asked for help gluing these flash cards.  And it’s the second to last episode of this show, so… I can stay up a bit longer. 

[2:00 AM:] Shit.  It’s so late.  Sleep or church? Sleep or church?  Sleep.

[10:00 AM this morning:] Damnit.  I should’ve gone to church.  We’re going to miss the next two weekends, and showing up once in a month is pitiful.  The pastor knows I’m studying for ordination.  This looks so bad… What kind of church is going to want a pastor someday who can’t even convince herself that going to church regularly is important? 

[11:00, reading my book:] Okay, this isn’t so bad.  I’m not at church, but I’m reading a spiritually-edifying book.  This still counts as worship, right? AND it’ll give me extra time to clean up this hurricane-aftermath of a condo.  This place needs help.  

[11:15:] Ugh.  Bre, who are you kidding?  You’re a wanna-be pastor who can’t walk the talk.  You’d rather sit in your pajamas than get out of bed early to fellowship and worship with your community at church.  That’s so selfish.

[11:30:]  You know what, self? Let’s just take it easy.  Sabbath is okay.  Rest is okay.  Not showing up for church for one Sunday doesn’t make you anti-church or a bad human.  Jesus isn’t interested in seeing you do your best to be perfect.  He’s just here, always here, right now.  Will you continue to go to church?  Of course!  Let’s just settle into this opportunity to learn to take yourself a little less seriously.  That’s probably good for everybody.

This is approximately where I’ve landed.  Flaws and faithfulness.  Two sides of the same coin.  As Yancey pointed out, Jesus doesn’t spend much time in the Gospels with the people who seem to have it all together.  And those same people don’t seem to need him.  It’s the people who know their life is flawed and hopeless that flock to Him, and that he touches, blesses, teaches, and shares his meals with.  The church was built on believers—like Peter and Paul—who have a (canonized!) history of rejecting and persecuting Jesus, of not being perfect.  Who am I trying to learn from, and what am I trying to prove? 

Perhaps my mental and spiritual energy is better spent simply recognizing the presence of Jesus, at church or in any space that I find myself, at any given time.  Amen to that.  

beach retreat

I’ve always had a thing for water.  Let me clarify:  I don’t particularly like to drink it (much to my dismay) and I’m a mediocre swimmer.  But, for some reason, bodies of water are my sweet spots. 

When I was eight, there was a tiny creek that ran next to our country house.  I used to climb the tree above it, find a spot in the branches, and read for hours.  By high school, one of my favorite places to sit was on my friend’s dock on the lake, feet over the edge and eyes straight up at the night sky.  During my freshman year of college, I found Bowl & Pitcher on the Spokane River where I spent many a day climbing the “pitcher” and watching the current rush under the bridge.  (If any fellow Whitworthians are interested, I highly recommend it—bring good shoes and a journal.) 

All this to say:  there is something humbling about the enormity and autonomy of water that demands stillness and contemplation—especially when you encounter the ocean.

We recently got back from a nine day vacation with Matt’s family on Whidbey Island, just northeast of our sprawling, urban Seattle home.  You could hardly imagine that an hour drive and a ferry ride could land you in a whole new world, but you stand to be surprised.  It wasn’t technically on the ocean, just the Puget Sound… but it still counts.

When the tide was out, we played Frisbee on the beach and explored the sand with our little niece and nephew. 

When the tide was in (by late afternoon), most of us were reading next to the wide windows, making “beach cookies,” or playing endless numbers of board games.     

I wasn’t only amazed that twelve people could survive for a week in the same house with no casualties.  (Yes, we are awesome.)  It was even more surprising to almost never see people on their smart phones or computers.  All of us had them—and I, for one, am nearly addicted to mine—but they took a back seat.  Life outside the present moment wasn’t as “urgent” as it usually seemed.  Looking out on the water every hour of the day seemed to slow all of us down.    

