There are some moments when the daily aggravation of motherhood fades to a glow and I get to smile over my darling cherubs. Usually those moments end up in bickering, but I like to remember the moments at their peak while I can. Tonight is one such moment and it’s lasted for over half an hour.
LightBoy is scheduled to play goalie tomorrow morning in his hockey game. This is a rotating duty on his team and so he brought home the special equipment this afternoon. This evening his sister who has been taking lessons and played in goal on several occasions, gave him some lessons and spent time prepping him on paper as we watch the latest Stanley Cup playoff game (Go Habs). She did this without any special prompting from us, her parents.
I took this photo from about 10 feet away with my MacBook PhotoBooth … so it’s really bad, but I didn’t want them to know what I was doing. It was very sweet. LightGirl was drawing plays and quizzing LightBoy about how to respond. He knew. The proof will be in the pudding tomorrow. But for tonight I am basking in the glory of my children getting along and learning from each other.
I do most of my blogging in my pajamas … while drinking my morning coffee. I’m proud of that and don’t hide it at all. But then, I think that pajamas are highly underrated forms of clothing. They are comfortable, colorful and playful. We should all wear them far more often. The world might be a better place if we all stopped taking ourselves so seriously and wore pajamas a little more often.
As you were.
I had a little party the other morning. A tiny little pity party. It was a party for three … me, myself and I. We were all invited and we all showed up. Lemme ‘splain.
LightGirl is fourteen. It’s a wonderful age and it’s a terrible age. There are times when I really, really love this age. This morning was not one of them. Many times she seems as if her sole purpose in life is to reject every single thing about me. To reject me myself. That hurts. As much as I know about teen development. As much as I know about how she needs to do this and it’s all part of growing up and taking on who she is going to be. As much as I know about this process of separation, maturation and how necessary it is. It still hurts. I had a flashback that morning of the few moments after she was born when she was in the basinette and we locked eyes. I completely and utterly fell in love with her in that moment. She has been the apple of my eye ever since. She’s not perfect. I know her weaknesses. I know her strengths. But she’s my girl and I love her, warts and all (as a favorite math teacher used to say). This particular part of the process seems unduly difficult.
One thing it does though is continually remind me of her “otherness.” I suppose that is part of the purpose. For so much of our children’s childhood they are in one form or another an extension of us, that we need this reminder that they are, in fact, other than us. They will grow up to be individuals with their own preferences, strengths, weaknesses, idols, and needs.
We know consciously that other people are “other.” But how often do we know this with our heart and soul, not just our minds? How often do we turn our perceptions around and begin to attempt to perceive them not with our lens, but theirs? How often do we begin to try to love others not as we want to be loved, but as they wish? Or offer an apology that is not the apology that we want, but the one that they need? What a struggle it is to step out of our own skin and attempt to perceive life not with our own senses, but with someone else’s. Not with our own memories but another’s.
Yet, is that not the call of Christ in our lives? To love our neighbor as ourselves. May it be to me as She has said.
As you may (or more likely not) have noticed on my sidebar over there, I’m a member of The Daily Scribe. We’re a loosely organized group of bloggers and you can visit the site to learn more about us. Our intrepid leader, Shawn Anthony, finds different ways of exploiting our greatness and building our blogginess. One of those is getting books into our hands to review. In one way or another, we’re all nerds and like to read so free books are a bonus. So it was as a result of all of this that I was recently accepted as an Ooze Select Blogger. This = free books to review.
I received an e-mail announcing my first book. Approximately two days later LightBoy brought me a small package with an ominous look on his small face, “More educational hell, Mom,” he announced. Hmmm, I thought … I haven’t ordered any educational hell recently, so I wonder what this could be? It was, in fact, my first book from Zondervan; My Beautiful Idol, by Pete Gall. It had been announced in the e-mail as a confessional memoir and the promise waved that it would stand up to Traveling Mercies or Blue Like Jazz. My red flag sailed up the pole and I tossed the book onto my coffee table. Those are two of my favorite books and no mere interloper on the scene could possibly measure up to them. I didn’t even want to look at it.
And … by the way … have I mentioned this quilt I’m working on?
