when I grow up

Earlier today I was reading a book at the park, and I looked up to see a little girl running straight for the swingset.  She had on a pink skirt and a t-shirt with a rainbow on it, hobbling across the grass as fast as her two tiny legs could carry her. 

She was just marvelous—an innocent miniature human with curly brown hair that bounced in her pony tail, trying to keep up with the rest of her little body.  All wonder and no worry.  All curiosity and no cares.  Just her and the swing.  

I smiled as I watched, and decided that when I grow up I would like to be her.   

dialogue in the woods

Matt and I are spending the weekend up at my bosses’ cabin in the Cascades.  We woke up this morning with the sun peeking through the trees into our bedroom.  Matt pulled the covers up over his face while I got up to slip on my sweatshirt, reheat a cup of coffee, and take our tiny dog Lucy outside. 

I’ve spent the last couple of morning hours tucked into an old brown recliner.  Lucy is asleep on a blanket in my lap, which also happens to be right in the path of the sole streak of sunlight beaming into the living room—no matter how hot it is inside, she always wants the sun.  I’ve got my cup of coffee and my copy of Anne Lamott’s Traveling Mercies that I picked up at Powell’s bookstore last weekend in Portland.  I love flipping through used books… especially when I’m looking through timber beams at old, worn pine trees.  It’s grounding and slow, like time when you think about it. 

At the end of Lamott’s overture, she tells a story about a lost little girl saying to a police officer when she sees her church, “I can always find my way home from here.”  My eyes got teary when I read it.  I don’t even know why.  It’s just a lovely thought, I guess.  The kind of thought that squeezes my heart and reminds me why I love Jesus’ messy, broken church.  It’s like coming home. 

I don’t know why I felt compelled to write after that either.  I told Matt (who by this point is on the couch avidly working on his dissertation) that I was ready to take a break and do a workout, but then I changed my mind and said I needed to write instead.  Sometimes I get frustrated with myself for wanting so badly to have something to say, something to blog about—because it feels so good and fulfilling to collect meaningful thoughts and communicate them—but then coming up empty.  It’s like having wood, but no fire.  I start comparing myself to people who actually do have significant things to say, and I end up always wanting to write about someone else’s thoughts and ideas.  But today I’m realizing that that’s okay.  Brand new things can be shiny and beautiful, but so can old things—like aging trees or worn-in recliners or books that make you want to write as if you’re dialoguing with old friends.  I’m in the dance of human experience that draws each of us into something bigger than ourselves.  We’re meant to be mirrors of meaning to one another, and to reflect on that which makes life worth pondering in the first place.  So I don’t have to do it on my own.  I can sit in quiet spaces with authors and musicians and pastors I’ve never met and be welcomed into what a professor of mine would call the “Grand Conversation.” 

So thank you, Anne Lamott, for telling us about tide pools and alcoholism and feeling cracked and long walks on Belvedere Island and the gospel music that softened your soul.  And I’ll tell you in turn about sitting in a Snoqualmie cabin with my rescue puppy who’s finally sleepy and calm and how your stories remind me of my own home and Jesus and the Church that I love. 

when it comes to the bible, we might be asking the wrong questions

[Spoiler alert:  this post is basically a massive shout out to Rob Bell’s book, What is the Bible?: How an Ancient Library of Poems,Letters, and Stories Can Transform the Way You Think and Feel About Everything.  Just amazing.  That said…]

Photo credit: HarperCollins

How many times have I read through a Bible story—or, if I’m being honest, heard or talked about a Bible story, because how many of us actually read it as often as we think we should?—and asked the question, “Well, why did God… [fill in the blank]?”

“Why did God tell those people to kill those other people?

or

Why would God create people if God knew they would screw things up?

or

Why couldn’t God just have skipped the sacrificial system?

or

Why did Jesus have to die—couldn’t God have saved the world some other way?” (from p.293)

Yes, the answer is, many times.  All of these and more.

Perhaps some of us feel like we already have answers to these questions.  I’ve certainly tried giving a few of them before.  Sometimes they even sound legitimate.  But Bell’s response is:  it’s the wrong question.  A horrible question, in fact.  The WORST question. 

“Why is that?” we might ask (rather defensively, in my case).  Well, because the Bible was written by humans—humans who interpreted their intimate, yet evolving, relationship with the Creator of the Universe through very different lenses over a VERY long period of time.  The stories we have now were told by humans, passed down by humans, written, compiled, edited, and canonized by humans.  Jesus himself became human to teach, to clarify, to fulfill, and to save humanity. 

