Bill Viola's The Passions

I'm on vacation this week in Arkansas. We've had fun meeting with old friends and family. It has been relaxing! I ran across an old pamphlet from a visit we made to the Getty one time when we lived in Los Angeles. It was Bill Viola's The Passions. It was a very poignant exhibition. Viola works with high resolution video and then plays back at very slow speeds. He bases many of his portraits on old medieval religious portriats and devotional items. I remember being transfixed by all of the portraits. He had a real technical mastery of lighting and videography. I saw it in 2003, when LCD screens were just coming out, so the colors seemed to really scream out at you.

Collegeville Institute Summary

Don't expect for the summary to be comprehensive. I just mean that I'm sitting here waiting for the shuttle to show up, and I'm the last person to leave, so I thought it'd be a good time to put down some of my thoughts about this experience.

Of course, I'm fortunate to have attended. I now feel like I've gained 12 colleagues. I'm always glad to gain colleagues. Eugene Peterson is now a mentor and a collegue, not just a writer I admire. I'm fortunate to count myself in this regard now, as he's a very quiet and reserved person. He's not someone that you could go to a massive conference and ingratiate yourself to and try to hang out with. He wouldn't be doing much "hanging out" at a conference. So, this kind of environment: rural and slow-paced and in-depth, is the perfect kind of setting to build a relationship with a master writer and really learn something from him.

I've learned that writing, as my friend Katherine said on her blog, "is not complimentary to our pastoral lives, or an avocation tacked onto our vocation. Writing is part of our pastoral lives. We don't need permission to write. We don't even need permission to write words that can't be put to good use. We can (must?) simply weave writing into our pastoral lives - a life that can be lived in freedom, not busyness, if we can find a rhythm that works."

I'm a conversationalist, so I did more hanging out and drinking beers with new friends than hard core retreat writing. This is okay with me, although I also sometimes thought, "well, if I don't write now, then I'm going to be caught up in the multitude of other things when I get home." I just found the opportunity to talk about writing to be valuable too, so that's what I did for the most part. I did add to my writing project on music and the Spirit, and I also did some exercises that were helpful, and then I found myself rewriting something that haunts me.

I had told the folks here at the retreat when we were committing to a writing schedule that we'd hold each other accountable to that I'm not too hard on myself. They all laughed as I had a hawaiian shirt on and a beer in front of me and a open bag of cheetos on the table. I suppose I hadn't needed to say that :) I committed to 1000 words a week, whereas most others committed to a number of hours. I mentioned that I'm not too hard on myself because I was deciding to do a number of words, something more tangible for me than a number of hours that I could just while away and then rationalize that I actually had spent on some tangential element of writing.

I shared the story of tripping Clint (below) as a counterpoint to that image of me as one not troubled by much. It was effective. With that, here it is:

Get behind me Satan.
I remember the undulations of the asphalt on the school blacktop. We had our toes lined up on the spray painted line, readying ourselves for our track meet qualifying race. The undulations were caused by years of busses turning around in the cul-de-sac and lining up to pick up elementary school kids. A crack of the starting pistol, and I saw a flash of legs leap ahead of my own. I struggled to catch up.
The P.E. teacher was probably right. I didn’t run like I was supposed to. Otherwise, I’d probably be able to keep up with the others. My parents told me that when I was a baby, I had to have casts on my legs to straighten them out. My mom told me that when I used to get finished with my naps, she’d know because she’d start hearing the click click clicking of the casts as I knocked my legs together in the crib. I wasn’t supposed to jump on a trampoline as a kid. They were supposedly bad for my hips. But I had never noticed any problems. I guess the P.E. teacher did though.
There was one who was as slow as I was. Clint: sullen, sandy-haired Clint. He never had any shirts with the transformers or anything like that. All his shirts were striped or solid. He didn’t have Nikes or even Reeboks. He wore Velcro shoes with stripes on them as well. He didn’t have much. I stuck out my foot as I ran and I felt Clint drop to the ground. I crossed the finish line. I wasn’t last!
Clint hadn’t finished. He was lying in a heap on the humpy pavement. He was crying and rolling around. He was clenching his leg and grunting in pain. The kids who had finished the race were looking at me. Then Ms. Guinn grabbed me by the ear and twisted it. What made you do that, Nathan? What had made me do what? I was running, and he must’ve run into my leg. He must’ve bounced off my hip like one of those tie fighters ricocheted off the edge of the city wall canyon on the Death Star. She wanted an answer. She was aghast and disgusted at what she had seen, and now she was large and hovering over me like an eagle snatching a fish out of a lake with it’s claws buried deep. “The devil made me do it,” I stammered. Her eyes narrowed. She looked at me like she actually believed me and that Lucifer himself must be there behind me, caressing the shoulders of his favorite pupil and tending my wounded ego. All those kids were looking at me after all. She pulled me inside, with her red fingernails jabbing into my wrist, and slammed me into a chair at the principal’s office while she went and got him and took him outside to check on Clint.
I sat in the office on an orange plastic chair and looked at the ground as the kids filed by and looked at me with scorn. I could feel their looks. There was Sheri, who I had a crush on since the 3rd grade. There was David, my neighbor and best friend, who knew this wasn’t like me at all. He was perplexed but also forgiving and loyal. Then came in Clint, with an arm around Ms. Guinn and the Principal. I’d find out the next day that he had a hairline fracture in his ankle. That moment, sitting on that pavement trying to find an explanation for why I had tripped Clint, that is the moment that personal competitiveness was killed in me.

The Name of God

I'm at the Collegeville institute, and in my free time took a look at the New York Review of Books that was sitting on the coffee table. I noticed a review for a new book called

Naming Infinity: A True Story of Religious Mysticism and Mathematical Creativity (Belknap Press), by Graham and Kantor It looks interesting, and I was curious about the "Name Worshipping" thing, because it reminded me of the movie Pi in which a mathmatician is hounded by some Hasidic Jews who are searching for the number which is the name of God. Turns out the "Name Worshipping" movement was big at Mt. Athos and the story of its rise and suppression reads like a historical novel.

The most un-p.c. firework ever?

Saw this tonight at the firework stand. You might not be able to see it, but there is a Stealth bomber flying over a bunch of Arabs on camelback. Interesting what the Chinese think we'll like, huh?

5 Stones

I'm preaching on David and Goliath on Sunday. I'm ruminating on why the story describes David choosing 5 stones to meet Goliath when he only uses one to bring him down. I googled the question and could find nothing satisfactory. One Christian mystical interpretation is that the life of David foreshadows the life of Christ, and that the five stones correspond to the five wounds of Christ. Both acts "bring down a giant," in a way.

I didn't find this interpretation anywhere, but wouldn't it make sense that the storyteller would be thinking of the five books of Torah when accounting for the number of stones? The stones packed by David, the warrior for God's people, could symbolize the number of testaments that God has given Israel to "defend herself." The law is the defense of the people of Israel?

Just speculating. Feel free to comment if you have knowledge to share.

It's not that I don't believe in God

I just don't believe that God, the God whom I know and love, would instruct humans to commit infanticide. See, I'm trying to concentrate on 1 Samuel 15: 34-16:13, where God guides Samuel to the house of Jesse to select a new king. On the way, God tells Samuel not to worry about physical appearances, (or family tree for that matter, since Jesse's lineage isn't that spectacular, including Canaanites, prostitutes, and others) because God sees what is on the inside of a person. That's how God will select David--by his inward character. (Yet, when David is selected, all the storyteller has to say about him is that he has beautiful eyes and is ruddy and handsome.) The text is rich and beautiful. It is a great beginning for what will be a great story about a king "after God's own heart," a lover and a fighter, a man with the tenderness to write some of the most beautiful poetry in the Bible, and with the brazenness to face a giant. It is pre-packaged in the lectionary with the mustard seed parable for a great, inspiring sermon about God bringing forth great things from humble beginnings--and how we shouldn't judge something's value by the exterior.