I had a doctor’s appointment in the morning, and curiosity killed my cat, so I picked it up on my way out the door. After all, I’d promised to read it. I might as well get started. Since I only manage to read about two pages a night, I’d need plenty of time to get the review in under the deadline. Well …
I finished it at about 9 o’clock that evening. I would have finished it closer to dinner time, except that we left the house for several hours in the late afternoon to do some shopping. I did take a break in the morning for some computer work and a couple of naps in the early afternoon. But I read the whole book in one day. In one sitting, so to speak.
So, Pete Gall is not as laugh-out-loud funny as Anne or Don, but he’s deeper than they are. Maybe not deeper than Anne, but definitely deeper and more serious than Don Miller. He packs some serious theological juice into this book, but it’s readable, ponderable and believable. It’s more than a stand-up routine. I loved Blue Like Jazz, but I read that for the punch lines and the laughs. I loved the deconstruction that was in there, but I never could quite believe that anyone really lived that life. Pete’s life is utterly believable from the opening cab ride to Burritoville, to the ending ride home to Zionville.
His life is believable because the scripted things don’t happen. He writes as if they were about to, but then … they don’t and we must wrestle with the theology and theodicy of why those things did or did not happen. Life is not a television script where all things work together for good in our human ken. What we understand as good must be wrestled with in the face of great evil and darkness even in those who would do great good. Money and food do show up at the last minute, but it’s not the result of prayer or living “righteously” as most people have us believe. They show up, no matter how Pete screws up … or sometimes doesn’t. Because God is not a gumball god. We can’t put in our quarter and get back a prize, no matter how much we want to believe that’s how it works.
Christianity has this entire worldview that treats the filth of life as impermanent, redeemable, escapable, and unable to make the bride too filthy to be loved. But we have this thing in our culture where we don’t believe a bit of it. We work so overly hard to make God look good that what we say has no credibility at all; we’re such cow-brained dullards. In our insecurities and arrogance, and our lack of honesty, we demand to see God turn lives around, to do something cool for us. To be our dancing poodle. We want to be able to tell a great story about well our lives have been transformed by this God who, to exquisite torture, simply does not do enough flashy stuff for us to feel comfortable letting his work stand on its own. We are so desperate to share the good news that we almost always fake it. We forge the miraculous and we promise more than we really experience ourselves. And we are so conflicted about how to be “good Christians” — people whose lives been turned around and made squeaky clean — even though that’s not what we experience exactly, that we have developed a twisted, hand-wringing culture where we are far less matter-of-fact about sin and temptation and doubt and the profane than are our Scriptures, our God, or even the rest of the world around us where there is no promise of rescue or redemption. We’re obnoxious fools, and our dishonesty makes us incredibly vulnerable and weak — and far from trustworthy people who could actually benefit from knowing the truth according to God. (p. 148-9)
Pete is at his best when he’s pulling together his story lines and spinning an abstract web from his concrete story slabs. The conversations are a little contrived, but that may be because he is recalling them from over ten years ago. He is better still drawing analogies which return time and again making more sense with each coda.
As we discuss our respective desires to be used, to have a mission in life, it strikes me that we’re more alike than I’d thought for a long time. Maybe we’re not the only ones. Both my mother and I are determined to point to something outside of ourselves to demonstrate our worth and our utility. The crab shell must be covered, well and completely, beautifully and wisely, by a collection of things or by the sponge of Jesus held desperately by hopelessly inadequate hind legs, or we will have no one to blame but ourselves when the squid brings the pain. We want to be important enough to be loved, both of us. Strangely, somewhere both my mother and and I have come to believe worth and utility are the same thing. But they are not. There is a great difference between being worthless and being useless, and there is a great difference between the things that make us useful the true measure of our worth. One is what we do, and the other is what we are. One is developed and grown, and the other full and unchanging from the moment of our conception. (p. 212-13)
As we discuss our respective desires to be used, to have a mission in life, it strikes me that we’re more alike than I’d thought for a long time. Maybe we’re not the only ones. Both my mother and I are determined to point to something outside of ourselves to demonstrate our worth and our utility. The crab shell must be covered, well and completely, beautifully and wisely, by a collection of things or by the sponge of Jesus held desperately by hopelessly inadequate hind legs, or we will have no one to blame but ourselves when the squid brings the pain. We want to be important enough to be loved, both of us.