In the end, we had a wonderful time together as a family, as beings experiencing love and rest and joy.  I am indescribably grateful to my mother- and father-in-law for making time like this happen.  And I can only encourage everyone, if you have the time and resources and even if you think you don’t:  take a beach retreat.  Read.  Collect sea shells.  Cook meals together.  Put together a 1,000 piece puzzle.  Draw.  Take naps.  Meditate.  Have arm-wrestling competitions.  Visit the nearest coast town.  Swim in the salt water.  Eat clam chowder.  And, if you have the chance, definitely drink wine with the one you love on the rooftop while you watch the waves…

“Give thanks to the one who shaped the earth on the water—God’s faithful love lasts forever.” (Psalm 136:6, CEB)

simply, a beautiful and restful day

Since my post on hard seasons not long ago, I’ve been putting a lot of thought and prayer into simplifying.  Simplifying life.  Simplifying money.  Mostly simplifying time and how I approach and appreciate it. 

I finally decided to drop down to one class next quarter, and I can honestly say I’m sighing deeply inside with relief.  I have no less of a desire to be going to seminary, but I need the time to let it sink in, not to just “get it done”.  And it will hopefully free up space to have more date nights with Matt, read Scripture for me (not just for class), and even sleep.  I know, though, that if I’m not careful, that open time will quickly fill with mindlessness (where one minute I open my Facebook app, and the next it’s half an hour later and I haven’t moved from the arm of the couch).  I know I’ll have to be intentional about the kind of rest and fulfillment I’m looking for. 

I think today was an experiment in that, the first steps of slowing down.

Matt went out of town this weekend.  He is currently up at a cabin in Leavenworth, having a reunion with his college roommates before one of them moves across the country.  It is a great time for him to be with the people who have been so significant in his story, and for that I’m grateful.  But before he left, as I was concocting a list of all the various things I could get done while he was gone, he slowed me down and said, “Don’t make a to-do list.  Sleep in, have quiet time, go for a walk.  Do whatever you want to do in that moment.”  So… I tried that.  This is how it went:

 

I got nine and a half hours of sleep last night—a record for me in the last three months.      

Then, after I got out of bed, I ground my coffee beans by hand, boiled water in our electric kettle, and used the pour-over coffee pot to brew my morning wake-up juice.  My typical self would look for a more efficient way of completing this process—it took fifteen minutes of undivided attention—but as I listened to the roasted beans pop and break through the grinder and smelled the bold, dark steam as the water fell through them, I realized I enjoyed the pace of life that it set.  I could simply appreciate the time it took to make a simple cup of coffee.

I took this cup of coffee to the couch with my Bible, and I re-read the book of Micah.  “…and you shall bow down no more to the work of your hands” (5:13).  The last pages of my journal were filled today after contemplating that in the presence of God. 

Later in the afternoon, my wonderful friend Martha came over and we took the bus to the University Village shopping center.  We spent two hours wandering through the stores, and in the end, the only thing we purchased was a cup of Menchie’s frozen yogurt, drenched in broken Kit Kat pieces and caramel sauce.  On the bus ride home we talked about making plans for dinner (we do love our margaritas and seven-layer dip…), but as we got off, she said she might need a night at home by herself.  As hard as it is to say that to a friend, to request the end of time together for the sake of solitude, I so appreciated her wisdom in that moment.  At the close of a hard week, I am happy to see that I share life with people who know how to take care of themselves.  As adults, you would think this was common sense.  Yet, we live in a FOMO culture (“fear of missing out,” that is) and I haven’t met many twenty-six-year-olds that are better at resisting that temptation than teenagers, including myself most of the time.

So, now I’m back in my quiet condo alone.  I just finished a bowl of spaghetti after dancing in the kitchen, singing Pharrell William’s song, “Happy,” over and over in my head.  I plan to end the night reading the last few chapters of Shauna Niequist’s book, Bittersweet (a catalyst of sorts in my search for rest). 

I know not every day is going to be like this.  I know I'll see bags under my eyes, turn down shopping dates to write papers, and sprint through Starbucks on the way to important events.  But today was a first drop in the bucket, a day of sun and peace and basking in the goodness of God... and for now, I'll take it.

Photo from luxpresso.com.

“‘With what shall I come before the Lord,

            and bow myself before God on high?

Shall I come before him with burnt offerings,

            with calves a year old?