But, what keeps haunting me is the first half of chapter 15, when the reason is given for God's disapproval of the existing king, Saul. Unsurprisingly, the lectionary skips over this little detail to the story. Saul has other faults and foibles (as does David) but the thing that really gets him the pink slip is that God commands him to go and completely annihilate the Amalekites, including "man and woman, child and infant, ox and sheep, camel and donkey.’” Saul carries out the assignment, for the most part. He spares the king, whom he brings back with him as a captive, and he also spares some of the choice livestock, which he apparantly also intends to burn on the offering pyre. (Or at least that's what he tells Samuel after the fact) So, God decides he isn't worth spit anymore and instructs Samuel to go fetch David, "And God was sorry he had made Saul king over the Israelites."

This isn't the only time God commands his people to slaughter innocents in the scriptures, and it's not like I'd never run across this dilemma before, but it's just sticking with me today. My usual way around this is to attribute these kinds of scriptures to the author's interpretation that God's will is being carried out in the violence, and so the author of the scripture puts the "command" in God's mouth, attributing something to God something that makes sense at the time, but seems utterly repulsive now. This is really the only way I can square some of the violent aspects of the Bible and remain a person who leads a faith community. So, obviously I'm not a biblical literalist. Perhaps it is more appropriate to call me a biblical denialist. I deny this scripture. I don't deny it is there. I'm sorry it is part of scripture. I shake my fist at it. I just don't think it is an accurate revelation of God. I see no redeeming quality to God ordering the massacre of infants. There's nothing that can make it "okay." I realize this may be an easy way out, but it is the only way I see fit to keep the faith and uphold a set of principles that are humane. I hate that it is even there for me to have to wrestle with. Why muddy the waters, God? Thou shalt not kill? Well, perhaps this is just one more reason against bibliolotry. But in this part of the country, it seems like questioning scripture is tantamount to denying God's existence. On the contrary, I think questioning this scripture is tantamount to advocating God's existence.

(I've had to take several brakes from this post over the evening, so I've lost some of the initial fire and angst that prompted it: I watched a stupid movie with Wesley and Lara, Bee Movie, man was that disjointed, I've gotten Wesley and Julianna to bed (Julianna took a good bit of time), and then there was a tornado warning just about 10 miles southwest of us (which moved south, fortunately) so, I don't want to seem flippant about something as heart wrenching as struggling with God and ethnic cleansing, but I've just lost a bit of gas on the issue.

One thing I really wrestle with is the intellectual honesty of subscribing to this "well if it makes my conscience want to throw up, it's probably not an authentic aspect of God, even if it is attributed to God in the scripture" kind of approach to scripture when the "official stance" I take as an ordained elder in the United Methodist Church is that scripture contains all things "necessary to salvation." Perhaps salvation sometimes comes in being willing to say to God, "this scripture really sucks and I really hope you're more than what is portrayed here, otherwise you're just some two-bit tribal god who's not worthy of worship or respect. So, God, explain to me why you'd allow people to either a: worship you with you issuing genocide, or b: write about you in this way and then guide a whole church to treat these stories as divinely inspired."

Summer Reading, Summer Camp

I have a stack of books I'm presently reading--it is the summer after all. I just picked up The Brothers Karamazov today at the library. I usually try to read one or two classics each year. Last year I read Huckleberry Finn and Moby Dick, both on audio book, by the way. With all the driving I do, it is the best way for me. I really enjoyed Melville's description of the pulpit at the sailor's church in the first few chapters of Moby Dick, and also the winding, encyclopedic steeping in all things whale. As to the narrative of that book, it is spellbinding and rich, and equal to the task of keeping the reader engaged over close to 2000 pages. As to Huck Finn, it was great enough that I was lobbying for Huck or Finn to be considered for boy names had Julianna been a boy. (My first choice, Atticus Rex, was gaining some traction I think with the mother shortly before we found out she'd be a she after all.) Mark Twain's characterization of a revival in Arkansas was so funny I found myself literally slapping my knee in the car. The book also had me obsessing over the word "corn pone." The pictures these two greats painted in my mind are treasures to me now.