Strangely, somewhere both my mother and and I have come to believe worth and utility are the same thing. But they are not. There is a great difference between being worthless and being useless, and there is a great difference between the things that make us useful the true measure of our worth. One is what we do, and the other is what we are. One is developed and grown, and the other full and unchanging from the moment of our conception. (p. 212-13)
There are two things I wish had been different in this book. One is that I wish that Pete had spent more time exploring this value gap of worth vs. use. I think there is a gold mine of how we in the West mix up our theology with our economic philosophy in that discussion. Unfortunately, I rather think that would not have reflected his journey.
The other thing I wish had been different is this. Very early in the book, as in on page one or two, Pete admits to lying for fun and profit with people. He never really backs away from this and I can’t get rid of the image. While the book is utterly believable, I’m left with the contrasting image from the beginning of a man who lies to sell things. It is unsettling, unnerving and the reader is left to wrestle with that image. In the end there are no white hats and no black hats. Just people, wondering when and how their scaffolding will collapse, and hoping the pain won’t kill them.
Would I recommend this book? If you are person who can live with grey areas, metaphors which might collapse at any moment, or uncomfortable analogies, then yes, I would recommend this book with fervor. If you are a person who likes boxes in your head, who likes life as you now know it, and is not into questions with no answers, then no … do not read this book. So it depends. There are some people for whom I will purchase this book and wrap it up with a bow and others for whom I would suggest perhaps not reading it. It is however, a very well written and engaging memoir of one man’s coming to grips with his spiritual nature. If you read it, you might come to grips with yours as well.
I could write a lot on this. But my observation is that there are two main branches of Christian action. There is the personal holiness branch, which is characterized by the legalistic how to remain pure and upright before the Lord activities, and there is the social justice branch, which is characterized by how to do good works. The twain do not meet. Nor do they look one another in the eye. One tends to be quite conservative, the other quite liberal. They also call each other nasty names in private, when no one is listening. Or so they think.
There is a problem though. Both parts are necessary for a holistic walk with Jesus. I don’t think it is possible to be personally holy without concern for social justice. Nor can one have concern for social justice without personal holiness. I think it was best said by David Thewlis in the movie, “Kingdom of Heaven,” in conversation with Orlando Bloom:
Hospitaller: I put no stock in religion. By the word religion I have seen the lunacy of fanatics of every denomination be called the will of god. I have seen too much religion in the eyes of too many murderers. Holiness is in right action, and courage on behalf of those who cannot defend themselves, and goodness. What god desires is here [points to head] Hospitaller: and here [points to heart] Hospitaller: and what you decide to do every day, you will be a good man – or not.
Holiness is in right action and courage on behalf of those who cannot defend themselves …
Who are those who cannot defend themselves? Why … interestingly, they are those who benefit from social justice ministries; women, children, single moms, impoverished, immigrants … the lowly and down-trodden. It is giving a cup of water to the least in society for no other reason than that it is the right thing to do. And, by the way … it is a holy act.
Phil Wyman at Square No More – Salem: No Place for Hating Witches Mike Bursell at Mike’s Musings Bryan Riley at at Charis Shalom Steve Hayes writes about Khanya: Christianity and social justice Reba Baskett at In Reba’s World Prof Carlos Z. with Ramblings from a Sociologist Cobus van Wyngaard at My Contemplations: David Bosch, Public Theology, Social Justic Cindy Harvey at Tracking the Edge Alan Knox at The Assembling of the Church Matthew Stone at Matt Stone Journeys in Between John Smulo at JohnSmulo.com Sonja Andrews at Calacirian Lainie Petersen at Headspace KW Leslie: Shine: not let it shine Stephanie Moulton at Faith and the Environment Collide Julie Clawson at One Hand Clapping Steve Hollinghurst at On Earth as in Heaven Sam Norton at Elizaphanian: Tesco is a Big Red Herring
So as I may have mentioned in my earlier post, I am somewhat pre-occupied with this quilt lately. It’s taking up all my time and all of BlazingEwe’s time too. We are actually ripping our hair out.
This quilt is composed of 81 separate blocks. There are 49 that measure 12 inches square and the remaining blocks measure 6 inches square. In January and February we handed out kits for these blocks (complete with directions) and all the fabric needed for each block, pre-cut, at our guild meeting. We asked for the blocks to be back by the March guild meeting. Most of them came back. A few more trickled in at our show a week later. We had to chase the rest down.
Finally, about ten days ago, we sat down and triaged the blocks.