The biggest lesson I took from Bell’s book is that we can only get to the Divine by going through what is human. 

…

Let that rattle your cage for a minute. 

We have no choice but to understand divinity through the human lens.  This is true for us in our own bodies, and it’s true for the writers of Scripture.  While we’re trying to access what is real about God in the Bible, we also encounter what is real about humanity and, not insignificantly, how that informs what we know about God in the first place.    

Perhaps, then (according to Bell) a better question is:  Why on earth would someone write this down?

Why do we have the stories we have in the Bible?

What other pieces of information or nuance are we missing?

How do the revelations, songs, and instructions collected here reflect or challenge the predominant culture of the people writing them, or our cultures now? 

In seminary, we have called this process ‘looking at three different worlds’—

• The world of the text:  what does the story itself say, and not say?  (Here is the time to check your own assumptions about what you ‘already know,’ like that there were three wise men, for example…)
• The world behind the text:  what is the cultural, political, sociological context of what’s being written?
• The world in front of the text:  how does this speak about the human condition in a way that informs how we apply it today?

Asking these questions has opened up a whole new world of understanding for me!  (See what I did there..? ;)

Calling the “Why did God…?” question the worst question may be a bit hyperbolic.  I believe that there is a divine plan being worked out across history, that the Spirit was and is active in the communication of Scripture, and that the characters and writers had very real, very personal relationships with God.  But even their knowledge of who and what God is changed dramatically over time.  The point is:  there are many other valuable questions we can learn to ask about the Bible, even about the stories we may heard all our lives.  And wrestling with them only seems to bring what is real and true and beautiful into a deeper and deeper shalom. 

“Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you.” –Matthew 7:7

the day after las vegas

 At least 58 killed.  More than 500 wounded.  A lone shooter opened fire late last night and then took his own life.

This is not okay. 

That seems obvious, or even quaint.  People are suffering today in ways few of us will ever know.  But in a world where we're continually threatened by desensitization, when news of yet another mass shooting starts to carry a little less *shock* each time, I have to repeat:  this is not okay.

I cried alone in my kitchen when I read about Vegas this morning.  What are we supposed to do?  Jesus, what am I supposed to do?  There aren’t words for how heart-wrenching this is.   

After a few minutes the helplessness sank to the pit of my stomach.  What good are my tears from 1,000 miles away?  I am sending my prayers for the families and communities affected, and God help me if I don't trust that they matter more than anything.  But what else can I possibly do? 

I just kept repeating:  Jesus, have mercy.  This is not okay.

And (in some ways even more terrifying) I was forced to recognize that the same hate, fear, callousness—whatever it was that motivated this massacre—is also in me. I have the same capacity for good and evil as the shooter on the 32nd floor. It’s sickening, but it’s true.

Why do these horrifying tragedies keep happening? Why do humans sometimes feel the subtle sparks of hate, envy, and prejudice, and not say to themselves, "this is not okay"?  It doesn't matter which race or religion I am or what political party I vote for—what I nurture in the small things will come to fruition in the big things. I have both good and evil in me.  Which of them am I feeding?  How am I part of the bigger problem?

Attacks like those in Vegas, Sandy Hook, Charleston, Orlando, and so many others threaten to sink us further into anger, fear, and helplessness.  It’s so hard not to get sucked in.

But when I act, I want to choose instead to grieve and to pray.  I want to choose to participate in hard conversations about guns and violence in my country.  I want to choose to speak out against injustice and fear in my community.  I want to stand in solidarity with those who have lost their loved ones. 

And somehow I'd like to think that I can be humble enough to recognize my own culpability.  I'd like to hope that I can see the seeds of that same evil that crop up in my own small moments, and offer them up to the Cross where they belong.  I have to believe that choosing love, compassion, and empathy over pride, fear, and malice in my own life will be a small way to honor the men and women who lost theirs today.

We can't be fooled into thinking that what happened is the new "normal." It is not okay.

While I watched the death toll climb, I sent Matt a text that said, "It just feels so helpless. And so much bigger than us."  A minute later my phone buzzed with his response: "It is helpless.  It is bigger than us.  We need a savior."  He's right. 

Father, forgive us, for we know not what we do.  And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For Thine is the Kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever.  Amen.  

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.