I'm also in the middle of Eugene Peterson's Christ Plays in 10,000 Places. I've actually already read Eat This Book, but I don't think you have to read any of his Spiritual Theology books in order. Maybe I'm wrong. I'm trying to get that one finished before I'll be sitting at a table with him taking writing suggestions in 3 weeks. I recently read Oliver Sacks's (is that right? Sacks's?) Musicophilia on audio (great reading by the way) to give me some insight for my own writing project. I'm also enjoying Mary Roach's Spook: Science Tackles the Afterlife. I really enjoyed Stiff: The Curious Lives of Cadavers, and think it is a bit more funny than Spook, but still Spook is thuroughly enjoyable. She tends to use footnotes as I'm prone to do. Speaking of the way I use footnotes, my own chapter contribution to a Chalice Press book, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God: Young Adults Speak about Sexuality and Embodiment in Faith Life is going to be out in January of 2010. I think the editors were going for knee slapping or eye catching or something with that title, but I'm not too thrilled about it. I let them know, but I think it was someone's pet. My chapter title is called Like A Wild Ass at Home in the Wilderness: Sexuality Fidelity in a Hypersexualized, Consumer Driven Culture. That is, if they don't change it to Getting Ass at Home and in the Wilderness or something like that because they think that will appeal to the edgy postmodern type.

Since I'll be deaning Muskogee District Youth Camp at Camp Egan next week, I guess I've also been reading the curriculum for camp and preparing for that. Our plan for the worship services is going to be cool, I think. I'll take photos and post that later. I'm also going to lead a group of teenagers in teh creation of a Cretan labyrinth. We'll have to gather river rocks for it on the Illinois river, and I've scoped out a good spot. I'm looking forward to it, and hope it turns out like or better than I'm envisoning.

I'm also preaching a sermon series this summer on David, so I'll be spending the whole summer in 1 and 2 Samuel. I think this is the first time I've done an extended sermon series solely on a Hebrew Bible text...I think I did one on Isaiah before, but that's a bit easier. So, it will be a storytelling sermon series this summer. I picked up a couple books I thought might be of value in preparing for it, Tales of the Hasidim, by Martin Buber, and Wise Men and Their Tales, by Elie Wiesel. Anyone have any suggestions for good books, either Biblical Study or contextual stuff, on 1 and 2 Samuel and the character David?

Oh, and Wesley has taken a shine to the Berenstein Bears recently, so I've been reading a bunch of them too. :)

Shadowdancer

Lara took these great photos with our new camera using the continuous shooting

feature. I like it.

Oklahoma Annual Conference

I'm at Oklahoma Annual Conference right now, looking forward to seeing some of my good friends ordained tonight. For the first time, I'll get to walk them in with all the big kids. I've also had fun spending time with my fellow bloggers in the Oklahoma Conference. We're a motly crew. Jeremy at Hacking Christianity will be moving right down the road to Checotah this summer. Matt Judkins is an associate at Church of the Servant. Kevin Watson at Deeply Committed is working on a Ph.D at SMU. I enjoyed a text message converstion between Jack Terrell Wilkes and Blake Huggins while I was waiting to give our Young Adult Ministries Council report to the conference. Seems they are about as enthusiastic fans of "Victory in Jesus" as I am. Which, to quote Dr. Doofenschmirtz from Phineus and Ferb, if by enthusiastic you mean repulsed. That fact disappoints my congregation, which loves to sing the song. We still sing it, I just grit my teeth when we do, and do that funny protest of not singing particular parts. There are other bloggers, but I should probably return to the floor. We had a good turnout at our Young Adult Luncheon--about 50. That's the best showing yet.

We're anxiously awaiting news of our votes on amendments 1-32 to the constitution of the UMC. They need to pass with 2/3 votes to be ratified. Judging by the the dialogue, not many of them look very likely here.