Will the Lord be pleased with thousands of rams,

            with ten thousands of rivers of oil?

Shall I give my firstborn for my transgression,

            the fruit of my body for the sin of my soul?’

He has told you, O mortal, what is good;

            and what does the Lord require of you

but to do justice, and to love kindness,

            and to walk humbly with your God?”

-Micah 6:6-9

when hard seasons seem to have no end

(Photo credit;  Lee Orr)

A wise friend once said, “When things get hard, I remind myself: I can do anything for a season.”

This particular friend works in the church, and has realized over the last decade that while ministry is a marathon, not all sections of the course look alike.  Sometimes just as you turn the corner out of a smooth, downhill cruise, the route hits a hill… and the ascent can be brutal.  But every hill has a peak.  You power up the slope knowing that once it’s conquered, there’s light on the edge of that proverbial horizon.

That seems to be what I keep telling myself. 

I don’t doubt the wisdom and truth in my friend’s mantra.  It’s absolutely necessary to remember that sometimes a hard project, a new challenge, or a busy season are going to require us to buckle down and work hard for a time, harder than our normal pace of life. 

But what happens if we let that breakneck pace and uphill grind become our new normal?  When we succeed in the seasons of challenge (even if the process includes suffering), it feels good to know that we’re capable of that level of performance, of conquering something difficult.  We develop self-efficacy and we thrive on it. 

I’ve run six half marathons so far.  My fifth was the Seattle Half at the end of last November.  Halfway through Mile 7, after a long, flat stretch, the course took an uphill turn to head from Lake Washington back over and into downtown.  Many took a break to walk at this point, but for some reason, I leaned in and took the climb without breaking pace.  I wasn’t actually sure I could make it, but I pushed past the crowd and finally crested the top of the first long hill.  And it felt amazing.  It was painful, I was gasping—but I killed it.  Endorphin explosion.  From that point on, I found myself eager, anticipating the next hill like a sane person looks forward to a vacation.  Every time the road would rise, I was ready to take it, even picking up my speed, passing all the lazy walkers in all my sweaty, exhausted glory.   

That kind of high can be addicting.  It was rewarding to know I could do it, so I wanted to do it.  But what if we let that achievement (read: “season”) become the new expectation on our lives?  You can do it, so you should do it, you have to do it.      

…Does this sound familiar to anyone else? 

I’m in a season—a very long season it seems—of busyness and grind.  I’m a student, I work a full-time job, I’m married, and I sometimes like to actually have friends.  Tackle on hours of homework and reading, a few helpless prayers, and three cups a coffee a day and you’re left with an average of 6 hours and 13 minutes of sleep per weeknight (according to my Fitbit).  The endorphins are wearing off.    

Here’s the thing… I don’t mean to sound like I’m complaining.  I CHOSE this.  And honestly, it’s because of my inability to let go of “achievement”—all those things I know I’m capable of doing—that what I’m consequently letting go of is rest.  The result:  an unsustainable lifestyle.  A never-ending uphill sprint. 

All of the things I listed (minus the lack of sleep) are good things.  I just have a hard time discerning which are the better things and which need to take a back seat.  Work is not life.  School is not life.  I want more time to spend with my husband, moments to break open my Bible, and the freedom to sit with God and DO NOTHING, just BE.

I’ve been [voluntarily] taken up into a culture that sees, as Brené Brown puts it, “exhaustion as a status symbol and productivity as self-worth.”  Wow.  It sounds so stupid as I say it, and yet I can’t call BS.  That’s exactly what I do. This is not the first time I’ve realized this.  It probably won’t be the last.  But I deeply fear letting what are supposed to be the challenging seasons of my life become the definition of my life. 

It’s one thing to hit the hill running when you need to—we all want to do things well, and have circumstances that will require more from us.  Those are okay.  I can do anything for a season.  But this is a period of time for me when I need to work out what it means and looks like to:

be counter-cultural,

pursue Jesus wholeheartedly,

prioritize my time,

learn to build Sabbath seasons in with the busy ones

so that in the now (not just “in the end”) life can be less about work, and more about the freedom in Christ to rest and play and love.