Here are some things you need to know about quilting. First … a block that will measure 12 inches square in a quilt, really is 12.5″ square all by itself. You have to figure for seam allowances (a quarter inch for quilters). Second, some quilters are slap-dash quilters and others are OCD quilters (I fall into the latter category, btw) … and yes, OCD stands for the same thing here that it does in ordinary life – obsessive-compulsive disorder. Third, a block sort of indicates that the general shape of the thing should be square, that is, four equal sides with 90 degree angles. That’s what you’re looking for as an end result because it makes the whole thing go together well.
So, as I said, we triaged the blocks. Of 81 blocks, 40 were not within tolerances. That means … they were either not square, or not 12.5″ (or 6.5″) in measurement. Now we know that everyone is different and sews differently so, that means that very few people are going to have exact blocks. Well … I do, but I’m OCD about it. However, in order to make it work, they have to be within about an 1/8″ of an inch on all sides. That’s what I mean by “within tolerances.” Several blocks had curved outer edges. That does not meet the definition of a square to me.
We began making notes on post-its and pinning them to each block. Notes about what needed to be adjusted, changed or perhaps outright redone. Sixteen blocks needed to be recut and redone from the get go. We had to go buy new fabric. In one case this involved a roundtrip of two hours. Don’t ask.
There was ranting and cursing involved.
We have about half of the quilt top together. We put the other half up on our jerry-rigged design wall last night and sighed. We are both tired and tired of this quilt.
Here’s the thing though. We’ve seen the quilts that most of these ladies have made. They are beautiful and wonderful. How is that possible? These blocks were/are a mess! It was a mystery.
Then I realized this … if you make the same block with the same mistake 28 times it doesn’t matter. Those 28 blocks go together just fine. Structurally, they work together well. They fit together and the mistakes and idiosyncrasies disappear into each other. They are not apparent. However, when each and every block has a different mistake and idiosyncrasy they do not fit together well. They bump up against each other and look very ugly indeed. There are gaps where there should be joints. Intersections which do not intersect well. Taken on the whole, a community quilt is a very bumpy, wavy adventure. It makes the OCD quilter (me) somewhat nuts.
One day as I was sewing along I had a revelation. Quilt blocks are like people, or maybe people are like quilt blocks. Structurally we all have mistakes and idiosyncrasies. We don’t notice them at all when we are alone or in our families because they are unique to us and we make them all the time. When we’re making our own blocks and quilts, these mistakes and idiosyncrasies just fit right in to whatever we’re doing at the time. It’s only when we get out into the larger community that our unique bits stand out in contrast to the unique bits of everyone else and the joints don’t fit right. There are gaps and ugly intersections. Places where the fabrics just clash and hurt your eyes (or ears).
When you’re making a quilt, you can take apart the offensive blocks and put them back together so that they fit more better. In real life, there’s not so much you can do with offensive people. So we have to figure out how to make do with what we have instead of remaking it to suit ourselves. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? We each want to remake the other people/blocks to suit us rather than let them be and figure out how to make the community quilt just as it is. Now wouldn’t that be an adventure?
My in-laws visited for a few days recently. They are snowbirds. That is, they spend several winter months in Florida in their motorhome and then return to Vermont for the remainder of the year. So they were visiting on their way back north. My mother-in-law (LightMIL) recently marked her 70th birthday, so we had a celebration with her while they were here.
We did this by taking her on a lunch cruise of the Potomac River to see the cherry blossoms.
The boat docks at a pier in southwest DC. There’s only a very tiny little bit of DC that is southwest and this pier is in it. So is Fort McNair … the location of the National War College. It takes about an hour to get there from here, no matter how you cut it. We spent a fair portion of that hour in some heavy traffic going and coming. I entertain myself by reading bumperstickers and vanity plates when I’m in traffic. Especially here in the DC area, where I’m familiar with the surroundings (i.e. there’s not much interesting to look at).
I saw the usual number of intolerant bumper stickers. Things like “You can’t be both Catholic and Pro-life.” “Put the Christ back in Christmas.” “Man’s way leads to a hopeless end! God’s way leads to an endless hope!” I reflected, as I often do when I see these bumper stickers, with no little resentment and aggravation, what do the drivers of such cars hope to gain by bearing these stickers? To me (and it is possible that I’m wrong) these stickers seem arrogant, harsh, and hubristic. I don’t mean to pick on the Catholic stance on abortion in this instance, because there are many anti-abortion stickers out there. But all of them suppose that the bearer has thought through the issue most thoroughly, and you, dear reader of the bumper, have not. If you would simply accept the veracity of the sound-bite on the bumper you will be issued into a new level of truth and righteousness.