See ya Jesus!

In honor of Ascension Sunday, I share with you my favorite Dali painting. I read somewhere that the background is the ecstatic vision Dali had of the nucleus of an atom. I wonder what he could be saying about Christ or this event to combine the two images. Let me know what you think. I interpret it as saying the Christ is the central or elemental reality of life...you know, "through whom all things came into being..." or something like that.

I also like that Jesus' feet are the main focus of the painting. I preached a sermon on this one time called "Jesus Walks" I read that this perspective was a tribute to Mantegna's Dead Christ (below), which he admired and considered a precursor to his own form of art.

I also like that the Shekinah is portrayed in the feminine, as She should be, (at least I'm assuming that's what Dali was portraying by the face of the woman) and that She is fused with the Dove imagery for the Holy Spirit, who is descending as Jesus ascends. They're kind of passing each other along the way, like "okay, your turn!"

Also, Jesus' hands--they look like they are clutched in pain, perhaps. What do you make of them?

Yes, I take my design cues from the Swiss Family Robinson

We have a new porch on the back of our house, thanks for a memorial gift to the church for a dear man named Ralph Johnston. (He would always bring us corn on the cobb, garlic, squash, and other things from his garden a block away--now we're trying our own hands at his craft.) I remembered this conch shell I got in the Bahamas a few years ago that was packed away in a box. Now it gets its second use in life (the first, of course, being the home for a snail that Bahamians like on their salads--I didn't care for it, sorry.)

Music and the Spirit

I haven't mentioned it yet, but I got accepted to a writer's workshop I have dreamed of going to for 2 years now. This July, I get to spend a week with 10 other writers and Eugene Peterson at St. John's Abby and University in Minnesota.  I had spent a week there right before I started seminary in 2002, and had been impressed with the St. John's Bible project, in which they are working on the first new handwritten Bible for quite some time (by the way, my friend Aidan Hart is one of the illuminators for that Bible.  I spent some time at his then hermitage in Shropshire, England.)

I've decided to write on the subject of music and spirituality.  I'm kind of enlarging a concept I brought up a week or so ago, so if you want to contribute to the converstion that feeds that enlargement, comment on that post, yo.  One last link in this linkomania.  One of my favorites over there -----> 

has been a sight on Reggae and the Bible (Words of Wisdom) .   I appreciate what the kind lady has been doing at that site for a number of years, and took some time today to read her bio.  The way she parallels the words of Scripture with exisitng Reggae lyrics has been a nice appendix for my appreciation of that music over the years, so I sent a long overdue thanks for her attention to the subject.  I was wondering about a song I heard on Pandora, Scientist's A Plague of Zombies  and didn't see it in her body of work, so I did a little homework and sent it along.  I thought I'd include it here for your enjoyment too:  (I couldn't figure out how to get 2 columns within a post.  code anyone?)

Methodism and Membership

the Methoblogworld is buzzing about the upcoming constitutional amendments proposed by General Conference 08, which must pass this year's annual conference by a 2/3 vote.  The usual suspects are coming out against an amendment to strengthen language about membership in the church being open to all (as if we need another psychological barrier to encouraging the whole idea of membership in this individualistic age).  A friend of mine made a rebuttal.  I thought it was well articulated, so here you go.  

My Church's Farmer's Market

Last summer two women in the church came to me with the idea of hosting a farmer's market at our church.  One is a chili pepper and herb grower.  She makes all kinds of chili rubs.  I bought some pear honey for her last year too.  The other woman is an elementary school teacher who had previously expressed interest in promoting good eating habits among children.

Morris had no previously existing farmer's market.  The two women thought it would be a great example of "Radical Hospitality," which is a principle of The Five Practices of Fruitful Congregations, by Bishop Robert Schnase.  We had been studying the book together as a congregation through a sermon series and a book study.  I thought it was a great idea, and told them so.   They went with it.  By the end of the summer, our parking lot was ringed with farmers with their tailgates open and tables of vegetables.  We opened the church so that bathrooms would be accessible for farmers and shoppers, and welcomed the kids to play with the church air-hockey table.  The market was to be on Saturdays, which meant that our church might not be perfectly clean on Sunday mornings for worship.  The church considering the ramifications of this fact during church council was a good opportunity to for us to reflect on the true purpose of a church.  

We submitted the idea to Bishop Robert Schnase's website that corresponds with the book and study material, fivepractices.org

This past week, I was also contacted by someone at The Interpreter magazine who wants to include a photo in that magazine of the market.  

Hooray church.  We plan to continue the program this year.  

Kid's first music

I really resonated with this report on NPR the other day about people making the choice of the first music to expose their children to after they are born.  I'm a music lover, so this is something on which I too spent quite a bit of attention.  The guy in the interview said he chose John Coltrane's A Love Supreme.  I must commend this choice, for the same reasons that the Church of St. John Coltrane use his music as a prophetic gift to the world.  

For Wesley's birth at the UCLA Medical Center, I chose another prophet, and brought the whole Songs of Freedom box set to the hospital to listen to while waiting for Wesley to be born.   I remember a tall pretty nurse with

 braids smiling and commending our choice.  The doc asked to turn it down at a particularly intense moment (Wesley had to have a vacuum assisted delivery), and after Wesley finally came into the world and I got around to turning it back up, Bob was singing "Everything's Gonna be alright, Everything's gonna be alright."  That was serendipitous.  Both of my kids had a healthy dose of reggae in utero and afterwards.  I found the old headphones my dad had for our record player, and I'd put them on

 Lara's belly for a bit of music time.  After Wesley was born, we had 10 songs we'd sing him at night, including Beach Boy's Barbara Ann (which we changed to "Wea, Wea, Wea, Wea, Wesley G.  He's all right by me e e.") and Summertime from Porgy and Bess.   He also heard Bob Marley's Thank You Lord.  That's kind of his evening prayer song.  He ended up singing that one and Deep and Wide, and Into my Heart (like I did as a kid) as prayer songs.  Almost every night, he also listens to a CD of lullabies that Katherine gave us when he was born .

  

For a while, we were going to name Julianna Susanna, and I enjoyed playing for her Dandy Livingstone's Susanne Beware of the Devil in utero.  But we went with Julianna instead, and I have yet to think of a song called Julianna.  Sometimes I sing to her Fleetwood Mac's Rhiannon 

substituting Julianna for Rhiannon.  I knew what I wanted to play for her as soon as we first knew we were having a girl though: Stevie Wonder's Isn't She Lovely?  That one's made to sing to a baby girl after all.  

We didn't bring music into the hospital for her, so she only heard silence for her first day or so, then listened to that in the car on the way home from Tulsa.  Since then, she also really seems to like the 40's on 4 on Sirius radio.  That's what we listen to most of the time as we prepare dinner and eat.  It seems to make things taste better.  

Perhaps the appreciation of music will be something my kids can pick up from me.  I used to love sitting by the record player and listening to my mom and dad's Stevie Wonder and John Denver and Jackson Browne and Crosby, Stills, and Nash and Aretha Franklin.  Every time we go to Eureka Springs, I hear Ann Murray.  My first records were Thrller, John Denver and the Muppets, and the soundtrack to the Fox and the Hound.  I also had the Hands Across America benefit album.  Hahaha.  I went to "Hands across America" by the way.  Was I in line with any of my readers?  

  I look forward to finding out what sounds have imprinted themselves on the minds of my children.  Perhaps this kind of environment building is important to me because I hope those imprints are something beautiful.  

Do you have first songs for your kids?  Any first songs you recall?  Comment away!