They also make me think of the nearly constant refrain that this is a “Christian nation.” Keep “under God,” in the Pledge of Allegiance … it’s very important. We must institute or keep prayer in our public schools; letting it go has been the downfall of our whole way of life. Or has it? Are we really a Christian nation? What would that really look like? Who would decide which brand of Christianity we would follow as a so-called Christian nation?
I think about those things. Because some versions of Christianity have a lot of rules. Some have much fewer. Who would decide? Typically the many rules version of a religion is the one that takes charge in a country, when there is a country ruled by religion. There was a time (back when I was in college studying anthropology) when I could tell you the reason for this. Now, I simply understand that it happens and grieve it. I was thinking about this as well the other night as I read toward the end of A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khalid Hosseini. (warning … spoiler alert)
A main character has killed her abusive husband. He had raped her, beaten her, withheld food and water, thrown her around like a rag doll and treated her worse than most of us treat our household pets for nearly 20 years. She killed him as he throttled her best and only friend. Killing her husband was an act in defense of another human being’s life, albeit a woman. What follows here is her sentencing by a Taliban court in Kabul:
“It does not frighten me to leave this life that my only son left five years ago, this life that insists we bear sorrow upon sorrow long after we can bear no more. No, I believe I shall gladly take my leave when the time comes.” “What frightens me, hamshira, is the day God summons me before Him and asks, Why did you not do as I said, Mullah? Why did you not obey my laws? How shall I explain to Him, hamshira? What will be my defense for not heeding His commands? All I can do all any of us can do, in the time we are granted, is to go on abiding by the lsaws He has set for us. The clearer I see my end, hamshira, nearer I am to my day of reckoning, the more determined I grow to carry out His word. However painful it may prove.” He shifted on his cushion and winced. “I believe you when you say that your husband was a man of disagreeable temperament,” he resumed, fixing Mariam with his bespectacled eyes, his gaze both stern and compassionate. “But I cannot help but be disturbed by the brutality of your action, hamshira. I am troubled by what you have done; I am troubled that his little boy was crying for him upstairs when you did it. “I am tired and dying, and I want to be merciful. I want to forgive you. But when God summons me and says, But it wasn’t for you to forgive, Mullah, what shall I say?” His companions [2 other judges] nodded and looked at him with admiration. “Something tells me you are not a wicked woman, hamshira. But you have done a wicked thing. And you must pay for this thing you have done. Shari’a is not vague on this matter. It says I must send you where I will soon join you myself. “Do you understand, hamshira?” Mariam looked down at her hands. She said she did.
“It does not frighten me to leave this life that my only son left five years ago, this life that insists we bear sorrow upon sorrow long after we can bear no more. No, I believe I shall gladly take my leave when the time comes.”
“What frightens me, hamshira, is the day God summons me before Him and asks, Why did you not do as I said, Mullah? Why did you not obey my laws? How shall I explain to Him, hamshira? What will be my defense for not heeding His commands? All I can do all any of us can do, in the time we are granted, is to go on abiding by the lsaws He has set for us. The clearer I see my end, hamshira, nearer I am to my day of reckoning, the more determined I grow to carry out His word. However painful it may prove.”
He shifted on his cushion and winced.
“I believe you when you say that your husband was a man of disagreeable temperament,” he resumed, fixing Mariam with his bespectacled eyes, his gaze both stern and compassionate. “But I cannot help but be disturbed by the brutality of your action, hamshira. I am troubled by what you have done; I am troubled that his little boy was crying for him upstairs when you did it.
“I am tired and dying, and I want to be merciful. I want to forgive you. But when God summons me and says, But it wasn’t for you to forgive, Mullah, what shall I say?”
His companions [2 other judges] nodded and looked at him with admiration.
“Something tells me you are not a wicked woman, hamshira. But you have done a wicked thing. And you must pay for this thing you have done. Shari’a is not vague on this matter. It says I must send you where I will soon join you myself.
“Do you understand, hamshira?”