Ring Lake Ranch

I mentioned Ring Lake Ranch in my last post in association with Earth Day because it was at Ring Lake Ranch that I met Belden Lane, who is one of the best writers and storytellers I know. His topic of research and writing for the past decade or so has been the geographic context of spirituality. This same topic has caught my imagination ever since I was a teenager, when I first remember thinking, "I wonder if our scriptures would be the same if they had originated in a temperate/forest kind of climate (like mine in Arkansas) rather than a desert/Mediteranean kind of climate?" How much of Judeo-Christian religion is due to the landscape that birthed it? Belden Lane helped delve into these kinds of questions and much more at a seminar hosted by Ring Lake Ranch, and the setting (picutred above) and the experience were emblazoned on the "desktop" of my soul from then on.
While I was there, I did quite a bit of hiking and horseback riding and thinking and writing. The context really spurs on the creative spirit. One day when I was hiking around some hills that had been pushed up by a glacier moving down the valley millions of years ago, I felt a kind of "tap" on my shoulder, and when I turned around, the barren tree had sprung to life with the foliage of a bright white cloud. The story of St. Francis standing in front of a tree in the wintertime and inviting it to "Tell me of God!" came to mind. In the story, the tree springs to life with foliage and fruit. In my own experience, the harmonization of the tree and the sky combined to bring about another miracle of revelation, and I had the camera around my neck, so I captured the moment on film. To me, the revelation is that the world works in concert in ways that we infrequently recognize or pay attention to, but sometimes the moment just slaps us in the face like a Zen master. That's why I chose that photo to use as the header for my blog. I am most interested in the moments in which I/we sometimes catch a glimpse of the harmony that I believe is Divine. This happens for me when I am attentive to the outdoors, but it also happens when I am attentive to the relationships that fill my life and the creativity of the human spirit.
Perhaps God does mold our minds and cultures with context and environment to receive particular glimpses of the Truth. Or, perhaps our location in life bleeds into our creation of characteristics that we ascribe to God. Either way, as Elizabeth Barrett Browning said

Earth's crammed with heaven,

And every common bush afire with God;

But only he who sees, takes off his shoes,

The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries,

And daub their natural faces unaware.

Oh, by the way, I noticed Belden Lane is coming back to Ring Lake Ranch this Aug. 2-8. That's right over my birthday. Well, how about that! You should really consider going. Oh yeah, and if you ever read the journal Worldviews: Global Religions, Culture, and Ecology , keep an eye out for the book review I wrote for the paperback edition of Belden Lane's book The Solace of Fierce Landscapes. I just got a request to send in a consent to publish, so I suppose it's coming out soon.

Faith and Earth Day

Over the years, the intersection of environmentalism and religious faith has been a major source of inspiration to me.  When I received an Fund for Theological Education grant before starting seminary, I designed an immersion in eco-stewardship.  That took place in 2002, and so in many ways I feel like I was able to witness the rise of the evangelical voice in that area.  I remember meeting Richard Cizik, now deposed VP of the National Association of Evangelicals, and thinking--"wow--he's cool, I hope he has an impact!"  He did, and his success caused him to become a divisive focal point in evangelicalism's renegotiation of the essential concerns for that group in the 2000's.  When I first started observing and participating in "eco-stewardship," I recall hoping that the evangelicals would begin articulating environmental justice rooted in the scriptural witness.  It seemed like such a powerful potential movement.  At several of events and conferences I attended, I met Lyndsay Moseley,  who was an evangelical with a keen interest and commitment to creation stewardship.  I noticed recently that she edited a book published by Sierra Club.  So, if you need some good sources for voices of faith on environmentalism, give it a look.  

Earth Day always reminds me of my time at Ring Lake Ranch in Wyoming as well (where I took the photo of the cloud-tree right up there).  I'll post on that next time--I have a girl crying.  

Thank you God, for stealing my precious gold ring from the pirates and giving it to me.

That was my prayer, five minutes ago, at the behest of Wesley.  

We were washing his hands, and I explained that you always had to wash your hands after going to the bathroom.  It is one of the rules.  

"And Dod made the rules?"

"Yes, God made the rules about cleanliness so that we wouldn't get sick."  

That seemed to be an acceptable reason to wash hands.

Then,

"Why can your ring get wet?"  

"Becasue it's made of gold, and gold doesn't rust." 

"Oh, that's why pirates like gold."  

"They sure do, don't they? It's a precious metel that everyone wants."

"Dod must have stoled your ring from the pirates and given it to you.  That's nice.  You should pray to Dod and tell Dod thank you."  

all hell

sitting here, blogging 1-handed

listening to the 40s on 4 (sirius radio) through the baby monitor while Julianna gnaws on my thumb.   

Somehow, the all hell I thought was about to break loose is staying in the can.  Perhaps God is tapping my soul like I tap the top of a Coke can after it has been shook up.   

Garrison Keillor had some good insights on Writer's Almanac.

I love the "Lies My Mother Told Me" poem by Elizabeth Thomas, especially the part about God "ratting you out" and "exaggerating."  That's good.  I sometimes wonder if life after death is completely and utterly open.  Whatever we hide or bear is common knowledge not only to God, but among the new fellowship.  We are open books.   Maybe that's how we find ourselves in heaven or hell.  If so, no doubt there's grace to see things in perspective.  

I also liked the quotes from the late birthday boy Herb Caen.  

 "Isn't it nice that people who prefer Los Angeles to San Francisco live there?"

As an Angeleno who loved San Francisco too, I can see the humor there--NoCal people just love looking down their noses at SoCal.  I think it's equivalent to Arkansans hating Texans--it is something that gives us Arkies a bit of passion, but the Texans don't really care.  It isn't reciprocated.   They love themselves too much to be distracted by any cultural vehemence.  My good friend and girlfriend from my first year in college was a Dallasite who was genuinely surprised that I hadn't taken "Texas history" in high school (in SW Arkansas).  It is that kind of oblivious state pride that makes Texans humorous and charming.  

All hell breaking loose had to do with dealing with this wreck and the purchase of a new car,lots of travel, helping a family experiencing grief and strife over the loss of a loved one and funeral planning, getting the Vundo computer virus, annoying changes to a book title I've contributed a chapter to, preparing for Holy Week and other commitments...It just seems like things kept piling up.  

Last night Wesley knelt by his bed and prayed.  He thanked God for "mommie and daddy and sister and grandmama and grandaddy and gammy and papi and all my toys."  He told Lara she needed to pray to, then he told me I should pray as well.  I prayed that God would help us be good to each other because some of us were stressed out.  

Later that night, the vundo virus was just gone from the computer.  Perhaps it's a virtual miracle.  

Disgusting

Wesley was at the sink washing his hands so he could sprinkle the brown sugar on his oatmeal lunch.  He was commenting on the "different little square bar of soap" I had put in my bag after a recent hotel stay and brought home to use.  (Waste not, want not!)   I reach around his little four year old frame perched on a "stepp-n stool" and grab some Burt's Bees Banana hand salve sitting in the windowsill.  I put it on my knuckles and wonder if Wesley knows the smell of bananas well enough to pick up the aroma.  He doesn't really go for them, so I doubt it.  I hold the little jar under his nose,

 "What does that smell like?"  

"It smells like disgusting," he says matter-of-factly.  He  pronounces the g so hard it is almost a c.  

I look at him with a smirk, then just to clarify: "You mean you don't like it?"  

"That's right." 

Then we look out the window.  Our calico, Lao-Tzu, is crouching in the big 12x18 hole that was dug yesterday for a new back porch.  Like a soldier in a trench, she's peering her head over the edge of the hole at two robins.  She springs up into action and darts at the birds, but gets there too late.  Part of the ground had previously been covered by a smaller slab of concrete.  

"You know why those birds want to root around in that dirt?" I ask. 

He nods and looks at me with bright brown eyes.  

"Because there are lots of worms and bugs that used to live under that concrete that used to be there, and now the birds can get to them!" I say.  

Then I realize Lao-Tzu is prowling the area like a lion waiting at a watering hole.  We open the door and call her back in.  The birds come back to the Shangrila pretty quickly and we sit there watching them hop around and  pull worms out of ground.