Mariam looked down at her hands. She said she did.
I know a lot of people will read this and think things like well … that’s the Muslims … we Christians aren’t like that. We have grace, after all. Do we? How do you think this situation might have played out in a Christian court? I’m not certain it would have looked any different.
I ‘m glad we don’t live in a “Christian nation” but one that is guided by our First Amendment. A nation where Jews and Christians and Muslims and Hindus and Flying Spaghetti Monsters are all equal under the law. The idea of becoming a Christian nation frightens me, quite frankly. While I want to know that those who lead us have thought through their personal issues of faith, I also want them to be open and welcoming to members of other faiths. Thinking that one has all the answers to questions that haven’t been asked has no place in the government of an empire.
marriedtothesea.com
Well … that’s pretty damn offensive, isn’t it? Grabs you right by the lapels, shakes you up … and screams in your face. But it doesn’t happen in the Protestant Church, so it’s meaningless for us … right? We can laugh at it and go home. Those foolish Catholics … if only they’d let their priests get married, they wouldn’t abuse children anymore … they could have sex when they wanted to.
I’ve got some news for you. It’s not about whether or not the priests get married. Child molesting is almost always about power. It’s about institutions. It’s about turf wars. We have the same problems painted in different colors here in Protestant-land.
Keeping women out of the priesthood, out of teaching, fighting these gender wars … it’s about power. It’s about institutions and it’s about turf wars. You can layer the color on as thick as you want, but the base problem is that the men who are in power do not want to share. For them it has become a zero-sum game and when women win, they lose. They cannot see any other outcome.
Most of the battles currently being fought in the Church are ultimately about control. They are about who will control the information. Who will control the people. Who will control access to God. What a mind-rape. It’s offensive and bears the mark of being against God, if I’m not mistaken.
God does not manipulate. She is not overbearing. He does not beat us up. God is love … anything else is a clanging gong (have you ever heard one? It will bend you double in pain). God is love.
One of my favorite blogs to read and meditate on is Velveteen Rabbi by Rachel Barenblatt. Rachel is a rabbinical student who lives and blogs in western Massachusetts. This is coincidentally near where my brother lives and near where I spent a lot of time as a child, so I feel a tie to her for this reason. But I would love her writing no matter where she did it. It is is full of imagery that makes the divine more approachable, more meaningful, and more real.
She often, as a rabbinical student, writes some form of commentary on the weekly parshat (portion). I hesitate to use words here because those words will define something that I am not qualified to define. But here is my very limited understanding of the Jewish tradition surrounding their scriptures. It is very usual to read through the scriptures (Torah … a portion of our Old Testament) every year. You begin and end during Shemini Atzeret/Simhat Torah (which holiday falls at the end of the high holidays in the autumn). The scriptures are broken into portions (parshats) that are defined and one could find those in a variety of places. So that on any given week, those Jews who are doing so are all reading the same portions of scripture together. There is something comforting in that to me.
This week (as she has in weeks past) she wrote a poem, but led off with this bit from Leviticus:
And if any of those falls into an earthen vessel, everything inside it shall be unclean and [the vessel] itself you shall break. –Leviticus 11:33
I stopped right there. And could not go on. I did not (at that moment) read the poem. “Paul said something about earthen vessels. I know he did. Now where was it? And what was it, exactly?” All I could remember at that moment was it was a good thing and I needed to know the exact quote and I needed to read it in context. So I found it in 2 Corinthians 4 –
7But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. 8We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; 9persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. 10We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. 11For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may be revealed in our mortal body. 12So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.
Then I went back to Leviticus, searching for earthen vessels and what their specific outcome was to be. I read bits of Leviticus for the first time and was legitimately fascinated. Paul, the phormer Pharisee, would have known this. Clay or earthen vessels could be used for sacrifice, but once used, they must be broken. Bronze vessels could be scoured and cleansed, but clay vessels must be broken. I was particularly struck by this in Leviticus 6 –
24 The LORD said to Moses, 25 “Say to Aaron and his sons: ‘These are the regulations for the sin offering: The sin offering is to be slaughtered before the LORD in the place the burnt offering is slaughtered; it is most holy. 26 The priest who offers it shall eat it; it is to be eaten in a holy place, in the courtyard of the Tent of Meeting. 27 Whatever touches any of the flesh will become holy, and if any of the blood is spattered on a garment, you must wash it in a holy place. 28 The clay pot the meat is cooked in must be broken; but if it is cooked in a bronze pot, the pot is to be scoured and rinsed with water. (italics are mine)
After all of this, I went back and read Rachel’s beautiful poem and was immediately struck by this verse:
The heart is an earthen vessel, the body an urn: made from dust
and patched with slip, divine fingerprints everywhere.
Read her whole poem, then her explanation of Talmudic tradition concerning clay pots. How they are broken and then glued together again. The Hasidic tradition which teaches that the earthen vessel is also a metaphor for our hearts. And I go back again to Paul’s letter to the church in Corinth … “But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.” We will be (or maybe we are already) broken, and then glued back together … “patched with slip, divine fingerprints everywhere.” Rendered useless and then useful again. In the process of becoming holy, we must also become broken and put back together. We must leave our cracks on the outside … an aesthetically imperfect vessel, which God can now use.
How many of you have killed a fly?
Yeah, me too. Squashed it like … well … a bug. Have you killed other bugs? Me, too.
How about other vermin? Have you ever killed a snake? Or a rat? Have you ever run over an animal by mistake with your vehicle? Or … have you gone hunting and killed an animal on purpose for food?
I’m not certain, but I don’t think I’ve ever killed anything larger than a bug. I did, however, grow up on a farm and regularly participated in the slaughter of animals for food. As youngsters, my brothers and I held headless chicken races to see which of the chickens would run longest after having their heads chopped off during the annual chicken kill. It seems gruesome now, but it was a way of distancing ourselves from the pain of necessary killing. We needed those chickens for food and could no longer afford to feed them. We kept some for the purpose of egg laying, others were for meat. It was part of the cycle of the farm.
Since growing up in that environment, I’ve had occasion to consider just what mental gymnastics it takes for us to kill. For instance, I have an unreasonable fear of spiders. My fear of them is really sort of funny when you consider how much larger I am than they. But I can’t kill them. One day, many years ago, I encountered a spider in my kitchen and went to get my neighbor, so that she could usher the spider to a new life in the great outdoors. I’ve gotten a little better; now I just ignore them. When I see dead animals on the side of the road, I have a brief period of mourning for them. They died at our hands, ignorant of the danger involved in crossing the road. Some of them get caught between jersey barriers, trapped and die, able to get in, unable to escape. Most of this we justify by claiming our dominion over the animal kingdom. Afterall, we have bigger brains, no? It is, at the end of the day, survival of the fittest; the law of the jungle.
I’ve gone on to consider, then, the killing of other humans. How do we justify this? We have many forms of justification for this. Some times there is no justification and then we deem it to be murder. A broken law. Other times we do justify it and call it war. How do we measure the difference? How do we teach men (and now women) to know that difference? To overcome their built in tendency to not kill other humans? It’s simple really. We reduce those other humans to animals. That is how it is done. We tell our armies that the enemy is/are less than human … that is, they are at about the level of animals.
Think about it for a minute. When you hear people (or yourself) talking about the “other,” what language is used? It’s usually not kind or gracious. It is uncomfortable. Think about the current war in Iraq. I have heard the “enemy” referred in terms such as “ragheads,” “towelheads,” “camelmonkeys” and the like. This language is particularly prevalent among the military. This sort of language about “others” is nearly always prevalent in the military of any culture. When it begins to become more common in the general culture we find it easier to begin wars and the making of slaves (either literal or virtual).
It is through the use of language that we devalue people. People … made in the image of God. Children of God. How often do you devalue someone? When you are driving, what assumptions do you make about the drivers who get in your way? When you are out and about, what assumptions do you make about the people who are different from you in some way … be it the color of their skin, or their gender, or their age, or perhaps a physical/mental disability or difference? It is only when we lessen their value and make people into something other than fellow creations of the divine that we are able to commit mass murder. Even when that mass murder is for good reason. Or is it ever?
An Experience of the Captivity.
1By the rivers of Babylon, There we sat down and wept, When we remembered Zion. 2Upon the willows in the midst of it We hung our harps. 3For there our captors demanded of us songs, And our tormentors mirth, saying, “Sing us one of the songs of Zion.” 4How can we sing the LORD’S song In a foreign land? 5If I forget you, O Jerusalem, May my right hand forget her skill. 6May my tongue cling to the roof of my mouth If I do not remember you, If I do not exalt Jerusalem Above my chief joy. 7Remember, O LORD, against the sons of Edom The day of Jerusalem, Who said, “Raze it, raze it To its very foundation.” 8 O daughter of Babylon, you devastated one, How blessed will be the one who repays you With the recompense with which you have repaid us. 9How blessed will be the one who seizes and dashes your little ones Against the rock.
Think about that last verse for a minute … who are the ones who seize and dash “littles one against the rock.” Who are those horrible people? What kind of monster would seize children and “dash them against the rock?” Well … a monster who didn’t really believe that they were children for starters. It would be a person or group who believed that he or they were doing some greater good in ridding the world of vermin.
You cannot kill those who you believe to be of equal value to yourself. I think that is what Jesus was getting at when he said, “You have heard that it was said to the people long ago, ‘Do not murder, and anyone who murders will be subject to judgment.’ But I tell you that anyone who is angry with his brother will be subject to judgment. Again, anyone who says to his brother, ‘Raca, ‘ is answerable to the Sanhedrin. But anyone who says, ‘You fool!’ will be in danger of the fire of hell.”
Now, consider for a moment what it feels like to be on the receiving end of those comments. We’ve all been called a “fool” at some point or another in our lives. Most of us know how to toss that off and move on. But do we understand the cumulative effect of years and years of being called a fool for reasons beyond our control … reasons having to do with the color of our skin or the shape of our eyes or the place of our birth? What would it be like to be underneath a boot for the entirety of one’s existence merely for the color of one’s skin and nappiness of one’s hair? To wonder every time you got into the driver’s seat of a car if you’d get pulled over for no other reason than …. a policeman’s wish. To wonder about the security of your employment. The realities of lynching because of race are not actually gone in our country. How does a person live with that shadow skulking about the occasional corner? It is not something that I ever have to consider.
Women are encouraged to take self-defense classes in preparation for fending off sexual predators. Perhaps people with different colored skin should also take such classes in preparation for fending off angry hate-filled mobs. Perhaps if we embraced where race relations really are in this country, the recent flap over Dr. Jeremiah Wright’s comments from the pulpit would not be seen as inflammatory. Those comments sound pretty awful. “America’s chickens coming home to roost,” in the shadow of the 9/11 attacks sounds callous, cruel and incendiary. One cannot condone a reverend or preacher actually saying those things in his outloud voice to a congregation can one? Can you? It causes us to pause in our adulation of his follower, Barack Obama, and wonder about his wisdom in following such a mentor. Or does it? Do we really know all that we need to know about Dr. Wright based upon a few sound bites that were released by media moguls who are less than enamoured of liberal causes? Watch, if you will, the above-referenced sound bite taken in it’s full context below.
I am not condoning racism. I am not condoning hate. I am not condoning frenzied, emotional outbursts that do not have love at their center from those who follow Jesus. However, when I listen to Dr. Wright’s words and hear more of his heart, I begin to understand more of who he is. I begin to understand why Obama may (or may not) heartily disagree with him, yet remain a member of Trinity. I have people in my life whom I love dearly, yet with whom I disagree vehemently about certain things. They are part of my family and we are as different as night and day. Would I should disown them, if I were to run for political office? My uncle has advocated (seriously, not as a joke) paving over the Chesapeake Bay and is a racist bigot. I have other family stories which would curl your hair. Most of us do. We are, in the end, all human and all say and do things of which we are later ashamed. Or not. But which make other people question our intelligence, wisdom and character when taken out of context.
Perhaps the larger question might be, what exactly are we looking for in a leader? Are we looking for perfection, a king, a messiah? To find that would be anti-constitutional. Or are we looking for someone with the intelligence and strength of character to know who a good mentor is and learn from that person, despite his or her flaws. Perhaps we need to find a person who can learn from many people drawing on their strengths along the way rather than slavishly following one person and mimicking the flaws in their jewels.
What can we understand from this? I think it is this … in the end we are all more alike than different. We need to ask more questions than we do when things like this hit the front page. Questions such as, who stands to benefit from this? And think long term when you answer that. Who is the long term beneficiary of a drawn out and equivocating Democratic primary race? Hmmm … the Republican party. Think about that for a while, while you ponder the ideas that have been raised in this very hateful period of the race.
